Shame on me. I have neglected to plug Free Darko's "The Macrophenomenal Pro Basketball Almanac: Styles, Stats, and Stars in Today's Game.." But I encourage all of youwho enjoy their sports books stuffed with the type of illustrations and freewheeling batshit basketball ephemera that will rock the body that rocks the party to buy it in Costco-sized bulk.

Last night, the Free Darko boys unleashed their snakeheaded lunacy upon the Varsity Letters reading series and killed, as much as one can kill in a dimly lit small venue using a slide projector. They're doing a couple more readings on their self-funded mini-tour, so go make yourself happy and experience it all firsthand.

Things not Free Darko-related:

• Hickman

• Layla

• Rolf

• SHOTY

• Sloppy

• Feldman

Tonight: Spend your Friday evening with Matt Sussman as he live blogs his Ball States off.

Weekend writers...er...TBD? [KOGOD note: Mr. Joshua Zerkle will be handling the weekend duties]

Anyway, thanks for your continued support of Facebook. See ya Monday.

So we've got our Celtics/Lakers finals, the great window to the past opening up, and skeptics griping about a rigged playoffs. It's Kobe proving he can win without Shaq, and Kevin Garnett looking for that ring to make whole his Hall of Fame career. The ratings will be through the ceiling, which delights Stern and bolsters paranoia, and the level of competition will be high. Those looking to bitch about unfairness get exactly what they want, as do those in favor of big names and entrenched storylines.

Still, this has got to be one of the most misunderstood matchups since disinformation and basketball first came together on the snowy streets of Buffalo in 1973.

I'll be shocked if this hasn't been said already, but where exactly is the fix? Boston and Los Angeles rolled through the regular season and were seeded first in their respective conferences. Unless the entire 82 games, and the key trades that transformed these ailing giants, were also orchestrated in the shadows, here the two best teams made it to the final bracket. Not exactly consistent with the topsy-turvy logic we like prevailing in our postseasons — in March Madness, or the NFL playoffs, a lack of unpredictability is seen as unsettling, false.

Yet after weeks of seven-game series, why wouldn't you expect to see these two standing? I know, Barry was sort of robbed, but so was Fisher on the play before. A team shouldn't ever count on human error falling their way to put them over the top in the playoffs.

What's more, if this whole show had been manipulated from start to finish to stoke ratings and benefit the league's marketing plan, why have we had a ceaseless slog of seven-game battles where the home team won every team, often by a wide margin? Fuck going back to the five-game opening round; 2007-08 made a convincing case for skipping straight to game seven. Still, you couldn't have given fans less incentive to watch games if you'd wanted to. God himself could not have devised a bigger deterrent, one that die-hards — those who can usually be counted on no matter what — were especially aware of. It's telling that the Lakers broke this mold, and the Celtics showed signs in the conference finals.

And then there's the Kobe vs. Garnett battles of the narratives, each supposedly needing more than life itself to capture the crown and validate their respective careers. Kobe's already cheerfully brushing off the questions about how sweet it is to win solo; it's bad PR for him to even go there, but more fairly, his MVP campaign was about bringing a team up with him. In a way, that was more of a moral victory than supreme gunner KB24, sans Shaq champion, would ever have been.

Certainly, this has boosted his stock, his likeability quotient, and quieted some doubters in a way that an Iverson-ian run to the finish line never would have. Not to say that Bryant isn't driven to get this one, but he knows this team is young, and still growing. There's a foundation, and a future, here. When you hear him interviewed, there's a lightness there that speaks to both relief and patience — not traits we usually associate with the Mamba's strategic reserve of venom and power. The suspense level has already been tamped down.

The Garnett hub-bub, I feel, is horribly misplaced. That's not just because I don't like what's happened to his game in Boston (go ahead, get stuck on that sentence), whether it's by design or the grace of old age and wisdom. KG has had some strong games this postseason, and we all know he changed the culture of the Celtics, and suddenly is a hair away from Bill Russell. But really, it's Paul Pierce who could suddenly have his entire career transformed by this Finals' outcome.

That over-emotive Rivers/Pierce embrace at the end of game six told you everything you need to know about the real energy here. Paul Pierce has been a Celtic forever. He's been through ups and downs, but no one's said that KG and Allen were brought on to let Pierce realize his inner dignity. He's a distant third on the sentimental pecking order, which is a complete and total injustice. As a whole, his career makes for great halftime material: Underrated on draft night, almost died from a stabbing, excelling with a relative lack of fanfare, suffered through some doldrums just as Garnett did, dealt with criticism, and now, is the real moral center of this series.

He should be the pride of the Celtics, and as a Los Angeles native, this series couldn't have higher stakes for him. Checks the stats; as Nate Jones reminded me, dude's always energized by playing in front of the city he still loves. Pierce is about to hijack these finals the way Tony Parker so often with the Spurs, making himself into the marquee name when there's a surefire Hall of Famer defining his legacy.

As much as Garnett wants that ring, or feels Green pride, no one sane thinks him any less than one of the Fifty Greatest. It's a slippery slope to handicap would've, could've, but Garnett's tenure in Minnesota is the definition of unassailable, brain-scrambling valor in the face of defeat. He's changed the way positions are thought of, shown a versatility at both ends of the floor that was hitherto unimaginable, brought on the high school revolution (great for any team or player smart about it), and done more for a bad team than any team ever. What's more, he did it in a way everyone can respect, carrying a team without ever fully embracing his role as the number one option, always elevating his cohorts.

The one lasting knock on Garnett, one that's reared its head throughout his career, is his lack of clutch-ness. Certainly, that's come up during these playoffs; KG shows up late just often enough to suggest he could do it more. Yet Garnett just isn't an indomitable scorer, especially not now, when the jump shot's become his main weapon. If the Celtics win, it's not going to be because KG suddenly learned to his game-winners. It would prove, as the Cassell/Sprewell team did with far less, that he's mortal and needs that supplement to turn a Garnett joint into a powerhouse. Kind of like Bill Russell.

Pierce, on the other hand, is that kind of fearless scorer. Always has been, without ever getting the recognition he deserved. And unless he explodes for 40, he's taken for granted on this team. It's all about Allen's slump, or Garnett's shooting late. Who bails them out every single time? Paul Pierce. And why? He's a vastly underrated force who, if he rides this wave of feeling and runs shit at home and away, could once and for all announce his worth to this franchise. A Celtics championship will add to Garnett's resume, complete it in the way it's always deserved. But it's not going to alter our sense of him (as a T-Mac ring would).

But for Pierce, it would insert him into that "greatest Celtics ever" conversation. He'll be the one who counterbalances the MVP, the one making shots down the stretch, and the guy with the ball in his hands when things matter most. No one will blame him if they lose. Hopefully, though, if Boston takes this one, Pierce will finally get his due. Even from those of us who have paid him lip service for years now.

At the peril of divulging my devotion to my bloglines reader, I have to say I am particularly fond of the running joke that Gawker has on Slate (both of which are favorite websites of mine). The joke is basically pointing out how much Slate just looooooves to flip conventional wisdom on its head. In a jab at Slate’s recent assertion that we Americans should feel lucky for only paying four dollars a gallon for gas, Gawker snarks:

Gas... is cheap! An economist on how expensive cigarettes make smokers happy! Ugly people: are they actually pretty? Plus: Chris Hitchens on how George W. Bush was a better president than Lincoln! Tomorrow: Are you hungry? No you're not!

Comedy. Now, at the risk of pulling over-flipping the script myself here, I want to proclaim that after heavy thought and scrutiny, I have realized that Tim Duncan is this millennium’s answer to Michael Jordan, the actual heir to MJ’s throne that we have been searching for all along, and the obvious successor that we have overlooked when he was standing in our midst all along. Put another way, it is fucking astonishing that the Spurs beat the Suns in five games and the Hornets in New Orleans, and this outcome is pretty much solely because of Timmy D. Parker, Ginobili, Popovich, and Horry be damned.

Sure, Parker makes quick and precise decisions, Ginobili is perturbing to the point of causing psychological damage, Horry evokes severe anxiety in late-and-close game situations, and Popovich conveys an eerie calm. Yet it is Duncan whose presence alone encapsulates all of these things, which makes him the single greatest player since Michael Jordan. I’m not gonna play up the MJ comparison too much (because we go into much greater detail about Mike and his legacy in the forthcoming FreeDarko book (IN STORES NOVEMBER 11), but I will characterize what the now ethereal and almost fanciful legend of Jordan stood for: Dominance, Championship, and most Relentlessness.

These are not simply vacant or clichéd terms. Dominance refers to the fact that Jordan was the best of his era. All things considered, Duncan can say the same for himself. You know how after Duncan and Shaq got a few MVP awards, they sort of just got dropped from frontrunner status in the years that followed? Garnett, Nash, Dirk, and then Kobe got in the mix, and it was almost as though the voters and the public were saying, “OK, let’s just exclude Duncan and Shaq from the conversation because they’re these incomprehensible gigantic physical specimens that don’t even count,” just how we will come to talk about Barry Bonds and the home run records. Get what I’m saying? And now, Duncan has outlasted Shaq, with as many rings (and perhaps more?) to show for himself. That is dominance.

A championship is essentially the outcome of dominance. It is as though the Rube Goldberg machine spits out a ring at the end of Duncan’s churning. And although Duncan has never won two championships in a row, his record in the postseason is unmatched, and he has become a permanent fixture in postseason lore.

It is this last quality of relentlessness that I believe separates Duncan from his peers. To present a contrast — and I alluded to this over on FreeDarko — what I can’t stand about the post-Iverson era is how many players seem to hold back on us, only to reemerge at a later point in time. Steve Nash flutters around as a one-dimensional all-star on the Mavericks, and a couple years later he turns into White Confucius. Baron Davis comes out of nowhere as a playoff savior for an all-but-forgotten franchise. Paul Pierce drops 40 points in a key game when we thought his career was over years ago. And Peja Stojakovic comes out of the woodwork to say, “Remember me?! I WILL BUST YOU.”

