DANCING DOWN THE SIDEBOARDS

Last night felt gray and cold and inhospitable. Not sure how or why a pitch-black night would feel gray but at the very least I was in a funk, one of those off-balance places where the throat’s scratchy and the world moves haltingly and the skin feels paper thin.  Beware of darkness. The State of the Union was on and while I freely admit to being a fan of presidents who play basketball, the speech didn’t do much for me. It just seemed like a lot of peace-making talk about growing the economy, with marginal enthusiasm from either side. At this point in the life of American democracy the same pleas for compromise feel stale and tired, I can’t honestly recall a united congress during my lifetime and the most winning moments on a national scale usually come from trench warfare.

The night turned on a dime as it sometimes does, listening to a radio feed when alerted via tweet that the Lakers/Jazz were on NBA TV as the fan favorite pick of the week or some such. I caught hold of this unexpected bonanza late in the first period and rode with ever increasing contentment, though the entire lopsided train wreck - a 29-point margin and it didn’t feel that close. It’s not a good time to be the Jazz right now, it was their 5th loss in a row and would be followed by tonight’s loss at home to the Spurs. I wasn’t paying much attention to this particular debacle as I typed, figuring some things to simply be preordained but the Jazz did manage a late flurry that brought them momentarily close. I got distracted, burning a batch of chocolate chip cookies and catching up on important internet news items. Did you know that Dennis Kucinich is suing some restaurant for $150,000 because they put an un-pitted olive in his sandwich?

Last night's major deconstuction happened in the first half, a rending of stripped gears as Kobe fed the beast inside - Andrew Bynum turned  in another man-sized performance at both ends of the floor.  The hopelessness around you.  Steve Blake also did damage early, short minutes providing points, boards, dimes, a steal and easily controlling a jump ball against Andrei Kiilenko and it wasn't even close. Artest played tenacious perimeter defense and Lamar Odom scored 17 off the bench, including a stunning behind the backboard floater as he sailed out of bounds. The fourth quarter was occasion for quality garbage minutes, the mood was so resolutely awesome that Shannon Brown’s butchered (and uncontested) dunk was cause for joyous brotherhood. 

Not much to say about the Jazz in all of this. Kirilenko and Hayward each ran up and down the floor with their long locks shimmering in the lights like a Breck commercial, accomplishing little else. Some other guys also played, if you’d call it that. Jerry Sloan deserves better. I wasn’t thinking of it though, instead caught up in the transcendent stretches, the celebration of basketball, the visceral joy of an us-against-them beat-down that at least for me, gives way to quiet, more reflective moments, when once again it’s much too late, when the television goes off and the keyboard’s abandoned and duty calls to take the dog out one last time, shivering against the cold and willing him to hurry, when a warm bed beckons and morning will come too soon, when solitary thoughts can linger and surround in the dead of the night, kept away by the links inside our heads. And rocked to sleep with a great version of a song.

JUST THE GAME

The summer of signs, trades and realignments, ‘the decision’ that feeds the beast, blogging madness spiraling forever outward, no more the dog days of pouring over actual newsprint for stories and clues, no more exchanging views with a few determined fans who’ve found out about this thing called the internet. No more. It’s a world gone viral and we’re all part and parcel to it, links and hits and spiders and search engines, YouTube this and that and the media blitz gives instant platform to all and the lead-ups grew louder and more breathless until the actual season was at hand with previews and promises for live chats from anyone with a typepad and electricity.

And the games started and I was watching the Celtics beat down the Heat and ponging madly from laptop to making dinner to feeding the animals to notes for my daughter’s essay to blinging out some pendant to be worn around her neck, thanks paint, thanks glitter, thanks self-sticking plastic gems. And the TV beckoned and food was eaten in front of it and questions were asked and I had to tear myself away. And LeBron’s new confessional/commercial came on with his stuttering mantra, "what should I do, what should I do, what should I do?". Go play on the freeway, you idiot.

The ring ceremony's at hand and I'm watching/grinning and talking heads and my poor old laptop, struggling to keep up with box scores and articles and sites and snagging moments for actual work which quickly aborted because it’s opening night after all and there’s chats to visit and comments that want to be typed but the laptop won’t obey, it’s getting overloaded but no, no, you can’t freeze, here’s another one on a favorite site but it’s different this time, they’ve put together some ungodly blog smorgasbord of every known form of media personality and wired the whole thing into every game being played and it’s like some sucking whirlpool of Chayevskyesque magnitude and the laptop says enough and resolutely quits.

And then I notice. There’s a game still on TV. The one I wanted to see. The one I’d been waiting all summer to see. First game of the season and while I’ve had my forehead stuck to a glowing, faltering laptop the team’s gone down by 15 and haven’t found their way back. But now it’s just me and the television, my daughter’s off to bed and some cat that my ex dumped on me is kneading and puncturing couch cushions and making guttural noises. Go away odd animal, you’re a harbinger of bad juju. And the lead starts to shrink. Blake hits a couple back to backs and then UPS turns to Downtown Shannon Brown and he’s on fire, it’s one of those transcendent stretches and everything’s going right and the guys on the bench are up and out of their heads in the celebration of that moment of pure basketball when the crowd becomes a sheet of white noise and all is right with the world.

And it didn’t last perfectly and the Rockets came back and back again but the Lakers crashed the boards and left skin on the floor and played a kind of tough that they didn’t really play until Artest got into their heads and hearts and they won it and once again, it’s like it always was. Another season starts and I’ve seen so many over the decades and I’m transported to moments past which I could type forever but I won’t. Because tonight’s like every night, pounding into morning and the sleeping hours always shrinking. I’m typing this one out quickly and there’s going to be no links, no videos, no endless searching and comparing, no pings or stopping by every last place where I can venture some aside that’s quickly lost to the encroaching monster of the eternal thread. Nope, put this one to bed and do the same myself and try to remember something of the game.  Just the game.

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.