Eulogy of Brandon Roy

The Mavericks win over the Trailblazers in Portland last night ended the Blazers' season.  But with Brandon Roy's knees making him mostly a footnote to the Blazers now, I worry that much more has been lost, and much more has ended.  In this series against the Mavericks, the Blazers were a Brandon Roy shy of winning.  They may always be a Brandon Roy shy.

I didn't know much about him when he first came into the league.  By appearance, he seemed like little more than a standard 6'6" shooting guard.  To an extent, it's true that he's standard, in that he's never been the quickest player, or the best jumper, or even the best shooter, but Roy quickly became unignorable.  Though it was subtle, Roy definitely had the Jordan-quality: a command of the game, sometimes just through presence.  His stats were good, not phenomenal, but Roy's greatest stat is his win percentage.  That's what he does better than he does anything else: wins. 

Before this year, I thought for sure the Blazers would one day win a championship with Roy leading them, even without Oden in the mix.  Then Roy came back from surgery this February, and I thought this year might be the Blazers' last chance to win a championship, period.  I watched this last series against the Mavericks with the understanding that it would be Roy's last playoffs—or at least his last playoffs in which he was still recognizable, to some extent, as Brandon Roy.

It was obvious that he was limited physically, especially on defense.  Still, I thought the Blazers had a better chance with Roy, even if he was playing limited minutes.  Because he's the type of a player with an aura.  A guy whose teammates respect him more than anybody else does.  The type of guy, like a Willis Reed (or even a Mateen Cleaves, if you will), whose mere presence makes a profound difference in his team's subconscious. 

Game four is one of the best games I've ever seen.  Brandon Roy almost single-handedly erased a 23-point fourth quarter by scoring 18 fourth quarter points to win the game.  He was more than aura on that night.  He was bordering on supernatural.  This was Brandon Roy's greatest game.  And maybe the last great game he will ever play.  Knowing Roy's character—a humble, team-first player to the core—he would say he was just trying to do whatever he had to do to help the team win.  But I think that maybe game four was Brandon Roy's swan song.  Like he played that game, not like a wounded animal, but like a beautiful bird with still a little flight left, to give us a lasting memory of how great he was.

There's no bigger Brandon Roy fan than me.  His injury, if it has the ramifications that the experts say it will, is truly, truly heartbreaking.  Because it's so difficult for me to accept that such a beyond great player, with such profound competitive fire, intellect, and humility, was cursed with such horrible knees.  A player as true as Brandon Roy deserved better knees.  If there's one thing Brandon Roy has ever lacked, it's cartilage. 

Photo Summary of the the Knicks-Celtics Series.

I've been meaning to write something about the Knicks-Celtics series, but I haven't been able to because the Knicks made it too difficult to care.  Thankfully, my friend, John Dodson, accurately summarized the series for me:

Transcription of the Conversation Between Mark Cuban and Security Personnel at the Rose Garden

I read this dubious report about Mark Cuban saying he was hit in the face by an unidentified projectile during Game Three of the Mavs-Blazers game.  Believe it or not, I've gained exclusive access to the conversation—recorded for quality assurance—between Mark Cuban and the security personnel whom Cuban promptly alerted in regards to the "incident."  Here's the transcription:

CUBAN:  Sir.  Sir.  Excuse me, sir.

SECURITY:  Yeah, what?

CUBAN:  Look, it's not a big deal, it's really not, and I'm really not trying to make a big deal over this, and I don't want to make any extra work for you guys, I really don't, but I just think I should bring it to your attention that an object hit me in the face.

SECURITY:  What object?

CUBAN:  You know, I'm not sure, I didn't really get a good look at the object.  I don't want it to seem like I'm making a big deal about this, because I'm really not.  The security has been great, you guys are all doing a great job.

SECURITY:  Was it big or small?

CUBAN:  Again, I didn't really get a good look at the object.  It struck my cheek, then ricocheted off my chest, to the floor.  I looked under and all around my seat, and didn't really see anything that looked like something someone would've thrown.

SECURITY:  Are you hurt?  Do you feel unsafe?

CUBAN:  No, absolutely not.  I'm perfectly fine.  I mean, yeah.  I'll be alright.  I'm not worried.  I just don't want anybody else to get hurt.  The fans in Portland have been great.

SECURITY:  Did you see anybody throw the object?

CUBAN:  You know, I didn't.  It was just a bang-bang play.  The object, I'm not sure what it was, hit me in the face, but I didn't really see anybody.  I'm not even completely sure the object, which I never actually saw,  was even thrown by anybody.  It could've just fallen from somewhere, I don't know.  I really don't want to make a big deal about this.  I just want to say—what's your name?

SECURITY:  Jerry.

CUBAN:  Jerry, you guys have been great.  I only wanted to let you guys know about this, becuase I know you have procedural things that you have to follow.

SECURITY:  Alright, Mr. Cuban.  We'll, I don't know, keep a look out for any fans who look like they're throwing objects.  Is there anything else I can help you with right now?

