Dear LeBron,
Now that the dust has cleared and you’ve celebrated your championship by rapping with LMFAO while wearing a t-shirt depicting your face as a vampire—to each his own, I guess—I’d like to offer a few words. First of all, congrats. That was an incredible performance. It reminded me of when I used to be able to beat my little brother every time in the driveway, at will. If he ever got close to actually winning, I’d back him down repeatedly and take him to the hole every time, game over. Victory was never really in doubt. Basically I was the Bill Russell of me vs. my little brother. (He was three years younger than me, but still.) Anyway, these last two weeks, you made the entire NBA your little brother. And not just the young Thunder, but also the old Celts. Everyone officially became your little brother. And it was pretty damn impressive. To make the absolute best basketball players in the world seem like your younger siblings is a crazy feat. Shaq did it. MJ did it. Hakeem did it for a year or two. But besides that, nobody in the last twenty years has come close (including Kobe and Duncan, in my opinion). And this, much more than any supposed learning or changing you might’ve done after last year, is why America is on your side again.
Americans love dominance, LeBron. For those who truly dominate the competition, much will be forgiven. If you don’t believe me, take a closer look at the biographies of MJ or Shaq or Tiger or Steve Jobs. And, in your case at least, this is as it should be. Your dominance should be your redemption. We felt a weird resentment towards you over the last year that had as much to do with your failure to dominate as it did with your arrogance. Maybe more, actually. And so it was a joy and a relief to see you finally take over and dominate in the way we’d always expected of you—the freight-train drives to the basket, the impossibly contorted layups, the clutch bank shots, the timely threes, the passes in transition, the back-downs in the post, the impeccable court vision while double-teamed. We’ve always held you to unreasonably lofty basketball standards, and over the last couple of weeks you actually met them. Just like MJ used to do. Which is crazy.
Now, we’re not gonna make that old mistake of assuming that a perfect sports performance must have some relation to moral perfection (i.e. LeBron was an arrogant asshole, then he was humbled, became a great guy, and won a championship). But that doesn’t mean you haven’t changed, either. It just means the relationship between you and all of us who call ourselves NBA fans—not Heat fans—has returned, completely and finally, to the basketball court. And it feels good. You’ve reminded us that awe is so much more fun than contempt. How could we begrudge a guy his happiness when he played the game so damn well? We can’t. So thanks for giving us a performance for the ages. Before the series ended, you admitted you were immature last year. Well, we were a little immature, too. Thanks for helping us move past all that with an all-time great performance that made all the peripheral issues seem small in its wake.
So much of the media coverage surrounding you has had a condescending tone, like all the talking heads know better than you, like they’ve been trying to teach you a bunch of lessons about life (arrogance will blow up in your face, there are no short cuts) and basketball (don’t settle for jump shots, develop a post game) and now that you’ve played perfectly and admitted your immaturity, their lessons have finally sunk in. This is pretty much BS. Whatever you did, whatever you figured out, it was on your own. The question shouldn’t be what you learned, but what we learned from you and your performance over these past two weeks. I don’t know if you’re any more humble behind the scenes than you were a year ago, but I do know, conclusively, that you weren’t posting on Twitter. And I think that made a difference. No kidding. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, the benefits of your summer visit to Hakeem have probably been way overblown—I didn’t see you doing Dream Shakes during the Finals—but I don’t think the stories of your self-imposed Internet/TV exile are overblown at all. Getting off Twitter and the Internet and not watching TV, these things had to help your focus, right? And not just because of all the second-guessing you avoided. There’s a lesson there, for me, at least. If you want to actually achieve something you’ve been wanting for years and haven’t been able to do, you may have to eliminate all the media distractions. And by “you,” I mean “I.” From this point on, I shouldn't write another one of these letters or do my daily surfing of the Internet until I win a Pulitzer. In any category.
Along the same lines, I also learned something from a mantra that you repeated a lot during these playoffs, one that seems like an empty sports cliché, but I don’t believe it is: “Hard work and dedication.” You threw that phrase around a lot, and I think it has meaning. People talk a lot about your talent and your perfect basketball combination of size, strength, speed, and agility, but maybe we haven’t given you enough credit for how much of your game comes from just pure effort and dedication to your craft. You excel at the skills that take practice just as well as you excel at the skills that come naturally. Your regular season game improves every year, even when it seems impossible for you to improve. And the hard work and dedication of these last few weeks was off the charts, starting from when your back was against the wall in Game 6 of the Celtics series. It’s hard to exhibit more hard work and dedication than you did during that performance (45, 15, and 5), which ended up being a template for your play in the Finals. For as much as all of us basketball fans complained two summers ago that you’d opted for the “easy” way to a championship, none of us could say that you got this championship easily. We (again, read: "I") can learn from this, too, the reminder that if you want to achieve an enormous goal, it takes an enormous amount of hard work and dedication. That might sound dumb or obvious to some people, but you know it’s not. I plan to put a HARD WORK AND DEDICATION sign next to my desk.
