Wednesday, July 9, 2014

LeBron James: It's Not That Headline

On the verge of the July 4 weekend as social media cracked its knuckles and prepared for a mother lode of holiday traffic, NBA star LeBron James did something that went largely unnoticed in basketball circles.

He got ready to renovate a house in Akron belonging to a middle-school student and her family.

The story didn’t didn’t fly under the radar on purpose. It was reported by Mary Beth Breckenridge for the Akron Beacon Journal on July 3 and also blogged by James himself four days later on his LeBron James Family Foundation website.

The 10-day Promise Project will be done in partnership with HGTV’s Nicole Curtis, star of reality TV’s The Rehab Addict which chronicles the renovation of distressed homes in Detroit and Minneapolis. This time, the setting will be Ohio.

In addition to the family home, nine yards will also be renovated around Akron—all benefiting families of children who are part of James’ Wheels for Education mentoring program.

That program is one of several created by James with an emphasis on giving back to his hometown community at a grassroots level—education and family support. It’s a fundamental concept that has proven out over time with countless other organizations—a prime example being Habitat for Humanity which began with a communal farm in the early 1940s. It’s the idea that sharing resources in exchange for demonstrable responsibility can in fact, have a positive effect.

Try selling that off a headline.

You’ll find plenty of support and enthusiasm for James’ efforts in and around Akron, regardless of where he signs his next basketball contract. And, his charitable efforts are not limited to Cleveland, or Miami. For all the fame and trappings, and yes the ego that can go with being a superstar athlete, James understands the efficacy of channeling resources to that most seminal stage of existence—childhood.

James has lived that life. Before the bright lights and headlines, he was a child of a single mom, sleeping on couches, moving frequently and by his own words, missing 82 out of 160 school days during the fourth grade. Helping hands reached out—the Walker family took James in and later, helped his mother Gloria secure an apartment.

That story and what followed has been told countless times—the dizzying ascension from elementary to prep school to the NBA, along with the inclusion of a number of James’ childhood friends who have since formed the nucleus of his management team.

Renovating homes and reality television has tapped a certain vein not entirely dissimilar from the feeding frenzy accompanying anticipation for LeBron’s next basketball move. TV viewers enjoy watching the reconstruction of some broken down house in 20 minutes, shot from a variety of appealing angles. And 20 year-old aficionados of fantasy hoops and Breaking Bad can’t get enough of third-source headlines trumpeting the King’s presumed decision about where he will or won’t earn his next paycheck.

And you can rest assured that James’ eventual choice will be accompanied in some part by glee and in larger part by mind-twisting vitriol and breathless analysis of “why did he do it?”

The renovation of a clapboard bungalow in Akron won’t go viral but the story will last longer. Not in online archives that become quickly buried due to lack of SEO traffic but in actual life experience.

Somewhere off the headline grid a kid will get up, get dressed and walk out the door. And the world will be just a little bigger. They say you can't go home again. But sometimes you already have.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Will Slava Medvedenko Coach the New York Knicks?

Kyivan Stanislav Medvedenko blazed an erratic orbit across the basketball firmament in the early 2000’s before pulling a vanishing act worthy of Greta Garbo or Amelia Earhart.

Phil Jackson hasn’t forgotten though.

In January 2014, Jackson appeared on Fox Sports Live for an extended interview with hosts Charissa Thompson, Andy Roddick and Gary Payton. 11 Rings listened as Payton described injuries, adversity and unlikely heroes during the Los Angeles Lakers’ run to the Finals in 2004, before falling to the Detroit Pistons.

And then the Zen Master spoke, just two words: “Slava Medvedenko.”

Payton blinked a few times, as if temporarily short-circuited.  And plowed ahead: “Oh he makin’ big shots, big shots!”

Now, of course, Jackson is running operations for the New York Knicks and facing the challenge of finding a coach in the aftermath of being turned down by Steve Kerr.

But we know there’s a plan B. And perhaps, it was plan A all along. As in “unceasing change turns the wheels of life. And so reality is shown in all its many forms.”

For Jackson, the cycle completes by returning to the city where he first made his mark as a player, drafted in 1967 in the second round.

As for Medvedenko, the lines of reality can become more blurred. At long last, after years of self-imposed exile, could a bear emerge from the forest?

Pros of Slava coaching the Knicks:

Medvedenko may have pretended not to understand the intricacies of the triangle offense but he understands coaching. He's been stalking the sidelines with the Ukrainian national team's youth division (U16/17), as well as his own basketball club, for the past several years.

Coaching Ukrainian basketball is fraught with challenges these days. The unrest that has broken out across the country isn't making as many headlines but continues regardless,with pro-Russian gunmen seizing control of key sectors and local forces often seeming powerless. Kiev, the capital city and Medvedenko’s home since childhood, has been especially rocked by violence and political instability and now moves toward an uncertain future as citizens go to the polls to elect a new Ukrainian president. 

Mike “the Czar” Fratello, known for his work as an analyst for TNT as well as being head coach for the Atlanta Hawks, Cleveland Cavaliers and Memphis Grizzlies, has also served as head coach for the Ukrainian national team since 2011.

