Ghosts, Grease Fires and Sinking Ships

 

Lead balloon, lemon, loser, this years’ Lakers, we hardly knew ye.

The inexorable creep of squandered talent and lost expectations has been bumping along in various directions for 55 games now. There’s probably not much we don’t know and less that we should expect.

“You all know we are only passing by. We only walk over these stones a few times, our boats float a little while and then they have to sink,” said Billy Pretty, a forgotten character in the sublime novel The Shipping News.

The floundering regatta of the Los Angeles Lakers is a cause that has no hope as it slowly but surely spirals downward.

I was never a Russell Westbrook acolyte but I can remember when it was a ton of fun to watch him ball. There was the slew of playoff runs with the Oklahoma City Thunder that never quite resulted in the ultimate coronation. There were even some games in Houston where, in the moment, he did Russell Westbrook things that defied imagination. He has had the ability to ignite a game, to be a relentless and unstoppable attack dog. He has also, all too often, come crashing down to earth.

At age 33, Westbrook could still potentially salvage a piece of his elusive prime. But the game has passed him by and his stubborn way or the highway surely doesn’t fit this particular team. The deafening silence of any kind of legitimate trade rumors in the hours leading up to the deadline means that other organizations are equally loathe to take on the bloated contract of a recalcitrant Brodie.

The Lakers’ woes don’t fall entirely upon Russ. There has been yet another season of Covid protocols and too many injuries to rehash. The combined age of everyone on the roster does not translate to numbers that are yet known to the human species. But excuses are also beside the point. At some level you’d expect a roster with 57 All-Star selections to do basic basketball things through instinct and desire, like toss the biscuit toward the bucket and have someone actually flush the damned thing.

Granted, there have been sporadic highlight reels along the busted process. Personally speaking, the most entertaining part of the whole morass boils down to marveling at LeBron James’ ability to elude Father Time, especially during those moments when surrounded by a small retinue of still-young draft busts and those who were never drafted in the first place.

An honorable mention goes to Carmelo Anthony for consistently clicking from beyond the arc at .392, as well as saying all the right things and generally giving a shit. I would also shout out the effort of Anthony Davis except I’m literally afraid of jinxing an athletic yet oddly unbalanced gazelle who seems at constant risk of bad landings and lengthy rehabs.

Just a few of the ghosts of seasons past would include a string of lottery picks that are now playing their best ball elsewhere, ill-fated coaching hires, and contractual decisions by “management” that border on criminal negligence: cue the $132 million paid to Luol Deng and lumbering Timofey Mozgov to basically do nothing.

Back to the here and now, there’s seemingly more than enough talent and experience to get things right. There’s also an obvious case of too many creators in the cook space, and this current Lakers season has descended into a worst-ever episode of Hell’s Kitchen.

It’s not even fun to watch it, let alone write about it. A quixotic Oz-like journey gone horribly wrong. Sinking ships, ghosts and grease fires. The clichés feel staler than the team itself.

The 2021-22 season endures for now, however painful it may be. The 9th place L.A. Lakers face the 11th place Portland Trailblazers tonight. LeBron and Russ are both questionable, with left knee soreness and lower back stiffness respectively. Asked about fans’ boos after the Milwaukee blowout, Westbrook called it a “sign of respect.” If he does suit up tonight he’ll likely be treated to even more respect.

Somewhere in a parallel universe, things change on a dime. A team finds its unity, fourth quarter comebacks become sustained efforts, pitchforks are tossed to the side and the chants and cheers become infectiously good and inspiring. Boats are righted and souls are saved.

Somewhere, beyond the yellow brick road.

SOMEONE'S NUMBER NINE: THE RETURN OF SHAWNE WILLIAMS

The Los Angeles Lakers are in a gathering mode leading up to training camp. Mindful of vagaries of age and health, the front office 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 financially, as his minimum salary is only partially guaranteed. The initial press blurbs were slimmer than they once were. 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. 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." 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. 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 pleaded guilty to four misdemeanor charges for that one, including intent to sell hydrocordone, aka sizzurp in a styro cup. 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 began 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 Calipari. Summer league lead to two NBA training camp offers: the Bobcats and the New York Knicks. Williams went with the Knicks for personal reasons. Madison Square Garden was the last place his brother saw him play 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 his new environment. 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 World Peace and was even used 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 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 like hawks. 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.  