The final lesson I learned from you over these last two weeks is almost the opposite: the importance of enjoying yourself. Like I said, I doubt the visiting-Hakeem-made-a-big-difference narrative and I kind of doubt the narrative that you’re more humble now, but I believe the no-Internet narrative and I definitely believe the joy-of-the-game narrative. It was obvious that basketball wasn’t as fun for you last year, as you’ve said a lot, and it was obvious that this year was different. But it was also different than your goofy Cavs years, too. In the last two weeks, you’ve perfected the difficult mix you’ve been perfecting all season: being intensely focused and hardworking, while also enjoying yourself. Which led, of course, to the ultimate enjoyment of jumping up and down on the sidelines with the goofiest, happiest, most genuine smile we’ve ever seen from you. So for everyone who has a huge goal, you’ve reminded us that it’s gotta be fun, too. To sum up: Eliminate distractions. Push yourself. Enjoy yourself. Thanks for all that, LeBron. The only thing left is the hard part, the part for which you deserve the most credit: actually making it happen.
In conclusion, LeBron, let me offer you some advice, because I can’t help myself and because this is probably the last open letter I ever write to an NBA personality. (Private letters, that's a different story.) Recall that Dirk got a little lazy after he finally reached the top of the mountain—and paid the price this year. I bring that up for this reason: Many talking heads have suggested, over these last few days, that we have entered an era of Miami Heat dominance, that there is clearly no stopping you guys now. I was watching SportsCenter the day after the championship and before a commercial break, Scott Van Pelt said, “So how many championships will the Miami Heat win? Coming up next...” (I turned off the TV.) Recall, LeBron, that two weeks ago many of the same people who are talking about the inevitable Miami Heat dynasty were suggesting the Heat should be blown up, that the Big Three couldn’t coexist, that this chemistry experiment was a failure. Two weeks ago, LeBron. So listen to these guys at your own peril. The positive stuff is just as dangerous as the negative stuff. And don’t forget that even as you were spraying champagne in the locker room, Derrick Rose—not to mention my boys Ricky Rubio and Jeremy Lin—was rehabbing. Even as you were rapping with LMFAO, Deron Williams was considering joining Dirk and Cuban, CP3 was thinking about which of his friends to recruit to the Clippers, and the Spurs were doing what the Spurs always do. And while Miami throws a parade with you at the epicenter, Durant and Westbrook and Harden will be in a gym somewhere, doing everything they can to be next year’s Heat. Hard work and dedication.
Sincerely,
Burke
P.S. You should really thank Chris Bosh. Pull him aside sometime in the next few weeks and just thank him. Something like, “Hey, I know everyone’s talking about me right now, and how dominant I was, but we both know that I didn’t really start playing on another level until you came back. That’s not a coincidence. You were huge. Goofy, but huge. And the three pointers…Crazy. Anyway, man, thanks.” I think it would mean a lot to him. I really do.
P.P.S. There came a point--too soon, really--when my brother finally beat me in our driveway, and after that it was pretty much over. He beat me every time, LeBron. I don't even wanna say how old he was. My point here is this: Watch out for your little bros in Oklahoma City, not to mention elsewhere. Little brothers get better without you even realizing it.
Showing posts with label ESPN. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ESPN. Show all posts
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Be Nice About It? Be Nice About It?
Dear Metta,
Here’s a phrase I never hoped to see on the ESPN ticker: “…elbowed in the head by World Peace.” I’d watched the game earlier, witnessed the elbow when it happened, but even a couple hours later, every time I saw that phrase on the ticker it made me sad. It really did. And not just for James Harden and the Thunder and their fans, though I was definitely sad for them. Before you sent him to the floor, Harden was the best part about watching that game. He had fourteen points in less than fourteen minutes, en route to what would’ve surely been another ridiculous game off the bench for the soon-to-be Sixth Man of the Year with the amazing, enigmatic beard that’s half Imam and half baseball Brian Wilson. (In case you didn't know, Metta, Harden had forty off the bench a few days ago against the Suns. Forty. Off the bench.) If he misses any playoff games or struggles with post-concussion symptoms, that’s gonna be bad. Really bad. And not just for him and his team and NBA fans, but for you, too. After I saw the play in slow-mo and realized just how awful it was, how vicious the elbow was despite your protests to the contrary, I was almost as sad for you as I was for James Harden. Because you’re one of my favorite NBA personalities, and because in April you’d finally turned a corner and become an integral part of the team again after struggling miserably for most of the season, and because you’d put so much effort into changing the story of your life—even going so far as to change your name—and now, after a single moment, the Evil Ron Artest narrative is back. You’ve worked so hard to become a lovable comic character after being the villain, and now suddenly you’re threatening to become a tragic figure, unable to escape your biggest flaw. Damn, Metta.
