Boom-Dizzle Dropped a Dime on the Jazz: The 2012 Impact of Golden State's Stunning 2007 Upset of Dallas

Out West, the #8 Utah Jazz face a gigantic challenge versus Tony Parker's rejuvenated and #1-seeded Spurs. Brian T. Smith's excellent article for The Salt Lake Tribune shows that it may be easier for David to slay Goliath when some once-fallen Goliaths are now slinging shots for underdog's side.

Satellite of Love & Basketball: Photo Arrangements by Artist Jenny Odell

Jenny Odell's Google satellite collection "Every Basketball Court in Manhattan" via sbhb

Words with Friends has no respect for my crossover.

Double Venom

Art Director must have been frothing at the fang to have produced so on-point a "Black Mamba" visual, inspired by Kobe's new kicks.

Thought the Viper was simply boring us...

...with an unmitigated flow of legalese describing the deepening rift between former Knick Charles Smith and the National Basketball Retired Players Association.

But when Post readers finally arrive at story's end, all is revealed as deadpan prelude to Vecsey's kicker: "There's something to be said, I suppose, for a man who never seems to tire of getting blocked."

Ode to The Truth

O Paul, where are all your other rings?
Dude was wrong about a couple things
It came back to the city of angels, now the fat lady sings
Show's over, Show Time got over, better luck next spring

Pierce is an 'and one' artist, so L.A. got, to guard this

Fearless not flawless, Queensbridge's hardest,

He's to a fault, honest but when he's on it's

Raw regardless. Congrats, Ron Artest

A test defending champs passed, the final exam

Extra credit points to Phil Jackson's plan

Breathe as one, even Kobe be just one man

To repeat, many rose in turn and learned to stand

Big Spain's inside tips and turnaround swish

3rd game's massive 4th quarter from D-Fish

Odom owed em, and showed em he can finish

Team D slowed em, we all know what we witnessed

So Paul, we're in awe of your one ring
Some legends end up never winning
But Boston's had so many true kings
The Truth? The cost of this loss must sting

It Ain't All About Me #3

summer's first sunset blessed
today's blacktop lesson beyond introspection


young bro' showed & proved
a few steps slow for our pace of competition
yet, due to unprecedented intermission
(hectic cell phone interruption)
down 5, we had a discussion.
he asked what we gotta do
i'm like "you just be you,
but talk to us on D, they ain't pickin' you
so we ain't switchin';
no help on yr man
unless you holler, unnerstand?"
glad we got a new plan,
i caught my breath


checked the evening's signs,
selected an inspiration in season
summoning jackie gleason
(in the hustler,
you know the reason)


lunacy or did it seem to me
the daydream made the tides sway
this-a-way, and when Big Ray
got off his call, 4-on-4 was recouped
I said "men, let's play some hoop."
we lost that game, then won a deuce
i considered the test's truth,
later on when i was mellow
centered on the young fellow
whose pride highs and lows flipped
the moment his man got past him, then damn
his head hang down to his hand.
Nah bring it again fam
recover quick
when you get crossed up or mixed
don't trip on top of it,
talk and claw your way back into it
that team D,
seems to me,
got a chip for the Big 3



photo: Hoopedia

Hoop Haiku #2

Halfcourt? Slick streetball legend
(in my head). Fullcourt
I hang back on D instead.

[photo by Manabe]

Crossover Dream #1

Retraced repeatedly just at the surface of my subconscious
A mantra of moves visualized to a tee my handles is me

On the baseline, the rock in my right hand

Scooped forth in a sly spinning bounce from the back

But mix it up from the first step: my left foot attacks,

Swings across, slices an angle in my pivot, i'm with it

Facing away from the foul line i crouch and get mine, let

Long fingers sweep a dribble low behind my feet

I don't mind if he reach, that ball's mine i can tease

Then snap it back across my front, chest-high

In a quick, tight revolution not televised

Park prime time be gone in a flash so get wise

I'm at the rim just like that, finish nice, got that

April Pools

[photo by miniluxalex]

The prohibitive mist which slicked the Carroll Park courts when I got off the subway was countered by the buoyancy of a decidedly warming humid evening. Perfect weather to get loose.