Per Mary Schmitt Boyer of The Plain Dealer, Fratello visited Kiev in February as violence was escalating: "Obviously, it has escalated in the last five days. Things have gotten much worse. They closed the basketball federation offices last week. I think that was the smart thing to do. A bullet doesn't know where it's going when it leaves the gun."

It’s one thing to be turned down by Kerr, it’s another thing when the tanks start rolling in.

Does this ever feel like Déjà vu?

Imagine the small hours of the morning. Two tall figures walk down a lonely city canyon, impossibly tall skyscrapers on each side blocking out all but a ribbon of inky sky overhead, peppered by tiny distant lights. One figure has a gate that seems far too painful for leisurely strolls through high-walled city canyons with a ribbon of inky sky above.

They see the city sleep tonight. They see the stars are out tonight. 

Why it won't happen:

Basketball would be too beautiful, causing the fabric of the universe to tear asunder.

Because who would teach the children, now?

Because if you coach the Knicks, at some point you’ll have to deal with James Dolan which would actually be a picnic compared to dealing with Mother Russian masked thugs with Pecheneg machine guns. Maybe this should be a pro not a con.

Take a moment and imagine the fourth quarter of an important game at MSG with lights shining hard and teenagers screaming with twisted faces and Medvedenko calling a time out and stolidly trying to make his instructions known to Carmelo Anthony.

Medvedenko: “Vy rozmovliajete ukrajinśkoju?”

Anthony: “No, I don’t understand what you’re fucking saying, dammit! Where’s Phil?”

In truth, Slava Medvedenko is never coming back.

He was just another big eastern European dude who went undrafted in 2000 and might never have caused a ripple beyond that. But something happened—perhaps a rift in the basketball time continuum, and he was signed as a free agent by the Los Angeles Lakers where he made an immediate impression—freelancing and jacking up shots at will, pretending not to understand the language and trudging back to the bench with cheeks aflame when Jackson yanked back on his leash—usually about five minutes after sending him in.

There was something wonderfully elusive about him. He made some of us laugh and never knew about it. And the laughter was good then—it was an intoxicating era of basketball, with wins and championships coming fast and free. And then his time was done—a operation on his back never quite panned out right.

Medvedenko had one last shot in the NBA with the Atlanta Hawks in 2006—just 14 games and his back simply wouldn’t allow him to continue at the level he wanted. 

He dabbled in film production for a short while, due to his marriage to producer Svetlana Anufrieva. They had a son together but eventually broke up. Slava returned to Kiev and began devoting time to youth sports and education.

Anufrieva remained in the U.S. and produced a documentary entitled “Divorce: A Journey Through the Kids’ Eyes", released in 2014.

Medvedenko’s journey also began as a child, in the village of Kiev Oblast. He wasn’t all that interested in basketball—preferring swimming, volleyball and especially soccer—until a coach named Alexander D. Kovalenko pointed out the obvious. Namely, that Stanislav was getting rather tall.

Like a bear, which was also his family nickname. Medved, meaning Bear.

As Slava later said, “Alexander D. instilled in me a love of basketball and I realized it was mine. From hatred to love in one step.”

And a career that took him from the youth league to professional basketball in the Ukraine and Lithuainia, and then to the US., getting summer league invites from the Dallas Mavericks and Phoenix Suns before signing with the Lakers.

Medvedenko began toying with the idea of founding his own basketball school during the Lakers offseason in 2001 and it became a reality in 2004. “Vedmedi” (UKR) or “Medvedi” (RUS) translates to “Bears from Kyiv”. More commonly known as BC Bears, the team became the official cadet division of BC Kyiv (the Ukrainian national team) in 2012. 

During an interview with the Ukrainian sport site iSport, Medvenko spoke of the end of an NBA career:

“Frankly, after a serious injury you’ll never be able to return to the previous level. You constantly have fear and dread.  As I have said, when you finish with basketball, everything in life becomes different. Other colors and sounds. People need to rebuild their lives completely, to find their place, where you can be useful, where you can feel interested again.”

Stories don’t always play out as we imagine. And in many cases, we don’t imagine them at all. A world away, kids get into a gym when they are able, trying to find some escape from a war-torn landscape in which the various sides and alliances can be hard to figure out.

On Sunday, polls will open in critical presidential elections that could determine the future of Kiev and other western parts of Ukraine, while to the east, violence will continue to rage on, and voting will be unlikely.

And in New York City, Jackson will continue to look for a coach for the Knicks.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Looking Back on Mr. D’Antoni’s Wild Ride

It wasn’t quite two seasons long but that’s just a trifle—Mike D’Antoni was hired by the Los Angeles Lakers ten games into the 2012-13 campaign and took them on an unapologetic spin through his uniquely myopic, often entertaining and ultimately disastrous brand of basketball.

Along the road were too many injuries to recount, empowerment for minimum-salary castoffs and 67 wins and 87 losses. Yowsa!

The overall total reads better than the denouement—his second season accounted for 55 of those misfires and will go down as the worst loss record in franchise history.

