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.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Hiking That Big Mountain
Dear Dirk,
I’m writing in response to your two recent Twitter messages that said the following: “My top 5 stones songs: sympathy for the devil, under my thumb, gimme shelter, beast of burden (mick singing), you cant always get what u want…What r yours?” Well, where to begin? First of all, let me just say this: some cities have all the luck. I’m not sure Dallas deserves you, Dirk. The best Euro player of all time and a Stones fan? Damn. And the crazy thing is, that’s not even your best music-related Twitter moment. Here's one of my two favorites: “On way to arena. Big game in okc. On another note. Radiohead in big D today. Who is going? Go mav.” I like that for multiple reasons. And here's the other: “One of the best concerts I have ever seen. Jay z and kanye. They killed it. Was kanyezee wearin a leather skirt?” Wow. I already loved your game, of course, and your dour German shooting coach and your acoustic guitar playing and your backpacking through Europe and your friendship with Nash, but after reading these messages, I love you even more.
I’m writing in response to your two recent Twitter messages that said the following: “My top 5 stones songs: sympathy for the devil, under my thumb, gimme shelter, beast of burden (mick singing), you cant always get what u want…What r yours?” Well, where to begin? First of all, let me just say this: some cities have all the luck. I’m not sure Dallas deserves you, Dirk. The best Euro player of all time and a Stones fan? Damn. And the crazy thing is, that’s not even your best music-related Twitter moment. Here's one of my two favorites: “On way to arena. Big game in okc. On another note. Radiohead in big D today. Who is going? Go mav.” I like that for multiple reasons. And here's the other: “One of the best concerts I have ever seen. Jay z and kanye. They killed it. Was kanyezee wearin a leather skirt?” Wow. I already loved your game, of course, and your dour German shooting coach and your acoustic guitar playing and your backpacking through Europe and your friendship with Nash, but after reading these messages, I love you even more.
Monday, April 9, 2012
The Frictionless Lives of the Meek
Dear LeBron,
A couple weeks ago I was talking to my grandma on the phone while she watched the last few holes of Tiger Woods’s victory at Bay Hill. He was up by five strokes, in position to get his first win since that moment more than two years ago when his status as one of America’s most beloved athletes evaporated overnight. (You can relate to that, of course.) Anyway, my grandma was giving me play-by-play as we talked, and when Tiger got to eighteen, victory in hand, she said, “Well, I guess he’s been in the penalty box long enough.” I thought that was a brilliant comment. Tiger has been in the penalty box long enough. And so have you, LeBron. In fact, maybe you—who committed no sins against morality, but only against humility—have served more time in the penalty box than you even deserved. America’s system of checks and balances worked: You orchestrated an act of extreme and oblivious arrogance and we the people held you accountable for it—wishing ill on your performances for an entire season, cheering Dirk when he put you in your place. But that’s all behind us now, or should be. We’re deep into another season, a season in which you’ve played incredibly, up there with almost any season by any player in history. In the course of one game against Portland you guarded all five positions. You also rode a bicycle to a game against the Bulls in late January, when the Miami Marathon shut down the streets. Yes, your bike said King James on it, but still: You rode a bike to a game against the other top team in the East and had 35 points, 11 boards, and 5 assists. How can we hate on that? (If I had any advice for rehabilitating your reputation, it would be this: Sell all your cars and SUVs and start riding your bike everywhere.) And your game’s hard to hate too. I mean, how can we continue to hate on a guy whose biggest flaw as a player might be that he makes the unselfish pass too often? After you took your talents to South Beach, I never would’ve imagined I’d say this, but you deserve better from us, LeBron.
