Chrysalis

 

The world was in a different place in 2020. A global pandemic reached critical mass, disrupting all corners of society. Schools and stores stood empty, inequalities were laid bare, and social distancing became the uneasy norm. In March, the NBA suspended operations, thus triggering a seismic shift in sports culture writ large. Four months later, a bold and unprecedented experiment was unveiled; a playoff biosphere known as the Disney Bubble.

Hindsight hasn’t been too kind to the resulting title fight. Perhaps it’s one and the same with the entire Covid era, thoroughly polarized, debated and even dismissed as politicized fakery. But the resulting July to October NBA spectacle—isolated from live attendance and choreographed within the secure confines of Disney’s ESPN Wide World of Sports campus—was highly innovative, wildly ambitious and wholly improbable. The Los Angeles Lakers ultimately beat the Miami Heat in six games in front of a pixilated, mosaic-like crowd of virtual fans. Some called it an asterisk championship. I thought it was brilliant.

The last remaining vestige of the Lakers 2020 championship squad exited stage left this summer with LeBron James taking his larger than life talents somewhere as yet to be revealed, for what either will or will not be his final chapter. The team moved ahead with a wholesale rebuild around franchise centerpiece Luka Dončic’ and his boy wonder sidekick Austin Reaves, the latter now armed with a $180 million max contract.

Only two members of the current roster were at Orlando World in 2020. Dončic’ was in his sophomore season with the Mavs, lighting it up on his way to the All-Bubble First Team, while Matisse Thybulle was a rookie for the 76ers, chronicling his adventures via a clever YouTube vlog. Lakers vet Jarred Vanderbilt was with the Timberwolves at the time and didn’t advance to the Disney playoffs. The same goes for free agency additions Kevon Looney (Warriors) and Collin Sexton (Cleveland).

The youth-driven summer remake has been highlighted by Walker Kessler, a 7’2” generational talent who was acquired in a sign and trade from the Utah Jazz. Other signees include Sandro Mamukelashvili, Quentin Grimes, Jaden Hardy and Ziaire Willams. Free agent Jonathan Kuminga remains the subject of relentless speculation; his last gasp aspirations tangentially linked to James’ languid decision process.

Baylor guard Cameron Carr was arguably the steal of the 2026 draft class, selected by the Lakers as the 24th overall pick after they moved up a spot. Carr along with sophomore forward Adou Thiero showed out spectacularly at the Las Vegas NBA Summer League, as did forward Arthur Kaluma who subsequently grabbed one of the team’s two-way contracts.

Forward Jake LaRavia, and guards Bronny James and Dalton Knecht still remain from last year’s team in a lineup that now stands at 16 guaranteed contracts – one over the league maximum. With summer free agency in its last throes, there will still be necessary moves around the fringes heading into training camp. But if there is one overarching takeaway from all the machinations, it’s that Lakers management has charted an aggressive course toward a young and athletic, switch-happy system replete with pick-and-roll lob threats and floor spacing bombs from way downtown. There’s depth, talent and the likelihood of stiff competition for second unit minutes.

Searching for Slava sputtered to life in 2010, a microblog inspired by an allegorical search for an elusive shot-chucker from the Ukraine who returned home to a war torn country after his erratic NBA journey ended. It was a time of existential hoops musings, with FreeDarko, Ball Don’t Lie, Hardwood Paroxysm, the Basketball Jones and other worthy roundball journals charting lofty orbits. All this as a small blue bird was finding its uncertain social media wings. There was community in the large and diverse collection of hoops sites numbering far more than those listed above. Most have since fallen by the wayside. My own byzantine rabbit holes were less about analysis and more about the odd journeys of NBA mavericks like Adam Morrison and Robert Swift, along with my inexplicable urge to fictionalize Craig Sager and his love for blended synthetic textiles.

Somehow, this weird blogspot indulgence picked up a quarter-million views before edging into the breakdown lane and finally refusing to budge. The last post was four years ago, delving into an origin story about Medvedenko and the first days of the Ukraine war. I have a file folder of stops and starts since then, but nothing past a paragraph or two.

Seasons come and seasons go, and sometimes there's a moment that feels renewed. The Lakers could have run it back after advancing to the second round of the 2026 playoffs on the broad shoulders of James (Dončic’ was out with a hamstring injury and Reaves similarly missed most of it). But instead, the bandage was ripped off and a process of new growth began. “Unceasing change turns the wheels of life, and so reality is shown in all its many forms,” as Phil Jackson was fond of saying.

The dog days of summer are upon us, bringing triple-digit heat and the drone of cicadas. Somewhere a car floats around a corner, music bumps in the background, onions and peppers curl in a hot skillet and the aroma of piney hops wafts from a long neck beer. We want our moments back, some things you never outgrow.

The search continues. Chrysalis is here.

Ode to a Bald Eagle

 

Pic SS&R

There’s no more joy in Mudville, the cake got left out in the rain and Lakers nation turns its lonely eyes inward. The bald eagle has landed…somewhere else.

There’s no way of figuring out this turn of events, although we’ll probably learn someday. "Cheaping out" is one way of explaining the Lakers' malfeasance, per Harrison Faigen at Silver Screen and Roll.

But for more than a few shining moments over the past few years, an improbable kind of Camelot happened, if you count shining knights as pasty white everymen who hail from the red dirt of College Station, Texas. There was no royal pedigree save for that inherited from a dad who cut his own teeth as a standout at Creighton before signing on as a lifer in high school and college sports at various places and various jobs, from administration to promotions to spectator sports safety and security, including a 30-year mainstay in Aggie athletics where he ultimately retired as Associate Athletic Director for Game Management. 

Mike Caruso passed his love of the game on to his son, or his son simply took the ball and ran—whether that meant Alex’s own unlikely white-men-actually-can-jump antics or chasing after the loose ones that got away as a ball boy for Texas A&M. By the time the father retired in 2018, he was able to watch on TV as his progeny carved out a career in Los Angeles. Now he’ll pop a cold one and watch the kid move on to his next chapter with the Chicago Bulls for a reported $37 million over four years. That cash sure beats the $35K the 6’5” combo guard was pulling in when he first started out in the G-League.