Here’s a phrase I never hoped to see on the ESPN ticker: “…elbowed in the head by World Peace.” I’d watched the game earlier, witnessed the elbow when it happened, but even a couple hours later, every time I saw that phrase on the ticker it made me sad. It really did. And not just for James Harden and the Thunder and their fans, though I was definitely sad for them. Before you sent him to the floor, Harden was the best part about watching that game. He had fourteen points in less than fourteen minutes, en route to what would’ve surely been another ridiculous game off the bench for the soon-to-be Sixth Man of the Year with the amazing, enigmatic beard that’s half Imam and half baseball Brian Wilson. (In case you didn't know, Metta, Harden had forty off the bench a few days ago against the Suns. Forty. Off the bench.) If he misses any playoff games or struggles with post-concussion symptoms, that’s gonna be bad. Really bad. And not just for him and his team and NBA fans, but for you, too. After I saw the play in slow-mo and realized just how awful it was, how vicious the elbow was despite your protests to the contrary, I was almost as sad for you as I was for James Harden. Because you’re one of my favorite NBA personalities, and because in April you’d finally turned a corner and become an integral part of the team again after struggling miserably for most of the season, and because you’d put so much effort into changing the story of your life—even going so far as to change your name—and now, after a single moment, the Evil Ron Artest narrative is back. You’ve worked so hard to become a lovable comic character after being the villain, and now suddenly you’re threatening to become a tragic figure, unable to escape your biggest flaw. Damn, Metta.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Another Humbling Experience for Myself
Dear Dwight,
As you know, ESPN covered your trade status these last few months the way CNN covers major natural disasters—except ESPN stuck to the story longer. I remember in January on MLK Day I was at Dick’s Sporting Goods in the middle of the afternoon while my wife bought running shoes, and up on the big TV screen I saw an ESPN anchor ask Jalen Rose about you. In response, Jalen started complaining about our 24/7 media culture—before proceeding to discuss which L.A. team would be the better fit for you. I wanted to yell, Jalen, you’re complaining about yourself, bro! You've become what you hate! But I didn’t, because I was in a public place and nobody listens to me anyway. But as of last week’s trading deadline and your decision to stay in Orlando for another year, all that bullcrap is finally over, at least for a while. The Worldwide Leader has moved on to that other fascinating Floridian, Tim Tebow (again). And now that the chatter around you has finally tapered off, I’m hoping I can have your attention for a moment to offer a very small piece of advice. I have no comment on how you handled the situation these last few months, nor on your decision to put off a decision for a while. I want to talk to you about something else: Remember a few weeks before the trading deadline, when you played in New Jersey? And remember how the Nets fans, throughout the game, chanted "We want Dwight! We Want Dwight!" and held up posters and cardboard cutouts to encourage you to come to the Nets? Remember what you said after the game? If you don’t, let me quote you: "It's a humbling experience…I wish more people can see how it feels to go into another arena and have big faces and posters, it's a humbling experience. It's a blessing. I've been to every arena and it feels good to have a great reception, not only here but everywhere I go. And like I said, it's humbling and I really appreciate it." Well, my advice to you is very simple, Dwight: You gotta stop using the word humbling like that. I’m serious. The experience you were referring to is not humbling at all. Actually, it's the exact opposite of humbling. And in the future, you’ll no doubt experience many more moments like this one, and you’re going to want to use the H-word to describe those moments, too. Don't do it, Dwight. For the sake of yourself and NBA fans everywhere, please don't do it.
