Will Slava Medvedenko Coach the New York Knicks?

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

Phil Jackson hasn’t forgotten though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pros of Slava coaching the Knicks:

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

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

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

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

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

Does this ever feel like Déjà vu?

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

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

Why it won't happen:

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

Because who would teach the children, now?

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

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

Medvedenko: “Vy rozmovliajete ukrajinśkoju?”

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

In truth, Slava Medvedenko is never coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A VERY SAGER CHRISTMAS

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Big birds flying across the sky.

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

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

“Phil. Problems with the Road King?”

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

“Saskatchewan. And you?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have limeade.”

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sager watched and listened, wide-eyed.

***

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

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

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

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

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

Phil thought about this and shrugged. “Okay”.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Craig answered. “Yes, I know.”

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

“Yes, I am.”

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

“Well, yes. Sometimes.”

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

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

“Craig? Are you still there?”

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

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

SYSTEM RESTORE

The post-season isn’t yet over but to some it feels like an orphanage.  Please sir, we want some more. Laker fans and media have been mixed on the rash of moves since Phil hobbled away.  The rumbles begin and swell from the epicenter.  Jim Buss wants to run the asylum, he wants to do his father proud.  Welcome to the show - it will grow and feed and it will consume you.  Give us the information.

Is it so much about hiring Mike Brown?  Not really.  Not unless he shows some sign of system failure, unless he blinks. Then we will swarm.  We are Jack and Piggy, we are wildebeests and pac-men, fueled by an uncertain disconnect.  It is their post-season now, not ours.  It can hit you, it can hurt you.

It might have been 15 years ago, I don’t quite recall.  I was in a jury selection room, somewhere on the no-man’s stretch of Hollywood Blvd in the heat of summer.  Doing my civic duty.  Prospective jurors were brought forth.  What is your name, your occupation, do you worship heathen gods?  An old man took his place in the box.  Gray hair, good posture, dead eyes.  They asked his profession and he stared straight ahead and answered flatly, "I’m a dancer".   He was excused immediately.

Watch out now, take care. Beware of soft shoe shufflers. Dancing down the sideboards.

The draft is roughly two weeks away.  We have four picks, all in the second round, mostly the result of trades from somewhere in the past.  It’s not a strong draft, the big answers don’t lie there but we need these picks regardless.  We have yawing chasms at the point and we need shooters as well.  We could get lucky - we could find a gem.  Except that Jim Buss fired all the scouts, two weeks ago.  And then he fired Ronnie Lester, the brain-trust when it comes to such matters.

Some say, give it a chance.  Don’t be suspicious.  We haven’t yet begun.  And I respect these voices, enormously.  But I cannot see the new emperor’s suit and if I can’t see it, I get worried.  Phil Jackson said he hadn’t spoken to Jim Buss once this season.  Jerry’s son is said to be a recluse.  He did an interview and denied all this.  He’s just the owner’s son, he only wants to make his father proud.   I’m surprised he wasn’t asked about his racehorses, or what his favorite colors are.

The drumbeats grow softly in the distance, villagers gather torches and coat them with a flammable tar.  We only want answers, Jim.  We will not hurt you.  We have built a platform for you to climb and speak from.  We will let you leave when we are satisfied.

Mike Brown is probably a very decent guy.  He turned the Cavs around, he was Coach of the Year.  He says he has a plan.  Something about spreading the floor, giving Kobe prime spots to score from and that’s good, Kobe likes playing on the wing.  Mike wants us to get up the floor faster which isn’t a shock.  The triangle wasn’t predicated on speed and the new system won’t be predicated on the triangle.  We’ll need new blood, new skin for the old ceremony.

The prospect of a work stoppage is almost unfathomable, yet there are those in ownership drawn to the flames like old and bitter moths.  Derek Fisher is working a delicate balance to bring sides together while protecting the union line.  He has succeeded as a player, beyond and past most expectations.  He’ll return next season but the shadows grow ever long.  One of Phil’s favorite sayings holds relevance here, "unceasing change turns the circle of life, and so reality is shown in all its many forms".  With the team stripped of its longstanding staff, could Derek build bridges once again?  Might they include him in their vision, a connective thread to the future?

My dog grows increasingly infirm, his hindquarters crook to one side as he walks.  He chews and worries his flesh. I take him out for his little walks, his confusion evermore apparent, not hearing my whistles or choosing not to.  Looking off into the distance, hearing other voices calling.  There was thunder and lighting in the afternoon today but no relief from the heat, only steam roiling off the wet pavement.  A long summer ahead, the portent of discontent looms.  We only want answers.

To everything, a yin and a yang, a push and a pull.  I have written about the gray-scale eluding me, about strange dreams and childhood memories, frailties and finality, the obscuring of the sun.  Fall will eventually come and if this journal still exists, it like all things, must change.  There will be new and different themes, our season’s clock will reset.  I make no promises about villagers and torches however- unrest has its place and far be it from me not to fan a flame here and there.  Especially toward management.  Phil Jackson provided a long and contrarian respite and now we cross our fingers and hit system restore.  And wait.