Toward the end, it had become a screaming banshee death spiral capped off with one last flourish that says more about D’Antoni’s lack of tether to the franchise than any other singular action.

The Lakers ended their train wreck with back-to-back wins, thus squandering any chance to move up the ladder in the all-important draft lottery.

And when told by reporters of the implication of beating the Spurs in the last game of the regular season, the onetime COY responded, “They played hard, and I think, if I’m not mistaken, it’s the same number of ping-pong balls, right? They flip a coin, or something.”

Oh, you impish wag.

He was informed of his misperception, of course.

But in the end it really didn’t matter—D’Antoni had long since gone all in on a basketball philosophy that could just have well been told in iconic theme park verse:

“We’re merrily on our way, to nowhere in particular!”

I never wanted him to coach the Lakers. I was a Zen Master devotee through and through—it was all  about the guy with the rings and the soul patch, and that absurd fascination with staring at the floor while seated, as important basketball business transpired on court.

The decision just didn’t make any sense in my mind, I spent too much time recycling through an endless tape loop of “but, why?”

I probably missed too many memorable moments over the almost-two seasons, simply because I found obstinate fault with a system that never had a prayer when married to guys like Kobe Bryant, Dwight Howard and Pau Gasol.

It was prideful and wrong and basically stupid of me, like parents who turn away from a class performance because they don't approve of the silly bumblebee costumes.

Yes, it was an abomination like no other. But how those pom-pom antennas waved merrily through the air, as an array of giddy gunners launched gobstoppers toward a distant honeypot.

“We’re always in a hurry, we have no time to stall!”

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride lasted 154 games, the likes of which we won’t see again. If there’s any comparison in the annals of Laker lore, it might be Dennis Rodman’s 23-game party rager during the 1998-99 season, in which he averaged 2.1 points and 11.2 boards before taking an impromptu detour from the Forum to Vegas, causing Jerry West to remove the tap from the keg.

D’Antoni wasn’t the right coach for the Lakers, at least not for a team assembled from such disparate elements. And of course, nobody could have won with all those injuries. Just because it’s been repeated ad nauseam, doesn’t change that inherent truth.

He rejected the star system in an organization that personifies it.

And the villagers with their pitchforks and fiery torches helped hasten a foregone conclusion. Or maybe not, does it even matter?

He went out the way he came in, suddenly and amidst contradictory reports and predictions.

And despite the dark days, D’Antoni delivered some shining moments—diagraming brilliant timeout plays, reviving the careers of young NBA rejects and never once wavering from an extreme form of tunnel vision that belongs to life’s true believers.

I never supported him but I find myself wishing I had paid better attention nonetheless.

Actually, I kind of did pay attention. I think I watched all 55 losses. Sometimes, wild rides can be god-awful.

Fare thee well, Mr. D’Antoni—may the wind be always at your back, though our roads are perpendicular!

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Mike D’Antoni, Life Journal, Day 576

Laurel is annoyed with me for playing Dark Side of the Moon all night on the stereo system. She said that’s why she bought me ear buds, but I don’t like how they feel. 

Woke up, had a half-grapefruit and some turkey sausage. Sat on the patio and texted Kupchak, asked if they were ready to guarantee my fourth year. I don't do things half-ass, you gotta burn the house to the ground if you really want to rise to the sun. 

Mitch is alright, though. It’s that Jimmy kid that worries me. Can’t trust amateurs like that.

Goals for the week: No. 1, make a rock garden. No. 2, grow some tomato plants. No. 3, take up watercolor painting.

I’m gonna miss Dan.

If I come back next season, Shawne’s coming back too. That’s non-negotiable.

Made good progress last night on new treatise for next season—cribbage analytics as applied to skill-ball. Always lead your opponent during play. For example, if you start with a 7, the other guy could play an 8 for 15 and score 2 points. By leading, you can play a 9 to score 3 points for a Run.

Three is always better than two.

If I could get some of these new number junky bloggers on my side I could rule the basketball universe. I wonder how much that would cost me. I bet some of them would do it for free.

We take what the league gives us and that basically means less physicality under the basket. If you suck more defenders out toward the three-point line it opens up paths to the rim even more. Occam’s razor says it’s pointless to do with more what is done with less. Big guys who stand around in the paint are more. Scoring a three-pointer is less because it means more points with one possession.

I'm not coming back for a third year if they won't give me a fourth. 

“Run, rabbit run—dig that hole, forget the sun.”

I still miss the wildflowers in Abruzzo. We used to drive there in the spring. It was just Laurel and I, then. Bombing along in our old Fiat Spider, not a worry in the world. Lilies and orchids and primrose. And the silver birch trees in the forest.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014


The season hasn’t gone as planned, and the season before didn’t go as planned, or the one before that.

The mind-numbing tape-loop of sequential injuries provided fodder for a while, as did an avalanche of losses that finally lost their power and simply continued to accrue, silently, impotently.

Like snow falling at night.

You mined the controversy and misery, you found effective hit-seeking hooks and far-reaching narratives that fed upon themselves until all the good stuff had been chewed out, and what was left felt tasteless and plasticine. The concentric circles of hell began to flatten out and dissipate.