CUBAN:  Hey, thanks a lot, Jerry.  The security in Portland has been great.  I ordered a milk, and I still haven't gotten it.  I don't really want to make a big deal about it or anything...

Direct Addresses, RE: Frustrating Friday Game Threes

Friday’s Game Threes were frustrating.  Good, but frustrating.  Good, not great, but frustrating.  I have some things I want to say to some people regarding these frustrating games.

Mike D’Antoni, if Jared Jeffries is creating his own shots in the fourth quarter, you got problems.

Jamal Crawford, what the hell is wrong with you?  Jamal, have the gee dee decency to shoot the three in its proper, designated area!  I know the shot banked in to effectively end the game, but it was a remarkable result to an asinine play.  Jamal, you don’t go behind the back, ten feet above the three-point line, when there are less than five seconds left on the shot clock during the most vital possession of a playoff game—or any game.  And you don’t shoot a ridiculously contested three from five feet behind the line, when you’ve been standing around with the ball for half of the shot clock before that.  You don’t do that unless you’re Kobe Bryant or someone who’s intent on coming off the bench for the rest of their career.

Zaza Pachulia and Dwight Howard, you are morons.  I’m not one of those will someone please think of the children, fighting has no place in the game type of NBA fans, who were probably also proponents of parental advisory stickers going on CD covers.  I love NBA fights, especially real ones.  Dwight Howard, you are a fake tough guy.  You maloned Pachulia, then averted your eyes and walked away from the scenario with a really indignant it’s not worth it recoil.  You can only do the it’s not worth it stroll if you’re the recipient, not the perpetrator, of a maloning.  That was very Garnettian.  And then you especially can’t let a smaller teammate step in and get ejected over a fight that you started.  Pachulia, you are a fake tough guy too, not that you’ve ever been mistaken for a real tough guy.  I mean, I liked the headbutting, it’sbeen awhile since I’ve seen that.  But, Pachulia, it was obvious that you wanted absolutely no part of any fight…until a guy six inches shorter than you got in your grill.  Then you turned into De Niro, provoking Jason Richardson into a fight, all while you had unfettered access to Dwight Howard—the guy who actually did something—who stood next to you without any partition.

Hornets, this was the only time during game three (and maybe even the entire series) that any of you had the appearance of players who were legitimately interested in winning the game.  

Chris Paul, you do not want to win.  Chris, if you’re down ten points or less in the fourth quarter, don’t wait until there are only seven minutes left before you get your ass into the game.  And no Monty Williams this, or Monty Williams that.  Get in the game.  And then when you do finally get in the game, don’t keep letting Jarrett Jack take unassisted jumpshots.  Go get the gee dee rock and take it to the lane.  You are the ONLY advantage the Hornets have in this series.  I know you’re the type of guy who wants to get your teammates involved, but understand this: the only shot in hell that the Hornets win this series is if you take 30 shots a game and drop 15 dimes.  And make your gee dee free throws.

Kobe Bryant, my cousin, visiting from Australia, loves you and your Lakers.  After The Dunk in the first quarter, he left the room without saying anything and came back wearing a shirt with you on it.  The next time Okafor got Bynum’d, he started yelling, “All you can eat!  All you can eat!”

Two Things Worth Noting from Bulls vs. Pacers Game Two

1.  Of course, there was this:


This is worth noting, not because it ended the third quarter in a tie (who cares about that?), but because I, personally, knew that T.J. Ford would make this shot before it even left his hands.  T.J. Ford—whom I figured was probably dead—got some of Collison's second-half minutes, thanks to the camera man sitting too close to the court.  And he was playing to win.  The box score won't show it, but T.J. was the most impassioned player on the court, during the limited time he was out there.  Exile or not, get the man some minutes.

2.  Thank god basketball courts get mic'd for the TV broadcast.  Because of this, we know that every time Carlos Boozer rebounds the ball (even if it's an uncontested defensive rebound that comes off of a missed free throw), he yells, "Gimme that shit!"   

Game Ones

Every single one of them was awesome this weekend. I've always loved the first round of the playoffs in theory, because you finally get to see good teams that you hardly get to see on TNT, ESPN, or ABC (which doesn't care about any game that's not Lakers vs. Heat, or Celtics vs. Heat, or Lakers vs. Celtics). Then again, the first round series usually feature superpowers, like the Magic, beating sub-.500 playoff teams so bad that you wish the first-round was still following the best-of-five format. But through all of the game ones this weekend, there have been no superpowers, just a lot of good, evenly-matched basketball teams. Here's a quick, somewhat biased, recap of all the game ones (in order of appearance):

Indiana 99 - Chicago 104: Tyler Hansbrough may or may not be the Pacers' best player. I mean, after getting an eyeful of KURT THOMAS'S ELBOW, he walked off (what I'm pretty sure was) a minor concussion (though I have no credentials which qualify me to make that statement). But Derrick Rose.

