sam cassell is an alien and i love him

Two. years.

Damn.

Let’s not speak of it again.

Anyway, what compels me to write is not the vacillations of NBA cultural mores over the duration of my, um, sabbatical. Those have been covered extensively, shrewdly, and encyclopedically elsewhere.

Yet the NBA’s cultural economy, much like its financial economy (or any economy, for that matter), if not a zero-sum game, yields winners and losers. And for all of its New Worldly professional sheen, efficiency (more on that next time) and equilibrium—all post-Madoff superlatives deserving of intellectual/rhetorical acknowledgment, appreciation, or at the very least introspection—the losers are as deserving of at least a few words.

In particular, I speak of one such man: the namesake of this blog; he is Sam Cassell, and, redundancy aside, I love him.

Foremost, Sam Cassell stands as a statue of sanctity to the old form of NBA craft, ruling from the midrange. In the post-millennial NBA, the midrange has veered closer and closer to a no man’s land—a mysterious stretch of space which rewards neither the brute athleticism of those plays existing above the rim, nor an extra point for its relative distance. Naturally, this misunderstood and neglected strip of land is the space in which Cassell thrives; Cassel’s ability to bury midrange Js with stunning consistency has been viewed by league observers alternately as both a wonder and witchcraft.

Cassell’s narrative has frequently paralleled the tired brains-over-brawn cliché, a story which inevitably ends when age denigrates the point to which savvy and smarts are able to compensate for the meager physical contributions said player brings to the court. But to lay blame for the demise of Sam Cassell solely on the staid outcome of an age old truism sells Cassell’s legacy short… despite his contributions from the midrange, in the clutch, and relating to the excess of the size of his testicles.

So how can a player of Cassell’s pedigree be so easily dealt, shelved, and forgotten—traded last week for not even another player but an empty roster spot?

Simply put, the currency that Cassell possesses has been invalidated by the equilibrium of the NBA in ’09.

Consider some of Cassell’s (to refer to them politely) intangibles. Cassell’s veteran savvy has already been mentioned here, but it’s not just that Sam relishes the role of teacher so much, it’s how he applies that relish. As you might expect, these identities all fall under the Blow of Information realm, as former teammate and current ogre Chris Kaman called it:

• Sam directs his team as a preacher guides his flock; he is the fiery pulpit preacher, the entirety of the court is his soapbox.
• Sam soothsays his opponents and the refs (is there a difference?); he is the loquacious gossip and the court is his barbershop.
• Sam speaks clearly yet forcefully to the new (and pathetic) school of shockjock assclown journalist; he is the consummate diplomat

It’s abundantly clear, on this celebrated 10th-Day-After-President’s-Day Day, that Sam Cassell is more like Abraham Lincoln than any other man to have ever played in the NBA.  The propensity for garrulousness; the urge to talk, to express; the need to find motivation and inspiration through the process of conferring, articulating–these Lincolnian values have been reproduced in no basketball player more faithfully than Sam Cassell.  [O]nce he began speaking, got a smile on his face and told stories, this whole vitality came to his face. You forgot he wasn’t so good looking. I mean, what other NBA player could this Doris Kearns Goodwin quote possibly be applied to?  For what other athlete, past or present, could the description “sexy-ugly” be more apt (especially considering Kearns Goodwin’s scholarly definition)?

Yet if the NBA of today is increasingly becoming a place where the brightest stars are characterized by “a strong aversion to inner turmoil,” a place where “the rhythms of craft tamp down man and his problems, instead of the latter animating the former,” (see: here) then this is a business in which Sam Cassell—savvy veteran, Lincoln scholar, fiery preacher, barbershop gossip—can no longer ply his trade. Despite an insatiable competitiveness and significant personal turmoil, there is nothing “inner” about Sam Cassell or his game. And in the process of constantly exposing himself on the court as exactly the type of person he is in real life, Sam Cassell has also exposed his most significant vulnerabilities in the fast changing economy of the NBA. Despite Cassell’s best efforts to diversify his investments (here I’m speaking of Cassell’s continued lobbying to venture to the sidelines, a campaign which began five years ago after his first full season in Minnesota and has continued at every one of his teams since), Cassell’s personal/professional identity has come off as too personal, too dated, too Sam I Am.

For all of the fully appreciable aspects of the New NBA which are proving the strength and appeal of this new culture on a nightly basis, it makes total sense that the inverse equally strengthens the existence of the equilibrium-writ-large. But couldn’t David Stern have sacrificed Marbury instead?

Listen, I know it’s been an ass-long time since I’ve updated this blog, which I can blame on a multitude of factors (the holidays, new year’s, friends entering and leaving town, me entering and leaving town), but really, as the post-less days start to stack up, my own guilt on account of not updating follows a similar course. Naturally, it’s much easier to avoid the issue all together, and long story short: it’s been three weeks since my last update. Yeesh.