THE BIG SHAQADELIC

His announcement came via Twitter and articles spread instantly, some probably canned and waiting like an aged actor’s obituary.  It doesn’t matter how though, they continued unabated for days and most were memorable, extolling the end of an era, capturing the spirit and legacy of the big irrepressible.  And still they trickle out and all I can add is a fan’s personal feelings.

I’ve always felt basketball to be a sanctuary and Shaq provided as safe a haven as anyone.  If work was bad, if anything was bad, the commuter crawl home somehow soothed, with Chick’s "left-to-right on your radio dial".  And finally ensconced in front of the set, watching a supertanker execute the spin-crunch move to perfection - shoulder smashes sternum, up-and-dunk!  In turn, he was hacked relentlessly, bludgeoned until he could barely raise his arms.  I remember Phil Jackson writing about the toll of abuse, seven long years ago.  And still Shaq endured, one lumbering season after another, caught up in the athlete’s curse, searching for that last elusive ring.

One of his great gifts is his personality, a quick comic wit, hugely popular within player circles. He worked the shoot-around like a singer works a lounge.  Come game-time however, the little buddies would buzz his  head like Messerschmitts.  Sometimes he swatted at them angrily, more often he'd continue his dogged dominance inside the box.  If he ever truly lost it on somebody, he would have been banned for life.  He was a contradiction in many ways, perfecting the art of mumbling in obligatory pressers and holding forth with great charm and clarity when dropping in on some halftime chat.

My favorite on-court moment came at Staples for game 7 of the 2000 western finals - that 4^th quarter comeback against Portland, unforgettable and incandescent - Shaq going up for Kobe’s lob, roaring back up the court with Ali moon-eyes, the crowd simply out of their minds.  Favorite tangential memory; I was at a bowling alley in Studio City with my daughter and one of Shaq’s sneakers was on the wall.  She just stared in awe, it was about the size of a rowboat.

An amazing collegiate career at LSU, overall first pick by the Magic, a guy who changed the game and moved west to the one place he didn’t already dwarf.  Phil Jackson couldn’t help but take notice and when the time came, he signed on, "I took this job for the opportunity to coach him, and he made it an experience I will cherish forever".  19 years in the league and he won four rings, the Rookie of the Year, the 99-2000 MVP, 15 All-Star berths, three All-Star MVP’s, three finals MVP’s, two scoring titles, 14 All-NBA teams and three All-Defensive Team selections.

How to distill an oversized career into bite-sized paragraphs?  A veteran scribe penned a piece in the L.A. Times yesterday, asking why Shaq didn’t do more.  How much would it have taken to satiate you, Bill?  For athletes who operate in such rarefied air, much is never enough, they continue long after they shouldn’t.  Shaquille loaded up for one last run with the Celtics but his body wouldn’t allow it.  He’s finally leaving with grace and humor and the big picture won’t be diminished by the few odd complaints.

In 1993, a skinny Shaq had a career-high 15 blocks in a game against the Nets. In his final season, he managed a season-high 25 points against the same team, a generation removed.  The years in-between featured the Shaw-Shaq redemption, rapping, acting, breaking backboards and free-throws that made us cringe and duck for cover. There were feuds and headlines but when the Shaq & Kobe show hit its mark, there was nothing the opposition could do but watch. Their All-Star reunion earned them co-MVP’s and that particular venue always brought out the man-child’s playful best; a mountain-sized fast-break, the sneaker-phone, a 360 dunk in 2000 and of course, the legendary dance-off.  Thanks for the memories, Shaquille Rashaun O’Neal - the game will forever be smaller without you.

ELVIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

The end was like the beginning and like places in-between; a season of sections and distractions, of poetry and hero stances and the flipping of a switch that had grown old and unreliable.  A month ago I wrote, "there's been three four-game skids now and we're all just rolling the dice that it doesn't happen in a seven game series." And so the season coughed and sputtered and spun on its haunches before settling down to die, looking at us one last time, asking if it was okay to go now.  It was.

Danny Chau penned a piece that likened the end to a melting sun. Darius Soriano wrote about disappointment turning to reflection. Brian Kamenetzky invoked Japanese monster movies while brother Andy pointed out the lack of nuance in a lopsided loss. And, Dexter Fishmore described a low point in Lakers’ history. Different takes on a difficult subject, sharing the commonality of good writing. I am indebted to them and so many others, for keeping me entertained and sated over the course of a topsy-turvy season.

Somewhere in a box of photos is one of my daughter, around age 7, sitting and smiling on the couch in an over-sized Lakers yellow giveaway t-shirt. She’d watch games with me back then, awestruck at the spectacle of Shaq dunking. These days she’ll pass by and pretend interest for a few moments before heading upstairs to watch "Gossip Girl".  Lily will be heading off to college in the fall. A generation has grown up during the team's Phil Jackson years.

He was a native son of the northern plains with Pentecostal ministers for parents. A counter-culture icon who remained relevant long after others faded away.  His impact on the game has been enormous and even in this last numbing defeat, he is asked whether he might still come back. We need to let him go. He gave everything to the game and deserves his time in the Montana woods.  Let him write another fine book. Let him hobble down to his lake and sit a spell. Old lion.

