THE RAINMAKER



There has been a staggering level of debate recently. Players have been criticized, they don’t know what they’re doing. Owners have been criticized, they know what they’re doing but they’re dooming themselves. The former union has been criticized, it didn’t do enough. Or, it didn’t know enough to do anything. Writers criticize each other, we don’t know what we’re writing.

And then, the recurrent schools of thought. The anti-trust suit can’t work. Or, it would take too long. The players will miss their paychecks, some will be okay, more will not.  Through the circle, fast and slow.

There's a few lone voices in the wilderness, still hinting at the possibilities for a back channel deal.  It's the type of thinking that once had popular support, it's a combination of hopefulness and practicality that used to gain in strength and numbers during 11th hour negoiations.  According to Ken Berger:

Despite the grim outlook of potentially lengthy and costly lawsuits, there are strong indications that NBA officials and attorneys representing the players want to take one more shot at reaching a settlement before the possibility of having close to a full season is devoured by the legal process.

Berger goes on to examine the roadblocks, competing agendas and the calender’s turning pages. Compounding the difficulty of the trick, is the widely held belief that the opposing lead counsels haven’t actually spoken to each other yet. So, is it all an illusion?

Having been burned time and again, most of the wagging heads have opined that a resolution isn’t yet feasible, that it will take considerable pain and suffering and only then will the players cave, only then will they agree to a terrible deal. They'll eventually play again but there will have been irreparable harm done to the game itself.

Consider the notion of "they will agree to a terrible deal.". There is no union, there is no collective bargaining agreement, there is no mechanism currently in place by which a collective body can agree to anything by a majority vote. And, forget the notion of owners signing players individually - it will not happen. There is too much legal jeopardy with an anti-trust suit pending.

For quite some time, the players and their union, offered up the willingness to negotiate and to make meaningful concessions. The owners offered the willingness to accept concessions and the feeling that enough was never enough, and that they alone, held the power to ultimately say yes or no. Their teams, their arenas, their network contracts, their players.

Finally, there’s a formidable third party in the house - the legal system. The NBA is represented by Paul Clement, the former solicitor general under George W. Bush. Clement has argued before the Supreme Court, 54 times. The players have David Boies on their side, the guy who brought Microsoft to its knees, aka Corporate America’s No. 1 hired gun. He also may be as Henry Abbott writes, the calmest voice in the room right now. These guys are at the top of their games and to be honest, they've got bigger ideological fish to fry than the NBA. Some cases you want before the Supreme Court, some you just want to settle.

I can’t see this going to trial. It’s just way too much time, money and bother. The presence of these legal giants provides ample cover for both parties to come to an agreement - they simply shrug and say, "we got the best advice in the country, it’s business, not personal. We’re taking the deal."   In other words, Boies trumps Stern & Clement trumps Kessler. And in the end, the final agreement, apart from a few bells and bows, probably won't look much different than the one left on the table.

And so, after months of bleak imagery, after writing that it’s all about union busting, after dystopian morass and avarice, bloodletting and the screaming death spiral, I’m flipping on a dime. I think there will be a season, that a relatively speedy legal settlement (costly commissions attached of course) will ultimately allow a modicum of normalcy to return. Or as a famous television lawyer was fond of saying, "bygones".

When it’s over, so they say, it’ll rain a sunny day. I know, shinin’ down like water.

A CHRISTMAS STORY

December 23, 2011. It was late afternoon, the temperature was dropping. There were decorations and window displays along Park Avenue, together with grimy snow banks and the ever-present cacophony of car horns. Inside the Waldorf Astoria, at the end of its famed long bar, a trio of weary scribes with laptops and digital devices nursed colds and the futility of covering the NBA lockout, now in its 177th day.

League matters had been traveling in a byzantine fashion since November. A disclaimer had been filed and the union heads were no longer called union heads but were still asked to come chat now and then, as matters slithered through a dystopian morass and legal giants grappled futilely. It could have been a scene from the movie Brazil.

In an upstairs conference suite, Billy Hunter had created an impressive pile of wadded up tissues as he sipped tea and doodled in the margins of the owners’ latest proposal - now standing at 25% of basketball related income. Derek Fisher was slouched in a chair, trading texts with his wife and young daughters. He looked over at Billy, "I thought we weren’t allowed to be here."

Hunter’s eyes blazed brightly, for just a moment. "The North American Roundball Trading Company can talk to whoever they want, whenever they want!"

Fisher shook his head, it made no sense anymore.

Just down the hall, David Stern was ensconced in a game of bridge. He wore a cardigan sweater and a sour expression. His second, Adam Silver, squirmed in his chair, supremely uncomfortable with the angles of his body. "We could lower the offer to ten percent."

Stern glared. "What good does that do? What’s your bid?"

Silver pursed his lips and laid down his cards. "I have no bid."

One of the league’s young lawyers looked up hopefully. "My wife’s firm is having its office party tonight."

Silver craned his head around and chaffed his raptorial hands until they made a low, droning hum. The young lawyer looked down and hoped he would live to see the dawn.

As had been the case before, there were lives of people involved in some convergent story and hopes had faded and many had turned away. Media outlets reduced their presence, concession stand workers had sought other employment and some found none. And parents and children posed bleak scenarios but there were those that would not relinquish their lists and they tallied them and sought relief. And once again, dusk turned to night.

The man stomping snow from his boots was heavyset, with an overcoat and Santa’s stocking cap. He placed a leather satchel on the stool next to him, wiped a sleeve across a wet, gray beard and asked the bartender for a hot toddy. "It’s wicked cold out there."

A dark-haired writer with a patchy goatee, looked up from his unpronounceable lager and smiled slightly. "Nice hat for a winter evening."

The large man sipped his hot drink. "Sometimes it makes giving the gifts easier". He turned and offered a meaty hand. "The name’s Chris."

Another of the journeymen kept a lantern jaw behind his hand and snickered, "It’s not yet Christmas eve, Mr. Kringle." .

The man with the hat laid some crumpled bills on the bar. "You boys covering the lockout?"

A third writer polished his glasses and watched the sports roundup on an overhead television at the end of the bar. "If you could call it that. I’m not sure why we’re still here."

Chris shrugged, "There’s always a story to be told, gentlemen."

The television glowed brightly for a moment and then winked out, leaving only a luminescent reminder in the center of its screen. The writers seemed drawn to the distant light. When they looked back, the large man had left.

The elevator opened with a soft ding. Chris knocked on a door which presently opened. Adam Silver looked out and calibrated the possibilities. "How may we help you?"

