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.

BEND IT LIKE NASH

The path began a gradual ascent, sloping canyon walls reflecting the late afternoon sun. A thousand dimpled footprints, hawks drifting on thermal banks. Steve Nash had done the radio shows, had said all the right things, had absorbed the moment. On some basic level, he needed to get clear. He paused and regarded his surroundings. His friends in Los Angeles wouldn’t shut up about the canyons. Magical places, they said. Places to heal. He saw discarded soda cans and water bottles, bleached from the sun. Dried dog feces and flies. He pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead, began his solitary journey again and was forced to stop short. Standing in his path were two men - a vaguely familiar tall white guy with rosy cheeks, and Craig Sager, resplendent in a lime polo shirt, white shorts and a tinfoil hat with horns.

Nash wasn’t sure where to begin. “What’s with the hat?”

Sager smiled tentatively. “It helps to block the frequencies. I’ve been getting a lot of headaches lately.”

Nash processed this, squinted up at the tall one. "Weren't you that Russian guy from the Lakers?”

Slava grimaced slightly. “Ukrainian.”

Nash nodded agreeably, checked his watch. “Well, this has been super, guys. I’ve got to keep moving. They say there’s a nice view of the smog bank on top.” He tried edging around them. Medvedenko shuffled sideways for the block. Nash sighed heavily.

***

There’s a place where truth meets fiction meets truth. Stephen John Nash was born in Johannesburg, South Africa. His father was a journeyman soccer player who hailed from England. His mother had played netball at the national level. The family moved to Canada when Steve was a toddler - Regina, Saskatchewan, to be accurate. That’s where his brother Martin was born. The family didn’t remain there long, moving to Vancouver, and then Victoria, British Columbia. Craig Sager’s own journey was deeply rooted in Saskatchewan, or so he was convinced. In truth, their paths were serpentine and elusive. Not so Medvedenko, his heart was always in the Ukraine. He stood on the path uncomfortably. He disliked the heat.

Basketball has not been kind to Steve Nash’s nose. In 2007, during a heated second round series between the Suns and the Spurs, Nash collided with Tony Parker and the blood took on an epic life of its own. The nose was a monstrosity, and the Spurs prevailed. In 2010, Derek Fisher of the Los Angeles Lakers head-butted Nash's nose, resulting in an on-court self adjustment. "You play against them so many times in the playoffs." He was talking about the Lakers of course, not simply the west. The most obvious way home meshes naturally with Canada, but that doesn’t really tell the story.

Steve Nash played sports endlessly as a kid; lacrosse, rugby, hockey and soccer.  His brother Martin went on to a 15-year pro career with nine different soccer clubs. His travels made Steve’s look linear. Their younger sister Joann was a standout soccer player in college. The way home isn’t always about geography. Sometimes it’s about life and relationships and a place in time. And as you get older you have your own children and they begin their own journey, with their own familial roots.

Nash found basketball somewhere around the 8^th grade, and got real good, scary fast. He averaged, 21.3 points, 9.1 rebounds, and 11.2 assists in his senior year of high school. His coach sent letters by the dozen to major college programs, to no avail. The head coach from tiny Santa Clara College in California was impressed though, and visited the BC senior boys AAA championship. He called Nash the worst defender he’d ever seen and offered him a full ride scholarship. Four years at a school whose previous NBA success story was Kurt Rambis. The rest becomes a familiar fairytale story of Santa Clara’s improbable rise to contention in the NCAA tournaments.

***

It didn’t take much to get past Slava, just a half-ass spin move and Nash was scampering up the trail. The Ukrainian sighed heavily as he turned and began slowly trudging up, along with Sager, whose sandals skidded on every loose pebble.

Up ahead, standing by a cactus patch, was a tall blonde vision, back-lit by the sun and laughing. “Hair Canada, what took you so long?”

Nash grinned, “I got delayed by the welcome wagon.”

Nowitzki looked past his little buddy to the two men struggling up the trail. “Sager! Nice shirt! Slava?! Is that you? My god, man!”

Medvedenko finally allowed himself a smile. “Dirk”.

The God-creature’s laughter echoed off the canyon walls. “So we have a fantasy adventure today?”

Nash shrugged. “Whatever. They can tag along if they want.” He continued up the path and the others followed.

Steve Nash’s NBA career is well-documented - drafted at #15 by the Phoenix Suns and traded to Dallas a couple years later. He became friends with the kid from Germany, eventually returned to Phoenix when Mark Cuban wouldn’t match offers. All the years of playoff battles, reaching the Western Conference finals thrice. And the Suns’ long slide down as Coach D’Antoni left, and then Amare, Barbosa, and others. Nash remained loyal throughout, always returning, always trying. And marrying and fathering twin girls, and the birth of a son that coincided with the end of a marriage.