I thought I’d feel worse after such a bitter loss but I didn’t. I felt gratitude for the long, chaotic ride.  I remembered the good and the bad, the championships and the losses. It ended on a low but largely, we feasted.  After the game ended, I read the various recaps, opinions and comments and while some made me smile or reflect, others were venomous and left a unwanted film. That’s okay. The range of expression is as it should be.

There had been such frustration by the time Phil first arrived, a long stretch of not quite getting there. And here we are two stints later, separated by the Rudy T experiment and a book that feels prescient today. We won't see an era like this again, any time soon. It was an unlikely blending of characters and egos, talent and conflict, greatness, desire and sometimes apathy - "the switch" would become a household phrase and we had the great luxury of accepting habits that would have doomed other teams - instead our titles came fast and furious. I wouldn't change the decade for anything. 

Those who’ve read this journal before know that I’m not much on analysis. There will be future entries I’m sure, about the roster, the direction and the draft. There’s basketball still to be played, a champion yet to be crowned and unfortunately, the dark specter of a work stoppage. As Jim Morrison once wrote, "the future’s uncertain and the end is always near."

RETURN OF THE WITCH

I was deep into a couple of epic rambles when losses killed my flow - sometimes the whimsy just don’t fit.  It’s beginning to feel like an endless tape loop - pressers, posts and Slava-centric journals present rational explanations, all mentioning the same old switches and the regular season versus playoffs.  Except, that a pattern of something less than excellence develops and that’s not what you want from a championship team, not matter how you try and spin it.

The loss to Sacramento was a classic Lakers head-scratcher, our onetime cow-town rivals were 10 & 33 coming into the game and thoroughly dominated in the paint - rookie center DeMarcus Cousins and backup power forward Sam Dalembert combined for 45 points - Bynum, Pau and Odom had only 25. The loss to Boston felt worse. I’ve never much liked Sunday afternoon games for the Lakers, they’re often too entrenched in patio brunch mode.  Still, they had a chance in the 4^th (due primarily to Kobe’s 41 points) and ran into an invisible wall when it came time to step up.  Archon on an FB&G thread mentioned that Pau seems to have aged 6-7 years lately in some inexplicable Quantum Leap.  Seems logical to me.

Coach Jackson describes repetitive actions in "The Last Season"; the necessity of going through a physical routine seven times before it ingrains into muscle memory, the fact that most players need a couple years to grasp the triangle’s complexities. This year’s starting lineup has an aggregate of 28 years in the system. With losses stacking up are we really concerned about the X’s & O’s or is it as simple as a lack of purpose and effort?

Sometimes you just have to look at what’s most obvious and tangible.  The team’s playing like crap, they’re pod people, replicants, something you hide in a closet for a rainy day and foist on an unsuspecting public. Haha, very funny; I want my team back now?  Phil doesn’t seem overly concerned and neither do key members of the squad - Derek Fisher says he isn’t "getting bunkered on ups and downs" and Odom’s preaching calm and patience.  Somebody’s concerned though, Mitch Kupchak doesn’t like the way the team’s playing and says he'll consider a trade if things don’t improve.

Houston comes to visit tonight. Phil joked about suicide, gallows humor for his avowed last season. Thursday brings the Spurs, in the midst of their annual rodeo road trip and I doubt there will opportunity for much levity. I don’t like writing about malaise and witchy seasons, I want to revel in a glorious 3-peat as much as anyone. So far however, it comes in tantalizing bits and pieces and I’m left with a gnawing, disquieting hunger as yet another winter storm front blows through the nation.  I wouldn’t complain if the team were to discover its soul right about now.

LIONS IN WINTER

I was listening to the game the other night and watching on a separate internet feed, shaky but clear enough to notice things - or was it?  How much is remembered the day after, when sleep has divided experience from perception?  How much is as I want it to be?  The Lakers were up in Oakland, having slaughtered the lambs of Cleveland in the previous frame. And now they were sucked into the Warriors run and gun once again, Nellie’s gone but he’s still here.

It terms of time and space, it was somewhere in the 4^th quarter, maybe halfway in, Lamar bringing us back on a nice run and Kobe on the bench taking a breather.  I didn’t see Jackson call his number or make eye contact - maybe it was one of those zen mind meld things - but Kobe got up, went over and whispered something in Phil’s ear and headed back out onto the floor. What followed was no surprise, just a stretch of classic basketball, Kobe picking up Monta Ellis’s gauntlet and sending it back, a blur of age and injury-defying moves, time standing still once more as it always seems to in this game when brilliance unfolds.  The body shouldn’t be able to anymore but it does. I saw a glimpse of faces, barely discernable, Phil looking up from his study of the woodgrain pattern, an eyebrow raised behind his glasses, maybe a smirk. Kobe giving just the slightest look toward the bench, like are you catching this?

Holly MacKenzie wrote a piece in The Basketball Jones about Kobe growing old and I linked it a previous post and I’ll do it again here because it’s on point - she tells of the bittersweet nature of the end game and bemoans its necessity, ruing the fact that our favorite players are taken away and vowing to enjoy the moments nonetheless. It’s heartfelt and it’s true but it’s also the perspective of a 25 year-old.