It felt this way long ago but you were younger then and media strip-mining hadn’t yet sucked your soul clean of caring. Losing meant more, then.

You go from watching three games at once to none at all. You pretend to become deeply obsessed in the story of a missing airliner instead. You take too much time choosing between a five-dollar frozen pizza and the one that cost 3-for-$10 with your store discount card.

The lockout season was better than this.

You decide that it’s all part of the greater good. That stuff—about renewal and Sisyphusian challenges—and you devote a small portion of think-power to constructing something grand and beautiful but then Netflix happens instead.

The Los Angeles Lakers are currently at 22-44 and have a few days off. They were dead last in the Western Conference standings, but somehow, Utah must have lost additional games faster than the Lakers lost additional games, so now the Jazz are dead last.

You stare at the screen, knowing that the Lakers paragraph should move up several spaces for maximum efficiency. And that you need to put a block quote some place.

You forget that the oven timer went off. The 3-for$10 pizza is now an unappealing shade of brown around the edges.

Someone from Milwaukee or Cleveland would hit you in the face with a two-by-four just to shut you up.

You take a moment to gather small pieces of foam rubber from a destroyed dog bed and kneel on a damp spot from puppy piss from many hours earlier, or even days ago.

Every now and then, people still wonder whatever happened to Slava. The answer is actually quite simple—he returned to the Ukraine several years ago and has been working with youth basketball, including the U16/17 National Team.

Per Mary Schmitt Boyer of The Plain Dealer, Mike Fratello, coach of the Ukrainian National Team during tournament play, recently visited Kiev, as violence was escalating:
"Obviously, it has escalated in the last five days. Things have gotten much worse. They closed the basketball federation offices last week. I think that was the smart thing to do. A bullet doesn't know where it's going when it leaves the gun."
It’s one thing to have a few bad seasons in a row. It’s another thing when the tanks start rolling in.

On Monday, the Lakers announced that Jordan Farmar had strained his right groin in practice. His return to the lineup is uncertain.

It's just one more stumbling block in a larger narrative of loss, and an ongoing sense of dysfunction that feels murky and ill-defined, like a recipe randomly put together by bored children. 

The Lakers host the San Antonio Spurs, at Staples Center on Wednesday.

And I’m still searching for Slava.

Friday, September 6, 2013


The Los Angeles Lakers are in a gathering mode leading up to training camp. Mindful of vagaries of age and health, management is stockpiling multi-positional projects in hopes of plugging a hole left by the amnesty of Metta World Peace. Forward Shawne Williams has faced well-publicized off-court challenges, including multiple drug busts and the loss of his older brother. This will be a low-risk deal from a financial standpoint – his minimum salary is only partially guaranteed. The initial press blurbs were slimmer than they once were. You burn enough opportunities and the story tends to downsize. 

I was driving cross-country a few summers back and took a detour into downtown Memphis. A couple random historic district signs led past abandoned buildings and empty lots. The Housing Authority came in during the 1950's and wiped out about half the area. Things were never quite the same again. Nearly 1,500 acres have been deemed a “menace to public safety, health, morals and welfare” according to the current Community Redevelopment Agency. Another eminent domain razing is being planned in the name of gentrification. Here come the warm Starbucks. For a guy making random lefts and rights in an old green Explorer, it simply looked like a place you could get lost in real easy. About 30 minutes later I was refilling my ice chest and buying post cards at a convenience store and heading back to ten lanes of mind-numbing banality that now passes for a road trip.

A “cautionary tale” is one of sports' pet phrases, often used in primetime style and easily applied to athletes who never quite got there. Demetrius “Hook” Mitchell dunked over cars on the mean streets of Oakland. He grew up with the likes of Jason Kidd, Gary Payton and Brian Shaw, and has been called the greatest player to never make it to the NBA. Instead he played for weed and crack and wound up in and out of prison. Lamar Odom faced more loss than anyone should but eventually reached the pinnacle of NBA success, as well as marrying into the kind of tabloid status that keeps buzzards like TMZ well fed. Lamar's current woes took another turn when he checked out of rehab a day after checking in.

Getting high happens on different levels. There aren't enough prisons in the world to hold everyone who has ever smoked a joint or done a line of coke, or who has hung with someone that's just not going to make your life simple and easy, although it might seem simple and easy in the moment.

Shawne Williams grew up in South Memphis in a neighborhood marked by crime and prostitution. He and his brother Ramone, one year his senior, were primarily raised by their grandfather, Lou Williams. Shawne wasn't really seen as a bad kid by Coach Ted Anderson at Hamilton High, though he later observed that the troubled player had nine lives. It's probably a cliché to say Williams has used most of them up. It's also probably true. He was courted by Coach John Calipari and the University of Memphis. Anderson admits he lobbied for Shawne to declare for a different college, someplace far away from friends and temptation.

