It's time for the Love in the Time of LeBron 2010 Season Team Previews. You know how we do. Next up, your cranky grandpas who keep on balling: the Boston Celtics.
Classification
Superstar-Loaded Team One Bad Step Away From Disintegration
Why We Care
How many Hall of Famers do you think are on this team? How many catastrophes in waiting are on this team? Aging superstars, volatile youngsters (and oldsters), and one bad practice fall away from total disaster, the Celtics are the Bad News Bears if the Bad News Bears were never underdogs.
Significant Beards
Ray Allen: Micro-goatee. Consistent. 40% from 3.
Marquis Daniels: Mustache on chin. PG-13.
Kevin Garnett: Hitler on chin. NC-17.
Shaq: Goatee. Satishaqtory.
Kendrick Perkins: Coffee-house goatee. Bongos and snaps.
Paul Pierce: The "Paul Pierce". Pentagon declines comment.
Nate Robinson: Neck-goatee. Duly noted.
Delonte West: Trimmed, red, goatee. 2 out of 3 loaded guns.
Guiding Text
Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
If They Were A John Hughes Movie They Would Be...
The Breakfast Club
LeBron on the Celtics
It was chilly, but they were all there. Not just the current guys, but the ring of honor guys. The older guys and the just plain old ones all walked to the bridge with him. “Tradition.” That was the only word he’d heard all summer. That and “coward.” No one called Kevin that when he came, but no one dared to call Kevin anything. Did you know that if you go to a team because you’d have better teammates there, you are a coward? It’s true. If you make the teammates come to you, you are a hero. But if you go, you are a coward. When LeBron came to Boston, he was a coward, because somehow, by wanting so badly to have great teammates and win more, he had demonstrated that he didn’t want to win more. It was something like that. Sometimes the argument seemed to flip and losing was somehow ennobling. To win for a new team is mercenary, but to lose for one team your entire career is saint-worthy. Didn’t matter here.
Boston had a tradition of mercenary saints. In Boston, your past can be forgiven if you embrace their past. Kevin was a lunatic in the wilderness, but now, he’s a proud keeper of the sacred traditions. He screamed now and the others just laughed with joy. His directions were angry, solemn. All the other new Celtics went first, and LeBron took the deference graciously. He watched Shaq make the toss with surprising ease, while Jermaine stumbled. Semih hesitated a bit, unsure if this was was really happening, afraid he’d misunderstoond, but Harangody heaved with vigor. When it came his turn, LeBron tried to be as quick as he could without being rude. He tossed the screaming man into the Charles River and turned to walk away. Bill Russel’s face was still and stony, but Larry Bird beamed.
Rosetta Stone
This pretty much explains it.
Showing posts with label celtics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label celtics. Show all posts
Friday, October 15, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Playoffs That Broke My Spirit
I haven't been writing a lot in this space, and while I could claim that it's because I was too busy, that would be a lie. The truth is that my heart has been taking a beating and that watching the playoffs has became a cruel endurance test. How often can I sit and watch as the biggest bullies in the league slay the dreams of their more likable competitors? Apparently, about once a night.
The Celtics and the Lakers aren't terrible teams to watch; they are truly great teams and deserve to play each other in the NBA Finals. Kobe has done more for his reputation in the past few weeks than he did in his championship run last year, and that is truly saying something. He's hitting shot after ridiculous shot and the Lake front-court looks completely peerless. And as for the Celtics, they are up to their old tricks: incredible defense, fuck-you attitude, and a balanced scoring attack. We have seen it all before. With the exception of the emergence of Rondo (who I should note, has maybe been the best player in the league for the past month), it's the same-old, same-old. The cliches are true: Defense, toughness, and clutch scoring (we should really just call it "Kobeness") are what get you to the Finals. And that's sad to me. I enjoy watching the NBA right now because I like the crumbling of the old order, I want to see new modes and new players. To see the affirmation of the old cliches, the victory of "traditional" basketball values; well it does nothing for me. It leaves me cold and disheartened.
