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.

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

Therefore, we've asked them to look at the arcs of certain players going into this season, what 2007-08 means to them, their teams and their legacies. They'll be previewing a player a day, up to tipoff.

Today: Kevin Garnett. Your author is Dr. Lawyer IndianChief. His words are after the jump.

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Kevin Garnett is the moral center of the NBA universe and the newfound spokesman for the league after being traded from Minnesota to Boston this summer. As a Timberwolves fan since Sidney Lowe was running point with Sam Mitchell on the wing, my NBA offseason felt like a parental divorce, a reincarnation, a bar mitzvah and a funeral all in one. I revoke a mentor, I breathed anew, I grew up a little bit, and I performed mummification and ancestral worship rituals at the site of a lost loved one. My forecast for KG's season will read as the NBA fan's seven stages of grief.

1. Underwhelmed dullness. I always thought it would hurt more than it actually did, but my rationalization mechanisms kicked in immediately. A general desensitizing hum accompanied my complete lack of surprise, given that the Timberwolves had already reportedly been shopping KG around the time of the draft. His conclusion in Minnesota seemed logical — occurring neither after some definitive dispute with management nor at the end of a wearied contract. This departure was as anticlimactic as the Timberwolves last season, as they finished in the dungeons of the Western Conference while KG rode the bench with "tendonitis." Tabula Rasa, KG takes a new step forward with the Celtics.

2. Existential Void. When a player goes to Boston, he does not ascend to a grander stage, but rather he is engulfed by a cosmic vortex of muscle encased in a stratosphere of HGH clouds and musk. From the synaptic firings in Peter Gammons' brain to the Red Sox cap worn by the 14-year-old girl in Newton, there's a poison going on. Boston is sports hell. When a player departs to Chicago, the world embraces him. In New York or LA, that player will be ogled and monitored like some Komodo Dragon exhibit at the Aquarium. But for any player to go to Boston means that he has committed to a light of arguing with ESPN at night over who stole the covers. As blatant as KG's existence is on Sports Illustrated covers and in Adidas commercials, it is now as though he doesn't exist at all.

3. Bitter Well-wishing. KG is That Dude. Here's to a million more triple-doubles in losing efforts. The Celtics could win the Eastern Conference. But winning the Eastern Conference doesn't mean shit. New Jersey is probably gonna be real good. With Jamal Magloire. And with David Wesley. Yeah, New Jersey is gonna be trouble for Boston. Don't sleep on New Jersey. Or the Knicks.

But seriously. I'm just happy that KG looks the happiest he's been for a while.

4. Concern for Legacy. The old conventional wisdom, partially perpetuated by me, was to explain Tim Duncan's championship success (compared to the KG dearth) by essentially text messaging, "DUNCAN HAD ALL THAT HELP HE HAD PARKER AND GINOBILI IMAGINE WHAT GARNETT COULD DO WITH HELP." New conventional wisdom is, KG, be careful what you wish for. See, now it's like, Duncan grabbed those two post-Admiral rings with only Manu and Tony P by his side. If Garnett can't capture the Larry O'Brien trophy rolling with Paul Pierce and Ray Allen—two proven alpha dog all-stars—then really what is his fairytale? KG's career to this point has been chalk full of built-in excuses: Starbury's departure, the death of Malik Sealy, the failure to resign Chauncey Billups, lost draft picks because of the Joe Smith scandal, the Cassell & Sprewell contract flare-ups. KG truly loved his Minnesota situation, because it came with those apologies. One could blame Kevin McHale or Glen Taylor or the heavens for all of Minnesota's struggles. But now you stand at centerstage. And now the failure to win a championship will fall squarely on your shoulders. Ask AI (that formerly rugged emblem of underdogged Philadelphia) how he likes his legacy dying a slow baby blue death.

5. Resuscitation. Time to exhale. The Target Center has taken on the character of an elephant graveyard for the past few seasons. Every corporate sponsor-entrusted ticket holder has been walking around with blue hair and clenched cheeks wondering when somebody would finally machete that tension. Is it strange to say that watching a team headed by Al Jefferson will be more enjoyable than watching that same team led by KG for the past two years? There is nothing more frustrating than watching a player who does everything. Those players are never good. Watching KG's teams was like watching daytime Emmy award winners. Sebastian Telfair and Corey Brewer running around recklessly is like Mr. Wizard. Again, the legacy issue. KG go forth, but if the Timberwolves win one more game than last year (33), you have some serious soul-searching to do.

