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.

I am a big NFL fan. But my passion for that league looks like a mere dalliance when compared to the fantastically obsessive adoration the people at FreeDarko have for the NBA. I mean, they previewed every fucking GAME of the season, for shit’s sake. You know, for those of you who need to know the outcome of the April 1st Wizards/Grizzlies game RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!

Anyway, if you’re the sort of person who loves both the NBA and meticulous writing that you know is good but often sails directly over your head and out into the far reaches of space, Shoals and the gang have just the book for you. It’s such a pretty book, I feel bad that I got so much fudge all over its insides.

But, even better, they have a site for the book that includes excerpt widgets that you can embed into your own site, as you can see above. Because, as a blogger, nothing makes me happier than someone providing me with cool shit to fill up dead space with. God bless those crazy bastards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That said, the NBA Draft is less than an hour away, and if you're not just watching it for the suits, you should still find plenty to tickle your proverbial fancy. And we are extremely honored to have Bethlehem Shoals of Free Darko here to take you through all the pageantry. He'll be checking in just before the draft begins, and after the jump, to be your spiritual guide through the land of short people reading the names of tall people off index cards. Have fun, folks, and we wish you well.

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Okay, I'm yawning, and the second round is drifting far into the night. Will keep my eyes open for any trades, but this is pretty much it for me. It's been wonderful and I hope the feeling lasts forever.

He was always too bright, too gay (NOT IN THAT WAY!) for Philly. The Finn will end up with Portland. He and Sergio Rodriguez are a pair of point guard quiz questions that will keep us smiling for years. Even if Jarrett Jack is their starter until 2032.

And so, Big Baby finds a home in Boston. I know they didn't get Oden or Durant, but dudes, your team comes out of tonight looking kind of hilarious. Pierce. Allen. Jefferson. Rondo. Gomes. Tony Allen. Big Baby. That's not perfection, or an eye on the prize, but if they can fit togeher on the same floor it will make a great ensemble drama.

OKAY. There's something. Jason Richardson for the rights to Brandan Wright. Of course, it was something none of us heard about, and really makes the landscape a little uneasy. Richardson makes a lot, and the Warriors wanted to get rid of it. But he was a big part of that team. Wright is tall and everything, and SAS flipped out, but the Cats do have size already. The real question is what this says for Gerald Wallace. Personally, I think Wallace and Richardson could co-exist just fine, but that much firepower and dynamism would be a major, major change in philosophy for Charlotte. See, I know a thing or two.

Taking a breather, will chime in when the second round gets hot and heavy.

That Finnish guy. Everybody's love bird. That's like the most uplifting last pick of the first round I can imagine. Big Baby would just remind me how far he has fallen. WHY BIG BABY, WHY!!?!?!?!?!?

FREE BIG BABY!!!!!!!!

Hey, anyone looking to relive some of this draft's highlights should check out The Blog of Hilarity. And yes, I'm talking about SAS and Spike's reactions.

Finally, Splitter released.

Quin Snyder. . . you may remember him from once upon doing commentary on the draft telecast.

So no more "taking a page from San Antonio's playbook". . . he's going to play interchangable 6'9" guys? That sounds a lot like the Warriors, but Ridnour is no Davis. Regardless, I'm glad I'll get one year of Sonics before that team relocates to some city that doesn't deserve basketball.

HA! Who cares if Aaron Brooks was drafted too high—there's an international situation going on.

This "taking a page from San Antonio's playbook" refrain is bugging me. What exactly does it me? I think once it referred to building a team around a dominant big man. But here, it was just. . . STOP THE PRESSES. PORTLAND WAR ROOM. That is seriously where it's at tonight. They are all mainlining ink and giving each other rope burns. That's how deep into celebration they are at this point!

Just in case anyone's forgotten, the People's Republic of China is turning all its diplomatic might against Milwaukee as we speak.

Does Spike work for the Knicks in some capacity? Is it a slight that he doesn't?

That was kind of strange. . . because Zeke pulled off that blockbuster before the Knicks picked, the crowd had already spent itself. That wasn't your usual "Knicks fans on draft night" rumble. Even SAS seems, well, concise and rational. WTF?

Okay, that's the quote of the night. Rod Thorn on Sean Williams: "he had over a 1200 on his college board so he obviously has a brain."

SAS clearly understands another man's tears. Is it because he too cries, or because he likes to bring them on?

Fuck it, I'll say it: Crittendon is the SOTD.

What Jim Grey is really saying: "WHY HAVE YOU DENIED US THE NIGHT OF EXCITEMENT OUR VIEWERS EXPECTED!??!?!?!?!" Because, you know, that makes Grey look like nothing but a gossip. Whereas with Chad Ford, at least at some point the picks have to happen.

Mitch Kupchak has apparently been hanging out with Malkovich a little too much.

Here's one to chew on: Will Tiago Splitter or Marc Gasol go first?

Haier is owned by a relative of Stern's right?

Dick VItale, sexualized again. Please stop.

It's a little-known fact that I think Javaris Crittendon is rad. Didn't they take Farmar last year?

Food that the draft makes me want: cornbread, bananas foster, seltzer. It's kind of like pregnancy, but with SAS and Spike Lee waiting in the wings.

See, that's disappointing to me. Shouldn't the Warriors have taken someone at least mildly insane, spazzy, troubled, or disastrous?

Williams and Krstec. Randolph and Curry. Not the same as Oden and Durant going to the Northwest, at least we won't have to stare down our noses at NY/NJ anymore.

IN THE LAST FIVE MINUTES THE EAST JUST GOT LEGIT.

That might be the most content I've ever seen Spike Lee. Randolph will devour the East. DEVOUR. DEVOUR IT. I am trying to shout down SAS if you can't tell.

The Nick Young doc is pretty serious, too. He and Caron are going to form quite a tandem of authenticity.

That is MONEY. Young to the Wizards is serious, and basically means they can score even more, play even less defense, and be that much dearer to my heart.

People, I am feeling some serious pressure to come up with new catch-phrases. Instead, I'm just being all reflective. Sorry about that.

How great would it have been for Stu to have asked "what is Rodney Stuckey?"

Agent Steinz is on location, and he's got the Cheez Doodles guy encountering Jeff Green.

Thornton to the Clippers. Isn't it weird now that the Clippers have turned into a veteran team, and that someone like Thornton might be out of place?

Julian Wright is talking like everyone's nephew.

The Hornets are obviously doing something right, because all they seem to do is get better and better.

Those new Hawks uniforms are way too storm trooper.

Seriously, I feel all weird now that the Hawks have given up their dreams of . . . well, whatever it was, it was some kind of utopia. Now I'm thinking that Iguodala, Young, and a couple of other insane wings (Wright, maybe?) could make the Sixers into their heir apparent.

Scoop from over at SLAM: Randolph, Dickau and Jones for Francis and Frye. Lang hears it's done.

Okay, I'm feeling a second wind. I'm beginning to think I might not know what's about to happen, and some of my favorites are still on the board. Good thing all those big men are gone—bring on Thorton, Thaddeus, Crittendon, et al. Seriously, I'm with you all.

Nice to hear someone take issue with a pick, even if it was SAS.

Spencer, you can't improve on your athleticism.

I think these are updating slow. . . hmmm. . .

So it looks like Phoenix isn't sneaking into the top 10 after all. That kind of sucks.

That is the first time anyone's ever used the dimunitive on Ben Wallace. And I suspect it will be the last.

I am so infernally pleased that Charlotte didn't go with Noah. I am Tito Horford, waving my flag, alone in a hotel even if no one else can see me.

My girlfriend just asked me who Seattle got. Apparently, she thought that the draft counted down. She claims this could work if the whole league ran on "politeness."

I dare someone to start ranking the relative hotness of the draftees' moms. If that makes you squeamish, try using the slightly more polite "handsome." So yeah, anyone who wants to weigh in on handsome NBA moms, you have my blessings.

Noah. . YOU LOOK LIKE EVERY SINGLE BATMAN VILLAIN ROLLED UP INTO ONE.

Wait, Corey Brewer's father lost his foot in a diving accident? Didn't Ronnie Brewer's arm get broken and re-set badly at a young age?

Man, I hate deep drafts. Nothing's surprising because there's no such thing as a crazy pick.

The funny thing is that, while Yi can't speak English, you can tell he's still trying to sound kind of down.

You know, the way I hate Hawes is different from the way I hate Noah. Noah's just like some guy in my building who makes me cringe, while Hawes was put on earth to annoy me.