A standout freshman season led to Williams being taken as the 17th pick in the 2006 draft, by Donnie Walsh and the Indiana Pacers. Things were good for a while until they weren't. Off-court troubles started piling up. Shawne was traded to Dallas and wound up being paid by Mark Cuban to stay away from the team. Dallas traded his contract to the Nets and he was subsequently released. Kiki Vandeweghe later said, “I'm glad he's not our issue.” Out of the NBA and hanging out with old Memphis friends, Williams said “a light switched on” and he decided to get out of town and back into shape.

Timelines don't always tell the whole story but they're a part of the story nonetheless. Shawne Williams has been arrested three times during his NBA career and stopped, questioned and ticketed at various other junctures. Aggregate causes have included smoking a blunt, driving without a license, associating with a murder suspect and being part of an “Operation Lockdown” dragnet in Memphis. Williams plead guilty to four misdemeanor charges for that one, including intent to sell hydrocordone, aka sizzurp in styro cups. He was placed in a six-month diversion program and tested positive for weed four times during that period. In 2012 he was popped again for codeine-based syrup.

In the spring of 2010, Williams traveled to the IMG Basketball Academy in Brandenton, Florida and started playing again. He lost weight and dedicated himself to the game. He received a summer league invite from the Charlotte Bobcats and coach Larry Brown, who was likely influenced by the recommendation of John Calipari. Summer league lead to two NBA training camp offers: the Bobcats and the NY Knicks. Williams went with the Knicks for personal reasons. Madison Square Garden was the last place his brother saw him play – this during a college tourney. Ramone was murdered shortly thereafter. It's also worth noting that Donnie Walsh who drafted Williams, was now running operations for the Knicks.

Likened to a reclamation project within a reclamation project, Shawne Williams thrived in NYC. Mike D'Antoni admittedly tested him, tossing the 6-9 forward into various rotations and situations. Williams slowed down LeBron James, was choked by an agitated Metta World Peace, was even put in at center against Dwight Howard of the Orlando Magic. The size mismatch was ridiculous but the forward didn't back down. He's never been accused of playing soft. As D'Antoni said, “He's coming at you. And I like that about him.” His minutes increased and his role solidified. He shot .401 from behind the arc and helped the team to their best season in a decade.

The following fall found Williams at the Knicks training camp, waiting for a free agent offer. He ultimately signed with the Nets for two years and $6.1 million, calling it a business decision. Things didn't work out in New Jersey. He was traded after 25 uneventful games to the Portland Trail Blazers. Williams didn't play in Portland and was arrested again the following winter. According the affidavit, the 26 year-old said, “Officer, I ain't gonna lie to you, there's a blunt in the car and some syrup.”

Williams hasn't seen any NBA action in well over a year. Still, his tough-nosed play caught on with D'Antoni that one season and his coach remembers. The Memphis product will be playing for a spot against a glut of other question marks. He's burned his bridges and used up at least eight lives. Still, if you're going to be someone's number nine, it might as well be the Lakers.

A predictable thing happened after the first Lakers beat stories about the signing of Williams. National basketball writers started to circle. They remembered the cautionary tales, they might have even played a part once. During a slow summer news cycle, events like this can generate interest. Phrases are dusted off, links are explored and parsed.

Somewhere a car floats around a corner, the music's bumping and the windows are dark and you don't know if it's a guy going somewhere or if it's just another ride with a group of friends. Headlights, taillights, it could be Los Angeles or it could be Memphis. Another season's about to begin.  

Wednesday, June 26, 2013


The year had been a long strange drift for Kiovanic Atomik. It had been just as strange for the NBA team that nearly drafted him in June, a team decimated by injuries and poor luck. Kio wondered if he could have made a difference. The way he sees it, things couldn't have gotten any screwier, even if the word doesn't literally exist in his native tongue. The good people of Ingushetia speak the Ingush language which shares a high degree of intelligibility with neighboring Chechnya. At least that's what Wikipedia says. Kio shrugged and lit another cigarette and hacked deeply and spat.

Last year, the Los Angeles Lakers had the #55 and #60 draft picks, ultimately selecting Darius Johnson-Odom and Robert Sacre. They dropped Johnson-Odom in early January and hung onto utility center Sacre. They didn't sign Atomik, a streaky 6-9 point guard with off-the-chart passing skills and the admiration of a consortium of part time Lakers scouts. That was then, this is now. The team's ownership situation has become a bit loose around the edges in recent weeks, with rumors of Jim Buss's new interest in eastern religion.

This time around the Lakers have the #48 pick. That's better than #55 or #60 but then again it's only half as many. You take what you get though – the team parted with a number of other draft options through a byzantine ponzi scheme that nobody seems willing to discuss. As for Kio, he returned to another impressive season with Euroloeague's elite Montepaschi Siena before blowing out his knee in a collision with Alba Berlin's Robert Swift.

The Los Angeles Lakers are in a luxury cap bind at the moment, unable to sign any meaningful free agents other than their own. The current priority is convincing Dwight Howard to sign a new long-term contract. On Wednesday, management hung a large banner outside Staples Center, imploring the All-Star center to stay. There has not yet been an official reaction to the sign from Howard's camp. The other three members of last summer's Four Horseman are currently rehabbing from injuries. With limited options, the #48 pick begins to take on added importance. Among names being bandied about are 6-2 point guard Ray McCallum from Detroit, 6-5 wing Archie Goodwin from Kentucky and 6-9 power forward Bojan Dublijevic from Montenegro.