Being young does not diminish the clarity of observation. Indeed, age brings a somewhat scratchier view, analog versus digital, vinyl versus CD. Time becomes our bedfellow, an uneasy and sometimes unwilling alliance we make because we know its inevitability.  By now we’ve seen much of life and death, hardships and joy. We don’t welcome the ravages of time but we take them as they come, stretching like old cats for the remaining patches of warm sun. In much the same way, aging athletes pick their spots.  In my lifetime I’ve seen Ali come off the ropes with devastating flurries; Namath letting fly into the darkening rain and Kobe, taking over fourth quarters time and again. Wednesday night was just one more example; rebounds, assists, steals and a dizzying array of slashing, spinning, posting and scoring - capped off by a 3-point dagger with 43 seconds left, taxiing back up the runway, arms spread.

Kobe and Phil are lions in winter now, all too aware of their respective places on stage.  Kobe’s written nakedly about his climb to the mountaintop and Phil’s written a lot more than that.  A native son of the northern plains with Holy Rollers for parents, he has been seasoned by decades of hard court wars; as a player with the championship Knicks and coming up though the coaching badlands of the CBA, the Puerto Rican summer leagues, finding a home with the Bulls and finally two marathon stands with the Lakers, separated by the prickliest of divides.  And now, his self-described grand last stand.  He may toss off ironic lines with a bemused smile but he wants this last ring more than he wanted his first.

These aren’t the only aging icons in the game of course.  Every team has its lions and even more at home, there’s still Joe Smith and Theo Ratliff and Derek Fisher who started with Kobe and will likely end with him. And then there’s Lamar Odom whose light doesn’t seem to be fading but it’s his 12^th season after all.  He might finally have a chance at an All-Star berth but wouldn’t you know it, there’s young Blake Griffin and Kevin Love in the West.

We’re now six games into a winning streak, the doldrums hopefully behind. There will be infuriating moments ahead to be sure, stops and starts, ice bags, laryngitis and tea - but the muscles and joints are warming up, winter’s end will come into view and spring will once again bring rejuvenation and a flight toward the Holy Grail of our sport, the finals.  So I’m glad you’re determined to enjoy these bittersweet glory days, Holly. All things must pass but as Phil Jackson is fond of saying, "unceasing change turns the circle of life".

CLEVELAND ROCKED!

I'd considered the remote possibility of a trap game last night but that quickly sailed out the window.  The opening quarter went 27-12 and by the time all was said and done, the Cavs had been dropped by 55 points.  Hyperbole on my part seems unnecessary at this point.  The Lakers came into the game on a roll and Jackson kept his starters in until fairly late.  Maybe he wanted a statement game, even facing a back-to-back. The team's at Golden State tonight.

I feel badly for Cleveland, I honestly do.  I never like the team much when LeBron was there, His Royalty's smugness was too grating and management enabled him far too completely.  Now, I feel a level of empathy for the public way James left and scorned them, for the injuries and lack of depth.  Byron Scott inherited a mess.  I'm not going to start watching them anytime soon but I do hope they field a decent team again.  Or another hit TV show.  A region that has suffered such economic hardships deserves better.

On a more Laker-centric note, Matt Barnes' surgery went well, he should be back some time in March.  Also, Holly MacKenzie at The Basketball Jones wrote a nice piece on Kobe yesterday.  It's worth checking out.

FRIDAY FEEDBAG (and random acts of linkage)

In any sport (save bog-snorkeling perhaps), things can turn on a dime. For the Lakers, a pretty poor month of December begat a ragged start to the New Year. Bad moon on the rise, Kobe calling out teammates, Jackson taking his own odd-angled shots (zen marble-mouth) and Ron reacting in his inimitable way to Phil’s motivational soapbox. You can touch a type-key blindly and find a post that perfectly breaks down some aspect of the game but the game’s not played by writers, it’s played by guys who’ve been doing it all of their still young lives and it’s ingrained more deeply than most of us can ever know. X’s & O’s aren’t necessarily going to bring you out of a skid, there’s a witches’ brew of real time moments and combined chemistries, a team finds its way for reasons unknown and we don’t need no stinkin’ critics, you blink an eye and don’t make it to your feed on time and the Spurs lose a couple and the Lakers win a couple and suddenly the gap’s not as wide. Make gone the absurdities and Rube Goldberg diagrams, the team’s back and playing with purpose.

The rest of the month bodes well for a team getting it back together, 8 games at home, 4 on the road, a few good teams but not what you’d call a tough schedule. Phil Jackson supposedly likes to compartmentalize, five games at a time. Good enough for me.  Tonight we play New Orleans again (we demolished them last week), New York will probably give us a game on Sunday, Cleveland could theoretically be a trap just because they’re so plain bad. A quick jaunt up to Golden State on a back-to-back but the one I’m really looking forward to is the Nets at Staples Center on Friday the 14^th.   The return of a couple guys who didn’t much like each other in L.A. but find themselves ironically linked once more on one of the league’s worst contractions attractions. Jordan Farmar seems to have found his niche and Sasha’s increased his numbers ten-fold since being traded. It’s hard to say what he’ll do back in Staples for the first time since leaving.  If he gets to the charity stripe and grooms his eyebrows there could be trouble.