An effective enough argument that I sized up the twenty minute gap of free time I had as ample opportunity to ask the lone figure shooting around if I could join him for a few shots. When the court's wet--particularly the painted part, which in this instance is everything inside the three-point arc--the body naturally wants to take baby steps, and consequently it's hard for one to get much of a workout, let alone build a rhythm, shooting hoops alone. So assuming Shooting Stranger here was interested in getting his money's worth in court time, I wasn't just asking to play, I was offering my rebounding services. At a tremendous value, I might add.

But the point, not just my point but the point, is to build that rhythm, isn't it? The spins, the tracings of footwork.

On this particular evening, the movements invoked included slower, hypergliding shifts in direction, balanced to let the ball go just gracefully enough to not cause the shooter or passer to keel over in a slick-sneakered squall. Finger-rolls off the glass, especially the Gervin-esque, english-laden variety I usually favored, were useless against this weather; no spin intended to guide a carom off the backboard would grip the wet surface. Flatter, more basic bank shots were found far more effective. After about fifteen minutes or so, the two of us had made other such adjustments, and were into a beautiful rhythm all its own.

So when I left the court after not much longer, my body and spirit had gotten a great deal of the benefits basketball provides. Forced to focus on correct form so as not to injure ourselves, while having to use our heads and physical intelligence to employ that form in accordance with our environment, just going through the motions of a shoot-around never felt better.

For the love of...?

Last nite's basement-battle between the Knicks and Heat was far from a thrill, and despite going to OT, didn't lift me out of the ephemeral doldrums with nearly the positive effect of, say, today's Mutts.

What did elicit some interest, however, was that MSG's broadcast provided me my first chance to watch Miami guard Chris Quinn play for 40 minutes, which is oh, 30 or 35 more than I'd been accustomed to seeing in the box scores beside his name over the course of his two NBA seasons. As a few folks have noticed this morning, the Heat are knee-deep in implementing a "rebuilding" strategy that involves introducing fans to some less-than-household names. Would-be D-Leaguers, not only giving New York's finest a solid run for their money, but getting a better shot than most players in their position to demonstrate why they belong in the same rarified air as the NBA's many millionaire athletes.

Quinn had been in my radar ever since I saw him in action a little over two years ago, against Marquette at Notre Dame's Joyce Center. My empathy for his game may seem like your standard Irish-alum fanaticism, but I felt more simpatico for the fact that at just over six feet and 170 lbs (he's since bulked up to 185), I was watching a player with approximately my physical attributes with a chance to make it big.

Two years later, and Quinn's still collecting a little under $700K, and occasionally even outscoring strict gunner Ricky Davis (who makes almost exactly ten times Quinn's contract). Though it's not all about money, the difference between Quinn and Davis is not nearly as interesting to me as the difference between Quinn and say, Garry Hill-Thomas, a former Nevada standout who, after dominating various leagues in New Zealand, Venezuela and other distant shores, has returned to the vicinity in the humblest of triumphs, getting picked up by the Utah Flash of the NBDL earlier this year. 

My experience watching Hill-Thomas in action is in fact limited to summer league play; the SF Pro City games played just off the panhandle provided ample material to convince me that at a moment's notice GHT has the skills and will to take over a game. At 6'4", however, his powerful small forward approach runs into trouble matching up against the upper echelon employed in that position professionally. I believe he can conquer the odds and spend some time in the NBA, driven by the same internal fortitude which helped him lead his East Bay squad to consecutive championships, in 2004 and 2005, against Pro City's 5%NBA/50%NCAA YayArea best. I think Garry Hill-Thomas believes it too, and that's why he's been at this relentlessly the past several years, regardless of the time zone.