If Atomik was a long-shot last year, his NBA path is becoming increasingly narrow. Friends have voiced concern about his emotional well being after a painful breakup with one of the lesser-known members of Russia's Pussy Riot punk collective. Former teammate Bobby Brown recently offered that “Kio's knee is about 90 percent back but his soul is hurting.” Why even mention the Ingush baller then? Perhaps longtime Euro scout Antonio Scariolo said it best. “You should have seen the kid a couple years back with CB Bruesca. He blew everyone away with his beautiful game and that's a tough fucking crowd.”

Kiovanic's mother was a political activist from Ingushetia, his father a soldier from South Ossetia. He escaped a civil war, lived on his own from an early age, traveled the nomad's life through smoke-filled arenas. He has an uncommon gift for seeing the floor, for reading nearly impossible situations. This Thursday night in the pale predawn hours, Kio will be sitting somewhere in a far-off land, watching an internet feed from Barclay's Center. Waiting to see if his name is called.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013


I became enamored of the idea of writing a book some years back. Ultimately, does it matter why? One inconsequential problem, I had no story to tell. Fortunately, the hands of divine intervention appeared, sparing me the necessity of creative thinking. A buddy gave me a book for Christmas – a simple field guide to Birds of North America. I didn't have much interest in the subject but the dryly laid-out text began to interest me with its repetitive minutiae.

It wasn't enough but again, happenstance. I was in the Pasadena Library, standing in front of rows of musty books and closed my eyes, let my hands trail and randomly stopped on A Unit of Time, A Unit of Water: Joel White's Last Boat. It was a beautifully written accounting of the last days of a legendary boat builder, dying of cancer. It was not only about Joel's life and his boats, but his relationship with his father – none other than E.B. White, author of marvelous children's literature and scholarly essays and my favorite writer growing up. Now I was intrigued.

I needed more though and after a considerable struggle, came up the idea of writing about a guy who doesn't know what comes next. I had my book! I would write about Harold, a middle-aged advertising executive who sails his boat up along the Atlantic seaboard, following the migratory path of birds. I even came up with a brilliant title – Birds, Boats and Middle Age.

I wrote at a snails pace, day in, day out. Slowly amassed details, lots and lots of details. This was important stuff. The Birds of North American Guide was not enough – I purchased the definitive work on the subject – the Sibley Guide to Birds. There would be nothing left out. And books about boats. Lots of books about boats. About a year went by. I now had 300 pages with lots of marshes and birds and plant life and sailing and a guy named Harry who's kind of a dick.

The next logical step was to dump the manuscript off on a good friend who was also a very good writer. I needed affirmation. My friend found it to be boring and repetitive with an unlikable main character. He had enjoyed one random section however, in which Harry flies out to Hollywood to meet with studio types about running the ad campaign for a hopelessly snake-bitten sequel to a talking dog movie.

The scrapping of all but 40 pages didn't come easily. But it came, along with other characters and story devices and drafts that topped out at 450 pages and were again stripped down. And years of stops and starts and crashing computers and lost files and lost interest and eventually a found memory stick with an old draft and more revisions and at the end, an unstable mess as a result of different software systems and who knows what.

Perhaps the best thing about the process is just that – the process. The story about an ad exec and a dog with diabetes, a trio of entitled white wannabe gangstas and a Hungarian junkie director won't win any awards but it will exist in cyberspace as a drawn-out exercise that hopefully helped me become a better writer.

One final circle of hell presented itself – an abomination called e-formatting. I basically gave up on that battle – Coma Dog is on Smashwords, Nook and Kindle for 0.99 cents and there's free chapter samples available. The Smashwords reader is the larger widget to the right and there's about 58 free pages - click the arrow at the lower left corner, choose your fonts and spacing and you're all set. 

Sunday, December 23, 2012


Life had been good lately. Or, had at least been stable. As stable as a life spent largely on the road enduring universal disdain could ever be. If the sparkle had somehow left Sager's eyes, it was replaced by grim acceptance. And, there were the weekends at home in Scottsdale as well. If you were to happen by the floor-to-ceiling windows of a stucco McMansion off the 18th green, you might observe domestic bliss. Or something.

The afternoon had been spent at Santa's Village. The penultimate Colorado Blue Spruce had been delivered by truck and wheeled into the living room. Craig was pleased. It was a living tree with its root ball encased in damp burlap and would be a proud addition to his back lawn after the holidays – he had just the spot picked out. Anne however was less than thrilled. She had been holding out for something made of metal, and was now swirling ice in a tumbler. Chipper meanwhile was plucking living needles and sticking them in his sister's angora sweater. Bunny Bear proceeded to wail and Craig exited to the patio and the comfort of his Adirondack, as the sun went resolutely down.

