March 2, 2008 - March 8, 2008

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Losing My Religion, and Lots of Basketball Games

There are lots of ways of being bad in the NBA, and in the last week, which featured back-to-back home Wolves losses to powers like Charlotte and Seattle (that’s 130 losses between the three of them—this season!), I got a pretty close look at many of them. In Seattle we have the “bewilderingly constructed” bad team (the Knicks are the prime example of this). The Sonics are partially designed around a 19-year-old phenom and partially around semi-good holdovers from their last good Ray Allen-led squad. They manage to synthesize two lethal NBA archetypes: the disillusioned veteran, tugged along by his own dull inertia and the clueless youngster who gets by solely on his own talent. The Bobcats are the prototypical “ravaged by injuries” bad team. They have playing without three of their preseason starters—Sean May, Adam Morrison and Gerald Wallace—and are forced to scrape by with role players and reserves at most spots.

That brings us to our Timberwolves, the classic “talented-but-inexperienced” bad team. Such teams often play well in some stretches and then appallingly badly in others. They often seem to be equally competitive against good teams and bad. They have a poor feel for the rhythm of the game, often missing opportunities and suddenly becoming listless and ragged at the most inopportune moments (like, say, the last five minutes of the game). I’ve defended the Wolves’ honor once or twice based on the fact that they are a likeable, generally entertaining team with a ton of upside. And while I’d gladly take this team over a few others with more wins (those disastrous Knicks, or even the Sonics and Bobcats, this week’s results notwithstanding) there’s absolutely no contesting the fact that they have lost 47 of their 60 games. Wow, when you put it like that it’s kind of depressing.

The Sonics. The Sonics.

Against Seattle, the Wolves started the game in one of those aforementioned malaises and then ended on one of those aforementioned missed opportunities. It all added up to a rather heartbreaking overtime loss, but the game was a pretty exciting, competitive contest between two legit NBA teams.

One of the great surprises of that game was Kevin Durant. Purely because he scores a relatively large amount of points per game (19.5) he is the favorite for rookie-of the year honors. But those points have come at the expense of many, many bad misses, many forced shots, many possessions where his teammates do not see the ball—he’s shooting only 40% for the year and, though he takes a whole lot of them, only makes 29% of his three pointers.

A few things were evident from seeing him in person. First of all, he is very tall (6’11” and very young (barely 19). The fact that is a very junior member of a men’s club is reflected in his little-brotherly demeanor. He slumps his shoulders and kind of shuffles/swaggers in a very teenage way. And he carries that sullen, recognizably adolescent, almost embarrassed scowl—the look that says its bearer is both incredibly self-conscious but also totally oblivious to being noticed by anybody. He seemed to be pretty clueless whenever he did not have the ball, sort of floating around waiting for a pass, halfheartedly setting screens when it suited him. And on defense the less said the better. I’m pretty sure that he never once adopted anything approximating the kind of defensive stance that they teach you at all levels of basketball. That should do it.

But, I have to say, I did not expect at all the things I saw when he got the ball in his hands; it was strange, at those moments, to see him transcend the awkward teenager, gain a ferocity and sense of purpose. He has that quality shared by only the most phenomenally gifted athletes: the ability to perform incredibly difficult physical tasks at high speed and with intoxicating fluidity—as if you are watching in both fast and slow motion. He may be a pure novice at the NBA game but, I’m telling you—and this is something I did not fully appreciate until I saw him up close—Kevin Durant is a magnificently talented basketball player.

Real Bobcats in the Sack

The Charlotte game, on the other hand, was a total mess. The lack of Wallace on the Bobcats’ side and Corey Brewer and Rashad McCants on Minnesota’s side (concussion, thigh bruise and flu, respectively), three fairly dynamic and/or energetic players, led to a bland, spiritless game. The two teams seemed to have entered into, as Coach Wittman put it, a “non-aggression pact,” playing the kind of stolid, isolation-oriented offense and tired-looking defense that has given the pro game an undeserved bad name. Nonetheless, the Wolves managed to keep it close until the fourth quarter, mostly because of Sebastian Telfair’s aggressiveness at the point (6 of 11 from the floor, with nine assists). The big problem was on the defensive end where almost every player was terrible all game. The Wolves’ guards were constantly beaten off the dribble by the Bobcats’ Earl Boykins and Raymond Felton, particularly on pick-and-roll situations. Compounding the problem, the Wolves’ big men did not show aggressively and the rest of the team failed both to help quickly on the dribbler and to rotate to open shooters. The result was a constant stream of open looks and a good shooting night for Charlotte (51.4% from the floor and 10-20 from 3) and, most importantly, a huge advantage in free throws. The Bobcats made 23-29 while the Wolves only attempted nine, hitting five. By my math, that pretty much accounts for the entire margin of victory. Considering that there were almost no established stars on either team, the Wolves can’t really use the old excuse that their youth and anonymity was a prejudicing factor for the refs. They simply played much less aggressively than the other team, on both ends of the floor. As the Wolves began to shy away from driving to the basket, relying instead on contested jumpers, the Bobcats consistently exploited their opponents’ lackluster defense, getting to the rim and drawing fouls. The Wolves were close for much of the game, but at no point did they play like they deserved to win.