I can only conclude that (putting on my Skip Bayless voice) in the endorsement/mega-contract age players simply hold out a bit on us more than they used to. Injuries, their team’s draft positioning, fear of failure and necessity to secure that next big contract all take hold of these players, and at least for a moment, they let up. They say, “You know what? I’m gonna get my shit together for next year, or I’m gonna take this summer and really work on my free throws/footwork/outside shot/whatever. I’m gonna take some time to heal. I’m gonna just wrap this season up and see what happens once I complain that I don’t have enough help around me.” Duncan, on the other hand, has never once let up, never looked toward the future, toward his legacy, or toward anything except his duty. That is what relentless means. The guy has faced consistent injuries throughout his career, and not once has he taken a season off to facilitate some unknowable future.

Now what happens when the best player of his era meets the best player right now, and one that will potentially become the best of all-time? Nobody on the Spurs, a 56-year-old Bruce Bowen included, can guard Kobe right now. Yet a Kobe-versus-everybody matchup might be playing right into the Spurs' hands. I see a lot of anger coming from Kobe’s direction. I see a lot of elbows flying on both sides. The lanky swords of Lamar Odom dueling with the flailing nunchucks of Manu Ginobili. A barrage of three-pointers from Ime Udoka, Michael Finley, Vladimir Radmanovic and Sasha Vujacic. I see the Lakers having an edge in pure speed (“speed” is the new “size”), but I also see Los Angeles trembling in tense moments, with a squad of players that—except for Kobe and Derek Fisher—have not been in deep playoff pressure situations before.

So, how does this end? In any toss-up situation or game 7, I use a simple rule of thumb, which is that the team that has more to lose…will win. Think of the squeaker series’ during these playoffs. Boston’s two Game 7s—they were faced with the possibility of disgracing the entire Celtics legacy, and they pulled it out. Think about the Lakers versus Utah—were they really going to squander their post-Gasol magic by letting a bunch of screaming Utah-ites into their heads? And then there was New Orleans versus San Antonio, when it came down to it, you could tell that the young core of West, Paul, and Chandler had the feeling of, “well, we can always get back here next year,” whereas the Spurs were facing the ultimate demise of their decade-long dynasty. More to lose…equals a win.

And I say whereas the Lakers might look ahead to a full season of Bynum, Gasol, and Kobe on the same court for a full season, the Spurs aren’t ready to loosen their grip of death on the league just yet. I’ll give them one more championship, to cement their place in history and to ship millions of NBA fans back to their families in coffins, bearing the burden of having watched this game with so much patience over the past 10 years of San Antonio’s reign.

Ring the alarm and call in the ponies: Starting now, these Celtics are no longer playoff disappointments. They've spent long enough confounding and outraging us — from this moment on, they're underdogs.

See, that's one advantage of this damn near eternal postseason. It doesn't matter if you start it off as most likely to fo, fo, fo, fo. Enough turmoil, and rounds distended by a series that refuses to die, and there's plenty of room for narrative revision. You can change your face. You can change your whole fucking life.

Remember when this historic lineup saw its first game together? It was supposed to bring about 82 gargantuan nights of smart, sleek basketball that showed off these three stars in all their glory. They were instantly put on television more times than Portland and Seattle combined. Then the season started, and it became clear that toughness and discipline were the intended consequence. Still, a team for the ages. Then the playoffs, where this proud bunch was hapless away from home. Against the Cavs, they got nothing from Ray Allen, less than they would've liked from Garnett, and only advanced by imitating Cleveland's groundbreaking offense — with Paul Pierce playing the King James role.

(Sidenote: After this series, I can say for certain that Doc Rivers isn't letting Ray Allen be the Ray Ray we all knew and loved. That might be part of the problem. It's like, in the interest of streamlining the offense, he decided he had Steve Kerr, not an honest to God shooting guard. If I sound bitter, I am. That's exactly the kind of decision that got us so far from the Celtics team I once imagined seeing out there).

We've come a long way from those dreams of eye-popping play and non-stop, full-body sentimental orgasm. Here's the new party line: These guys were older than we thought. Mavs redux? Nah son, Garnett, Pierce and Allen gave it their all throughout the season because they couldn't help it, and now it's caught up with them. Lack of poise, or chemistry, or old postseason ghosts come back? Of course not. These are craggy warriors who refuse to quit. It's all about resolve once the wheels fall off, when regrouping has long ago disappeared in the rear view.

Look what's happening around them. The bench is uncertain. The role players are yanked quick, not nurtured. Doc Rivers, once the guru of unity, now has to improvise a rotation each game. These are times for real heroism. Anyone can win 60 when things click. Adversity, though, is what brings out the best in people. A little desperation makes you reach way deep down and flourish. This isn't a well-oiled march toward the championship these players deserve, it's the fight of their lives. Ironically, these scrappers and survivors, veterans of meaningless excellence and long springs of envy, are now being asked to conjure up their former selves. It's their only hope.

Or maybe they've just become Detroit. Balanced, grouchy, and always hovering somewhere between underachieving and surprising. The Pistons get here like clockwork. They always have some ups and some downs, some moments of arrogance and those of gut-wrenching humility. Sometimes they coast, others they work like hell. It's a mishmash of moods and styles that doesn't lend itself to easy characterization, and in part accounts for the indifference about them.

But the Pistons are here every year, while the Celtics, they've had to fight back from the depths of hell to get here. This has been in the making since they lost Bias and then Lewis. They're imperfect, but on a mission. The Pistons are the regulars who just fuck around every year and make it deep into the playoffs. They're an institution today, while the Celtics are struggling to live up to the weight of their own monumental past. Detroit has nothing to lose; they already got their ring. These Celtics, they need one to justify this team's existence. And yes, these are the times when knowing you're Hall of Fame-bound can keep you up nights.

Celtics, I believe in you. And when you lose to Los Angeles in the Finals, I'll be the first to jump on the message boards and say THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS SEASON IT'S SO AMAZING WE EVEN GOT BACK IN THE FINALS AGAIN.

I'm sorry Cleveland, but you guys have got to have the least threatening, least homecourt-advantage-giving playoff crowd in this entire field of 16. Yes, I know San Antonio didn't even fill its arena for some of its first round games, and yeah, I know Toronto and Orlando don't exactly bring the noise, but still, you guys take last. It's not your fault; trust me I know. You guys have had to tiptoe around LeBron ever since he denied signing the max contract, not to mention the fact that Cleveland sports fans in general constantly have to hold their collective breath given years of spurning by the Browns, Indians, and Ehlos. Nonetheless, in a toss-up series, home court advantage might just make the difference, and it's going clearly in Boston's favor.

Now that's not to say I don't have a beef with you, Boston fans. Your obnoxiousness has permeated sport culture so thoroughly over the past five years that it's overwhelmingly trite to even diss you. And hell, Mike Bibby already (properly) played the bandwagon card, so I've got nothing else to say. As far as the Celtics themselves, congrats guys, I loved all the jersey-popping and bench-stomping and chest-thumping in game 7, after you finally beat the Hawks in the last game of the series. Kevin Garnett is so intense. Veteran experience is so important. The holy spirit of Dave Cowens has entered the building. The Celtics love playing with each other. Wake me up when the talking heads are just heads.

The conventional wisdom is that the competitiveness of the Eastern Conference playoffs reflects the fact that the East wasn't really the sucker conference after all. On the contrary, the Hawks/Celtics and Wiz/Cavs series more likely showed that no one in the East could go for the kill. Ugh. So, now we get to the prime time stage of the NBA's B-Squad tournament, and it's Ubuntu vs. The Man.

Getting my prediction out of the way, I'm rolling with the Celtics, but I'm gonna put out there a 12% chance of LeBron winning the whole damn thing by himself. LeBron right now is Harry Truman meets Suge Knight. A dangerous nerd capable of destroying your lofty hopes, but a guy whom people still make fun of behind his back. And the Celtics won't respect him like the Wizards did. You see, the only reason the Wiz had a puncher's chance in that series is that they treated LBJ like MJ. They beat him up, they triple-teamed him, they trash-talked him non-stop, they let Wally Szczerbiak go for 26, they left Delonte West wide open for a game-winner. In other words, they treated LeBron like he was the only guy on the team that mattered, which is pretty darn close to the truth.

Now the Celtics, as opposed to the Wizards, have this aura of foolish pride that is going to likely inspire them to put Pierce on 'Bron in single coverage, which — as good of a defender as Pierce is — is going to be a handful. Maybe Doc Rivers can prove me wrong. Maybe he'll wise up and give 'Bron the Joe Johnson game 7 treatment. Maybe Tony Allen will finally get his proper burn, and maybe James Posey, the Celtics' MVPP (Most Valuable Player in the Playoffs), will get the LeBron assignment (and while we're at it, if Posey starts manning up James, can we get an over/under on how many times the term "length" is used?). But Doc hasn't proven anything yet this entire season, and I give him four games before he can figure out the proper way to guard Bronzino.

What I want to know is whether or not LeBron can get mean. LeBron never really could muster a cool response to the Wizards' prodding of him. Brendan Haywood's infantilizing mimicry of LeBron was hilarious as was DeShawn Stevenson's persistent wet-willying. Dude even let Papa John punk him. And yeah, the Cavaliers ended up winning the series and everyone was talking about how LeBron "spoke with his game" instead of verbally sparring with those plebeian Wizards. Eff. That. LeBron is never going to subvert his robotic/platonic image by actually SAYING anything at all that is more than a cliché or a carefully scripted "I'm above all that" cop-out non-response.

If LeBron can unleash some authentic from-the-soul wrath, he can overcome the dung-storm that the Boston crowd is gonna rain on him. Otherwise, it's curtains for the Cavaliers and another sad summer of speculation from Cleveland fans about LeBron's allegiances, his supporting cast, etc. Let's just say it — now that KG is paired up with Piru Love and Jesus Shuttlesworth, we can safely say that 'Bron is the superstar that has endured the worst supporting casts of all time. When your Pippen-of-the-month has been downgraded to Joe Smith, your chances of a title are slim. Let's hope 'Bron can take things personal, fire himself up and make things interesting.

What's been going on with the Jazz and Lakers, respectively? It took Utah six games to knock off Houston, a streaky, rag-tag, injury-ridden team that everyone kind of wanted to play in round one. They even dropped one at home, where they're supposed to not lose, ever. The Lakers, they blew through Denver — the eighth seed no one wanted to play — like it wasn't worth noticing. Were the Nuggets remotely normal, they'd be melting down like the Mavs right about now.

While I want to be nice, and knowledgeable, and prove that I've watched Utah play a bunch, I chuckle. However, I do see two ways the Jazz could make a move in this series. Granted, these are unlikely, but they might be Utah's best shot.