He thought about firing up the grill but a toothache was coming on. Inside, the sound of rending angora and a fresh anguished wail. Bunny Bear shared his reverence for natural fibers. An angry yell from Anne, the sound of Chipper's stomping feet as he headed upstairs to his wireless weather station kit. Craig found himself wondering how Betty the library assistant was. She didn't judge.

It was dark outside. A cold front was moving in. And still he sat. He imagined the smell of pine, a yellow moon and dream comfort memory. The familial pull wouldn't leave. And he knew it wasn't right, that toys by themselves weren't enough.


The early light revealed passing fields, now barren and cold. Faded barns and swayed ridge beams. He'd taken the old highways up through Utah and now into Wyoming. The RAV4 was doing yeoman's work. There was no shortage of food wrappers, seven hours out now and eyes burning. His cell had rung incessantly, until it hadn't. Anne would be making coffee, the children would be up soon. And questions and tears.

A long sweeping bend. A motorcycle by the side. An older gentleman with a leather bomber jacket. Sitting patiently by his backpack. Watching nothing in particular, facing away from the road. Sager pulled in and turned off the motor. The pings and ticking sounds. A warm engine and cold air. The man turned slowly, and also smiled slowly.

Big birds flying across the sky.

The man climbed in, slowly. The long pain that is simply accepted now. The backpack went into the back seat. Some strange stringed instrument stuck out through the top flap. It looked like a harpsichord. But it wasn't.

“Sager.” Just a statement. As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Phil. Problems with the Road King?”

Phil Jackson is a man who is careful with his answers. “Where are you headed my friend?”

“Saskatchewan. And you?”

Phil turned his attention to the passing barren fields. “I'm to host the kids at Deer Lodge for the holidays. Saskatchewan's nice this time of year though.”

Sager shrugged. He was already into Wyoming. He had not yet crossed across any borders.

Phil eyed the photos on the dashboard curiously. “Deer Lodge can wait.”


Night had turned to day and had turned to night once again. Craig Sager had tried to hide the smile but he felt like someone with a brother from another mother, you take it where you get it and sometimes you have to hide a grin. Like when you have a chance gelato spill and stop at a thrift store catering to the cabaret crowd. And then your whole life changes. 

Walter and Doris stood blinking at the door, bathed in the ambient glow of a single strand of holiday lights, zig-zagging across the clapboards.

Walter squinted, and then his countenance lit up. “Well, Phil Jackson, how are you sir? Come on in out of that cold night air!”

Doris beamed happily as well. She and Walter didn't know Phil personally but they certainly watched television, and while their son's parade of pastels and plaids had long worn thin, there was something different about a brush with eleven rings.

Phil stepped aside and motioned for the son to enter first. He followed behind, as Walter and Doris murmured anxiously about “the peat moss.” A moment later Doris did an about face and led him back out to the dining table.

“You just sit a spell and let the boys do what they have to do. No reason to trouble yourself. Would you like a glass of sherry?”

Phil pondered the question and sat slowly. “Is there anything else?”

“We have limeade.”

“I guess I wouldn't mind a small glass of sherry.” And then watched a curious spectacle as America's sideline reporter and his father made a series of hallway trips, carrying large bags of garden fertilizer over their shoulders out into the cold night air. He looked to Doris and raised his eyebrows. She just smiled sweetly. In due time, the procession ended and there was the sound of extended vacuuming. Craig finally stepped into the living room with a red, sweaty face.

“You'll be bunking with me. I got twins. But I have to take a shower first.”


It was late now. The faint smell of an apple-scented candle wafted from down the hallway. Phil was sitting at the dining table with Walter and Doris, playing canasta. Craig watched from the recliner, scowling and checking his cell messages now and then. “We could listen to music in my room if you want.”

Phil waved off the suggestion. “It's your draw, Walter.”

The gray dawn arrived and Craig was awoken by the strange sound of oddly-chiming strings. It sounded like flowing high-mountain water to him. He wiped the sleepy-bugs from his eyes and sat up, wrapping his blanked around him. “Where did you learn to play like that?'

Phil was sitting cross-legged on his twin bed, cradling his zither and plucking the strings. “It's my version of 'Rolling in the Deep' by Adele."

Sager nodded. “Do you know any Leonard Cohen songs?”

Phil shook his head slowly as if bemused by the man-child's questions, then looked back levelly. “No. But I can play this.” And began a languid version of Soundgarden's 'Black Hole Sun', speaking the words as he plucked the zither's strings.

Sager watched and listened, wide-eyed.


Days came and days passed. Craig and Phil took to visiting Rosthern's Main Street. They browsed the racks at Pogo's Bargain Center, sat on the park bench. Some nights they would stop at Bumpy's Bar. If a game was on, Phil would share his wisdom with the regulars. Craig attempted to join the conversations but his old pals simply slapped him on the back as if they were in on some familiar joke. He finally stopped trying.

At home, Phil helped make salads and watch the local weather reports with Walter and Doris. Christmas was just days away. At night by the glow of the twinkling bulbs, songs would be sung – joyous renditions of Burl Ives and Frankie Lane classics. Doris would accompany on the piano and Phil would strum his zither. Craig sang along at first but didn't feel appreciated, and eventually went to his room and listened to his own music, trying to drown the grownups' revelry. It just didn't seem right. He yelled out in the general vicinity of the living room. “Mom! Do we have any more pudding cups?”