I really wonder if I'm being enough of an assertive warrior on this live-blog.

Is Seattle pulling a Portland? Like last year, how Portland somehow came out of the draft with an entirely new, young, revitalized team.

Dudes, Memphis will be something next season. Not saying they'll be good, but Conley throwing it to Gasol, Gay, Warrick, Miller. . . they were scoring 140 last season with no point guard. This is worth getting excited about.

I am still monumentally pleased by TIto Horford's flag-waving episode.

Like I said, no surprise. Horford's mighty biceps head to Atlanta, which hopefully means the end of the Shelden Movement. Wait, how did I not know Horford was Dominican?

That can't be right. Durant averaged more points per game last season than any other freshman in history? If it's right, then college basketball sucks worse than I already thought it did.

Durant has a hunching problem. When those wings come in, his hunch comes up.

You all need to get with Chez Shanoff at some point this evening. Head Chick in Charge from Leave the Man Alone is focusing exclusively on the fashion thang.

Was that replay of Oden and ma duke in slo-mo? It should have been.

Notice that Stern, crafty troll that he is, said "Greg" like "Kgraig." For the international audiences, and for a "k" sound that made us wonder for a second.

Okay, back to business. These high fives in Portland CENTCOM are worse than the ones Yao's family exchanged when he got chosen.

My bad. Noah by a country mile.

QUESTION FOR ALL: does a single lottery pick in this year's draft have the All-American Rejects in his iPod? Spencer Hawes would be too easy.

Wait, Michael Jordan has the authority to make deals in Charlotte? Did everyone know that but me?

Noah repped his city by dressing like an eighty year-old woman?

Conley hates going out on the town with Oden.

One summer, I read so much scouting bullshit leading into the draft that I started to wonder if I could be drafted. Or at least think about if I was sinewy, or had decent lateral movement. That they keep these frames going during the commercials has me thinking that way about the folks applying for loans.

In a suit, Greg Oden looks like a black Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Did I just bother to point out that SAS said something moronic? That's moronic.

Has anyone else noticed that, over the last few days, Yi has become the secret hero of this whole thing? And that whole Chinese investors in the Hawks conspiracy. . . does Ira Newble know about this? Wasn't he on the Hawks once? Would he give that money back if Atlanta sells its soul to the Far East?

Okay, the draft seems to be on finally. SAS is a moron if he thinks this isn't up to the standards of '03.

"Would put the Celtics into a different realm of perception among their fans." That doesn't even need a joke after it.

As with all things in his life, Ray Allen's availability has been super-stealth this month. Him to Boston wouldn't be so bad for everyone involved.

Note to Dicky V: YOU DO NOT HAVE A SEX DRIVE. Or at least most of us would rather think you don't. Stop me before I make another Muppets comparison.

Can I just say, right here right now, that I hate Spencer Hawes. I feel like he was in last year's draft, and will be in next year's, too. He is like one of those things on Charmed, but taller.

Seriously, what is Dicky V going to say tonight? He can't just tell us that college players are superior to high schoolers and international thuds.

Jim Gray is so Bert it's not even funny. His head has the dimensions of those jerseys hanging in the background.

Oh, and if you haven't heard, there's a hot rumor that ESPN's leaked the top four already. Oden, Durant, Horford, Conley. So you've got at least an hour before suspense beckons.

Shoals checking in. I am sitting in a hotel room, finishing a cheese steak and trying to figure out which Worldwide Leader the draft is on. They've got coverage on at least four of them.

But this is the NBA Finals, and those require more than just one piddly preview. Therefore, today, Free Darko looks at each team in the series, cosmically, where they stand, where they've been, where they're going. So, after the jump, our Free Darko NBA Finals preview, part two: The Cleveland Cavaliers. As The Onion said, it's very possible that LeBron James will struggle name a Cavaliers player other than himself.

And now, Dr. Bethlehem Shoals, from Free Darko, after the jump, on the Cavaliers. Enjoy.

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By now, we all know how these go. Will writes a warm intro, I get hysterical and see NBA angels, and then the comments make predictions about the outcome and premature ejaculation.

How big is LeBron in the Finals? He can change this nice little rhythm we've established over the last month plus. Your fearless (weekday) leader can try and stay easygoing, but when Thursday night rolls around he'll be sitting on his hands. I can pretend to know it all, when in fact I should just shut up and prepare to be be amazed. And seriously, who cares about James' baby mama when the King is about to compete for a championship. We bear witness for our own good as sports fans.

Maybe I'm guilty of poison-swilling and other acts of blind hype obedience. Honestly, though, I think we all want LeBron to cast this spell on us. Jordan was an obnoxious, over-exposed prick, and still it was him we hoped to see on the biggest stage. There comes a point even with Kobe Bryant where you're playing yourself if you're still stuck on that rock he bought wifey and where in little blond girls he likes to stick it. It's like, are you here for the game, or as some kind of weird lifestyle choice?

OK, I'm also guilty of denial. Part of what disappoints about LeBron during the regular season is that, well, he's really not much beyond basketball. Compare him with Arenas, or Melo, or Kobe, or Iverson, or any other All-Star worth his weight in blog entries, and you'll come back disappointed. In this, LeBron might resemble Tim Duncan more than any of his fans would care to admit. Aside from building a home with its own barbershop, James pretty much exists in public for the sake of winning. As we've seen this postseason, he really, truly means it.

The Cavs do have an outside shot at this one. Look, the Pistons were a serious team, and the James Gang ended up dispensing with them. They handle the rudiments of NBA basketball, sometimes and leave LeBron space to excel when he so chooses. These aren't the 2001 New Jersey Nets; with the Detroit series, they earned their trip to the Finals even if no one recognizes this. And therein might lie the Cavs greatest advantage.

The Pistons left Daniel Gibson open for exactly 3,546 shots in a row, and he buried them in their own ignorance. While it's impossible to pay too much attention to LeBron, he does technically have teammates, and on occasion they can get a decent fraction of the job done. It isn't pretty, but in fits and starts it can be effective. San Antonio is not a cocky bunch. However, they are realistic, and realism would seem to dictate that A Man Named "Boobs" can only do so much.

That's why, despite LeBron's incredible presence and uber-storyline, the Cavs are a bunch of dreamers. Maybe, just maybe, there can be a few more nights like Gibson had, either from Tits himself or some other forgotten lunk. Remember Matt Geiger? If memory serves, he did something of some importance that year that Iverson made it far. No one's expecting clutch, or heart, or character from the other Cavs, nor are they expecting it of themselves. But here's the sadness of it: They hope, valiantly, that a few of them can be slightly above average, and that the Spurs won't see it coming. That's where their faith has settled, and why this fairly humble prayer might very well be answered.

But this is the NBA Finals, and those require more than just one piddly preview. Therefore, today, Free Darko looks at each team in the series, cosmically, where they stand, where they've been, where they're going. So, after the jump, our Free Darko NBA Finals preview, part one: The San Antonio Spurs. Tim Duncan, Manu Ginobili and Robert Horry. These are three people who play for the Spurs. Free Darko will probably tell you some more.

And now, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief , from Free Darko, after the jump, on the Spurs. Enjoy.

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Showing disdain for the Spurs during these playoffs has taken on a rote quality that has made me feel vindicated for having continuously expressing distaste for Alamo City hoops over the years and alternately caused me to search for ways to appreciate their enduring success. The problem I have with all of the Spurs Hate during this particular playoffs, however, is that this hate is not directed toward what the Spurs dreadfully are, but rather toward what they are not, namely their opposition — the offensive jubilation of A.I. and Melo enacting George Karl's playbook, the condomless sweet-tooth of amusement that is the Phoenix Suns and the forgotten men of the Utah Jazz, standing behind their deserving leader, Jerry Sloan. Because our sympathies have generally lain with these fallen opponents, the Spurs have become too easy a target to criticize. I cannot feel objective in my dislike for them.

And now the Spurs again face a team that again has captured the hearts of all Americans not strolling along the Riverwalk. LeBron James is the uniting figure behind our great nation, the man who has apparently saved the league from a bleak future of Oden and Durant licking acid tabs off each other at some Willamette Yonder Mountain Spring Band concert while Amare Stoudemire and Leandrinho Barbosa rep the Men's Wearhouse on the bench, patiently observing some teammate getting his eye gouged out. The Spurs, by the mere fortuitous alignment of playoff brackets are now pitted against LeBron, and so we must hate them again. Yet I am here to divulge, once and for all, why the hate must go deeper, to their very core.