Philadelphia 89 - Miami 97: During the game, I forgot Chris Bosh played for the Heat, despite him putting up a double-double and leading the Heat in scoring. Thaddeus Young was rampant. The 76ers played well (for the 76ers) and could've won that game, but didn't for the same reason—whatever it is—that they lost half of their games this season.

Atlanta 103 - Orlando 93: Atlanta played the best tactical game of the playoffs so far on both offense and defense. They let Dwight Howard fall in love with himself in the first half by not double-teaming him, so that they could instead shut down the other four positions. Howard set selfish screens all night—him rolling to the basket before his teammate rubbed off. The Hawks' offensive routes were disciplined and well-timed. They got (and usually made) whatever shot they wanted. Kirk Hinrich—defensive stopper.

Portland 81 - Dallas 89: Nowitzki looked like a fool all night. He was getting all huffy, because he couldn't make any shots. Somehow he was deemed the Mavericks' game one hero. Thirteen-for-thirteen at the line makes him the biggest beneficiary of the NBA's sissified foul-calling policies. Jason Kidd lit it up. Man, he's old. The Blazers blew it. Gerald Wallace played Dirk well, but also played like a Bobcat on offense.  Dallas seems like a hard town to win in, with Mark Cuban weirding everybody out on the sidelines with his caring too much.

Memphis 101 - San Antonio 98: Sunday ended with Marc looking like the least soft Gasol, despite that he's one of those centers who lays the ball up off the glass instead of dunking it when he gets a dime dropped on him near the rim. It’s good to see Battier back in a Grizzlies uniform. Forty bucks says Ginobili grimaces (more than usual) all throughout game two, while wearing some sort of unignorable elbow wrap.

New Orleans 109 - Lakers 100: Chris Paul did his thang. Everybody hates Gasol again. There’s nobody for Artest to shut down in this series; 2-for-13 is an average shooting day for Ariza. Will the Elias Sports Bureau please produce the +/- statistic for the subtle dominance that ensues when the Hornet twin-towers, Aaron Gray and Jason Smith, are on the floor together? Witness.

New York 85 - Boston 87: How’s Billups going to go out like that? I love watching Kevin Garnett actually have to guard somebody now that Perk is gone. The offensive foul on ‘Melo in the last minute of the game was an NBA call. If you even just let Ray Allen catch the ball in the last minute of a game, don’t bother contesting the shot. And don’t watch to see if the shot goes in. Just walk straight to the locker room immediately after he catches it, even if there’s still time on the clock.

Denver 103 - OKC 107: Best game of the weekend. Back-and-forth scoring runs all game. Gallinari threw down an alley-oop, which seems like something that needs to be mentioned. Kevin Durant became George Gervin.  And I want to mention an unmentionable, Eric Maynor, who took over the eleven minutes that he was in the game.  I would give you some of Harden's minutes were I the newly-spiked-hair Scott Brooks.

The Sacramento Kings of Sacramento

I'd thought the Kings moving from Sacramento to Anaheim was all but done (and maybe it is) but then I just read this article about my favorite King, Chris Webber, getting into the mix, aiding the effort to keep the Kings in Sacramento. If there's one snag in the Maloof brothers' in-progress plans to move the team to the Honda Center, it's the great, great Sacramento fans, whose energy has been so unrelenting for the last 20+ years that maybe their roar is to blame for the deteriorating arena that everything seems to be hinged on. I showed a friend of mine—a native of Sacramento and a fan before there was anything to reasonably cheer about—this Webber/Kings article about the possible move, and he gave me a great, great recollection. Here it is, Sacramento Forever!


Never did i think Chris Webber would give me goosebumps OFF THE COURT.


I hold this to be true: "Even when the team sucked, they (fans) were great. I mean, they were raising hell every night."


Minus one year, the Richmond era Kings never got to... the playoffs, and every game I went to was packed and filled with screaming fans.


One game in particular, if I may reminisce, was against the Trailblazers--Kings were down by one point (86-87) with 1.8 seconds left on the clock. Kings had the ball (passing it in mid court on their side). Billy Owens passes it to Richmond, who, as if an acme rocket were strapped to his back like Wile E. Coyote--bloodthirsty for a righteous slaughter and a bird blood smoothy, drove to the hoop and laid it in for 2 at the buzzer. And that buzzer, well, it was instantly drowned out by the fans' cheers of glory and shouts of victory. Babies were birthed, the lame were healed--yes, the Kings had pulled off their first victory in nine games.


And afterward, walking back to my Dad's truck, people were literally crying and wrapping their arms around each others' shoulders in comradery. I'd hate to think that die-hard passion has waned in Sacramento (I haven't been back in a long time), but I doubt it has.


If the Kings were to move to Anaheim, it'd be officially telling all those and underdogs in Sac (which is stricken with poverty and loserdom) that they truly are worthless.


I'm glad to hear Webber is saying: not while I'm around. In fact, I forgive Webber of any and all clutch-time choking habits. For, it is written: He is inherently a King.


                                                                                                              —Kevin Colpean