A couple weeks ago I was talking to my grandma on the phone while she watched the last few holes of Tiger Woods’s victory at Bay Hill. He was up by five strokes, in position to get his first win since that moment more than two years ago when his status as one of America’s most beloved athletes evaporated overnight. (You can relate to that, of course.) Anyway, my grandma was giving me play-by-play as we talked, and when Tiger got to eighteen, victory in hand, she said, “Well, I guess he’s been in the penalty box long enough.” I thought that was a brilliant comment. Tiger has been in the penalty box long enough. And so have you, LeBron. In fact, maybe you—who committed no sins against morality, but only against humility—have served more time in the penalty box than you even deserved. America’s system of checks and balances worked: You orchestrated an act of extreme and oblivious arrogance and we the people held you accountable for it—wishing ill on your performances for an entire season, cheering Dirk when he put you in your place. But that’s all behind us now, or should be. We’re deep into another season, a season in which you’ve played incredibly, up there with almost any season by any player in history. In the course of one game against Portland you guarded all five positions. You also rode a bicycle to a game against the Bulls in late January, when the Miami Marathon shut down the streets. Yes, your bike said King James on it, but still: You rode a bike to a game against the other top team in the East and had 35 points, 11 boards, and 5 assists. How can we hate on that? (If I had any advice for rehabilitating your reputation, it would be this: Sell all your cars and SUVs and start riding your bike everywhere.) And your game’s hard to hate too. I mean, how can we continue to hate on a guy whose biggest flaw as a player might be that he makes the unselfish pass too often? After you took your talents to South Beach, I never would’ve imagined I’d say this, but you deserve better from us, LeBron.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Point, Prokhorov
Dear Mr. Prokhorov,
One of the funniest people on Twitter, in my opinion, is the fake version of you. Fake Prokhorov came to my attention before the season started, when the Nets (and the Rockets) were briefly accused of tampering for holding secret meetings with Dwight Howard. Chris Broussard posted a message that said, "Howard met with NJ owner Mikhail Prokhorov Thurs night in Miami, sources say," and the fake version of you responded by saying, "Who are sources? They pay ultimate price." Me and one of my buddies got a real kick out of that for a few days, "pay ultimate price." A few other great Fake Prokhorov moments, chosen at random: "This World Peace seem like very dangerous thing." "I very much like this Mitt Romney. I am also repulse by poor people." "In USA, Kevin Garnett is consider to be jerk that choke and annoy opponent. In Russia, he is man of respect." "I must admit new photo of Jay-Z baby is frighten me. I have never seen baby before." And more recently: "Baseball team price of two billion USA dollar is not impress. I have boat worth this much." I haven't even included any of Fake Prokhorov's comments about Chris Bosh, which may be the highlight of the whole enterprise, but which I've deemed too cruel to include here. Point is, you became a hilarious fictional character to me, and your decision to run for president of Russia only added to the fun. Then, about a month ago, a few weeks before you lost the election, the New Yorker published an article on you called "The Master and Mikhail." When I turned to the beginning of the article, I wasn't disappointed at all. Underneath your picture, the caption featured one of your quotes from the article: "I am a boa constrictor...Calm, good mood." You can't imagine how happy I was to see that quote. You, the real Prokhorov, were apparently just like the Fake Prokhorov, except even funnier. So I start reading the article and find out that your first business, an extremely profitable one, was "an operation for stonewashing jeans." I loved this, too, of course, and expected much more of the same. But instead, I came across another quote from you, and this one gave me pause, Mikhail.
One of the funniest people on Twitter, in my opinion, is the fake version of you. Fake Prokhorov came to my attention before the season started, when the Nets (and the Rockets) were briefly accused of tampering for holding secret meetings with Dwight Howard. Chris Broussard posted a message that said, "Howard met with NJ owner Mikhail Prokhorov Thurs night in Miami, sources say," and the fake version of you responded by saying, "Who are sources? They pay ultimate price." Me and one of my buddies got a real kick out of that for a few days, "pay ultimate price." A few other great Fake Prokhorov moments, chosen at random: "This World Peace seem like very dangerous thing." "I very much like this Mitt Romney. I am also repulse by poor people." "In USA, Kevin Garnett is consider to be jerk that choke and annoy opponent. In Russia, he is man of respect." "I must admit new photo of Jay-Z baby is frighten me. I have never seen baby before." And more recently: "Baseball team price of two billion USA dollar is not impress. I have boat worth this much." I haven't even included any of Fake Prokhorov's comments about Chris Bosh, which may be the highlight of the whole enterprise, but which I've deemed too cruel to include here. Point is, you became a hilarious fictional character to me, and your decision to run for president of Russia only added to the fun. Then, about a month ago, a few weeks before you lost the election, the New Yorker published an article on you called "The Master and Mikhail." When I turned to the beginning of the article, I wasn't disappointed at all. Underneath your picture, the caption featured one of your quotes from the article: "I am a boa constrictor...Calm, good mood." You can't imagine how happy I was to see that quote. You, the real Prokhorov, were apparently just like the Fake Prokhorov, except even funnier. So I start reading the article and find out that your first business, an extremely profitable one, was "an operation for stonewashing jeans." I loved this, too, of course, and expected much more of the same. But instead, I came across another quote from you, and this one gave me pause, Mikhail.