David Stern peered around his deputy’s back with a peevish expression. "What is it, Adam? What does he want?"

Chris opened his leather satchel. "Commissioner Stern. I have a gift for you."

A couple of NBA security guys were on the heavyset man in an instant but he maintained his grip and withdrew a simple roll of banner paper, not unlike what you’d find in an arts and crafts store.

David Stern stared down his nose through his bifocals and offered caustically, "I don’t have my crystal ball, Santa. What is it?"

"Signatures mostly. And wishes. Kids, grownups, workers. They want their season back."

Stern scowled. "Tell it to the players and their mendacious agents. They’ve brought this pox upon us all."

The man with the gray beard nodded agreeably. "My old man used to take me to the Garden when I was a kid to see Connie Simmons and Carl Braun play. Some of those guys had to take other jobs."

David Stern’s expression turned. "Yes! This is what I’m talking about! Adam, listen to this man!" He leaned forward, beaming.

"Yeah, those were the days." He pulled a lanyard from his overcoat. "Chris Kowalski, I’m a licensed process server. The players have been joined in their class-action suit by the likes of over a million fans and workers. You might want to be sitting down when you take a gander at the damages they're seeking. Goodnight gentleman, I got miles to go, before I sleep."

The commissioner stared down at a sheaf of documents that had been thrust into his hands. And let out a long keening wail.

And not far away, Derek Fisher heard the anguished cry and tapped his tiny keys and finally smiled. "Daddy’s coming home for Christmas."

                                                              ***

It was the wee hours of the morning.  The slush had turned to ice. The writers were now making their way along a slippery sidewalk, their ever present backpacks and shoulder bags bumping together. In the distance, an all-night pizzeria.

An older model Crown Vic came yawing around a corner but the driver inside seemed unperturbed. Antlers were fastened to the grill with bungee cords. Strains of Ave Maria could be heard.

The window lowered as the Crown Vic sailed past. "Hope you fellas find what you're lookin' for!"  Kowalski tapped the gas and the great hood lifted.

THE WORLD GONE BLACK

I keep telling myself that I’m done with dismal lockout imagery. Unfortunately, the damned thing’s now 132 days and counting and every now and then I feel obligated to add something to the Slava lexicon. The league & owners’ latest offering’s been dressed up with some phony 51/49 band language but it’s still the same 50/50 deal that everyone’s been reporting for the past couple of months.

A couple nights ago I had the un-hipness to tweet a few words of support for Derek Fisher and the union’s "good fight". I had this crazy thought, that in such difficult times, the negotiating committee might welcome direct appreciation. What would be the effect if an entire community sprung forth with such good wishes? I got just one response, a writer asked, "pride-wise?" The context I suppose, whether the fight was more emotional than substantive. I responded, "effort-wise". But I thought about it, and it was a legitimate comment. How much of this is pride? The answer I suspect, is a lot.

I wrote something called You Promised Us the Dawn, about a month back. I fought myself on the title, it was originally Shooting up the dawn. One inner voice outlasted another and contained in this piece, was the eldest of the elders, spinning avarice into pride. It was Stern, not Fisher I was alluding to. I don’t associate the players with an insatiable covetousness but there’s certainly a swag in their stance that wouldn’t be associated with the owners’ methodology - i.e., bloodletting.

Wednesday’s another deadline, this one accompanied by two distinctly different letters from the commissioner, leaked publicly for maximum impact. One spells out the current ultimatum, the second details a much more punitive proposal that, sans capitulation on option one, leads directly and predictably, to the wasteland. Player reps from every team were summoned and as expected, the exisiting offer was deemed unacceptable. And now, a final effort to secure one more negotiating session, an attempt by players to salvage something that allows them to hold their heads up. I don’t see another session happening, the creatures can see the end game now.

If it somehow gets to a vote, if a divided union agrees, what does the future hold? The players have long been fond of the ‘only a business’ axiom but this is the dirty end of that, there is no win for them in the new CBA. Yet, it propels them directly back into a sport that is about one team’s win, the other’s loss. Do combatants fight as fiercely when the fix is in? There’s not a singular answer but there’s a degree of ownership on the floor that’s far removed from the man in the luxury box - it’s territorial and yes, it’s about pride.

The National Basketball League keeps returning to this curious state of balance, weights are given and taken and at each crucial juncture, we pronounce a tipping point. Once again, we’re on the escarpment, looking down. Months back, with the divide so severe, I simply felt the season was shot. Now, I’ve never felt less sure of anything. Outside, a few drops hit the pavement, a storm front is moving in. Yup, wait for it... I’m only happy when it rains.

THE FIFTY-SEVEN PERCENT SOLUTION

Searching for Slava has been serving up only the clearest of lockout analysis for months and there’s no reason to stop now. We’ve reached another of those yawing chasms that crop up weekly - each one accompanied by cyber-stained scribes abandoning their hard-bitten perspectives for a few hopeful moments, predicting that at long last, a deal seems imminent. And then comes reality and the screaming death spiral.

October 4th, the latest in a series of marathon negotiations culminates in an unofficial offer by the league of a 50/50 split on BRI (basketball related income) which is promptly rejected by the players. A week later, another bargaining session, capped by a new take it or leave it 50/50 offer and the canceling of the first two weeks of the regular season. Billy Hunter responds with six-gun language and then, a ray of hope - federal mediator George Cohen enters the fray. CUT TO one week ago - after three days of Cohen's shuttle diplomacy, Paul Allen shows up and lays down the law - 50/50, take it or leave it!  Everybody gets pissed off, the mediator heads back to Washington and I write another post about changing seasons, injustice and my dog.

Just when all seems lost, the league announces that it is abandoning all preconditions - everything’s on the table, negotiations are on! There’s a flurry of phone calls and media leaks, 82 games are still happening. Scouts are being called back from who-knows-where, agents are being "quietly" approached about looming free-agency and arena owners are being begged to keep their schedules open. Happy days are here again! Right?

Thursday night, Stern & Silver enter the room. The commissioner is oozing sincerity, he’s making jokes and looking ever-so-relieved, he’s talking about a new sense of hope and even trust. After two days of fruitful discussions of system issues, the league and owners are on the verge of closing things out - Friday’s the day to discuss basketball related income once again and Stern smiles expansively, he’s ready to offer "economic movement".  A nation turns its lonely eyes to you, dude.

