Just days ago, the Phoenix Suns were considering trading Stoudemire, but then Terry Porter got fired, the Suns were rejuvenated (by two straight games against the Clippers, mind you), and the team was suddenly dreaming of making a late-playoff run. But now they're stuck with his contract, but not his 21 points a night and the suddenly giddy attitude in Phoenix will likely go out the window pretty quick. Oh well.

As for Amar'e—with or without the apostrophe—he should make a full recovery, but that is a scary thing and it's his second eye injury this season. You'd hate to see (get it?) him lose his career over something like this. Kurt Rambis goggles, here we come!

SUNS: Stoudemire Undergoes Successful Eye Surgery [NBA.com]

When the Shaq trade went down one year ago, many people struggled to make sense of it, including Mr. Emeritus himself. Adding a slow, old behemoth like Shaq to a team built for speed seemed like a dumb idea at the time, and a year later that seems to still be the case. The Suns lost in the first round of the playoffs last year and are currently mired in ninth place in the Western Conference. Shaq is also making, like, a billion dollars per year or something (actual retail price: $20,000,000).

Amare Stoudemire is making upwards of $15,000,000, sure, but is only 26. Seems a bit young to be jettisoned for salary purposes, but the Suns seem to be giving up on him; Stoudemire himself seems resigned to leaving the desert. I'm not sure that Suns GM Steve Kerr understands that the point of a youth movement is to keep the young players. Overrated MVP Steve Nash is 35, makes over $12 million a year...and is reportedly completely untouchable. Eventually, Kerr will trade away all the scapegoats and there will be no one left to blame except himself.

[ESPN.com]

• Sergeant Mythical Water Beast. Did you realize military uniforms were considered "business casual" now? Yeah, I think it's the buttons. Or maybe it's the collar. I don't know. Whatever the reason, I can't wait to wear my Mountie threads into the office on Monday. Amare Stoudemire scored 34 points and grabbed 11 boards as the Suns marched back from a 20-point first-period deficit to beat the Sonics 104-96. The win was the Suns' 23rd of the season, the most in the Western Conference. Kevin Durant led Seattle with 28.

• You Can't Stop The Blazers, You Can Only Hope To Contain Them. Well, that, and maybe just tire 'em out a little bit. It's the small victories really. Mr. Jarrett Jack, Jack, Jack ... all dressed in black, bla— shit, the Blazers were in red. Scratch that. Jarrett Jack drove for a basket and converted a three-point play with 19 seconds left in double overtime as the Trail Blazers outlasted the Bulls 115-109 for their 15th win in 16 games. Brandon Roy and his bruised tailbone led the way with 25 points.

• Yes, Yes, We're Talkin' About It. An unpracticed Allen Iverson scored 29 points to lead the Nuggets past the Manu-less San Antonio Spurs 80-77. A.I. revealed post-game that the reason he had missed the Nuggets' workouts was because his 4-year-old son, Isaiah, fell face-first from a stool and required plastic surgery. Quick, Knicks fans! Get Zeke on a stool ASAP!

• Baron Davis' 2007 Movie Reviews. Two thumbs up: American Gangster, No Country for Old Men and Knocked Up. ("Everyone said to go see it. I was glad I did. Flat out funny and very real.") Thumbs down: The Number 23, Spider-Man 3 and Who's Your Caddy? ("I know a lot of people that cross over into different groups — i.e. the street or the country club. This just didn't measure up.") So true, man. So true.

• LET'S PUT IT ALL IN IT'S PROPER PERSPECTIVE! AMARE STOUDEMIRE IS UNSTOPPABLE LIKE A STOP SIGN! HE IS ONE PART ANTON CHIGURH, ONE PART BLANKA, ONE PART ANCIENT NAMELESS WATER BEAST! AMARE SCORED 42 POINTS AND GRABBED 13 BOARDS TO LEAD THE SUNS TO A 121-117 VICTORY OVER THE PACERS. STEPHEN J. NASH HAD 18 POINTS AND 17 ASSISTS. IMPRESSIVE NUMBERS, WITHOUT QUESTION. BUT I ASK YOU THIS: WHAT IF STEVE NASH WERE BLACK? OH. NO. WOULD STEVE NASH NOT JUST BE A POOR MAN'S TYRUS EDNEY? WOULD HE NOT!? LET ME ANSWER THAT FOR YOU: I THINK SO!