It remains to be seen why the Lakers, who owned the dude’s Bird Rights, couldn’t or wouldn’t cough up the money to keep him. But see paragraph 2. Maybe it will all make sense someday, or even sooner than later, or maybe never at all. You say you know but you don’t know. Sometimes things go sideways.

I wrote about Alex Caruso for Forum Blue and Gold back in his two-way contract days and I wrote about him again this past season. I didn’t think I’d be saying so long this way.

He was a big fish from the scrublands, from the place of cul-de-sacs and Ford Rangers. He never seemed to be “L.A.” in the way that is commonly hyped and amplified, but he certainly fit in with a more bedrock aspect of the city—that being sports culture, and more specifically, the kind of grind-it-out, no complaints, no star trips, balls-out effort, and even the self-effacing good humor that allows one to cut a straight-faced commercial about manscaping—kudos to whatever creative genius came up with that one. 

Memes and Laker fandom and GOAT jokes aside, Caruso is one of the best defenders in the league, a guy who reads the angles, organizes the team and in almost intangible ways, automatically elevates the play and attitudes of fellow teammates as soon as he subs in. You might have missed the moment coming out of a commercial break on national television when the music’s loud and the lights are blinding, but a minute later you notice that fortunes somehow seem to have changed, that momentum has shifted, and that the guy with the headband and sparse mustache just went flying out of bounds while flicking the ball back in. And, somehow made it back to the other end of the floor in time to set a pick or dish a dime or even throw it down.

That’s how you wind up with unworldly plus-minuses and net ratings, even when the highlight reels might not notice. It’s how you go from non-drafted to being very much on the radar of front office execs around the league who are more than happy to open up their wallets. It’s how hearts are broken and hard questions are asked.

It’s how dormant keys are dusted off in the wee hours of the morning, how a chapter closes here and opens there. Past the hour when normal people read, on a barely flickering search for something elusive. Soar on wingman, we wish you well and we'll be watching. 

The Prime of Kentavious Caldwell-Pope

 

He’s never played in an NBA All-Star contest and will likely never sign a max contract. But a small town kid who made it to the biggest stage in sports, has clearly emerged as an indispensable cog on a championship roster.

At age 27, Kentavious Caldwell-Pope is in his prime.

Coming off a banner year, the Los Angeles Lakers weren’t widely expected to rain long ball fury on the league. Their reputation last season was built on suffocating defense, and they’re just five years removed from the Byron Scott era—the arms-folded coach having famously opined on 3-pointers, “I don’t believe it wins championships.”

Under Frank Vogel’s leadership the Lakers did indeed win big last year, and they did it by combining star power (LeBron James and Anthony Davis), rim protection, pace and an efficient scoring game. Shooting from deep wasn’t their obvious weapon of choice—23rd in 3-point attempts and 21st in made 3s during the regular season, although the stat did improve to 11th in downtown makes during the playoffs.

And here we are again in another season marked with a pandemic asterisk, following last year’s scourge of the very same mutating virus. It has been a dark time in many ways, a serpentine journey connecting the dots from outbreaks past to today’s tribalism. Rays of light flash through along the way, diffused by cloud cover, postponements and protocols.

The Lakers have upped the offensive ante in 2021, hovering near the top of the NBA leaderboard in long-distance acumen. Caldwell-Pope is a key component, averaging .553 on 3.8 attempts per game from beyond the arc; good for third in the league in decimals behind his own teammate Alex Caruso and current leader Steph Curry. When it comes to the actual number of Laker lengthy launches, Caldwell-Pope lags behind LeBron James and Kyle Kuzma.

But make no mistake, KCP is the designated sniper, at least in the eyes of one teammate. ESPN’s Dave McMenamin recently polled team members as to who’s actually their King of 3-ball. James handed some props to Caldwell-Pope, but he still said he’d bet on himself.

Davis, however, sees it differently. “I would have to say Kenny is always our guy who we always look to for shots,” said the Brow, referring to the man who wears No. 1.

Caldwell-Pope has never been a big gabber, but he didn’t hesitate to second that notion.

"Numbers don't lie," he said, alluding to the career-best 55.3% he's shooting from 3 so far this season. "But I'm really enjoying LeBron shooting the ball. He's shooting it at a tremendous clip. He's knocking them down and it's fun seeing him have [success] shooting the ball as well. But we all know, I'm the real shooter, for sure."

Caldwell-Pope grew up in Greenville, Georgia. It’s one of the smaller cities you’re apt to come across—population 855, the last time anyone bothered to check. The largest structure is a looming century-old courthouse that dwarfs everything around it, positioned at the epicenter of a small turnaround that doubles as a two-lane highway. Residents are predominantly African-American; the median income is less than half the state level and staple items can be purchased at the local Piggly Wiggly.

The 2.36-square mile nondescript county seat won’t evoke memories of any small town southern flick you might have rented back when VHS reigned supreme. But there is a Greenville High and there was a Coach Carter. And a quiet kid who let his playing do the talking, became the big fish in a small town, ranked nationally and playing in the 2011 McDonald’s All-American Game where he scored six points in 12 minutes for the East. That same game saw future teammate Anthony Davis pouring in 14 points and four swats in 21 minutes for the West.

The guy Davis calls Kenny went on to two years at Georgia, and was selected by the Detroit Pistons as the No. 8 pick in the 2013 NBA draft. AD, of course, was the top overall choice the following year. The seven-time All-Star willed his way to L.A. last season.