As you know, ESPN covered your trade status these last few months the way CNN covers major natural disasters—except ESPN stuck to the story longer. I remember in January on MLK Day I was at Dick’s Sporting Goods in the middle of the afternoon while my wife bought running shoes, and up on the big TV screen I saw an ESPN anchor ask Jalen Rose about you. In response, Jalen started complaining about our 24/7 media culture—before proceeding to discuss which L.A. team would be the better fit for you. I wanted to yell, Jalen, you’re complaining about yourself, bro! You've become what you hate! But I didn’t, because I was in a public place and nobody listens to me anyway. But as of last week’s trading deadline and your decision to stay in Orlando for another year, all that bullcrap is finally over, at least for a while. The Worldwide Leader has moved on to that other fascinating Floridian, Tim Tebow (again). And now that the chatter around you has finally tapered off, I’m hoping I can have your attention for a moment to offer a very small piece of advice. I have no comment on how you handled the situation these last few months, nor on your decision to put off a decision for a while. I want to talk to you about something else: Remember a few weeks before the trading deadline, when you played in New Jersey? And remember how the Nets fans, throughout the game, chanted "We want Dwight! We Want Dwight!" and held up posters and cardboard cutouts to encourage you to come to the Nets? Remember what you said after the game? If you don’t, let me quote you: "It's a humbling experience…I wish more people can see how it feels to go into another arena and have big faces and posters, it's a humbling experience. It's a blessing. I've been to every arena and it feels good to have a great reception, not only here but everywhere I go. And like I said, it's humbling and I really appreciate it." Well, my advice to you is very simple, Dwight: You gotta stop using the word humbling like that. I’m serious. The experience you were referring to is not humbling at all. Actually, it's the exact opposite of humbling. And in the future, you’ll no doubt experience many more moments like this one, and you’re going to want to use the H-word to describe those moments, too. Don't do it, Dwight. For the sake of yourself and NBA fans everywhere, please don't do it.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Only One Way to Take
Dear Ricky,
Out of respect for you and for your season-ending injury, I'm canceling this week's regularly scheduled letter. Like everyone else, I was really bummed when I heard the news. And like everyone else, I'll be wishing you a speedy and full recovery, hoping you come back even stronger next season. (Was it Bird who shot free throws from a chair every day while he was injured?) This situation will only make us cheer harder for you once you return. And it may be difficult to realize it now, but don't forget that you still had an incredibly good rookie season, even if it was cut short. Don't forget that last year, without you, the T-Wolves were 17-65, the worst team in the league, and that this year, before your injury, you guys were 21-19, and in the 8th playoff spot in the West. That's a heck of an improvement, something to be proud of. You've helped rejuvenate a city's basketball hopes, and those hopes will be there waiting for you when you return next season.
On Twitter once it became official that your season was over, you said, "There is only one way to take: move forward and stay positive." I couldn't agree with that more, Ricky. The injury really sucks, but it's not the end of the world, or even the end of your career, and you certainly have the work ethic necessary for excellent rehab: you're the same guy, after all, who went to shoot around by yourself at the Target Center on the very first night you arrived in Minnesota. Sports have a funny way of skewing the perspectives of both participants and fans, causing us to lose all sense of proportion. Your buddy Pau Gasol referred to this effect when he spoke about your injury: "It's a tough one to swallow, and it makes me laugh about my situation. You know? About my trade and no trade and how that makes me feel. When you [tear] an ACL, that's when you really feel bad and that's a lot worse than being mentioned in trades and potentially play somewhere else. No. Health is always the main thing and that's why everything is so relative in life." He's right, of course. Everything is so relative in life. And he expressed this with a wisdom we might not expect from a seven foot NBA player speaking in his second language. But here's the thing, and I think you know it, though others may have briefly forgotten: even your injury is only relatively a big deal. On ESPN's website, one blogger noted that it was "unspeakably unfortunate" for Spain that you wouldn't get to play for the national team this summer, and also mentioned the following: "Had Rubio been a freak athlete, the tragedy of his injury would have been more than too much to bear." Unfortunate is the perfect word for this situation, but unspeakably? You and I both know that there are some unspeakably unfortunate things in this world, Ricky, and that a guy not playing in the Olympics isn't one of them. And even if you had been a freak athlete, this "tragedy" would not be "more than too much to bear." You'll be back playing again next year. This is what I mean by losing our sense of proportion. The only true tragedies in sports are when someone dies (or suffers a truly catastrophic injury, like paralysis). This weekend did feature a real sports tragedy, the downhill skier who died during a competition. And here's what the skier's ski coach father said later, in a statement that could've certainly used the language of tragedy, but chose not to: "Ski racing was his life and he enjoyed every moment of it. There are no regrets from anyone because he did what he loved to do." This is a beautiful response to a truly terrible event.
So take heart in all the encouragement you've been receiving—you have a ton of people pulling for you, including a bunch of current NBA all-stars and random folks like me, in random parts of the U.S.—but don't forget to keep your perspective, which you've done admirably so far: "Ok, I got injured in the best moment of my career," you said yesterday on Twitter, "but honestly, 2day im happy thanks to all the support Ive received. I'll come back stronger." Maybe I'm reading too much into it, as I tend to do, but to me that "Ok" is saying, Okay, guys, this is really tough, but it's not that big of a deal. In which case, let me say this: You're gonna be alright, Ricky. And I don't just mean your ACL. We all wish you the best. Can't wait to see you build on your great rookie year with an even better sophomore season.