It started with the fall of the Bobcats, strangely enough. While the Bobcats are traditionalists in their own sense, their brand of arch-basketball conservatism was such a freak show that it delighted me. It was stifling defense combined with a singular, bizarre offensive theory and strategy: get to the rim or nothing. It was singularly bizarre. The involvement of the Bobcats in the playoffs was so odd. It was like if feudalists showed up to the Republican National Convention and spent all their time trying to make the case for the re-implentation of serfdom. Probably the Bobcats were never going to be more than a side-show in the playoffs, but at least it had the advantage of being supremely freaky.
More upsetting was the death of dynamism, athleticism, and raw people-pleasing spectacle. My beloved Nuggets fell, and then the young and brilliant Thunder, and then the Hawks, who I thought had blossomed, but apparently were fatally flawed all along. I loved all of these teams because they were exciting, fresh, and new. But they fell, and so high-flying dunks and flashy highlights sailed into the undying lands in the West, and I wept.
You have likely noticed by now that I am burying the lede. You know it because I know you feel it in your heart too, and I know that it has weighed heavily on all of us. You probably dealt fine with the losses of the four teams I just mentioned. And really, so did I: Did anyone think any of those four were going to do much in the playoffs but provide a pleasant distraction? When they lost, it felt inevitable. Sad, but expected. The moment that really crushed my spirit was when the Cavaliers lost. The exit of LeBron from the playoffs was traumatic.
For almost everyone I talked to, it felt like a broken promise. Destiny deferred. The one true narrative of the NBA gone off the tracks ("LeBron is the Chosen One. Will he surpass Jordan?"). It was confusing and profoundly sad. Collectively, we sighed.
We love LeBron. He is the most exciting player in the NBA. He just is. He's got the insane talent, freak athleticism, and uncanny charisma that no one else can match. The charisma is in his game too. Watching LeBron play, you can't help but be charmed. Kobe doesn't charm. He shocks. He awes. He doesn't charm. LeBron can't help it. The powerful-yet-playful drives to the basket followed by earth-shattering dunks and the light-hearted smiles of encouragement to his teammates after far-too-deft passes are so easy to love. Even if you don't love LeBron, he hypnotizes, and at this particular instant, there's no reason to try to distinguish between hypnosis and love: the point remains the second LeBron left the play-offs, it felt like the lights dimmed.
Of course, LeBron is a singular and particular basketball enjoyment, and I know that and you know that. There is joy in basketball beyond LeBron. and there was opportunity for hope in the Conference Finals. All season, the offense of the Magic had sparkled around the defensive anchor of Dwight Howard, and in the West, Steve Nash led the reincarnated Suns on one of their greatest runs ever. It didn't matter. The forces of basketball conservatism won. The wacky Pythagorean geometry of the Magic attack broke against the steadfast rock of tough Boston defense. The sheer warmth, joy and play of the Sun's schoolyard assault froze over with each icy Kobe jumper. The prospect of basketball revolution diminished to nothing. The Magic would not prove themselves and their system. Seven seconds or less would not be redeemed on basketball's biggest stage. Instead, you get the basketball equivalent of the Oscar-bait costume drama about a troubled family: Lakers vs. Celtics, the most reliably popular formula the NBA has to offer.
It's not a bad formula. People like it for a reason. Rajon Rondo has been playing absolutely inspired basketball and Kobe reached down into himself and found a way to tap into his own essence, somehow distilling himself into an even more potent brand of merciless assassin. The Finals will be a cold-blooded duel with plenty of brilliance on both sides, but considering all the curious, joyful, and ecstatically weird alternatives (Would anything be more fun than Cavaliers vs. Suns?), the idea of Celtics vs. Lakers leaves me feeling sad and underwhelmed: Instead of playful, high flying theater, we're going to get sneering ruthlessness efficiency. It's possible that no one on either team might smile the entire series. Mark Jackson might say that last sentence with glowing approval, but it just makes me feel terrible. I get the appeal of this match-up, I really do, but every time I think of the potential of one of the other possible Finals match-ups, I can't help but feel sad about all the seemingly more promising possibilities that were so cruelly dismissed by the single minded competitiveness of the Celtics and Lakers. We don't get to have any fun. We get killjoy vs. killjoy.