The Ballad of Little Nick

Part of the Wolves’ break-in-the action entertainment all year has been this weird, righteous spectacle involving various war veterans, rescue workers, victims of over-the-top violence or illness, and other assorted heroes. They are given tickets and jerseys; they are trotted out in front of the crowd to have their harrowing story raucously told by the PA announcer; they are given a terrifically pious standing ovation. My previous fave had been a sullen family of five who had been terrorized in their own home by unknown masked assailants for an evening. The Charlotte game, though, sported the most hyper-Dickensian, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition-y hero yet. “Little Nick” (that’s what the back of his jersey said) was a perfectly adorable, tow-headed eight-year-old who had suffered some horrendous illness which had caused him to undergo 15 surgeries, after which he (heroically) decided to have his legs amputated so he could, in the PA guy’s lilting tones “run and play with his friends.” Sob. Smile.

I’ll tell you, it is mesmerizing and terrifying and hilarious (you know the kind of panicky, vomitous hilarity I’m talking about—like how it feels to watch TV news pundits smirk and quip their way through topics that actually effect real people) to watch people willingly sacrifice their most sacred, personal stories to us insatiable, impatient professional spectators. To have those stories blithely processed—not on TV; right before your eyes—into a brief, forgettable commercial advertising the so charitable heart of a pro basketball team and its simply compassion-soaked fans. I’ll say it again: a commercial.

Posted by Benjamin Polk at March 6, 2008 7:57 PM | Comments (0)

 

Sure it's scary -- but why not Barry? Judd Spicer blogs the Twins

Filed under: MLB

Editor's Note: Today we introduce our Twins blogger for the season, Judd Spicer. Judd will be checking in with dispatches once or twice a week through Spring Training and once the season begins. In his first piece, he makes the case for Minnesota's pursuit of a fellow you may have heard of.

The Twins may need Barry Bonds to be winners in 2008. And while I wholly realize how stupid that sounds, what with the club honing their proverbial "Pluck," and "Fundamental Play," and "Small Market-ness," and "Sandlot" skills and tenets down in Fort Myers, the fact remains that our favorite club enters the 2008 season with more questions than answers, sans longtime team leaders/luminaries Torii Hunter and Johan Santana, and coming off a year in which they finished four games under-.500 even with those celebrated dudes.

Now I happen to believe that the addition of shortstop Adam Everett will shore up the left side of the infield and keep us sound defensively, just as I am of the view that the ascension of Scott Baker, the arrival of Livan Hernandez, and our omnipresent bullpen should have the the staff at/near our strong MLB standing of last year. Yet, the historical production (or lack thereof) of our offense, especially in the DH slot, begs the inquiry: Why not Barry?

I don't like Barry, and am by no means a Bonds apologist. I think he's certainly guilty of steroid use, and I'm anxious to see how his federal perjury charge plays out. But given that Barry's next court date isn't until March 21st (for which he's not set to personally appear), that it took close to 3 years for the government to to arrange said charge, and that his legal team would seemingly arrange for the wheels of justice to turn torpidly should their client find gainful employment during the season -- I'm thinking Barry will be available for the right team come Opening Day.

And that team could, and should be the Twins. Let's break this down further. Given Barry's advanced age (43), we can assume that no NL team will touch him. The guy isn’t playing outfield anymore. He's a DH. Furthermore, within the 14 clubs the make up the AL, I believe that we can eliminate all the following teams from hiring Barry, for the assigned reasons:

The Red Sox, Toronto, Detroit, Cleveland, L.A., Chicago, and Seattle are all set at the DH. The Yankees would have made the splash already if they were going to do so. Oakland is too cheap. And Tampa (yech) spilled the beans recently that they were flirting with the notion of Bonds, but let's face it: Would Bonds really toil with a club that has never accrued a winning season? That just leaves K.C., Baltimore (who had a solid platoon at the position in '07), and Texas. The Rangers actually seem an the only other potentially agreeable fit.

And then there's us. Dating back to 2002, the Twins haven't had more than 18 homers or 59 RBI from an individual in the DH slot, and both those numbers comes from back in '02, compliments of Big Poopy before he was Big Papi. Since then, our individual home run leading Designated Hitters have accrued the following totals: 9 in '03; 5 in '04; 14 in '05; 2 in '06; 4 in '07. It's also worthy to note from a historical perspective that our favorite club has only once ranked in the top 10 for MLB runs scored since the millennium, that occurring back in '03 when we ranked 10th. And lastly, rounding up to modern day, it should be noted that -- for what Spring Training numbers are worth -- the Twins have only two individual multi-hit performances through March 5, and rank 23rd in home runs.

From a cost standpoint, Bonds had a base salary of $15-plus million last year, almost exactly what the Twins cut in payroll for '08 -- although nobody would pay Barry that sum today.

Signing Barry Bonds in Minnesota would no doubt receive polar reviews and surely there would be opinions akin to the Wild's recent trade for barbaric Chris Simon. But if new GM Bill Smith wants a label other than "the fella that let popular, effective, albeit exorbitantly-priced veterans Hunter and Santana go elsewhere," signing Bonds could be his chance.