6. Confusion. Kevin Garnett is on the Celtics. Tell me that even he doesn't think he looks weird wearing that shamrock green. "HAS THE BALANCE OF POWER SHIFTED TO THE EAST?!" No. But grown men walk the forests with no identities. No selfs.

7. Disdain. KG is the prime exemplar of this new genre of athlete that I like to call, the passive-aggressive toddlers (PATs). Donovan McNabb plays quarterback for that team. Shaq is center. These guys are masterful interview subjects, they keep the fans in their pocket and always deflect blame toward someone else—usually some invisible front office figure caricatured to look like Rich Uncle Pennybags. They never admit their hypocrisy, preferring to redefine what their definition of "is" is. Whereas guys like T.O., A-Rod, and Kobe just kind of bug us, the PATs are worse, because they portray an illusion of "taking the high road." With KG, I have documented all of these transgressions in more depth here. But a recent Slam Interview, in which he talks about being betrayed by the Timberwolves front office, dumped like a lousy boyfriend, blindsided ... how he never asked for a trade ... how saddened he was by Flip Saunders' departure ... all of that verbosity really reopened wounds for me. And whatever is coming from Garnett's mouth stinks something awful.

At the time of the coaching switch...KG called McHale taking over for Saunders a "breath of fresh air."

In an interview last year, ALSO with Slam's Lang Whitaker, KG practically begged to leave Minnesota.

Not to mention his famous "Thank God for opt-outs" muckraking at the trade deadline.

We're not that stupid, KG. We remember all the good times and we remember the petty chatter as well. It's gonna be a good year for you, but it will never feel the same.

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

Therefore, we've asked them to look at the arcs of certain players going into this season, what 2007-08 means to them, their teams and their legacies. They'll be previewing a player a day, up to tipoff.

Today: Steve Nash. Your author is Brown Recluse, Esq. His words are after the jump.

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Michael Jordan has ruined basketball for an entire generation.

For evidence, look no further than Kobe Bean Bryant. Not the current imbroglio with the Lakers, which is the sort of thing Michael kept largely out of public view, but the walk, the turnaround jumper and, most important, the obsessive need to be the best. Jordan's competitive nature is now celebrated so widely that holding a petty grudge, such as Arenas' pledge to score 50 on the Blazers, is acknowledged as a sign of immaturity, but also interpreted as a sign of potential greatness. It's what Jordan would have done. Jordan's hegemony over the league has meant that there is only one way for a player to be competitive. Crush. Kill. Destroy. In fact, anyone not possessing such a single-mindedness is seen as deficient, even weak.

Steve Nash offers up a different path. Much has been made of Nash's "Canadian reticence," but you best believe that he wants to win as badly as anyone who has ever played this game, including His Airness. It's just that Nash doesn't strive to beat his opponent; he wants to beat the game. A recent article in Play, a publication whose name belies the seriousness with which professional athletes are supposed to approach their sport, relates a story about Nash figuring out that passing the ball out using only one hand was three-tenths of a second faster than doing it with two. That's indicative of Nash's obsessive focus and drive to win, a mind in constant motion, just as he is with the rock in his hands. Nash sees basketball as a puzzle, not as a contest.

In the same article, the author mentions a series of games of H-O-R-S-E between Nash and Leandro Barbosa that ended in a tie. It's a safe bet that Michael Jordan has never tied at anything in his life.

All of this is not to say that Nash steps on the court and sees chess pieces. He is a human being, after all. And the king he most wants to checkmate isn't the one wearing a crown and being carried around on a throne. He's the one wearing the rings. Four of them, to be exact. As much as the Suns are cast as the anti-Spurs—"fun and gun" to the Spurs "right way"—the player in the league most like Steve Nash is Tim Duncan. They share a cerebral approach to the game and a certain off-court inscrutability. I have no idea what Duncan feels about the war or how much he paid to download "In Rainbows," but I'd be willing to wager that if he and Nash were stuck in an airport together, they'd discover that they have a thing or two in common.

You can also be certain that Nash hasn't forgotten about the bloody nose, being checked into the bench by Robert Horry or having to play one of the most important games of his life two men down. Nash isn't out to hurt anyone or make them look bad, but if the uniforms of the losing team next spring happen to be silver and black, I think he might take an extra amount of pleasure in that.

