Colangelo Shows Balls, Drafts Jonas Valanciunas

Following the Raptors decision to draft 19-year old Jonas Valanciunas of Lithuania with the 5th pick in Thursday's nights NBA Draft, I was a skeptical as many a Raptor's fan.


Initially, the need for defense and a quick remedy to a succession of lacklustre seasons leaped to mind as a priority. In hindsight, my opinion of the pick has gone from mildly negative to unabashedly optimistic.

The fact of the matter is, North American-bred NBA players aren't exactly flocking to Toronto vis-a-vis trade or free agency; I'm not completely certain why, but they don't. In reality, the city's multiethnic community and emerging waterfront adjacent to the ACC would cater perfectly to many an NBA player if they only gave it a chance.

Problem is, the Raps cannot become a perennial playoff competitor by simply filling stop-gaps through free agency, they have to build a core of young players who actually want to play here.

Much of the criticism towards GM Bryan Colangelo is that Jonas is under contract to play with his club team in Lithuania for another season, and barring a miracle, will not suit up for the team until the 2011-12 season. Considering he's 19, 7 feet tall with a 7'4 wingspan and a 9'3 reach, I think we can wait a year.

Kudos to Colangelo for making a risky move, especially considering he just signed a 2-year contact extension with a club option for the third. Most GM's would have overreacted and drafted the best available athlete on the board ready to play next season.

Yes, Jose Calderon is a liability at the 1 and his back-up Jerryd Bayless is rubbish, but drafting UConn's Kemba Walker or Kentucky's Brandon Knight would not have provided a defined starting point guard, while Valanciunas might be the most talented player in the draft.

He will play defense in the blocks and be able to post-up any player in the league. He has the look of a star and seems elated to eventually join the Raptors.

Considering this year's draft was lacklustre at best, Colangelo may have drafted the best available player regardless of contractual obligations to his club in Europe. Say all you will about the Raps and their penchant for signing European players, but 6 of the first 7 picks of the draft were born outside of the United States. Perhaps Colangelo deserves more praise and a little less criticism. Only time will tell. Thanks for reading kids.

Lebron James: Paradoxically Yours

Cut me a slice of humble pie - and while your at it - how about one for yourself.

With no consideration paid to his season and an uncharacteristically sub-par playoff performance; I think an unfair amount of unreasonable hatred has been directed towards Lebron James.

Following 'The Decision', Akron's own became a lightning rod for criticism from sports writers and fans alike. Much of this criticism was deserved immediately after the televised declaration, as Lebron's method and its representation of all that is wrong with sports became a focal point. He represented the spoiled superstar capable of holding one franchise by hold, while the jobs of front office executives and season ticket subscriptions hung in the balance for a half dozen teams vying for Lebron.

Beyond the Kornheisers and Wilbons of the world spouting vitriolic diatribes towards the man on national television, both sports fans and atheist alike found commonality in a general consensus of dislike towards Lebron. Momentum gained all the while Lebron and teammates made promises of multiple championships with generous helping of speculative cocksure.

As a collective, much of the Lebron hate surrounds his decision to join a fellow top 5 player and NBA title winner Dwyane Wade and perennial all star Chris Bosh in Miami.

For me, this is the most unfair element; we put such a great value on winning, but criticize the man for making the decision that arguably gave him the best chances to do exactly that. Bill Russell sits comfortably within the pantheon of greats; why? Because he won 11 Nba Titles, including Two as a player/coach. Part of the reason for why Jordan has been anointed the greatest of all time is because he won 6 rings in 6 opportunities and topped-it-off by winning MVP in each of those series. Recently, with Nowitzki winning his first title, conversations on sports radio and television argue whether he is a greater player than those who never hoisted the Larry O'Brien trophy like Charles Barkley and Karl Malone.

Considering how much of winning depends on variables like teammates and opposition, perhaps too much value is put on winning as both a statistical measure and a barometer for a player's legacy. Regardless, if winning is everything, I think we should give the man a break for his decision to join Miami.

Everything else is open-game - and please; don't get me wrong, ny no means am I implying that I suddenly like the guy - I don't. Let's just give the man a little extra rope to work with.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Lose Like A Winner

By virtue of the fact that as a child, I was obsessed with the Chicago Bulls, I have long been an admirer of Lakers coach Phil Jackson and the calm demeanour with which he encounters issues from men who often behave like children.

Last night's game 4 blow-out at the hands of the Dallas Mavericks was difficult to watch as a Kobe guy, Phil fan and otherwise neutral observer.

Something has to be said about a franchise of perennial winners that loses with such immaturity and lack of class as the Lakers did last night. In what was Phil Jackson's final game as a coach, the Lakers disgusted fans and rivals alike with a display of antics that epitomize the concept of being a 'sore loser'.

First there was Lamar Odom's unnecessary foul against Dirk that rightly merited an ejection;



Then there was this absolutely unacceptable display from centre Andrew Bynum that was rightly called 'Bush League' by ESPN analyst Mike Tirico. Both J.J. Barea, and Bynum for that matter, are fortunate that he wasn't seriously injured on the play;



And to pout an exclamation point on the whole fiasco, Barea scored on the play. If there has ever been a moment to scream-out "AND 1" in a player's grill, that was it.

Kudos to the Mavs for their non-reaction and for the players who did not leave the bench causing an automatic 1 games suspension a la Amare Stoudemire following Robert Horry's tackling of Steve Nash a few years past.

In the end, I'm pleases the Mavs won and that this year's installment of the NBA playoffs features a few clubs that typically have not made it to this stage. I'm wholeheartedly behind Dirk in hopes he can win a ring before his time is done, as well as the likes of Jason Kidd, Shawn Marion, Jason Terry and my cousin Tyson Chandler.

It's just sad that a coach and star player like Phil and Kobe will forever have a blotch on their legacies as some of the game's greats because of the actions of two teammates.

Disgusting.

Here's hoping Kobe ripped into those two in the dressing room and that dog Odom married has him on the couch for a few nights.

Bye Phil - you were the best.

AU REVOIR LES ROIS DU SACRAMENTO - Sacramento Gets 1 More Shot

As it turns out, contrary to initial statements found on both this site and legitimate news outlets, the Sacramento Kings will not be moving to Anaheim next year.

They will play next season in Sacramento, with expectations being that the Maloof Ownership group will finalize the move to Anaheim sometime next year, depending on the state of the projected lockout as a result of the Collective Bargaining Agreement.