Deron Williams and his unquenchable envy: Something the networks never touch, since it's creepy and vaguely psychotic, is Deron's CP3 complex. Recap: Williams was taken earlier in the '05 draft, even though he wasn't a real point guard at Illinois; Paul is shorter; Paul is far and away the point guard position's reigning genius. No disrespect to Williams, who should be an All-Star for the next five years, but sturdy, willful, and bullish aren't the same thing as skywriting with vodka and hand grenades.

Williams, however, has a major chip on his shoulder over all the love Paul gets. How do I know this? He's the only man in the league who can guard Paul; something darker than death and eternal suffering drives him in their games against New Orleans. And even if Paul is demonstrably better, there's still a way in which Williams, on the verge of becoming the consensus second-best point guard in the league, gets lost in the shuffle.

Right now, Paul's going up against the Spurs, the team who, while not favored, are staunch opponents. If the Hornets fare well, and Paul puts on a show, his myth will flare up like never before. And you know who'll be reading all the columns, up late with candles burning and a flask of firewater? Williams, that's who. He can't let the gulf between them get any wider. So that means that, as Paul excels, Williams will be doubly determined to assert himself. Oh, and don't forget, he's playing for a chance to meet the Hornets in the Conference Finals. Imagine what a point he could make there. You can't underestimate how much motivation this could provide D-Will.

Derek Fisher, traitor Fisher has been great for the Lakers. He's a poster child for calming veteran presence, on all sorts of levels. Fisher also is tight with Kobe, keeping him level and making him open up more around the rest of the team. In short, he's often the much-needed link between the MVP and reality. Oh, and he's a saint who likes taking care of his ailing young daughter.

That's not how the Jazz fans see it. They never really bought the whole "the hospitals are better in L.A., let me out of my contract" spiel. There are, after all, medical facilities in Salt Lake, even if they don't give you intravenous Pepsi when you're feeling blue. But it's not the Dark Ages out there, and really, we all know that Fisher just wanted to get back to Los Angeles . . . where he knew Kobe would come to terms with management, Andrew Bynum would come alive, and Pau Gasol would come to town for peanuts. It's all so clear to me, which is why I totally sympathize with the Energy Solutions crowds booing Fisher.

Who knows, maybe the team will get behind this grudge, too? Maybe some private dick can dredge up this (hypothetical) email:

TO: KB24@nike.com
FROM: D_Fish@jazz.com
DATE: 2006-07 Playoffs
SUBJECT: City of Angels

Hey man, we're getting absolutely shelled by the Spurs. This is bullshit and really boring. And like we talked about, my little girl is sick, and losing doesn't help my mood. I need to get back to you and Phil, where we can get back to business and do what's right by us all. Coach can pass that Jew leprechaun, like he always talks about. You can get that post-Shaq ring you need. Me, I can have some fun again.

I've been playing it just right, acting like every time I step on the court, it's like an act of charity for the city of Utah. I mean, it is, because Sloan is a dick, and all anyone wants to talk about is Deron and the Boozer as Stockton/Malone redux. Just like Prince was the Second Coming of Buck Owens, ya heard? Anyway, I've got this whole solemn, tormented thing going, and I'm pretty sure I'll be back there soon.

Then, we can just wait for the rings to pile up. I'm the missing piece. That and I can see the future—trust me, this team is about to have some good things come its way.

Peace,

Fish.

I know, right? Total bulletin board material. Find that, or fabricate that, and this already physical team will get as mean as Sloan's rotten innards.

Otherwise, the Lakers could get another sweep.

Aaaaand (wiping the sweat off my brow), my pick to win the finals win the finals is still intact.

That was a close one. The Pistons nearly sleepwalked their way through their third playoffs in a row, the 76ers played with more guts than anyone else has shown all season, and in this topsy-turvy sports world of the Giants beating the Patriots and the Colorado Rockies playing in a World Series, "anything" almost happened. But then the Pistons became the Pistons began and made millions of Detroit citizens want to strangle a lamppost, with frustrations of, "WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU GUYS ALWAYS PLAY LIKE THIS??"

An additional critical event occurred, though, which I must acknowledge. Flip Saunders actually made some adjustments — perhaps only inadvertently, but after ripping him in the past, I have to give the guy some credit. For one, after McDyess' schnoz got busted, Jason Maxiell was inserted into the starting lineup to great effect. They might as well leave him in there as it takes tremendous pressure of McDyess to be the presence in the middle that Ben Wallace represented a few years ago. Saunders also played the young guys Aaron Afflalo, Amir Johnson and Rodney Stuckey, and not only in the midst of blowouts.

I found that a surprising and nifty move given that (a) it goes completely against the Larry Brown ethos of relying on minimal rotations and playoff-tested vets (b) this postseason is teaching us that we are exiting the Shaq/Jason Kidd epoch into a new era of speed and youth (see Chris Paul, Josh Childress, Rajon Rondo, Josh Smith, Thaddeus Young, Brandon Bass, etc.). The Pistons will need youthful vigor to survive the road ahead.

So, yeah, maybe Saunders has learned a thing or two about coaching, but when it comes down to it, the Pistons are really only as good as their Brahma of Hamilton, Prince, Billups, and Sheed. And as ostensible Pistons insider, Chris Webber, stated last week on Inside the NBA, when it comes down to it, the Pistons ultimately do not follow in Flip's footsteps, but rather they take the character of team president Joe Dumars. Note the key term there: character. It's a vague all-encompassing term that has to do with mettle and respect and toughness, but whatever it means, it's what these playoffs are all about, and what they have been about since the dissolution of the Kobe/Shaq dynasty. For all the crap I talk about the Spurs, they are the ultimate character team, having won two of the last three titles simply off of integrity. When the Mavs went up 2-0 on the Heat two years ago, character prevailed and a scrappy Dwyane Wade floorburned his way to the championship. When Golden State beat Dallas in the first round last year, the Warriors had character oozing out of their pores.

And in the match-up of character, Orlando doesn't stand a chance to Detroit. Talent, now that's a whole different story. No doubt the Magic have in Dwight Howard the most talented player in the series, and probably a top 3 player of the remaining playoff teams (just behind Kobe and Chris Paul). This is not to mention that both Rashard Lewis and Hedo Turkoglu may be better pure scorers than anyone on the Detroit squad. However, there's something just a little too synthetic about the Magic's game. They seem like a bunch of guys who just fell off some alien tree; aside from Jameer Nelson I can't imagine any of them having played in college. They're too neon; I could never see them photographed in sepia tones. The Pistons on the other hand, are a team full of bearded, masked, future politicians — guys who play like they're mentally 65 years old.

So in the end, it's like comparing Brad Pitt to James Dean. Scientology to Taoism. Cheetos to Bavarian Pretzels. Converse to BAPEs. And so I'm rolling with what I know, which is Detroit, all earth and blood of them. The Magic will get their day once they add some depth and consistent PG play, but I think that Detroit in the first round received their scariest and last wake up call, and now they're ready to go. The theme of this playoffs has been windows. Windows are opening for the Hornets, Sixers and Hawks for future success. On the flip, windows are slamming shut for the Mavericks, the Nuggets, the Suns, and sheeeit, maybe even the Celtics. And when it comes to Detroit, this is the moment of truth. Either play hard, with no lapses toward coasting, or else fingers are getting smashed. Louis Williams already showed you his fangs. Julian Wright wants to taste bone marrow. And Joe Johnson, well he might as well be the Unabomber. This is a different era. As Shaq and Kidd become dust to dust, the young-uns are realizing that their time is now, so be wary Detroit; this is your last chance.

Somehow, the Hornets/Mavericks series told us everything about Dallas, and nothing of NOLA's team. It hammered home the Mavs' reputation for fecklessness, prompted a clubhouse implosion and pushed Avery Johnson out the door.

Josh Howard's strange, strange week hung from the clouds like an omen, obscuring the series itself and drawing attention to the Mavs' more general malaise. That the team's most promising young player should so suddenly crumble on the court, embroil himself in a major controversy, and then set off Avery's climactic fit of fire and brimstone was, to say the least, a bummer. New Orleans won the series, Dallas burnt like Rome.

Herein lies one of basketball's most frustrating conventions: It's arbitrary, or maybe just utterly subjective, where one team's folly ends and the other's excellence begins.

Coming into round one, the Hornets' youth and inexperience were widely decried, ruled fit for the plucking by a team like the Mavs. But after this summary thrashing, no one has rushed to deem NOLA fit for duty, or once and for all revoked those old criteria for post-season advancement (Atlanta being such an insane case that they prove absolutely nothing). The convincing 4-1 victory by the Hornets didn't make them legit, it just made Dallas suckier.

Thanks heavens we've arrived at the series of no excuses.

There are many reasons to hate the Spurs, and anyone devoted to this negative cause has seen fit to adjust his over time. Lately, I've come to see their reliance on big shots and random veterans delivering as basketball's answer to faith healing. But the fact remains that no team offers as definitive a foil as San Antonio. In part, it's because they're capable of playing any and every style, either mirroring the opponent or walloping them with their opposite.

It's this blank, implacable dominance that makes them the team every contender should want to go through. Beat San Antonio, and no questions remain. Put aside for a spell all the "heart of champion" mumbo-jumbo, or the apt — if empty — assertion that "they just find a way to win every time." On the level of pure basketball, there's nothing the Spurs cant counter or match; they have little or no discernible weaknesses, at least not any that come back to haunt them ("absence of awesome" only counts inside my head; youth, just a number).

What they do offer, then, is the ultimate test of credibility, a surefire way to once and for all establish one's worth. While Dallas frittered away the 2006 Finals, they did get past San Antonio on their way. Thus, any rightful trashing of the Avery years must begin with 2006-07; if anything, that series against the Spurs remains his greatest accomplishment.

So as someone who has already branded Chris Paul messiah, MVP, Mr. New Abe Lincoln, and everything in between, I welcome this nightmare matchup. Let Tim Duncan and his stolid bunch rip Paul, West, and Chandler to shreds, thus reinforcing all old thinking and sending the Hornets scurrying for off-season answers. That's what they did to the Suns, and what brought about that team's ruin. The Spurs have the power to hand down judgment like no other squad around.

Then again, supposed the Hornets hang tough, or, god forbid, win. Suppose, as a friend of mine dared to dream earlier tonight, that Paul puts together a 40-20 game. Then the Hornets will be vindicated, conventional thinking will take a beating, and most importantly, there will be no doubting that this team is for real — even if they subsequently fall to the Lakers or Celtics.

