Dumpster Divin'

We here at No Regard love Photoshop. We love it so much that occasionally in the process of cooking up a hot jpeg we forget to put in the words. (A picture is worth a bunch of those, right?) Here is a glimpse at what might have been, assuming we weren't such lazy assholes.

No matter how many times my Texan roommate told me this first round series was going to be great, I just couldn't do it.

You Can't Win If You Don't Play

Tuesday night in Brooklyn, I could hear the distant groans of at least six other writers from this blog. Being a Knicks fan, I had nothing at stake in the draft lottery. But for most of my compatriots here, that evening's festivities must have held a certain amount of nervous optimism.

So what went wrong? Well, the problem here is this: the only thing that went wrong is shitty luck and unfriendly gravity. And whereas one might think a practice that relies solely on chance would inherently be filled with suspense, the lottery, even for those with something at stake, always feels so underwhelming.

Please don't get me wrong. I love the NBA Draft. In fact, it might be my favorite night of sports programming of the whole year. Therefore, I should love the lottery for its role as a lead-in, no? Maybe in some years. But sure as shit not in a year when the 1-2-3 order is insanely predictable and the rest of the draft is occupied by even more no-names than any year I can remember.

That said, there are a few things that could really enliven draft night, besides drinking boilermakers all night with my fellow No Regarders:

-The Wizards or Sixers dropping jaws by selecting Derrick Favors. There is about a 1% chance that this will happen, as John Wall and Evan Turner are pretty much already looking for homes in the Washington DC and Philadelphia metro areas. But honestly, I don't see either one of them making as much of an impact in the East as Favors. Dude has got that kind of rawness and born-for-the-league athleticism that could make a team a contender now. Or he's a bust with a huge injury risk. How should I know? I am not Zoltar.

-Stanley Robinson falling to the Knicks in the second round. He can jump out the gym, and I think he's one of the more physically mature guys in the whole draft. Plus, with a nickname like "Sticks", I get the feeling he and Wilson Chandler might have some things in common.

-Tiny Gallon's name being repeated as often as possible and inspiring a conversation on the relationship between hyperbole and irony.

Bibby's World: In Regards to Being Touched

Don't know how we locked this down, but we'd like to introduce you to No Regard's newest blogging sensation... Mike Bibby! He'll be checking in whenever he can, just to remind us: It's Bibby's World, we just live in it!

Today, I would like to discuss the very serious topic of personal space. By now, I'm sure many of you have seen this video that involves the mistreatment of my personal space:

A lot of my fans have asked me, "Mike, what is your problem? Are you homophobic? Do you hate Josh Smith? Do you have a shoulder problem? Is the back of your head as soft as that of a baby?" My initial response is usually, "Ha Ha Ha." As in SARCASM.

But I'm here to put all the speculation to rest.

My problem isn't with male-on-male physical contact. Heck, me and Coach's backyard Airsoft battles usually turn into heated wrestling matches in the tall grass by day's end. And I'll be the first one to say that you're not friends with someone unless you're comfortable with being touched by them. So that's not my problem.

My problem is with rubbing. I don't like being rubbed. I didn't like being rubbed as a baby, I didn't like being rubbed in summer camp, and I certainly don't like being rubbed by Josh Smith and that god forsaken Zaza Pachulia.

So to all you incredible fans out there who got the wrong idea:

Relax - I don't think that Josh is gay or that being gay is wrong. I just think that rubbing is gay.

Six-Foot Turkey

Rajon Rondo can smell fear, of this I am certain. As a Nets fan it's tough to grapple with success. (We don't get to see it often.) It is especially tough to watch a man in green ascend to the upper-echelons of the League. For four years now the young Celtic has been making his case for greatness. My denial has been deep and my defense mechanisms numerous, but no longer can I contain the harrowing thought that the short kid with the beady-eyes might actually be the Harbinger of Doom.

I ignored his rookie year, writing him off as another punk guard prone to scowling and flopping. I scorned the little bastard for lucking into the only open spot on a historic starting roster, an unworthy fourth banana living in the shadow of three towers. I scoffed at his first attempts to take a leadership role on a team with Kevin Garnett. Mostly I've watched him and giggled at his curious resemblance to a baby dinosaur. The problem of course with baby dinosaurs is that they get big. And damn is Rondo growing.

The decision to write off the aging Celtics as a playoff threat this year was nearly unanimous. I myself was certain that the team would be about as healthy as a Bill Walton foot by the time the post season rolled around. The assumption was that the fossils would crumble and Ubuntu would be no more. Sure Garnett, Pierce, Allen and Wallace are not the players they were five years ago, but there's new blood in the pack. He's sharp and fast and mean and quite possibly telekinetic, like those velociraptors in Jurassic Park 3.