There are two primary reasons for the development;

Sacramento Mayor and former Phoenix Sun Kevin Johnson tirelessly canvassed local businesses and confirmed pledges of increased funding for the team. Now it is up to Johnson and local businesses to develop a means of funding the construction and maintenance of a new stadium.

"If we want to be a major league city, you have to have major league facilities" said Mayor Johnson following the news that the franchise would have another year in California's capital city.

Also, with the Lakers and Clippers already claiming Los Angeles as home, the proposed move to suburban Anaheim was met with opposition not only by their ownership groups, but by other owners who were opposed to the Maloofs sudden change of heart.

"We spent 13 years and millions of dollars to try to get an arena built," Maloof said. "We don't have the answer. The mayor has the answers and we're willing and able to listen. He's got to have a plan. We never want to be untruthful to the fans of Sacramento. There is a sense of urgency, and that's up to Mayor Johnson and his political team."

Regardless, the move will likely take place next year and be sure to check bad news blog for a scathing review of the franchise.

Before I go, I want to briefly mention an idea and allow you guys to think about it. Should taxpayers really be responsible for the partial funding of an arena used for professional sports? Are these teams not owned by anglo fat cats in Italian suits who solely profit from the team? What is the difference between an NBA franchise and any other form of private business? If we don't pay for a new IBM factory or GM plant, regardless of the jobs it creates and the beneficial impact on the economy, why should be fund an arena.

This is the problem that faced the people of Seattle. A municipal referendum concluded that the city would not increase taxes to fund a replacement for the dated Key Arena. Instead, Starbucks owner and Seattle SuperSonics frontman Howard Schultz decided a move to Oklahoma and the nation's 48th largest television market would be a more promising fiscal venture, and with that, OKC got the Thunder and Seattle lost a franchise they wholeheartedly supported for years through winning seasons and hardship.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: The Two Moments That Transformed The 2011 Playoffs

Greetings ans salutations friends - please accept my sincerest of apologies for enduring nearly a week without a post. Playoff sports and Easter chocolates have consumed me, eliminating all but a shred of productivity from my daily life.

Nonetheless, I have returned to quell the insatiable group that are my readers with a little analysis from the 2011 NBA Playoffs.

When monumental instances occur, there are short-term and long-term causes for such.

For example, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg on June 28th, 1914, in Sarajevo was a short-term cause for the first World War that began one month later. Ferdinand's death and the subsequent changes were integral because as the heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian throne, the Austrian monarch governed a large territory that included a Serbia rife with an anti Austro-Hungarian movement that led to the division of the empire which was in place since 1878's Treaty of Berlin.

On the contrary, long-term causes are only realized in retrospect. The Industrial Revolution and the influx of new metals and advanced production means can be seen as a long-term cause for the current state of widespread global warming and the deterioration of the environment. As the adage goes, hindsight is 20/20, and at the time, it would have been nearly impossible to foretell the influence of the Industrial Revolution. During this generation of accelerated change, it was a means for Europe's Westernized powers to swing the mighty sword of industry at its foes, changing the make-up and balance of power in Europe. Years later, we see that the shift in focus towards the raping of resources and mass production is certainly a long-term cause for the current state of the Earth's environment.

You may be asking yourself - where is he going with this?

Simply put, the other night Kobe Bryant of the L.A. Lakers threw-down two menacing dunks in game 5 of the L.A/New Orleans Hornets series that changed the 2011 playoffs. Based on reputation and a nearly stellar, yet inconsistent regular season, the Lakers were amongst a handful of teams pegged by experts and fans alike as favorites to win the 2011 NBA title.



There were questions about the age of the team, motivations and the health of several key players. After splitting the first four games of the series, many questions were asked of the Lakers and their title hopes. Centre Andrew Bynum looked like a meniscus tear waiting to happen and Pau Gasol had the enthusiastic expression of an inmate working a chain-gang. Kobe seemed flat footed and was quick to complain about an injured ankle as a reason for why he was unmistakebly beat off the dribble by Hornets point guard Chris Paul on many a possession.

Despite the excuses and the ever-aging squad, those two dunks were a short-term cause for the Lakers inevitable trophy hoisting a month and a half down the road.

The dunks lit an essential fire under both the asses of Mr. Bryant, and his teammates.

When the Lakers win the title, feel free to congratulate me for my soothsaying abilities.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Kendrick Perkins Is Cool-As-Fuck

Let me preface this delightful little piece by saying I TOLD YOU SO... Recall when I mentioned that the Perkins trade from Boston would totally crush the morale of the team? Well, I was right - the Celtics can barely beat Carmelo Anthony and 4 retards at home these days.

Anyways, this is an article by Alan Siegel, republished with permission from Deadspin.com. Here's hoping some of you feel the same warm and fuzzy sensations I did upon completion.

Fuckin' love me some Perk.



How These Two White Guys Wound Up In This Kendrick Perkins Family Photo



Alan Siegel — Like most white guys from suburban Boston, half-brothers Brian Johnson and Justin Tsouros had never hung out with an NBA player. So when they arrived at the condo in Waltham, Mass., one evening in the fall of 2007, they didn't quite know what to expect. The place was dark. The blinds were drawn. But they knocked, because, well, they were expected. A few silent moments passed before they heard rustling, looked up, and noticed a large eyeball staring at them through a window. Then the front door creaked open, revealing an empty foyer. Again, silence. Probably sensing the sheer incredulity of his guests, Kendrick Perkins, who'd been hiding in another room, came out smiling.

"I'm just fucking with you guys," Perk said in that deep Southeast Texas drawl. "Come in."

For the next four hours, they watched television, ate Funyuns, and talked about the Kevin Garnett trade and the upcoming season. Perk was still skeptical about the deal that sent his friend Al Jefferson to Minnesota for KG. Brian remembers Perk saying that the Celtics better win a title that year or else "they're gonna blame me." At the end of the night, Perk brought Brian and Justin into the kitchen and offered them some homemade spaghetti and meat sauce. For some reason, Perk didn't want them to eat in front of him. Instead, he shoveled single portions of pasta into plastic containers and instructed his new buddies to call him later, when they were finished with dinner. He wanted to know what they thought of his culinary skills. "But don't tell anyone," he said. "I don't want people to know that I do the cooking around here."