Twenty-four hours later, another Friday presser. This time however, David Stern has his sad face on. He understands the pain of the people, understands just how much this will cost communities and businesses. Unfortunately, those stubborn little players just went and walked out on him! And then comes the punch-line, as it always does. The league withdrew their 50/50 offer, retreated to 47%, and then came back to 50/50 again! See, that’s economic movement! And the other shoe drops as it always does - no more 82 game schedule, no more jobs, and future offers from the league won’t be nearly so generous.

Last night, there was much to-do about Micky Arison making a few innocuous tweets, hinting that perhaps, owners aren’t all on the same page. Yeah, we all know about the doves and the hawks. The most successful owners in the league are supposedly being hijacked by the runts of the litter, led by Paul Allen, the 14 billion-dollar man whose poor basketball decisions have doomed a once-proud team. And this is what we’ve been led to believe for months now, that the top owners are helpless and will lay down and let their teams be divested of any future competitive edge. Bullshit. They are all playing you.

There’s a reason for the ‘occupy’ movement. Whether you agree with it or not, citizens have gone into the streets, protesting against what they see as economic injustice and inequality. I know, I know, it’s only basketball we’re talking about here. Still,  facts is facts - there are banks, mortgage companies, manufacturers and retailers across the land that no longer exist - Fortune 500 companies, stripped out by their own chief executives.  Some wind up with golden parachutes and some wind up in jail. My dad used to call people like this, ‘bad actors’.

The NBA isn’t looking for competitive balance on the court. These are owners who exist in the top one-percent of our nation’s wealth and they want more of your money. Because that’s where it really comes from - the consumer. And they will destroy the union, the surrounding businesses and the economic health of their own franchises, all on a gamble, to somehow put an extra dollar in their pockets. This is a group of bad actors, their so-called divisions are window dressing and they mean you harm.

I have no more trust, hope or faith. Like money budgeted for bills, it’s all been spent. And personally, I’m of the belief that players should indulge in a little economic movement of their own. Go back to fifty-seven percent. It’s territory that has already, legitimately, been held. This won’t get them a deal but they’re not going to get one anyway, so fuck it. Send a signal. It won't happen of course - the players will finally agree to 50/50 and you know what the owners will then say? Of course you do.

I'd close with some poignant story about the dog but he just woke up, started barking ferociously at ghosts and went back to sleep again. Seems like a sensible plan to me.

THROWING SHADOWS ON OUR EYES

The past few days have been a blurring of allergies, changing weather and the lockout mess. Hope slipped in like a thief. One day allotted to mediator Cohen stretched into three and rumors spread - weren’t the sides ever closer now? And spirits rose and were torched as Paul Allen arrived. The richest man in sports shut it all down because he’s done with this hobby.

For me, a lasting image - Billy Hunter tells of standing before the room of owners, asking if they can’t just keep talking. And how Allen sits there, not saying anything. I wonder what that feels like to a man like Hunter. To me, it feels more distant than just last Friday. Already, the disconnect is forming.

I read and abandon theories like cards. It’s a Monday afternoon, luminescent clouds with slatey underpinnings, moving slowly past. I take the dog across the small field. He’s been shedding for months, the virulently thick down now giving way to a winter coat. He wanders in random circles, cloudy eyes but undiminished enthusiasm for scented stories on the ground. I’ve been watching the World Series and will again tonight. And there’s the NFL. My love for those sports isn’t as strong as it once was, but they say it comes back.

At what point do we allow ourselves to accept that a majority of the owners simply don’t want a season? Do we think they’ll hang onto businesses that become so utterly devalued? There is a vacuum in leadership, as they say. And I don’t want to give up, I don’t want to accept that the lions of the league will simply allow themselves to be opened up and left on the table.

There's a good article by Kurt Helin, examining both anger and apathy, the question of fans returning and forgiving. I don’t know what my own timeline is, I suspect that I won’t consciously determine it. One of my great character flaws, is the tendency to distance myself from friends and even family, when we’re not in each other’s actual, present lives. It’s not an absolute, I can work at it but it’s always there and I’m conscious of it. The calls and emails become fewer, the visits can disappear altogether.

If I can’t or won’t make the effort to connect with a person I've become distanced from, how will I do it with a sport? Will it be different because the sport will be spoon-fed directly back to me?  Perhaps. I came back after the last strike. I know this however - that basketball has always felt like a sanctuary. And this time, I’m afraid that it won’t be, that it will have lost that special quality, the feeling of a confidante.

It is well into night ant the fifth game of the series is pulling me from this screen. The sixth-inning ends, I walk outside. The dog drops his ball, stands over it as he sniffs the ground. I shake my head, knowing precisely what comes next. He lifts his leg and pees on his ball. I am never touching that thing again.
　

THAT LONG BLACK CLOUD IS COMIN' DOWN

I’ve spent too much time lately, reading a million words by fine and angry writers, have stared at screens until my eyes ache. We’ve become a community of scorned lovers, obsessing about a partner that won’t love us back. It’s a perfect 72 degrees and sunny in Austin. The sky is seamless blue. I make a pot of coffee and sit at my desk. I don’t want to write about bindles and jars and slippery tides anymore. I pour my coffee into a travel mug and walk out the door.

***

Nighttime. I am where I always am. A padded, swivel chair. It’s pretty comfortable. I can slouch in it if I want to and lean my head on its high back. The material looks similar to the upholstery of a generic economy car. It’s getting a little dingy. I idly wonder if carpet cleaner would help.

George Cohen is head of the Federal Mediation & Conciliation Service, appointed by President Obama. He has argued five landmark labor cases before the Supreme Court, over 100 cases before appellate and federal district courts. He worked with the NFL during their recent lockout, mediated soccer in 2010 and hockey in 2005. He pleaded for the MLB players before U.S. District Judge Sotomayor in ‘96. She lifted the strike that same day. The consensus amongst most sports writers? He doesn’t have a shot. It’s a view born of a series of downturns and deceit - it’s Charlie Brown landing flat on his back after Lucy pulls away the football, once again.

This seems to bother me in some vague way. Director Cohen has been talking to both sides, off-the-record, for months. He knows the numbers, the conflicts, the game. The players want to give him a full week to work a deal. The commissioner has given him one day only, citing scheduling conflicts. Stop and rewind. David Stern, in the midst of a media blitz, gives a presidential appointee, a day. Posturing?  Probably, but the players' union still has a complaint before the National Labor Board and Stern is dancing perilously close to the edge.

I haven’t been on twitter all day. It wasn’t hard. There’s a library within walking distance that I hadn't visited in ages. I miss the smell of books in a library. There is a restaurant with outdoor tables down the street. There’s a coffee shop that is not a Starbucks.