When your main stomping ground’s a particular team, It’s usually an easy call to link specific blogs and sites. They will after all, blanket the day’s source material and fit conveniently into a narrative. Still, there’s so much good stuff out there and spending lost hours in the maze reveals so many read-worthy items, sometimes closely related to whatever’s currently on the menu or perhaps tangential but still tasty. I don’t even know what I’m writing half the time by the way. 

Breene Murphy examines the horror that is Sterling in the ClipperBlog.
Colin Stephenson writes about Sasha in the Star-Ledger.
Pick and Scroll features a pretty great Haiku Recap.
The guys at A Wolf Among Wolves write incredibly good stuff, all the time.
48 Minutes of Hell rolls the Spurs eclectic draft philosophy into a Pacers preview.
Yes, it's Lakers-centic but just the same, check out today's Lazenby's HoopsHype Blog.

Okay, it took me twice as long to post these links as it actually did to read them.  Stupid slow laptop.  I'm gonna have some lunch now 'cause I'm feeling really cranky.

WHERE ART THOU, CAMELOT?

Seasons begin with themes in Phil Jackson’s world and sometimes they play out as planned and sometimes they don’t. The final triumphant Bulls run was the "Last Dance" while the Lakers’ ripped-apart "Last Season" was immortalized as a team in search of its soul. That 2003/4 edition became no more - a gut-wrenching clearing of the decks that paved the way for the most improbable rise from the ashes - the return of provocateur Jackson and the rebuilding of a dynasty. This current season was tagged in advance as the "Last Stand" and Phil hoped it would be a grand one. And it started that way, sans Bynum but still a team with size, depth, experience and versatility, jumping out with the kind of run that had many predicting a three-peat, even with the Decision rearing a misshapen head and sucking ESPN into its gaping maw.

The Laker’s glorious start didn’t last, losses tiptoed in and became streaks, the year ended with a couple of wins and a 23 and 10 record - good enough for 3^rd place in the west and on par with the east’s leaders. Still, it can hardly be termed "grand" and the team’s play especially pales alongside that of the Spurs, humble owners of a 29 and 4 record.  Our loss against them on the 28^th was demoralizing, the third panel in a triptych tailspin, addressed in a team meeting and supposedly remedied with Bynum’s return to the starting lineup, a convincing beat-down of New Orleans followed by a not so convincing win against the lowly 76'ers, a comfortable lead frittered away in the 4^th quarter, barely managing to hang on. I don’t even want to imagine Doug Collins winning at the Staples Center.

Last night, mulling notes from posts aborted (blogging’s lurked around the fringes lately), searching for clues to a wobbly drive train and watching in morbid fascination as the Spurs demolished the Thunder. We wouldn't beat this team in a seven-game series right now. I hate to say it but numbers don’t lie. And it got late and the temperature dropped and clouds rolled in again and hours were resolutely working against me but it finally appeared, buried in a stats line from yet another loss by one of the league’s worst teams. For your consideration, 22 points in 35 minutes from one Sasha Vujacic. Remember him? The Machine’s been gone less than a month but it feels longer to me.

I didn’t like the salary dump trade when it happened and I don’t like it any better now. As ludicrous as it sounds, Vujacic’s having a career season since his banishment to the land of the eternal Melo hopes. Rubbish you say, he was an annoying under-achiever, grating on teammates nerves, confounding his coaches, prone to the vainest of eyebrow-grooming gestures at the one place where he knew he was gold, the aptly-named charity stripe. Fine, but I’m eccentric and I can play these foolish games. He’s shooting with impunity, he’s defending, even rebounding and Avery Johnson is letting him roll.  Jackson always kept the kid on a short leash and you knew that wasn’t going to pay dividends. Read the local Jersey press and blogs, they’re lovin’ them some Vujacic and I’ve got to think we lost a little bit of an "X" factor, letting fly from his favorite corner then yammering at the opposition as he scurried back up the court, baiting them into the stupidest of retaliatory fouls. Meanwhile, Joe Smith has yet to touch the ball for the Lakers.

What’s this got to do with the remainder of our season? Nothing, I guess. Sasha’s not coming back and Jackson wouldn’t play him, even if he did. Nope, the Lakers will have to figure this out on their own and they will at some point though not tonight. It’s 24 hours since I first decided that a lack of Sasha equals a rudderless ship.  Tonight’s esteemed adversary was the .441 Grizzlies with the Lakers playing their usual Sunday guessing game. Final outcome, another listless loss, fits and starts continuing as the team tries to decide whether to return to a dominant inside-out game or continue letting Kobe try to rescue them with two or three working fingers. I’m hoping Andrew demands the game at some point, they could be giants still.