The Pistons were in the middle of a dispiriting slump when they drafted Caldwell-Pope, failing to make the playoffs for three of his four seasons, and bumped from the first round without winning a game in 2016. The 6’5” guard was a starter for most of his stay, honing his skills and upping his minutes under Mo Cheeks, John Loyer and mostly, Stan Van Gundy. But losing doesn’t engender longevity, and high hopes in the Motor City sputtered out—KCP’s rights were renounced in 2017 and he landed in Los Angeles, scoring a one-year deal worth $18 million. There was some online grumbling about the payday but the larger story for months had been an executive shakeup that left Magic Johnson and Rob Pelinka in charge. One-year deals were stepping stones forward.

As a 24-year-old starter in a season that mixed young talent, losses and booing fans in equal measure, Caldwell-Pope performed just well enough to land a second one-year contract. This time, it was in a lesser role at a six-million dollar discount. The fact that he shared an agent with the newly arrived James, no doubt helped him stick, even if the wheelbarrows filled with cash went to a player whose place in the pantheon of all-time greats is obvious. And when Luke Walton exited and Frank Vogel arrived, followed by a blockbuster trade for Davis (also a Rich Paul client), the Lakers brought Caldwell-Pope back once more to help fill a roster that had been cleaned out to the nubs. This time around, the capable role-player had to make do with a two-year contract for a total of $16 million, less than half of his original welcome to the City of Angels.

The season ended in the strangest championship run of all, hermetically sealed in Orlando, framed by an unrelenting pandemic and following on the heels of unrest, brutality and the unfathomable loss of a father and his daughter and seven other precious lives, taken without warning in a fiery helicopter crash in the California fog. Out of an untenable morass came the Lakers’ first ring in a full decade. Caldwell-Pope started every game in the Disney Bubble, replacing Avery Bradley who elected not to attend. The speedy wing was a key component of the team’s eventual success, from corner 3s to sneaky steals.

The Georgia native opted out of his player’s option during the short offseason and was rewarded with a three-year deal for $40 million. It afforded some stability and longevity after all the short term contracts.

“I believed in myself,” Caldwell-Pope said. “This year, to come out and perform how  I performed, I’m truly blessed and humbled they believed in me enough to give me a comfortable deal that I haven’t had in so long.”

Rural Georgia is a place of cracked country roads, dragonflies and dollar stores. The state may be going through a tale of political and demographic change, but Greenville dwells in its own sleepy time capsule where summer days are hot and sticky and cold winter winds whistle through the pines. But in the far-off land of Los Angeles, where celebrations exist remotely during uncertain times, Kentavious Caldwell-Pope is clearly on the map, and in his prime.

Searching for Caruso

 

Last year’s fan favorite has now devolved into a categorical anomaly. Alex Caruso, who provided defensive moxie and team glue in 24 minutes per game inside the Orlando playoff bubble, has appeared for token moments in just three appearances so far this season; ultimately falling victim to an antiseptic designation known as “health and safety protocols.”

The term translates roughly into anything having to do with a global plague that has decimated the population, split ideologies and turned sporting events and the teams who participate in them into traveling time bombs. Caruso may have tested positive, he may have been exposed to someone who tested positive, or the most unlikeliest of scenarios—he could have pulled a Harden and been caught on tape at Jucy Lucy’s Landing Strip behind the interstate access road. The NBA simply isn’t saying, it’s part and parcel of the new non-speak, designed to create the most palatable and undefinable version of something that’s all kinds of scary and likely won’t get better before it gets worse.

Putting aside the above word salad, the uncertainty goes well beyond Caruso as the NBA attempts to cope with the logistics of running a show in the middle of a surging health crisis. As ESPN’s Baxter Holmes observes, the task has already exhausted those who manage their teams’ collective health, with a season that is still in its infancy.

 “As the NBA tries to hold a season outside a bubble during the coronavirus pandemic, team health officials and others filling protocol roles are essentially the NBA's front-line workers. Roles that have been largely delegated to team health officials, as outlined in the NBA's 158-page protocols, include testing officer, contact tracing officer, facemask enforcement officer, facility hygiene officer, health education and awareness officer and travel safety officer, among others. Some team health officials hold more than one of those roles, along with their original roles.

A Western Conference GM added, "There's just not enough hours in the day to read the memos, the nuances, compliance, testing, the things that quickly change." The Western Conference GM continued, "You have constant scenarios happening where the memos don't cover that particular situation...That's no one's fault. It's just where we're at."

Returning to matters of the missing Bald Eagle, he’ll be in absentia again tonight for the Lakers’ second game against the Memphis Grizzlies. Silver Screen Roll’s Harrison Faigen tweeted a screenshot of a succinct official team statement: “Alec Caruso (health and safety protocols) is out.”

Players who fall into the new criteria can’t be anywhere near their team—not during a game, practice, a bus or a plane. They simply have to vanish until meeting a series of negative tests or timelines.

Even Lakers’ head coach Frank Vogel seemed flummoxed about Caruso’s whereabouts recently, per Silver Screen and Roll’s Christian Rivas.

“Forrest Gump: that’s all I can say about that,” said Vogel.

Cue Alex Michael Caruso, running along a two-lane blacktop with his arms pumping, heading somewhere only he knows, as the crowd recedes from view.

*Update: This piece had the lifespan of a mayfly, with Caruso now expected to return Thursday against the San Antonio Spurs. That’s it—revision over, keep reading, or don’t. 

The undrafted success story last appeared in uniform on December 27 in a blowout win against the Minnesota Timberwolves, logging just 11 minutes off the bench but chipping in seven points and a couple boards. Beyond the obvious challenges of a pandemic that is nearing its one-year anniversary, there are other reasons to question Caruso’s role, whenever he does return. It has nothing to do with his value as a player, and much to do with his team’s shifting usage.