It just won't work to dismiss or qualify San Antonio's performance the way we're accustomed to doing when it suits our assumptions; they've been too good, and too resourceful, for too long. That is why, for once in my life, I come here to praise the Spurs. They are like the Bulls of old, but just mortal enough to offer hope. They are the NBA's great litmus test, of no value in and of themselves but absolutely indispensable to the landscape of the league.

Forget the rings and the big gold hoop-and-roundball trophy. The Philadelphia 76ers have won the championship of hearts and nuts this year. In sports, the hardest thing to do is exceed expectations, and everybody on the team, from Mo Cheeks to Iguodala on down to Rodney Carney put in overtime this year to buck all the naysayers.

The Sixers were the NBA's biggest surprise this year, they were the only NBA team that legitimately didn't look like a bunch of wimp millionaires, and they kept their whole ethos so grindstone that they even made Allen Iverson look like he wanted to come back to town.

What I don't get is this: In the Eastern Conference, there are really only two elite teams, Boston and Detroit (I'll get to them in just a moment). Playoff spots six through eight are going to be wide open. So why did it look like everyone out East completely lost their mojo around Christmas (i.e. around the time that Boston started looking utterly invincible and Michael Beasley started averaging 25 and 15)? The Sixers were really the only team in the East to really buckle down and snatch from the sky what was not rightfully theirs. Everybody else started tanking (see Riley, Pat) or acted like they deserved a playoff spot just for showing up (I'm looking at you and shaking my head, Chicago).

The Sixers, for the majority of the year looked like — and I can't believe I'm saying this — a hardcore NCAA team fighting for their lives in the big tournament. Maybe that's because they were made up of greenhorns like Carney and Thaddeus Young and diamonds in the rough like Willie Green and Louis "who?" Williams. At any rate, the Sixers were my personal feel-good story of the year, which is why it's gonna hurt so badly when Detroit pummels them in about four games or so.

The Detroit Pistons, simply put, are built for this. Their core is more experienced than that of any other team. Their big four have been together since 2004, which is more than any other team can say. Rasheed is putting together his best season as a Piston. Chauncey Billups is the most clutch player in the playoffs this side of Bean Thousand. And most important, this group of players are so in sync with each other that the playoff-impaired Flip Saunders has finally become completely superfluous. In fact, screw it. I am picking them to win the whole darn thing.

For one, they are facing certified inferiors in both the first and second rounds (sorry Orlando or Toronto). Second, I strongly believe that they are the most qualified team in the league to beat the Boston Celtics in a seven-game series, simply because their defense can neutralize every one of Boston's big three, and that includes Kevin Garnett. As someone who has watched about 80 percent of the games that KG has played since 1996, I will be the first to inform you that KG's toughest man-to-man opponent is not Dwight Howard, not Karl Malone, and not Tim Duncan. It's 'Sheed. Straight truth. I'm not sure what the stats are to back this claim up, but there is something about 'Sheed's oblong body type that simply envelops KG on defense. Of course, you're not going to beat Boston just by stopping KG, or even just by stopping the Big three. But here is where I'll play the experience card, and say that I trust Detroit's four — and they trust each other — more than any lineup Boston can throw on the floor.

Now assuming that the Pistons get past the Celtics and into the finals, they are in certified John McCain territory. What that means is, while the other conference has been busy beating each other up for months just so some exhausted, beslogged party victor can emerge all tattered from the pack like Benji the Hunted, the Pistons will have been chilling out, resting up, and getting their legs beneath them.* Thus, Detroit will be in perfect shape to bring a surprise-we're-still-here!!!! smackdown on whichever team they face in the finals. Trust me, whoever makes it out of that tarantula-web in the West is going to be bruised and battered going into the finals.

Back to the series at hand, the Detroit Pistons are just playing in a different league altogether from Philadelphia. The Sixers will be a great story next year and hopefully the year after that (could someone please make it possible for them to obtain Ty Lawson?). Andre Iguodala will continue to improve, and aside from Boston, the Atlantic division should stay pretty weak for the next few years. But in 2008 it's Pistons all the way. Philly fans may just want to shake hands with each other, exchange pleasantries, and pat themselves on the back for a great season; but then look away, because this thing is about to get uuuuuuuuuuuuugly.

On the surface, Raptors versus Magic is limited in flash, intrigue and sex appeal, as it pits two teams that were founded less than 20 years ago against each other. Neither of the teams are rich in history, neither has ever won a championship nor put a player in the Hall of Fame (Olajuwon doesn't count!). Both teams will inevitably be stomped in the next round by the Detroit Pistons. Save for Dwight Howard's dunk contest appearance, none of these teams made headlines for anything significant this year (not even for ill business like somebody shooting a gun into the sky). Oh, and both teams started off the season looking much better but then kind of fizzled out in March and April, even in the flaccid Eastern Conference,

And nonetheless, I could not be more thrilled. Jose Calderon! Hedo Turkoglu! Anthony Parker! International fireworks and the greatest interborder battle since the war over Canada's dirt-cheap prescription drugs. What gives me cause for so much zeal and fervor surrounding this series, you might ask? Well, allow me to break down this series with 100 "games within the games" (if you will) that you'll want to watch intently:

100. Sam Mitchell vs. Stan Van Gundy. A battle of coaches who can completely lose their shit at any moment. To me, Sam Mitchell will forever be the man because not only did he actually challenge one of his players (his star player, Vince Carter) to a fight; but because he kept his job after doing so and the player got shipped off elsewhere! Seriously, that is some modern day Leo Durocher/Billy Martin shit. One of the highly underrated moments of badassedness during the more-conservative-by-the-day David Stern era. Van Gundy, on the other hand, came into this season looking like he had a vendetta against the entire league for how dirty he was done in Miami. The guy even started throwing shots back in South Beach's direction. Also, I thought it was pretty cool that he called out Dwight Howard for defensive issues and his zero playoff wins. Basically, I'm just waiting for something to piss either Mitchell or SVG off tremendously.

99. Chris Bosh vs. Dwight Howard. This one is straight Redwoods versus Evergreens, and as fun as it will be to watch the sinewy Bosh weave in and out of God's Son's grasp, this series belongs to Howard. I'm ready to see D-Ho put up Shaq-in-his-prime type numbers and the YouTube search servers to be all jammed up with requests for "Rasho Nesterovic's grill."

98. Raptor vs. Stuff the Magic Dragon. Battle of the Marketing Departments Round 1. Both the Raptors' staff and the Magic's staff have curious views about the use of creativity in mascot naming. Raptor is on some "here it is fuck you" Shellac shit whereas "Stuff" incorporates punnery, Disney sponsorship, basketball references, and Peter, Paul, & Mary into an acid trip gone awry. Score 1 for Toronto's peoples.

97. The clash of horrendous color-centric playoff slogans in Battle of the Marketing Departments Round 2: Are you Red-y?" vs. "Blue and White Ignite." I didn't think it could be done, but the Magic's marketing department knotted this thing up at 1-1. We'll have to keep an eye on what type of faux Terrible Towel cloth these teams' fans get their hands on.

96. Awful hometown bands that could potentially sit courtside: Barenaked Ladies vs. O-Town. With all the crap tweeny music that Orlando has generated over the last decade, Toronto is winning this one in a landslide. Plus, when it comes to music in general, the T-Dot is at least responsible for Saukrates and South Rakkas crew.

95. T.J. Ford vs. Jameer Nelson. Dwarf toss.

Ok, I give up. I've pined over statistics, news columns, Wikipedia entries and blogs for the past three hours and, I admit it, this series has all the intrigue of a Little House on the Prairie marathon. The only insight I have left is that the lower tier of Orlando's bench sounds like a cast of characters from a high-powered Western:

James Augustine
Pat Garrity
Bo Outlaw
Marcin Gortat (the obligatory El Paso compadre)

I'm really hoping that a fight breaks out or Andrea Bargnani starts humping the floor or Scott Skiles comes back from the grave to suit up for the Magic. Hey, these series' can't all be Michelangelos. Sometimes the events of this crazy league simply don't fall into place properly, and we're stuck with a sculpture of a plastic heart. Lord knows I'll be watching every minute regardless.

Congratulations, Denver. Every novel needs a character after which no kid shall ever be named; every reality show needs an agitator. This year, you narrowly edged out Golden State for the right to represent the crazed and unruly in the all-too-regal Western Conference playoffs.

The real bummer is that it doesn't have to be like this. Have you looked at your roster lately? Allen Iverson's flaws have receded with age, and he's now just an unspeakably quick, team-friendly guard who would rather die than lose. Carmelo Anthony — who, in a truly history-making move, became the first person ever to operate a vehicle under the influence — scores efficiently, has upped his rebounding and could take anyone in a no-holds-barred grin-off. Marcus Camby was last year's Defensive Player of the Year, Kenyon Martin has fully recovered from two years in microfracture exile and does good works at both ends of the floor. Nene lost a nut and still wants to give it his all. Najera has enough nuts for us all. Even J.R. Smith, once so cancerous that he was traded twice in one week, plays D and has learned to tell when he's not on a hot streak.

This is the talent level of a contender. These are players who, despite their problematic pasts, are all great people now who regularly babysit my otter collection. Golden State was a boom-or-bust experiment, a nothing gained, nothing lost exercise in Don Nelson's inherent weirdness. The Nuggets, on the other hand, should be steadily winning, with some nights where they look elite. At very least, they should be that. Instead, they're a neurotic mess that's taken Smith as a spirit animal of sorts. They only thrive when they surrender to the utter chaos that's dogged them so — even as they've got the raw materials to assemble an ode to competence.

I come here not to assign blame, but to weep. I'd like to see Iverson make one last run. Melo is a very good basketball player who deserves mainstream respect. This team has people who like to rebound and, in their own way, defend. Even George Karl, the scapegoat of choice, has been a successful NBA coach. He's a little batty, but could you imagine Larry Brown trying to helm this bunch?

If Denver somehow caught fire — and, as the resident crazies, they reserve the right to do so — the Lakers could have a series on their hands. Still, as exciting as that might be, it would still feel like a team reduced to playing the holy fool. These guys deserve better, damn it.

