IYSSSS is our semi-regular Internet intelligence report, a liberal arts approach to following the NBA on the Web. E-mail us at jewsforjesusshuttlesworth@gmail.com if you've got any suggestions.
FreeDarko: Photographic proof that there is more to Kobe than any of us know.
DraftExpress on YouTube: Let's all just remember to revisit these draft prospect interviews five years from now. Someone in Cousins' camp obviously told him he needs to act mature, but seems like he mixed up maturity with somberness; dude looks plain sad. But biggest lesson here: THESE GUYS ARE KIDS (except John Wall).
Robin Lopez Twitter: If you're wondering if Fropez had anything to say about his strong playoff performance on Twitter, I'll save you the time: He didn't. But reading his most recent tweet, from March 24, is well worth your time.
Slam Magazine: Z's thoughts on Mike Brown's exit just reinforce his stigma as the kindest man in the world. And Stan Van Gundy is also what he always is: Saucy and a little misguided.
True Hoop: [Affects Hubie Brown voice] Henry Abbott is the best NBA journalist we have in this game, and Greg Oden is the most heartbreaking player. Watching him talk about Durant is debilitating.
Of course it can be said that any basketball team will be at a disadvantage if they go into a matchup having to face a team they were not expecting. This just makes sense. What I can't help but to wonder now, as the Orlando Magic hobble back home after narrowly avoiding a sweep, is whether there is a special kind of disadvantage when a team wrongly expects to face the best player in the world.
To think of the kind of psychological buildup necessary to prepare for LeBron James is to understand what it means to pit yourself up against the weight of the world. It must go beyond merely assigning yourself the self-inspiring underdog status and become the sort of feeling that allows a complete sense of freedom from external pressures. Think about it. If, as I had predicted, the Magic were playing the Cavs in these Eastern Conference Finals, they would have been going in as the team that no one would expect to win, even though they had been on a tremendous tear leading up to the point.
Instead, they have gone into this series with the Celtics as perhaps favorites, and if not that, a team without any real psychological footing. The Celtics do not offer the sort of drama off of which a team like the Magic could feed. Despite their success over the past few years, they do not give a team like the Magic those performance-enhancing butterflies. They never gave Orlando a chance to shock the world, because no matter what happened this series, it likely wouldn't have really shocked very many people.
The pragmatic way of looking at this is to say, "The Celtics offer tougher all-around matchups than the Cavs would have," or "Rondo is a caliber of point guard Orlando had not yet faced these playoffs, nor would they have faced in Mo Williams," or "Boston is just such an experienced team!" These are the things people are saying, no?
But, really, it seems just as likely to me that this performance by Orlando--which, I promise, has been far more disappointing than what it would have been against Cleveland--may have an explanation that lies in something less tangible: the tragedy of broken promises, the burden of misplaced expectations, and the robbery of the all-too valuable role as giant-killer.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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:
IYSSSS is our semi-regular Internet intelligence report, a liberal arts approach to following the NBA on the Web. E-mail us at jewsforjesusshuttlesworth@gmail.com if you've got any suggestions.