As Basketball Reference’s play-by-play data shows from this year compared to last, there’s a trickle-down effect creating a backcourt logjam. Whereas JaVale McGee, Dwight Howard and Anthony Davis divvied up pivot duties last season (Davis playing 40/60 at center and power forward), this year’s model has Marc Gasol and Montrezl Harrell carving up almost all the 5 intervals, with Davis now spending 92 percent of his time at his preferred 4 spot. This in turn results in Kyle Kuzma increasingly shifting to small forward, Kentavious Caldwell-Pope leaning 3 but also playing 2, Wes Matthews taking some of Danny Green’s former responsibilities, Talen Horton-Tucker picking up his sophomore game and Dennis Schröder kicking off a new chapter in fine fashion as a starting guard, with 16.3 points and 4.9 assists in 30.4 minutes per frame. That slots him right behind Davis and LeBron James in moments spent on the court—the 36-year-old power point forward and perennial All-Star continuing to confound Father Time, as well as any earthly positional definitions. 

Where does this leave Caruso? His few appearances have been entirely at the point this season, compared to last year when he split duties between both guard positions. Of course, it’s early and there will be plenty of unseen scenarios in the months ahead, whether related to injury, coronavirus or adjustments that inevitably occur as coaches tweak and explore lineups over the course of a long NBA roadmap.

Searching for Caruso alludes to the obvious; a player who has gone MIA as of late. But it's also an allusion to a microblog that began with an allegorical quest for a Ukrainian power forward who seemingly vanished into the ether. The quest mirrored the site itself, as it blossomed to some minor degree before its inevitable slide back into soul-sucking obscurity. It’s highly doubtful that the subject of this piece will travel the same path as Medvedenko or this eponymously named basketball confessional. During the lead-up to Caruso’s first year with the Lakers, I wrote for Forum Blue and Gold about his humble beginnings in the sport, and where his journey might lead.

“The heat eases imperceptibly in the Texas Triangle but seasons do change, just as sure as kids hang out at the Dairy Queen and oversized pickups rumble along a cracked two-lane highway. It’s a land of cul-de-sacs and limestone facades.  A thin contrail arcs silently, high across the azure sky. It’s much too soon to hazard a guess as to Caruso’s NBA future. But he’s somewhere on the map, living a dream and tossing the ball up ahead.”

Caruso’s quixotic vision quest has advanced considerably since then, and it’s doubtful that a kid from College Station will wind up cashing in his chips for a steakhouse franchise in the American hinterlands. But the game can move on quickly when you’re on the outside looking in, especially when rejoining a rotation that’s already 11-deep.

Ultimately, I want to see the dude back in uniform and back on the floor. I’m hoping he didn’t actually contract this fucked-up disease and if he did, that there’s no lingering aftereffects. I miss his presence, his dogged determination, his leave-it-all-on-the-floor mentality and those glorious, mind-boggling plus/minus ratios that spike as soon as he enters the game, even when other stats wouldn’t seem to justify it. Caruso just makes good stuff happen; he gets guys their touches, makes the game easier and in general, does the right thing. He’s an unlikely internet cult figure and everyman hero, with a rec-league game that has translated to championship bling. But for now, he’s nowhere in sight.

The New Year has begun, uncertainty remains and another bookmark appears in a 10-year-old trip down an oft-forgotten rabbit hole. Be well and stay healthy. The lights are still on at Searching for Slava.

 

Into the Unknown, Again

For all of the slow-motion, frustratingly lonely and tragic dumpster fires of 2020, there has been a deceptively fast and infinitely welcome lead-up to the new and now current NBA season. Yes, exiguous readers, it’s here and now and will soon burgeon past preseason play to the real enchilada.

The futility of attempting yet another sporadic reboot of a dormant basketball blog is painfully clear. Its moment slipped away long ago, summers of a decade past seem ever more distant now. In 2010, Phil Jackson was beginning his final year as the Lakers’ head coach and Slava Medvedenko was three years out of the league. I wrote about anything and everything under the guise of hoops, from my dog Otis—gone these many years—to the Sages, also long gone. I used a black format with a white font during the portal’s nascent days.

I wanted to make it personal. And, I wanted it to be read. Oh, how I’d plant my links on other sites’ comment pages, or laboriously ping to the far corners of the earth with search engines that no longer exist. Independent basketball journals were flourishing then and the culture felt more connected. Or perhaps it still is and I no longer am.

This past season was uniquely interrupted, truncated and endlessly analyzed. It came to an end after 96 days in the Walt Disney World Bubble. The confetti dropped and piped-in noise ratcheted up to a banshee wail. Pixilated spectator images laughed and cried, affixed to a stretch of giant screens, as players celebrated on the court below in an oddly juxtaposed yet somehow endearing semblance of what was once taken for normal. The Los Angeles Lakers were crowned World Champions after ten long years. And suddenly the grand experiment was over, players and coaches and staff heading home like astronauts returning from a space oddity to a world that must have felt very different and strange. Left behind was an army of health workers packing up their test kits, steam cleaners advancing across garish hotel carpets, cooks and servers, security guards and shipping clerks, invisible camera operators and digital technicians packing massive equipment bags and leaving en-masse. And the memories of player vlogs, when those were what we had to acclimate to a strange new world.

A couple months have passed and once again, we’re heading into the unknown. Training camp is shorter and somewhat later, with two preseason games played to date and another looming on Wednesday. The Lakers are back in their own environment, both the UCLA Health Training Center in El Segundo and Staples downtown. But if anything, it can seem even weirder—a carefully crafted capsule that was nearly akin to a video game in structure has been replaced by cavernous and nearly empty sports arenas that have not been adjusted to scale. The punctiliously controlled Disney setting was remarkably free from a deadly contagion that flared back and forth across the outside nation, spreading in the simplest and most organic of ways—human contact and interaction. Now, the NBA will try its best to contain things on the fly, as teams hit the road again, albeit in a structured and complicated format intended to minimize travel and exposure, and best deduced by swiping a slide rule across a PDF printout.

The team also went through changes during a compressed NBA draft/free agency period, with Danny Green, Avery Bradley, Rajon Rondo, Dwight Howard and JaVale McGee exiting stage left, and Marc Gasol, Montrezl Harrell, Dennis Schröder, Wesley Matthews and Alfonzo McKinnie arriving stage right. All-in-all, a decent haul, augmented by the respective extension and re-signing of megastars LeBron James and Anthony Davis, and the retention/re-signing of the remainder of last season’s supporting cast.