The word "dynasty" is being tossed around these days with regard to the Spurs, to an alarming degree. First, you can't be a dynasty if you don't repeat. Second, it is common knowledge that each of the Spurs' championships to this point has been tainted. Must I remind you? 1999 was the lockout season, in 2003 Kobe was injured for the majority of the playoffs and especially in the Western Conference finals semifinals, and in 2005 not only did Shaq forcibly remove himself from the Western Conference, but also the refs kept 'Sheed in steady early foul trouble during the finals. This year was the year of Nash's nose and Horry's hipcheck. Do you smell what I'm scrambling? Not a dynasty.

And yet they sludge on. Defeating Cleveland should be a small task, as the matchups favor the Spurs in every which way up and down the court. Conceptually, Manu Ginobili matches up with Anderson Varejao, as both players will actually be playing horizontally throughout the entire series. I give the edge to Ginobili for being able to feign the exact fall that one would experience if getting shot by a car full of Latin Kings, whereas Anderson Varejao can only mimic the fall that a college tour guide experiences tripping backwards over a sundial. Comparing Tim Duncan to Drew Gooden is a waste of time and facial hair jokes. Comparing Tony Parker to Eric Snow is like comparing the hare to the tortoise except that the hare also possesses the wits. In the Steve Kerr hall of fame of meaningless playoff 3-point-shooting role-players, Michael Finley and Brent Barry are first balloters who simply dwarf Daniel Gibson and Damon Jones. And although I would normally give the edge to LeBron James in his matchup with Bruce Bowen, given Bowen's recent history, I would suggest that LeBron savor this brief period of time he has with an Achilles tendon fully intact.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our conference final preview, the series between the Detroit Pistons and the Cleveland Cavaliers. Neither team has been especially impressive making its way here, but someone has to win, theoretically, anyway. Last year, LeBron made this a series by himself; he seems less inspired this year. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Pistons in 5.

And now, Bethlehem Shoals , from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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So far, it's been a disappointing postseason for the sport's golden child, but that doesn't mean we need to be reminded about LeBron James. He's been the same thing this past month that he was in the preceding six: the man with his finger on the button, the high-priced boogeyman who could, in theory, bring about the end of all known civilization. Sadly, watching the NBA lives and dies with his whim, and eventually we all must come to terms with this condition.

On a day-to-day basis, however, it's pretty easy to forget that this is how things are. LeBron has let us down time after time this season, so we might as well cut our losses and craft our contingency plan. I refuse to let LBJ hold me hostage a second longer. To counteract the misery that these playoffs have become, I propose we all do something proactive and learn to love the Detroit Pistons. Note: I would've written this same piece about the Jazz. But they're out of their depth and no one likes Mormons, Jerry Sloan, dominant point guards or hot international wives.

The Pistons aren't the Spurs. While authorities on the Spurs are always fighting an uphill battle, trying to convince us either that the obvious is enough or that everything we know is wrong, people want to like the Pistons. I would like nothing more than to like the Pistons, which seem so utterly likable. No team in pro basketball makes "veteran grit" seem as cool as those Pistons do. Rip and Chauncey are a backcourt that knows the value of swagger, but also make no secret of their codependency. Anyone who hasn't at one point worshipped Sheed probably hasn't read this far into an NBA-related piece of writing. And while you can clown Chris "Loser and Tyra Fucker" Webber all you want, his redemption is this postseason's narrative secret weapon.

There are even a few D-Town adventurers I like watching on the court. Question: if Shawn Marion and Josh Howard are the closest this year's All-Star game had to cult figures, why can't Tayshaun Prince get a little more love? Or how about "Reggie Miller had highlights, so why not Rip Hamilton?" Billups manifests authority in a way that no Spur ever could. If you're not up on Jason Maxiell and Amir Johnson, you have no business telling me that the NBA sucks. Rasheed Wallace was ahead of his time, which is the only he's been branded a big man afraid to play like he should. Surely, the sum total of that can equal one barely-activated LBJ?

Unfortunately, the way it all comes together is solid murk. I get that the Pistons aren't always engaged in low-scoring slugfests, and that supposedly Flip's meant more offensive freedom. But as a casual observer, I still can't watch them. Isolated acts of Detroit team flow are notable, and yet as a whole it inflicts upon me a Spurs-like numbing. However, this only strengthens my resolve. Anyone can hate the Spurs, anyone can find the LeBron-ian diamond in the Cavs' perpetual rough, and apparently no one gets how rad the Jazz are. So when the Pistons/Spurs Finals rolls around, I plan to have full reason to watch at least a quarter of every game.

From a pure basketball standpoint, we already saw in 2006 how this series goes. The Pistons, whose occasional grogginess is almost endearing, will let up just enough for LeBron to get some leverage. They will play him hard, but make the near-fatal mistake of forgetting his extra gear. This season, the Cavs have a healthy Larry Hughes and that rascal Sasha Pavlovic, who have somehow made them worse in the playoffs. The Pistons are also getting a tad bit weary of the LeBron-athon, especially given then lack of vitality he's displayed thus far. James will make a dent in the Pistons, and we'll all wonder if playing dead isn't becoming some new tactical ploy, maybe even further evidence of his genius.

So here's what we'll get: Pistons in six, with one of those wins going OT. And if we get suckered into waiting on LeBron, we'll miss the only chance there is to make the Finals bearable. Get on the Detroit bandwagon now, or else the round that matters most of all might as well not even exist.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our conference final preview, the series between the Utah Jazz and the San Antonio Spurs. It's not a matchup that many people expected to see, nor is it one that many people wanted to see. But like it or not, these are the two teams that have earned their way here, and the Jazz are the last shot we'll have at preventing the Spurs from continuing their run of Western Conference dominance. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Spurs in 5.

And now, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief , from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

I'm going to be working with two premises here: (1) The Jazz are clear underdogs in this series, and (2) The Jazz are going to win this series. The general creed that underdogs in these situations tend to adopt is the "nobody believes in us" creed, a tactic similar to the "we feel disrespected" card that gets tossed about at least once per playoffs and in virtually every single situation involving Joey Porter. The Golden State Warriors and their gold t-shirt-bedecked fans, for example, rode the believe train all the way to a first round victory over the top-seeded Dallas Mavericks. We've seen similar tactics used by the 2004 Detroit Pistons, the 1999 UConn Huskies, and the 2007 Florida Gators. It is as though winning itself is not enough, but rather what suffices is some man-as-god punishment of all nonbelievers.

I go into such detail on the "nobody believes in us" tactic, because this year's Utah Jazz are operating on an entirely different principle altogether, although they may not even know it. This creed shall be known as the "nobody cares about us" creed. The Jazz, you see, are fighting more than mere disrespect—they are fighting disinterest, isolation, estrangement. Outside of Ute country, I don't know if anyone really gives a second thought to these guys. An odd collection of Euros, Whites, Alaskans, Deron Williams, and playoff-thorn, Derek Fisher, they share no central magnetic force. There are no stars, and there is no team-as-star cohesion such as is exhibited by teams such as the Hawks, Warriors, or Pistons.

Perhaps subconsciously rather than intentionally, I see the Jazz using the nobody cares tactic in Travis Bickle-esque manner, releasing massacre in response to their own alienation. The way Utah has been carving through the playoffs is almost ninja-like—silent, yet murderous. They arrived in Houston to do away with the Rockets, who with a healthy Tracy McGrady and Yao Ming seemed preordained to finally advance to the second round. Then, after the Golden State Warriors' much celebrated victory over the Mavericks, the Jazz were again cast as a faceless rival in what would be a cutthroat danceoff. After Round 1, a Warriors win at home became the "surest bet" in sports, yet the Jazz rolled into the East Bay as if they didn't speak the language, and left holding skulls on skewers. Their defeat of both these teams was methodical, thankless, and bloody. The Spurs speak of hardcore, but I'm not sure they are willing to engage in the Jazz's level of brutality.

As far as San Antonio, I'm downright sick of spouting my love/hate views on them and sick of hearing about them. Due to Robert Horry's hipcheck of Steve Nash, the Spurs are being both unfairly chastised for ruining the 2007 NBA Playoffs and the legacy of James A. Naismith as we know it and inappropriately cast as some "cool villain," although most of their players are merely experts in the bitchmade arts of whining, flopping, and cheapshots. They are neither important enough to have destroyed these already sinusoidal playoffs nor are they gangster enough to deserve the black that adorns them. Tim Duncan is really good. Tony Parker is really fast. Horry is really clutch. The end.

