Any fan of the L knows who Dick Bavetta is. The longest serving active NBA referee has been the face of officiating for years, through both good times (eliminating hand checking rules) and the bad (Tim Donaghy's match-fixing scandal).
As a natural reaction to teams performances and the calls that go against them, fans often react negatively towards the officials, their verbal criticisms and boos a means of implying that they are partial towards certain franchises. Just ask any knowledgeable Mavericks or Spurs fans about their records when one of the Crawford brothers is officiating, especially Dallas' putrid record when Joey Crawford has the whistle in his hand.
Last night the Raps were robbed by Mr. Bavetta in a 3-point loss to the Knicks at the Madison Square Gardens 113-110.
Despite the fact that the Knicks have been on a tear of late, the Raptors played well, led by Andrea Bargnani's career-high 41 points which included an outburst of 15 points in the game's final 12 minutes.
Regardless of their effort, the Raps could not get a break, and I'm not even considering Raymond Felton's game-winning three ball with under 3 seconds remaining that bounced upon the rim more times than Shawn Bradley has been posterized by large black men.
You may be asking yourself why bitch about the officiating and do you have any specific instances to back-up your point? Fuck you, and yes should adequately answer both queries.
Late in the 4th quarter, Amir Johnson was called for a 3-second violation, which in the event you suck at life and know nothing, means an offensive player cannot remain inside the paint for a duration of 3-seconds without a part of him (i.e. his foot) outside of the area. The whistle was blown just after a jump shot was taken, which means the final of the penalized 3-seconds is a moot point as a shot was taken. That would be the first grave error.
The second is far more infuriating, and a call that in itself is rarely made. With the Knicks up 110-107 with 57 seconds remaing, Raps forward Linas Kleiza was called for a 5-second violation, which penalizes a team if they are not able to inbound the ball within the allotted period of 5-seconds. I'm struggling to find the clip on YouTube, but it was clearly not more than 3-seconds when Bavetta crew-mate Tony Brothers blew his whistle. Post-game Kleiza had this to say;
"Definitely I thought it was three or four seconds. I never had one go against me like that. I definitely don't want to comment about the calls. You know how the NBA does it. You guys don't want me to get fined. It is what it is."
Conspiracy theories aside, any fan of the game knows that the league wants its marquee franchises to succeed. For long enough, the Knicks have blown chunks all over the hallowed court at MSG and embarrassed their ever-passionate fan base. They are due for some success, and commissioner David Stern must be frothing-at-the-mouth witnessing the revival of the playoff bound Knicks and a basketball revitalization in the country's largest market.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not even hating on the Knicks. I like Amar'e Stoudamire and Coach Mike D'Antoni because they run high-tempo offensive sets and I love me some names with punctuation. Raymond Felton has found his niche, Wilson Chandler is my black cousin and holy fuck, how did Landry Fields go from dropping 12 a game with Stanford to being the starting 2 Guard for the Knicks? Who-the-fuck-knows, regardless I like the Knicks and they're far more tolerable minus the Isiah factor.
Fair enough, but do you have to fuck the Raps like this as a means to an end. Nobody wants to play here but a handful of Europeans and frankly, for that matter, Bargnani and the boys are playing with a shitload of heart each and every night, only to be ridiculed by pundits as the league's worst starting five.
You know what, fuck you Knick Bavetta, fuck you NBA officiating committee and fuck all those players who don't want to live in Canada and play for the Raps because it snows too much and there's a shortage of fried chicken spots. There's a foot of snow at the base of the Eiffel Tower as I write this and Toronto's bigger than the Dallas-Fort Worth area. So fuck everybody - I'm out.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Ruminations 8.0: G20 Summit Follow-Up
First things first, something that will be relevant only to readers who like myself are native Torontonians or those who have a penchant for humanitarian goodwill. The Toronto Star needs to drop the whole police abuse of protesters rant they've been on for months.
If you require a refresher, I wrote a piece about the G20 Summit in Toronto a few months back. Apparently the local paper has it out for the police and their handling of the situation. A man named Adam Nobody has filed complaints against the police for an unlawful beating at their hands as a result of his supposed peaceful protests.
Mr. Nobody, who should shut-up and seek anonymity like his name suggests, suffered a broken nose and some facial lacerations, and because of this has become the cause of concern for the Star and it's anti-police agenda.
Apparently Mr. Nobody was holding a sign that read "Let Donna Graduate". If you recall either Beverly Hills 90210 or my installments on the topic of the show, you'll remember that Donna Martin (played by Tori Spelling) was kicked-out of school just prior to graduation. Without a high school education, the future looked bleak for Donna. Because of her physical appearance, odds are she'd be sent-out to stud for a few months before being slaughtered and refined into glue.