If somebody wants to point a gun at my head, I'm going to point one back at him. Billy Hunter

The war of words has escalated. There’s a reason people don’t trust a federal mediator. It’s the reason people say Washington is broken, not that it isn’t necessarily, but the two sides have been saying it for so long that it’s simply become the accepted law of the land. Billy Hunter and David Stern understand, they’ve been tearing each other down for decades. My heart lies with the players and I have no desire to see them give up hard-won precedent. I’m also tired of watching dirt grow under the NBA’s feet.

It’s late, a cool breeze drifts through the open slider. I think about it, touch the image of a tiny blue bird. Flickering firefights, even now. One school holds that superstars Bryant, Garnett, and Pierce, sabotaged a 50/50 offer.  Another has Stern labeling the rank-and-file as too ignorant to know what’s best for them.  And as dying embers are poked and prodded, I exit a three-inch screen and head to bed.

Mama, put my guns in the ground.  I can't shoot them anymore. Bob Dylan

YOU PROMISED US THE DAWN

The view from above the city revealed odd patterns, played out as if through time-stop photography. The dusk turned to dawn and to night again, halogen trails on expressways. The lives of people involved in some convergent story, albeit with blank spaces and angry voices. And it was frustrating and threatened to unravel as it had before and the doors closed and opened and closed again and they counted and played with decimal points. And when the sands ran out they stood with their hands by their sides.

In the end, it came down to yards, not inches, and the eldest of elders turned slightly away and rubbed at his chest and wore his smile and his skin turned gray as he spun avarice into pride. And the lights blazed on and the town criers sat at devices and fingers danced over keys marked "insert" and "delete" and they cooked their bindles grimly and inserted thin needles into delivery systems. And the trails turned to tar until the spaces had filled and villagers put away their torches and stroked long beards and headed for home.

Yesterday, Derek Fisher sent a letter urging all players to attend a Monday meeting in Los Angeles if at all possible. It seemed prescient, signaling the possibility of a vote to affirm if saner voices had prevailed, or to stand for unity if the scene had gone bad. The owners stalled and snickered and eventually heard distant barking and left, their mouths wet with new want. The practice courts will not echo again. Words will not rinse clean. And we will fold our hopes into squares and place them in penny jars and memory sticks.

The morning will arrive like a hangover and the corporeal parts will still be here, not timelines or abstractions but people who serve beer and take tickets and mend bodies and live to throw down monster jams and they’ve still got to figure things out. Strangely, the smiler’s "gulf" seemed to most characterize divisions within his own pack. And the runts and castoffs brought down their own bulls, and they looked around and wanted more.

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.

TRANSMISSION

I really don’t want to write anything at all. The season seems perched on such a fine point, as if a breeze might shift the balance. I have been as pessimistic as can be over the past few months yet now there’s a seedling searching for the sun, with heavyweight players converging on NYC, with stands being taken, fingers being pointed, huddles taking place. The only thing missing is a smoke-filled room yet perhaps it’s not missing at all. We don’t know. We only stare at tiny cell-phone screens, hoping for a sign.

I’ve developed a new loathing for authority over the summer. Adrian Wojnarowski wrote another searing indictment and if there indeed comes a free agency period, we may see a grinning Stern & Silver posing for pictures next to players on blocks with numbers pinned to their suits. Or not. When it comes down to it, money talks and bullshit walks and if there’s any truth to the idea of quadrupled revenue sharing, weasels like Dan Gilbert and Robert Sarver will drop their shoddy facades and thrust their palms forward for the scraps that fall from the mouths of owners that actually know how to run a franchise.

All I want is the truth... and training camp - a chance to still believe that somebody from the end of the second round will make that 15th slot, that this inexorable summer will give way to nights watching basketball, the moments when time stands still again, the incandescent blur. And I worry that I'll see it different this time around, that I'll feel the ghost of asterisks, that I won't let go of resentment. It's 4:00 in the morning, I'll put it to rest. The dog lies between me and the stairs, paws twitching now and then. Pixilate to blackness.

***

Dateline Saturday morning, Austin. Armed with coffee, I sit in front of my laptop. I put one of those frozen egg burritos in the oven and set the timer. Something momentous better happen before it dings. These continuations are normally where I hit delete. That's how I roll.

Assuming we get to a season with the Lakers facing a $50 million giveaway to help make the league ‘competitive’, and twice that much in newly designed cap penalties, these rooks might get a second look:

Darius Morris is a 6-5 point guard out of Michigan, the 41st pick and said to possess leadership skills. Andrew Goudelock, a gunner from the College of Charleston, was taken 5 clicks later. He was also ‘drafted’ by the Harlem Globetrotters who figured he could sink the 4-point shot. Goudelock doesn’t lack for confidence, telling ESPN, "I’m going to be able to shoot until the day I die". And then there’s Ater Majok, at 58. I’ve watched some tape and don’t quite get it but the name alone could inspire me to write. Pity we didn’t keep Chukwudiebere.

This is the genius of the NBA, where the combined salaries of every rookie in the league will be less than the penalties accorded its most successful franchise. The logic eludes me, balance being somehow designed around the notion that penalties will cause coastal cities to drift inland. Fact - the major markets will still be major markets regardless of the Gilberts of the world. Oh, and cut the mid-level exemption until it more closely resembles the minimum. What was that about the polarization of classes?

Every time a bell rings, a blog dies somewhere, destined to forever collect cyber dust. It’s the kitchen timer, my egg burrito awaits. I'm faced with a choice of keys to press. Slava lives for another day.

Staying in the same place, just staying out the time. Touching from a distance. Further all the time. -  Ian Curtis

COMA DOG

In March, I wrote about networks swarming with increased tactile stimulation, blotting out the sun. That was about generations, about time passages but it applies today. The lockout consumes all. I sift through the morning reads, the links, the tweets, covering the subject every which way.  I'd been writing my own piece, cataloguing angles on hawks and doves. There was even a title, "Donald Sterling Saves the League".  I go back and read it and then I read it again.  And leave it unfinished for there is no use. It would only be another pixel in a screen that's resolutely going black.