Sincerely,
Burke
Out of respect for you and for your season-ending injury, I'm canceling this week's regularly scheduled letter. Like everyone else, I was really bummed when I heard the news. And like everyone else, I'll be wishing you a speedy and full recovery, hoping you come back even stronger next season. (Was it Bird who shot free throws from a chair every day while he was injured?) This situation will only make us cheer harder for you once you return. And it may be difficult to realize it now, but don't forget that you still had an incredibly good rookie season, even if it was cut short. Don't forget that last year, without you, the T-Wolves were 17-65, the worst team in the league, and that this year, before your injury, you guys were 21-19, and in the 8th playoff spot in the West. That's a heck of an improvement, something to be proud of. You've helped rejuvenate a city's basketball hopes, and those hopes will be there waiting for you when you return next season.
On Twitter once it became official that your season was over, you said, "There is only one way to take: move forward and stay positive." I couldn't agree with that more, Ricky. The injury really sucks, but it's not the end of the world, or even the end of your career, and you certainly have the work ethic necessary for excellent rehab: you're the same guy, after all, who went to shoot around by yourself at the Target Center on the very first night you arrived in Minnesota. Sports have a funny way of skewing the perspectives of both participants and fans, causing us to lose all sense of proportion. Your buddy Pau Gasol referred to this effect when he spoke about your injury: "It's a tough one to swallow, and it makes me laugh about my situation. You know? About my trade and no trade and how that makes me feel. When you [tear] an ACL, that's when you really feel bad and that's a lot worse than being mentioned in trades and potentially play somewhere else. No. Health is always the main thing and that's why everything is so relative in life." He's right, of course. Everything is so relative in life. And he expressed this with a wisdom we might not expect from a seven foot NBA player speaking in his second language. But here's the thing, and I think you know it, though others may have briefly forgotten: even your injury is only relatively a big deal. On ESPN's website, one blogger noted that it was "unspeakably unfortunate" for Spain that you wouldn't get to play for the national team this summer, and also mentioned the following: "Had Rubio been a freak athlete, the tragedy of his injury would have been more than too much to bear." Unfortunate is the perfect word for this situation, but unspeakably? You and I both know that there are some unspeakably unfortunate things in this world, Ricky, and that a guy not playing in the Olympics isn't one of them. And even if you had been a freak athlete, this "tragedy" would not be "more than too much to bear." You'll be back playing again next year. This is what I mean by losing our sense of proportion. The only true tragedies in sports are when someone dies (or suffers a truly catastrophic injury, like paralysis). This weekend did feature a real sports tragedy, the downhill skier who died during a competition. And here's what the skier's ski coach father said later, in a statement that could've certainly used the language of tragedy, but chose not to: "Ski racing was his life and he enjoyed every moment of it. There are no regrets from anyone because he did what he loved to do." This is a beautiful response to a truly terrible event.
So take heart in all the encouragement you've been receiving—you have a ton of people pulling for you, including a bunch of current NBA all-stars and random folks like me, in random parts of the U.S.—but don't forget to keep your perspective, which you've done admirably so far: "Ok, I got injured in the best moment of my career," you said yesterday on Twitter, "but honestly, 2day im happy thanks to all the support Ive received. I'll come back stronger." Maybe I'm reading too much into it, as I tend to do, but to me that "Ok" is saying, Okay, guys, this is really tough, but it's not that big of a deal. In which case, let me say this: You're gonna be alright, Ricky. And I don't just mean your ACL. We all wish you the best. Can't wait to see you build on your great rookie year with an even better sophomore season.
Sincerely,
Burke
Sunday, February 5, 2012
That Golden Company
Dear Paul George,
It recently came to my attention that you grew two inches in between this season and last. In the city of Super Bowl XLVI, the city of the Indiana Pacers, this has apparently been common knowledge for some time, but I only heard about it in the last two weeks or so. I was fascinated: Who gets taller as a pro? That's crazy. Before I heard about the growth spurt, your half-the-Beatles name had only vaguely registered on my fan radar, but after that I started paying more attention. And just in time: In last week's games, I saw two spectacular highlights from you. I really wish I would've seen these plays live, but ESPN and TNT aren't interested in broadcasting the Pacers. (Paul, I've already spoken to other people about the difference between seeing a play happen in real time and seeing the highlight, but let me harp on it some more: it's like the difference between stumbling across one of your favorite obscure songs on the radio and playing it yourself on iTunes.) Still, I was super-impressed with the highlights: Your double pump reverse against the Nets would've been the dunk of the week if Lebron hadn't jumped over John Lucas III to finish a one-handed alley and if Blake Griffin wouldn't have done whatever crazy thing he did above Kendrick Perkins. But your dunk wasn't even last week's most impressive Paul George highlight. Against the Mavs, you ran the length of the court, caught up to Jason Terry on a fast break, and made one of the best rejections I've seen this year, sending Terry falling into the base of the hoop just by the force of the (clean) block, and then--THEN--while Terry was still lying there, you ran the length of the court the other way, caught a skip pass in the corner and nailed a three, your sixth of the game. That has to be the first time in NBA history that a dude has blocked someone on a fast break and then hit their sixth three pointer in a game. Incredible. But not as incredible as the fact that the play might not have happened if you hadn't grown two inches over the off-season.