Eventually, the school wilted under the pressure of Mr. Spelling's script and allowed Donna to graduate. Thank God for that. Mr. Nobody thought his sign would incite laughter because of its trivial nature, and it did, at least I laughed when I heard it, but nonetheless the police were put in a difficult situation.
Amongst thousands of police, it can be expected that there were a few bad apples. The Toronto Star clearly has a few, just read the entertainment section (not including Peter Howell, Ben Rayner or Richard Ouznanian) or the GTA section (which amounts to 8 pages of journalistic diarrhea) to confirm that within each sub-section of the work force, there are those who take less pride in their work than others.
The Toronto Star is painting a picture that casts doubts on the entire force, pigeonholing the 99% who are upstanding police officers into the same category as the few that allegedly committed brutal and violent attacks during the G20 Summit.
Were I, or any of my readers put in a situation with our backs to the wall and a handful of violent protesters wreaking havoc amongst the civil and peaceful lot, I wonder how you or I would have reacted.
I think, nay I know, that one skids broken nose and the misuse of power of a single police officer does not necessitate front-page news months after the fact.
The Toronto Star, you are my jerk of the week. Enjoy.
By no means does the above opinion have anything to do with the fact that the Star has repeatedly turned-down the authors query letters and freelance work because it's too fucking cheap to hire real writers, after letting-go of much of their senior staff because they are moving-away from salaries and towards contract work for recent grads with whom they can play puppet master.
If you require a refresher, I wrote a piece about the G20 Summit in Toronto a few months back. Apparently the local paper has it out for the police and their handling of the situation. A man named Adam Nobody has filed complaints against the police for an unlawful beating at their hands as a result of his supposed peaceful protests.
Mr. Nobody, who should shut-up and seek anonymity like his name suggests, suffered a broken nose and some facial lacerations, and because of this has become the cause of concern for the Star and it's anti-police agenda.
Apparently Mr. Nobody was holding a sign that read "Let Donna Graduate". If you recall either Beverly Hills 90210 or my installments on the topic of the show, you'll remember that Donna Martin (played by Tori Spelling) was kicked-out of school just prior to graduation. Without a high school education, the future looked bleak for Donna. Because of her physical appearance, odds are she'd be sent-out to stud for a few months before being slaughtered and refined into glue.
Eventually, the school wilted under the pressure of Mr. Spelling's script and allowed Donna to graduate. Thank God for that. Mr. Nobody thought his sign would incite laughter because of its trivial nature, and it did, at least I laughed when I heard it, but nonetheless the police were put in a difficult situation.
Amongst thousands of police, it can be expected that there were a few bad apples. The Toronto Star clearly has a few, just read the entertainment section (not including Peter Howell, Ben Rayner or Richard Ouznanian) or the GTA section (which amounts to 8 pages of journalistic diarrhea) to confirm that within each sub-section of the work force, there are those who take less pride in their work than others.
The Toronto Star is painting a picture that casts doubts on the entire force, pigeonholing the 99% who are upstanding police officers into the same category as the few that allegedly committed brutal and violent attacks during the G20 Summit.
Were I, or any of my readers put in a situation with our backs to the wall and a handful of violent protesters wreaking havoc amongst the civil and peaceful lot, I wonder how you or I would have reacted.
I think, nay I know, that one skids broken nose and the misuse of power of a single police officer does not necessitate front-page news months after the fact.
The Toronto Star, you are my jerk of the week. Enjoy.
By no means does the above opinion have anything to do with the fact that the Star has repeatedly turned-down the authors query letters and freelance work because it's too fucking cheap to hire real writers, after letting-go of much of their senior staff because they are moving-away from salaries and towards contract work for recent grads with whom they can play puppet master.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Things Done Changed: Getting Old
It is well for the world that in most of us, by the age of thirty, the character has been set like plaster, and will never soften again.
William James said that. A native of Chocorua, New Hampshire, James was a pioneering psychologist and philosopher at the turn of the 20th, who disregarded his training as a medical doctor to charge hourly and mind-fuck his patients.
Why waste my valuable time - a measure of time relative to Zimbabwean-like inflation - to mention his origins? Well for one, he's from a town named Chocorua, a moniker adopted to pay homage to Count Chocula. Secondly, and most noteworthy of all is that the good doctor shun a more practical form of medicine, one which I would most certainly fancy the assistance of in my current debilitated state.
In the spirit of the holidays and the seemingly endless adaptation of traditional Christmas songs, the author would like to alter the above quote to speak volumes of his currently fragile state.
Substitute character for back.
It is well for the world that in most of us, by the age of thirty, the back has been set like plaster, and will never soften again.
This morning I awoke with a back so tight, it's rigidity left me paralysed much like Harrison Ford was in that boring sci-fi trilogy that nerds beat-off to, but sits well below my allowed standard of 'no attractive women, yet still redeemable' entertainment. No I don't think Princess Leia is hot, Natalie Portman however, is a completely different story.