What is so impressive about Rondo is not just that he's good, but that he's so good. Let's face it, Rondo beat LeBron. I know, I know, it wasn't just Rondo. Doc's Green Machine beat the perennially uncoached LeBron and Sidekicks, but Rondo was the life force, the battery, the pacemaker keeping that incredible, experienced, occasionally senile organization running.

Rondo's trajectory thus far is nothing short of meteoric. Perhaps he's a product of his environment. Working out with all-stars everyday, apprenticing with some of the game's best minds, constantly curbing monolithic hubris to fit in, there could be no better situation for a promising young player to grow into a greatness. Talk about the Big Three all you like, but as of this past week, Rondo has stolen the heart of this team, or perhaps he's inherited it. Either way, he keeps it beating.

Watching Rondo traipse down the yellow brick road makes me hurt for the young players who aren't so lucky, who are picked apart by the flying monkeys and left for dead. It makes me wonder what will become of John Wall, a once-in-a-decade talent likely to be sentenced to serve on the 2011 Washington Wizards, a team so toxic it might prove barren to life for decades. More than anything Rondo's waltz toward the Emerald City puts a knot in my stomach. For long after this nightmare of the Big Three has fossilized, the monster they call Rage will be lurking right up the road in Boston. And he'll be hungry.

Anyone down for a friendly game of horse?

I assure you, the horses are real, the players are real and yes, that man's moustache is the really real deal.



I can provide you with little to no actual information about these photographs. So instead, I'm just going to present a bunch of statements that may or may not be (but definitely are) true facts.

• These photos were taken in 1908. FACT
• Horseketball was a real sport. FACT
• Letting go of your horse's reigns while going after the ball was considered traveling. FACT
• That man has a better moustache than you or Phil Jackson could ever even dream of growing. FACT
• Horseketball is one thousand times more badass than polo. FACT
• Both teams wore identical outfits, so sides were determined by horse color. FACT
• Like in chess, white goes first. FACT

• A ghostly white aura appeared, invisible to the naked eye, but captured here on film, around each player who scored a point in Horseketball. FACT
• John Stossel's beloved "20/20" segment "Give Me a Break" was regularly filmed in the same exact space nearly 100 years after these photographs were taken. FACT
• Horsketball referees were so formidable they didn't even need whistles. Instead, they brought gameplay to a screeching halt with only their lofty pointer fingers. FACT
• Breaches in the rules were not fouls, but foals. FACT
• That was punny. FACT
  
• Horses smell bad. FACT

Precipice of Whatever

We at No Regard love the New Jersey Nets: About 1/3 of us grew up in NJ and/or live there now, and the rest have adopted the state as their spirit animal. We consider the 2007-2008 season magical because one of us had season tickets and we got to watch J-Kidd give up in person. Anyway, we're close to New Jersey's lost children, so we know what we're talking about. And believe me when I say:

This was the best season ever to be a Nets fan. Oh just relax. I have my reasons.

Each Win Was Euphoric.
Yes, those first 18 losses in 18 games weren't easy to sit through, but after win number one? Kiki's Delivery Service (trademark) took the notion of "no expectations/no pressure" to an entirely new place. Once they secured that worst out-the-gate record, every loss was a familiar face and each win was delicious gravy. That Saturday afternoon Celtics win was New Year's Eve, the first bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a Flaming Lips concert rolled into one smorgasbord of happy. In all the years since those two Jason Kidd-led finals runs, Nets fans have been faced with constant underachieving and disappointment. This year, though, we reverted back to what Nets fans are supposed to be: Sad people with a very measured expectation of our team's limits.

The Kidd-Jefferson-Vinsanity era was a painful purgatory; this year the four horsemen of the apocalypse were played by Kiki, Devin Harris, Bruce Ratner and the ghost of Lawrence Frank; and next year is said to be the rapture.

The Promise of Next Season.
Each loss carried with it the largest of all caveats: Next year will bring a high draft pick, a savior free agent and a tall Russian man with $8 billion ushering in a future filled with gold toilets and championship rings. For this one season, all Nets fans got to ignore the probable reality of next season: Overpaying for Rudy Gay or Joe Johnson, Demarcus Cousins' starring role as Derrick Coleman 2.0 and Prokorov pissing off every tangible coaching candidate by offering the mirage of Coach K $12 million... then $15 million, then $17 million.

So yes, I'm worried about next season. As established, I'm a Nets fan: Optimism has no place in my psyche and disappointment could start tonight with the draft lottery. Do I worry that tonight will be the first of many instances when Nets beat writers are forced to write those dreaded "Yeah, this isn't what we wanted, but there's a silver lining" stories? Absolutely. Derrick Favors means nothing to me.