The Lakers, by contrast, are pure basketball this year. Last fall, it was nearly unthinkable that a Kobe/Phil joint would enter the postseason with not a scrap of psychology in sight. Lamar Odom doesn't even seem particularly haunted these days. All we want to know is what will happen with Andrew Bynum, whose return would suddenly hand the West's top team an ridiculously athletic, increasingly savvy, seven-foot star-in-the-making. And worst case scenario, Bynum comes off the bench, or plays limited minutes. These are purely technical matters, as opposed to the Nuggets' internal struggles of the heart. For that alone, Kobe deserves the MVP, or some kind of award: The league's most difficult personality, or at least its most complicated, has reduced himself to nothing but playing ball well and winning tons of games.

Will the Nuggets look at the Lakers and think "this could be us?" Multiple stars, strong role players and that Kobe/Iverson dichotomy that really doesn't get talked about much anymore (maybe because it's ceased to exist?). A Nuggets team skirting the edge of good taste could take this series six or seven games, but it won't be without its pathos. This would be success at its most empty. The Nuggets are the jesters of this postseason, all the more so because, unlike those rascally Hawks, they could aspire to so much more.

Technically, this is the third year in a row that the Wizards and Cavs have met in the first round. In 2006, LeBron reminded us that he could do no wrong, even as he tackled the playoffs for the first time. But Gilbert Arenas refused to back down, matching James's iron-wrought majesty with fiery whim. Cleveland won in 6, and James marched on, but it was this series that put Arenas on the map.

For 2007, the sham police were out in full force. Arenas went down with a knee injury toward season's end; to add insult to injury, Caron Butler came up lame, too. The once-proud Wizards became the team everyone wanted in round one, and Cleveland got them. The sweep came easy, and James's play was strong, if somewhat perfunctory. Gil tried in vain to spice things up by chirping loud from the bench, but Biz LeBron was in no mood. Last year had come down to playground tactics, with James whispering in Gil's ear right before he clanked out the game-winning free throws in OT. This time, it was beneath him to trifle.

So now, we head into another installment of the most disjointed, unmentionable rivalry in all of pro sports. Gil missed the entire season with that same bum knee, but now may or may not be ready to step up and star again. No one, not even, Arenas himself, seems certain of his condition. Is he available in spurts? Poised to take up the Barbosa-like mantle of zany instant offense? Or, heaven forbid, will he take his rightful place in the starting lineup by the second game? He's announced his plans to be more of a distributor, but in his few games back it's his scoring that's truly dazzled.

Why all the recap? Because these two teams are perfectly situated to fight each other for years. James and Arenas are two of the most natural-born rivals in the entire league: One entitled, god-like, and barely human, the other a first-class underdog determined to keep himself always fighting the odds. And against James, he — or anyone — will always come up imperfect and strange. But somehow, this feels like a strange coincidence, like seeing two people in one day who bought the same glasses as you. The NBA deserves better than this and indeed, all players involved deserve more.

We routinely say that THIS IS A LEAGUE OF STARS. You can keep your Zydrunas/Haywood matchup, your "worst game coach showdown," and even DeShawn Stevenson's endless rants and raves. I know LeBron thinks it's about him to respond too much, and Gil is mostly focused on working his way back home, but come on. One of you will win this series, but that's not all that's at stake. Look a little deeper, and Brand James took a hit last year — there was that one incandescent game about Detroit, but aside from that he was either rote or unseen. And that Finals debacle has been erased from our collective memory in the sole interest of preserving the world economy, which relies so heavily on LeBron's future worth.

And Gil, my man, this is your moment. Push Stevenson over to the side; his yapping is unsubtle and artless. Last year, you had no problem talking shit while laid up in a suit. You want a challenge? You want to show that you belong up there with LeBron, Wade or Kobe? After 2006, you were getting there; through no fault of your own, that path was lost. But what could be more classically Arenas-ian than taking this series on your back from the get-go? Let Caron and Antawn get theirs; honor what the team has accomplished without you. But for reals, this feels like it was scripted for you to thrive.

In spirit of 2006, from the ashes of 2007, across a landscape of resignation and incidental associations, it's time that LeBron and Arenas recognize that this isn't some fluke. They are both at defining moments in their careers, and like it or not, they need each other. By revisiting the past, they can renew themselves for the future. Let's recapture that LeBron we didn't take for granted. That Arenas whose insanity was matched only by his will. Without this, yeah, it's two Eastern teams, one of which features LeBron. But if we embrace the past here, instead of dismissing it as muddle, this series has the potential to revitalize two of the NBA's most charismatic figures.

Let the West, or the Celtics, worry about the L.O.B. The playoffs are about that, but it's also where reputations come into being. This is two guys returning to their roots, whether they realize it or not. Here's hoping they deliver unto us a real clash of civilizations.

MESSAGE TO GOD: Please let the tears stop from streaming down my face. Yahwe, I can't believe you're going to put me through this again. You're going to make me watch another soggy first round Tracy McGrady playoff defeat? And with all the tension brought on by the fact that the Jazz can't win on the road, inevitably making this a seven-game series? Jesus, joy of man's desiring, why could you not have simply booted the Rockets from the playoff race altogether back in January, making way for the Golden State freakfest, or at least the Portland Trailblazers? Instead you we will endure a week and a half of a slow, slow cockpunch, leading us all to grimace in unison when McGrady finally steps off that EnergySolutions hard timber back into the locker-room, and back into the cove of shame.

Look, back when I didn't know Carl Landry from Kyle Lowry, I had the Rockets picked to destroy everybody this year and wrap up the Larry O'B. The entire Clutch City squadron just screamed revenge crew. McGrady had endured a summer of mulling over his most agonizing playoff loss yet, the pain of which was overshadowed only by the far more devastating beatdown that Golden State put on Dirk & Co. Yao was ready to defend T-Mac's honor. Adelman was getting ready to crack the Maloof Brothers over the head with poolsticks. Mike James, Bonzi Wells, Steve Francis and Rafer Alston had all come off seasons where they were villainized worse than 1000 Starburys. This was finally Houston's year.

Then the Yao debacle happened, complete with underground dealings between Leslie L. Alexander, Kofi Annan and various members of Chinese Triad Societies. Then came the improbable 22-game win streak. Dikembe "age" jokes again made hit the daily news cycle, and then all of a sudden, various injuries and slumps miniaturized the Rockets back to a middling-to-good team that was now oddly stuck at the top of the standings. T-Mac would have been graciously forgiven had the Rockets slipped into lotteryland obscurity. But no, Deke had to guzzle some of that anti-aging Himalayan goji juice, Skip to My Lou had to turn into Mark Price and the Rox had to ship Bonzi and MJames to New Orleans for the much teamier Bobby Jackson. For four weeks. Is this all some cruel joke to place T-Mac back in first round purgatory?

Meanwhile, the Jazz have put together one of the most confounding seasons in recent memory. They struggled on the road, they somehow transformed Kyle Korver into a "keystone," they endured major sulkitude from AK-47 without trading him, they got 80+ games out of Carlos Boozer, and they watched Deron Williams turn into Aslan. Jerry Sloan is still the best coach in the league (six decades running), and Mehmet Okur's end of the year bitchslap to Fabricio Oberto suggests that Utah is to be taken seriously. But, again, there's the whole amazing at home/crappy road record thing. I don't get it. Home court advantage isn't supposed to mean anything in the NBA these days, but in Utah it's like white Freaknik. Maybe the reason is, more than anything else, the Jazz are Utah. The state's other claims to fame are lame, either as genuine emblems (e.g. Mitt Romney) or as stereotype-based jokes (e.g. Mormonism, hyuk!). When googling "Utah," the Jazz homepage shows up before the Utah Wikipedia entry. Whatever is going on there, it's working.

And so I envision a slow deathmarch for the Rockets. Every game in Houston will give them just enough hope to keep pushing, but EnergySolutions may as well be an S&M chamber of doom. Deron Williams is ready to create something bigger than himself. With all the KG/Kobe/LeBron/CP3 MVP chatter, the baddest play-the-right-way player in the league has to feel a little snubbed, and there is no better time to unleash his fury than on the playoff stage. We're talking 15 points and 20 assists per game, minimum.

On the other side of things, Houston's only hope is McGrady, and T-Mac's firepower alone will not be enough to get it done. As I drink from a bottle of Manischewitz, listening to Roy Orbison and pondering T-Mac's playoff struggles, I wonder if maybe McGrady has really made it after all. Perhaps, when with Orlando he famously, erroneously, and prematurely uttered, "It's great to finally make it to the second round," McGrady had advanced to glory in his mind, even though the Detroit Pistons actually won the series. McGrady does have 11 playoff wins in his career, and perhaps he has pieced each one together as victories a personal championship. Of course, his external demeanor tells a different story. In press conferences, be-trenchcoated, he chokes back tears, placing the burden of playoff failure on his back alone. But telling myself that T-Mac is, deep down really all right, is the only thing that I can do to stop my own tears from descending like primordial thundershowers.

Rollin rollin rollin, we ain't slept in weeks. That's how the entire NBA feels about this whole Shaq-to-Phoenix thing. The universe is ill at ease. The weather patterns have shifted. A subtle tremor has rippled throughout the land, from the electricity in Steve Kerr's vibrating chair, to the tofu crumbs in Phil Jackson's beard, to the Buffalo nickels in Mark Cuban's moneybin. Since arriving in Phoenix, Shaq has been bad, he's been good, he's been fast, he's been slow, he's been important, he's been self-important, he's been a dick, he's been a comedian. And not a damn bit of his regular season hijinks matter now.

Steve Kerr knows championship basketball as well as anyone, and he knows that eight of the last nine championships were won by Tim Duncan or Shaquille O'Neal. Kerr had a single purpose in obtaining Shaq, and that was to defeat Timmy D (doing damage to Pau Gasol along the way). The verdict on Kerr's decision is still to be determined. The Suns have gone 18-11 with O'Neal on the squad. The trade has elevated the game of only a single Phoenix Sun (Amare Stoudemire) and has put more pressure than ever on Steve Nash to win the whole darn thing.

And now that Kasparov versus Big Blue moment is here: Shaq and the superfriends meeting Duncan and the hardhats in the first round. Perhaps the defining showdown of our generation, and yet it all feels so anticlimactic. I can't help but think that the Suns have disturbed some cosmic chi in acquiring O'Neal. As my colleague Bethlehem Shoals has stated many times over, the Suns are not THE SUNS anymore. Ever since they traded in Shawn Marion for Shaq, Phoenix is pumping out nuclear energy, no longer that natural Canadian air. Whatever remnants of Eddie House/Quentin Richardson unbridled mania has dried up. NPR got bought out by Clear Channel or some shit.