Instead, here's some words from the tail end of 100,000 other words gathering dust inside a memory stick - a cluster-fuck of characters from a middle aged ad exec to a white wannabe gangsta to a green-eyed Pilate's instructor and a fluffy white pooch with doggie diabetes.  An excerpt from the epilogue of 'Coma Dog', unpublished:

***

Human boombox sounds mixed with the clanging of barbell plates as men grunted and groaned and sweat dripped onto cracked cement. The vocal effects changed to a recognizable rap. "Gonna open a bar in the land of the pretties... lemme tell ya ‘bout the ballad of Peppy!"  The lyrics trailed off as exertion took over. 'BK' Kessler had packed on twenty pounds of muscle with a fair amount of fresh ink on his arms, neck and shoulders. He was in the yard with some seriously huge brothers, including the once and future head of a popular R&B label out of Compton. Tonee Domes, though presently doing 10 to 20 for aggravated assault, was a keen observer of new talent, especially when prepackaged with YouTube and tabloid TV fame.
     
Tonee slid a couple more plates on the bar. "Those shoulders ain’t going to grow themselves, boy."  

He heaved mightily, arms shaking, managed to finish his set. Hands wrested the bar away and onto the rack. Another big body took his place. The sun beat down relentlessly. The kid who would have been rich and famous grabbed a dirty towel and mopped his brow, looked out across the terrain, towering walls, razor wire and asphalt angels in t-shirts and denim. 

"Those dumbass friends a yours come by lately?"
     
BK scowled. "Yo thug, those losers don’ mean nothin’ to me now." Todd was back at UCLA, Raymo had found a girlfriend. Both had testified for probation.
     
"Thug?" Domes laughed without mirth. "Why some white boys talk like that, I’ll never know. Those losers out there walking free and you pumping iron with rapists and thieves."
     
Bernard’s new muscles and tats could never change his defensive hurt boy look. "I just wanted some street creds is all. If you sign me to the label I want to be able to represent."
     
"Man, you dumb as they come, rich boy. You like ice, ice baby. People gonna pay to see a Beverly Hills freak show, not some white trash says he’s from Compton. What a you really looking for anyway?"
     
The kid looked down at his arm. A girl’s face surrounded by a dark mane of hair, looking suspiciously like Marie. What he really wanted was to go home. "I just wanted a little club on the strip, some honeys in silver minis."
     
Tonee looked at him, shook his head. "No, what is it you’re seeking my man? Nobody dumb enough to steal a dog from their daddy’s movie and broadcast it all over the place. Lotsa ways to get money in this world but I’m pretty sure that ain't one."
     
BK stared across the tarmac. All he’d ever wanted was to belong. He rotated his shoulders, stretched his arms. "I’m ready for some more reps." One of the giant yard brothers obliged, wiping sweat off the bar.
     
Domes put a hand the size of Florida on the kid’s shoulder, wasn’t finished talking. "So look at you now. A Beverly Hills boy purposefully commits these crimes, takes some poor girl hostage, on the floor of the fucking Forum for mercy’s sake, winds up doing hard time and gettin’ inked up with the brothas? It’s okay my man, it’s okay. We don’t always choose the life we lead. You in this far, you want to keep it rolling? Not a problem, we gonna put you on the map. You a boneheaded fool though. Let’s put some more plates on."
     
Bernard sighed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment. A warm orange glow. Walking the beach, a girl with green eyes and killer ass was laughing and sprinting ahead, turning to look back at him. He should have run to catch her. He opened his eyes again. The ring of large men were waiting for him to do his reps.

***

A few minutes' diversion won't change a thing.  The lockout is still here and the lockout will still be here.  The owners won't deal with the players because the owners can't deal with themselves.  And  this isn't to say that my morning reading wasn't good and worthwhile or that nothing meaningful transpired.  Derek Fisher wrote a very good letter to the players.  Dan Gilbert tweeted about bloggissists.  And Tim Donahue wrote a piece as well as I've seen written and it leaves me with one unshakable sense.  That the lockout will still be here long after summer has turned to fall and after fall has turned to winter. 

Seasons pass and I click on links but there aren't so many now.  The union frayed and was no more. The league got lost in filings. Players moved away, refreshment stand workers found work elsewhere if they found work at all.  And the writers that remain turn out fruit that refuses to ripen.  Why was it that the season was lost again?  I don't remember how it began... except that somebody wasn't making enough money.  Somebody wanted it to end.

THE LONG DRIFT

Something strange happened last night. I took the dog out late and didn’t run into a wall of heat. And it wasn’t cool really, but it also didn’t suck oxygen out of my lungs and I stood there and it made me think. And then inside again and petting the old mutt because he’s not that comfortable these days, and doesn’t know what to do with himself unless he’s getting some attention or he’s eating or snoozing.  And then I went upstairs to bed.

Billy Pretty - "You all know we are only passing by. We only walk over these stones a few times, our boats float a little and then they have to sink." - The Shipping News

The screen jammed and flickered and I’d been lost in the feeds and this is how time takes you, we’re at the bottom of a deep and slippery tide and the walls rise high and the lockout’s evermore - agendas and fiefdoms and the owners all stealing magnets off each others’ desks, and writers tweeting about football and picking each other’s wings off.  Mad mood children.

When I was in highschool, my buddy Waldo and I got drunk and ran out of ice so we walked to the Travel Lodge ice machine but the night manager chased us away so we drank some more and went back and pissed in the machine and left. The next day, we went down to the beach to bake. Our buddies were drinking margaritas and we asked, "where’d you get the ice?" They answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Travel Lodge." Waldo and I snickered and sparked a joint.

Sometimes you need a line separating one paragraph from another. Sometimes you just need a change of scenery.

In FIBA EuroBasket news, Pau Gasol rolled an ankle in Sunday’s win over Lithuania but completed the game. He took the day off for yesterday’s loss against Turkey and says he’ll be back to start the second round on Wednesday. For those not keeping track, El Spaniard’s been a model of ultra de efficiency throughout the tourney - bombing treys, demonstrating spiffy cross-overs and tag-teaming with bro Marc in a series of beat-downs against Poland, Portugel, Great Britain and the above-mentioned land of dumplings and beer. Besides making beautiful basketball, Pau’s been recharging much depleted reserves - we all saw how his season ended, nobody was more dumbfounded than Phil Jackson who screamed and shoved the somnambulist in the chest to no effect. Gasol simply shrugged helplessly and whatever factors ran him empty, we need him whole again.

We could be exchanging lists. You and I like exchanging lists. I stop by the front lines and they’re talking about every piece that’s gonna be the same and I’m thinking, it’s never gonna be the same. The sales force couldn’t hit their numbers last year so you fired the supervisor and the foreman and the accounting staff and the stenographers but you decided to keep all the salespeople who forgot how to close? I don't buy it and apart from wanting to leave something special in Jim Buss’s ice tray and writing in the second person, I’ve gotta believe Mike Brown will bring some new blood into an inherited team. There won’t be any money to spend beyond minimum and some type of mid-level exception which pretty much leaves a trade and they won’t move Kobe or Drew and probably not Pau. And all this presumes a CBA settlement and I doubt they’d dropkick the president of the players association. Would they?