Among the early storylines were a double beat-down of the Los Angeles Clippers as James and Davis rested, with new players impressing on alternate nights, including sophomore Talen Horton-Tucker going supernova like the next Big Thing. Last year’s No. 46 draft pick resembles a human fire hydrant with extraordinarily long gadget arms and legs, a preternatural savvy and the chops to play both ends of the floor with a grounded ferocity that belies his age and experience. On the second of two nights, the 20-year-old from the Windy City dropped 33 points, 10 boards, four dimes and four steals, matching up against the likes of Kawhi Leonard and Paul George. At this rate he’ll be stealing thunder from fan favorite Alex Caruso, which is just fine—they both possess a team-first grind mentality that leaves room for all and all for one.

Despite the sum of the Lakers’ star power, depth and found-again championship swag, we can’t yet foresee how the impending season will play out. This is true under the most stable of circumstances and it is doubly indubitable with the vagaries of the Covid-19 era. Thirty teams along with their accompanying personnel structures, are now in wholly different environments compared to the novel summer bubble. Throw in new players, shortened conditioning regimes and the potential for injury—a constant bugaboo for ballers under the best of circumstances—and the prospect for change in any number of ways increases exponentially.

Still, it has been evident through just two exhibitions, that this is a mature squad that benefits from veteran leadership both on the floor and on the sidelines. Management and the coaching staff deserve more than a brief nod, and if this latest web restart persists beyond the immediate moment, that nod might turn to outright headbanging. Perhaps Frank Vogel can take an existential trip to Flathead Lake, and a meeting of the minds with the ZenMaster among the juniper and pine, the wild roses and brittle fern. Until then, these 1,000 words will serve as yet another bookmark in an oft-interrupted journey that began with the quixotic search for a Ukrainian power forward who vanished as unexpectedly as he appeared, a quest more figurative than literal.  

You say you know but you don’t know, unceasing change turns the circle of life and you can return to a place but not a place in time. Don’t forget to keep your head warm this winter, the lights are still flickering at Searching for Slava.

 

LeBron James and the summer of the Lakers’ content…or discontent

Dear Laker Stans,

Your team began its offseason by drafting a couple of intriguing floor-stretchers and then signed LeBron James—aka the World’s Best Player—on a 3+1 deal.

Yeah, you let Julius Randle go but you kept a potent young core in Brandon Ingram, Lonzo Ball, Kyle Kuzma and Josh Hart. Plus, KCP is back in the fold at a discount. Hooray!

Additionally, three veteran role players are on board in Rajon Rondo, JaVale McGee and Lance Stephenson. Two of the three knuckleheads own rings, one is a three-time assists leader and one is nicknamed “Born Ready.”

You’re not yet over the cap, you’ll have cash to spend next year, you didn’t give up any future picks and your glut of meaningful rookie contracts mean you’re financially well-positioned for years to come. 

So why the long faces; the gnashing of teeth; the panicky outcries and lighting of creosote torches?

Apparently, because the front office didn’t see fit to trade its best young assets for Kawhi Leonard and his degenerating quad, nor did they invest in Boogie Cousins’ shredded Achilles.

Meanwhile, all of NBA fandom—not just the Lakers—has declared next season to be over before it even begins. Because, naturally, the Golden State Warriors who had until now been casually chilling in their championship afterglow, took a moment to toss the MLE at Cousins (when nobody else would), knowing full well that he might not actually play, or that he might not play well.

Back-to-back champions can afford to do that. A rebuilding team fresh off five losing seasons—and who finally, incongruously, hit the honeypot with LeBron—can-not-and-should-not-do-that.

Nonetheless, there is a sizable contingent of soothsayers—armed with empirical data and abstract dot-connecting—that is tilting at the interwebs in the firm belief that Rondo’s flameout in Dallas four years ago, or Stephenson’s wild inconsistency and/or character issues, or JaVale’s limited yet effective 9.5 minutes per game last season (including starting three-out-of-four in the Finals) somehow impinges disproportionately on LeBron’s consistent greatness and will, in fact, send everything hopelessly spinning down the drainage hole of oblivion. Also inherent in the doom-and-gloom scenario is a belief that too many playmakers and not enough firing power is at stark odds with the modern-day game.

But as ESPN’s Brian Windhorst and Ramona Shelburne write, all of the memes and jokes may actually be part of the Lakers’ master plan: a blueprint for a superstar to age successfully.

What if somewhere in a parallel universe—a place where palm trees gently sway and every day is the perfect temperature, where limos glide past homeless encampments and ultra-fit bodies scamper up dusty canyon trails—the Los Angeles Lakers actually wind up having a semi-awesome season? Sure, there may be cringe-worthy moments here and there, and probably too many game that are won based on James’ inherent greatness overcoming the opposition while his teammates stand and stare (not that Laker fans have ever witnessed such a thing before, centering around any other geriatric franchise superstars). But the overall idea remains that entertainment abounds and wins happen more frequently than not. For good measure, let’s also toss in all the unexpected injuries, losing streaks, winning streaks and general force majeure that are part of the long NBA season and life itself.

The locusts swarm of free agency began at midnight Saturday EST, blazed furiously for a few hours, took a Sunday morning pause and then went supernova that evening with LeBron’s signing. It was the beginning of the end of meaningful money deals—roughly 90 percent of all free agent spending occurred within a 24-hour-period, yet the majority of actual free agents are still in limbo, unsigned and uncertain of what comes next.

And if the undulating nature of Laker fandom—the long faces and teeth-gnashing and creosote torches on one side, offset by optimism and joy from the other—had blazed so fiercely during the initial spasm of free agency, Monday and Tuesday brought a more temperate rehashing of issues and analysis, and a barely existent trickle of players being signed to table scraps. By July 4, traditionally a hot time for the basketball marketplace, attention had drifted away to hotdog-eating contests and a woman scaling the Statue of Liberty.