But then, as if the Russian could read minds, owner Mikhail Prokhorov showed up at either my grandmother's old house or the clubhouse at Augusta National Golf Club to record this message:




He may be magic. Let's hope so.

Bibby's World: The Best Thing Ever by Mike Bibby

Don't know how we locked this down, but we'd like to introduce you to No Regard's newest blogging sensation... Mike Bibby! He'll be checking in whenever he can, just to remind us: It's Bibby's World, we just live in it!





Hey Internet World! It's me, Mike Bibby, making my very first blog entry!

To first address the 500 lb gorilla in the room, I would like to say that getting swept by the Orlando Magic in Round 2 of the playoffs was unfortunate. Not so much in the way of me personally wanting to win the Championship, but the loss has been quite tough on my teammates, so that's no fun. Actually, to be quite honest, I was getting kind of tired of all the games. In my opinion, each game of the playoffs should have a different variation on the sport. So, like, Game 1 is just normal basketball BUT Game 2 is like a round of Horse or Around The World or even Bowling or whatever. If that were the case, I think it'd be a lot less boring. But people are afraid of change, so what's the point in even getting heated about it.

Anyway, since the 'ousting' of my team, as the news media likes to call it, I've had a lot of free time on my hands. Not only that, but since the laying off of our coach Mike Woodson, he and I have had the chance to spend more time together as friends. He's a guy that I've wanted to hang out with for some time now, and let me just say, it's been sensational. Since our game 4 defeat, we've been on a week-long bender of quality time: drinking mojitos in our pajamas, frisbee scrimmages, and playing the Starcraft 2 Beta for literally 16 hours straight. We've let absolutely nothing get in the way of our happiness and have found wonder and amazement in even the smallest of places. Which brings me to the point of this post: The New Dominos Pizza Recipe!



Wow!

To bring back what I said before about people being afraid of change, I would like to say to those people, "GET OVER IT!" Between The New Dominos Pizza Recipe, touch screen phones and Barack Obama, I think we've proven that change is good! A garlic-herb seasoning, mozzarella with a hint of provolone, and a bolder tomato sauce with a red pepper kick?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? Coach and I have eaten, like, a billion of these things in the past 6 days alone. They go great with EVERYTHING, from fishing to just hanging out on a Saturday morning to Ryan Reynolds movie marathons (Van Wilder + X-Men Origins: Wolverine + Smokin' Aces BACK TO BACK TO BACK! I dare you to beat that!).


Excellent.

I know some of you are thinking to yourselves, "Mike, are you crazy? It's just pizza!" But I'm not crazy. I'm passionate about a lot of things in my life (break dancing movies, Mr. Pibb, my Zune - THEY'RE BETTER THAN IPODS, PEOPLE!!!, castles, pre-washed jeans, etc.) but the thing that takes the number one spot for me is pizza, and Dominos has found a way to make that thing absolutely perfect. It's not just better, it's PERFECT. Don't take my word for it; try it for yourself! Oh, and uh... You're welcome, World!

I leave you folks with this saying I just came up with:

If you can't enjoy the little things, then there's something wrong with your big picture. Don't be afraid to dream big. But just remember, your dreams will come true if they are small enough!

- Mike

And now, the funniest thing I've ever seen:

CLICK ME

Morning After Pill

There are days I wake up knowing things are not as they were. The curtain is pulled away and I'm able to see something as it really is for the first time. That which I had accepted as fact, is suddenly and instantly false.

LeBron James will not be competing for the 2009-2010 NBA Championship.

That thought hit me like a Jermaine O'neal shot to the face this morning. I staggered out of bed, couldn't remember how to put my pants on. (Was it left foot first?) I'll admit it, I was depressed. Not because a I'm a diehard 'Bron fan, (though I sorta am) nor because the lack of ring on Mike Brown's finger effected my day-to-day life, just depressed because I was wrong.

Days like today make me realize that I am young, arrogant, and not as informed as I think I am. They also make me realize that I watch too many movies. Someone tells me the set-up of a story and I know exactly where it's going. I don't think I know where it's going, I don't make an educated guess, I just know. Well congratulations League, last night you showed me Sixth Sense.

I couldn't love it more.

All season I have known LeBron would be in the Finals. I snorted at the off-season moves Orlando made, ignored Rondo's ascension to Jedi-status, and yawned at Nash's season-long, Sisyphean struggle to push his boulder of a team up the hill to the playoffs. And now, after six months of ignorant assumptions that Delonte West would fill his guitar case with the O'Brien trophy instead of his sawed-off, I realize what I've been missing. Without my LeBron blinders on, I can see that there is an awful lot of cool shit in this league.

The next two weeks are wide open. How fucking cool is that?