"Unceasing change turns the circle of life, and so reality is shown in all its many forms." - Phil Zen-ism

I began this journal one year ago today. The first entry was both pithy and wrongheaded - I rejected Derek Fisher’s intangibles and instead likened him to a meat and potatoes hitman.  As in taking charges, laying out Luis Scola and putting up the legendary .04. We now see him in brief sound bites, urging patience and restraint while dealing with a pack of hyenas that would sooner break his union than decide amongst themselves, how to best divvy their own side of the street.

And when I walked out this morning it was windy and mild. And I could almost taste salt in the air, as if from the very outermost banks of some dying gulf weather system.  But my mind was playing tricks on me.  And I thought I heard the keening of the gulls, but I was wrong again.  And the brine was replaced by drifting ashes and the faint smell of subdivisions burning.  The wildfires had begun.

THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE CHEAP (pt. 1)

The old dog and cicada references have pretty much run their course as have complaints about weather and memories of a misspent youth. I began this journal a year ago - a lifetime of basketball fandom and too much blog snorkeling led to a hastily conceived template which accidentally turned to white font on black background.  I've often thought of changing it back but am afeared of making the whole thing disappear.

Armed with coffee and frozen egg burrito, I set out to confront the issue of free agency and Lakers’ bench needs, head-on. It doesn’t mean that I’m any more convinced we’ll see real-time NBA action this season - those familiar with my logic know I believe in gray autumn days, cuddly kittens and the owners’ need for self-immolation. Still, the old days of making lists and checking them too many times seem to have been eaten up by the Twitter abyss and other distractions.

The most commonly voiced pessimism to bolstering the Lakers’ roster is a lack of funds due to luxury taxes and some as-yet undefined new CBA. Said caution is usually followed by unlikely trade scenarios that add another $20m a year to payroll.  Facts - Ratliff and Smith's collective corpses won’t be coming back.  Shannon's testing free agency, Caracter's on the bubble and Trey Johnson's heading to Italy with no NBA opt-out. We picked up four rooks on draft night, immediately dealt away Chukwudiebere and it’s doubtful that we sign Ater Majok, even though I really like saying his name. This leaves us somewhere around 11 players. We need to plug a few holes on the cheap.

In an attempt to limit reader irritability, part one will focus on the bigs, especially seeing how we got Bynum, Pau and Odom and that’s about it.  I can’t recall a time when we’ve so embraced our inner minimalist.  In case anybody's missing the point of this exercise, I'm saying that Pau ran out of gas last season and Andrew has been known to hurt his knees now and then.  Part two if it ever happens, will concern the guards. I’m not going to worry about small forwards until Meta’s name change gets legal and Barnes stops punching people.

Without further preamble, a list that won’t break anyone’s bank unless owners insist on continuing down the same wrong-headed path that led to this shitty lockout in the first place:

Troy Murphy’s albatross-ian salary was bought out by Golden State after a multi-team trade last season. He signed for a Celtics stretch run for pro-rated minimum but only contributed 3 ppg in short minutes. He’s one of those names that could attract some cash next time around but he’s banked plenty and might plug in for cheap and a legit shot at a ring. He can board and shoot - has never been the toughest defensive presence.

Kurt Thomas's name is always on these kinds of lists, along with the more legitimate versions.  There's indications that he could return to the Knicks where he had his most productive years, if he indeed decides to come back for an 18th season. 

Kwame Brown - I'm not going to belabor or even necessarily endorse the calves-of-steel but he’ll probably get some offers after a solid full circle turn with MJ in Charlotte. He’s strong, he’s got history here and he knows the post.

Tony Battie. Another traveled vet, has been in the league forever, very good shot blocker and all-around energy guy on defense. Battie’s a two-position player, doesn’t need the ball and will gladly do the dirty work.

Joe Pryzbilla still exists and has always been a banger. He gets hurt a lot but he’ll mix it up and take up some space in the post. Big body at 7-1, 255.

Steve Novack won’t mix it up with anybody but he technically occupies the PF position and still has about the sweetest stroke in basketball. We need shooters.

In the who the hell are you talking about category, Adam Parada is a 7-foot, 265 pound center out of UC Irvine. He wasn’t drafted in ‘04, has bounced around the D-league and has been in camp for the Lakers on a few occasions. He’s known inernationally for playing in Mexico and in the PBA and yes, the guy can play.

Slava Medvedenko. Y’know, there’s ways of keeping someone’s name alive that doesn’t actually involve logic vis-a-vis roster suggestions. All hail the loquacious one!

Wild card - Anderson Varejao is hardly in the vet minimum category and would require a significant trade scenario. On the other hand Mike Brown has always loved his defensive energy and has made it be known with the front office. If there’s any major shake-up (Odom being the most obvious chip), look for Varejao to be in the mix - possibly packaged with some much-needed point guard help in Ramon Sessions.

That I managed to bang this one out without drifting off toward asphalt angels or outdated musical references should be of relief to all who dare tread here. Be glad I didn't mention Robert Swift, last seen with Tokyo Apache.  Oops. Now get out before I start delving into foot soldiers and swinging incense pots.

THE AQUA NET BLOWTORCH

                                               J.S. Hayes

 
Lazy day, dream away. The summer’s waning, kids and teachers are getting ready for school. Vacations, wherever and however, approach their end. The NFL’s back on track with preseason games and baseball's gearing up for its stretch drive. Bereft of summer league or trades, basketball fans tweet about EuroBasket, soccer and lockout theories that double in on themselves to the point that you’d need a penknife to dissect the knots.

Kevin Arnovitz at TrueHoop wrote a treatise on hypothetical draft scenarios which was then chewed on by Matt Moore at ProBasketballTalk. There’s a plethora of good Gordian information in both pieces, the likes of which furrow my brow and send me searching for Excedrin (a lone tablet's found inside a baggie, behind the tea and bouillon cubes).  I return to my sitting place, determined to nail this sucker.

The idea I guess, is that the owners could find themselves in a position after a year’s layoff, sans revenue, of having 30 first-round and 30 second-round picks from the season that wasn’t.  Now pour in 60 more from the new crop which was supposed to be better than the last one (at least in theory) before the season that was about to, became the season that got its fingers busted in a drawer.  And of those 120 aggregate picks, 60 are guaranteed.  Except we all know that sometimes, second-round picks end up being a better value than the guaranteed ones. Okay, everybody clear so far?  Good, me neither.