At some point the Lakers will have to sign a starting center, using what’s left of their money. The odds are fairly decent that Brook Lopez will be persuaded to return back for a year at an approximate 75 percent discount. Meanwhile, Leonard’s prospects for a trade seem increasingly dim, his management having grossly misplayed its hand. At least he’s still collecting a max contract for not playing.

A holiday comes to a close and a new workday is about to begin. And life slowly restores its balance, like ebbing ripples from a skipping stone. The start of the NBA regular season is only 105 days away.

Mitchell Robinson: A Path Less Taken

The NBA Draft can be screwy proposition: a volatile mix of potential stars, role players and cautionary tales. And while the top of the totem pole is where the major media casts its blinding beam, the descending order with its gathering chaos and uncertainty has no shortage of other storylines. 

Enter Mitchell Robinson, a former 5-star prospect who came up with the dubious strategy of dropping out of college before his freshman year actually began, hence guaranteeing himself plenty of alone time in which to “concentrate on my training.”

There may be a consolation prize for a player once regarded as a lottery lock: whispers of a promise from the Los Angeles Lakers to take Robinson with their No. 25 pick, first from NBADraft.net and more recently from the New York Times’ Adam Zagoria.

But these kind of agreements—when they actually exist apart from rumors—can be fluid and uncertain things, especially outside the lottery as the selection process devolves into a mad scramble.

Remember when Kobe was here?

Somebody recently asked about my favorite Kobe Bryant moment of all time. I couldn’t come up with one. The thousands of games and tens of thousands of plays within all those games have somehow formed into composites—an athlete performing mind-boggling feats under washes of light and accompanied by a screaming sound chorus, moments that become isolated on sports shows and augmented by camera pans and time-altered effects until they simply become part of an ever-changing narrative. 

Glory, defeat, shame, redemption, injury, recovery, debate, the bloom of youth to the inevitability of age, from his rookie year to this—hours before his final game with the Los Angeles Lakers.

I haven’t written much about Bryant this season. I can’t begin to explain why, except that it is some form of avoidance. And a rationale that if everyone else is doing it, there is no need for me to. What could I possibly add to that vast lexicon?

During training camp I contemplated a story that would take place in the present while imagining the future—one without the man. The idea that he has touched so many people in so many different ways, and a vacuum that could have a more lasting impact than some might imagine.

But I couldn’t really wrap my head around it all. Instead, I simply looked at box scores and read the commentary. I winced at the truly awful games and took small pleasures in those rare moments when a guy who should be in a wheelchair managed some approximation of the greatness he once was.

And a season slipped by.

He has outlasted several generations of players when you consider the professional lifespan of an average NBA hoopster is 4.8 years. Bryant’s two decades have not only put him into the fringes of uncharted territory, but have also resulted in a shifting and evolving attitude toward him, from those who played with him and those who chronicled his career. He has earned the well-deserved reputation of a difficult person to be around.

Fierce, uncompromising, competitive beyond what is acceptable even in the cutthroat world of sports.

In a Nike commercial in which athletes were asked to sum Bryant up in a single word, Kevin Durant said quietly, “asshole.”

There was an implicit respect in the curse. 

Or as his onetime Lakers teammate Steve Nash mused on a different occasion, “a fucking asshole.”

But generational fluxes also play into these dynamics, the take-no-prisoners attitude exhibited toward peers becomes folklore observed by younger athletes growing up, who then become participants themselves.

What always struck me, above anything else, was the degree of difficulty.

Bryant set the bar impossibly high, Icarus flying too close to the sun but tinkering with the mechanics or “the process” as he always called it, in order to somehow avoid melting the wax and feathers. And when his plummet to earth inevitably happened, he took the road back as a Sisyphean challenge—a self-aggrandizing overachiever who pushed a too-large boulder up the hill over and over again, pausing only for ice baths or Orthokine knee treatments in Germany.

The impossible shot selections, the tendency to take over games, the tunnel vision that his way was not only the best but the only way, wasn’t the work of a guitar hero shredding without form or structure. Because his relentless film study, his analytical destruction and reconstruction of all known aspects of the game, recalibrated after each injury and the passing years, seemed to coalesce into airtight arguments, statements of fact and accomplishments so detailed and immense that it just became easier for others to simply give up in the end.

Until the end.

The last time I wrote at any length about Bryant was last summer, acknowledging the futility of adding to a story that has been so thoroughly covered for two decades by imagining what might lie ahead through a fictional construct:

Ask the average person how many articles have been written about Kobe Bryant and you’ll get a blank stare in return. Nobody knows but it is certainly a very high number. It would be like counting the mosaic tiles in the Basilica of San Vitale. 

There are no new angles to explore, there is no new information to report. Past glories have been repeated to death and there are only so many ways to spin predictions for his probably-but-not-absolutely final season of basketball. There can be no criticisms that have not yet been voiced, no chronicling of hero shots that have been launched or death glares cast toward teammates. Or teammates who worship him or those who hate him, or new ones he hasn’t yet met due to a top secret gyrocopter excursion to a mountaintop retreat where he’ll undergo molecular cartilage transfusions in an attempt to grow a new finger in place of that hideous turnip currently attached to his right hand… or left hand.

Twenty years of witnessing a particular player, on television, in person, listening left-to-right on the radio dial while stuck in rush hour traffic on the way home from some job or another. Chick Hearn’s words eye view gave the kind of accompaniment that transformed to actual visual memories years later. Because these are all snippets, brush strokes that form a collective over time. Watching pirate feeds on a shaky dialup connection, commenting with bloggers on long ago threads that no longer exist, bantering on social media with friends from another place in time.

The passing generations were not only the players Bryant encountered and outlasted along the way, they were also the observers and the very methods of observation. The snake is long, 20 miles long.