It's the Celtics vs. the Lakers: The All Killjoy Finals. It better be good.
The Celtics and the Lakers aren't terrible teams to watch; they are truly great teams and deserve to play each other in the NBA Finals. Kobe has done more for his reputation in the past few weeks than he did in his championship run last year, and that is truly saying something. He's hitting shot after ridiculous shot and the Lake front-court looks completely peerless. And as for the Celtics, they are up to their old tricks: incredible defense, fuck-you attitude, and a balanced scoring attack. We have seen it all before. With the exception of the emergence of Rondo (who I should note, has maybe been the best player in the league for the past month), it's the same-old, same-old. The cliches are true: Defense, toughness, and clutch scoring (we should really just call it "Kobeness") are what get you to the Finals. And that's sad to me. I enjoy watching the NBA right now because I like the crumbling of the old order, I want to see new modes and new players. To see the affirmation of the old cliches, the victory of "traditional" basketball values; well it does nothing for me. It leaves me cold and disheartened.
It started with the fall of the Bobcats, strangely enough. While the Bobcats are traditionalists in their own sense, their brand of arch-basketball conservatism was such a freak show that it delighted me. It was stifling defense combined with a singular, bizarre offensive theory and strategy: get to the rim or nothing. It was singularly bizarre. The involvement of the Bobcats in the playoffs was so odd. It was like if feudalists showed up to the Republican National Convention and spent all their time trying to make the case for the re-implentation of serfdom. Probably the Bobcats were never going to be more than a side-show in the playoffs, but at least it had the advantage of being supremely freaky.
More upsetting was the death of dynamism, athleticism, and raw people-pleasing spectacle. My beloved Nuggets fell, and then the young and brilliant Thunder, and then the Hawks, who I thought had blossomed, but apparently were fatally flawed all along. I loved all of these teams because they were exciting, fresh, and new. But they fell, and so high-flying dunks and flashy highlights sailed into the undying lands in the West, and I wept.
You have likely noticed by now that I am burying the lede. You know it because I know you feel it in your heart too, and I know that it has weighed heavily on all of us. You probably dealt fine with the losses of the four teams I just mentioned. And really, so did I: Did anyone think any of those four were going to do much in the playoffs but provide a pleasant distraction? When they lost, it felt inevitable. Sad, but expected. The moment that really crushed my spirit was when the Cavaliers lost. The exit of LeBron from the playoffs was traumatic.
For almost everyone I talked to, it felt like a broken promise. Destiny deferred. The one true narrative of the NBA gone off the tracks ("LeBron is the Chosen One. Will he surpass Jordan?"). It was confusing and profoundly sad. Collectively, we sighed.
We love LeBron. He is the most exciting player in the NBA. He just is. He's got the insane talent, freak athleticism, and uncanny charisma that no one else can match. The charisma is in his game too. Watching LeBron play, you can't help but be charmed. Kobe doesn't charm. He shocks. He awes. He doesn't charm. LeBron can't help it. The powerful-yet-playful drives to the basket followed by earth-shattering dunks and the light-hearted smiles of encouragement to his teammates after far-too-deft passes are so easy to love. Even if you don't love LeBron, he hypnotizes, and at this particular instant, there's no reason to try to distinguish between hypnosis and love: the point remains the second LeBron left the play-offs, it felt like the lights dimmed.
Of course, LeBron is a singular and particular basketball enjoyment, and I know that and you know that. There is joy in basketball beyond LeBron. and there was opportunity for hope in the Conference Finals. All season, the offense of the Magic had sparkled around the defensive anchor of Dwight Howard, and in the West, Steve Nash led the reincarnated Suns on one of their greatest runs ever. It didn't matter. The forces of basketball conservatism won. The wacky Pythagorean geometry of the Magic attack broke against the steadfast rock of tough Boston defense. The sheer warmth, joy and play of the Sun's schoolyard assault froze over with each icy Kobe jumper. The prospect of basketball revolution diminished to nothing. The Magic would not prove themselves and their system. Seven seconds or less would not be redeemed on basketball's biggest stage. Instead, you get the basketball equivalent of the Oscar-bait costume drama about a troubled family: Lakers vs. Celtics, the most reliably popular formula the NBA has to offer.