And in a purely basketball sense, the Jazz provide a difficult matchup for the Spurs. Deron Williams has been amazing in the postseason and every bit as good as Tony Parker. I hope the TNT/ESPN brass realizes that Williams is single-handedly the argument against broadcasting only Heat/Cavs/Lakers/Suns/Mavs/Spurs/Rockets/Pistons games during the regular season. Carlos Boozer is nowhere near Tim Duncan in terms of sheer size, but will be Duncan's toughest match-up in terms of sheer physicality. In fact, I'm not sure there is another player in these playoffs (not Shaq, Yao, Sheed, or Amare) that provides a more of a brute-on-brute matchup for Timmy D. Finley/Ginobili and Giricek/Kirilenko is a wash. And Mehmet Okur is simply too confusing for the likes of Francisco Elson and Fabricio Oberto.

Of course the safe money is on the Spurs because of their postseason experience, but I'm rolling with Utah because of the versatility and capacity for adaptation conveyed in their first and second round victories over the Rockets and Warriors. Houston deployed a sympathetic hero (McGrady), a gentle giant (Yao), homecourt advantage, and a neurotic coach who tried to slowly squeeze every ounce of agility and speed out of a 48-minute contest. Utah was victorious. Golden State offered heart, pride, a confidently relaxed coach thriving on his players' penchant for pandemonium, a bearded inspiration to us all who continuously wove the fabric of nationalistic folktales, and yet Utah emerged again the victors. Now is their chance to display this versatility on a stage where it finally matters, to defeat the much-maligned Spurs, and to make somebody outside that state of beautiful beehives care.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our final conference semifinal preview, the series between the Utah Jazz and the Golden State Warriors. It's certainly an odd second round matchup; it's amazing that one of these teams is going to be on series away from the Finals. And it's certainly inspiring to see the Warriors so close here, even if the two teams seem dramatically different than one another. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Jazz in 7.

And now, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief , from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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The Golden State Warriors or Utah Jazz are going to the Western Conference Finals. I give up trying to figure out anything anymore, and so I am not picking a team in this series. Neither of the Jazz or the Warriors had won a first round series for years, and both teams are supported by giddily hungry fanbases. The Jazz have defied logic, defeating Tracy McGrady and Yao Ming and, in doing so, eradicating the two-star philosophy, a hallmark of championship basketball for the past 10 years. The Warriors, on the other hand, have transcended basketball all together to become an underdog rogue ideology, a universal symbol for optimism driven by impulse. If all goes as planned, this series will be a seven-day game of Risk played between Andrei Kirilenko and Andris Biedrins, with Jerry Sloan and Don Nelson standing watch as personified remnants of NBA basketball during the Cold War.

The most intriguing encounter of this series is between the two stalwart coaches, Sloan and Nellie. Plenty of electronic ink has been devoted to Don Nelson's smallball genius over the past week, but equally masterful during this season has been Sloan, the real coach of the year (with all due respect to my boy, Sam Mitchell). Sloan, to an even greater degree than Pat Riley or Phil Jackson, is the only remaining coach who can justifiably give one of those "F*ck all you guys — I've forgotten more basketball than you'll ever know" press conferences. His demeanor is Lou Piniella and Bill Parcells minus the pomp. He is the most respected man in the league. And despite his elder status, he can innovate with the best of them.

For all the press that Golden State has received for their multi-guard attack, Sloan has done the same thing — but with forwards. Kirilenko, Carlos Boozer, Matt Harpring, Mehmet Okur and even Paul Milsap are interchangeable swords. Just like Baron Davis, Stephen Jackson, Jason Richardson, and Matt Barnes are equally useful hand grenades for the Warriors. THE POSITIONAL REVOLUTION WILL BE TELEVISED, WITH PAM OLIVER ASKING PEOPLE IF THEY CAN SUSTAIN THAT MOMENTUM GOING INTO THE SECOND HALF.

Which brings me to my next point. Since Golden State defeated the Mavericks, we're supposed to have fully embraced them as the encapsulation of true human potential: They embody style, they brought the joy back to the NBA and they taught us the true meaning of Christmas. I'm on board with that, but I refused to posit the Jazz as some makeshift foil, Aryan-centric, basic and defensive-minded. The Jazz possess style as well, though of a subtler form. Whereas the Warriors emit warmth and color, the Jazz players convey a chilly nihilism — an indifferent isolation in which one draws the conclusion: I have no one else to live for except me. This series will not be a battle of style versus the absence of style, but rather two specific brands of anarchic panache.

On the purely basketball side of things, we are treated to a clash between the relentless Baron Davis, Pecos Bill in sneakers, versus the greenhorn, Deron "Double Tuff" Williams. As these playoffs have single-handedly reaffirmed the point guard as the league's marquee position, I expect this battle to be nothing less than spectacular. The concept of "matchup" exists nowhere else in this series. I no longer have any idea who plays what position on either of these teams. Positional pandemonium also reflects the fact that neither of these teams possesses a focal point. Baron Davis at best occupies this role for the Warriors, but even he admitted deferring to S-Jax and J-Rich at times during last series. On "Pardon the Interruption" last week, Michael Wilbon asked Davis whether he thought it was bad for the NBA for teams like the Warriors to advance. "Teams like the Warriors" referred to "teams lacking a defining superstar" and was positioned in opposition to teams such as Dallas that possesses a definitive "The Guy" in Dirk Nowitzki.

The answer to Wilbon's question is meaningless. The Warriors, and the Jazz as well, may in fact be proof that a League of Stars is dead, and rather, this league is one in which star-status is not promised, but instead sits at halfcourt there for the taking, for whoever has the guts and know-how to kidnap it for a season (Mehmet Okur) or for a postseason (Matt Barnes). Allen Iverson was recently cast out as a footnote, Dirk Nowitzki as a pariah. T-Mac is an apparition, and D-Wade and Shaq are all but forgotten. Kevin Garnett watches from his couch, as do Paul Pierce, Elton Brand and Ray Allen. The Warriors and Jazz represent something more meaningful than star status. They are the active pursuit of greatness. Children gather around the TV, these are your true American idols.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our one preview today, the series between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the New Jersey Nets. This could be LeBron's time to keep the legend going; you have to think he's been rather fortunate with his matchups so far. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Cavaliers in 6.

And now, Brown Recluse, Esq., from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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Vince Carter. Lebron James. Jason Kidd. All three are unquestionably among the most electrifying talents to play in the NBA over the past decade. Yet, somehow, unless you're Jay-Z, it's hard to get too excited about this series. The attention of the hoops world is still focused out West, on Suns/Spurs and now the upstart Warriors. Even in the East, people are more interested in the old vs. young right-way battle between the Pistons and the Bulls than in this series. And we're talking about one of the best dunkers and one of the best passers in NBA history! Furthermore, it's only been one year since Lebron James was looking like a basketball god in defeating the full-strength Wizards and taking the Pistons to seven games. What happened?

Injuries are a big part of the story. When a player over the age of 25 misses 20 or so games, it's easy to write him off as over the hill. That particular fact pattern applies to all three of the Nets' stars, with Richard Jefferson being the youngest and most recent victim. Kidd has now played two whole seasons on his surgically repaired knee, and I still couldn't help seeing him as on the verge of retirement. I use the past tense because Kidd's averaging a triple-double against the Raptors in the first round did a lot to open my eyes. It's no exaggeration to say he is currently playing the best basketball he's played since the last time he led the Nets to the NBA Finals. Divorce has done him well. As long as Kidd can still manage to dribble, all he needs is some athletic finishers (and yes, Boki Nachbar counts), and with his extraordinary court vision, his team will always be dangerous.

This year might be the first time that a team's sweep of a first round opponent makes them look worse than they did going into the playoffs. Playing against a depleted Wizards team missing its two All-Stars, the Cavs seemed to confirm what skeptics have been saying all season about them: They did just enough to get by. With Lebron looking passively dominant, Larry Hughes, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, and Drew Gooden all stepped up and played some of their best ball of the season. So, Lebron's oft-maligned supporting cast looks improved, and we know what Lebron is capable of when the stage obliges him to raise his game to the highest level. The question is whether, after coasting through much of the year, he'll be able to just turn it on when he needs to.