Of course, a modicum of interesting events or mini-phenomena have occured in that timeframe. Off the top of my head, I’d say the New Year’s probably takes the cake as the most momentous of those occasions. And while I have never been much for the ole resolutions myself, I’m not so cold-hearted as to not recognize the more encouraging and generous of resolutions that others devise. So with that in mind, I say kudos to you, David Stern and NBA Commissioner on High, for after what certainly must have been minutes and minutes of deep thought and deliberation, you decided to give back the old leather NBA ball to those beaten and down-trodden players who work and toil on NBA courts night after night across the country (and continent) under your oppressive rule. Whether or not it was intended as such, I’m considering this to be the first move in honoring your New Year’s Resolution of not being such a blowhard. Because, really, it only stands to make the NBA more fun again. And shouldn’t fun be the ultimate goal of any good resolution?

While plenty of commentators and analysts have already talked this topic to death, and even though the NBA has been using the old leather ball for 10+ days now, I will leave you, (surprisingly) devoted reader, with a link to a blog entry and accompanying official letter of complaint by PETA to the NBA for switching back to old pigskin (it’s actually cows’ skin, but you get the point). NBA players get publicly slandered and knocked around on a constant basis, from the press, from fans, etc etc. But I’m sure nothing zings quite as much as these malicious barbs from those nasty, vitriolic sheep-huggers over at PETA. Well let me tell you, sticks and stones can hurt an NBA player’s bones, but from what I’ve been told, cowskin is actually markedly more soft on the fingertips–which makes, say, picking your nose, looking through filing cabinets, using touchscreens at the ATM, or even running the fast break much, much easier. So there.

My dad called me yesterday about an interview he heard recently on TPT’s weekly public affairs program, Almanac, with some Minnesota sports writer who had written a new book about the culture of fighting in the NHL. TPT, the television-version of Minnesota Public Radio, is Minneapolis-St. Paul’s largest and most popular public access TV network, meaning not very large and not very popular, so you can imagine the frank and serious, yet light and politely-inquisitive way in which this interview was most likely conducted. The fact that my dad called me about an interview on Almanac, a show I couldn’t care less about, is not unusual; my dad calls me all the time (and I mean, all the time, it’s out of control), often about nothing in particular, just looking to make some conversation and say hello. What is unusual is that my dad called me about hockey, or even sports at all. My dad is decidedly not whom I received my affection and obsession for all things sports from. That distinction belongs to my mother, a self-proclaimed tomboy while growing up and a still rabid baseball fan (she still loves basketball and football, don’t worry). So the fact that a Minnesotan sports writer (”And a Jew too!”) was on Almanac talking about sports, hockey nonetheless, yet about a subject and in a way that still intrigued by dad, well, that’s something he thought I needed to hear about. This book (The Code: The Unwritten Rules of Fighting and Retaliation in the NHL by Ross Bernstein) apparently discusses the “rules of engagement” for fighting in an increasingly violent NHL. “I didn’t even know there could be a code behind that stuff,” said my dad. “Isn’t that interesting?” Yes, Dad, it is interesting, but for reasons that have very little to do with the NHL.

As most of the living, breathing American populace knows, a fight broke out last Saturday night between the New York Knicks and Denver Nuggets in the last two minutes of the game at New York’s famed Madison Square Garden. I commented on the fight in a post last Sunday, but didn’t see much point in discussing the fight itself. Instead, I spent most of my time lamenting the inevitable dip Carmelo Anthony, a rising star in the NBA and a prominent member of my fanasty NBA team, would take to his fantasy value and his public image as a result of his actions in said fight. Why didn’t I discuss the actual fight itself? It seems obvious to me: the fight wasn’t anything particularly newsworthy, physically no larger than your average bench-clearing brawl in MLB (a large handful of which seem to occur every season), and certainly no more violent than your average tooth-popping fistfight in the NHL (a large handful of which seem to occur every night). Unfortunately, much of the sports media, indeed much of the broader American mainstream, doesn’t seem to see it that way.

So what has the media said about the fight? Well a lot of things have been said, some good, some bad, some with nothing worthwhile to contribute at all. But for every Kelly Dwyer of CNNSI.com who asks us not to make too much of the actions of some NBA players who aren’t thugs but really just a bunch of “eccentric millionaires” and “bratty kids, full of themselves,” there are five times more journalists willing to grant upon themselves the role of judge and jury, brandishing these rogue NBA players as the morally-irredeemable hooligans they believe them to be, unfit for the public spotlight that goes along with sports stardom and potential role model positions. Consider, for example, Dwyer’s colleague at CNNSI.com, Chris Mannix, who emphatically believes that the fight committed the ludicrous sin of putting fans at physical risk (”make no mistake, that is exactly what several players did Saturday night”). Additionally, today ESPN ran a headline article on its site about Northwest Airlines pulling a magazine from its flights which featured Carmelo Anthony. In a column on his site Edgeofsports.com, liberal sportswriter Dave Ziren (and fellow Macalester grad!) lists multiple other examples of sportswriters who over-zealously cried foul in response to the fight:

Instead, we are deluged with articles about how, as a Yahoo Sports headline described it, this is really “a black eye” for the entire league. The Baltimore Sun’s Childs Walker wrote that the brawl should spark a discussion “about the sociology of the NBA.” MSNBC’s Michael Ventre opined that “the terms ‘NBA’ and ‘thuggery’ have become inextricably linked in the minds of basketball fans the world over.” The piece also calls the incident another example of “The NBA Vs. Idiots.”

I keep coming back to that Chris Mannix article, though. What shocks me more than anything is the vindictive and self-righteous attitude Mannix readily employs on behalf of the cowering masses, the NBA and sports fans across the country, who Mannix apparently believes remain in fear of events like those in the Garden on Saturday night. Mannix writes: “[The fight's participants] deserve to be struck down with an iron first, their punishment so severe that the mere thought of doing something like that again makes them cringe.” What’s even more unfortunate is that on this point, David Stern, the NBA’s commissioner and ruler-on-high, completely agrees.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Stern’s remonstrative punishment went way overboard. For engaging in the NBA’s first fight since Ray Allen and Kenyon Dooling went at it nearly a year ago, mid-January of last year to be more precise, Stern suspended Carmelo Anthony for 15 games, J.R. Smith and Nate Robinson 10 games, and a combined 12 games amongst four other suspended players. In contrast, Allen and Dooling received a suspension of 8 combined games for a fight that also apparently put fans at physical risk, if we’re to follow Mannix’s criteria, by spilling over into the front row of courtside spectators (you can watch a clip of that fight here). When Stern enacted an official age limit and dress code a couple of years ago, I welcomed the moves as subersive, smart and creative measures meant to address the NBA’s falling public image. Stern correctly recognized the negative powers of the NBA that were affecting the broader American basketball culture–obviously, violent and disturbing scenes like the “Malice at the Palace” Pistons-Pacers incident, but also capitalistic forces like shoe companies and other opportunistic, profit-obsessed businesses that were increasingly exploiting (perhaps more importantly, increasingly able to exploit) the younger generations of American basketball players–and passed new rules which tackled not just the physical, but the cultural and social aspects of the NBA in dire need of a tune-up.

With his reaction to this incident, however, it’s clear to me that Stern has lost that vision and aim, and overstepped a very delicate line from culturally-minded to culturally-reactive. In the press release announcing the NBA’s verdict, Stern cited the justification that the NBA “has set up the goal of eliminating fighting from our game.” I don’t doubt Stern’s motives, however misguided his methods may be. But it’s equally clear to me that such methods have had a markedly negative impact on the perception of this event, and perhaps similar events in the future; namely, such heavy punishments give credence to all the haters who condemn the NBA as ultimate champion in public displays of thuggery in modern America, further strengthening the allegedly “inextricable” link between the terms ‘NBA’ and ‘thuggery’ for narrow-minded analysts like the aforementioned Michael Ventre of MSNBC. It files down the scope of the NBA’s public image to a needle-thin trajectory where the players themselves are the only ones bearing responsibility, and dumbs down the league’s reputation to the barest, most fundamental of stereotypes. 

And why does this all happen? How can such a marginalization occur so easily in this democratic, civilized society? Steve Francis–of all people!–may have some idea. In an interview with the New York Post–of all newspapers!–Francis put it more bluntly than I ever could (or could dare):

“In other sports, there are incidents that are way worse than basketball,” the Knicks guard said. “So many worse things happen every game or four or five times a year, but because there are more black players in the NBA, it’s under the microscope more than baseball or hockey.”

Of course there are tons of stupid details surrounding the fight (which have been turned into excuses and half-hearted justifications): Denver coach George Karl was running up the score against the Knicks in support of his friend, former Knicks head coach, and Isiah Thomas’ archrival, Larry Brown; Isiah Thomas in response ordered a hard foul for any player that dared go into the paint for the rest of the game. But petty crap like that happens in every sport; at the worst, such moves are on par with Ozzie Guillen ordering a young relief pitcher to bean an opponent’s batter (not to mentioned Guillen’s reactionary demotion of said pitcher when the pitcher failed to carry out the ordered beaning). And the fight itself was certainly no less a spectacle than the myriad other physical altercations which occur in every major American sport (except maybe golf). Yet the NBA gets a bum wrap because its players aren’t predominantly white, because those same players are insanely rich, because its fans can get closer to the action than in any sport, because of many other reasons which Carmelo Anthony, J.R. Smith, Mardy Collins and Nate Robinson don’t deserve to be taking the full brunt of, no matter how embarassing or ridiculous their actions were last Saturday night. It’s unfortunate and reprehensible (yet still predictable) that a couple years after the cataclysmic Pacers-Pistons brawl the sports media hype machine has learned so little and seems just as incapable of recognizing such facts. But it’s an outright tragedy that the NBA’s own commissioner can’t recognize it either.