It recently came to my attention that you grew two inches in between this season and last. In the city of Super Bowl XLVI, the city of the Indiana Pacers, this has apparently been common knowledge for some time, but I only heard about it in the last two weeks or so. I was fascinated: Who gets taller as a pro? That's crazy. Before I heard about the growth spurt, your half-the-Beatles name had only vaguely registered on my fan radar, but after that I started paying more attention. And just in time: In last week's games, I saw two spectacular highlights from you. I really wish I would've seen these plays live, but ESPN and TNT aren't interested in broadcasting the Pacers. (Paul, I've already spoken to other people about the difference between seeing a play happen in real time and seeing the highlight, but let me harp on it some more: it's like the difference between stumbling across one of your favorite obscure songs on the radio and playing it yourself on iTunes.) Still, I was super-impressed with the highlights: Your double pump reverse against the Nets would've been the dunk of the week if Lebron hadn't jumped over John Lucas III to finish a one-handed alley and if Blake Griffin wouldn't have done whatever crazy thing he did above Kendrick Perkins. But your dunk wasn't even last week's most impressive Paul George highlight. Against the Mavs, you ran the length of the court, caught up to Jason Terry on a fast break, and made one of the best rejections I've seen this year, sending Terry falling into the base of the hoop just by the force of the (clean) block, and then--THEN--while Terry was still lying there, you ran the length of the court the other way, caught a skip pass in the corner and nailed a three, your sixth of the game. That has to be the first time in NBA history that a dude has blocked someone on a fast break and then hit their sixth three pointer in a game. Incredible. But not as incredible as the fact that the play might not have happened if you hadn't grown two inches over the off-season.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
I'm Learning, Man. That's My Horse Tutor.
Dear Shaq,
When I first heard you'd signed with TNT, I was happy for you, happy you wouldn't end up in the purgatory that is ESPN's NBA coverage, and excited for the basketball-and-humor-loving public that you'd be joining the already glorious Inside the NBA crew. Then, over the holidays at my folks' house, my brother and I watched a few episodes of a show on NBA TV called Open Court, where a bunch of TNT-affiliated former NBA guys--you, Chuck, Kenny, Reggie, Kerr, Steve Smith, C-Webb—just sit in a room and tell stories. The show was great, but you were by far the least entertaining person in the room. Even though Reggie Miller was at one time my favorite non-Houston basketball player, I only find Reggie-the-analyst entertaining when he's announcing a game and uses the term "a long deuce." But even he was more interesting than you. Suddenly I worried that you might ruin Inside the NBA. Then the season started: I caught a few minutes here and there of you at halftime, and what I saw was pretty bad, Shaq. Your voice was often so low as to be nearly inaudible, you made too many sound effects, laughed at your own jokes without making your co-hosts laugh, and when called upon to talk about the games, you seemed stuck in athlete-trying-not-to-say-anything-interesting mode. Admittedly, I only had a small sample size of your performances, but people were hammering you on Twitter, too: Shaq is boring! Shaq makes Kevin McHale seem entertaining! Shaq just said Rudy Gay could be as good as Lebron and Wade! Shaq just called Ricky Rubio the Italian Pete Maravich! Suddenly I couldn't remember: Were you ever that interesting? Or was the pressure making you uninteresting? I hoped it was the latter. It was like someone had brought you to a great party and said, "Hey, everybody, listen up. This is my friend Shaq. He's really hilarious," and because of this introduction you froze up and every prosaic thing you said disappointed the attendees and the vibe of the party was ruined.