The best analogy I can come up with for the circumstances is when Mixmaster Mike took over DJing duties for the Beastie Boys (bear the fuck with me here). The whole charm of the B-Boys was that they were janky, freewheeling and refreshingly spur-of-the-moment. Sure, their lyrics were always simplistic and sometimes corny, and their voices sucked, but you could overlook these flaws because they were fun as hell and each of their first four albums sounded like a beautiful mess. Then, all of a sudden they replaced the rag-tag cuts of DJ Hurricane with the incredibly precise scratching of Mixmaster Mike, and it's like, wait, were these guys trying the whole time? Were we supposed to take them seriously? The addition of the Mixmaster sucked all the spontaneity out of the group, and next thing you know they are cranking out some some J-Pop bullshit like Hello Nasty, or even worse, some watered down pseudo-revivalist bunk like To The Five Boroughs.

It's the same story in Phoenix. Now that we realized that the Suns were actually trying to win the damn thing the past couple years, it's harder to see that era as a period of rich cavorting and effortless expressionism. On top of it, isn't any post-Lakers Shaq team really just a bastardized version of the Zenmaster three-peat squad? We're basically looking in our playbill to see who is starring in the Rick Fox and Derek Fisher roles. The whole story feels so sterile.

And on the other side of the ring are the Spurs, a perhaps too-easy villain after last year's Robert Horry hipcheck, the purposeless consequent suspension of Amare Stoudemire and the Tim Donaghy-tainted smog cast over the whole series. Much will be made of how much the sting of that series lingers in both teams' minds. Yet, the Spurs are focused on a whole higher mental plane. The Spurs have more legitimate depth than any other team in the playoffs — I'm talking real, focused depth; not that Dallas Mavericks store-bought Jamaal Magloire depth. Tim Duncan is Tim Duncan. And any time a balding guy (e.g. Ginobili) is getting insanely better instead of insanely worse, I have suspicions of destiny on that team's side.

Look, this series is going seven games. It's essentially a draw. The Spurs are the champs until proven otherwise, and Ginobili's rise completely compensates for any "steps lost" on Duncan or Tony Parker's part. On the other hand, Shaq has too much pride to roll over, and Steve Nash's presence and free throw shooting alone counts for at least one win for Phoenix. This is about as close as it gets. But aha, in consulting my secret Kabbalah-based NBA playoff-betting guide, it says here clearly on page 317: "NEVER bet on the Spurs to lose a first-round series." A decision has been made. Look, I know that the West has been a dogfight this year and I know it's now or never for the Suns, but San Antonio losing in the first round? That just doesn't look right.

Glee to the Atlanta Hawks! Their first playoff appearance since the year after Seinfeld ended, and an enduring middle finger to all of you who still remember the name. They are not the new Clippers. Their whole team is no longer 6'8". It does not a lick matter that their ownership spend day and night at each other's throats, or that a team in the capitol of New Black America can't draw fans. This team has overcome, and on Saturday, the yoke shall be cast off.

But could this not come under less auspicious circumstances? Sorry, Joe Johnson, ye of the max contract and fumbled reputation; Josh Smith, cult favorite who may or may not know how to play the game; Mike Bibby, forever asking God for attention; and Al Horford, the only one who might emerge from this era unscathed. You are carcass on the flats. Blood on the steel. The quinceanera held in front of a rolling Superfund site. In the cruelest of all ironies, the Hawks return to the big leagues only to be desperately outclassed by you-know-who.

The Celtics are a monolith. It's hard to explain exactly what makes them tick, other than airtight determination, three stars boiled down to their essence and a supporting cast that's equally no-nonsense. When you look at Boston today, you don't see fireworks, or anything else that would offend a Puritanical sensibility. This is the biggest tooth-and-nail in modern basketball existence, where super-stardom tried and succeeded to squeeze itself into the trenches. The Pistons are proles who became stars. Garnett, Allen and Pierce are elites who burned their mansions and took up arms.

It reminds me of America being born. Or at least the first three episodes of John Adams.

But what if, heaven forbid, we are staring right into the cavernous, lurid eyes of this year's Warriors/Mavs? Could not the Hawks, with their outlandish athleticism, glut of weapons and general air of nonsense-inducing puissance, not set the tone? It's a physics experiment I never got to perform: Why couldn't the Hawks just run like hell, push the ball as if points were at stake, and just pray they got down the floor before the vaunted Celtics defensive mindset filled the air like a rare Northrax from the North?

The Hawks have one single advantage here: Top to bottom, they could probably smoke the Celtics in a friendly wind-sprint competition. That or upside-down croquette. Or the rarely spoken-of "snooker of the damned." So, I say, why not donate their hearts and minds to the dwindling cause of the fast-break revolution? The Suns have gone out to pasture, or found their golden bull, or something; karma caught up with the Warriors. The Hawks would be the logical evolutionary — or, err, devolutionary — step from Golden State. If nothing else, it could make for some jittery "up and down basketball," that kind of pell-mell play that makes announcers vaguely nervous and sets audiences on the verge of combustion. And, I may add, flies in the face of playoff solemnity.

Mind you, I anticipate no real victory. Just a token one. A principle set forth, a small statement that might open some eyes. That while massacre is imminent, still, there could yet be the glimmer of a new day. Where the imperfect gifts set forth by the weak could one day be harnessed to fight through the implacable wall of tyranny, excellence, the tyranny of excellence, or, to be fair, this most excellent tyranny.

Hell, maybe it's the Hawks who represent America's first flowering. Right down to stealing the Celtics' ancestral monuments. Now that's some sneaky space shit. Not for today, but for a few years down the road. For future generations. So that one day, we might all be free.

Look, I can read your minds. I'm not stupid, bored or clinging desperately to a dream that's died. I'm talking about stealing maybe one quarter, or a half, as the beginning of the beginning. That's low-level jabber, compared to the Celtics' thunderous march toward the Finals. But seriously, does anything matter for Garnett and Co. until that cross-Conference battle begins? For now, they are as much a Spurs-like foil as the vessel of KG's longtime hopes and dreams. Let's get the most out of these playoffs, from start to finish; Garnett's not going to provide us with constant stress and strain like McGrady, so while he zooms on auto-pilot to that relief we all crave, why not tell the tales of his hull's barnacles?

And then there is the unthinkable. The other day, a friend of mine joked that, if Atlanta somehow pulled off the upset, we should retitle the FreeDarko book Now I Can Die Happy, Too. Get it? Like a sequel, and "also"? But fuck it, even a single, Iverson's 2001 Finals-esque performance would make my week. The Celtics will advance, but me, I'm looking for a sign.

Get ready for one of those vaunted point guard battles, which is kind of like saying "prepare to see who grows lawns better," or "great moments in quarterback duels." It's true, Chris Paul and Jason Kidd will guard each other; given Paul's problems with the chunky Deron Williams, Kidd might be able to keep him from penetrating non-stop. But what's important here is that, on the whole, the struggle is largely parallel. Being a point guard involves a lot more than facing down the man in front of you.

In fact, this whole series is about two teams passing in the night. Neither one will be vindicated or shamed by the outcome, because it's the merest blip compared to the baggage they carry. The Mavs, in case you've forgotten, were unceremoniously ousted in last year's first round by those Satanic Warriors. They became a running joke, Dirk had everything down to his zip code questioned, and they started the year determined to move on. Then they swung a big trade for the aging Kidd, had to live without a full-speed Josh Howard, lost Nowitzki for a minute and then rallied to sneak into the postseason.

Cheap irony of the century: If the Warriors' win was fueled by BELIEVE, the Mavs are fighting an uphill battle against doubt. You've got to figure that a dominant regular season would've been even worse for them in this respect, since it would've set them up the punchline. But this team is fighting to prove itself, not in a "we are the underdog" way, but to battle past practical and psychological obstacles as they try to restore their shattered credibility. The Kidd trade just diverted the issue — it felt like an admission of failure, which is an important part of the healing process. And yet this current configuration hasn't exactly been all barrel-chested, and no amount of qualifiers can excuse the fact that, still, people don't believe in the Mavs.

The Hornets, on the other hand, have spent all season trying to convince the league that they're for real. Well first, they had to get people to acknowledge their existence. But after accomplishing that, the basketball public just kept waiting. What's more, while Paul's got that chip on his shoulder from the 2005 Draft, and M.I.A.'ers like Mo Peterson and Rasual Butler could easily embrace the "us against everyone mentality," this team lacks edge. They just kept winning, never acknowledging how unlikely their ascent had been, carrying themselves like NOLA Hornet, Toast of the West was a perfectly natural occurrence. And thus, people still expect things to snap back to their appropriate order, as they seemed to slightly when the Lakers passed them in the standings.

Chris Paul has claimed a position as his own in a way reminiscent of Nash, Shaq or Duncan. Kidd is an old master with nothing to prove but always ready to remind the world how much he matters. It's weird, Kidd goes back and forth between neglected and receiving an O'Neal-like slurp-job from the media. This is your point guard battle, guns drawn at high noon, but it really doesn't encapsulate what's going on in this series.

Paul will sparkle. Kidd will have three triple-doubles. Yet neither of these two men can provide an answer to their searching teams. This is about David West getting someone to recognize him on the street. Peja making it known that his three-point shooting is more potent than ever. Dirk and Josh Howard playing like a one-two punch that deserves a title shot. The Mavs asserting their commitment to defense, the Hornets lifting the veil that has thus far clouded their objectively lovely track record. Hell, this isn't even about these two teams playing each other; it's not a match-up, per se, it's two mirror images in desperate need of very much the same affirmation. Winning will start the process, but in a way, it doesn't matter who advances.

Next round, these questions will be only slightly less settled for whichever of these teams passes through the gauntlet. And that's a shame, since this will be one hell of a series. Reports of Dallas's demise have been greatly exaggerated, and the void around NOLA is almost as weird as the team's unexpected ascent. Maybe, at some point, we'll realized that these two teams are essentially playing themselves — in more ways than one. Both are wrestling with issues of identity that may linger until they're eliminated, and yeah, these two teams do have their similarities.

Let's just hope they don't look each other in the eye, or else they might all catch on fire and bring about the end of the world.