There were other gifts. Earlier, Justin — then a junior in high school — had eyed a life-sized cutout of Perk in his Boston Celtics uniform. Naturally, Perk told Justin to take it. Justin did, but not before his host had him prop up the cardboard doppelganger next to the real thing.

You ever wonder what it's like to befriend a good-but-not-great NBA player, to drift along in the wake of his semi-celebrity, to be, in a way, his very own Mars Blackmon? For Brian and Justin, at least, it was pleasantly, irresistibly, even delightfully banal. It was Funyuns and dinner in Tupperware and sleepovers, and it was playing Xbox as Ricky Davis with the real Ricky Davis just a few feet away. It was weird, in part because it was all so normal.

It was this:

"Damn," Perk said, eyeing the cutout. "I'm big. I must be scaring people sometimes."

The spaghetti, by the way, was delicious.

* * *

In the whole history of the NBA, I'd wager, few friendships have been as unlikely as the one that sprang up between Brian, Justin, and Perk. If you wanted to be fancy about it, I suppose you could say that it had something to do with the dawn of sports blogging and the simultaneous arrival in the NBA of Millennials like Perk, athletes who routinely broke the fourth wall that had traditionally separated them from fans. Mostly, though, I think Perk and Justin and Brian were three guys who were in on the same joke.

The first meeting actually happened a few years earlier, at an open practice for Celtics season ticket holders in September or October 2004. (Justin's father, a Boston attorney with close ties to the team, had purchased a package after the 2001-02 season.) Justin may have barely hit puberty by that point, but he was an uncommonly persistent fan boy. At a post-practice autograph session organized by the team, Justin complimented Perk's hook shot. The secret to it, Perk said, was that it was "au naturel."

"I'm just chillin'," Perk said when Justin, then a middle-schooler, asked how he was doing. "Just a squirrel trying to get his nut."

Justin was smitten — even if he had no idea what the expression meant — and so was Brian, who's 15 years Justin's senior. "When I heard he had a 9-6 standing reach, I said, ‘I love this guy,' before I even saw him," Brian says. Perk quickly became one of their favorite players, even though he barely saw the court his first two years as a pro. Justin changed his handle in the Celtic Nation forum to Perkisabeast after hearing an interview in which Perk expressed his desire "to be a beast" for Boston. By the end of the 2004-05 season, Justin and Brian were Perk's unofficial hype men.

At the time, Brian was working at a newspaper about 30 miles north of Boston. That's where I got to know him. I was a sportswriter. He was an NBA obsessive, but covered business. His time at the daily didn't end well. Management moved him, in addition to several other talented reporters who were part of a futile union organizing effort in late 2005, to the paper's satellite office in New Hampshire. When he quit in the spring of 2006, he figured his journalism career was over. He needed an outlet. That summer, while vacationing with family in Rhode Island, he found one. On a wave-less day at the beach, he and Justin conceived Perkisabeast.com. They began to build the site that afternoon.

Neither Brian nor Justin really had any idea what the new project would become. At first, it was a simple tribute. But they loved Perk. And Brian, for one, thought it would be funny to mythologize an unknown late-first-round pick, crafting for him a persona that was more Bill Brasky than Bill Russell. As it turns out, the real Beast was a hell of a lot more interesting than the made-up one. "We started this thing as jock sniffers," Brian tells me. "But the Perk we ended up knowing was much cooler than the one we created."

* * *

They wanted an interview with Perk, and, somehow, Justin managed to convince the Celtics' media relations staff that such a request from such a website wasn't totally ridiculous. In 2006, Brian and Justin were allowed to attend Celtics media day. Justin interviewed Perk with Brian's Palm Pilot, but the teenager was too damn short to get the thing even close to the 6-foot-10-inch man's face. Perk noticed and said, "You want me to do that?" And so the interview proceeded with the big guy holding the Palm Pilot as if it were a microphone.

Full sizeThe questions weren't typical, at least not for a soul-crushing pseudo-event like an NBA media day. Not that Perk seemed to mind.

Justin: What does Perk put on the stereo to impress the ladies?
Perk: Is my girl gonna hear this?

Justin: What do you put on to impress her?
Perk: Like you gotta kind of go the other way with them and put on like that old Beyonce, not this one that just came out, but the last one, that was jammin'. I like Beyonce so I'll put that on and you know all that stuff that she be singin' "I'll cater to you." Yeah that's my type of stuff.

Perk liked the idea of a digital shrine to his beastliness. It wasn't official, of course. "I don't know if he knew half the crap we did in there," Brian says, "but he didn't care." (It should be noted that Perk is a Beast had a habit of flaming other NBA blogs. Bethlehem Shoals of dearly departed FreeDarko once wrote that he "personally can't stand them." Brian says now that PIAB's thin skin was just part of its ethos.) Perk would later introduce Brian and Justin to his friends as the guys "from my website." Perk even gave Justin his cell phone number (it seemed to change every time Justin saw Perk). That season, Perk had Doc Rivers's assistant leave family passes for Justin, giving him access behind the curtain. After games, Justin would ask Perk a bunch of questions, then hand over the recorder to Brian, who transcribed the interviews and put them up on Perk is a Beast. Perk even suggested to Justin that they should hang out. At the end of Boston's putrid 2006-07 campaign, Perk gave Justin one of his size-19 Adidas high-tops.

* * *

That summer Justin phoned Perk — obsessively. At one point, Brian asked Justin how many times he'd called. "Ten," Justin responded. "This week." Garnett's arrival had them a little worried about future access to the team, and to Perk. Would it evaporate? Their fears subsided a bit when they got word that they were allowed at media day, again. They came prepared this time, churning out more on-camera interviews. Brian even made sure to bring along a limited edition Perk is a Beast onesie for Perk's newborn son, Kendrick Perkins II. (Perk later returned the favor by giving Brian, whose own son was born around the same time as Little Ken, an entire box of outgrown baby clothes.) Perk told Brian and Justin to come over later. That night they ate Funyuns and talked basketball for four hours.

Perk began to treat Justin as a sort of little brother. Every so often, he'd take Justin out to dinner after games. They'd go to Strega in Boston's North End. The first time, Justin was afraid to order too much — or too little. "Just get what I get," Perk told him. That turned out to be a two-pound lobster, fettuccine alfredo, and a whole chicken. Justin ate leftovers for days.