The trade to the Los Angeles Lakers took everybody by surprise for a myriad of reasons, not the least being a deal that was cobbled together from pieces of scrap. There were feelings of abandonment and anger. It would have been one thing to sign with the Raptors. That’s an understandable narrative, that’s going home. Even New York where he lived off season, all the way on the other side of the country. But Los Angeles was the unkindest cut of all. The years of not getting past them in the playoffs, the fights and hard feelings. Small market versus major market and the convenient belief that a Hollywood team simply buys their way to entitlement, year after year.

There are trajectories that lie outside the lines. Separated parenthood can be difficult to explain to those who haven’t lived it. Time moves faster with each advancing year. Feelings of loss can play into our decisions in deliberate and tangible ways, and in abstract, even ignored ways. In the end it was the simplest of decisions. Nash said that he wanted to be close to his children. That plus $27 million.

***

The four men had reached the top and were sitting on the edge of a ridge, overlooking the sprawling city below. Around them were sagebrush and golden yarrow, dusty fissures in the ground. The sun was starting to set, glinting off Sager’s tinfoil horns. He reached into the pockets of his shorts, pulled out a baggie of sunflower seeds and offered them around. There were no takers.

The newest Laker squinted toward America’s sideline reporter. “I know why I’m here. Why are you here?”

Craig wasn’t sure now, how to put it in words. “Los Angeles is a different place. We wanted to prepare you.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not that different. I’ve spent the better part of twenty years in the west. And what’s all this business about Saskatchewan? You’re from Illinois.”

Sager chewed harder on his sunflower seeds. Nash wasn’t done. “And what about this Chipper and Bunny Bear nonsense. Those aren’t your kids.”

Craig’s frown lines grew ever deeper. He hadn’t left a perfectly workable scenario in Scottsdale just to have his storylines butchered. Dirk laughed, reached around and knocked the tinfoil hat off. A gust of wind took it spiraling away. Slava watched the proceedings implacably.

Sager hoisted himself up from his sitting position and stood, towering over Nash.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

Dirk laughed, “Oh c’mon Sager, sit down. We’re just messing with you.”

Nash looked up and grinned. “Yeah, sit back down, gimme some of those sunflower seeds.”

Sager sat down warily, handed over the baggie.

Nash continued, “I know you’re a real dad. Chill.” He looked over toward the big Ukrainian. “How about you Slava, got any kids yet?”

Medvedenko frowned, “Yes, seven years old now.” His chin jutted out a little as he stared morosely off into the distance.

The others glanced at each other, shrugged, The moment passed as the sun dipped below the horizon. Steve Nash turned his attention back to the vista below, bands of burnt orange and purple, diffused by chemical particulate. You say you know but you don't know. 

THE SIDE BETS

Every morning at eight o'clock, a tall man with a shuffling gate stops at a cafe in the Ukrainian village of Kodra. Some days he will have a sweet cake, more often, he'll only sip a strong coffee before continuing on his way. Chronic back problems and early arthritis have taken their toll. Stanislav was once in the NBA. He was married to a beautiful Ukrainian film producer. Injuries, divorce and a series of poor investments followed. At an unheated school gymnasium, Slava shoots a worn basketball methodically, until a slight hand tremor subsides. He has been contacted by his former team. He is attempting one last comeback. None of this is true.

The Lakers do have needs. A utility big man, a shooter and a point guard. Deep into the luxury tax and severely restricted by a new collective bargaining agreement, they are combing bargain basemen bins. Veterans who don't need the money and have never played for a ring. Maverick shooters who do nothing else. Undrafted rookies. That the Lakers are in this position at all, is a miracle. The hyenas of the league, also known as hardliners, tried their hardest to kill the season. If not for the threat of federal lawsuits, they would have succeeded.

Below, in no particular order, is a list of available players that the Lakers either are, should, or should never, be looking at:

Josh McRoberts – the 6-10 utility big man would like to stay with the Pacers but they're looking to upgrade at the position. As McRoberts said, “It kind of feels like your girlfriend's gone out and is seeing if there's any better options, then they may come back to you later.”

Jason Kapono – worked out at the Lakers' El Segundo facility today. The 6-8 shooter barely left the 76ers' bench last season but he's 43.7 percent from behind the arc for his career. *Update - the Lakers have supposedly offered Kapono vet minimum for two years. You heard it here last.

Delonte West – the Lakers tried to sign the Cavs/Celtics two-guard last season. "Redz" is perhaps best known for cutting off  a cop at a high rate of speed... whilst on a 3-wheeled motorsickle. Upon investigation, a loaded shotgun and several large knives were found stashed in a guitar case strapped across his back. Loaded pistols were hidden inside his pant legs. Plus there's that Gloria James business. If he comes to L.A., hide your mothers.

Adam Morrison – he of the beastly revival in Serbia, has been let out of his Red Star Belgrade contract in order to troll free agency waters. Ammo says his first choice would be to play “somewhere in the Western Hemisphere.” Phil's gone now, Adam. C'mon back.