If any of you Spurs devotees are still following this drawn out mess, here comes the finale. Your excellent season will continue, the perfect storm will gather strength. The media may even take notice at some point and you’ll probably blow into the playoffs with home court advantage, maybe even the 72 and 10 season that everyone’s coveted since the Bulls did it fifteen years ago.  And then you’ll face the Lakers in the western finals and at some point, we will have flipped that cursed switch.  Bynum will swat away Blair’s teardrops, Pau will cancel out Duncan, Artest will start a couple fights, Odom will high-step coast-to-coast, Fish might nail a rainbow and Kobe will simply destroy and when all is said and done, you will have had your hearts torn out. Again. Howl in protest though you may, this is your greatest fear because you know there’s a couple things the Lakers are real good at - aggravating their fanbase and winning championships. We’ll steam off to the finals, Phil Jackson will get that 12^th ring and finally head home to Montana to write another book about the unceasing circle of zen and how he actually planned it this way. And long-suffering Gregg Popovich will uncork some wine and wonder if there’s still one more curtain call up His Smugness’s sleeve. After a lockout shortened season of course. And perhaps an asterisk?

SEASON OF THE WITCH

One of my earliest memories is standing by the side of the road in a small New England town, around age 4, with my older brother and his wiseacre friends. I hear the wail of a fire engine, ask where it’s going. There’s a witch in the woods, comes the answer. I run home sobbing in abject terror. The deepest fear is often anticipation.

There’s a percolating sense of malaise in Laker Nation lately, whispers and gnawing doubts across the cyber universe, are these our championship Lakers? Third place in the west isn’t bad but probably not what Phil Jackson had in mind when he announced his grand last stand. Pau’s got tired legs, Ron’s trying to explain why he still doesn’t get the triangle and Kobe’s putting up circus shots, annoyed about the lack of team energy. You’ve got to pick up every stitch. Lesser teams aren’t going to hand you their hopes on a platter.

After the loss to the Bulls the other night, the press reported that Phil was unfazed and equally ambivalent about the likelihood of it being his last coaching experience at the United Center. Girlfriend Jeanie Buss however, tweeted that he was in a BAAAD mood, made worse by people in Chicago acting like it’s his funeral. "We may never see you again". Who are we supposed to believe, Phil at the podium or Jeanie giving a personal side? Easy answer, we love the game absolutely but can’t help putting a dramatic spin on it, it’s the reason after all for articles, editorials, abstractions in every form of social media and of course, fantasy leagues.

I’ve been an unapologetic fan these many years and don’t mean any doom. It’ll all be fine and after hand-wringing and blame (it’s Sasha’s fault for his .08 seconds of uneventful play), we usually band together in forms of unity. Still, I do think the battery’s having a hard time holding a charge, the oil’s dirty and the cylinder’s aren’t firing all that smooth. A good friend and ardent Spurs fan floated the theory that we’re just mind fucking with everyone. I responded that playing like crap isn’t Montaigne. (actually I used the mind fucking term but spell check just changed it to the father of modern skepticsm - kind of ironic, doncha think?). When I look over my shoulder, what do you think I see? Some other cat, looking over his shoulder at me.

Sunday, the Lakers on the second of their six-game roadie, barely eking out a win against the lowly Nets. Pau says he wasn’t getting any calls, Ron shot 1-for-7, our bench was thoroughly outscored and Kobe’s still pissed about the excuses. Next up, Washington, Indiana, Philadelphia and Toronto with an aggregate win percentage of .374. Why does that worry me? Bynum’s supposed to be back in action at some point and I was supposed to be rich and famous. Christmas Day brings the improving Heat and the pick-and-roll Spurs visit on the 28^th, currently playing the best ball in the league. I think I hear sirens, must be the season of the witch.

HOUSTON CLOSE TO A DEAL WITH SLAVA!

With the team stumbling out of the starting gate, Houston has decided to pull a one-year deal for 35 year-old Eric Dampier off the table. For now that means keeping second year guard Jermaine Taylor, who has yet to appear in action. Although the 15^th man told reporters that he’s here to stay, general manager Daryl Morey is playing his cards close to the vest.  League sources insist that the Rockets are very much open to bringing in a utility big man if the price is right. Yao’s health is obviously a question mark and his mandated 24 mpg are a constant reminder of not only his frailty, but the team’s hyper-awareness of same. Among the free agents floating around the fringes is one Slava Medvendenko, the ex-Laker who was never shy to shoot the ball during his stint in the league. The Ukrainian with the bad disc has rarely been seen since a forgettable season with Atlanta in 2007-2008 but things may soon be changing.

Have you ever glanced at a tabloid cover and then actually perused the inner pages? The story’s sold through a blaring headline, there’s usually nothing that actually links the two components other than false advertisement and sly innuendo. Do you see where I’m going here? Yup, it was all a blatant attempt to lure you into the SfS blog.  Suckers.  Slava's still in hiding and the day that changes is the day this blog runs out of excuses to exist.

In other news, last night’s blowout against Portland brought Pau the fourth triple double of his career. Dude’s been stellar so far, as the Purple and Gold ride a seven-game winning streak to open the season. Phil Jackson held true to his promise and let rookie Derrick Caracter roll with 17 minutes of burn.  The game featured seven players in double figures and the usual cameo by Sasha. 

Next up is Minnesota.  And maybe next time I'll churn out something better than this slop. As Johnny Rotten famously said, "ever get the feeling you've been cheated?"