What I would do to that woman with my light-saber...
Anyways, my back is killing me. Perhaps it's a combination of several variables such as age, granite-like mattress density or the impending winter chill, regardless, it took me at least 15 minutes to erect myself completely vertical. The last time it took that long was, well never, and yes I am still talking about my back.
For the better part of the day, I thought of the finite nature of time and life, and how in the last year I've aged physically more so than any year I can recall since high school. These notions had me down for a moment, but like a phoenix rising from the ashes of shit, I too rose from the fiery chasm which once crippled me in fear.
As a mechanism to drown such negativity, I reverted to my youth and read a little Mark Twain. Funny how a few words can really change your day for the better, which for all intensive purposes, is something I hope this site never does for you. It is called bad news isn't it?
Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
William James said that. A native of Chocorua, New Hampshire, James was a pioneering psychologist and philosopher at the turn of the 20th, who disregarded his training as a medical doctor to charge hourly and mind-fuck his patients.
Why waste my valuable time - a measure of time relative to Zimbabwean-like inflation - to mention his origins? Well for one, he's from a town named Chocorua, a moniker adopted to pay homage to Count Chocula. Secondly, and most noteworthy of all is that the good doctor shun a more practical form of medicine, one which I would most certainly fancy the assistance of in my current debilitated state.
In the spirit of the holidays and the seemingly endless adaptation of traditional Christmas songs, the author would like to alter the above quote to speak volumes of his currently fragile state.
Substitute character for back.
It is well for the world that in most of us, by the age of thirty, the back has been set like plaster, and will never soften again.
This morning I awoke with a back so tight, it's rigidity left me paralysed much like Harrison Ford was in that boring sci-fi trilogy that nerds beat-off to, but sits well below my allowed standard of 'no attractive women, yet still redeemable' entertainment. No I don't think Princess Leia is hot, Natalie Portman however, is a completely different story.
What I would do to that woman with my light-saber...
Anyways, my back is killing me. Perhaps it's a combination of several variables such as age, granite-like mattress density or the impending winter chill, regardless, it took me at least 15 minutes to erect myself completely vertical. The last time it took that long was, well never, and yes I am still talking about my back.
For the better part of the day, I thought of the finite nature of time and life, and how in the last year I've aged physically more so than any year I can recall since high school. These notions had me down for a moment, but like a phoenix rising from the ashes of shit, I too rose from the fiery chasm which once crippled me in fear.
As a mechanism to drown such negativity, I reverted to my youth and read a little Mark Twain. Funny how a few words can really change your day for the better, which for all intensive purposes, is something I hope this site never does for you. It is called bad news isn't it?
Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
Friday, December 3, 2010
FIFA: Crooked-Ass Bastards
"I'd say it's about this big give-or-take an inch" replied Blatter when questioned about the one of the many dildos included in Russia's lavish gift basket sent to the Swiss FIFA boss.South Africa, Brazil, Russia and Qatar.
Four countries that have more in common than you may think. They are all third-world nations with notable major issues. They are also the hosts of the last World Cup, and the three that will follow until 2022.
Legacies matter to pompous men who wear expensive suits and have far too much power. Where NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman's legacy was growing the game in the sun-belt, and his former boss NBA Commish David Stern's was financial stability and a worldwide profile, FIFA President Sepp Blatter's will be remembered as the man who spurned Europe for other more irrational choices.
Russia is the world's largest country, and beyond the lack of a solid infrastructure, the sheer size of the country provides some serious obstacles for travel between venues. They are also in need of some new stadiums and it would be nice if their government weren't corrupt and tied to the mob, as seemingly every Russian appears to be. President Vladimir Putin is the world's Alpha Dog and likely sent Blatter a gift basket of birds named Svetlana and Oksana that went to town on Ol' Sepp.
Qatar makes a little more sense than Russia, only because the Middle East has been a bit of an untapped resource for FIFA and has pockets that are economically viable. However, beyond these pockets exists a third-world country that is stuck in the 19th century, with a government-imposed ban on homosexuality and stringent laws against alcohol consumption. Besides this, the temperature during the day can reach 110 degrees and the country is roughly the size of Connecticut.
Are you fucking serious? England's bid for 2018 received only 2 votes to finish 4th out of 4 teams. The U.S.'s bid for 2022 was similarly received by Blatter, a man who has far too much power considering the pantheon of ignorant statements and decisions he's made in the past. England is the birthplace of the game and since the World Cup 1994 hosted by the Yanks, the game has grown even more so and many clubs around the world have experienced an increase in revenues based on American consumerism.