The media has already determined that if Nash can't win it all this year, he might not ever get the chance again. Nash will be 34 years old by the time the playoffs roll around, Marion's still doing the Jan Brady and Amare's knee could give out again. But the reality is that Marion's been saying the same shit for two seasons now, with little effect on his play on the court, and Amare is a superhuman who cannot be judged by the standards we use for mere mortals. He made first team all-NBA while still testing his knee out and, if recent reports are accurate, is poised to completely blow minds in 2007-08.

As for our hero Nash, he simply does not follow the typical trajectory of an NBA player (peak at 28, rapid decline after age 33 or so) because he is not a typical NBA player. He doesn't rely on run-and-jump athleticism or quickness, but rather unmatched skill and conditioning. Despite a wonky back, Nash is in possibly the best shape of his life right now, and it's unlikely that his court vision or jumper is going to be leaving him any time soon.

In the end, the main reason that Nash's championship window is not in danger of closing is that he doesn't even think in those terms. In that regard, he is completely dissimilar from his good pal Dirk, who looked painfully aware of exactly of what was happening to him, but was powerless to stop it.

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

Therefore, we've asked them to look at the arcs of certain players going into this season, what 2007-08 means to them, their teams and their legacies. They'll be previewing a player a day, up to tipoff next Tuesday.

Today: Andre Iguodala. Your author is Billups. His words are after the jump.

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You think when Bob Horry is sitting in his rec room watching his own highlight reel in his underwear with a clothespin clamped to his nipple ...do you think he feels a sense of completion and peace that Charles Barkley lacks? That Patrick Ewing can't fathom?

Nobody's called me Sauron since about 3 a.m. this morning, but I can say this with about as much confidence as the next hobo: NBA championship rings are not forged in Middle Earth. They do not grant special powers. Robert Horry's memories of bodying the Pacers in 2003 are no more palpable than your recollections of making out with some girl named Jenny in 2003. In fact, depending on the amount of Northern Lights Bob smokes, you might be more in touch with your past than he is!

Be that as it may, Horry is probably the envy of his peers. He's got what all card-carrying members of the Players Association long for: Time and time again, after years of racking up personal accolades, players decide that the light at the end of the tunnel is either the shining glory of a championship or an Acela express headed to Dr Phil's or John Lucas' rehab spot.

Basketball is fucking stupid because the season is too long to drum up any ANY GIVEN SUNDAY/TWO SKYNET ROBOTS GO AT IT/DRINK PEPSI/GOD THAT GUY SOUNDS JUST LIKE JOHN MADDEN excitement like the NFL does; and it's too short to give boners to cats like Roger Angell who like thinking about the way grass smells.

But every year—whether it's Gary Payton, Scottie Pippen, Karl Malone—players go running to Dallas or LA or Miami in search of jewelry the way Bubbles hit Hamsterdam looking for that WMD. And why? So Jim Gray could ask them what was going through their mind? So they could say they took a giant crap on their opponent?

Not to get all Philip K. Mindblower here, but winning is more or less an Institutional State Apparatus (I went to college) ... I think (I didn't finish), promoted as the pot 'o gold at the end of the journey where you take 'em one game at a time because it's easy to get up in the morning and look at the box score and see the Celtics won or lost and decide whether or not you're happy or not with being a human. Fuck that.

This year, I'm giving up on giving a shit about winning. And Andre Iguodala is going to get me straight.

Philly already lives and dies with the fortunes of the Eagles. When the Birds win, it's like the bongo rave orgy in The Matrix. And when they lose it's like a living breathing Flemish painting complete with domestic violence, rivers of Yuengling and the imposition of mob rule where bands of men in throwbacks scavenge the roads for gasoline and the masses pray to an unseen pagan idol named Howard Eskin.

So under the cover of apathy the Sixers are free to find the meaning in between W and L; and AI vers. 2.0 is the Shackleton of that gray area.

Iguodala is like a YouTube clip that eats and plays Wii. Will he be a folk hero like Iverson? Fuck no. But he will be Richard Jefferson if Richard Jefferson didn't always look like he just listened to the first Sunny Day Real Estate record. Which means he could be a second tier Joe Johnson. Which is really all I want from a player.

On both sides of the ball the action starts in the overture; you can see the storm clouds gathering with Andre; you can hear the opening theme of The Untouchables playing. And when he gets the pill he switches to thermal and goes hunting.