Heel Holler: 23

Not exactly a commissioned work, but a UNC alum and
good friend, Rod, requested some fightin words in step with
his feelings in advance of tomorrow night’s  classic rivalry:
[p.s., post loss: Get’ em next time, Rod!]
[p.p.s., post-ACC tourney revenge: Poem or prophecy?
Them freshmen remind me of the A's rookies]

Look out, ya shook up Dukies
Your season so far is a fluke, see
You got the late calls, but in truth
I think them refs got seduced
Or maybe Coach K's credit card deals
Bought some special interest! The Heels
At any rate will check ya
And after Reddick gets rejected
Your whole O will be divested
Sure your big guy seems a savage
When he's got a height advantage
But Shelden's got brick hands, no
He can't hang with Tyler Hansbrough
Or pick off Bobby Frasor's
Passes accurate like lasers
You might lose but even worse
Your alumni wear a curse,
Yeah Dickie V tries to care
But yr boys don't go anywhere
Carolina's youth fly high
Cause of their future's brighter skies
Light blue's victory is clinched
When Krzyzewski's face gets all pinched.

Get the Rebound

I made a trip down to the Rucker tournament in Harlem at 155th, that mecca of streetball where the EBC classic now retraces the footwork and legendary walks on air of Wilt, Dr. J, and Connie Hawkins. I'd never been, so I took the B train up one afternoon, early enough to beat the crowds at the entrance's metal detector.

After the 5pm women's game came down to a thrilling close, announcer Al Cash, still not tired of the nickname-bestowing-play-by-play he'd been parlaying, pacing the sidelines for an hour, asked if there were any out-of-towners. I played it cool, and shouldn't have-- I'd like to think my moment in the sun would have come had I gotten to test handles against either the Ohio kid or the local named "Chunky" selected to play one-on-one.

But no, my fate would be different.

My large white tee may have made me feel appropriately clad for the venue, but still left a lot of pale skin on display. The announcer soon walked up and looking square in my eyes asked "--and what's your deal, man? you ain't from around here."

All eyes and ears are now on our convo. Asked what I did I said "writer." So I must know a little poetry?, he pushes. I let "sure" come out in response, trying to recant as he says "then come out here and give us a little poetry!"

"I meant POULTRY" I protested, but no dice, the gig was up. At center court he made fun of me a little ["you're sure you want to leave your bag on the sidelines? This is Harlem, pal...So, you must have come to town today to buy drugs, yes?"] then handed me the mic in order to read a poem. With ESPN2 camera in my face, and what seemed a thousand more onlookers in the stands, I recited the only poem I had memorized, one I wrote a long time ago:

"Missed" 2.8.93

The genius tramps a heavy trail
picks up flowers on her way
without words for what she's gathered
or time to wonder why
no need
even under jealous leer
she knows
looming round the bend bloom more
while those now relishing her grasp
only hope for a bit of handcrafted
upheaval in her wake

A poem which means a lot to me, but does not rhyme, nor did it really capture this particular moment. What did hold the audience's attention was my hand, quivering as it held the mic. Nevertheless, I got through it, our emcee prompted the crowd to give me a hand for "showing some heart" and the young kids near my bleacher seat proudly handed me my bag as I returned to my seat: "Here Pete! You dropped your pen, Pete!" A positive enough experience, if humbling.

