NOT FADE AWAY

Searching for Slava isn’t consistent and it has no particular rhyme or reason. It will never be part of a network and it will never be invited to be part of a network. The top rated Slava post ever? Not Kobe, not Lamar, certainly not Craig Sager. As much as I like writing about woodland creatures and synthetic fibers, those posts are like the last kid who straggles across the finish line. Adam Morrison and a post called Shooting Star brought in the most traffic I’ve ever had, by far.

Ammo was waived by the Portland Trailblazers on Friday. He’d managed a training camp invite after lighting it up for the Clippers in summer league. He didn’t get the call from the Clippers. He played in Vegas after playing for the Brooklyn Nets in their summer league. That after playing for Besiktas in Turkey and KK Red Star Belgrade. Morrison was fired up in Serbia, he said he would have run through a wall the night of the viral ejection. He was fired up for the Clippers, averaging 20 ppg in six games. The Clippers should have signed him. He’s their kind of player. They didn't, but Portland gave him a shot.

Ammo’s not particularly consistent and he has no rhyme or reason except he loves the game. When he’s firing he’s amazing, transcendent. And when he’s not he’s like a stone-faced pedestrian. I have no illusions about why my hit counter's still running ten months later. I understand what 'Google images' means. I get that people click on a picture of a meteorite streaking across a nighttime sky. I also remember that when I first wrote it, the connection wasn’t about a photograph. Adam Morrison said he’d retire if Portland let him go. He’s got a couple young daughters in Seattle. Time doesn’t wait forever.

Was there ever a player who showed more emotion than Morrison with Gonzaga? Maybe. He has no more of a lock on passion than a million other ballers. Was there another player who shot himself up with insulin on the sideline? I have no idea. Was there another player who blew out his knee and failed to live up to lottery expectations? Sadly, too many. Morrison spoke to the geeky kids who lit joints on deserted playgrounds and let fly from obscure asphalt cracks that served as markers. And he never cared about that. He cared about the loss to UCLA in the sweet sixteen. If you didn’t see it you don’t know and it was only six years ago. It seems like a lifetime.

Ammo turned 28 this past summer. He will finish school at some point and he will live a life. And do something to earn a living because the expenses don’t stop. And at some point many years from now with his daughters grown and water under the bridge, he may track down old friends and look at photographs. You can blow off the sentiment in the moment but it will catch you in time. It always does. And you know that he was a shooting star. And the world will love you, just as long as you are a shooting star.

SHOOTING STAR

Hidden in plain sight. I was honestly surprised that some NBA team didn’t sign Adam Morrison this shortened season. Not that he’s the answer, not that he’s instant redemption as a former number three pick. But if anything, he’s clearly found his game again, far away from home. Some months back, Sam Amick wrote a great interview piece for Sports Illustrated:

“For me, it’s all about feeling good about myself again and just having fun”, Morrison said. “If it translates to the NBA, yes, that would obviously be great. If it translates to me continuing my career in Europe, that’s fine with me too, honestly. I want to end my career on a solid note in my mind and in my soul. I guess you could say, to feel good about basketball again.”

The new found attention and respect began with a video that went viral on YouTube. Ammo had responded to an elbow from Bogdan Radosavljevic with a forearm shiver and angry pursuit, leading to his ejection and full blown crowd insanity.

“I would have run through a brick wall that night for anything. Goose bumps. Sweating. That whole day, I’ve never been so focused. It was a friendly game, and I was thinking, ‘All right, I’m going nuts tonight. I don’t care what happens. I was ready to fight, to do anything, just to play.”

More videos followed and it became obvious, this wasn’t a heat of the moment blowup, Morrison was playing inspired basketball once again, in Serbia. Crazy outside jumpers, aggressive post-ups in the paint, fuck you, Jimmy Kimmel. Four months later we’re partway through a zig-zag season with players going down left and right, available table scraps chased down like the holy grail. Where’s Ammo? He was let out of his contract on the eve of the NBA season, hoping for a ticket home. Nobody took a flyer.

Morrison’s now with Besiktas Milangaz in the Turkish Basketball League. The club’s no joke, a rich history dating back to 1933 and currently in the EuroChallenge hunt – Morrison poured in 26 points recently against BK Pardubice. It’s great but it’s not the NBA. Does it matter? That depends who you are. Deron Williams said goodbye to Besiktas and returned to the Nets where he’s putting up big numbers once again. Sasha Vujacic signed for a full season with Andolu Efes and was recently named MVP of the Turkish All-Star game. Big fish, little fish, apples and oranges. The Machine will likely have NBA offers waiting if he chooses – he put up career high numbers during his stay in New Jersey.

For those on the extreme fringe, the question is tougher and often hypothetical. Would you rather be an overseas star or hope for a non-guaranteed spot on the bench? If you came from the Euroleague, it’s easier to go home again. If you grew up stateside and once had your moment in the NBA sun, you may find the path back elusive. This is where Morrison now lives, he doesn’t fit with executives who fold their lower level hopes into neatly defined squares. He’s a recluse in the spotlight, he may never get his chance again.