Being someone who has frozen under pressure in many different pursuits, I felt like I could explain the problem: You hadn't found your freedom. I don't know if you ever listen to NPR, Shaq, but here's Philip Roth from an interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air a few years back, talking about his novel The Human Stain and its narrator:
When I first heard you'd signed with TNT, I was happy for you, happy you wouldn't end up in the purgatory that is ESPN's NBA coverage, and excited for the basketball-and-humor-loving public that you'd be joining the already glorious Inside the NBA crew. Then, over the holidays at my folks' house, my brother and I watched a few episodes of a show on NBA TV called Open Court, where a bunch of TNT-affiliated former NBA guys--you, Chuck, Kenny, Reggie, Kerr, Steve Smith, C-Webb—just sit in a room and tell stories. The show was great, but you were by far the least entertaining person in the room. Even though Reggie Miller was at one time my favorite non-Houston basketball player, I only find Reggie-the-analyst entertaining when he's announcing a game and uses the term "a long deuce." But even he was more interesting than you. Suddenly I worried that you might ruin Inside the NBA. Then the season started: I caught a few minutes here and there of you at halftime, and what I saw was pretty bad, Shaq. Your voice was often so low as to be nearly inaudible, you made too many sound effects, laughed at your own jokes without making your co-hosts laugh, and when called upon to talk about the games, you seemed stuck in athlete-trying-not-to-say-anything-interesting mode. Admittedly, I only had a small sample size of your performances, but people were hammering you on Twitter, too: Shaq is boring! Shaq makes Kevin McHale seem entertaining! Shaq just said Rudy Gay could be as good as Lebron and Wade! Shaq just called Ricky Rubio the Italian Pete Maravich! Suddenly I couldn't remember: Were you ever that interesting? Or was the pressure making you uninteresting? I hoped it was the latter. It was like someone had brought you to a great party and said, "Hey, everybody, listen up. This is my friend Shaq. He's really hilarious," and because of this introduction you froze up and every prosaic thing you said disappointed the attendees and the vibe of the party was ruined.
Being someone who has frozen under pressure in many different pursuits, I felt like I could explain the problem: You hadn't found your freedom. I don't know if you ever listen to NPR, Shaq, but here's Philip Roth from an interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air a few years back, talking about his novel The Human Stain and its narrator:
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Special Emergency Letter: Conflict Gold
Dear Mutombo,
I never thought I'd be writing you again so soon. I don't know what to say. Four tons of Congolese gold? Militias? Corporate jets? Money-laundering? Two bags containing 6.6 million dollars in cash? Local generals? PowerPoint presentations? Purported customs facilities? Confidentiality? Highest discretion? Armed soldiers? Warlords? Did you, Mutombo, really set up a deal to sell a thousand pounds of conflict minerals within a few weeks of meeting with the State Department to bring more attention to how the illicit sale of conflict minerals has ravaged your homeland? Do you really want to add your name to the ever-growing list of Public Figures Who Secretly Do the Very Thing They Speak Out Against? Is the Mutombo family that hard up for money? Were you going to use the money to build another Congolese hospital? Would that make it okay, or at least a little okay? Do we all have as many sides to our personalities as you do, Mutombo (i.e. the gold-smuggling side, the Gold-Club-prostitution-trial side, the help-reduce-polio-and-build-hospitals humanitarian side, the finger-wagging-trash-talker side, the teach-Yao-Ming-about-fine-wine side, the exasperated-at-the-DMV side)? Are you greedy? Are you a money-hungry humanitarian or a money-hungry man posing as a humanitarian, or neither? Say it ain't so, Deke. Say it ain't so! We're not surprised at all anymore when athletes get accused of illegal activities--I mean, ESPN runs a crime ticker at the bottom of the screen during all programming--but damn, Dikembe. This is surprising. This is crazy and awful. This is some Blood Diamond shit. Please tell us you have a decent explanation. Or barring that, that you made a mistake, as people do, but that this isn't indicative of your character as a whole. Please tell us that the exasperated sitcom father I've been imagining you to be is the real Mutombo, and not this international smuggler of conflict gold. Exonerate yourself, Deke. Instead of being another reminder that there'll always be public figures who do exactly what they decry, please be a reminder that people do, occasionally, get falsely accused.
Sincerely,
Burke
P.S. I'm sure you already read it, but just so you know, all the words and phrases near the beginning of this letter come from the Houston Chronicle article breaking the news of your involvement in the scandal. When the reporters reached reached you in Atlanta for comment, you said, "I have nothing to say." No, Deke! Exonerate yourself!