With the world looking elsewhere, it is up to the players to construct their own narrative for this series. Lebron's witnesses have adopted Melo's no-snitching policy, and as a result, he seems to have a surprisingly small amount of pressure on him. Last year's post-season performance answered a lot of questions and, in effect, bought him time. Most people realize the limitations of the Cavs roster, and few people expect Lebron to win a championship so soon. He and his people would never admit it, but whether the Cavs win or lose this series will have little effect on Lebron's legacy. On the other hand, this may be the last chance for Kidd and Carter to win a championship, at least while playing on the same team. Kidd was very nearly traded earlier this spring (to the Lakers), and Carter is in the last year of his contract. While it's undeniable that these two create a certain kind of magic on the court, it might not make sense for anyone involved to keep this tandem together.

Ultimately, aside from sheer star power, this series will be decided by two factors: post play and experience. While there are some marquee swingmen in this series, the key match-up could be at center. This postseason, the Nets have really missed their young center Nenad Krstic, who has been out since Christmas and would've been able to put some offensive pressure on the Cavs' interior defense. In his place, they use the utterly unexciting Jason Collins and a couple of scrappers. Meanwhile, the Cavs are able to field the comparatively gifted and oddly complementary Gooden/Ilgauskas combo. In the end, the Nets' experience should carry the day. Nets in seven.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our the second of our two second-round previews today, the series between the Phoenix Suns and the San Antonio Spurs. Whoever wins this series has to be considered the prohibitive favorite to reach the NBA Finals — and probably considered the overall title favorite — so it should be rather fierce. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Suns in 6.

And now, Bethlehem Shoals, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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With the Warriors having blown the hinges off the gates that guard basketball, these playoffs have changed. It's not just that the "Phoenix or Dallas" narrative of the season has been shattered into so many Texas tears. Suddenly, Golden State has proven that up-tempo play can yield stable, productive results, that it need not doubt itself in the face of the Spurs or Mavs (SPURS JR.). The Warriors may have won the war, but this right here is the battle we've all fretted over since the Suns first found themselves. In recent years, no team has epitomized methodical gloom like San Antonio, and none symbolized freedom of body and mind like the Suns. When the two met in the 2005 Western Conference Finals, it was a clash of styles unlike any before or since. It was also a bloodletting with San Antonio's thumbprints everywhere.

Here's the dirty little secret of this year's Phoenix Suns: They're not so crazy anymore. For one, the whole operation revolves around a pure point guard who makes Stockton's inner loins quiver. Steve Nash may be shaggy, hate war and throw the ball around at kooky angles, but he's a dying breed. While I hesitate to bring out the pop culture bag, Nash is the drugged, sex-crazed Fisher kids taking over dad's mortuary business; he's not changing the position, he's just updating it a bit. Amare Stoudemire learned how to play basketball while rehabbing, making him far more of a real inside presence. Raja Bell is a stopper, Marion is to Buck Williams what Nash is to Stockton, Barbosa is a speedster. The Suns still score a ton, care little for clock management and don't understand the concept of pressure. However, they now do these things with semi-standard position roles and a somewhat set offensive system. In the wake of the Warriors, the Phoenix Suns' long road to respectability is beginning to look a hell of a lot like assimilation.

I know, I know: The Spurs can run. This was actually truer in the 2005 playoffs, when Manu was better than Wade. But hey, the Mavs could run, too, and it didn't save them. When these ultra-disciplined teams go fast, it's a strategy, not an identity. While I hate to get this simplistic about things, the Spurs have Tim Duncan, who is so fantastic a power forward that even talking about it is an insult. That implies that there's still a case to be made, when in fact no one's even fucking with his status as G.P.F.O.A.T. If the Suns are at all emboldened by the Warriors' epochal triumph, they won't be thinking about Popovich's brain ridges, Tony Parker beating Nash off the dribble or Robert Horry and Michael Finley hording their vital energies till just that exact right moment. They need to go at the Spurs and ignore whatever well-concocted response they get; unfortunately, that's still going to leave Duncan, who can reassert the old path with a dominant big man series. If you think Timmie can't get 35-20 every night on Phoenix, you're letting that millennial hype rot out your brain. The difference between the Spurs and Mavs? One has the best post player alive, and the other tried heartlessly to turn Dirk Nowitzki into a tough guy.

After last night, the Suns aren't just playing for a Phoenix championship. Despite having moved away from Golden State's mass chaos model, the Suns are still fun, exciting outsiders. They can still strike a momentous blow for the cause and would be more than capable of a Warriors-like freak out if that matchup came to pass. The question for this series, though, is if they'll learn from Mavs/Warriors and embrace unorthodoxy. In a weird way, their revolutionary credibility is on the line; the Suns have to prove to us that, despite their many alterations, they still believe in the power of the imagination. The more they cleave to their roles, the harder it will be to neutralize the Spurs' rock-solid construction. Predictability and form play right into Pop's cold, dead hands and will run smack dab into Duncan's latest bid for immortality.

Call me a zealot: I think D'Antoni can see the writing on the wall. We saw in 2005 that San Antonio can live with Nash scoring at will, or Amare dropping 40. Get the whole team scattered and deranged, though, and the Suns can put the Spurs on the ropes. It would make it feel more like an upset opportunity, but honestly, Phoenix can only get through this if they make themselves into brash, aggressive underdogs. Let Duncan have his the way San Antonio did with Nash and Stoudemire, while he watches all hell break loose around him. Stephen Jackson doesn't care because he has nothing to lose, and thus is invincible. Take this to heart, Phoenix Suns, and this series can be yours in seven. Otherwise, Spurs in six.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our the first of our two second-round previews today, the series between the Detroit Pistons and the Chicago Bulls. Ben Wallace is the main storyline, but these are also two teams who swept their first series and look red-hot ... if you don't allot for that pesky layoff. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Bulls in 7.

And now, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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I ran into Andres Nocioni on the bus the other day. Of course, I asked him about his thoughts on the upcoming series with the Pistons, how he planned to guard Tayshaun Prince, whether he secretly loathed Carlos Delfino, if he had any insight into the general outcome of things. He told me he had just returned from visiting an ancient Argentine mystic harbored in the back room of the restaurant, El Nandu, on West Fullerton. Over empanadas and blood sausage, they evidently discussed the Bulls' chances in the second round, and — I'll have to paraphrase what Noch told me — the mystic explained that there were three challenges that the Bulls would face on their way to the finals, each of them instilling a new lesson.

THE CHAMPIONS: This first challenge has been overcome. Taking down Pat Riley and his 15 Hobbled was no small task. Obviously, the key step to becoming a champion is dethroning the previous champion, and the Bulls absolutely Randy-Moss-off-the-coast-of-Boca boat-raced the stumbling Heat. I haven't heard Shaq this subdued since his second verse on "Biological Didn't Bother."

THE TEAM: This challenge encapsulates the second round series, and the Bulls' current opponent, the Detroit Pistons. The Pistons are the consummate "team." Four of their five starters have been together since their 2004 championship, and the other one, Chris Webber, will sacrifice any personal gain to attain a ring.

THE INDIVIDUAL: The mystic predicts that LeBron James will advance to the conference finals, pitting the individual vs. the collective in a way that your bullshit Western Philosophy 101 Hobbes-vs.-Rousseau curriculum could only dream of. If the Bulls advance, they must face he that is greatness personified, which in essence constitutes every player facing the innermost potential in themselves.

Of course, even mentioning the Bulls even in the same paragraph as "Eastern Conference Finals" is premature. The Pistons are a legitimate title contender, and to save a lot of spirited long-winded dissection and histrionics, let me just say that I think Detroit will be able to win this series handily. Unfortunately, the truest cliché in sports is that the NBA playoffs are all about matchups, and this one clearly favors the Pistons. The two teams are virtually identical in form, yet different iterations of each other. Conceptually, the Pistons are the Bulls, except possessing extra limbs, stronger teeth and more attractive girlfriends.

Tayshaun Prince is a smarter, more defensively polished version of Luol Deng. Chauncey Billups is a more battle-tested, clutch-er version of Kirk Hinrich. Rip Hamilton is a more role-defined Ben Gordon. Rasheed Wallace is either a more versatile, sleeker P.J. Brown, or a wilier version of Andres Nocioni. And at the center position, the offensive craftiness of Chris Webber cancels out the defensive prowess of Ben Wallace. Chicago's bench may be deeper, but it still resembles a daycare center in comparison to old souls like Antonio McDyess, Dale Davis, and championship ring-owners such as Lindsey Hunter and Nazr Mohammed.