He looked up to Perk. They got their hair cut together. ("Give him the Pat Riley," Perk told the barber when his protégé sat down in the chair. The first thing Justin's mother said when she saw him afterward was, "Oh my god.") They talked about women. Once Perk invited Justin to sleep over. Justin had been away at college, and Perk just wanted to catch up. Still, Justin was shocked.

"Why not?" Perk said. "You're family."

* * *

All of a sudden, it seemed, Perk was more than a bit player. In 2007-08, his fifth season as a pro, he became Boston's enforcer. Still, Brian, a keen observer of all things Perk, knew that the big man didn't feel like his job was safe. This was, after all, someone who never had it easy.

When Perk was 5, his mother, Ercell Minix, was murdered at the beauty salon where she worked. He was a grown man before he met his father, Kenneth Perkins, who spent his son's childhood playing pro basketball overseas. Perk's grandparents raised him in Beaumont, Texas. Although he was a McDonald's All-American at Clifton J. Ozen High, he lasted until late in the first round of the 2003 NBA Draft. After the Memphis Grizzlies snagged him with the 27th overall pick, they traded him to the Celtics. Brian sensed that Perk hated the draft. It was just a reminder that he was replaceable.

Full sizeBut then his career finally took off, and Brian and Justin were sitting shotgun. Perk is a Beast saw a jump in traffic as the championship season progressed. By then, Brian had sold an ad to Gold Rarities — High Quality PCGS & NGC Certified Coins at Competitive Prices! — the only sponsor the site has ever had.

After the Celtics clinched the title with a blowout win over the Lakers (a game in which Perk had held Pau Gasol to 11 points) the two brothers waited for a chance to see their guy. "You kept wondering when you would get big-timed," Brian says. It never happened. An hour and half after the buzzer sounded, Perk brought Brian and Justin backstage to join in on the celebration.

"That was the most incredible moment," Brian says. "There were no owners [around], just the players, the coaches and the trophy. Everybody was taking pictures with their families and the trophy. As a sports fan, you live to be a part of that."

All Brian wanted to do was say congratulations. Perk wasn't having it. "Y'all come back and get a picture taken." Brian and Justin posed in a big group shot and got to touch the Larry O'Brien trophy. "It was," Brian says, "the complete sports fantasy."

* * *

Perk married his girlfriend, Vanity Alpough, on July 25, 2009, near Houston. Brian and Justin, who was bound for Providence College that fall, were guests. They flew out a few days before the ceremony and showed up at Perk's house in The Woodlands, a posh planned community. Their luggage had been lost, and Brian wore an oversized white T-shirt he'd bought at a drug store. Justin was in a Star Wars shirt he'd worn on the plane.

They figured they'd be able to hang out, relax, and then crash at the hotel. They were wrong. As soon as Brian and Justin arrived, they were told to get ready for the bachelor party. "These white dudes are my boys from Boston," Perk explained to his assembled friends, among them Rajon Rondo. "They run Perk is a Beast," Perk said. "They're from out of town. They don't know how we do it." Justin and Brian soon found out how it was done. "We're [at a club] in downtown Houston, with a cavalcade of the hardest-looking dudes you've ever seen," Brian said. "Right behind Perk is Justin, in a Stormtrooper T-shirt and shorts."

Still, Perk and his friends made them feel comfortable. "I didn't spend a dollar," Brian said. By the time they got back to Perk's house the next morning, he'd been up 28 hours straight. He'd gotten his wallet stolen. He'd driven his rented Kia into a drainage ditch. It was as bizarre as it was exhilarating. Brian would later admit that he felt like an alien that weekend. His wife and young son were at home, and here he was at the wedding of an NBA player almost 10 years his junior. After the reception, Brian and Justin pulled up to Perk's driveway to find Stephen Jackson in his red Rolls Royce Phantom, blasting a song by late Houston rapper DJ Screw. Perk was in the middle of it all, singing every word.

The next day, when things had slowed considerably, Brian and Justin drove back to Perk's to hang out. While Perk, Rondo and Jackson sat playing cards, Brian took on his brother in a game of NBA 2K on Xbox. Justin picked the Clippers, who had one of his favorite players, fellow wedding guest Ricky Davis. Davis happened to be in the room. Video Game Ricky proceeded to drop 50 points on Brian. Every time Video Game Ricky scored, Actual Ricky did a little dance.

* * *

In February, Perk was deemed replaceable. The Celtics dealt him to the Thunder, a trade that may cost Boston a shot at another title. Brian was numb. "Thanks for the Perk love," Brian wrote from the Perk is a Beast Twitter account. "We're crushed. It's like the kid in almost famous when the band denies the story."

Maybe the relationship wasn't so strange, in the end. I put the question to ex-Celtics assistant coach Clifford Ray, Perk's mentor, a few months ago. Why did Perk trust those guys so completely? "They weren't after anything," Ray said.

That's not to say that Justin and Brian didn't get anything out of the friendship. "In a weird way," Brian says now, "Perk was my muse." Through Perk is a Beast, he'd appeared on Comcast's Celtics Now as a panelist. He'd gotten back into journalism, co-founding Mass Device, a Boston-based online publication. He also began hosting a weekly podcast with Ray.

On the dance floor at Perk's wedding, Brian thanked his muse. By that point the reception was wrapping up. Perk had shed his giant white tuxedo coat and was wearing a wife beater.

"You saved me," Brian remembers blurting out.

Perk looked confused.

"Huh?"

"You saved my career."

"Huh?"

And then, the Beast laughed.

AU REVOIR LES ROIS DU SACRAMENTO

While it's hardly a sacrament to move an NBA franchise (see what I did there?), I must say, today I'm feeling sorry for the people of Sacramento.

Sure, I felt bad when the city of Seattle voted against using tax dollars to replace the Key Arena, thus having the Supersonics moved to Oklahoma City, the country's 48th largest television market. However, they also have the Seahawks and Mariners to support. The Mariners have Ichiro Suzuki, arguably the best hitter of our generation and the Seahawks play in the NFL's worst division, giving prosperity to the fans with the beckoning call of each NFL season.

Sacramento has nothing.

The Colts left Baltimore in the middle of the night to the anguish of its fervent supporters. Years later, they returned as the Ravens, and despite the loss, the city had a period of adequacy at the hands of the Orioles that helped fill the void. Baltimore recovered; sure the Orioles blow, but the Ravens won a Super Bowl and have proved to be an iconic representation of a gritty, blue-collar town. Plus, Baltimore has The Wire - the best television show ever created takes place on the streets of B-More. Shout outs to McNulty and Bunk. You too Omar and Snoop. Anyways, where were we?