Like any self-respecting (not to be confused with self-obsessed… I hope) blogger, I check my blog stats pretty regularly.  And lately, my blog stats have been pretty damn good, if I do say so myself– which unfortunately doesn’t do much to dispell the self-obsessed line there.  See, it seems my blog is one of the first results one gets when conducting a google search along the lines of “isiah thomas bruce bowen” or “Bruce Bowen Isiah Thomas” or “isiah thomas bruce bowen comments” or “isiah thomas dirty player” or, well you get the idea.

ANYWAY, you may or may not have noticed the name of this blog has changed in the past day from “Dime-a-Day” to the more obvious “Sam Cassell is an Alien and I Love Him,” thus matching the blog’s actual URL. Despite choosing that absurdly long and, well, just absurd URL, I initially decided to title my blog with something a little more… respectable, something more formal, if you will.  Dime-a-Day seemed like a solid little title at first, but seeing as how I’m getting a fair amount of completely random and probably unearned traffic to the ole blog, and seeing as how that blog title is so obviously similar to ESPN’s Daily Dime column, and seeing as how plaigirism is never a practice I would endorse or condone, I’ve decided to throw out all semblances of formality and respectability.  That’s right, this blog will from this point on be known only as Sam Cassell is an Alien and I Love Him.

In other news, I really, really hate Kevin McHale.  (More on that later.)

Listen, this weekend has left a bad taste in my mouth, which is a distinctly un-weekendly like thing to happen on a weekend. So in an effort to move beyond and look ahead, I’m releasing my momentous and epic Top Albums of 2006 list a full two weeks early, this being only the 17th day of the 12th month of the year. And besides, is there anything more ironic and possibly self-defeating than to look ahead by conducting a look back at the last year? If you said yes, well then clearly you didn’t major in history in college and for that, I pity you.

And yes, I’m aware that this has nothing to do with basketball, or the NBA, or even Sam Cassell, but I’m allowed one totally indulgent, off-topic post every once in a while (especially after a bad weekend), no? I know what you’re thinking–how am I to explain all those innane scribblings about shoes? To that, friends, I say: there couldn’t be anything more relevant to the NBA and American basketball culture than shoes; they practically run the whole league. With that in mind, there is hardly a post on this blog that will more rightfully earn the coveted “Uncategorized” tag. So without any further fanfare, I present my Top 22 Albums of 2006 (and yes, I realize 22 is a relatively odd-number of a top-anything list, but I felt all of the following 22 albums deserved some mention in one way or another):

22. Be Your Own Pet, Be Your Own Pet. They are by far the coolest high school drop outs ever, much cooler than Frenchie from Grease, that’s for sure.

21. Howe Gelb, ‘Sno Angel Like You. Ain’t that title just the cutest?

20. Beirut, Gulag Orkestar. This kid may be just as young as those BYOP kids, and while he’s obviously very talented (so many instruments, yet no guitar? What a madman!), he’s definitely not as cool as those kids at the two-two-spot. So the real question of course then is: will this be the first time talent trumps coolness on this list? Read on, if you dare…

19. Greg Davis and Sebastian Roux, Paquet Surprise. What happens when you cross an electronic music guru with a background in classical guitar training and a penchant for pastoral melodies with another, more European eletronic music afficianado? Well, if you guessed a lot of pleasant, soothing melodies meshed with a crapload of weird ambient noises, you guessed right.

18. Man Man, Six Demon Bag. I didn’t like this album at first, I thought it was just pretty silly without having any deeper substance. Then I saw them live. The fact that this album is on this list at all, not to mention this high is really meant only as a testament to the awesomeness of their live show.

17. Dirty Projectors, New Attitude EP. The most wildly unique and original music I’ve heard all year. They’re crazy.

16. Supersilent, 7. Who would’ve ever thought the modern jazz revolution would be carried out by the whitest, most European populace to ever play jazz? Let me tell you, those Scandinavians have got their avant garde music down.

15. The Blow, Paper Television. If this album had been released 6 months earlier, it’s possible I would have overlistened to this album by now, causing it to slip multiple spots, if not out of this list all together. Lucky for them, I’ve only listened to this album some twenty or so times since first downloading it a couple weeks ago, and it’s still catchy as hell.

14. Arizona Amp and Alternator, Arizona Amp and Alternator. Congrats to you, Howe Gelb, you managed to make it onto this list twice. Aren’t you special?