It's not a bad formula. People like it for a reason. Rajon Rondo has been playing absolutely inspired basketball and Kobe reached down into himself and found a way to tap into his own essence, somehow distilling himself into an even more potent brand of merciless assassin. The Finals will be a cold-blooded duel with plenty of brilliance on both sides, but considering all the curious, joyful, and ecstatically weird alternatives (Would anything be more fun than Cavaliers vs. Suns?), the idea of Celtics vs. Lakers leaves me feeling sad and underwhelmed: Instead of playful, high flying theater, we're going to get sneering ruthlessness efficiency. It's possible that no one on either team might smile the entire series. Mark Jackson might say that last sentence with glowing approval, but it just makes me feel terrible. I get the appeal of this match-up, I really do, but every time I think of the potential of one of the other possible Finals match-ups, I can't help but feel sad about all the seemingly more promising possibilities that were so cruelly dismissed by the single minded competitiveness of the Celtics and Lakers. We don't get to have any fun. We get killjoy vs. killjoy.
It's the Celtics vs. the Lakers: The All Killjoy Finals. It better be good.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Mercuriality and Rasheed to the Celtics
You may have heard the big news by now: Rasheed Wallace to the Celtics. This is frightening and awesome. Rasheed Wallace, Carolina alum, three-draining big man, and the one-man technical factory that referees across the league love to hate is joining forces with Kevin Garnett, who is, with the possible exception of Kobe (since he might be a sociopath and all), the scariest player in all of basketball, who is capable of making giant, grown, powerful men ON HIS OWN TEAM cry in the middle of games, and who may be the modern embodiment of barely controlled rage. This is absolutely frightening and awesome. Would you want to play against them? I mean, in the end, I might take Dwight Howard and Rashard Lewis over these two, but for sheer intimidation and on-court psychopathy, it would be difficult to beat the KG and Sheed pairing.
Also, Rasheed Wallace is one of the current known leaders in the latest of my Google-based metrics, a simple one that we're going to just call Mercuriality. In the fine tradition of the Epithet Certainty Score and the Kobe Test, you arrive at this score by counting Google hits. To measure a player's Mercuriality (it's always going to be in caps, I think), you just search for "mercurial [player name]". Maybe, we can refine this later, but for now, here are some benchmarks.
Allen Iverson 10,300
Ron Artest 4,490
Rasheed Wallace 1,150
Stephon Marbury 359
Gilbert Arenas 188
Kobe Bryant 159
Lebron James 71
Kevin Garnett 1
Tim Duncan 1*
Yao Ming 0
*"Kobe is a little too impatient and mercurial. Tim Duncan is so calm and composed, he gets suspended for laughing." So maybe really, 0. It should be 0.
So, as near as I can tell, a lot of my favorite players have a high Mercurialty. AI is in a class of his own, while Ron Artest (of course) and Rasheed Wallace are the only ones even in the neighborhood. What does this mean? Well, Mercuriality, it's important to note, doesn't reflect anything actually about the player, but rather merely about how people on the Internet talk about the player. So looking at this list, let's try to suss out what exact sense of mercurial these writers are getting at.
1. Of or pertaining to the god or planet Mercury.
I wish that we talked about basketball players in more astrological or classical terms. I feel like we don't get to hear enough basketball players described as "saturnine," though if I had to bet on it Anthony Randolph probably will be the first. Anyway, a prize to the first person who writes the definitive treatise on astrology and the NBA.
2. Erratic, volatile.
This is probably it, especially if you, emphasize the pejorative sense. I like almost every player high on this list, but I know they are not beloved by all of basketball. I know some people find their pugnaciousness and swagger distracting and Not the Right Way to play basketball, but I think it has it's place and shouldn't be separated from their game. The erratic volatility of AI is what lets him dream up such ridiculous crossovers, the mind-bending drives to the hoop. Rasheed Wallace and particularly Ron Artest thrive on the threat of barely contained violence as a part of their intimidating defensive games. But, fine, you don't want the technicals and you don't want the distractions. I respect that, I just don't agree.