• I'M NOT PERPLEXED BY THIS HAWKS TEAM! THEY LOOK LIKE THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY DOIN' RIGHT NOW. IT'S REALLY THAT SIMPLE TO ME. HERE THEY ARE LOSING 106-95 TO THE PISTONS! AND TO THAT I SAY, WHERE IS THE SUPER YOUTH, COACH WOODSON? WHERE!? I DON'T SEE IT! HAWKS GUARD SALIM STOUDAMIRE HAD 15 POINTS, ALL IN THE FOURTH. SO WHY ISN'T HE PLAYING MORE? WHY!? YOU EXTRAPOLATE THOSE NUMBERS OVER THE ENTIRE COURSE OF THE GAME AND SALIM STOUDAMIRE IS DROPPING 60 POINTS PER GAME! 60! EASY! I'M SAYING IF YOU GONNA MAKE A STATEMENT, MAKE A STATEMENT, COACH WOODSON. YOU DON'T WANT TO PLAY HIM? THEN CUT HIM LOOSE! SALIM STOUDAMIRE CAN GO WIN LEAGUE MVP SOMEWHERE ELSE!

• KNOW YOUR ROOTS! WE GOTS TO GET SOME REAL BALL TALK UP IN HERE! SO LISTEN, JOHN SALMONS SCORED 13 STRAIGHT IMMEDIATELY AFTER KEVIN MARTIN WENT DOWN WITH A STRAINED GROIN, LEADING THE KINGS TO A 117-107 VICTORY OVER THE JAZZ. BALL. TALK. NOW, MORE IMPORTANTLY, UTAH JAZZ: YOU DON'T NEED TO BE LYING TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. YOU PLAY IN UTAH, SURE. BUT YOU FROM NEW ORLEANS, OK? SO DON'T ACT LIKE YOU FROM UTAH. YOU PRETEND YOU FROM UTAH, BUT YOU ORIGINALLY FROM N'AWLINS. IT'S JUST THAT SIMPLE!

• QUITE FRANKLY, THEY BLOW! I'M SORRY. I WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS GAME. I DO! I WANT TO ANALYZE KOBE'S SICK 20 POINTS AND BREAK DOWN THE X'S AND O'S. HOWEVA! IT IS A COMPLETE WASTE OF MY TIME TO BE TALKING ABOUT THE MINNESOTA TIMBERWOLVES RIGHT NOW. A COMPLETE A WASTE OF TIME! THEY'RE HORRIBLE! ABSOLUTELY HORRIBLE! LOSING BY 21 TO THE L.A. LAKERS? PLEASE! SOMEBODY WAKE ME WHEN THE WOLVES GET KEVEN GARNETT BACK. UNTIL THEN, I HAVE BLOGS TO PISS ON IN MY DREAMS!

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Sent by my Blackberry Wireless Handheld

By most yardsticks, I am kind of a fuck-up. I'm almost 30 and have only had one full-time job; I got fired after six months for taking long lunches and refusing to obey direct orders. I have a Master's, but wasn't disciplined enough to bother with a PhD. And while I've more or less supported myself through writing, you probably won't see my byline in the Times anytime soon. Yet despite my unimpressive resume and shoddy life-choices, it's been a while I've thought of myself as "immature."

According to the dictionary, biological maturity strikes between the ages of 14 and 16. American society holds that we come of age around 21, while my esteemed ethnic tradition says I've been an adult since 13. So while I don't doubt that people change with age, at some point they lose the right to plead—or be chastised with—the immortal spirit of learning, growing, caring and sharing. That's when "immaturity" reaches its deadline and becomes "flawed."

This fall, a certain kind of reporter shuddered when Amare Stoudemire and Stephen Jackson were named captains of the Suns and Warriors, respectively. On the surface, both men's capo status sizzled with irony: These were players with a history of questionable behavior and shaky attitude. If you Google "Amare Stoudemire + immature," you'll be faced with 2,070 results. Do the same for "Stephen Jackson + immature," and you'll get 2,400. In Jack McCallum's awesome "Seven Seconds or Less," Amare comes across as either a well-meaning slacker and a naive egomaniac. Jackson's antics truly need no introduction: He was the real firestarter in the Auburn Hills brawl, unabashedly reps his gang roots, and is not above firing shots over another man's moving vehicle.

However, there's an important distinction here. While Stoudemire's about to turn 25, Jackson's my age. His reign of terror began when he was almost 27 and continues to this day. One can rightfully be called "immature," while the other is just a dude with problems, who won't likely be free of them unless he freaks out and turns to the Deity. This honor could very well help along Amare's personal development. With Jackson, the Warriors are selling their soul to the devil, and I mean that in the best possible sense.

Exhibit A: Amare has shown signs of getting older and wiser—if the ability to mature isn't a sign of immaturity, I don't know what is. Since his comeback, Stoudemire has put in some serious work on his game, becoming a smarter, more responsible player. He's dealt well with going from unquestioned number one option to part of a more balanced attack. And off the court, Stoudemire enrolled in classes at Arizona State to start working toward a college degree. All this with both his mother and half-brother—pretty much the only family Amare had left—embroiled in serious legal trouble.