Sacramento has nothing.

The Kings ownership group, led by the two aloof Maloof Brothers who also own the Palms casino in Vegas, want to move the team to Orange County/ Anaheim for the 2011-12 season in hopes of generating more revenue from the multinational companies in the area. Apparently Sacramento cannot support its own club, or so the Maloofs say.

The city of Sacramento stood behind their Kings, who were transplant themselves, last moving from Kansas City to the capital of California, helping launch the careers of Chris Webber, Hedo Turkoglu, Mike Bibby, Gerald Wallace, Peja Stojakovic and many others.

During the 1990's, ARCO Arena in Sacramento was the most challenging place for opposing teams to play. Especially the Lakers, who despite the best efforts of C-Web and the gang, were always a sobering reminder of sorts to the Kings and conspiracy theorists who believed the playoffs were rigged to benefit the larger market teams and television ratings for the Finals.

Don't believe me? Think I'm blowing smoke up ye asses?

Think again.

Recall a few years back, when ex-NBA referee Tim Donaghy (no relation to Jack) was imprisoned for fixing games and betting on their results? That Irish bastard was a crook and a thief, his actions forever tarnishing the legacy of the NBA.

Do I have any evidence to support this?

You better believe it. Let's go back in time to the 2002 Western Conference Semifinals. Unfortunately, the video below does not have an embedding option, so you'll have to click on the link. Please watch it in its entirety, it is really well done.

2002 WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS - KINGS GET SCREWED

Was my claim of trickery that blasphemous? How the fuck was that a foul on Mike Bibby? Shaq could have sexually assaulted Vlade Divac's first born court side without penalty.

Let's face it. Chris Webber ran the fucking series and Vlade got hacked more in the lane than those poor boys in Jeffrey Dahmer's basement. And all the while, Tim Donaghy and Dick (Knick) Bavetta stood-by, blowing their whistles like they had a quota to meet.

Seriously? That buzzer shot at the 4:37 mark was well after the clock. Talk about a miscarriage of justice.

* Why "Knick" Bavetta?... find the link on the right to the game when Bavetta pretty much sealed a win for the New York Knicks and an undeserving loss for the Raptors.

Understand one thing - for the announcers to find fault in the officiating and point it out on national television, there must be something wrong (8:25 mark). Dismiss whatever buffoonery escapes the mouth of Bill Walton, he's an ex-Laker and a moron to boot.

And with that, the Lakers were off to dismantle the Nets and win another championship. The Kings were never the same, and today, nearly 9 years later, they are likely without an NBA franchise.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Interpretations of Rules

Greetings loyal fans;

Today, I would like to focus on something that I've mentioned here once before - the inconsistent interpretation of rules by officials in the NBA.

Yes, today will be another post about sports, a post with a lighthearted approach - my apologies to all those who are enamoured with reading about the prevalence of concussions or grammatical and syntax errors.

One of the problems with the NBA is the consistency with which some calls are made, and others are not. The charge/block call has become such a marginal decision that it's as subjective as asking somebody what their favourite film is.

Since the elimination of hand checks in the late 90's/early 00's, the emphasis has been put on offense, and more often than not, the benefit of the doubt goes towards the player with the ball. I imagine Commissioner David Stern's logic is that fans will stop showing-up in droves to watch a team of defensive stoppers like the Grizzlies' Shane Battier and Tony Allen, but would arrive court side an hour early at half-mast for a team of shooters like the Golden State Warriors, who couldn't spell the word if you gave them a DE followed by a FENCE.

Which reminds me, David Stern is a brilliant man and a genius in sales. He could sell a fence to his next door neighbour if need be.

Anywho - where was I?

A hierarchy in the NBA exists where a veteran like Dwyane Wade can penetrate and always expect a foul to be called in his favour, while a rookie or fringe player will have that same call whistled against him. Michael Jordan thrived on this double standard.

One rule that I wish was more consistently enforced is the 10-second violation for foul shooters. According to NBA rules, once the player is handed the ball by the referee whilst standing at the charity stripe, he has 10 seconds to shoot his free throw.

Orlando's talismanic centre Dwight Howard has been called on it a few times, but nonetheless, not consistently enough to dissuade him from continuing the practice of setting-up shop at the line and spending 15 seconds to mentally prepare himself for a brick.

During the Christmas Day matinee tilt between Howard's underachieving Magic and the Boston Celtics, it seems Paul Pierce was aware of this rules infraction, and like myself, wanted to take a proactive stance concerning it - watch Pierce at the :43 second mark:



I'm as surprised that Howard didn't chuck the ball in Pierce's direction as I am that Glen "Big Baby" Davis didn't crack his trademark sheepish grin while standing on the line and witnessing P-Squares' actions.

Further, it seems the rest of the league has caught on, and even Bobcats rookie Gerlad Henderson had the cohones to point out Howard's obvious rules infraction to an official on Wednesday night:



Damn I love the NBA and the subtle displays by some of its players.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Everybody Fails

Late last night, whilst flipping channels in the 400's, toggling between French football, a kayak fishing program and the Nuggets at Jazz, understandably, I was feeling a little down.

It's just after 1am and I'm in the company of a border collie who needs a bath and a few empty bottles of Burning River Pale Ale from Cleveland that need a recycling box. The Nuggets are up 5 following Aaron Afflalo's 3-pointer and I have just lost my job, a pointless form of employment meant only as a means of paying the bills and supporting my fandom of Japanese Anime porn and Teen-Vampire fiction.

I could care less about the job itself, because it does as much for my career as sticking my dick in a paper shredder, but I have never been fired before so it's easy to see why on a Thursday night at 1am, watching sports all alone in a dimly-lit basement, I've had better moments.

Then Jazz forward Andrei Kirilenko did this;



...and in one brief moment, I am reminded that everybody is human and everybody makes mistakes.

Sure, AK-47 makes millions of dollars annually and has a Russian bride who publicly allows him to bed 1 woman each year they are married because she understands the trappings of life on the road. He's tall and white and lives in Utah. Life sounds perfect, yet, in but a moment, Andrei botched a possible game-tying shot that couldn't have been easier if given a ladder.

But it's just a game, and a job is just a job.

His life could be worse.