There are underlying reasons for a lockout, having to do with league infighting, as unsuccessful teams try and gain a level of parity that’ll never happen anyway.  By the time a lost season has bled out, the watering hole will be so befouled that the losers will be flung against a wall with a wet gross sound.  Call them casualties, call them stupid, the contractions will finally discharge their assets, namely players - ones they already own and rookies that never got a chance (plus the class of 2012, still waiting breathlessly in the wings).  Unless, the league decides to void contracts during the season that never was.

I steal a glance to see if I’m anywhere near the intersection of Arnovitz and Moore.  I’m not even in the same time zone.  Looming ahead is the age-old model of how to gut companies that file Chapter 11.  You call it restructuring, I call it a sucking wound.  Of course the assets aren’t worth squat if the contracts are voided in which case the whole sad mess gets tied up in the courts for the next decade as armies of lawyers put liens on anything worth putting liens on and the players themselves scramble to the remaining three corners of the earth.  A generation gone.  While we’re at it, lets merge Nike and Adidas, lose a few mega-sports agencies and send Ernie, Charles and Kenny into retirement.  The league's fallback position is simpler - get rid of the stars and just hire rookies and scabs.   Which kind of brings us back to the original premise except inside-out.

There was supposed to be a negotiating meeting next week but it got cancelled. Which leaves plan C, hereto known as the Searching for Slava solution or the dummy tax - either or is just fine. I actually prefer the dummy tax seeing how the children can’t even sit in the room together.  Take one percent from everything and everyone. That’s right, from players’ salaries to owners, from vendors to Stern & Silver. Take a point from network licensing fees and ad revenues, from anything with an NBA logo on it and stadium parking as well. That dollar Snickers bar is now a buck and a penny and the concession stand workers won’t mind giving away 8 cents of their hourly wage because the drunken idiot slopping Busch beer on the counter will probably leave his 95 cents in change after the dummy tax is taken out.  Put it all into a superfund, give it sun and water for the better part of a year and start parceling it out again. Now give five percent to each of the teams that supposedly weren’t making money (for a 4-pt gain) and divvy the rest via some arcane needs-based system but with the caveat that any owners who elect to withdraw money from the fund will be required to wear caps or t-shirts reading "dummy" while at home games. Kind of like a scarlet letter. They could wear Searching for Slava caps instead but you know that’ll never happen.

On the slim chance that my proposal doesn’t curry favor with the league, owners and players, I have one last magic bullet in the chamber - I’ve been saving it until now. Sit down in a room and figure your shit out so we can all get on with our lives.  It's late, I take the dog out one last time.  It's too damned hot for nightime and the cicadas are screaming like overhead powerlines.  My headache's returned with a purpose.  Shake the can and close cover before striking.

VALUE SUBTRACTED

It’s easy to point out the millions of dollars paid to NBA ballers and dehumanize them as a result, making the argument that they’re getting paid plenty and what about the average Joe?  I don’t find it convincing, it's too easy.  Money and respect are married, everyone’s getting divorced. How many ways can one human being look at another and say, "fuck you."?  As many ways as there’s hours and minutes in the day.

There are unexpected friendships and support. There is disappointment. And sometimes, a time to move on. Everybody knows that the war is over, everybody knows that the good guys lost.

Not necessarily. The other side wants you to believe that you have no recourse, that they own you and can discard you. Sometimes they can, sometimes they can’t.

Value is finite, value is amorphous. Value got screwed when the league decided to sue its players for threatening to consider their protections afforded under the law. Make no mistake, the owners and the league are hell-bent on destruction. Why?  It has been asked endlessly and we’re only in the beginning stages. The answers lie only in the human condition which in of itself, defies answers.

Sometimes you have to lose lines, pages, sometimes it's best to de-construct until there’s little left save core elements. When I look at the league’s lawsuit, my eyes find the Lakers as plaintiffs and Derek Fisher as the accused. Simplistic?  Of course.  It's a subjective snapshot from a lone fan.  You’re suing the guy who took all those charges for you because he has the temerity to object.  Oh please, you’ve gone too far. There’s no animosity, it’s nothing personal, it’s only business. Dr. Buss loves him some Fish!

The notion of sports as business. We’ve all discussed this. As fans we sometimes take exception to the mantra, it’s a business. We’ve questioned the coldness of the statement, we want our sports to be about the joy of competition and winning. There’s certainly that, on the court and in so many ways. Still, we need to remember that players often grow up in adversity, they face challenges, they learn how to market themselves, they learn about the hungry hands that reach toward them and they learn how to compartmentalize. Business becomes an increasingly important term, an empowering term. It’s right up there with that other powerful and oft-used word, respect.

As a society we used to trumpet the value of work and workers - the forces of false promotion still do. Bedrock industries vanish in a generation. Family farms and textile mills, newspaper publishing. Ask the L.A. Times beat writers. The latest retail trend?  Eliminate all job positions and "re-catagorize" them, inviting workers to reapply for less hours, no benefits and a fraction of the pay. Desperate workers are more compliant workers.

There’s a card that hasn’t been raised yet. It will be. Whether you agree with that notion or not, there’s elephants in every corner, waiting impatiently. There’s no arguing the simple fact that the owners all signed on to an extremely inflammatory lawsuit. They’re going all in with the singular notion of intimidating the players, busting their union, bringing them in line.

To the players, I would say, avail yourselves of jobs overseas. Place faith in the union that binds you.  And if the owners’ threats begin to wear you down, remember they are disrespecting you, they are fucking with your business.  Be hard and cold, stand firm and remember, in terms of total cash, the other side has more to lose than you.

JIM BUSS EATS YOUR BABIES

The cicadas drone in staggered waves, the heat brings headaches - suggestions for pickle juice and Himalayan salt remedies. There’s not much going on with the CBA, the latest revelation was the release of BRI figures which only show that profits increased coming out of a recession while player salaries were  actually reduced. The sides proceed apace on parallel tracks, carved like trolley ruts in cement.  I’m reminded of our other national dilemma - the debt ceiling talks. The difference is any sense of urgency - the nation faces default while the league’s battles are a matter of choice, greed and good old-fashioned union busting.