The only domain in which the Bulls hold a clear advantage is coaching. Not to overcook my favorite topic, but Flip Saunders is a playoff nightmare. Of his many postseason deficiencies, his tardiness in making adjustments is perhaps the direst. Skiles, on the other hand, as he proved last series — in outwitting the great Riles — is a master of adaptation. That said, with the Pistons, there is nothing really to adapt to — you know going in what their tactics and what their rotations are. It is thus up to Skiles to force a wrinkle into this series, as Saunders is poor at playing catch-up. I'm not sure what exactly such an innovation would entail: Out-athleticizing the elder Pistons by running up and down more? Giving Tyrus Thomas more burn simply to wreak havoc? Amputating, then bronzing the apparently anacondian arms of Thabo Sefolosha and hanging them from the United Center rafters to signify entitlement? I fear that the surprise will be there is no surprise. We may be in for simply six solid games of gritty, blue-collar workmanship.

Obviously, I am writing this on the heels of the Warriors' victory over the Mavericks, wondering if the playoffs are now sapped of any further emotional intrigue or astonishment. Chris Webber's search for redemption is a charming story, as is the Bulls' attempt to recapture Jordan-era glory. However, they are mere trinkets compared to what we just witnessed in Oakland. The Warriors' series has completely annihilated our capacity to FEEL: What would have been a noteworthy subplot of revenge — Ben Wallace attempting to disprove his old coach's knocks on his offensive game vs. Detroit attempting to prove they no longer need Wallace's services to win a championship — is completely overshadowed by the fact that Don Nelson just peed on the caviar of a billionaire who owes him over six million bills. The standards for intrigue for the 2007 playoffs have been raised. I can no longer simply watch good basketball — I want proof of existence. 'Sheed, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

After the jump, one of the final two playoff previews, the series between the Phoenix Suns and the Los Angeles Lakers. We actually forgot just how close the Lakers were to winning their series with the Suns last year; most aren't considering it too likely that they'll do the same this time. (We just remembered, by the way, how excited everyone was about a potential Clippers-Lakers series last year. That's funny.) If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Suns in 5.

And now, Bethlehem Shoals, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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Let me break some real raw news to you: Last year's Suns/Lakers series, the highlights of which will blot out the airwaves this weekend, wasn't real. It wasn't competitive; it just proved how vulnerable and flimsy that version of Phoenix was. Kobe didn't almost pull off the unthinkable; he just happened to run across a team that would let him write his own script. That game seven meltdown was so weird that only a slaphappy cow would think to make sense of it. And anyone who watched the whole thing knows that it wasn't Nash/Bryant, it was Tim Thomas/Kwame Brown. So please, spare me the rivalry phonics and the rematch sonatas. "Before Sunrise" is blaring in the living room, but only because it goes well with a certain someone's dental surgery and Modelo.

I know you all want to hear about Kobe. He of the scoring binges, searing public ambivalence and inscrutable living. The non-stop legacy monitor, the effortless world-historical events, and the Diddy-on-the-cross pomposity. The message I have for you is clear: Kobe does not matter one bit in this series. Bean Thousand will go for 25, or he will muster 60, and either way the game belongs to Smush and Sasha. The non-Kobe Lakers aren't just important here — they're the de facto stars of the series. By the end of it all, we won't even notice Bryant, and all the crowing will focus on what this means for Lamar Odom's resume. Not saying that they'll step up or carry the team. On the contrary, they'll roll on their backs, shake their legs and be pulverized by the onrush of Nash, Amare, Marion and Barbosa. But with Kobe the unflinching constant, and the other Lakers so obviously thrown into the light, we'll worry over them with a fury usually reserved for the incredible. The question isn't "how does Kobe scoring 50 affect the Lakers," but "what will the Lakers do when Kobe scores 50?"

The only reason 2006 happened was that the Suns lacked size. The takeaway moments were Kobe's shot, Kobe's shot, Kobe's dunk and the roaring silence of game 7's second half. The crux of the matter, though, was Kwame, Odom and Turiaf floating into the post as if upon an obliging cloud. With Amare Stoudemire back, those days end now. Granted, Amare's concept of defense is a little too next for the human heart to bear. And like his cro-mag forebear Kenyon Martin, his shot-blocking has as much to do with his offensive game as it does the fine art of position and angles. That said, his name is BLACK JESUS. He wears out big men on the other end, draws fouls, enthusiastically gets in the way and should easily turn last year's Laker cakewalk into a bug-infested nightmare. Andrew Bynum or no Andrew Bynum. Not to mention the ever-expanding Barbosa, who can now legitimately spell Nash at the point, and a team-wide swag that was notably absent from the '05-06 assemblage. There is absolutely nothing trifling about these Suns, who combine the carefree bombast of '04-05 with last year's spidery precision.

Honest, I feel for the networks. Kobe really needs to get moved to the East, where he'd carry a team and look like a doctor. With all the attention invested in him, you'd think they want him around a little longer. The Recluse just said "it's going to be really weird when Kobe retires." Me, I think we're getting a little taste of that dissonance well in advance. The Suns, well, let's just say that Raja Bell's lockdown D is not selling any Big Gulps. This is a series where vibrant storylines saunter to their graves, where valuable commodities are torched beneath the magnifying glass. All that said, this is not a series we will soon forget. It will be the first and last time in many people's lives that they give Kobe Bryant a pass. Completely unjustly, the less-than-100 percent Lamar Odom will again know what it is to be scapegoated. And when the Suns score 80 in a half, there will be parades made of nothing but couches.

Suns in five. They're a team that runs hot and cold, that forces nothing and seemingly lucks into fits of utter dominance. Because of this, there are never guarantees with them; the sky won't fall if there's a 92-89 Lakers win. And when Kobe hits that three at the buzzer, the camera will cut right to Luke Walton's golden reaction.

After the jump, the final first-round playoff preview — they will be back for the next round — the series between the San Antonio Spurs and the Denver Nuggets. Many consider this the most compelling first-round matchup, and will be nice to see Allen Iverson with something legitimate to play for. And hey, who Joey Crawford is rooting for! If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Spurs in 6.

And now, Billups, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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Attention, Tony Parker, time to turn off the collector's edition DVD of Tango and Cash, hit Eva on the Treo and tell her to grab the black and silver Stella McCartney miniskirt. Yes, yes, you know it, Solaar: A national TV audience is waiting. Get your game-smirk ready.

Attention, Spurs Fans: Time to stop watching those "Two and a Half Men" blooper reels, copy that fan e-mail to Lou Dobbs that you've been slaving over to the "Drafts" folder and get thee to the Alamo Dome!

"Spurs Fans." That doesn't even sound right. Any major dude will tell you: You can't love someone who doesn't love themselves. That's why it's hard for me to believe there are actually, really real Spurs fans. I don't think the guys on the Spurs particularly like the Spurs. These guys exist somewhere on the axis between the session musicians who played for Steely Dan and The Agents in The Matrix. They're the new Utah Jazz. And we all know how we all feel about that, right?

There might be a guy coaching intramural basketball on a penal colony somewhere who gets really amped at the space-time-wormhole-requiring possibility of today's Spurs playing the Jazz of the dot-com and BJ crazy Clinton years; to him, the symphony of stoicism and layups must sound like, um, a symphony. Me? I'd rather be deer hunting.

Maybe it's the trauma of getting Shawshanked by the Lakers so many times, but I feel like the Spurs play the game the "right way" but for all the wrong reasons. They play pleasure-free ball predicated on precision and avoiding failure.

Denver is all about failure. But they are lions.

There's a line in The Philadelphia Story where Cary Grant says to Katie H., "You'll never be a first class human being or a first class woman until you've learned to have some regard for human frailty."

Allen Iverson is the patron saint of Human Frailty. And that's what closet Republicans who think the NBA is all about battle rapping and somersault dunks will never understand.

There was a postgame press conference a few months or so ago, before the Nuggets started their late-season bombing run. Iverson had a bumming shoulder and no Melo to call his own. Reporters were throwing the usual, "What was going through your mind..." that players just looooove. And he just wasn't answering. He wasn't being a dick, he was just quiet. He had the body language of a socially suffocated Virginia Woolf heroine. Or Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon.

At some point, there was a sea change. His whole career Iverson had been waiting for someone to come along and help him the hell out. In retrospect, the players he "ran out of Philly" are not exactly Spartans. Van Horn, Stackhouse, Tim Thomas, Larry Hughes. They'd make a dynamite improve comedy troupe, but I dunno about their Capo status. That meant that, despite possessing singular talents and having heart that all of us should envy, he was getting dogged by the beast of burden. And finally Comcast said, "It's not us, it's you."