And so could mine.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Trade Deadline (Peace Kendrick)

With the close of Wednesday's NBA trading deadline came a list of moves typically made by teams looking to stock-up for the playoff run and by those hoping to shed some dead-weight and provide financial stability for future seasons.

The league is a business, and sometimes it's easy to forget this.

Regardless of how much you love a player, he's simply a part of a whole, and a team, as a sum of its parts, is but a viable business plan in place to turn a profit. On the court winning is all that matters, and in the boardroom, winning is essential for meeting the bottom line.

Sure, there are more important issues today - but I don't really give a fuck - I wish the Celtics didn't have to trade Kendrick Perkins. I've followed his career path from an at-risk straight-out-of high school prospect to a fundamental piece of the Celtics success. Watching him play for the Celtics and witnessing the comaradorie shared by with his teammates offered but a glimpse of the family they had become.

When asked about the trade last night following Boston's loss to Denver, coach Doc Rivers had this to say; "I told them before the game, someone told me, 'Well, it's not personal.' I said, 'No, it's very personal.' Perk is a family member. He's more than just a player for us, and when you lose a family member like that, it hurts. It's emotional, and that's how the guys are. They understand the trade and all that stuff, but that still doesn't mean it's not emotional for you."

His loss leaves some questions about depth at the center position, with hopes that Shaq's aging knees and new acquisition Nenad Krstic can carry the load left by Perk. They've remedied an apparent weakness at perimeter defense by getting 24-year old stud Jeff Green back from Oklahoma City in the Perkins trade that also sent Nate Robinson packing, but I'm left nonetheless with a sour taste in my mouth.

These guys really were a family, and as a fan, I feels like a periphery member, a satellite cousin brought together by the luxury of digital cable.

ESPN's Bill Simmons covered the trade deadline in his column this morning at ESPN.com. He's an unabashed fan of all things Boston, and like many of the Celtics players, he loves Kendrick Perkins like family. Say what you will about Simmons and his penchant for writing as if it was recorded verbatim and transcribed, but in this case, the man perfectly conveys the feelings I have today. The last few paragraphs of his column hit the nail on the head;

You might remember LeBron and Carmelo getting excoriated for stabbing their respective teams in the back. You want to know why they didn't care? Because, deep down, they know that teams don't care about players, either. They probably witnessed 20 variations of the Perkins trade during their first few years in the league. Hey, it's a business. Hey, that's just sports. Hey, trades come with the territory. Isn't loyalty a two-way street? When a team does what's best for itself, we call it smart. When a player does the same, we call him selfish. We never think about what a double standard it is.

I thought Perk deserved better than getting blindsided in Denver, then having to limp around with a sprained knee and pack his stuff with tears rolling down his face. Maybe I'm a sap. But that was our guy. Family. On the phone, my dad decided -- completely seriously -- that he would rather have lost the 2011 title with Perkins than have tried to win it without him. Why?

"Because he was truly part of our team," Dad said. "I don't want to root for laundry. I watched that guy for eight years. That should mean something. Continuity should mean something."

Within a few weeks, both of us will have talked ourselves into the Jeff Green era. That's what fans do. We take the hits, shake them off, keep coming back. The Celtics will morph into something slightly different: a little more athletic, a little more flexible, a little younger and, hopefully, almost as tough. Perkins will fly to Oklahoma City, live out of a hotel room, make new friends and try to help Durant and Russell Westbrook make the Finals. Maybe the Celtics will see him there. It won't feel weird at all, because that's the way professional sports work. We are rooting for laundry. Whether we want to admit it or not.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: More Terrible Officiating

During last night's game between the Spurs and T'Wolves in Minnesota, two technical fouls were called on one play, one against Minnesota center Darko Milicic and the other against teammate Corey Brewer.

While Spurs guard Manu Ginobili took the 4 ensuing free throws, Minnesota coach Kurt Rambis was T-Up twice and ejected, narrowly missing Wolves forward Kevin Love getting a technical on the following play as a reaction to a horrible non-call.

That's five tecs in 10 seconds and 2 on one play - something I have never seen.



Just as I mentioned on a previous post about NBA ref Dick Bavetta fist-fucking the Raptors in a game at MSG against the Knicks, the officiating in the league is terribly inconsistent and the NBA's darling franchises continue to get the calls, even on the road as it was in this instance, and their marquee players continue getting the benefit of the doubt on all borderline calls.

To compound this issue, the NBA made a much publicized move in the off season to give the officials more power to penalize players for showing dissent.

That was a completely and most utterly nonsensical decision by Commish David Stern and his legion of Ivy League pencil-pushers. The NBA experienced a boom in the 90's, and that growth was because of the entertaining aspect of watching charismatic and passionate athletes up-close and personal without being hidden by helmets or baggy uniforms like the other 3 major professional North American leagues.

People pay hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars to sit court side and they want to see Rasheed Wallace grimace at a ref and drop a muffled F-Bomb and they want to see players passionately react if they feel wronged by a refs decision as would any of us in a similar position.

Officials should be invisible. It is not their role to alter the game, but to police it and allow it to run it's course whilst staying within the guidelines of the rules. When officials, whether in the NBA, or in baseball when some blowhard first base ump gets in a player's face, by their actions, negatively alter the tone and expression of the game, they are fundamentally failing to adequately perform their duties (holy fucking commas.)

The NBA needs to fix this fiasco right the F now.

Here's just a few more instances to further cement my point. The tone of the play-by-play guys is indicative of just how stupid this is, and it's not all hometown coverage (just listen to the Celtics announcer Tommy Heinsohn from the next clip. And for that matter, Jeff Van Gundy and Mark Jackson in the 2nd one.);









Sorry, just had to throw that last one in. Discuss.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Picture Of The Year

First off, yes I am aware that the title "Where Amazing Happens Sometimes" requires a comma after the Happens. In order to modify this I would need two things I don't have a surplus of to go-back an alter the tags on all of my NBA bits; patience and time. So for the time being, it is what it is.

See all those bald, portly Jewish-looking dudes sitting on their asses underneath the baskets at NBA games? No, not Jon Lovitz sitting courtside, the other ones. The same guys that get flattened by Shaq and kicked by Dennis Rodman are there to take photos of the action taking place before them. Often the shots are mundane and indicative of the repetitive nature of the game and what transpires in the paint; white dudes getting dunked on, players leaping en mass for a rebound and homo-erotic scrums for a loose ball.