Thing is, as the DJ kicked the music back into gear (where had my beats been, bro?) my mind raced with [plu]perfect responses. The rest of the night I couldn't even watch the men's games. Junie "GE" Sanders and Black Wall Street fast broke the competition on their way to what would prove to be a championship run, but I was just mumbling to myself as obsessively as if I had a syndrome. By the time I left the courts, though, I had the rough outline of the "Rucker Suite" posted below. As the experience still resonates through my imagination, I offer as well an evolved version of my original Rucker mic offering:

"Missed" Remixed 8.18.5

It was blank verse, a bass solo, nothing too loud
I rewrote it full of flow, more apropos for a crowd
Its meaning always clear but the rhythm was hidden
Now syncopated recreated so you all will feel let in

The first line observant of individual force
“The genius tramps a heavy trail”--visionaries change our course
Imperfection and invention make their impact on all
The next line points more specifically to those in the thrall
“picks up flowers on her way”--you ever fall in love
With a brilliant mind that answered to some call from above?
Or marched to a different drummer, a different beat than you ever felt
Them folks can move mountains & make your scenery melt
Or build a new technology that sweeps you along
They makin’ all the money while I’m singing a song
Their effect on you is something they’d rather not heed
“without words to wonder which or time to think of why, no need”
Another's individual import as a topic is blurry
Each creates their own destiny, but don’t even worry
“even under jealous leer she knows”--you’re born you die, the story goes
Don’t overestimate your heroes or demonize your foes
“looming round the bend bloom more”—but our genius ain’t overwhelmed
'Fact we respect their poise so much we say, you take the helm,
As “those relishing her grasp” we “only hope” for fifteen minutes
Cause these tidal waves are fun to ride, their swell, hell, it’s infinite
“a bit of handcrafted upheaval in her wake” is our glory
Those few moments we’re little stars in the whole crazy story

That’s why we say ‘What up god?’, we respect the power
Any man feeling bad enough can bring our final hour
Or give us reason to live, a new way to see light
The intense ones are tricky, some strangers want to fight
But the genius in them is sure to rock your world
If you’re paying attention a new path will unfurl
And you’ll be walking down a heavy trail of your own
You made an impact right back--2 geniuses got thrown

Rucker Park Suite 7.20.5

The EBC Blues

I never thought rhymin’ at Rucker would be a cinch
And the first time out, I admit, I flinched
The mic shook in my hand so much it looked like live fish
I’m not cryin or tryna be on some kinda pride ish
I was glad because at least I tried this
But on the matter of my skin, emcee teased me
Called me “Caspar the Friendly Ghost,” awful cheesy
Took the cliché route, no doubt easy:
White boy uptown? Must be down for something sleazy
Came to Harlem for the drugs? Nah, brother please see
I’m wise, besides them ends are beneath me
See, I moved here from the Yay—may I teach thee?
Northern Cali’s valleys tally fine qualities :
365 a year its chill and you feel breezy
Kids got hyphy 'cause they bump that E-Feezy
In Oaktown Roscoe cooks chicken and waffles, greasy!
And the 415 is where you drive to get the trees, B

I know the A’s tend to start a lot of rookies,
Still their winnin’ streaks freak out all the bookies
A few more lines? I’ll give you time, you look shook G
A vegan eats no fish—do not bite my hooks please
On the court, call me “Monster”—I get the cookies
Not “Caspar.” Dude, you've been a wonderful host
Maybe you should sit down, you're starting to look like that ghost
With your name, why'd you ask me to open my mouth?
Al Cash, if you got smoked they'd call you "all cashed out."

Joe-No-Lino

I’d like to leave, when I’m done, in one piece
So I’ll stop here to say: one love, one peace
Then stay on point this here joint's about EBC
Flashback to a recap last year on TV
A game Terror Squad won, they were getting interviewed
No Stephon, just them lower profile dudes
Who got nice game, but just the same, outside the hood
Ain’t household names—it’s only fame, it’s all good
Anyway, here they are on the televised tip,
But before a word drops from their lips
Their manager bum rushed, man I started to trip!
In fact from where I sat, it looked like a total eclipse
He was crowding all the shots while his men stood in back
Waving his three fingers—y'all remember that?
Now this man has skills I certainly lack
Business acumen, promotional tools, cash in stacks
And face time? Every hour BET spins his tracks
But Joe, when your hoop bros give their minutes, 15, a crack
Homeslice, take your own advice, “Lean Back!”