Enjoy.

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Last week, Chris Andersen, the high-flying, kooky Birdman, returned to the Hornets after a two-year exile from the league. All we know is that his suspension came for something other than weed or PEDs, results that the NBA is, for some reason, all too happy to make public.

The Birdman was a cult figure even before the weirdest dunk contest performance ever in 2004. This was possibly the most athletic white man in the game, an energy guy who made bursts of defense and rebounding decidedly unnerving, and a true innovator of NBA hairstyles. Now, this episode has made him even more colorful. Andersen wandering through Oklahoma City in a drugged-out haze is about the most Lynchian thing sports has ever concocted, and totally belonged in Skeets's Bedlam tournament.

That's because, with all due respect to anyone dead from an overdose or stuck going to weekly meetings, drugs are really cool. That's not my personal opinion—it's an integral fact of post-1960's American culture.

If I blew your mind with that one, let me walk you through it: From the hippies, to disco and the fashion world, and up through Wall Street, grunge, and hip-hop, they've lent an element of danger and hedonism while enhancing their own darkly glam reputation. You could even make the argument that pot, as much as that damn saxophone, helped elect Bill Clinton in 1992.

The one place this isn't true is sports. Say "drugs" around a major league, and the conversation will automatically turn to PEDs, which are about as sexy as dropping a grand on a new clutch. After you calm down the guy yelling about Bonds' skull size, and move things over to the so-called "recreational" family of substances, you'll find nothing but a mixed bag of lamentation, novelty and disdain.

In no particular order, you'll hear about Dwight Gooden, Daryl Strawberry, Len Bias, Brett Favre, Roy Tarpley, Dock Ellis, George Gervin, Michael Irvin, Tim Raines, Michael Ray Richardson, Robert Parish, The Jailblazers, Lamar Odom, the entire ABA, and the entire NBA. These stories range from gut-wrenching tragedy (Bias) to farce (Ellis), but for the most part, they carry with them some kind of negative connotation: Players who do drugs compromise their careers and will most likely fuck us over as fans. We'll turn them into running jokes as much as good taste permits, since they've turned their back on the all-important totem of victory.

This is perfectly understandable, since mostly we watch sports to see who wins. Even if we only discover after the fact that an athlete was partying too hard, it tramples their on-field integrity because, we assume, they could've played harder. Except for Favre, of course, who did it all for the love of the game.

Drug-abusing players are viewed much like those injury-prone pussies but worse, because, supposedly, this is shit that people can control (says the serious fan, who has like a one in 15 chance of becoming a beer-logged alcoholic). The worse the problem is, the more it irks us, and the more ruthless we are, always asymptotically approaching Bias. These athletes owe us performance, damn it.

But here's where I stop and ask: Is coolness absolutely irrelevant in sports? Unless a player is conclusively felled or wasted by drug use, why doesn't it give them a certain edgy charisma?

Pot doesn't register; it's just too mundane, especially in the NBA. At this point, I find it more deviant if an athlete—or ordinary person—has never touched the stuff. Here's Josh Howard, talking to Henry Abbott:

Henry: One theory I heard about why you went as low as 29th is that some teams were concerned that you might have a problem with marijuana.

Howard: I think a lot of people have that problem. How that could stop me from getting drafted, though? How many guys in the lottery smoke pot? The weed thing, just about everybody smokes.

No one would ever accuse Howard of slacking, having a bad attitude, or helping bring down the league. If a player's getting suspended (I see you, David Harrison!) or otherwise obnoxious (Zach Randolph), I guess it works as a punchline. But it's certainly not adding to anyone's mystique, as it did Parish's, or making them stand out from their peers.

It's when you get to harder stuff that things get tricky. Maybe it's tacky to say that the 1987 Mets are much more interesting if they celebrated with one big clubhouse kilo. Or to suggest that the ABA without cocaine is like Blue Cheer without acid, which is why this Undrcrwn tee exists:

But ultimately, I think this comes down to what it is we want to get out of fandom. If we see athletes only as warriors who might run for office one day, drugs are evil. If they're fodder for often hypocritical gossip, they're a goldmine for satire.

But if we see them as cultural icons, and acknowledge that they've got some of the same properties as non-lame rock stars and actors, then the answer's a little more complex. And even if no one admits this in public much, I suspect none of us are wholly immune to it — just as pretty much everyone's first cigarette had at least a little to do with teenage rebellion.

Enjoy.

Pardon me if I don't disseminate the same tale we've been spinning every late March for the past few years. It's the one that argues ad nauseam that the NCAA Championship tournament is vastly inferior to any NBA game on any given night, and that the Big Dance is far too full of control freak coaches, bourgeoisie ticketing structures, missed free throws, games lost instead of won, low scores and unwarranted praise for hustle plays that are actually just some guy falling on the floor. I've decided to relax this year, take joy in a first round Beasley-Mayo matchup (which is about as close to NBA swag as you're going to get at the college level), engage in my yearly bandwagon cheering for Georgetown, and pour myself a highball.

You see, I'm far too happy right now given that every single night the NBA is cranking out game after game of pure beauty. This year has brought us Chris Paul vs. Deron Williams, The Birthday Cake, the Rockets impossible winning streak, the Hawks vying for a playoff spot, the absurdity of the Western Conference playoff picture, and marketplace madness that has brought smiles to the faces of Kevin Garnett, Jason Kidd, Shaquille O'Neal, and Pau Gasol. Much has been made of the excitement that this year's trading and waiving deadlines have brought, but really one can't state it enough: These are the good times. And as playoff infinity is right around the corner, we must turn to the lesser names, the daily cogs that make the big ole David Stern machine churn.

Amidst the flurry of all the blockbuster deals, a slew of role-players exchanged uniforms. These men of honor were acquired specifically for the purposes of seven-game series battles come May and June. Tiers below the Kidds, the Shaqs, and the Gasols, these common folk matter more than anyone even realizes in the postseason. Come playoff time, these honest souls will become the Kareem Rushes, Daniel Gibsons and Jerome James' of yesteryear. Some may even vie for the status of becoming the next Robert Horry. We have had now a couple weeks to size each of these guys up, and below I will assess each acquisition's chances for becoming America's next X-Factor. NCAA March Madness and Ron Paul serve as definitive proof that this country loves the underdog, and for all of you out there who concur, then I implore you to turn your eyes toward the NBA's journeymen:

Damon Stoudamire, San Antonio Spurs

Yes, Damon Stoudamire is a commoner these days. He went relatively unnoticed while taking over for Tony Parker when Parker was struggling with injuries a few weeks ago. Plus he looks really old these days, but the Spurs have strange ways of making old guys look tremendous. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 3%

D.J. Mbenga, L.A. Lakers

Acquired for the sole purpose of standing in for the still-lame Andrew Bynum, Mbenga now functions as the type of player that a couple years ago teams would snatch just to throw six fouls at Shaq during the playoffs. Thing is, though, Shaq is looking fairly stoppable these days and once Bynum returns, Mbenga's services will hardly be needed. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 9%

Malik Allen, Dallas Mavericks

Allen has only been in the league 6 years, but he seems to play the role of "veteran presence" on every team he joins. Seems to be keeping team morale up with his hilarious Hitler jokes. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 12%

Juan Dixon, Detroit Pistons

I've always said that Maryland guys are cursed (see Joe Smith), but Juan Dixon still has swag from his Wizards days, and I think he can inject the Pistons with a little bit of backcourt versatility when Billups and Hamilton need a rest. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 10%

Primoz Brezec, Toronto Raptors

What happened to this guy? He was balling on the Bobcats a couple years ago. Is that simply proof of the Tony Campbell theorem? Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 1%

Bonzi Wells, New Orleans Hornets

Remember when Wells was coming off that huge playoff series while playing for Kings a couple years ago? He soon after turned down a five-year $38.5 million contract with Sacramento, ended up signing for two mill with the Rockets, and the rest is history. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 3%

Mike James, New Orleans Hornets

From team to team to team, James is just a guy who never seems happy. I don't like his general attitude potentially contaminating the swagger of the young Chris Paul, but James has a knack for coming up huge in big games. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 32%

Bobby Jackson, Houston Rockets

Playoff-tested and if the Rockets' gameplan of everybody line up behind the three-point line and start chucking continues, B-Jax could have a huge impact come playoff time. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 24%

Joe Smith, Cleveland Cavaliers

A small part of me wonders if one of these days, Average Joe is just going to say, "Screw it," and transform into the player everybody thought he was going to be coming out of college. With LeBron likely facing triple-teams and the Cavs' short on offensive options, I can see Smith going off for 25 one of these nights. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 45%

Wally Szczerbiak, Cleveland Cavaliers

Wally is the anti-clutch. Cleveland fans are probably geeked that Bron finally has the 3-point threat he's always needed. As someone who watched Wally for years during the Timberwolves' playoff rut, I can say that Cleveland is better off bringing back Luke Jackson. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 4%

Delonte West, Cleveland Cavaliers

I wouldn't mind at all if he and Daniel Gibson started a little rivalry trying to outplay each other, especially if either of them is taking clock away from the perpetually annoying Damon Jones. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 29%.

Jamaal Magloire, Dallas Mavericks

Could end up starting center some nights, and that is not a good thing. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 9%

P.J. Brown, Boston Celtics

Brown is the positive force that unites us all. Plus he's a huge body to throw up against Dwight Howard, which is more than I can say about Kevin Garnett. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 16%

Chris Andersen, New Orleans Hornets

When Andersen was banished from the league for violating the NBA drug policy, Chris Paul called it the "worst moment" in his career. That says all you need to know about the Birdman's presence. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 51%

Kyle Korver, Utah Jazz

If I am facing Utah in the playoffs, I am deathly afraid of Korver heating up. Defenders better not get lost in his dreamy eyes, or that's a quick three points in your face. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 63%

Gordan Giricek, Phoenix Suns

The poor man's Korver. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 7%

Sam Cassell, Boston Celtics

If hoops was baseball, we'd all be assuming that guys like Cassell and Dikembe Mutombo were huge HGH users. How does this guy still have functioning legs? A part of me wants to believe that Cassell still has a few big balls shots left, but I see this ending terribly should Sam-I-Am ever wind up covering Chauncey Billups for an extended period of time. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 11%

Tyronn Lue, Dallas Mavericks

I have never ever ever understood the appeal of Ty Lue, but evidently he functions as some sort of tiny good luck charm. Shaq was beckoning the guy for his services before Lue signed with Dallas, and Kevin Garnett is one of Lue's biggest fans. Perhaps karmically Lue will have an impact, but he's not gonna get much clock playing behind the giddy Jason Kidd. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 13%

Theo Ratliff, Detroit Pistons

Could be useful against KG, although if he ends up stealing any clock from Jason Maxiell or Amir Johnson, I'm gonna go egg Flip Saunders' house. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 2%

Kurt Thomas, San Antonio Spurs

F#%cking Spurs. Chances of becoming this year's X-Factor: 74%

Enjoy.