Phil's bemused voice drifted back. “Sorry sport. I had the last one.”

It was a cold, clear day. The sun was shining through the windows. Phil was sitting on the couch, lost in thought. Craig wasn't sure what was wrong. He only knew that the legendary coach has been on the phone earlier, having a “private conversation” with someone. And now he looked sad and lonely.

Craig spoke up. “D'you want to go for a walk in the woods? That's what I do if I'm feeling troubled about anything. I bring my cassette recorder with me and sit on my favorite rock.”

Phil thought about this and shrugged. “Okay”.


They sat there by the stream, Craig perched on one rock eating goldfish crackers from a baggie. Phil sat on an adjoining rock, looking toward the water. The beavers could be seen, poking their heads their heads up briefly now and then from their pile of sticks and logs in the water.

“Those are my friends, Chipper and Mrs. Sleek.” Craig held out the baggie of goldfish crackers. Phil accepted them companionably. Sager continued. “You seemed sad in there. Is it because of the Lakers?”

Phil shook his head and smiled. “No, my friend. If you love something you have to let it go. If it comes back to you it is yours forever, if it doesn't, then it was never meant to be.”

Craig cocked his head, seemed about to say something, then closed his mouth and wrinkled his brow. He seemed to be working this out in his head.

Phil spoke again. “Well, it is about one Laker actually. Jeanie. That's who I was talking to on the phone earlier. She arrived in Deer Lodge. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. She and my kids are wanting to see me. And I want to see them. This has been a fine past few days though. And I thank you.”

Sager's shoulders slumped. “It seems like we didn't even hang out that much. You just wanted to play cards with my parents.”

Phil Jackson stroked his white beard. “Why are you here, Sager? You have your own kids, you have a wife. It's Christmas time for crying out loud. Your bedroom isn't all that cool. It kind of smells in there to be honest.”

Sager thought hard on this. “Lately, the black dog has been with me. I'm questioning everything. I have an annoying ringing in my ears that won't go away. I don't know why I keep coming back here. I don't even think Walter and Delores are my real parents. They just tolerate me. I'm supposed to be from Batavia, Illinois. That's what Anne keeps telling me. And I don't think she's my real wife. Which means Chipper and Bunny Bear wouldn't be my real kids. What am I supposed to do?”

Phil tossed a couple goldfish crackers to the beavers. “Of course you're from here, sport. Nobody pretends to be from Rosthern, Saskatchewan. All your changes were here. But it is Christmas. And those kids deserve to have their dad with them, black dog or not. You could get a Santa suit.”

Craig considered this. “Not just any Santa suit.”


Craig Bartholomew Sager arrived at his own front door sometime after dark on Christmas Eve. It had been a long, bone-weary drive. He'd dropped Phil Jackson off in Wyoming, and they had thanked each other for the company. Now he stood at the threshold, and rang the doorbell.

Anne opened the door and put her hands on her hips. “Santa. Nice of you to stop by.”

Craig was wearing a glorious red leisure suit trimmed with faux ermine around the cuffs and collar, and a red velvet pimp hat. And a giant black patent leather belt. And a fake beard. “Ho ho ho!”

The kids came running out and hurled themselves against his legs. Their daddy was home. Anne shook her head. “You'd might as well come in then.” And she turned and walked inside. Sager grinned.


Christmas day had been splendid. The children opened an obscene amount of presents by the glorious living Spruce, and a wonderful meal from Whole Foods was consumed. And candy and treats and snack trays galore. Anne had appreciated the David Yurman jewelry and had polished off a goodly amount of Veuve Clicquot. And now the sun was going down. Again.

Craig had retreated to the patio and was parked in his Adirondack. Shadows crept across the golf greens below until the darkness consumed him. Anne had thoughtfully plugged in a strip of Christmas lights that crept across the patio fence. The tiny twinkling bulbs tried burning their way through the thickening black syrup of night. His cell phone vibrated silently. He looked at it and then spoke cautiously. “Yes?”

The voice sounded far away. “Hi Craig. It's me, Betty. From the library.”

Craig answered. “Yes, I know.”

A long pause. “Are you with your wife and children?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That's nice. Everyone should be with family on Christmas. So, have you been thinking about me at all?”

“Well, yes. Sometimes.”

“I bought a new dress. It's blue with a snowflake pattern. I think you'd like it.”

Sager sighed heavily. The tinnitus in his ears began again. Inside, he could hear the sound of the children. They were beginning to quarrel and the sound mixed with the ringing in his ears. Anne's voice was raising in timber but he could not make out the words. The voices seemed to ebb and flow in some strange rhythm that he hadn't yet figured out.

“Craig? Are you still there?”

Sager clicked the phone off and reached into a paper bag that was by the side of his chair. Inside was the old cassette recorder, it had come back from Saskatchewan with him. He pulled a wrapped chocolate from his pocket and put it in his mouth. And pressed play. The comforting rasp of a singer from his past.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded, everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.