Who Loves the Suns

When they shocked the league in 2004-2005, first by signing Steve Nash and then by dominating the regular season with a 62-20 record, Phoenix seemed to be an anarchic assault on the NBA’s conventional wisdom. While, for at least a decade, teams had been built on the premise that patience and discipline were the cardinal virtues of offense, the Suns relentlessly ran the break with what seemed like chaotic abandon, not appearing to care much for defense, firing, with no conscience, the first open shot (preferably a three) to come their way. Their lineup was just as radical, employing three perimeter players and no traditional big man. The “center” position was reimagined nightly by the audaciously explosive Amare Stoudemire, a 6’10”, 22-year-old manchild/supernova who seemed to just brim with a ruthless desire to fucking dunk on everybody.

But Nash was, and is, the visionary center of the team. He carves up the floor in unprecedented ways, creating and then exploiting strange new passing angles with his seemingly meandering (but always purposeful) forays through the lane. He gently coaxes a defense into confusion—heads turned, eyes googly—and when the pass finally comes, it is usually just before or just after it is expected. The result is usually somehow both fantastical and blindingly obvious—an lob to the guy who just set the pick; a wide open three; a left handed, behind-the-back pass to a teammate standing, magically, all alone under the hoop. Of all the Suns, Nash is the one who most approaches a traditional NBA archetype: the point guard/floor general, the playmaker who, through his uncanny logic and vision, enables the entire process. That an offense could seamlessly combine such incredible, ruthless abandon with such breathtaking skill and finesse left me frankly awed and almost terrified. Left me feeling that, good lord, so very many things are possible.

With time, and the slight slowing of their pace it’s become apparent that the Suns were always a bit more conventional and systematic than most thought. In fact—as it is, in the end, with most revolutions I guess—the Suns were more nostalgic than revolutionary, throwbacks to the Lakers-Celtics era of relentless speed and fluid passing (with a few modern twists: the reliance on the three-point shot, the 6’10” super-athlete) before Michael Jordan’s singular genius changed the style paradigm for a generation (and, as a reaction to both movements, the majority of teams turned to brutal, suffocating defense and half-court monotony). At the core of the Suns' system is basic, fundamental basketball: the pick-and-roll; ball movement; the well-spaced floor; solid aggressive defense (you might laugh at that one, but check their defensive efficiency last year). It’s just that the Suns do it with astounding speed, skill and creativity, revealing that even the most predictable play can bloom in myriad astonishing ways. At their best, the Suns illustrate what is so outrageously awesome about the NBA, the synthesis of stolid “play the right way” purism and highlight reel individualism: that real team basketball at its best actually enables individual creativity and expression, gives it structure and context. That this delicate balance can foster ends both pragmatic/communal (i.e. wins) and also aesthetic or personal—little things like, y’know, joy and beauty.

So that’s why I’ve got my heart so deep into the Suns, because I can’t stand the thought that this team could be written off (as is beginning to seem possible) just because they haven’t yet won a title. That their approach to the game could ever be deemed inferior to that of the Spurs’ passionless and methodical conservatism. I know this is American pro sports and that the cult of quantifiable success is invincible, but I think it would be a tragedy if this group and their idea fell by the wayside, recognized only for being “entertaining,” that venerable backhanded compliment that implies style, sure, but no substance. As if outright victory were the only marker of substance; as if style itself were not substance.

Boredom is Counterrevolutionary

Thus, the slightly sour taste in my mouth as the Suns played with none of their customary verve in losing to the Wolves. Not to minimize the home team’s accomplishment—they played with energy and confidence the entire game—but Phoenix, playing for the fifth time in seven nights, looked fatigued, showing only flashes of their customary pace and fluidity. After the game Nash lamented that his team played with “not enough pride, not enough consistency,” that they were practicing complacency (he claimed, convincingly, not to care about the standings, which currently say that his team is the best in the Western Conference. Instead, he was concerned about “building good habits.” This almost cavalier attitude toward the traditional signposts of success, this favoring of process over result, is vintage Nash). He and Stoudemire, both played well—Nash had 16 assists and 21 points while Stoudemire hit an outrageous 14 of 16 shots for 33 points—but Shawn Marion was a total no-show, taking only three shots in 32 minutes and pulling in just three rebounds, a full seven below his average.

To be fair to Marion, his teammates did not fare much better on the glass. Minnesota out-rebounded Phoenix 48-26; in a stat that you will almost never see in a professional game, they gathered 22 offensive rebounds to only 23 defensive boards for the Suns. Realize that this means that Minnesota rebounded nearly half of their own missed shots. Allowing a team to rebound its own miss is functionally the same as a turnover; you are literally giving a team an extra possession. And, predictably, the Suns’ generosity (or boredom, or the Wolves’ tenacity, or a combination) translated directly into points for the Wolves, 26 to be exact.

Jefferson in Paris

Big Al Jefferson had a bananas game. He went 15-29 for a career-high 39 points along with 15 rebounds, eight of them on offense. The Suns’ game plan was to move Jefferson toward the center of the court, preventing him from using his quickness on the baseline but he repeatedly blew by Stoudemire with baseline spin moves and Phoenix’s double teams and weakside help were a step late all night. And yet, somehow, he finished the game -4 (that is, the Wolves were outscored by four when he was on the floor) while backups like Craig Smith Antoine Walker and Corey Brewer were all at least +11. The biggest reason for this weird disparity is that, when the Suns were on offense, Stoudemire utterly abused Jefferson. He may not be quite the freakish athlete that he once was (although he is certainly a more polished basketball player having improved his ballhandling and shooting) but when he plays off of Nash, Stoudemire is nearly unstoppable. He made big Al look slow and helpless.

With that matchup a wash, it was incumbent on the Wolves’ bench to take advantage when the Suns’ best players were off the floor. And take advantage they did; Minnesota’s game-breaking 28-7 first half run (from which Phoenix never recovered) came almost entirely in play between the two teams’ second units, when Jefferson, Nash and Stoudemire were out of the game and Leandro Barbosa was Phoenix's point guard. Barbosa is incredibly fast and a dynamic scorer, especially when he is on the floor with Nash, but he has not yet shown (and may never show) that he can consistently run Phoenix’s offense. (Barbosa was -18, the worst on either team, while Nash led Phoenix with +6). The Suns are normally able to overcome the stretch of averageness that sets in when Nash sits. But against Minnesota the hole was too deep and they just weren’t able, or willing, to expend the necessary defensive effort. Nonetheless, this was a huge accomplishment for the Wolves and especially for Jefferson. In the fourth quarter, when Phoenix's offense finally began to flow and they looked ready to make a final push, it was the T-Wolves' newfound courage and Jefferson’s commanding play that held them off.