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What a strange spot I find myself in. Sometime transparently, sometimes under the cover of one topic, I cheerlead for the NBA. That's what I do. I happen to believe this is the most profound sport in the land, but I recognize that I'm in the minority. And so I write.

Now, however, the NBA is the new NFL. In the West, we've got the kind of parity that Roger Goodell could only dream of. Almost every team is over .600, which shouldn't be possible but is — and more important, they're all positive forces for good and change in the world. Hell, the worst thing out West is the fast decline of the Suns, which is bracing the way a good break-up is. Without Bynum, the Lakers are still on another planet, and Kobe's suddenly redeemed himself forever. It feels good, it really does.

However, this frees me up to do what I do best: bitch, moan, and ravage things that bug me. I have an Andy Rooney poster over my bed, and one by the loo. In my line of work, however, it's rare that I get to unleash my real purpose as a writer. But with the NBA doing just fine on its own, it's time. So without more wait, here are Five Things Bothering Me About the NBA:

PLEASE BE MORE CAREFUL IN APPEALING TO THE GOLDEN AGE. I'm 30, which probably makes me a little too old to hang around the blogs. (Ed. Note: Ack!) Regardless, for at least half of the Magic/Bird/Jordan/Andrew Toney era, I was cognitively impaired by being a fucking kid. I know that sports can hit us on a visceral level, and that having a Hubie Brown-like vocabulary isn't essential to appreciating shit. But I'm sorry: Unless you're over thirty-five, please admit what NBA you came of age with. I know that ESPN Classic has managed to turn myth into nostalgia, but motherfucker, you weren't there. And you have no idea about all the boring games that don't get shown.

NUGGETS, PLEASE ENTICE ME. Imagine that I got two of the most controversial All-Stars of the last decade, convinced them to streamline their once-chaotic games, and then added a supporting cast straight out of sixties war movie (if everyone were black)? That's the Denver Nuggets. They score in droves, play energetic, boom-or-bust defense, and can claim Allen Iverson and Carmelo Anthony among their ranks.

So how come there's not more buzz for what could be this spring surprise team in the West? Remember, they did give the Spurs some trouble in the first round last year. Kenyon Martin is back and goon-ishly benevolent as ever, Marcus Camby is the elder statesman equivalent of a leather-clad juvenile delinquent. This team just exudes bad-assedness, so why don't I care? Maybe it would be to their competitive — and marketing — advantage if they channeled some of that same craziness they supposedly grew out of. The Warriors didn't get where they are by totally reining in Stephen Jackson.

THERE'S NO LOU BROCK IN OKLAHOMA Look, Durant's rookie year isn't much to look at. This frustrated interview indicates that he's aware of the backlash. But at the same time, I think most fans and writers with brains know that Durant's in an impossible situation, on a dead team, with a useless coach, and no real chemistry to play off of. He'll be fine, and if anything, we're bummed that we've got to wait (how long?) to see exactly what Durant can do at this level.

What I wonder, though, is if anyone told Clay Bennett about a little technicality called free agency. One day, albeit several years down the road, Kevin Durant will get to choose whether or not he stays with the Oklahoma City Sub-Sonics. This after the team essentially killed his rookie season, and more likely than not stifled his second. Oh, and than moved him to the ends of the NBA earth. Maybe Bennett has some peculiar ideas about employees-as-property, or didn't get the memo that the players have some clout in this league. Seriously though, that franchise's future depends to a large degree on holding Durant hostage. That won't last forever, and with every year of bullshit, the kid must be less and less likely to plan long-term there (wherever that is).

IT'S ON MCGRADY TO GALLOP WITHOUT PRESSURE. I never really understood why McGrady said "it's on me," since Yao Ming should be the league's premier center. Regardless, last spring we got yet another episode in his ongoing saga of heartbreak, one that had me actively avoiding the Rockets this season. Now, presto, they get Rick Adelman undoing the Van Gundy muck a little and they start winning in droves. Fifteen straight now, a streak that kept on rolling even after Yao went down for the season.

Okay, so Tracy McGrady wants pressure? He's got it now. Apparently, the Rockets need a time machine to get back in joint with NBA fashion. The team tried the dinosaur inside-outside combo, and it got them felled by an active, fluid Jazz bunch that could hold their own with the Warriors. Now, Yao disappears just as the league decides to go big again, and here's T-Mac as the unquestioned focal point of a running offense. His Pippen-esque skills have never been on better display, and while the Rockets don't stand a chance as currently constituted, at least this McGrady bow-out will be graceful and just. And justified.

WAIT, ARE THE SPURS LAZY? Not to take a cheap shot at the Spurs, because I'm kind of sick of doing that. It gets old and hurts. But how come Popovich is praised for strategically limiting players' minutes so they're fresh for the playoffs, while Shaq was (rightfully) bashed when he admitted he was only worried about getting into shape for the postseason? Maybe it's just a matter of tone. I don't know. Still, both seem like cases of shirking a lot of regular season, or at least downplaying, which—however true it should be—is somewhere between dishonorable and sneaky. Or at least not something that needs to be brayed about in glowing tones on national television.

Enjoy.

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This past Saturday night, while most of the world slept softly, headed to John Barleycorn to get tanked or just weren't accustomed to watching TNT on a regular basis, the NBA was doing its damn thing and AGAIN, saving sports right under your noses. Spygate, Kelvin Sampson and HGH were whisked away for a brief moment, while the NBA dunk contest brought style and ridiculosity back to the forefront of athletics, complete with capes, cupcakes, socks, and mini-hoops.

But aside form all the gimmickry and over-embellished disbelieving stink-faces in (see Rashad McCants' reaction to every Gerald Green dunk), it was Dwight Howard's performance that boldly captured the most valuable aspect of watching sports: the demonstration of things physically impossible to normal humans. Howard gleaned league-wide props for the now-legendary Superman dunk, as well as his leadoff dunk during which he maintained his entire body behind the backboard while his outstretched arm plunked the ball through the hoop.

However, Howard's most underrated and unbelievable jam was his second to last: the three-step-self-alley-oop-wallyball smash. The dunk was absolutely unfeasible by normal human standards, but Howard's meticulous coordination for a big man allowed him to complete a feat that we literally had never seen before.

And yes, the next day, the NBA's finest hit you off ONE MORE TIME with an improbable display of athleticism and skill during the most fun-to-watch all-star game in all of professional athletics.

There they were again, the 19th Century Montmartre cognoscenti in sneakers, again saving sports and hurling contract holdouts, DUIs and racetrackside racial slurs into the Caspian Sea. At least four dunks in that one game alone—the Amare-over-Howard "Black Jesus vs. God's Son" jam, two by LeBron (one of which of course being the pimp-slap posterization of Dirk Nowitzki in the final minute), and the Kidd-to-Bron-to-Howard trifecta—conveyed more aesthetic brilliance and potency than most of the NFC playoff games in their entirety. All-star weekend, complete with commissioner David Stern's masterfully orchestrated illusion that the league somehow revitalized the entire city of New Orleans in a single weekend was a grand triumph for The Association. The weekend validated us NBA diehards, making it OK to call professional basketball the greatest sport in the world without feeling like some Quebecois defending hockey to a bunch of gay-bashing Alabama Crimson Tide fans.

The takeaway lesson is that plays—not only dunks, but Ray Allen three-pointers, Chris Paul dimes and even those pithy little Dwyane Wade and-1s—count more than anything. As great as the recent Super Bowl was, with all that the Patriots wagered and with all of the collective conventional wisdom of all sports pundits prognosticating against the unsung Giants, that game is 10,000 times diminished without the David Tyree helmet catch. Single plays, especially in the age of YouTube clip and the Sportscenter highlight, define sport more than anything.

And my 109,678th reason as to why the NBA reigns supreme is that its games simply contain more plays than any other league. Save your pitchcounts for someone who gives a damn. When the Warriors and Suns are putting up 240 points in a game consisting mostly of Steve Nash alley-oops, Monta Ellis climbing invisible ladders, and Stephen Jackson cherry-bombs from 35 feet out, that is excitement on the level of pure shots of norepinepherine to the face.

The Rookie-Sophomore faux-Rucker Classic on Friday night was a preview of what the glorious future holds. The dunk contest and festivities of Saturday night put the "single play" in a magnified display case. The all-star game itself, in all of its sloppy, turnover-laden, Doug Collins-infuriating glory reminded us that the game of professional basketball is an everlasting bottle of pills, all of those little multicolored feel-good delights.

Of course the macroeconomic parallel to 'single plays as valued goods' is the flurry of transactions (franchise-level "plays") that the league has so blessed us with this season. As a result of the meteoric emergence of Michael Beasley/Derrick Rose/Brook Lopez as well as the landscape-altering Pau Gasol trade to the Lakers, each team—blindly following the zeitgeist—has given itself with two choices: Tank or Panic. And never has this decision presented itself so early in the season, well before this Thursday's impending trade deadline.

The Western Conference has been set afire ever since Memphis commenced with their explicit and unembarrassed tank-move of trading Gasol. Sacramento is the most recent tanker, finally parting ways with Mike Bibby. Dallas and Phoenix, on the other hand, panicked in betting the farm on aging stars, Jason Kidd and Shaq. These moves, direct responses to the Lakers' acquisition of Gasol, as if to say, "No Kobe Bryant-helmed team will win a title in this lifetime," are most likely to the benefit of Phoenix and to the detriment of Dallas. And regardless of the outcome, madness is in the air. The Atlanta Hawks for chrissakes are a playoff contending team again (does Celtics/Hawks in round 1 remind anyone of Warriors/Mavs?). All-star weekend was the warning to casual fans, but we have known this from day one—the NBA is your savior, and the second half of this season will be the magnificent panacea to all that ails you.