3.Lively, quick-witted, spry.
In an ideal world, this is what I wish people were saying when they were describing players as "mercurial". I think this sense is a factor in what players get described as mercurial, but it's clearly a secondary factor to the volatile sense: focused and predictable psychopaths aren't labeled this way, note Kevin Garnett's low Mercuriality. Using only this sense though, we would all dream of our favorite teams point guard to be mercurial. As people use it now, I still wouldn't mind.
The truth of the matter is pretty simple. Chris Littmann, who writes over at The Baseline (and does great work, incidentally), referred to Ron Artest as a "mercurial forward" this past week, and I got all excited about seeing the cliche at use in the wild. I called him on it and he admitted what I guess we all really knew deep down, "I suppose it's the nicest way of saying "This guy is *&#$ing crazy."" Which, when you get right down to it, is almost all I really want out of my favorite players.
A player or team with high Mercuriality is still, almost certainly, worth following and watching. Post your findings and Mercuriality ratings in the comments.
Also, Rasheed Wallace is one of the current known leaders in the latest of my Google-based metrics, a simple one that we're going to just call Mercuriality. In the fine tradition of the Epithet Certainty Score and the Kobe Test, you arrive at this score by counting Google hits. To measure a player's Mercuriality (it's always going to be in caps, I think), you just search for "mercurial [player name]". Maybe, we can refine this later, but for now, here are some benchmarks.
Allen Iverson 10,300
Ron Artest 4,490
Rasheed Wallace 1,150
Stephon Marbury 359
Gilbert Arenas 188
Kobe Bryant 159
Lebron James 71
Kevin Garnett 1
Tim Duncan 1*
Yao Ming 0
*"Kobe is a little too impatient and mercurial. Tim Duncan is so calm and composed, he gets suspended for laughing." So maybe really, 0. It should be 0.
So, as near as I can tell, a lot of my favorite players have a high Mercurialty. AI is in a class of his own, while Ron Artest (of course) and Rasheed Wallace are the only ones even in the neighborhood. What does this mean? Well, Mercuriality, it's important to note, doesn't reflect anything actually about the player, but rather merely about how people on the Internet talk about the player. So looking at this list, let's try to suss out what exact sense of mercurial these writers are getting at.
1. Of or pertaining to the god or planet Mercury.
I wish that we talked about basketball players in more astrological or classical terms. I feel like we don't get to hear enough basketball players described as "saturnine," though if I had to bet on it Anthony Randolph probably will be the first. Anyway, a prize to the first person who writes the definitive treatise on astrology and the NBA.
2. Erratic, volatile.
This is probably it, especially if you, emphasize the pejorative sense. I like almost every player high on this list, but I know they are not beloved by all of basketball. I know some people find their pugnaciousness and swagger distracting and Not the Right Way to play basketball, but I think it has it's place and shouldn't be separated from their game. The erratic volatility of AI is what lets him dream up such ridiculous crossovers, the mind-bending drives to the hoop. Rasheed Wallace and particularly Ron Artest thrive on the threat of barely contained violence as a part of their intimidating defensive games. But, fine, you don't want the technicals and you don't want the distractions. I respect that, I just don't agree.
3.Lively, quick-witted, spry.
In an ideal world, this is what I wish people were saying when they were describing players as "mercurial". I think this sense is a factor in what players get described as mercurial, but it's clearly a secondary factor to the volatile sense: focused and predictable psychopaths aren't labeled this way, note Kevin Garnett's low Mercuriality. Using only this sense though, we would all dream of our favorite teams point guard to be mercurial. As people use it now, I still wouldn't mind.
The truth of the matter is pretty simple. Chris Littmann, who writes over at The Baseline (and does great work, incidentally), referred to Ron Artest as a "mercurial forward" this past week, and I got all excited about seeing the cliche at use in the wild. I called him on it and he admitted what I guess we all really knew deep down, "I suppose it's the nicest way of saying "This guy is *&#$ing crazy."" Which, when you get right down to it, is almost all I really want out of my favorite players.
A player or team with high Mercuriality is still, almost certainly, worth following and watching. Post your findings and Mercuriality ratings in the comments.
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