ESPN’s Baxter Holmes recently wrote a stunningly good piece about the last true days of Bryant. Seven brutal games in which the gift and curse of obsession was on full display, the refusal to rest, the chain reaction of a freeway pileup in order to achieve a cause, leading ultimately to a blown-out Achilles tendon:

It's possible, in retrospect, to see what happened three years ago as something foreshadowed by ominous portents. The last game of Kobe Bryant -- the gladiator Kobe Bryant, the bulletproof, monomaniacal Kobe Bryant -- was full of such moments. But that's how history works. After the fact, everything is clear.

That should have been the final chapter, the ultimate body betrayal and self-destruction after so many wars.

Of course, that wasn’t how it ended. There would be a surgery to reattach the tendon after so many previous surgeries on other body parts, and months of rehabilitation followed rapturously by the media, followed by another season in which he broke his left knee after just six games, with another torturously long recovery period made even longer by all the previous damage done to his body. And that was followed by the Lakers signing Kobe to a new $48.5 million two-year contract. And then he was trotted out once more, only to tear his shoulder, requiring yet another operation.

They shoot horses, don't they?

And finally, one last farewell tour, one that could only have been imagined by the spirits of the underworld. Bryant, his body completely broken, soldiering through the worst season in his team’s entire history. 

But somewhere along the line he finally came to peace with it all. The jaw-jutting anger from years past has been replaced by something we are far less familiar with. He smiles more easily now, laughs off questions he once would have bristled at, talks about gratitude and acceptance. Bryant has managed to hold his body together until the very end, the team leader in points per game, putting up 35 the other night against the Houston Rockets.

And the inescapable fact that he has been a pure joy to watch over these many years. We could still squint our eyes a little and see that guy.

How do you identify a favorite moment? It is elusive and subjective, with only one remaining sliver to grasp at. It is just hours before the final curtain. One more ice bath, the last drive to Staples Center and a gimpy stroll through a tunnel accompanied by cameras and shouted questions.

And then the wash of lights and the swelling sound.

Remember when Kobe was here?

Kobe Bryant: The Things We Know but Do Not Say

Ask the average person how many articles have been written about Kobe Bryant and you’ll get a blank stare in return. Nobody knows but it is certainly a very high number. It would be like counting the mosaic tiles in the Basilica of San Vitale.

There are no new angles to explore, there is no new information to report. Past glories have been repeated to death and there are only so many ways to spin predictions for his probably-but-not-absolutely final season of basketball. There can be no criticisms that have not yet been voiced, no chronicling of hero shots that have been launched or death glares cast toward teammates. Or teammates who worship him or those who hate him, or new ones he hasn’t yet met due to a top secret gyrocopter excursion to a mountaintop retreat where he’ll undergo molecular cartilage transfusions in an attempt to grow a new finger in place of that hideous turnip currently attached to his right hand… or left hand.

Kobe was last seen somewhere east of Eden. He has been busy creating a new monetary system for Greece. He has a soft spot for small yappy dogs. He only sleeps in five-minute increments. He is still a member of the Los Angeles Lakers and will begin his 20th season in the NBA in the fall.

He has five body doubles, three of which are robots. He does not consume salt or sugar or flour. He has a world-class chef who has learned how to extract protein from tree roots, which is then served on top of poached salmon with toasted watercress.

But the man who would be Sisyphus is far more than a complex superstar.

He is a teacher, a husband, a father and a friend. He is a soothsayer.

Bryant is known for summoning select teammates to early morning workouts at a clandestine location that is actually his home basketball court. The reality of the domestic whereabouts is never actually specified in the media, out of fear and respect. Instead, it remains mysterious and unobtainable.

Recently, the man with five—“count ‘em”—championship rings (apart from those received in an alternate universe that have not yet been revealed) invited a new rookie teammate who shall remain nameless to the above-mentioned undisclosed location which is between five and 50 miles from the team’s official workout facilities in El Segundo, California. There, the rookie was instructed to make 300 shots in a row from half-court, blindfolded and without the use of his hands or feet.

At some point, one would imagine that there should be more than just backstory and aimless narrative. But one could also simply select another of the countless mosaic tiles if one needs insight into whether Kobe’s going to shift over to the wing this season for 12 games before his femoral artery spontaneously detaches, requiring an adjustment in minutes played on odd/even days.

Last Tuesday, I was invited by Mr. Bryant to a sushi restaurant in (location redacted) for an exclusive interview. There were no limits on subject matter except that the spoken word could not involve a language known to modern man. I wish I could begin to convey the joy and enlightenment that ensued during our telepathic conversation, augmented by birdsongs and clog dancing. I have not yet found a means of translation and it may not really matter. I find myself humbled, contemplative. I have begun reading all known works pertaining to Helen Keller.

He’s a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm.

On January 23, 2006, Kobe Bryant scored 81 points in a basketball game against the Toronto Raptors. The absurdity of that statement is made all the more poignant by knowing it can never happen again. Analytics won’t let it happen. In fact, the science of advanced basketball analysis was invented solely to prevent such occurrences.

Do you actually doubt the veracity of this statement?

In April of 2006, a series of emails encrypted through MIT’s Cray supercomputer were exchanged between Daryl Morey who had just become general manager of the Houston Rockets, Henry Abbott of ESPN and David Stern who was then the commissioner of the NBA. The purpose was to invent a new way of examining basketball logic; to prevent an 81-point atrocity from ever happening again and to install a set of curbs that would reduce Bryant’s point average on a yearly basis.

It has worked on an incremental level but Bryant’s shot attempts and usage have remained stubbornly high and fiercely self-justified.

These are the things we know but do not say. Instead, articles are written about fading glory, a difficult personality, a litany of unimaginable injuries and money.

Offered $48.5 million as an octogenarian hoops star, Bryant simply said, “Okay.”

During an interview with GQ’s Chuck Klosterman earlier in the year, the 36-year-old was asked about any negative effect that advanced metrics have had upon his career, and about the perception by Abbott and others that he shoots too much. Bryant responded by comparing himself to an 18th century Austrian composer.