He is dazzling on the break; keeps his cool when shit gets deeper; can play four positions as well as anyone on the team. He's basically a worse version of LeBron without the Sprite commercials.

Dig it: The end is not the end, people. 82-0? 41-41? Two inches or a yard, rock hard or if it's sagging: sit back in the Billy Beane-bag and get hip to this fact: In this here city game , the poetry is scribbled in the margins. You should check for Iguodala because even if he isn't the number one pick to sell bubble gum or property in Arkansas, he's pretty much the best reason to get the NBA Season Pass. Love the game. Don't worry about the rings.

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

Therefore, we've asked them to look at the arcs of certain players going into this season, what 2007-08 means to them, their teams and their legacies. They'll be previewing a player a day, up to tipoff next Tuesday.

Today: LeBron James. Your author is Bethlehem Shoals. His words are after the jump.

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LeBron James is a lot like God. He does shit no one else can; in fact, that's what makes him who he is. He can't be judged by earthly standards and is also relatively immune to time and space. People act all cynical about his glory, especially when it's tied into human money and power. But all it takes is one Game Five, or a death in the family, or the light breaking through the clouds just so, and then all skeptics feel the spirit.

He's also like the Almighty in that you can't really tell a story about him. The Old Testament isn't God: The Book, it's about how the Israelites deal with his brute wrath and love. As I learned numerous times in Hebrew school, my ancestral deity is somewhere between a puppet master and a bunch of very large rocks. Either way, he's not really a character, at least no more than the Seattle weather is my mortal enemy.

And so it is with LeBron. As one friend of mine put it, "it seems almost incidental that he plays basketball." For all last season, including most of the playoffs, James didn't impress. But the Cavs were winning, and even got to the NBA Finals! That's because LBJ doesn't compete like an ordinary mortal. He just exudes the essence of basketball, and the sport has no choice but to yield before him. When he does unleash a Game Five on the infidels, it's like those miracles you hear about it; it's not like the sky and cattle are any easier (or less easy) for God to pull off than a burning bush. In other words, it's for us, not him.

LeBron James also resists any and all attempts at narrative. He never had any chance of failing, or even learning by experience. Here's the synopsis: Teenager has every basketball skill on earth, hits the league running and with very little help or effort, turns around woeful franchise. Prodigy dominates all comers despite haphazard play, will soon own all of China by osmosis. Thanks, I can't wait for the sequel.

I don't know much about Jesus, except that he's the main character of the New Testament. When God split into three parts or whatever, he made one into a man who made his way through the world like any other. That's probably why people love Jesus so much, and why the Christian faith is so much more popular than my hook-nosed cult. JC is a role model because he's one of us, sort of; his rise and fall and rise draws us in because, duh, it's also the story of your soul and mine.

This has to be the season that LeBron finds Jesus. But wait, I'm not suggesting the NBA's top commodity pull an A.C. Green. Bron needs to make the switch from Basketball YHWH to Basketball Jesus, all so he can discover the humanity within himself. That means finally putting a Kobe-stye hex on the Cavs' incompetent front office, or letting on that his missed free throws bug him. Showing up like he's playing opponents, not just rehearsing a new sport in a darkened gym. And above all else, allow us to see that he does worry about winning a championship. It's not inevitable, no less than those three MVPs and that Hall of Fame plaque we've already fitted him for.

It matters to us as fans. Without this, LeBron will be remote, soulless and utterly impossible to relate to. Don't play like you don't watch sports to see yourself reflected back. The most appealing athletes resonate with us as human beings, hence all the love for the deeply flawed Warriors or the "scrappy" white dudes. We go crazy for underdogs because they've had to struggle and fight, something that's pretty much par for the average life. Even Jordan, Greatest of Any and All Time, became a very different figure once he lost his father. That infusion of emotion, adversity and frailty is what makes for the adrenal rush of success; without it, you might as well sit and observe nuclear fission for movement of consequence.

Truthfully, it should also matter to LeBron, and not just because his marketability depends on it. Last I checked, he hadn't obtained that ring. And as good as he is, he could be much better. Perhaps what's missing is that added sense of urgency, that fear that one day, his career will end, his kid will get married, and he'll die alone in a castle. If someone would just shout in LeBron's ear that he's a human being, dude would probably become a better player. Here's a paradox: The closer LeBron James comes to you and me, the more he lives and dies by the moment, the greater his chances of achieving immortality.