POST-ITS FROM THE EDGE

Journal entry, Tuesday, March 6. After a convincing Sunday win against Miami, the Lakers have embarked on a three-day road runner. They lose to Detroit, a .350 team, in overtime. A strange week is underway.

Wednesday night, I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, tethered by a cord. My cell battery exhausts itself frequently. The old dog is whining, there are voices outside, the dog wants to be a friend. I am guesting on a podcast, a box score scrolls on my laptop, awkwardly far away. I set the cell down, crane over to stare at strange configurations that make no sense. I return to my sitting position. The sequence repeats endlessly, like an analog tape loop. After leading by 21, the Lakers lose to the Wizards who have now improved to 9 & 29.

The winds have been gusting in Austin, howling against the limestone walls. I try to write but it keeps unraveling. Last Sunday’s win was impressive, I wanted to create a Wild Bunch analogy, I thought, whatever happens, this old team is going to empty its clip. Maybe it did already. I give up and go to sleep.

A day later, I am no closer to understanding. It was only a game but somehow felt connected to a larger rip in the universe. The scrolling numbers looked like a stock market crash and I had tried expressing it on the phone but couldn’t find the context. The game could have been a metaphor for the entire screwed up season but we went back to talking about Denver and Portland. We had already discussed the Lakers.

A couple of years ago, my ex pawned her cats off on me. I have been less than grateful ever since. Tonight, one of them begins exhibiting symptoms of urinary tract infection.

Friday. I take the cat to the animal hospital. Various tests ensue. Dietary supplements and medicines are prescribed. I will not be buying that new TV. An afternoon of new Pau Gasol rumors are followed by a three-point win against the Timberwolves. Late in the game, Ricky Rubio tries drawing a charge against the masked Mamba. Rubio goes down with an ACL tear, the memo from Kahn may not have been received. It’s been that kind of season.

Saturday, the wind has brought torrential downpours. The cat does not seem to be showing signs of improvement, alternately licking his nether regions and urinating on my bed.

The mini-road trip is over, thankfully. The only consistency for this season’s Lakers has been the their resolute inconsistency. The trade deadline is just days away. The strangeness will continue until then, and it will continue afterward. I have read no shortage of statistical explanations. And then there are theories voiced by players and others connected with the team. Put together, they create a house divided by an organization out of touch, a coach in over his head, a lack of ball movement, too few and too many minutes, selfishness and the most lopsided home/road record in the league. And somehow, the team is still in 4^th place in the west.

The cat has thankfully, managed to fall asleep. The dog wants to go for a walk in the rain. He decided to chew a hole in his tail last night and is now in a particularly good mood. I take him out, he wanders aimlessly per usual, and pauses to stare at nothing. I reset him into motion by whistling. He does his business and we return inside. There are now loud clicking sounds coming from inside the walls. I don’t even want to know.

THE BLUE SKY POST

It's been one week since the great abomination ended and it seems much longer. I had thought to chronicle it, but didn't. Last Friday, I stayed up late, tracking yet another negotiating session, the first since the disbanding of the union. It wasn't the legal giants, the men who arch fingers and shape laws and landmarks. Instead, it was the same group that had battled so long and so hard. Minus Jeffrey Kessler.

My head hurt and my throat hurt. Sharp stabbing shards in my temples and the hard lump that makes it a chore to swallow. It was the wee hours and I packed it in, keeping my cell nearby. Only able to sleep in short stretches, feeling someplace out of body. Checking the tiny glowing screen in darkness, periodically. And at some point saw that it had finally ended. And could finally sleep.

I wore a stupid grin all day and exchanged messages and read a flood of accountings – time washed by like an ecstatic blur, white light and clicking keys. But distractions as well, work had rappelled down like an assassin and when the work's there you take it. And days passed with trade rumors and B-issues and I put down thoughts and filed them away and found myself returning to lockout wounds and wondering if you can just flip the switch. And working and typing and the screen goes black. "No operating system found." 

Life can throw all manner of curves. You burn your toast, you discover a new cavity. A sunny day, your laptop crashes. You make a perfectly good piece of toast. Your middle-aged next door neighbor screams at his girlfriend between the hours of three and five AM when you have to get up at six. The cops come at five-thirty. Their red and blue lights throw a charming pattern on your blinds.