13. TV on the Radio, Return to Cookie Mountain. In actuality, this album probably deserves to be much higher. But the live show effect can work both ways: my experience at a TV on the Radio show at First Ave earlier this year was so bad (not that TVOTR’s performance was that bad, although it was definitely overrated), that this album inevitably slides down a couple notches as a result.

12. Guillemots, Through the Windowpane. By far the straight-up poppiest album on this list. But damn, it’s just so good.

11. Juana Molina, Son. I’m willing to guess that all children’s television actors in Argentina are this wildly talented. Any insight to offer, Zvi?

10. Islands, Return to the Sea. I saw them live more than any other band this past year, twice in fact. One show was pretty damn good, the other was pretty damn meh. How does that affect their standing on this list? Yep, 10 seems about right.

09. Chad VanGaalen, Skelliconnection. Just watch this, and then try to tell me he doesn’t deserve to be in the Top Ten.

08. Peter Bjorn and John, Writer’s Block. I’ve got nothing clever to say about these mates. They just made a good album, ok?

07. Phoenix, It’s Never Been Like That. Listen, writing the catchiest song of the year (”Long Distance Call”) will get you somewhere: #7 on this list.

06. Ekkehard Ehlers, A Life Without Fear. What does a German producer, electronic music dork, and devout Frankfurt School theoretician have to say about American blues? Apparenly, some of the most poignant and true-to-form deconstructionism of the genre ever. This is the creepiest, darkest, most powerful album on this list. And it’s really, really awesome.

05. Final Fantasy, He Poos Clouds. He makes up for a horrible band name with the worst (and thereby best) album name in years. The music’s pretty darn good too.

04. Junior Boys, So This is Goodbye. The individual highlights of this moment are not as strong as the individual highlights of Last Exit, but on the whole much more consistent.

03. Grizzly Bear, Yellow House. In any other year, this album would be #1 on my list. It’s a shame they were topped by the two juggernauts topping this list. Sorry, boys.

02. Liars, Drum’s Not Dead. I think Liars should rule the world. I really, really do.

01. Destroyer, Destroyer’s Rubies. At this point, I’m convinced Dan Bejar could crap all over a recording studio and I’d think it was the most brilliant thing ever. Oh wait, he already did that, very recently in fact (see: Swan Lake). Well THANK GOD members of Carey Mercer and Spencer Krug had no hand in the writing of this album. And thank god Dan Bejar is a friggin genius. I cite Rubie’s as my evidence, and will accept nothing less than ultimate supremacy on this list as the bountiful reward. Congrats to you, Dan, and congrats to all of Canada, says I. As a result, you’ve won a place in my heart, and more importantly, on this blog.

Eddie Argos, I’ve one upped you. As I’m watching Eric Mangina’s New York Jets systematically dismantle the Vikings on both sides of the ball and the game literally passing right by old man Brad Johnson’s eyes (and by the game, I mean Tavaris Jackson who just passed right by our starting QB while entering the game), it’s becoming more and more evident by the second—it’s been a baaaaaaadddd weekend. Last time I bothered to check in, I made a predictably ridiculous and overzealous prediction (ironic that a prediction can be predictable, no?). Well 40 or so hours have elapsed since my 24-hour prediction, and in that time the Timberwolves lost their second game of the week and Allen Iverson appears to be no closer to wearing a Timberwolves jersey, let alone a Nuggets jersey (the other hot team in the AI chase), or anyone else’s for that matter. The even-more troubling development of the weekend is it appears that Carmelo Anthony won’t be wearing a Nuggets jersey for a while either.

Why is this troubling, you ask? Doesn’t Carmelo Anthony play for the Timberwolves’ main rivals? Aren’t his Nuggets ahead of the Wolves in the Northwest Division standings? Isn’t ‘Melo a whiny, selfish punk, who never lets his patriotic leanings and higher callings stand in the way of a good ole playing time bitch-session? Well yes, and no. Despite my own homeristic tendencies, I’ve got to hand it to young ‘Melo—he’s done more to completely remake his game and his image this season than any other player in the NBA. Under the tutelage of George Karl, a total hardass of a coach who demands the most from his players, demands that his players put their egos aside (if only because his ego trumps all others), demands that the team concept always comes first (this is, of course, a tea concept that revolves around Melo), ‘Melo has become the most well-rounded and unstoppable offensive force in the NBA this season, leading all players with a 31.something PPG average. That, coupled with Melo’s new Nike commercial, which I’ve been saying for weeks is the best NBA commercial of the year so far, perfectly capturing the many faces of the new NBA culture that David Stern would like to show, have contributed to an 180-degree Melo turnabout in his third professional season. Not to pat myself on the back (ok, I will), but I such a turnaround coming before the NBA season started, drafting Melo in the 4th round of my fantasy NBA draft to cries of “Reach! Reach!” echoing throughout the room. I laughed in the face of those non-believers, those heretics, and have been rewarded with Melo’s steady scoring ever since. And then last night happened.