While pundits believe the on-field fracas between Birmingham and cross-town rivals Aston Villa supporters the other night may have doomed the English bid, it's clear that Blatter was against the idea from the get-go. During the selection ceremony Thursday he even pointed-out that China, not England, is the birthplace of soccer. Bollocks Seppi, kicking-about the decapitated head of a Hun doesn't qualify as the creation of the world's game.
FIFA is corrupt and it has never been as apparent as yesterday. My plans to attend a future World Cup with my yet to be born offspring have now been dashed by one man, who like other power-drunk bureaucrats worldwide, needs to step-down before he is forced to resign.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Things Done Changing: My Opinion of Lebron
Boy, am I glad tonight is over and done with. The result may not have been the one I had initially wanted, crafted in compliance with the angry, biased and journalistic integrity-breaching built-up penned by the likes of Adrian Wojnerowski - but alas I am pleased with the outcome.
I'm not a Lebron guy, nor can I argue that he is not a physical aberration and probably the prototype of all future cloned professional basketball players. Something about him bothers me and the whole "The Decision" spectacle left a gnarley taste in my mouth probably more than it should have.
From the moment I first witnessed the King James show live and up-close, I hated the talcum-powder toss, the seemingly disingenuous smiles and the way he walked on his toes (something that is not as apparent on TV - my dislike for which is based on growing-up amongst ethnically confused boys whose fancy for 'urban wear' with soquettes and Jordan's led to an over-reliance of the metatarsals.)
Tonight I forgot all about it.
The Heat took the Cavs out-back of the shed and whipped them like they just cursed at they mamas. Lebron looked engaged, interested and motivated. It's about fucking time buddy. For Christ's sake, he dropped 24 in the third. Shit.
This could be a turning point for the Heat, but they still suck, have awkward offensive schemes and sets and are perhaps the least-balanced team in the league.
The cause of Cavs supporters, whose misfortune became a nation's point of both pity and sympathy, was erased in but one night with the chorus of boos and cruel signs.
We have felt your pain and joined you in your hatred of the smug face seen on "The Decision", but he torched your asses, decided to leave a bleak and insipid Midwestern town for the T&A of Miami and that's that. You've had your moment on the soap-box, your cries were heard, and we've had enough.
It's a sport and a business, and as fans, let's face it, sometimes we care a whole hell of a lot more than the athletes themselves.
Can you blame the pencil-pusher for jumping at the opportunity to move from the cramped cubicle to the corner office? Nope.
In the spirit of the holidays, I'm going get off the man's back and leave him be. If a dissenting opinion of the man should come-up, I'll do what the people of Cleveland should do, and keep it to myself.
I'm not a Lebron guy, nor can I argue that he is not a physical aberration and probably the prototype of all future cloned professional basketball players. Something about him bothers me and the whole "The Decision" spectacle left a gnarley taste in my mouth probably more than it should have.
From the moment I first witnessed the King James show live and up-close, I hated the talcum-powder toss, the seemingly disingenuous smiles and the way he walked on his toes (something that is not as apparent on TV - my dislike for which is based on growing-up amongst ethnically confused boys whose fancy for 'urban wear' with soquettes and Jordan's led to an over-reliance of the metatarsals.)
Tonight I forgot all about it.
The Heat took the Cavs out-back of the shed and whipped them like they just cursed at they mamas. Lebron looked engaged, interested and motivated. It's about fucking time buddy. For Christ's sake, he dropped 24 in the third. Shit.
This could be a turning point for the Heat, but they still suck, have awkward offensive schemes and sets and are perhaps the least-balanced team in the league.
The cause of Cavs supporters, whose misfortune became a nation's point of both pity and sympathy, was erased in but one night with the chorus of boos and cruel signs.
We have felt your pain and joined you in your hatred of the smug face seen on "The Decision", but he torched your asses, decided to leave a bleak and insipid Midwestern town for the T&A of Miami and that's that. You've had your moment on the soap-box, your cries were heard, and we've had enough.
It's a sport and a business, and as fans, let's face it, sometimes we care a whole hell of a lot more than the athletes themselves.
Can you blame the pencil-pusher for jumping at the opportunity to move from the cramped cubicle to the corner office? Nope.
In the spirit of the holidays, I'm going get off the man's back and leave him be. If a dissenting opinion of the man should come-up, I'll do what the people of Cleveland should do, and keep it to myself.
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Game Recognize Game
I posted the dunk when it happened nearly a fortnight ago. Amare's recognition of B.G. makes it that much better.
"Game recognize game" - couldn't be better described, not mine and used without permission.
"Game recognize game" - couldn't be better described, not mine and used without permission.
Phoneshop
Again, my apologies for the lack of posts this week - not that anyone really gives a fuck - but I've been a bit busy. Also because England's Channel 4 has produced another winner: Phoneshop.
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