Jesus Christ took a chance, and things ended up okay for him. Right?

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

Therefore, we've asked them to look at the arcs of certain players going into this season, what 2007-08 means to them, their teams and their legacies. They'll be previewing a player a day, up to tipoff next Tuesday.

Today: Dirk Nowitzki. Your author is Bethlehem Shoals. His words are after the jump.

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If sports really resembled sports talk radio, Dirk Nowitzki would've gone out like T-Mac: wounded, weeping, and painfully aware of his imperfection. Instead, when last we saw Dirk, he was accepting the 2006-07 MVP, commendation for a superb, but empty, regular season.

This award marked the completion of his Avery Johnson-sponsored makeover. When Dirk first entered the league, he was a fantastic creature, the kind of felicitous monster that makes grown men rub their eyes and giggle. He came from a far-off land, tutored in a forest to overthrow convention and challenge assumptions. But griffins don't break bottles and unicorns never slobber; even as a star Dirk remained magical and aloof, the epitome of a Dallas team that was both breathtaking and disposable.

Then came Avery, a holy-rolling basketball firebrand determined to make the Mavs legit. Under Nellie, Dirk had shot when he felt like it, from any spot that felt right. He shared top billing with Steve Nash and Michael Finley, rarely caring if he came off as the franchise player. In a sense, he was the anti-go-to-guy. Avery changed all that, expecting Dirk to use his size, quit with the haywire threes, get to the line and just generally command respect.

And you know, it worked. Dirk became a smarter, more imposing player, albeit one that didn't always carry himself like the king of the border. What mattered was that he became the Mavs' anchor, their rock. Johnson built an offense around him, and the team ruled the games that mean nothing. In the Warriors series, though, Dirk Nowitzki's past flashed before him and swallowed his eyes. A Don Nelson-coached team, more demented than Dallas had ever dared be, assaulted Dirk with chaos-as-order. There were no positions, no sets, and no logical problems to be solved. The Warriors neutralized Nowitzki with a poison he knew all too well.

Most pundits saw Dirk's disappearing act as proof that he wasn't cut out to be El Hombre, that he was soft and lacking in giant nuts. The MVP meant less than nothing; it was a cruel irony that sang out Nowitzki's shame. But I've always felt that the trophy, and its burden, belonged every bit as much to Avery. He sold Dirk a bill of goods, training him in the ways of Popovich. And then, all that rationality proved to be no match for the very credo Dirk had abandoned.

As we head into 2007-08, Dirk Nowitzki sits at a crossroads. Avery Johnson helped him get recognized as the league's Most Valuable Player. Johnson got the team to the Finals in 2006, and then proceeded to put together seven months of irrefutable excellence. Dirk will do as he is commanded, and we'll get another chance to see just how legit Dirk/Avery is. But if they once again collapse (2006) or get blindsided (2007), Avery Johnson might not be the coach for 2008-09.

Where would that leave our valiant Teuton? This spring, he was harshly reminded of where he came from. That back-handed MVP isn't a referendum on his soul; it's an opportunity for reflection. As Dirk grinds out Avery's will and makes that unconvincing gladiator-grimace, will he think about Stephen Jackson? Will he wish it were he running wild on the Warriors? Or is this his temptation in the desert: Dirk, starved for pride and identity, must confront S-Jax and his false promise of Warriors paradise.

Of course, if the Mavs win it all, this angst becomes moot. However, there's a sizable chance this won't happen; if Avery moves on, or Dirk finds himself relocated, then the gangly German will enter a new phase of his career. In college, there was this thing called Hegel, and it went like this: When opposites collide in history, a new day is forged. It's as if GWFH sent a message to the future to direct his younger countryman.

It's normal for players to go through several phases in their career, usually as a function of experience and bodily changes. Dirk stands poised to enter a third phase of his prime, which is pretty much unprecedented. His wild years defied the logic of the "career year;" last season, he proved it to be something of a sham. At least for him. It's hard to imagine exactly what would come next, but that's part of what makes Dirk Dirk, the wonder that Avery has tried so hard to wring out and replace with kerosene. Would it be surprising if Nowitzki — one of the more exceptional players of our age — needed to find his own way of winning?

Either that, or Dirk's a spineless fake who doesn't deserve that max contract. But you already knew that.