Yesterday, NBA gyms around the country opened for business. At the Lakers practice facility in El Segundo, nobody bothered to show. Similar stories at other gyms and again I wondered, do we have the right to expect happy players after five months of ugliness? The owners could have gotten this exact same deal without losing a game, without breaking a sweat. Instead, they made it personal.

Forget about it Dave, it's Chinatown.

There are wild rumors about a trade involving some combination of Andrew Bynum, Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom, for Dwight Howard. This is NBA normalcy. The season is returning. The players signed and scanned their cards and sent them in. The union is reforming. The lockout lasted 149 days. There will come a cold winter night, not long from now, when I'll be staring at a TV screen. Thoughts will go away. Shots will arc high, through a bank of lights. And it will have become the players' league once again.

In early June, I wrote about the uncertainty and the eventual coming of the season – that the clock would reset, the system would restore. It has been raining all day. Over the past hour, my sore throat has finally turned into a full blown cold. I have sneezed a couple dozen times, including on the laptop I borrowed. The neighbor has turned on his music. He's yelling again. My dog's sleeping, oblivious. In the cupboard, there are packets of Theraflu. I'm putting the water on to boil. The season is here again.

BIG OWIE!

I keep meaning to post something new but have been a), too busy doing actual work or b), spending all my late nights scouring real blogs for info I can easily appropriate.  Only problem being, my brain's an increasingly soggy sponge and nothing seems to stick anymore.  Repercussions of a misspent youth, long ago.

Regardless, SfS is looking a wee bit slim in its premiere month and I got nothing new on the Ukrainian front except that not surprisingly, our ex-sniper's film career is going nowhere since his bit-part in 2009's "Oy Vey!  My Son is Gay!", starring Bruce Vilanch and produced by none other than Slava's wife, Sveltlana Anufrieva.  I read that it's really bad and that's enough proof for me. 

Meandering ahead, most of the Lakers' current buzz and commentary centers on Bynum's surgery and his lengthening rehab arc - like nobody saw that coming!  Rather than go into my own tedious facts and analysis, I'll use the increasingly popular links-madness trend which can easily pad out a page.  I'll leave you all to your reading while I go watch some TV.

Andrew Kamenetzky at ESPN's 'Land O' Lakers', writes about Andrew's need for a break after emotional  highs of the title run.
Brian Kamenetzky has a different view, questioning Bynum's willingness to give away a sizable chunk of the season.
Darious Soriano from Forum Blue & God, wonders how Bynum's absence might affect other players' playing time, both positively and negatively.
Kevin Ding at the O.C. Register, recounts the highs of Andrew's South African trip and ponders the cost of his surgery-delaying tactics.
Mark Medina from the LA. Times understands the criticsm but feels it's misguided.

Okay, everybody caught up on what they already knew?  I don't have much to add to the cacophony except that I question Ding’s contention that Laker’s staff were left in the dark about the extent of Bynum’s cartilage damage until hours before the start of camp. The medical and training staff is always in direct contact with a performing surgeon in the immediate aftermath of a procedure and if they somehow didn’t do their due diligence then shame on them.

Still there is the larger picture of Bynum’s health and on that I find myself somewhat torn.  On the one hand I can understand fans' frustrations - Bynum's injury cycle seems to spin ever faster and he often seems a bit glib about it.  On the other hand, I'm of the firm mind that without a gimpy 7-footer with flashes of brilliance, you're nothing in this league (see, I'm glib as well).

Ultimately, it comes down to numbers for me.  Around 90% of the true centers in this league miss significant chunks of playing time, more seasons than not.  Abnormally large bodies don't wear well, pounding up and down a hard wood court.  Given this reality and how ingrained it is into the talent pool, I think I'd rather hang onto a kid who can play a dominant low post game for around 65 games a year, than somebody of sound body and average talent, for the full season.