Sometimes said photographers capture brilliance. In but a week's span, two shots were captured that require noting.

The first I stumbled upon while reading Bethlehem Shoals in-depth coverage of the Miami Heat in "Heat Strokes" which my friends at Deadspin.com publish following Heat games. Shoals also writes for FreeDarko.com, which is one of my favorite sites on the interweb. They also recently published an amazing book on the subject of basketball which is a must-have for fans of the hardwood.

No, not that hardwood, if you fancy that well I can't help you, well actually I probably could, but I have my eyes on something else. Shotta!

That right there is a statement picture. Captured accidentally, it displays the "Big Three" in various stages (Yup, that's Chris Bosh marinating under his own basket - way to run the break buddy.) At the time, I thought this might be the photo of the year.

Until last night, following the Celtics win over the Knicks at MSG, whilst trolling online I found this gem. Despite the fact it's not during game action as is the above photo, find me another shot that features four teammates each in a different stage of celebration. Not sure what Nate Robinson is up to, but you have to love Garnett's Vaudeville-like pose no?

Funny how similar Paul Pierce's pose is to Mr. Wade's in the previous photo. Trust me, Pierce is very aware of this fact and enjoys being 20-4 while the rest of the league talks about the Heat.


How aware is my boy P Squared aka The Truth about the goings on around the league, following a second consecutive defeat of the Heat, he tweeted this:

"It's been a pleasure to bring my talents to south beach now on to Memphis"

Obviously trivializing LeBron's choice of words in "The Decision" to which, in reply, Heat power forward called Udonis Haslem said this:

"Paul who? Man, ain't nobody paying them dudes no attention, man. You know what studio gangster is? Look up that, look up the definition of studio gangster. I'm here to play basketball. First of all, I don't tweet. So I wouldn't know what he tweeted if you guys didn't tell me."

Damn, that makes me chuckle every time. Haslem calling Pierce a studio gangster - ouch.

Just another reason this season, like I've said numerous times before, is the best since Michael left the Bulls for the final time. The Bulls I said, fuck that 27.6 points a game with the Wizards with Tyronne Lue at the point, I don't count that rubbish.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Dick Bavetta Rapes Raps

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.

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.

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.

Sports Induced Orgasms

The enjoyment and viewing of sports is much like cooking for yourself - watching them require both time and effort, however more often than not it turns out terrible. In the same manner that watching a sporting event for a second time has little to no value, my leftovers also have a shelf life of little less than a minute and a value of a little less than a homeless man's feces.

Trust me on this one folks, I watch a lot of sports, and as a result of this, I have witnessed many an event that left me questioning more than my interests and motivations. It's not unrealistic to assume that 9 out of every 10 Leaf games ends in disappointment, and much like my cooking, will only leave a putrid taste in one's mouth.

I don't really have the time to discuss the Raps, but besides Bargnani, not a single player would start on any other NBA team. Really? True dat - Even the Clippers. I'll take fat Baron Davis and rookie Eric Bledsoe over Jack or Calderon any night. Reggie Evans - thanks a million for all the rebounds, but having the ball traverse the cylinder and fall-through the mesh is actually the most important element of the game. It's called scoring and can be practiced both on the court and off the field (vaginal insertion of appendages, preferably the penis.) Actually, considering the aesthetic value of your face and that gnarley jihadesque beard Mr. Evans, let's focus on scoring in a game, and I'll try to pick-up your slack with the gaggles of groupies.

If only every game could provide that euphoric form of ecstasy that leaves many a men at the point of near climax, where that exact moment would be substituted in place of sex for a very similar result. Last week's Texans - Jaguars game provided a little of this, as Jags QB David Garrard's last second Hail Mary pass was batted-down and out of the end zone by a Texans safety, only to land in the arms of a Jags receiver. Touchdown. Game over. Coincidentally, the most euphoric and ecstatic play-by-play man on the planet no involved in Latin American football was covering the game. Thank God for Gus Johnson - we need more of you.

Here's a quick crash course on Gus Johnson - most are short, the Brandon Stokley one and Xavier - Kansas State finale is worth watching multiple times. Enjoy.

Xavier - Kansas State... Ignore the Ad... CRAWFORD FOR THE THREEEEEEEEEEEE


STTTTTTTOCKLEEEEEEY


Batista With The Catchhhhhh


Gus Loses It Following a Put-Back


An Al Harrington 3-Ball


Blowing His Wad on a Jamal Crawford 3

A Very Celtic Halloween

These photos have been posted elsewhere, but I thought why not put them up on badnews since many of my devoted readers are fans of the ol' game of peach basket. I've mentioned before how this season I am switching my allegiances to support the green and white, which is lame, however I know that at least one of my loyal readers is Celtic crazy. Enjoy.


P Squared aka The Truth channeling his inner-frog, Ray Allen doing the Off The Wall era MJ, an unknown chubby brother as a ghetto-ass Batman and KG dressed-up as some dude from Yo Gabba Gabba, or so I'm told.

Marquis Daniels exploring a post-NBA career change. Hey 'Quis, there's no pussy in the priesthood.

The Big Shamrock in drag as Shaqueasy with some chick dressed as his pimp I assume

Rondo lookin' all Tiger, Jermaine O'Neal as Mr. T, Big Baby Davis as a man who woke-up only for the ribs, Delonte West doing the V for Vendetta thing (he fucked LeBron's mammy) and KG and Pierce preparing to sexually assault that dish of Mac N' Cheese.

Damn I'm hungry. That last photo has me thinking about one genre of cuisine in particular:

Things Done Changed: What Happened To The Alley-Oop

Well the Miami Heat are 0-1 and I couldn't be happier. As I previously stated, I am switching my allegiances this year and placing my full-support behind the Boston Celtics.

If there was a negative from last night's game - it would be the lack of Rasheed on the Celtics bench cracking wise. Mr. Wallace is currently without a team, and boy do I miss his antics.



After watching that compilation of pre-Celtics Rasheed, I must admit that I had completely forgotten about his skills. Some of those one-handed lobs are disgusting, which reminds me; what happened to the alley-oop? Amidst years of excessive spleef consumption and a general disregard for sweating in practice, Rasheed used to throw it down with some lanky authority. Where once NBA highlight reels were consumed by the alley-oop, it seems these days the slam dunk has become an egocentric pursuit practiced single-handedly and the alley-oop has become a rarity.