“Some people thought Mozart had too many notes in his compositions,” Bryant said. “Let me put it this way: I entertain people who say I shoot too much.”

Basketball as an on-court professional enterprise will end for the longtime Lakers cornerstone at 9:31pm on February 19, 2016 just seconds after nailing a contested fall-away jumper from the top of the key. At that point, his left leg which will have swollen to twice its normal size from the diverted femoral artery, will cease to support his weight properly.

He will answer questions from the media for approximately 22 minutes before going to the hospital for emergency surgery.

It’s four in the morning, the end of July. I have managed to translate a small passage from my telepathic conversation with Mr. Bryant. During the course of our discussion he predicted many things, some of which he wishes to share with you… (unintelligible bird sounds).

The start of Lakers training camp is still more than two months away. During that time there will be countless new articles to add to the Bryant lexicon, most of which will in some way center on his age and predictions of failure. Each piece will also contain no less than three sentences of obligatory homage to the Mamba’s greatness.

But his job is a job, after all. And he’ll probably transition to the next stage of his life without the painful soul-searching that causes actual humans to resort to the toolbar for alternate synonym suggestions and information about the Basilica of San Vitale.

Somewhere, a gyrocopter sails through a glorious rose-colored sky. Daughters wake their father and ask what’s for breakfast. A basketball bounces softly, repetitively. Birds sing mysterious songs.

You say you know but you don’t know.

One more article about Kobe Bryant is now in the history books.

Mike D’Antoni, Life Journal, Day 576

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

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

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

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

I’m gonna miss Dan.

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

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

Three is always better than two.

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

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

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

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

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

NBA DRAFT 2012: BEYOND THE PALE

An annual rite of passage for over sixty years, the NBA draft takes place Thursday night. It has been much discussed and debated by those looking at the top of the hopes ladder, but also by teams whose only picks lie outside the box. Now that the Finals are over, the discussion will intensify. For the Los Angeles Lakers and those within their worldwide inner circle, the emphasis is on trading up into the first round. Without that, they're consigned to the 60th pick.

Aside from last year's Isaiah Thomas, how hard would it be to go back and research every final pick in NBA draft history? Nobody really cares, except those individuals themselves, and their families. To say they went off the map would be a understatement. Many were never on the map to begin with. As the number of teams ballooned, general managers began something of an inside joke for very late selections - picking overseas players with the most unpronounceable names imaginable, indulging their dreams for a few shining moments, and then tossing them back into the swirling chum.

What ever became of Cenk Akyol, Andreas Gyniadakis, Miolvan Rakovic, Damir Markota, Uros Slokar, Sergei Karaulova, Miladen Sekularac, Robertas Javokas, Igor Rakcevic, and so many others? They returned overseas after their questionable moments in the NBA sun. Most continued to play, earning a living, chasing the dream.

This year could be different, but it probably won’t. Still, there’s a dark horse candidate being whispered about, yet another obscure Euroleague player with a dream and a difficult past. Kiovanic Atomik was the product of a troubled relationship; a mother from Ingushetia, and a father from South Ossetia. His mom was an activist, his dad was a soldier. And each became caught up in longstanding regional conflicts that ultimately outweighed their love for each other, and tore their family apart.

Like many kids, Kiovanic’s escape has been sports. It’s not so easy in war torn countries to go to the gym, to be on a team, to travel freely. Raised primarily by relatives, he managed to navigate the shoals. Kiovanic had a brief introduction to the public during the civil war in Ingushetia, when his neighborhood was shelled by Russian forces. He began a conversation through twitter, which at the time was coming into its own as a social media platform. The descriptions of war in 160 characters or less found resonance until government forces prevailed. The account disappeared from public record, and Kiovanic himself escaped the country and went on to play basketball in the Adriatic league.

None of that matters to NBA decision makers, or at least, it may not matter this year. Atomik possesses specific basketball skills that could actually pay off. He’s a 6-9 point guard with raw athleticism and a singular feel for the amazing pass. He’s a streaky shooter, gambles too often on the defensive end, and is prone to turnovers. But those who have seen him play, talk about his uncanny ability to facilitate for others, and to read nearly impossible situations.

The Los Angeles Lakers are in dire need of backcourt help, and are severely constrained by the new CBA. If they can find their way into the first round, there are tangible solutions. If not, they’re left with the most meager of consolation prizes and cannot afford to toss even that aside. Last summer, Kiovanic Atomik, like many kids from other countries, managed to get a temporary work visa. He found employment at a Cumberland Farms convenience store in Harwich, Massachusetts, roomed with six other kids, and took part in a summer circuit basketball league where he demolished the competition. Atomik was invited to a basketball camp and astounded grizzled observers who thought they’d seen it all. He had to return to Europe the next day.

A year has passed. Kiovanic has continued to improve his fundamentals, playing for Montepaschi Siena, and DC Donbasket. This time, scouts have followed him more closely, especially Antonio Maceiras from the Los Angeles Lakers. Atomik returned to the U.S. and has taken part in a few of the draft combines. Like many other overseas prospects, he’s on the bubble and will probably never play in the NBA. Maceiras recently observed however, that Kio as his friends call him, is one of the most cerebral, intuitive players that he has ever watched.

A search for the holy grail can be many things to many people. To some it may not even qualify as such. To a parent it can be paying down a sequence of bills that looks like the hydra, to a student it can be a love affair. To a writer, it may be searching for a way home to an elusive concept that became forever buried under things discovered along the way. And for a basketball player who’s completely off the map, it can be the quest for something more, a ticket away from heartbreak, war, poverty, dysfunction, or cyclical bias. It’s the search for fame and fortune, and sometimes, freedom.

There is a place where fantasy ends and reality begins. On draft night, dozen of players that you actually know exist, who have not been invited to the ceremony, and who have received no promises, will sit in front of TV sets and watch and wait. Some will be with family and friends, and some will be alone. To the Kio Atomiks of the world, best wishes for success, wherever you may find it.