I won’t bother going through every minute detail of last night’s NBA brawl (although I have to say, is it a surprise to anyone that NBA’s biggest fight since the cataclysmic Auburn Hills cagematch involved Isiah Thomas, who allegedly ordered a flagrant foul on any Nuggets player looking to further rub in their double-digit blowout? What a complete idiot). But if one were to make a horriblly misguided analogy between last night’s skirmish and, say, the tsunami in southeast Asia in 2004, Carmelo could have a whole wave of aid organizations devoted to just his actions. See, the main disaster had struck, the brawl’s epicenter had already landed and done its damage (once again, thank you very much Isiah Thomas). Then, Melo decides to flail a nasty haymaker to the side Mardy Collins’ face, and causes a whole series of aftershocks nearly as devestating as the initial disaster itself. And just like that, a whole season of work down the drain (and I’m no longer referring to the tsunami, to be clear). And to think, I almost called Melo my new favorite NBA player? Five years ago, Melo would’ve received maybe a 3-game suspension. But with the Malice at the Palace still far from distant-memory status, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Melo’s suspension reach 10 games, meaning my fantasy NBA team has got a tough two weeks ahead for itself. Well thanks for nothing you punk Carmelo Anthony, looks like winter break is starting a week early for you this year.

So even though I’ve been neglecting the ole bloggy blog for a while, there’s been tons of stuff I’ve wanted to write about (David Stern’s switcheroo on the NBA game ball; the Twolves 4.5 game winning streak, and we’ll go ahead and say the first half of last night’s game in San Antonio counts; my new favorite NBA player—you’ll never guess who!). But really, I can’t avoid it. In one of the busiest weeks of the about quarter-of-the-way completed NBA season, there is one story which matters over all the others. No surprises here, folks: Allen Iverson. Where’s he going? Who’s going to go the new NBA-Siberia, Philadelphia in exchange? Will he make his new team better?

 

Some out there in the NBA message board-o-sphere, on various basketball message boards (and I do sift through more of them than I’d like to admit) have begun to tire of the constant and constantly changing rumors surrounding the ultimate mighty mouse, Allen Iverson. Well I’ll tell ya one thing: I can’t get enough of it. The NBA hasn’t seen this caliber of megastar request a trade since Shaq extended his huge, fat middle finger to the Bryant-Buss-Lakers dynasty. I could spend multiple pages discussing it, but the all-famous Sports Guy, Bill Simmons, already scripted the perfect article about AI’s once-in-a-lifetime-type talent. Players like AI don’t get traded these days in the NBA. His move will have a substantial impact on the rest of the NBA season at least—his new team is going to be dangerous, no doubt about it. And I’ve enjoyed every minute of the trade-AI chaos. I get annoying little butterflies in the pit of my stomach like a little eight year-old girl almost everytime I think about it. I’ve loved following every single stupid, outlandish, intriguing, exciting rumor out there, and that’s because a very good portion of them have involved my beloved Timberwolves.

Well ya know what? I’ve got a prediction for you: Allen Iverson is going to be traded within the next 24 hours. Not enough? In that trade, AI is going to be traded to the Timberwolves. Now I don’t like making predictions very much, I’m much more comfortable with giving petty observations about the nitpicky cultural crap of the NBA that may or may not even have any effect on the physical game of basketball. But when I think about it, it just makes a lot of sense. Here’s why:

 

