HONEY, WHERE'S THE SWITCH?

* The triple-post offense typically begins by creating a sideline triangle between center, corner/guard and wing/forward - a myriad of options with a premium on spacing and ball movement, creating opportunity for the open man.  And sometimes, the guys just jack it up from outside while Phil studies the wood grain beneath his throne. 

The Lakers lost to Denver, lost to the Jazz, lost to Golden State and then lost to Portland; a whacked-out game that saw them nearly shut out of the 3^rd quarter before blitzing back on a 12-point run. Didn’t matter, they lost another ugly game out of a batch of ugly games and it’s their third four-game skid of the season, this year’s model is screwier than Mr. Toad’s wild ride.

You can love the Lakers like you love mad-mood children, harder to pin down than quicksilver. They play as bad as bad can be, prompting articles about their imminent demise and then go on a destroy-all-monsters binge, hop-scotching from belligerent to finger-dimple-cute, ‘see, we’re playing now mister’, before daring you to see what’s on the other side of the island.

* The blind pig - an automatic move to relieve pressure on the guards, quickly abandoned when Kobe dribbles the ball for 14 seconds before bricking it from three feet beyond the three-point line, thus denying the Chameleon Swan, the opportunity to miss a point-blank shot.

Denver stopped all forward motion, whether the team admitted it or not - they were on a 17 and 1 tear toward catching the Spurs for top seed and it was the only thing on their minds. That notion was consigned to the scrap heap shortly thereafter.  Phil Jackson might have had another goal, home court advantage against the Bulls in a coming-together of biblical last-stand proportions. That’s now gone as well, Chicago’s six-game streak has guaranteed them HCA and how cruel a sendoff for a legendary lion if he were to be beaten where it all began?

* Arm-bar, flexing arm and holding in front of chest so that the forearm is parallel to the floor. Primarily a defensive tactic used in a variety of ways, most of them violent. Showcased to good effect by Ron Artest with the added biceps-kiss. Artest’s sweet science has been one of the few bright spots lately.

Basic wisdom would tell anyone with a rudimentary sense of roundball that the Lakers’ strength is in the inside-out game - pound it into a couple of 7-footers and add a serving of Kobe, healthy or not. Of course, that’s too simple - our zany group would rather run rampant down the hallways, trailing toilet paper and pulling fire alarms and if anyone’s looking for more salient analysis, feel free to click the links but reader beware - their knives are sharper than mine:

Elliott Teaford says the Lakers look lazy in defeat.
Mike Bresnahan calls them defenseless.
Dexter Fishmore calls it an offensive attack of profound ineptitude.
Brian Kamenetzky examines the lowlights.
Darius Soriano wonders if it's more a matter of fatigue.

I honestly don’t know what to make of this team anymore, they’re champions with a coach who’s won more than anyone and when they fall apart it’s called a lack of effort rather than a lack of potential and it makes it all the more frustrating - this is all or nothing time, a couple more games and then it's into the post-season but the malaise will go away, right?  They always revert to form and sweep us off our feet in incandescent fashion - an unstoppable machine and the national sportscasters aren’t always there for the lows, they catch the marquis performances and our stars are usually dialed in at that point, someone in the wings having been at the switch until it finally fires up and it’s lights, camera, action, and the accolades flow like a snake-oil salesman.  Only problem and I hate to repeat, but 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 because then we’re done, it’s over, there’s nothing here to see, folks. Curtain down.

MY GENERATION

Alec and David, Grottaferrata, Italy



The confessional’s illuminated by a flickering screen, it’s been two weeks since my last post. A confluence of events pulls like the tide - the game might still be my haven but the appetite to write about it is supplanted by a churning washtub of houses and cars, the edge of nuclear disaster and jet fighters over Libya. A friend remarks on deja vu and it’s true, past generations like a projector in reverse, the discotheque bombing in Berlin and the disaster at Chernobyl, Three Mile Island and four decades of botched attempts on Gaddafi’s life. The public’s attention sputters to life and networks swarm with increased tactile stimulation, obscuring the sun.

The Lakers are 12-1 since the break, on a terminator mission and not really bothered by odd crackling sparks and hiccups. Minnesota has the temerity to launch a sustained offensive on Friday, retreating only after Michael Beasley is crushed under the basket by Andrew Bynum. The offending giant is tossed amid earnest prostrations by fans and media types - "that was unacceptable behavior!" The calls for gentlemanly decorum are beginning to puzzle me but I’m temporarily buoyed by Coach Dave Miller’s clarion twitter-calls, "Get out of my paint!"

The weekend proceeds in bits and pieces, I click past Anderson Cooper’s furrowed brow and find college brackets and word of Bynum’s two-game suspension. Some mutter darkly about Stern conspiracies but most seem absorbed with the notion that there’s no place in the game for this sort of thing. Not so long ago, the same critics clamored for an enforcer to protect the rim. I doubt Bynum premeditated anything that could cause an injury - he simply acted in the moment and I’m okay with that. It’s nothing Oakley or Rodman or Alonzo or Deke wouldn’t have done. In ‘Mindgames’, Roland Lazenby recounts how Phil Jackson once threw a backwards elbow and broke Jerry West’s nose coming off the court - after the game was over.

I’ve been in a funk all week as I always am this particular time of year - I remember why on Sunday morning - it’s my older brother’s birthday, gone these many years but it never really leaves you.  We played guitar together in bands long ago.  Some retro punks in Italy recorded an obscure old song of our’s, mailed the disc last week.  Alec’s walking guitar line lives again, and it touches me a way I can’t describe.  Two of the Italians are also brothers, they understand.  I told them how my family lived a year in Grottaferrata, a lifetime ago. Crazy artist parents.

I’m looking through a box for old tax returns and find Staples Center game notes, handed out for the 2000 Western Conference Finals - Game 7 against Portland. One of the best I’ve ever seen live or otherwise. Of the 24 players listed, only four are in the game today. Kobe Bryant, Derek Fisher, Shaquille O’Neal and Jermaine O’Neal. Many look to a Lakers/Celtics rematch this year and if it happens, the four will be united in one more battle. Darkness falls and it’s Lakers vs. Portland once again, this one a possible first round preview. It’s an ugly game, the switch is old and rusty but it clicks on late, Bryant redeems a night of aging, injured misfires with a final burst of incendiary effort - screaming after he nails a fade-away jumper, pulling his jersey over his head as he runs down court.  They've clinched the Pacific Division.

Another day has passed, I’m typing and my old pooch has a tennis ball in his mouth with a hopeful look. I take him out one last time, the moon’s been crazy big lately, it looks like an old black and white horror movie with clouds racing overhead. Any ball can be Otis’s best friend, carried around with great reverence and he’ll insist on bringing it out with him of course, promptly abandoning it as he marks every square foot of the field, sniffing and staring off into the distance with a confused look on his face. Old dog.  He doesn’t seem to miss the thing until he’s back inside, staring at me once again.  I don’t know, buddy, I wasn’t watching what you did with it.  My mind was other places.

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?"