What happened when AI got to the crisp, refreshing, mountain brewed taste of Denver is this: He was finally able to help someone else. Melo and AI aren't just brothers in Mid-Atlantic socio-economic background. They're bound together by the will to win, even if it means losing. Scared money don't make none, is what I'm saying. It's broadcast in how you play. And in this series, with 'Melo facing Judo chops and Manu flops, I think AI will do for Anthony what nobody was able to really do for him; he will push him. This isn't a multiple choice situation for Carmelo. He has got to son Bruce Bowen. He has got to realize that the hard part is, THERE IS NO SPOON (one point penalty for multiple Matrix refs).

People thought this was gonna be Bad Boys III. No, dudes. This is The Wild Bunch. But even when both are going nuclear they can only put up, what, 70? And then you look down the bench. And that's where Steve Motherfucking Blake comes in. And Kleiza (AIR RAID), and Camby (who has been playing like he's a regular visitor to God's acupuncturist; he's putting up Golden Age Mutombo numbers) and Nene (why is he cosmetically transforming himself into Udonis Haslem? Can you get an extension doing that?) and every other one of those blue and yellow cupcakes. This is a team. It's not an algebra problem. They're gonna fuck up.

I don't know what other way to put it. I think the Nuggets will take it in 6. Web 2.0 will certainly disagree. Maybe I believe in Iverson more than I should (though no less than anyone else from the 215). Maybe I think that, despite a licensed and practicing asshole, if anyone's gonna sneak up and shock Pop it would be Karl. Maybe I just don't want to be condemned to a month of Tim Duncan's footwork and giggling. That's my problem. If you're a Spurs fan...well I don't believe you exist, but okay; clap on, clappers. But if you're a basketball fan, can you really tell me you wouldn't wanna watch these two get next for a few weeks?

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our final playoff preview of the day (with two more tomorrow), the series between the Utah Jazz and the Houston Rockets. It's the all-Illini first-round matchup: Luther Head, Deron Williams, Dee Brown ... and, oh yeah, that McGrady guy. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Jazz in 7.

And now, Brown Recluse, Esq., from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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Fuck what you heard. Nice guys don't finish last, they finish right smack dab in the middle of the pack. All year long, the chatter in the West has been Suns and Mavs, and only a fool would overlook the San Antonio Spurs, so if you're looking for a "sleeper pick" who has a legitimate chance to win the whole thing, look to this 4/5 match up. Both the Rockets and the Jazz feature venerable coaches, well-rounded offense and disciplined defense. There's so much clean cut youth and ersatz militarism, it's like a rumble behind the dining hall at Boy Scout Camp. Seriously, the only guy on either team you might not let date your sister is former playground legend Rafer Alston, and even he's a family man these days!

Yet, despite the wholesomeness of both squads, this showdown might end up being the gulliest one of them all. Matchups are always important in playoff basketball, and the battle at the power forward position could decide the series. Carlos Boozer has been an absolute beast this season, averaging better than a double double, and the Jazz are also able to throw rugged rookie Paul Millsap and Jarron Collins into the mix. The Rockets' four men aren't quite as formidable, but Juwan Howard can still do a little damage. An awful lot could be resting on Chuck Hayes' broad shoulders.

Of course, no one on the Jazz can stop a determined and healthy Yao Ming, but they do have the luxury of being able to sick the tentacled Kirilenko on McGrady. However, since they start two point guards in the backcourt, that means either Williams or Fisher has to guard Battier, who can shoot over a shorter defender or take him down in the post. Remarkably, the Rockets have one of the best post up guards in the league on their roster, and they told him to stay home. A star of the 2006 NBA Playoffs for Sacramento, Bonzi Wells averaged 23 points and 12 boards on 60 percent shooting from the field, a performance so dominant that teammate Ron Artest said he would kill Bonzi if he didn't re-sign with the Kings (he ended up signing a two-year deal with the Rockets and while he played sparingly, he is presumably still alive). But, Bonzi was too real for this straight-laced squad, and while it's an agonizing waste of talent, the Rockets' chemistry no doubt benefits from his departure.

The Rockets are something like a middle child, respected and liked well enough, but get way less attention than their Texan siblings. It's hard to believe that a team with arguably the best post and perimeter players in the League could be so underrated, but injuries and a shaky playoff history have H-Town running a distant fourth in the postseason popularity contest. And it's not like the rest of the team are scrubs. Alston and Battier provide a compelling ebony and ivory (I'm talking about game) perimeter look, both able to hit 3's in bunches and cause problems on the defensive end. The Rockets should have a "No Diving!" sign in the locker room, their bench has been so shallow, but this year, Yao and T-Mac finally some have some reinforcements.

The main reason these games will be fought in the trenches is because of the generals stalking the sidelines. Basketball-wise, Jerry Sloan and Jeff Van Gundy are so conservative they make Gregg Popovich look like Trotsky and Avery Johnson like Malcolm X. After three years spent wandering in the desert of the draft lottery, The Protestant Work Ethic in the Flesh has found in Deron Williams and Boozer another point guard/power forward tandem to pick and roll into the playoffs. The rest of the team is made of similar stuff with only the Turkish Elvis bringing any unorthodoxy to the table. Even Okur fits into Sloan's rigid master plan, as he has always liked to have a big man who can open up things on the inside.

Much is always made of playoff experience, and the Fisher King, He of the Three Rings, has it in scads. Still, I'm going to gamble on the heretofore 0-fer-the-first-round Yao and T-Mac to finally make it out this time around. The team with the two superstars in a series rarely loses. Rockets in 6.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our second playoff preview of the day, the series between the Dallas Mavericks and the Golden State Warriors. Looking at how everyone's reacting to the Warriors finally making the playoffs, we know what will happen when/if our Buzzsaw ever make the postseason again: Every one will pat you on the head and smile like you are a child who has soiled itself for the first time. Screw that: Go Warriors! If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Mavericks in 5.

And now, Billups, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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Barbaric yawp time. The Golden State Warriors. New Basketball. Positions are just constructs, man. The Atlanta Hawks have the same kind of same-type-of-dudes roster as the Warriors, but see ... they're crippled by the need to be "normative;" playing Zazza Pachulia because he's tall and Tyronne Lue because he's short. They need to join Nelly outside the box! Bringing the ball up the court doesn't make you a point guard any more than being named "Al Harrington" means you can't play center. Al Harrington can play center! Up is down. Black is white. Baron Davis' beard is running for Congress.

Don Nelson returned to Oakland in a pickup truck with his dog and a playbook called FREEDOM.

He and flattop-devotee/Dream Teamer Chris Mullin had a white boy fire sale, and Larry Bird was buying. They got themselves Al Harrington and Stephen Jackson. Armed with half a dozen cats around the same height, all with the similar skill-sets (scoring as much as possible), Nelson installed a lineup consisting of Baron Davis, Jackson, Harrington, Jason Richardson and the blossoming Monta Ellis. Average height? Something like 6'5. If they're too short then you're probably too old. They put up 120 on the regular and dare the other team to catch 'em. It ain't Super System. It's, "Fuck it, lets plays some cards."

The gang-that-couldn't-shoot-straight (so they just kept on shooting) go up against possibly the best team of the decade (he said arbitrarily).

This Mavericks team is the end result of one of the finest pieces of personnel tinkering since Michael Corleone's Spring-Christening Housecleaning. Don begat Donny Nelson, and Donny Nelson knows what he's doing. Players are valued for being the special and unique flowers that their agents tell them they are, but at the same time the boat floats whether or not Jason Terry has his chakras in place. Everyone on the Mavs seems to know: a) exactly what their role is, b) exactly what's expected of them and, perhaps most importantly, c) exactly when to bail Dirk out if he's having "one of those days."

Mavs coach Avery Johnson was a Nellie protégée, but (FACTOID) he also spent time studying the Drunken Monkey style of San Antonio's laffaholic Gregg Popovich. Johnson's kids do fun stuff like break off the opposing team's basket and chuck three's like they just watched a Dennis Scott instructional tape, but they also play with Pop's charming dedication to discipline, defense. It's kind of like watching Jason Bourne beat people up.

There may have been a time when a vertically challenged group of gravity-challenging guards and forwards might have been able to steal a win away and hold home court to win a five-game series. And there might've been a time when Don Nelson could've pulled the same stunt Jon Gruden did on the Raiders sever Bowls ago (the convenient, "I fathered your whole style" thing). But those days are yesterdays.