1. That crazy phone call that ESPN’s Jim Gray made to an Allen Iverson “impostor” during halftime of last Friday night’s ESPN Friday Night NBA game, in which the caller said he “hopes a trade is in the works to the Timberwolves.” I’m not buying it. I think Jim Gray actually talked to Iverson. I mean, I’ve never claimed Gray to be the smartest NBA hype-reporter in the business, but would he really fall for a friggin prank call?
2. There’s reason why such a cover-up could be necessary. NBA teams can be fined $500,000 for breaking a particular rule of the CBA (Collective Bargaining Agreement for NBA players) by completing or conspiring to complete an illegal trade. What would’ve been illegal about a Timberwolves trade that will become legal within the next 24 hours? The most rational trade I can think of the Timberwolves completing with the ‘6ers for AI would send Mike James, Ricky Davis, Randy Foye, and a filler player (most likely Eddie Griffin) to Phily. Ok, at the very least I think it’s going to involve James and Foye. As a free agent signee from the summer’s offseason, Mike James isn’t eligible to be traded until December 15^th, exactly 95 minutes from now. At the stroke of midnight, James can officially become Allen Iverson trade bait.
3. By trading with the Wolves, Philadelphia’s 76ers will get the player they covet the most of any of the myriad potential trade offers or rumors that have been floated: Randy Foye. Foye is a straight-up Phily hero. He spent four years at Villanova, a Phily-area school, and guided their basketball team deep into the NCAA playoffs last year. And the kid is pretty damn good too. 76ers GM Billy King has wanted this kid for a while, expressed tons of interest for him during the NBA Draft. And even though some teams may include better players with more talent or more attractive contracts in their trade proposals than Mike James and Ricky Davis, I fail to see how the “best” trade out there for the 76ers does anything if not net them their most coveted individual player. Read the hundreds of posts on this 76ers message board if you don’t know how much Phily-area fans really want Foye.
4. It just makes sense. KG and AI make so much sense. Short of Kobe Bryant, I struggle to think of a more perfect tag-team partner for KG. The two would complement each other beautifully. NBA critics around the nation want it to happen. Jon Barry, who not three years ago was ready to choke Latrel Sprewell’s throat over the Wolves sudden rise, believes it’s the best possible outcome to the AI saga. ESPN’s head NBA writer Marc Stein wants it to happen. Heck, even some random beat writer in San Antonio came to the same conclusion after watching the Wolves embarrassing second-half swoon in last night’s game. And I’d like to believe that when it comes to complex, earth-shattering NBA events like this, the most rational explanation wins out.

 

Sure, you might think I’m an idiot. Sure, you might just think that I’m a homer who’s naïve enough to fall for some ridiculous internet rumors and make some massive leaps in logic just to believe some self-fulfilling prophecies (to which I would say thank you very much but it is you sir who are the idiot). Well I’ve got news for you, my friend: something about the Twolves true blue-and-green really makes AI’s cornrows sparkle. Just think about it…

So some serious shiznasty has gone down in the NBA world since the last time I posted, which will happen when you don’t post for 10 days. Naturally, we’ll have to get to those very interesting and compelling topics at a later date and time. Of current concern, however, is the Twolves quality win over a quality opponent, the Houston Rockets, a not-too-shabby 90-84 victory for the home team. A couple things of particular note:

- Those NBA refs are a wily bunch. Case in point: Yao Ming, the gentlest 7′5″ beast in the NBA, managed to pick up a technical after dunking over Eddie Griffin, who seems content to only get off the bench for 5 minutes every five games, allowing him just enough playing time to get dunked on by players like the league’s gentlest giant. Initially it seemed the technical was assessed for something Yao said to E-Grif after the dunk, implying that the refs are actually fluent in multiple languages and able to translate Yao’s Chinese-laden trash talk immediately upon its utterance. I mean, how else is one to explain the T? Ahhh but of course, there’s a different explanation to this. Via ESPN.com, we learn Yao received the rebuke “apparently for hanging too long on the rim.” But since Yao tests the laws of gravity with every single step he takes, somehow lifting a massive 89-inch frame off the ground for even long enough to take an actual step, it’s a modern scientific miracle that he can even dunk on a hoop. Well I’m on to you, refs, and so should you be international NBA players– them refs been practicing their foreignspeak.

- So when I moved into my new apartment with two new housemates/old friends, I suddenly became not the only person in possession of a TV at the locale I refer to as home. To be honest, we’ve actually got a surplus of television sets at the new place, with two TVs practically stacked on top of each other in the TV room and a third sitting idly in our “office.” And just so you don’t have to work too hard imagining such an elaborate arrangement, here are a few captures of our luxurious viewing room, with some help from professional male model J-Ban.

The best thing about this setup? We’ll often have more than one NBA game on at one time in the evenings, and occasionally a Game Break highlight clip of the Twolves game I’m watching on one TV sceen will play on the other screen via an FSN broadcast of a different locale. Nothing like seeing on one screen a highlight reel of the game you’re actually watching on the other. Ahh yes, NBA League Pass and two TVs: a powerful trifecta if there ever was one. Surprisingly, watching the same game on two screens seems a bit excessive and redundant. Now someone explain that phenomenon to me.

- Lastly, but not in the least bit unimportant, the family has grown: I finally purchased a new pair of sneakers, breaking a year-plus shoe drought which had my whole footwear collection a bit down in the dumps. A confession: when my interest in sneakers first skyrocketed after the purchase of my gorgeous green and pastel-pink Nike Dunk Lows, I told myself that each new pair of sneakers I bought would be my favorite, better than the last. For a while that theory held up, particularly after the purchase of my brown and orange Adidas at that incredible little Adidas store in Cambridge, MA last Thanksgiving. While I don’t mean to be insulting my new Nike Dunk Low CL Jordan Retro 2’s, which are so simply beautiful, beautifully simple if you will, they definitely do not surpass the Tgiving Adidas. (On a side note, is there a more perfect shoe template than the Nike Dunk Lows?) While these shoes certainly satiate my sneaker appetite for the time being, if you think I’m not going to be looking for another all-star pair of shoes during my trip to NYC over New Years, well, you’ve got another thing coming friend. Here’s a picture of my killer new sneaks for your viewing please:

Notice the fine detail on the shoe, such as my personal favorite touch, the imitation snake-leather design on the side of the shoe that crosses through the swoosh. Additional views (and perhaps more professional shots) can be seen here, here, and here. Needless to say though, I didn’t pay nearly as much as the unbelievable rates those sites have the shoes listed for.