Grant Hill – nothing funny here. I've coveted this guy as a Laker for eons. He'd apparently prefer closing out his career with the setting Suns.

Sasha Vujacic – the Machine's a free agent after having a best-ever season with the New Jersey Nets. Oddly, the Lakers' best acquisition chip is the $5.5 million trade exemption received for swapping him for Joe Smith's corpse. Not that it could be used to get him back or that the Lakers would remotely consider a second go-round with the eyebrows from Slovenia. However, he brings unexpected depth as revealed here, last season.

Rasheed Wallace - “I'm not gonna start the game by cracking a cat in the skull if I don't get elbowed first."  I know he's retired, but still - it's 'Sheed.

A Maybach Landaulet glides up to Planet Fitness in Kyiv. A personal trainer opens the door for Slava Medvenko and his willowy assistant Mindy. Medvenko 's in the best shape of his life. He banked over ten million during his shortened career and invested in a highly-lucrative chain of salt-pork drive-throughs in the Ukarine's northern region. Slava has been contacted by his former team, the Los Angeles Lakers. I would tag this with a qualifying statement of some sort but the old dog is standing by the door with worried eyes.

I step outside. The temperature has been dropping like a rock and slanting needles of rain have arrived. Free agency is here.

ACROSS THE CYBER UNIVERSE - REDUX

When I penned my first links-madness post, back in October, I fully intended to make it a regular column, much like the legit blogs do with their catchy world-wide web titles.  I figured then, that it would be a fairly easy way to score readers off other people’s work and in fact (for reasons that elude me), the original Cyber Universe post continues to accrue hits.  I am however, a purposeless fellow and while I’ve often considered a followup, the actual accomplishment of same has existed on the same astral plane as cleaning my shower curtains.  At any rate, it’s a shiny new day and I’m intending on hacking away at this in stages, in between life’s more pressing demands.  Before butchering the art of plagiarism however, I would like to mention just how satisfying last night’s overtime win was.  The start of the post-break stretch feels promising. On the other hand I was also buoyed by the first four games of the Grammys road trip and we all know how that wound up.  Without further ado, here’s a bunch of links, mon pebbles:

Darius at Forum Blue & Gold writes about Ron Artest playing with a freedom and decisiveness that’s been lacking for too many games.
Mark Medina at the LAT mentions Ron Artest being a focal point of the offense.
Brian Kamenetzky at the LOL says Ron had a flat out huge game. 
Anyone notice any redundancies? 
Dexter Fishmore at SS&R also remarked on Artest's stellar performance but added references to the untamed Oregon Territory, otters and a postmodern surrealist flavor.  Major props.

A little further off the beaten track, Basketbawful posted the Worst of Night; TBJ reports on Mark Cuban's plan to sign Justin Bieber and Free Darko has some thing about mad villainy which I think is about LeBron.  I tried linking the post specifically, but they must have some kind of anti-normal system and I'm getting real tired of all this copy/paste crap. 

Adding my two cents to all of the above posts, I'd also venture that Ron played real good last night.  Plus, there's been all kinds of crazy-ass trade stuff that happened right up to the deadline and I won't bother to further duplicate what's already been reported except to marvel at one of the least expected transactions.  A month after heckling Baron Davis from the sidelines, Donald Sterling banishes him to Cleveland.  Cold action from the slumlord.

Rounding the far turn and heading for home, I'd be remiss if I didn't avail myself of the opportunity for shameless self-promotion.  All of those heavy-hitter blogs at the top of the page certainly don't need my help and it's not like they'll be tossing me a link anytime soon.  So, unless facts and intelligent analysis matter to you, just skip ahead and read some of my favorite earlier Slava posts (favorite being code for that which doesn't make me cringe):

The Intangibles Exposed was SfS's inaugural post (an in-depth look at how the Japanese long-liners have decimated Cod fishing in the Atlantic).
Something Slava This Way Comes concerned the mighty Medvedenko and also featured a nifty painting by my dad, from his John Adams series of a couple decades ago.
Just the Game revolved around the first game of the regular season and tried to incorporate forewarning dreams about mechanical failure.
Across the Cyber Universe is of course, the feckless father of this firmament.
The Season of the Witch wove Donovan, a scary childhood experience and a Lakers slump, into a gray and dismal affair.
Lions in Winter was marginally inspired by a piece by Holly MacKenzie.  She never bothered to thank me.
All the Leaves are Green attempted to find commonality between two very different road trips.  Plus, my dog Muffin was in the photo.  Gone these many years.

I'm feeling pretty good right now - I've filled a page with repetitive drek and will consider something of an original nature for my next post which should be written in oh, about another week or so.  Sooner if someone from the Philippines, Iceland or Moldova leaves a comment.