Stoudemire might not be completely well-adjusted or virtuous, but he's shown a capacity to change for the better. Ironically, that's why it makes sense to call him "immature." Jackson, on the other hand, spent his first few years of pro basketball toiling away in the CBA and overseas. And while it's often forgotten now, Crazy Eyes was once a member of the Spurs in good standing; he was a model teammate who deserves a lot of credit for their 2003 ring. Then, the darkness set in. Perhaps emboldened by some measure of NBA security, in Indiana the Stephen Jackson of myth and symbol became known to us all.

I happen to find Jackson fascinating, especially as he fits into the Golden State cosmology. But I'm not about to make apologies for him: At best, he's regressed emotionally and psychologically since leaving the Spurs, which is a really odd thing to say about an adult. The rhetoric of "immaturity" is unintentionally optimistic, but it's also condescending and possibly racist; let's just agree that Jackson is complex disaster of a human being and stop wondering if he'll come around.

Jackson is a special case, in that he's got a distinguished record of causing bedlam off the court. I don't know the real Stephen Jackson, but I've got a pretty good sense for how his (ahem) professional and personal lives fit together. There's nothing more galling, though, than hearing a player labeled "immature" for reasons that pertain solely to in-game conduct. Here, "immature" isn't just a misnomer, it's being thrown around with insufficient evidence.

The classic example of this is Rasheed Wallace, whose sole sin is his desire to vent, often and always. Sheed's never been a cancer or chemistry-wrecker—in fact, if anything he could stand to be more selfish—and he's widely respected in the locker room and around the league. On top of that, Wallace is a low-key family man who, unfathomably, seems to enjoy smoking pot. But try telling that to John Hollinger, who last month said of him "Youth is fleeting, but immaturity can last a lifetime."

When I think of all the shit Sheed gets, I think about the thousands of upstanding family men who occasionally lose control in their weekend game. Sports are pretty much guaranteed to make people emotional and heated; you could argue that one's true, sordid self comes out in athletic competition, but if that's the case, it's still under wraps most of the time. That's like saying that Freud wanted us to run around screwing our parents.

Freud's grandson Lucien once told me the following: "I paint people not because of what they are like, not exactly in spite of what they are like, but how they happen to be." The truly immature—whether in sports, or down here on the ground with us—are products of how they happen to be. However, the Stephen Jacksons of this planet need to be seen, embraced, or rejected for who they are. You don't tell sharks to grow up, or ask Sir Elton to just get over it. Maybe there's less of a belittling zip to this, but it's more in line with how we consumers actually relate to these folks. And then, just maybe, we'll also learn the difference between a bad guy and one who plays one on the court in spite of himself.

The guy from Spurs blog Pounding The Rock had it exactly right this morning: The worst part about Amare Stoudemire's (and Boris Diaw's) suspension tonight is that it immediately makes the whole game illegitimate. If the Spurs win, it won't feel like they earned it, and they've instantly become the bad guys. The only way anyone takes any real joy out of tonight's game is if the Suns win, and that's not particularly fair to the Spurs, who, other than Bruce Bowen, are not inherently unlikable.

We aren't quite ready to go as far as his solution, however: Bench Tim Duncan.

The NBA wants a ridiculous, small ball game? Let's give it to them. Their star big is out, our star big is out. Their 3rd best big is out? Our 3rd best big is out. Fair game, fair fight. Let's just play midget ball for 48 mins. It would shut up every critic, it would shut up their taunting fans, it would blow away the broadcasters. No matter what they say about us, they can't can't call us cheaters and they can't say we're not classy. It would send a message to the world and to the Suns that we didn't want the Amare/Diaw suspensions to happen. It wasn't our idea.

You don't think all of the Suns momentum would be sucked right out of that building? Nobody would know what to think. It would totally fuck with the Suns minds and all their intensity and focus would be gone in a flash. Whatever desire the refs might have had to screw us would be forgetten and they'd be impressed with our chutzpah and our principles. I don't know if we'd win or lose, but either way we'd make our point.

Well, yeah, we suppose, though watching the Suns play the Jazz in the next round might temper some of that self-congratulatory principle. We admire the idea, though. Regardless, they're gonna play anyway, and you can probably expect to see Duncan.

Oh, and that Cavs-Nets series is tonight, too, still plodding along.

(Getty Images photo)

(UPDATE: We couldn't agree with a lot of you commenters more, by the way: Bill Simmons' column on this is particularly excellent.)

• True Hoop: "I guess the one [argument] that has all of us motivated is: because it means so much and because what they did was so harmless. All true, but that's an impossible standard to maintain consistently in the future. Who wants to decide who's harmless and who isn't? Who wants to say which games are really important next time?"