So the NBA under David Stern is trying to remake its public image, trying to cut down on the thuggishruggishbone perception of the NBA, blah blah blah nothing new there. Some teams (or some coaches, rather) seem to be taking Stern’s directives a bit more seriously than others. Scott Skiles of the Chicago Bulls in particular. A little context first: Skiles is an excellent defensive coach, having coached the Bulls to the best team defense last year, and they’re certainly moving in a similar direction again this season. You would think that the Bulls’ biggest free-agent acquisition and four-time Defensive Player of the Year, Ben Wallace, would be all about Skiles’ style then. Funny what losing can do to a team.

Wallace has been a pretty unhappy camper with the Bulls and their 3-9 start (before last night’s victory over the, snicker, Knicks) and the rumors about Skiles and his starting center being at odds have already begun to circulate. So Wallace, never known for being all that reserved, took it upon himself to exercise some civil disobedience, streetball style. Skiles has this rule forbidding any player in a Bulls uni from wearing a headband. So when Wallace decided to openly defy Skiles’ said team ban one night after he played a season-low 20 minutes and recorded no points and no rebounds in a blowout loss to the 76ers, Wallace was pulled only 2 minutes and 2 seconds after tipoff. When Wallace removed the headband with about two and a half minutes left in the first quarter, Skiles promptly re-entered him into the game, and he played for nearly the rest of the half. When Wallace again slyly slipped the headband back on just before the start of the second half, Skiles again immediately benched him, with Skiles again reinserting him back into the lineup within a minute of the removal of the headband for a second time.

And this is where the Skiles-Stern connection comes in. See, David Stern last year decided to eliminate the brandishing of certain superfluous tights and other miscellaneous game equipment, but he has never issued any edicts against headbands. So maybe I’m reading too much into Skiles’ motives here, but how is one supposed to take such a ridiculous rule? Would Skiles have ever pushed for this kind of team rule, say, five years ago, before Stern took it upon himself to whiten up (excuse me, class up) the NBA? The Bulls have no bad reputation to shed like, say, the Portland Trailblazers, so that can’t be it. Some explanation, any explanation would be nice.

The Bulls’ starting point-guard, Kirk Hinrich, had this to say after the game: “We want to make sure everybody is on the same page. Hopefully we will be.” Listen, I’m all about team coordination. If a player on a team ever put on, say, their road jersey for a home game, well, that’s an NBA faux pas to say the least. If Ricky Davis ever decided to break out some yellow shoes to go along with the Wolves true blue-and-green, well let’s not even go there. But Wallace isn’t an idiot, and his red headband even matched the Bulls’ red-and-black home jerseys quite tastefully. Skiles contributed this valuable post-game input on whether he was worried about the growing rift between him and Wallace: “No, I don’t know why. I’m just not.” Something in me just doesn’t want to believe that crap.

Well here’s some commentary on the matter I can believe, the words spoken from Wallace himself: “Man, I don’t care about that. All I know is we got the win.” Wallace is a gamer, he made his point by wearing the headband AND his team still got the win. Of course, nobody knows now how any of this will play out. Maybe Ben Wallace will come out for the next game wearing, like, three headbands and some anklets, and a red-and-black protective facemask just for the hell of it (thank you very much, Rip Hamilton). Either way, I’m pretty certain the days of seeing Ben Wallace let it all hang out (as pictured below) are well over.

The NBA can be such a prude sometimes.

 

 

 

They say you learn something new every day. Well today I learned that aliens prefer datings humanoids over their own kind. How fascinating! The New York Post reports that Sam Cassell and former MTV VJ Ananda Lewis are, like, totally into each other. Not only that, the two are even good friends with comedy legend Eddie Murphy. Oh, to be a member of high society!

Dime-a-Day has obtained some super-duper exclusive pictures of the happy couple out and about on the town. Here’s a picture of Sammy C just moments after getting off the phone with Ms. Lewis planning their first date. Look at how cute and excited the little guy is:

Here’s a picture of the happy couple enjoying an intimate moment:

Uh oh, trouble in paradise?!

Aww, looks like Ananda and Sam made up! And they’re cuter than ever…

Congrats to Sam Cassell on his new dating life. We wish him the best of luck in this and all future romantic endeavors.