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.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Special Guest Letter: Brown-Eyed Kentucky Gunslingers
Dear Rajon,
I wish I could say I never doubted that we’d both wake up this side of the trade deadline and you’d still be my point guard, but when it comes to the NBA these days, I don’t have that kind of faith. I still wonder if Danny Ainge leaks your name in trade talks to wind you up, because you play so damn well when you think the world is against you. Probably it’s high time for him to develop a new strategy, but this letter isn’t about my problems with the Celtics organization. It’s about you, Rajon, and the particular brand of beauty that comes from being a man born to the wrong time.
When faced with the possibility of a cancelled NBA season, I had to find new ways to justify my cable subscription, which I’d bought for the sole purpose of watching NBA games. I’ve struggled to care about Boardwalk Empire and The Walking Dead, but the TV show I find myself loving most, despite its more formulaic structure, or its absence of actors with Michael K. Williams-type cred, has been Justified. What I’ve realized, Rajon, while following your trade deadline noise, is that I have a crush on Raylan Givens because he reminds me of you. You and Deputy Marshal Givens share more than just Kentucky roots and lovely, inscrutable brown eyes. He belongs in an earlier time, when being a U.S. Marshal meant you could shoot when you wanted, and you belong in another lost time, when running the point meant it didn’t matter if you could shoot at all. You’re no sharpshooter, Rajon, but you’re a damn good gunslinger, and while your assists won't start you on the All-Star team and I’ve seen them a million times, it still makes me gasp when you stitch a pass through a crowded lane before I even realize you’re passing the ball. Last week against the Lakers, the whole If-Players-Wear-Dark Glasses-Will-We-Lose-Control-of-the-Game debate reared its absurd head, and Jeff Van Gundy was right to devote his commentary to how misguided this is. Nobody can look into your eyes and know how and when you’re going to draw. That’s the point.
Since you’ve always been known to shoot from the hip, both on and off court, it has surprised me this past month to see so much buzz about trouble in the Celtics locker room. Of course, Boston sports media are notoriously two-faced about this kind of thing. Taking shots of Jack Daniels in 2004 was treated as exactly the kind of cowboy antics needed to win big, but the Sox won't crawl out from under Fried Chicken Gate 2011 for a few years at least. (Whenever that happens, and the booze and the wins start coming back to the Fenway clubhouse, I wish they'd consult a Kentucky boy like you or Raylan, and pick a decent bourbon.) Similarly, I don’t believe that all of a sudden, Rajon, you’ve started to jaw at those aging veterans, and all of a sudden, they have a problem with it. Like the frontier, as the Ubuntu Celtics disappear, they are being made into a myth. I don’t buy that anything has dramatically changed since 2008, which was only four years ago, and hardly qualifies as an “era.” Obama, like you, is still campaigning for his legitimacy, and as the President would surely tell you, your J hasn’t improved that much. This is always who you’ve been, Rajon, a sullen and slighted Federal Marshal of the point, and it’s because you’re a dying breed, not in spite of it, that I want you in the Celtics' future plans. No disrespect to Chris Paul and Russell Westbrook, who, I suppose, might be better players, but I don’t see either of them having the grit to go one-handed against Lebron James in a playoff fourth quarter, dislocated elbow dangling almost to their knees.
Abigail Greenbaum
P.S. And if you’re a little more on edge this season, who can blame you? Despite his continued grace in horseshoe moments, Paul Pierce looks so gassed right now I sometimes wonder if he’ll have the breath to trash talk while being carried off court in a wheelchair, let alone keep up with your transition offense.