Should you, gentle reader, desire to contact Barry to lobby for his services, take a stroll to his web site, and simply ignore the message bearing "Send Barry a short note to show your support and congratulate him." If you'd like to write him, feel free to begin with an introductory sentence that goes something like, "Dear Muscle-Bound-Megalomaniacal-Cheating-Perjuring-Dick . . .."

He may not appreciate that, but, if nothing else, he'll know that we're forthright here in the Bread Basket. And honest. Hell, in the end, we really don’t care about being his buddy. We just want his bat.
-- Judd Spicer

Posted by Jeff Shaw at March 6, 2008 5:37 AM | Comments (10)

 

The Man styles and profiles out of the ring

Filed under: Wrestling

Ric Flair, the greatest pro wrestler of all time, is hanging 'em up. Charleston Post & Courier readers remember their favorite moments. As a lifelong fan, I've got a few of my own.

Match-wise, a few tributes have you pretty well covered. WWE's tribute is of course a bit slanted toward his later years, the ones spent with their company. But I'm really shocked that the Pro Wrestling Torch's "Best Flair Moments" doesn't include perhaps Flair's finest hour, his promo upon returning to Monday Nitro in 1998.

We'll get to that in a moment. To whet your appetite in the interim, there are some classic Flair catchphrase sounds here. And you can waste hours just going on YouTube and searching "Ric Flair promo" (I know, I did), but here are a couple of memorable performances from yesteryear during the days when wrestling was publicly more sports than sports entertainment.

Here Flair hypes a return showdown with Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat. These matches are still considered among history's best:

I love this one because it shows Flair's skill in putting others over. Even as the undisputed top dog and staying in character as the limousine ridin', jet flyin' Nature Boy, he manages to make you think Billy Jack Haynes (Billy Jack Haynes!) belongs in the ring with him. This is something of a lost art in wrestling promos, but even when everyone was trying to do it, Flair was the best.

The greatest Flair moment of all time in my eyes is embedded and transcribed below. It brings together the finest elements of Flair's mic work -- emotion, interplay with the crowd, giving others the rub of his approval while maintaining the center of attention -- and incorporating the very real tension between Flair and then-WCW head Eric Bischoff. The old guard had bristled under Bischoff, and he'd undermined Flair's legendary Four Horsemen clique.

This promo is probably the greatest combination of wrestling as theater and reality ever, implemented by its finest practitioner. Since the illusion of wrestling-as-pure-reality had eroded by 1998, fans were smarter than ever to these internal dynamics. You can really tell in their reactions toward the end of the promo, when Flair begins to shoot on Bischoff in earnest.

[The transcript of the video pasted below comes from this show review from CRZ's Slash Wrestling site, which hosted the best, most complete recaps on the Web and brought me great joy for years. Watch it if you can for the full experience, read it if you can't.]

From CRZ:

When he hugs Arn the cheers continue and there can't be a dry eye in the house - there CAN'T. "Greenville, I give you the Champ." Another wave of cheering engulfs the house. Fifteen thousand people, and I guarantee you not one of them is sitting. I'm getting chills right now.

"My God...thank you...thank you very much...I'm almost embarrassed by the response, but when I see this, I know that the twenty - five years that I've spent trying to make you happy every night of your life was worth every damn minute of it. Now, somebody told me that the Horsemen were having a party tonight in Greenville! Could that be true that the most elite group that Eric Bischoff said was dead is alive and well? Bischoff, this might be my only shot, and I gotta tell ya, I'm gonna make it my best. Is this what you call a great moment in TV? It's wrong, because this is REAL! This is not bought and paid for! It's a REAL - LIFE - SITUATION! Just like the night in Columbia, South Carolina, when you looked at me - tears in my eyes - and said 'God, that's good TV' - it was real! Arn Anderson passed the torch - it was real, dammit! You think Sting was crying in the dressing room like I was on TV if it wasn't real? This guy, my best friend, is one of the greatest performers who ever lived, and YOU - you squashed him, in one night. Then you get on the phone and tell me, 'disband the Horsemen, they're dead.' Disband the Horsemen, me. You know what, I looked at myself in the mirror the next day and I saw a pathetic figure that gave up and quit! And for that, I owe you, the wrestling fans, I owe these guys an apology. Because it won't happen again! [Bischoff is coming out.] Bischoff, whatever you think...no, you're an overbearing asshole! That's right! You're an obnoxious, you're an obnoxious, overbearing ass! Abuse of power! You! Abuse of power! Cut me off! Come on! It's called abuse of power! You suck! You, I hate your guts. I hate your guts. You are a liar, you're a cheat, you're a scam, you are a no good son of a (mute). Fire me! I'm already fired! Fire me! I'm already fired!"

Flair's coat is off but Bischoff has already walked back. Cut to black.

It will never get better than this. Never.

Jarring as it is to see Steve McMichael on the same stage with wrestling legends -- and as chilling, as disconcerting as it is to see Chris Benoit up there -- that's still accurate.

Posted by Jeff Shaw at March 3, 2008 3:36 PM | Comments (3)

 

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