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.
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.
Puke + Cry
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 monstrously sympathetic, most 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.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Shadows on the Sun
I must admit that I have slightly mixed feelings about the Timberwolves 117-107 victory over the Suns on Wednesday night. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for the Wolves; they’ve officially got their first winning streak of the year and in the last week they’ve gone 2-1 against three playoff teams (and really, they should’ve won that third one). Things are really looking up and Randy Foye isn’t even scrimmaging yet. But—and I realize that this is a rather embarrassing thing to say about sports for a grown man who, you know, reads books and stuff—I have a deep and emotional investment in the Phoenix Suns. This next bit right kind of turned into a bit of a digression. If you don’t really care what I lose sleep over (totally understandable), you can just skip this section and go straight to the part where I actually, like, talk about the game.
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 up 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 behind-the-back left handed pass to a teammate standing, magically, all alone under the hoop. Nash was the only Sun who seemed to accord with a traditional archetype: that of the point guard/floor general, the playmaker who, through his uncanny logic and vision, enables the entire process
A few years on, it’s become apparent that the Suns were always a bit more conventional and systematic than most thought. In fact—as it is, finally, 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). It’s basic basketball: the pick-and-roll, ball movement, the well-spaced floor and consistent, 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 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 between 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 fulfill ends both pragmatic, communal (i.e. wins) and also aesthetic or personal—little trifles like, y’know, joy or 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 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 the cult of quantifiable success is invincible, but I think it would be a tragedy of this group 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.
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 complacence (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 lack of effort, or the Wolves’ tenacity, or a combination) translated directly into points for the Wolves, 26 to be exact.
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 a baseline spin move 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 not on 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 playing point guard. Barbosa is incredibly fast and a dynamic scorer, 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 shaky stretch when Nash sits but against Minnesota the hole was too deep and they just weren’t able, or willing to expend the defensive effort. Nonetheless, this was a huge accomplishment for the Wolves and especially for Jefferson. In the fourth quarter, when Phoenix looked ready to make a final push, when their offense finally began to flow, finding easy threes and dunks, it was Jefferson’s commanding play that held them off.
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 up 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 behind-the-back left handed pass to a teammate standing, magically, all alone under the hoop. Nash was the only Sun who seemed to accord with a traditional archetype: that of the point guard/floor general, the playmaker who, through his uncanny logic and vision, enables the entire process
A few years on, it’s become apparent that the Suns were always a bit more conventional and systematic than most thought. In fact—as it is, finally, 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). It’s basic basketball: the pick-and-roll, ball movement, the well-spaced floor and consistent, 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 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 between 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 fulfill ends both pragmatic, communal (i.e. wins) and also aesthetic or personal—little trifles like, y’know, joy or 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 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 the cult of quantifiable success is invincible, but I think it would be a tragedy of this group 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.
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 complacence (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 lack of effort, or the Wolves’ tenacity, or a combination) translated directly into points for the Wolves, 26 to be exact.
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 a baseline spin move 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 not on 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 playing point guard. Barbosa is incredibly fast and a dynamic scorer, 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 shaky stretch when Nash sits but against Minnesota the hole was too deep and they just weren’t able, or willing to expend the defensive effort. Nonetheless, this was a huge accomplishment for the Wolves and especially for Jefferson. In the fourth quarter, when Phoenix looked ready to make a final push, when their offense finally began to flow, finding easy threes and dunks, it was Jefferson’s commanding play that held them off.
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