P.P.S. I know plenty of folks who choose their NBA teams because of college basketball allegiances--why else were so many Louisianans on board when a certain former Celtic was grinning and spinning and drooling and drinking while driving and fighting for the last few years? But I’ve always been an NBA fan first, so I don’t see why it can’t work the other way. Pulling for the Celtics teaches you to love teams that the world has seriously good reasons to hate. Go Wildcats.
I wish I could say I never doubted that we’d both wake up this side of the trade deadline and you’d still be my point guard, but when it comes to the NBA these days, I don’t have that kind of faith. I still wonder if Danny Ainge leaks your name in trade talks to wind you up, because you play so damn well when you think the world is against you. Probably it’s high time for him to develop a new strategy, but this letter isn’t about my problems with the Celtics organization. It’s about you, Rajon, and the particular brand of beauty that comes from being a man born to the wrong time.
When faced with the possibility of a cancelled NBA season, I had to find new ways to justify my cable subscription, which I’d bought for the sole purpose of watching NBA games. I’ve struggled to care about Boardwalk Empire and The Walking Dead, but the TV show I find myself loving most, despite its more formulaic structure, or its absence of actors with Michael K. Williams-type cred, has been Justified. What I’ve realized, Rajon, while following your trade deadline noise, is that I have a crush on Raylan Givens because he reminds me of you. You and Deputy Marshal Givens share more than just Kentucky roots and lovely, inscrutable brown eyes. He belongs in an earlier time, when being a U.S. Marshal meant you could shoot when you wanted, and you belong in another lost time, when running the point meant it didn’t matter if you could shoot at all. You’re no sharpshooter, Rajon, but you’re a damn good gunslinger, and while your assists won't start you on the All-Star team and I’ve seen them a million times, it still makes me gasp when you stitch a pass through a crowded lane before I even realize you’re passing the ball. Last week against the Lakers, the whole If-Players-Wear-Dark Glasses-Will-We-Lose-Control-of-the-Game debate reared its absurd head, and Jeff Van Gundy was right to devote his commentary to how misguided this is. Nobody can look into your eyes and know how and when you’re going to draw. That’s the point.
Since you’ve always been known to shoot from the hip, both on and off court, it has surprised me this past month to see so much buzz about trouble in the Celtics locker room. Of course, Boston sports media are notoriously two-faced about this kind of thing. Taking shots of Jack Daniels in 2004 was treated as exactly the kind of cowboy antics needed to win big, but the Sox won't crawl out from under Fried Chicken Gate 2011 for a few years at least. (Whenever that happens, and the booze and the wins start coming back to the Fenway clubhouse, I wish they'd consult a Kentucky boy like you or Raylan, and pick a decent bourbon.) Similarly, I don’t believe that all of a sudden, Rajon, you’ve started to jaw at those aging veterans, and all of a sudden, they have a problem with it. Like the frontier, as the Ubuntu Celtics disappear, they are being made into a myth. I don’t buy that anything has dramatically changed since 2008, which was only four years ago, and hardly qualifies as an “era.” Obama, like you, is still campaigning for his legitimacy, and as the President would surely tell you, your J hasn’t improved that much. This is always who you’ve been, Rajon, a sullen and slighted Federal Marshal of the point, and it’s because you’re a dying breed, not in spite of it, that I want you in the Celtics' future plans. No disrespect to Chris Paul and Russell Westbrook, who, I suppose, might be better players, but I don’t see either of them having the grit to go one-handed against Lebron James in a playoff fourth quarter, dislocated elbow dangling almost to their knees.
Abigail Greenbaum
P.S. And if you’re a little more on edge this season, who can blame you? Despite his continued grace in horseshoe moments, Paul Pierce looks so gassed right now I sometimes wonder if he’ll have the breath to trash talk while being carried off court in a wheelchair, let alone keep up with your transition offense.
P.P.S. I know plenty of folks who choose their NBA teams because of college basketball allegiances--why else were so many Louisianans on board when a certain former Celtic was grinning and spinning and drooling and drinking while driving and fighting for the last few years? But I’ve always been an NBA fan first, so I don’t see why it can’t work the other way. Pulling for the Celtics teaches you to love teams that the world has seriously good reasons to hate. Go Wildcats.
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
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