So: The revolution (whatever) dies here. But at least it's going to be televised. Do you believe in miracles? The NBA doesn't give a shit. The NBA Playoffs is the anti-March Madness. Cinderella gets knocked up and doomed to a life pushing mock turtles at Old Navy. Goliath uses David as a bottle opener. Want human interest? Get psyched for the Winter Olympics. Athletic Darwinism is in full effect. Mavs in 4.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our first playoff preview of the day, the series between the Detroit Pistons and the Orlando Magic. We shall see if Darko himself can overtake the OVERHYPED! Dwyane Wade and LeBron James in the Eastern Conference. Plus, you know: Sheed. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Pistons in 6.

And now, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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Every April holds two time-tested inevitabilities: Ben Folds will be playing at your college's Spring Fling concert (Blackalicious is opening), and Flip Saunders will be struggling in the NBA playoffs. As a Minnesota Timberwolves fan since the inception of that team, I watched the legacy of Kevin Garnett destroyed not by Kevin McHale (who has gone unfairly villainized for far too long), not by the cruelty of fate (see Malik Sealy), not by the selfishness of supporting actors like Stephon Marbury and Latrell Sprewell, but by Flip. It was Flip who could not defend the pick n' roll, who stubbornly never wavered from his jumpshooting offense, and who coddled KG, never challenging him in the way that Zenmaster did when he told Shaq to stop making genie movies.

In the playoffs it was worse. Saunders always made his adjustments one step slower than the other coach. His perimeter-based offensive schemes were easy for opposing defenses to figure out and his players never got to the foul line. His supposedly "genius" zones were devoured by opposing point guard penetration. Not specific to the Timberwolves, we saw this same pattern of events unfold in the playoffs last year, when LeBron James exhausted (and nearly defeated) Flip's Pistons all by himself before Riley and The Heat bamboozled Detroit in the semifinals. Left without answers, the embodiment of the team's defensive identity, Ben Wallace, fled to Chicago. Many wondered if Flip would be next to go, though not by his own choosing.



The good news is that now in the playoffs zero is expected of Saunders; the bad news is that if the Pistons lose to a very dangerous Orlando team, he will take on a postseason mythology of a Schottenheimerian caliber. Orlando is dangerous because of sneakily good three-point shooting (I'm expecting at least one huge bombardment from Turkoglu or Reddick), a coach with some serious playoff experience, and — aside from LeBron and D-Wade — the best player on the court in any Eastern conference playoff series: Dwight Howard.

This series, and really the entire Eastern Conference playoffs are really all about Dwight Howard, as a philosophical proof. We just endured a season in which Smallball was put forth as the dogma of the future. The Center position now starts taking applications at 6'7". Nobody cares about how terrible cares about how pisspoor of a rebounder Amare Stoudemire is because he can run and jump really fast. Nellie is back in the playoffs. The bigs-are-outdated viewpoint is all well and good, but the facts reveal that since MJ was king, every single NBA finals has been won by either Shaquille O'Neal or Tim Duncan/David Robinson (except for that year when the Larry Brown and the boys gangtackled the Lakers with a plethora of bigs ranging from Darko to Ben Wallace to Elden Campbell).



Putting speculation about Greg Oden aside for a moment, Dwight Howard is the only direct descendant of that true big man lineage. All too reminiscent of happy-Shaq during the "holy f#ck we just kicked the sh#t out of Michael Jordan's comeback party" era, Howard plays looser and with more agility than any other big man in the league right now. He channels vivacity into power like the Hindu god, Mahabaleshwara, and this should have Flip Saunders and his collection of geriatric big men (with about 4.6 ounces of knee cartilage between the four of them) very concerned. Now despite the potential excitement of God's Son winning his first playoff series ever, of course I'm picking Detroit. 'Sheed and Nazr Mohammed sport rings. Antonio McDyess and Chris Webber have gotten so close they could smell it. The mental fortitude of these men alone makes them likely candidates to possibly make the finals.



And what of Webber? This entire season has been one of unexpected redemption, and these playoffs could allow for the storybook finale to this journey. Perhaps the man who bankrupted and destroyed Michigan basketball — through gaffes and improprieties — could rebuild Michigan basketball in a way no one thought possible. For his entire career, Webber has stood as the emblem for NBA sadness and has internalized this sadness to a point that would make a normal man implode. Gilbert Arenas speaks to us about his problems and his past. We have seen Kevin Garnett shed tears. Tracy McGrady expels his emotions through scoring outbursts. But for Webber, there is no outlet. Perhaps he always knew that this would be his destiny: a homecoming, and a rebirth.

Because we feel that no one understands the NBA more like the way we wish we understood the NBA than the gang at Free Darko, we've asked them to write up previews of every playoff series throughout the postseason. It will help us understand what's at stake in each series, what matters, what it means for the individuals involved, their fanbases and their history. And there will also be funny, bizarre, non-linear photographs.

After the jump, our last playoff preview of the day, the series between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Washington Wizards. No Arenas. No Arenas. Damn. Well, let's see LeBron turn it on, anyway. If you want to hop in with your predictions in the comments, please do. Because we type about sports, and people expect it, our prediction is Cavs in 5.

And now, Bethlehem Shoals, from Free Darko, after the jump. Enjoy.

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First off, let's eradicate all the things that Cavs/Wizards is not. It's not going to be a rehash of last year's firestorm, which arguably made both LeBron and Arenas who they are today. It's not the James/Wade tango that nearly was — which is fortunate, because there was zero buzz about this possibility and it would have knocked one out way early. And to be perfectly fair to my sources, this isn't the same LeBron who romped into the 2006 postseason with one hand up immortality's skirt.

At least among picky eaters, the LBJ's stock is at an all-time low. Blame it on Mike Brown's stifling offense, the inept Cleveland front office, or our own skewed version of what accomplishment means. But in one choppy season, Gloria's boy squandered all the superstar capital he'd earned against the Pistons and Wiz. The point isn't whether it's fair to expect James to save Cleveland on his own — admit it, last May we all thought he could. So for the team to drop from the "must-watch" status and LeBron get taken for granted, well, that's deflation. I know all about the man called Larry Hughes, and how he's taken up the point guard position. I think that's more a testament to how broken the Cavs are, in the same way that black markets flourish and warlords build schools in war torn lands. The awakening of Pavlovic, the hairy spatters of Anderson Varejao, Boobie Gibson's range ... all these things are true, and yet none are mutually exclusive with a commanding LeBron. The playoffs are theater, and there's really nothing to bring the house down like the messianic urge fulfilled.

As for the damaged Wizards, well, these times are hard. Let's not underestimate how much Arenas needed these playoffs — sure, his star rose like a blob of helium this season, but those missed free throws still linger. Even if you believe that he's over that, kindly turn to his kid-in-a-candy-store '06-07. Without a weighty playoff run to back up all the swag, he's no better in the books than T-Mac in Orlando: a fantastic individual performer who can't drag his team through the rapids. Alas, Gilbert is gone. Caron Butler clutches at his broken hand; he believes in the will above all else, and yet can offer nothing but the faint promise of a second-round return. Antawn Jamison keeps up his head and pushes onward, with Deshawn Stevenson cackling by his side. But the cupboard is bare, hope long ago replaced with cobwebs, and a dignified exit the best-case scenario. And for the media to respectfully ignore them in their hour of ruin.

Luckily for them, this series will be all LeBron, all day. The more absent and pale the Wizards are, the less it will sting; if James goes the eff off, this will become a refresher in what made us all witnesses. Here's the young fella's chance to restore his luster, to get us believing again that basketball belongs to him. What better an opportunity than a first-round opponent that belongs in the lottery? Now, this could backfire hopelessly — if the Wiz do anything more than steal one game, James will be accused of lacking substance. Somehow, though, I just don't foresee that happening. As Agent Steinz astutely observes, LeBron's really the only Cav that's in any way imposing. But LeBron out to renew his good name — well, it will only a take a little of that for the Wizards to evaporate and for the King James Version to get back on that heavenly track.

What words to give the Wizards faithful? To thee, I would say: This dismal week will be all about looking inward. Remember the good times. Bathe in the warmth this season left in your stomach. Send a friendly message to the aforementioned Steinz, who has played an instrumental role in making most of the world into Wiz enthusiasts. When this team was up, the high was delirious. When the the rough patches set in, they passed the time with good humor. The temptation will be strong to venture into these God-foresaken waters, but be warned: Your love will not save you here. Turn away, know that it will soon be over, and instead make this a nondescript celebration of what a better person this team made you.

Cavs in five. LeBron on every shoehorn. Numerous Andray Blatche close-ups. And then a whole summer of foment from the Armies of Gilbert.