• 100 Percent Injury Rate: "If it's clear that the NBA doesn't care about the fans, likes to enforce a rule that makes NO sense, and has made a mockery of justice in this incident, then why even play the game? Robert Sarver, the current majority owner of the Suns, should tell David Stern to stick it where the sun don't shine and tell him the Suns won't play Game 5. I have no doubt that the people of Phoenix would rally around that cry seeing as they just wound up on the wrong side of one of the most uneven judgments in NBA history."

• Pounding The Rock (Spurs blog): "Horry loses his cool and arm checks The Great White Symbol. An inexcusable cheap shot that leads to the unfortunate suspension of two vital Suns players. And with that the litmus paper has been turned and there's no going back. There's no pointing at Baron Davis' elbow to the head of Derek Fisher and questioning his free pass from the masses, no remembrance of a Raja Bell clothesline. The Spurs are thugs. The series is tainted and the indelible dye has been cast upon the postseason. The only happy ending, the only way to clean this up is David casting down the Goliath and retaking his seemingly ill-gotten gains. No matter the outcome tonight, the Spurs will walk away losers."

Our favorite notion, though, is from a True Hoop reader: "By this logic, if James Jones had noticed that Duncan and Bowen had wandered on the court in the second quarter, he should have immediately decked Francisco Elson. There's your altercation. Mr. Commissioner! Presumably Jones, Duncan, and Bowen would have all been suspended for Game 5 — a big win for Phoenix." It would be incredibly fun to watch a team deploy this strategy.

No site captures this feel more than the great Free Darko, which we read like a doctor's chart every day during the NBA season. They understand the dichotomy between individual achievement and collective glory, and how those are not mutually exclusive. And they've got a way with letters too.

Therefore, we've asked them to look at the arcs of certain players going into this season, what 2006-07 means to them, their teams and their legacies. They'll be previewing a player a day. This is the final installment.

Today: Amare Stoudemire. Your author is Bethlehem Shoals. After the jump.

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There's really not much to say about Amare Stoudemire's '05-06. He ended the 2005 playoffs on the cusp of immortality and then, very suddenly, was no more. His Suns did just fine without him, thank you, implementing an elegant version of small ball that all but erased the memory of his megaton presence. For most inspirational basketball fans, STAT existed merely as a medical chart, measured periodically against history and anything resembling an expert opinion. His two games back revealed only that this monster would not come roaring back without a pause; the funny thing is, I don't think any of us thought this was an unreasonable expectation.

By now, we all know the ugly precedents. Chris Webber, rendered irrelevant and immobile by the dreaded microfracture procedure. Shawn Kemp, an impossible mix of speed, strength and terror whose game made him seem more meteoric than he actually was. Len Bias, whose legend was etched in what could have been. And Shaq, cast out of the very paradise that grew up in his powerful footprints. If ever there was a perfect storm of unfortunate comparisons, surely we gaze into it now with Amare. At the same time, that Stoudemire can be compared to C-Webb, Kemp, Bias and Shaq without denting your monitor is more than a little remarkable.

On paper and in the scout's eye, this might seem foolhardy. For anyone who watched him in '04-05, though, no one was more central to the New NBA's vibrancy than Amare. With every gargantuan burst and murderous highlight, he affirmed the joy that makes us watch in the first place. LeBron's ongoing treatise on basketball perfection and Wade's heroics might grab the headlines, but it was Stoudemire's ability to ignite this fuel with faith that made a banner era for the game into an ecstatic one. James is pure Old Testament, D-Wade the kindly upstart. . . and Amare, he was the wailing prophets, Holy Ghost and headless nightmares rolled up in one. While I worry that we might never again witness the Stoudemire of old, I know that, on some level, he awakened in all of us the key to appreciating the next decade of the Association.

No one knows what will happen in the realm of the real. The Suns now reek so strongly of Nash's soft-spoken Marxism that there be no place for an outsized dynamo. Raja Bell, whose importance to their playoff run was greatly exaggerated, has gone so far as to suggest that Amare needs to earn his way back in. Since, you know, Kurt Thomas was such an integral part of last year's surprise, and possibly flukish, experiment. Thus far, coverage of The Comeback has vacillated between Barbaro-like scrutiny and almost resigned disinterest. When Amare shows signs, all of a sudden his every springy dunk becomes an ESPN feature; if he hits a stretch of malaise or discomfort, the media politely mentions it and then holds their breath until the next spot of sunshine.

Heading into this season, Amare is without a doubt the league's biggest question mark. Yet his team and the Association in general have moved on, honoring his name with the assumption that his mark has been made. As someone who genuinely wishes Stoudemire the best of luck, I hope he can fight his way back to prominence. But as someone whose heart will be shredded by the sight of a less than profound Amare, I would almost rather not pay attention until I can be sure he's back. Until that day, his spirit lingers on in each and every one of us.