"I represent Harlem World, not Melrose Place"

Just like Sheed's hops, R.I.P. Big L

In case you were wondering, this site has not exclusively become a sports website. There are some interesting bits n' bobs coming through the pipes - be patient.

NBA 2010-11 Season: The Best Thing Since Ass

If there are two things on this planet I despise, they are LeBron James and the Boston Celtics. Generally I hate all Boston franchises and their white-washed fan base of Tom Jones singing, pink jersey wearing, Tom Brady masturbatorial inspiration douchery.

Next Tuesday, LeBron and his new bunk-buddies the Miami Heat square-off against the Celtics in the opening game of the 2010-11 NBA season and I could not be more excited.

Considering how many vitriolic statements I've made towards the Celtics, it may surprise you that I am actually disregarding my past hatred to throw my complete support behind the Celtics Tuesday (there is nobody as surprised as my ex, who is a massive Kevin Garnett and Celtics fan. I once bought her a KG shirt and nearly vomited as I handed the cashier my money - however I must point-out I drew wood every time she made an NBA related anecdote.) Furthermore, since Queen James and the Heat are the odds-on-favorite to win the Eastern Conference and dethrone Doc Rivers and his boys, and my hometown team, the Raptors look to be nothing more than a skeleton of their former selves, I will be supporting the Celtics this year in hopes they destroy Miami.

I offer three postulates for why this match-up and season-long battle will be the best story in the NBA's best season since Michael torched the Utah Jizz in 1998.

Dwanye, Chris and a Pussy. An entrance fit for a professional wrestler - soooo gay

1) As previously stated on this very blog, I hate LeBron James because he pussied-out and signed with Miami. A true champion a la Kobe, Michael, Magic or Larry Legend would never compromise their standing as an absolute killer to join a team because their collected worth seemed destined for greatness. True champions are pioneers, not followers.

The result of the bow tie selection was not as slimming as initially thought.

2) Boston's off season signings were made to defeat Miami and expose their weaknesses. Celtic's GM Danny Ainge could not give a fuck about the rest of the Eastern Conference. Where Miami's strength is in their perimeter play with James and Dwanye Wade, new South Beacher Chris Bosh will have trouble not being brutally raped each night alongside center Joel Anthony - who is Canadian - need I say more?

Because of this apparent weakness, Ainge went out and not only signed 7-footer Jermaine O'Neal, but also his namesake, and generally one of my favorites, the Big Aristotle, Shaquille O'Neal. The addition of these two to a frontcourt that already features future Hall Of Famer Kevin Garnett, 7-foot defensive specialist Kendrick Perkins and Glen 'Big Baby' Davis should spell disaster for the Heat. I can't wait to see Shaq take a massive dump on Bosh's chest while he dangles nearly 400 hundred pounds of blackness from the rim.

With PhotoShop, any moms can bang a baller. Gloria seen here carousing with Delonte at a Cleveland area club.

3) Finally, the main reason why I am really pumped for this match-up, LeBron's mom is a slut. During last year's playoffs, LeBron and the Cavs had a commanding lead on the Celtics, until games 5 and 6, when LeBron apparently gave-up and shit the bed. There has been much speculation as to why, but the most likely scenario is a rumour that has gained a fair deal of momentum online. Legitimate sports media broadcasters have made only subtle references to it, but the fact remains, LeBron's ex-teammate in Cleveland, Delonte West, had an affair with LeBron's mother Gloria James. Don't believe me? Google that shit - it's true.

Apparently, the secret affair between Gloria and Delonte was uncovered in the hours leading-up to game 5, and at that exact moment, LeBron stopped giving a fuck about Cleveland and the empire he had built there. You may be asking yourself 'why is this relevant to the Heat-Celtics match-up'? Well, because Celtic front-office maestro Danny Ainge signed Mr. West to play back-up point guard. This was clearly a move to frustrate LeBron, since Boston's starting point guard Rajon Rondo is an All-Star and back-up Nate Robinson proved his worth in last year's playoffs and the need for another point guard is clearly not required. Perhaps Mr. Ainge has wisely found the kryptonite to LeBron's SuperWoman. Genius move.

Can't wait for Tuesday night.

LeBron James Is An Idiot

Allow yesterday's post about what's positive in sports be an anomaly of sorts, because today we will revert back to identifying all things negative - and what better way to show the ugly side of professional sports than by highlighting LeBron's comments from earlier today.

Anybody that knows me personally or has read this site is aware of my distaste for LeBron James. It's not that I hate the person, but that I hate the fact that he is the most talented and skilled basketball player in the history of the game, but lacks the mental tenacity and killer instinct necessary to place him atop the pedestal of greatness amongst a pantheon of stars.

Earlier today, LeBron and his 'brilliant' manager/homey Maverick Carter released a statement claiming that much of the backlash surrounding his 'Decision' broadcast and the subsequent news was racially motivated. LeBron claims that his decision to take his talents to Miami and the nationally broadcasted hour-long show which he used as a platform was so negatively received because he was black. Let's get something straight here Mr. James - the backlash was not because you are black, it's because you embarrassed the city that raised you and the only team you've known. Identifying something as based on the colour of one's skin is so 1960's and has no place in a sport dominated by African-American athletes.

Perhaps a comparison would help. Indianapolis Colts quarterback and Super Bowl Champion Peyton Manning is arguably his sport's biggest star. He is well-spoken, humorously self-depricating (see Saturday Night Live) and a wonderful role model for children. He is also white. Not just white, but we're talking the love child of L.L. Bean and Betty Crocker white. If he were to entertain the prospects of leaving the Colts via free agency, only to broadcast his decision to leave Indianapolis for greener pastures, you bet your life the city would be pissed and burn his jerseys a la LeBron's #23 Cavs kit.

Their reaction would have absolutely nothing to do with race. The reason the people of Cleveland are pissed at LeBron is because the city is an absolute hole riddled with terrible sports franchises like the Indians and Browns, and he was their saviour. He put the team on his back and led the to an NBA Final. He was a product of nearby Akron, Ohio and the city of Cleveland embraced him as their saviour.

There is nothing wrong with leaving via free-agency, but to do so by embarrassing the place you called home is why you have received such a negative reaction and why your brand image has been hurt in the process. It has absolutely nothing to do with race, and as long as professional athletes cower behind the veil of race relations, many people will not be able to look beyond it. It's your call Mr. James, we're clearly all paying close attention.