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON

The numbers (zero points in six minutes) weren’t memorable in any way except they chronicled the return of Luke Walton to the floor after too long an absence. The guy Phil refers to as his son, missed most of last season with pretzel-back surgery, was iffy for a comeback and then pulled his hammy in exhibition. Walton, the biological son of Big Red, grew up in the road tour that’s known as the NBA with frequent side trips to the deadheads tie-dyed circus. He chose Arizona State over UCLA because of Coach Lute Olson and eventually became the only one of four roundball-crazed brothers to make it to the show, drafted at number 32 in the second round.

Walton wasn’t predicted to play much his rookie season but wound up appearing in 72 games. This was the same year the team was supposed to romp to the Larry O’Brian. Payton and Malone signed up for a pittance in order to make a last run for the ring. Iron man Malone went down with a knee injury however, the team lost to Detroit in the finals and the loss itself was part and parcel of a divisive and acrimonious season that culminated in the wholesale gutting of the team - Walton was one of five remaining players.

The Rudy T era lasted 41 games, Frank Hamblen played substitute teacher and Jackson himself returned improbably, less than a year after the release of a scorched earth book. Role player Luke began to flourish again in the triple post system with above-average court vision and passing skills. He started at the wing in his fourth season and was rewarded with a six-year, $30 million dollar contract. The yearly amount was league average but the length was an anathema to blog critics who instantly saddled "Puke" with ruining any chance of ever signing a marquee free agent. The inconvenient truth is that Kobe, Paul and Andrew take up all of the cap by their lonesomes which limits the team to using its exceptions, Bird rights, veteran’s minimum and of course, the draft.  Said logic's never dissuaded Luke-haters who are often the same shrill voices who whine that Phil's only lucked into his rings through his players.

Luke’s game has never regained the highs of his breakout season and he lost minutes and stature to the revolving door of Vlad, Trevor and Ron. Still, he’s a guy Jackson clearly values, referring to him as his conscience on the court. And frankly, if a coach with that many rings wants to say Luke organizes his offense it’s fine by me. If he wanted to say Mike Penberthy organized his offense I’d go along and if he ever wanted to bring back Slava I’d be happy as a shell.

Now in his eighth season, Luke’s a survivor in uncertain health, a guy who arrived his rookie year in an old Coupe de Ville rag top, bought a ribs joint in Manhattan Beach and was used as chief clipboard holder and bottle-washer this past championship season.  He may well have coaching in his future but for now he seems determined to get a little more floor burn and a third ring as a player. 

Team notes:

With injuries and fatigue affecting the early schedule, Phil Jackson plans on increasing Derrick Caracter's minutes.   Sounds a little like Luke's rookie season, doesn't it?   With so much recent talk centering on Kobe's knee health, he chose to look ahead optimistically to 2012.   Lamar Odom birthday coincides with some spectacular recent play.  And Sasha's lack of PT has him considering his options.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ZEKE?

After a week sans posting, I got onto some free flow state of mind last night with James Osterberg lyrical influence and a labored examination of how dreams from 20 years ago could have affected the present day mechanical misfortunes of my car.  As in theta waves predetermining rust and corrosion.  I fortunately awoke of sounder mind and decided to focus on the thread that's tangentially attached to basketball.  Still, I hate losing the part about yawing from side to side with no discernible connection to the road.

The Lakers' Halloween romp through the Warriors has been covered six ways to Sunday and it's somehow become Tuesday night and they're presently blowing out the Grizzlies as I type away. One thing I took out of the Sunday game was Vlad the Impaler's forgettable 0-4 and the memory of how I once regarded signing him as an act of brilliance.  The Serbian experiment never really paid off.  In other related where are you now news, Ronny Turief took his hard-hustle play from Golden State to the New York Knicks and Devean George is still without a job after being waived by the Warriors.  Sorry Devean,  no link for you.

It's not all gloom and doom for Lakers' alumni - Jordan Farmar's having a nice start to the season in New Jersey, Caron Butler is likewise fitting in at Dallas and while Marc Gasol never actually played for the Lakers (his draft rights used in the trade for big brother Pau) he's nonetheless grown into a valuable asset for Memphis.  Maurice Evans, despite some injury problems, has carved out a nice role with Atlanta for the past few years and Bangin' Mbenga found himself a new home, playing for the Hornets and appearing in all three games to date.  Last but not least, Josh Powell's played meaningful minutes in all four games for Atlanta - their 4-0 duplicating the Lakers' own undefeated record as of tonight. 

The fringe element:  Former number one pick Kwame Brown has carried that distinction like an albatross and despite all, is now in his 10th year in the league, having come full circle to MJ (and who knows what kind of personal hell that could be).  Brian Cook's with the Clippers now, sharing a building with his former teammates and contributing one and a half points per game.  Cobe Karl is living the basketball dream in Spain and I can think of a lot worse places to be.  And Sun Yue's a New York Knick.  I think. 