P.P.S. What am I supposed to do about my bobble-finger doll if you don't ever refute the allegations? Bobble-finger dolls are not supposed to make us have complicated feelings about human nature.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Momma, There Goes That Man
Dear Coach Jackson,
I always felt respectful indifference towards you as a player (except for some mild curiosity about your free throw routine), but after you teamed up with Van Gundy in the announcing booth a few years ago, I started feeling real affection for both of you guys, the same kind of affection I felt for, say, Coach Taylor and Buddy Garrity in Friday Night Lights. The network you worked for, ABC/ESPN, produces the single most boring halftime show in the history of televised sports, but listening to you and JVG (and Mike Breen) during games was truly a pleasure. I mean that. When you guys were announcing together, I enjoyed blowouts nearly as much as close games, because Van Gundy would go off script even more than usual and start talking about the Royal Wedding or something, and then you'd respond with feigned incredulity and exaggerated disapproval to whatever he said. It was great. (It's always fun--and moving--to watch two characters on TV hide their affection for each other underneath gruff exteriors. When one of them finally shows their true feelings, if only for a brief moment, it's hard not to get a little teary, there on your couch). Jeff Van Gundy's a smart and hilarious dude--something I didn't fully realize when he was moping around Houston as our coach, with bags under his eyes from watching too much tape--and you were his perfect straight man. You guys were much better than any Buddy Cop movie combo of the past decade; I'd much rather watch you two than the guys in Cop Out or that movie with Samuel L. and the dad from American Pie, which didn't even seem like a real movie, or even the combo in The Other Guys. (And I'm sure you're like me, Mark, and you pretended to like The Other Guys as you left the theater, so you wouldn't hurt anybody's feelings or feel like you wasted ten bucks, but cards on the table: that movie wasn't funny.) The point is, I loved the dynamic between you two, loved for instance that one time during a Suns game when Van Gundy started talking about how he'd gone to Spring Training that week with his parents and how his mom and dad had been kind enough to pay for his hotel room and you said, "You let your parents pay for your hotel room? You're a grown man." I also loved the tone you used every time you addressed Van Gundy as "Coach," the real respect and history in your voice, a tone similar to the one I expect President Obama's former body man (and former Duke basketball player) Reggie Love will use whenever he says "Mr. President" many years from now, as they play golf. I also loved that whenever you made an astute basketball observation, Van Gundy would say, "Somebody give this man a head coaching job!" Watching at home, we could sense that you really did want a coaching job, and that Van Gundy was sincere in promoting you. Which is why I was excited in June when you got the Golden State job (even though you've never coached at any level) and why I'll be cheering for you this season. We've grown to know and love you and Van Gundy. I'll be rooting for you to surmount any obstacles in your path during this new spin-off with the Warriors.
With that in mind, let me suggest a few things.
I always felt respectful indifference towards you as a player (except for some mild curiosity about your free throw routine), but after you teamed up with Van Gundy in the announcing booth a few years ago, I started feeling real affection for both of you guys, the same kind of affection I felt for, say, Coach Taylor and Buddy Garrity in Friday Night Lights. The network you worked for, ABC/ESPN, produces the single most boring halftime show in the history of televised sports, but listening to you and JVG (and Mike Breen) during games was truly a pleasure. I mean that. When you guys were announcing together, I enjoyed blowouts nearly as much as close games, because Van Gundy would go off script even more than usual and start talking about the Royal Wedding or something, and then you'd respond with feigned incredulity and exaggerated disapproval to whatever he said. It was great. (It's always fun--and moving--to watch two characters on TV hide their affection for each other underneath gruff exteriors. When one of them finally shows their true feelings, if only for a brief moment, it's hard not to get a little teary, there on your couch). Jeff Van Gundy's a smart and hilarious dude--something I didn't fully realize when he was moping around Houston as our coach, with bags under his eyes from watching too much tape--and you were his perfect straight man. You guys were much better than any Buddy Cop movie combo of the past decade; I'd much rather watch you two than the guys in Cop Out or that movie with Samuel L. and the dad from American Pie, which didn't even seem like a real movie, or even the combo in The Other Guys. (And I'm sure you're like me, Mark, and you pretended to like The Other Guys as you left the theater, so you wouldn't hurt anybody's feelings or feel like you wasted ten bucks, but cards on the table: that movie wasn't funny.) The point is, I loved the dynamic between you two, loved for instance that one time during a Suns game when Van Gundy started talking about how he'd gone to Spring Training that week with his parents and how his mom and dad had been kind enough to pay for his hotel room and you said, "You let your parents pay for your hotel room? You're a grown man." I also loved the tone you used every time you addressed Van Gundy as "Coach," the real respect and history in your voice, a tone similar to the one I expect President Obama's former body man (and former Duke basketball player) Reggie Love will use whenever he says "Mr. President" many years from now, as they play golf. I also loved that whenever you made an astute basketball observation, Van Gundy would say, "Somebody give this man a head coaching job!" Watching at home, we could sense that you really did want a coaching job, and that Van Gundy was sincere in promoting you. Which is why I was excited in June when you got the Golden State job (even though you've never coached at any level) and why I'll be cheering for you this season. We've grown to know and love you and Van Gundy. I'll be rooting for you to surmount any obstacles in your path during this new spin-off with the Warriors.
With that in mind, let me suggest a few things.
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