And so our summer goes, players’ profiles are wiped from the league’s website, a few teams play musical chairs with coaches. Nellie is rumored for the T-Wolves slot and it ushers in a quick wave of hilarity before Rick Adelman’s name surfaces. Reality check. Plus, Lawrence Frank got another job, coaching the Pistons. The Lakers of course, hired the Piston’s last head coach - one John Kuester, now back with Mike Brown.  John’s tenure with the Pistons’ players didn’t go so well and I’ll leave it at that.

The commissioner’s foot soldiers march implacably forward, their briefcases swinging like incense pots. There’s no real leverage except that which comes when savings run low and unity begins to crumble. The fans have power but they won’t use it.  La la la la, we’re not listening!   Ever wonder about the sales figures for NBA licensed merchandise and apparel?  Keep wondering, that info's not released.  It’s the mother lode. Fans could decide not to buy it.  Nah, it’s crazy talk.

The stories and comments about Lakers layoffs and discarded loyalties have pretty much run their course but it’s at least worth listening to a Brian Shaw podcast interview from a week or so ago. It was done by the Kamenetzky brothers and covered not only issues of coaching and staff changes but also an arms-length distance extended by the league towards those that served so successfully under Phil Jackson.  It’s fascinating stuff.

One might expect Jim Buss to roam the Toyota training center like MacArthur at Normandy but in truth, he’s rarely ever seen.  Phil Jackson said he never once spoke to him last season.  Brian Shaw was somewhat at a loss, he’d see the guy at games with his dad but that’s about it. Buss doesn’t even keep an office at the facility.  He blew through June like locusts through a field though - careers were left on the floor like husks.

At the beginning of our millennium, Slava Medvedenko was piling up stats for BC Kyiv, scouted by Ronnie Lester.  He couldn’t seem to speak the language but he found a home. He confounded Phil Jackson and wouldn’t hesitate to chuck up a shot as the fifth option on the floor.  He’d usually sink it and get yanked back to the bench, cheeks aflame.  Kobe Bryant threatened to opt out of his contract and take Slava with him. Chick Hearn could never pronounce his name. These were the salad days and the championships came fast and furious.  I named my basketball journal after him and now we’re stuck in a fucking ditch called the lockout so excuse me if I get a little hostile and question the wisdom of a guy who put his bartender on the company tab.

Day turns to night. I noodle around with a post and get snagged on mundane matters like searching for an image.  The dog’s been looking patiently at me for an hour. The temperature has dropped by about two degrees. We go outside.  The cicadas have not ceased since this morning.  My sink is filled with dishes.

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY

Our long national grind is over. It ended where in many ways, it began - Miami, FLA - home of the best that money could buy, the master-plan, the decision.  Superstars shelled into submission by a lanky bridesmaid who couldn’t spit in the ocean in the first half, supported by a gang of misfits who could.  It’s how it should be, the basketball gods must have been smiling.

The knock on Nowitzki for years, has been that he’s soft, can’t or won’t play the interior, doesn’t come through when it really counts, in the playoffs, in the finals.  This year was different - his Mavericks played like a recommitted team but the perception remained - they had failed too often and the public had turned away. Until they wound up in the finals, pitted against a team that had gone from media darling to pariah.  Suddenly, the game had new meaning.

Somewhat lost in the drama and the loglines, was the fact that Dallas had been playing beautiful basketball, all season long.  This wasn’t the old Dirk. This was a veteran seasoned by years of disappointment, by personal and public missteps, a guy who loved to play so completely, to whom loyalty and dedication meant everything. His game was more complete, his desire all the more evident.

Dallas beat Portland and the populace shrugged. They swept the Lakers and experts said it was just too hard to win three-in-a-row. They beat the team of the future, OKC, and headed to the finals for the first time since ‘06.  The media at large, examined the situation and proclaimed the Mavs to be a very, very good team... who didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the three-headed monstrosity.  A couple games in and the storyline began to change.  Dallas won naturally, on the backs of a point guard older than Methuselah, a journeyman center, a reborn Matrix and Jason Terry - thrower of Heat-seeking missiles. I love his shooting philosophy, "I didn’t even see the basket, really."

You couldn’t have scripted a better ending to a long perplexing season, a serpentine trip.  Meanwhile, dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. The league and ownership (i.e. the brain-trust) had acquired various bits of information suggesting that the game of basketball was alive and well, and expanding at a rather astonishing rate.  Said knowledge firmly in hand and the Collective Bargaining Agreement about to expire, Stern-nation apparently decided that the proper course of action would be to shut it all down.

Bill Simmons wrote a piece recently, focusing on the negotiations and equating the owners’ purported $300 million shortfall to a cherry-picked clutch of bad player contracts. I’m not a Simmons hater, not part of that expanding crowd.  I actually like his style, how he turns a phrase.  But, he shoots from way outside and sometimes hits nothing but air.  How do you come up with the solution of taking a player’s salary?  Is that really how we want our league?  Is this like mandated testing for schools?  You lost your touch, your knees are broke. Give us back the money.

 Later in the same inexorably long article, Simmons offers that ABC/Disney stood to make $110 billion dollars for a Game 7. Not sure where he got his figures but just rolling with it for a moment, let's take some other multiples of billions and times them by hundreds of nationally televised games and thousands of locally televised (and syndicated) games and give a nice cut to the owners and add in merchandising and tickets and concession sales and more ancillary markets than would fit on this page and the next logical conclusion is a player lockout.  And all the children, are insane.

Pause for PSA - the Lakers still exist. Just thought I’d toss that in, considering this is supposed to be some version of a team blog.  Mike Brown’s still putting together his staff.  The draft’s about a week away.  Ron Artest is working on a reality show. Steve Blake’s become addicted to Extreme Couponing (OK, I made that up).

Everyone’s likening Rick Carlisle to Jim Carrey these days. I always thought he looked like Dick York from "Bewitched" but then everyone’s always said Carrey looks like York.  Regardless, Carlisle turned the bad news bears into true believers and it’s a testament to artful coaching, adaptability and communication.  Erik Spoelstra’s talked about the difficulty of working collectively inside the fish bowl.  Jim Carrey Rick Carlisle on the other hand, flew under the radar and used penultimate role players like the Custodian and the Human Wind-Up Toy. He built a raft from found pieces and steered it all the way to a championship.

The season was long and bumpy and the next one could be far away.  I’m reminded of what Shaq said in his last get-together with Phil Jackson, "I don’t understand why it had to come to this". Shaq and Phil are retired now and it somehow feels fitting that this year’s ring was won by a group of veterans who in fact, showed Phil the door.  And if there’s a lesson for D-Wade and LeBron, it’s this - don’t clown your elders, they may just kick your ass.