CAMP LOOMS, STILL NO SIGN OF SLAVA

So it's what, about five days before the start of Lakers training camp and normally it would be a time of high anticipation.  Before the advent of instant web information, I'd pore over paper sports pages, looking for news about camp invites and more recently, I'd keep a running list in a word doc and revisit it in the dog days of summer, wondering if somebody  from the past would take one more shot, hoping against slim hope. And it would happen now and then.  Mostly not, mostly just bodies to bang around but you might recognize a name here or there, guys from summer league or journeymen vets or just undrafted rookies.  In recent years there were names like Maurice Carter and Jamal Sampson, Eric Cheonowith or Dickie Simpkins, Janero Pargo, Adam Parada, Tierre Brown, Nick Sheppard, Will Conroy and Mike Penberthy, Paul Shirley (yes, that Paul Shirley) and Guy Rucker, Devin Green, Al Guyton, Michael Fey and Tony Gaffney.  And more, plenty more and sometimes these guys would get signed and every now and then they'd crack the rotation and actually get an option picked up, maybe even enjoy a little success in the league, like Pargo who still comes up annually on some Lakers fans' wish lists.

Not this year though.  This year we got 14 slots filled already and it's highly unlikely we'll carry the maximum 15.  Mathematically possible, but nobody would seriously consider it.  Even so, you'd have expected the typical camp fodder announcements by now, especially this close in.  But there's been next to nothing.  Henry Abbott on True Hoops broke the story of Russell Hicks and it spread like web wildfire, hitting every Lakers outlet from major to micro and all this for a 7-foot lug who's played about 20 minutes in the D-league and if you've heard of him before you're some kind of savant.  And now there's mention of one other signing, 6-2 guard Anthony Roberson who's knocked around a little with Memphis, Golden State and the Knicks.

That's it as far as I can tell.  Hicks and Roberson.  We can expect more in the next couple days, there has to be some live bodies for target practice, but this isn't like any camp I can remember.  I wouldn't swap a bunch of hopefuls for what we have of course, we're coming into the season with a seriously deep and balanced roster, all ready to roll out and do its job. 

With so little to write about, the various Lakers sites are busying themselves with blogger profiles, article links (the cyber version of the AP), obscure 80's music videos, space-eating polls (vote on Phil's beard!) and of course, the kind of stuff you'll find here at Searching for Slava which so far has been a bunch of made-up nonsense and nothing that really gets to the heart of whatever actually happened to our Ukrainian bomber.  Maybe we'll all get lucky and the loquacious one will stroll into camp on September 25th like he'd never been gone at all, ready to fire at will and reclaim his rightful place on the bench.

THE INTANGIBLES EXPOSED!

The logical first post in this eponymous blog would feature our beloved bomber from the Ukraine but why give away the cake so early?  I'm going with the ever popular debate over icon D-Fish. Especially because I've recently read a bunch of other similar pieces and they're easy to rip off.  Per usual, Derek's either headed for sainthood or being pilloried for the fact that he cost a whole 3.75 million which could be better spent on one of the league's elite PGs, mathematical realities being lost on some of our brighter cyber minds.

The thing that most chafes me is this continuing clamor about his "intangibles", as if they alone define his worthiness as a starting guard in the league.  Don't get me wrong, I love me some Fish.  But intangibles?  Please.  The guy's as obvious as a door.  Start with shooting - Fish has never lost confidence in his ability to sink a trey when needed.  Which means he'll jack them up with impunity during some of the most epic slumps imaginable and Jackson doesn't seem to mind.  Imagine if Slava had been given that much rope.  He'd have been a walking double/single in no time.

One of my favorite writers referred to Derek drawing charges as one of his "subtleties" and I just don't see it that way.  Every player in the league knows it's going to happen and still gets sucked in.  The gravy is Fish looking up from the floor in stunned confusion.  Like, how did this happen?  And then there's the Scola layout, a thing of beauty.  I could watch it endlessly.

Even Fish's recent FA negotiations show a side that's telling.  When he wasn't getting the money he wanted he cut to the chase with a very public trip to the media blitz of the moment - Miami.  Lakers management got the hint and coughed up another million. 

No, there's no trick food on Derek's plate, he's a solid meat and potatoes guard who happens to be uber-smart and the President of the Players Association.  He'll probably be a coach some day and will have learned well from Jackson, another guy with a reputation for obtuse designs and blue collar play.  Like the time he threw a backwards elbow and broke Jerry West's nose as he was walking off the court.  After the game ended.

So screw the intangibles.  Derek plays nasty physical defense and when he starts shooting outside jumpers cleanly, he will absolutely hurt you, and usually when it matters in the 4th quarter.  Dude has an unparallelled sense of timing.  He'll work well this season with Steve Blake whose fundamentals are very strong and who has a much more consistent three-point shot.