They looked as if they put the whole world down. Trevor Ariza left under some crappy circumstances thanks to less than exemplary agenting and is now with New Orleans via Houston.  One-time blog icon Von Wafer has more recently been trading punches with Delonte West in Boston.  Smush Parker parlayed two years of starting in L.A. into a generally defiant nose dive (current zip code Russia).  Javaris Critteron parlayed his Russian roulette into a quick exit from Washington followed by an even quicker exit from the Bobcats.  And, finally, Gonzaga bad boy Adam Morrison has gone his own Kwame route from Michael to Phil to being waived by Washington before the season began.  That one's a disappointment to me, I really wanted to see him succeed.

And then there's Slava.  Finally, lest anyone think I don't care about games at hand, wrong.  I do.  But others write analysis faster and better and my basic stand on tonight's game can be summed up as we kicked ass!    It's somehow become the wee hours of the morning and my laptop's wheezing like an old man.  I guess this is now a Wednesday post.  Shuffle off to slumberland.

LIVELY BLAKE, part 1, the early years

The preseason (or waste of time as PJ calls it) having now expired, it becomes incumbent on me to issue certain edicts and importantisms. Watching this particular organization in exhibition play is probably less informative than being a fly on the wall at practice but it does give some level of context, regardless. Phil Jackson’s way isn’t about getting preseason wins (although contrary to some popular belief they aren’t frowned upon) but looking to integrate new players into a complex system, examining patterns of effort and conditioning and tweaking those that fall short in some way, through media interviews and access.

Steve Blake was one who didn’t seem to come under the critique gun all that much but regardless, was fairly self-critical after some recent uneven execution (the effort has always been there). Praise was lavished early and often by both staff and teammates for catching onto the system in short order. The games proved somewhat more challenging however, as is to be expected in real time. And, a couple games back, Blake seemed especially out of sorts, victim of a respiratory infection, shots that refused to fall and various timing mistakes. Doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing, there’s the old adage of not learning if not falling.

I’ve been a Blake fan for a while, had hopes he’d sign with the Lakers a couple years back but he wound up in Portland instead. Mitch kept him on the radar though and pulled the trigger quickly when free agency opened this summer. I’m looking forward to actual season play and while not concerned in the least about his recent rough patch, was happy to see him shoot 8 for 10 along with 7 dimes Thursday night against the Warriors. Last night he regressed again with 0-5 shooting but showed good court awareness in 25 minutes of burn against the same GS team - said game won in the closing moments of OT by the Lakers. Sidebar: I just noticed that Medina for the LAT blog did a post on Steve Blake yesterday. So unfair. I thought I would have clear sailing. Just for that, no links to the Times in this piece.

All that said, this seems like as good a time as any to explore Blake’s back story a bit. Not exactly Zen I know, Phil would rather view a player through the lens of the present moment but I personally tend to be an advocate of pointless over-thinking.

Our buzz cropped boy was born February 26, 1980 in Hollywood, Florida, to parental units Richard and Cindy. The youngest of 4, Steve had three older sisters and a typical childhood. He was actually quite small and underweight up until his teen years and had designs on becoming a jockey. Blake attacked this with his usual enthusiasm and dedication, hanging out at the Gulfstream Park backstretch, mucking stalls and picking up morning rides until a sudden growth spurt curtailed his equestrine dream. Haha, just wanted to see if readers were paying attention. Speaking of readers, there’s been a total of three bloggers who’ve graced the SfS comments.  What’s the deal, does it take that much effort or are you all just chicken?

So. Blake was a baller from early on, the usual camps and middle school programs. He was the starting point at Miami Killian High for his frosh and soph years and led the team to the state semis with all sorts of crazy assists before transferring to Miami Senior where he led the team to the state championship. Investigative reporting by the Miami New Times however, exposed recruiting violations as well as falsified residency records for a number of players including Udonis Haslem and Blake. The FHSAA eventually stripped the team of its title. Blake, whose parents had recently split, moved on to the legendary Oak Hill Academy in Virginia and led their Warriors to a perfect 31-0 championship season. Amazingly, Blake, who was the starting point guard for every highschool squad he was on, compiled a four-year record of 100-4.

International side-note imbedded in sparse and uncluttered paragraph designed to give reader a brief but refreshing pause: Blake helped lead the U.S. to a silver medal in the 2000 World Championships and a gold medal in the 1998 Junior Worlds.

Heavily recruited by various institutes of higher learning, Blake went on to four years at the University of Maryland, taking off just a few months to film the lead role in 8 Mile. He met the future Mrs. Kristen Blake while in school and was the starting point guard for the Terps from day one, leading the team to the final four in 2001 and nabbing the NCAA championship the following year.  He garnered all manner of awards along the way and  finished college as the first NCAA player to compile 1,000 points, 800 assists, 400 rebounds and 200 steals.

I remember Blake’s play with Maryland, the dude was always an impressive facilitator but it’s one thing to star in highschool and college and another thing to make it to the show - especially if you’re not particularly big or freakishly athletic. Blake was armed however, with a hot blonde girlfriend, a degree in criminology and an uncanny resemblance to Eminem which galvanized edgy owner Abe Pollins (rest his soul) into using his 38^th pick on the kid in 2002. And that seems as good a place as any my friends, to end this debacle. Part 2 will follow someday.