The season proceeds apace, teams bunched up in the middle, players cut down as the trade deadline looms. Those 15th slots are opening, tracked by agents looking to bag one last commission before hunting season closes. Adam Morrison drifts between the cross-hairs, you take a breath and caress the trigger. There's movement, he looks up and freezes. Gilbert Arenas comes into view, working the angles for all they're worth. 

You smile and put away the bad trigger device. You are a socially responsible blogger. You write about team concepts and limited resources and happy endings. Adam Morrison fades into the rear view mirror. Don’t you know that you are a shooting star?

THIS WORLD THEN THE KITCHEN SINK

The angles have been covered every which way - the season’s doomed, we’ll have a deal by Monday, the superstars will hold things up and the League of 7 Agents have moved from Armageddon to an expressed desire to help the union. Well sure, and Doc wants to redistrict the league and Happy wants network license fees and Grumpy wants to steal Dopey’s clients.

My own opinions on the lockout have ranged from vertical integration scenarios to a simple lost season to my most recent faint hope, seedlings searching for the sun. In truth, I have no clue at all. I’m only watching and waiting. Whatever happens, the lower-to-middle rung players will bear the brunt of sacrifice. Along with countless associated workers and families, caught up as they so often are, in the brutal squeeze.

This sport has long been a sanctuary. I got my first Spaulding at the age of 6 and somehow managed to put a small slice in it. My dad sealed it with black rubber but there was forever a slight bulge. It presented certain quirks while dribbling but I kept that basketball for a lot of years - driveways, backyards, gyms and the cracked asphalt playground at the Stella Maris school, down the street from where I lived during my teen years. I’d launch unlikely shots for hours on end, pondering the world. Sometimes stoned, I’ll admit. And then television. A lot of games, a lot of years.

Our country’s earliest collective bargaining agreements date back to localized trade unions in the late 1700's, followed soon after by a growing women’s movement to improve sweatshop conditions. It’s never been the easiest road. Soldiers came gunning for railroad workers, the air traffic controllers were fired by Reagan and governors began the long steady push to exterminate teachers’ unions. And now this: David Stern sits behind a bank of microphones, wearing the most puzzled expression. "We asked the players to grab their ankles and they said no. I don’t know where this leaves us."

The trend toward weakening workers’ positions isn’t a trend at all, it’s been the constant battle between sides since the earliest feudal systems and fuck it, I don’t want to write about farmers and retail clerks. The shittiest owners in the league want more money to lose more games. Is that simple enough?

Things I’ve read and liked recently:

From Adrian Wojinarowski, about aging stars and a deal that may not get any better:

He’s 35 years old, on a bad knee, and near the end of a Hall of Fame career. And yes, it takes some guts for Garnett to stand there in these Players Association news conferences, strong, defiant, and take the arrows again. He’s made more than $200 million in his career, and there are no more big contracts awaiting him. The Boston Celtics have one more season to make a title run, and then, with Garnett and Ray Allen free agents, the team will probably stat to rebuild again.

From Tom Ziller, about cheating fans and embracing greed:

The owners will decide that extracting money from players takes precedence over serving the communities that have put them in fancy suits, meeting in fancy hotels over fancy lunches. Robert Sarver will decide that the bailout the players’ union has offered him - $200 million in future salary rollbacks and a sure concession of escrow funds, which amount to 8 percent of payroll - isn’t enough, that he needs to twist the screws and get more.more.more.

From Henry Abbott, on the concessions that matter:

I could walk into a car dealership today and say true things - that we the Abbbots have little saved for a car purchase, that gas is expensive, that the market for gas guzzlers is softening - so why don’t they hand over a brand new $300,000 Bentley for twenty-five cold hard American Dollars?

And then there’s this - blogs have been linking a rather ripped-looking Adam Morrison getting tossed from a game in Serbia. Who knew? Ammo is beast!

There’s truth in all these things - Garnett and Bryant stand to lose a lot more than they could ever gain. Robert Sarver represents everything wrong in this inexorable mess. And you just can’t get a decent car these days for twenty-five dollars. Take away the vast sums that are jammed into every nook and cranny of this particular debate and the fabric becomes a little more uniform, a seamless world-view blend of decreased payroll, benefits and humanity. Because the NBA cares.

I've lost sight of where it begins and ends.  My eyes are tired and I become aware that the sun is going down, and that I'm hungry.  I rummage around a kitchen cabinet and find a brand-new, brightly colored tennis ball that I'd bought for the old dog and tucked away.  He loses them in record speed but loves them fiercely in the moment.  I toss it across the room and he's almost young again, walking around proudly, ready to go outside. All things must pass but this at least, is here and now.