Wednesday, April 14, 2010

In Which He Tries to be Part of the Team

I'm probably not leaving my couch tonight. Leaving the apartment is out of the question. My eyes are fixed on the television screen, which in turn is fixed on the ESPN broadcast of the Oklahoma City Thunder and the Memphis Grizzlies. The game is meaningless since the Grizzlies won't make the playoffs and the Thunder are locked into the 8th place. But within in this game holds something that matters greatly to me. Kevin Durant, Russell Westbrook, and Jeff Green are on my fantasy team. Their stats affect my bottom line. And my bottom line means everything.

Fantasy basketball is my beating heart, it's a child I've been nurturing over six months, it's the destination of a long journey. It's not just the destination of a long journey; it is the journey itself. I've been thinking about how I'm so consumed by the performances of people I will never meet. The Bonafide Scrubs (my team), the way my team is performing, the "chemistry," never leave my mind for too long. It exists inside me, a scratch I can't itch. Perhaps this championship will be cure for this. Perhaps not.

At this moment, my match up with my opponent, Boom Boom Pau, is tied 4-4. BBP has locked down assists, field goal percentage [1], and most likely free throw percentage. I'm winning blocks and rebounds by a wide margin, steals and threes by a good but not great margin. I started the day up one in points. He is now up 18. The tiebreaker is unclear. My stomach is roiling pot of acid. I'm just six steals away from total cognitive annihilation. I'm screaming so much in my head that it is difficult to write.

Why do we do this? Why do we put ourselves through this? I'm reading "Black Planet," by David Shields right now and he wonders to himself why sports fans put themselves through so much angst on account of the "...performance of strangers. For once, we hope, the breaks will ho our way; we'll love our life now. This time we'll win."

This is true. I hope, I plead with the fantasy gods, I pray for the salvation of my team and it's deliverance to the promised land. It's not even so much the competition: I will be happy that my team is better than my Boom Boom Pau[2]. But it's not as if there will be a parade. Perhaps a trophy, but it is also likely I'll have to make the trophy myself, as I did for the last two champions.

I think I need this more myself. I just want to stare at my team, this thing that I constructed, this thing that I made for myself-I want to stare at it and say "I did something good. I made this thing into a success." And right now who knows if I will be able to say that? I lost, two years ago in fantasy baseball, in heartbreaking fashion at the end of the season. I feel in my core that this could happen, and I'm beginning to prepare myself for that possibility. I need Amare to get to the line; Anthony Tolliver to grab some steals; Jeff Green to hit a three; I need my mind to be at rest, simple and blissful rest. I need to accomplish something, anything.

Currently, Kevin Durant has returned to the game. I need him to get a steal. I need steals. I need my heart to return to the normal amount of beats per minute. This is not normal. I need peace. Just do this for me, Kevin. Just reach out your hand and grab the ball, it's waiting there, just waiting for you, reach out and grab for me!

__________
[1] This is particularly painful because my team is normally the best in free throw percentage. As the kids say, WTF.
[2] Will this really decide this? I’d like to think so. I finished first in the regular season. I feel like a victory would validate my team’s success. But I also feel like the rest of the guys will think the way I always do. I had the best team, but.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

"Amare Stoudemire Elevates and Detonates."

March 22nd. The Golden State Warriors are playing the Phoenix Suns in Oracle Arena. After a midseason slumber, the Suns have re-awakened and fine tuned their team into the near perfect offensive engine that it was at the beginning of this season and in seasons past. The Warriors are near the bottom of the Western Conference table, their team crippled by injuries and both front office and coaching blunders. If it was two other mismatched teams, the game would be normal mid March game. However, when the Warriors play the Suns basketball becomes more frenetic, more energized: the scores almost always climb into the 120s. It’s not basketball the way it’s supposed to be played but perhaps it’s the most aesthetically pleasing way. Cut to two minutes left in the game: a few Suns and Warriors scrum for a loose ball, and it ends in the hands of Jason Richardson. Richardson quickly forwards the ball upcourt to Amare Stoudemire, an agile big man gifted with an almost illogical leaping ability. Amare is between the foul line and the basket, just outside the paint: he takes a dribble as Warriors forward Anthony Tolliver arrives in the defensive circle, preparing to leap. Amare could pump fake, or simply pause; Tolliver is already in motion and could not stop if he wanted to. But Amare doesn’t pump fake. Amare does not pause. Amare leaps. This is a foregone conclusion, as Tolliver knew: this is the sun rising in the east. The following dunk is so sublime that it transcends description. I won’t even attempt it, so just proceed to YouTube and listen to the announcers pour as much adulation as they can on Amare.

Someone writing about Amare needs no muse. One can wander to YouTube as I just mentioned and proceed to be amazed by the number of gravity warping facials. His list of posterized victims are long: Richard Jefferson, Michael Olowokandi, Stro Swift, Gerald Wallace, Adenol Foyle, Karl Malone, Josh Smith-and they are so thoroughly devastated by his attacks that the only possible recourse would be calling FEMA to assess the damage. He is one of the rare and curious types of humans that not only has the ability to physically dominate others but actually a subliminal need to do so. When I watch him impose his will on defenders I actually look for the joy on his face, the happiness so evident on the faces of his teammates hopping in place while eagerly awaiting the replay on the Jumbotron, but it’s never there.

Of course, Amare is not one of a kind-there have plenty of players that can dominate, physically and mentally, an opponent. Witness Lebron James on the fast break, Hakeem Olajuawon facing David Robinson in the 1995 Western Conference finals, Jordan in essentially any of the Bulls six title runs. But there are few whose game is entirely based almost totally[1] on the physical subjugation of their defenders. For Amare, there is no fade-away three as time expires against the Magic; no Dream Shake, with all its elegance and game theory and counters; no shrug after his sixth straight three. There is only an explosion of muscle, bodies colliding, and the slight silence in the stadium after while everyone seems to draw breath to gasp. An expression of athletic hyperbole. Amare is going to the basket.

This is not to say that Amare is the greatest of players, or even an all time great. He will (most likely) be remembered as an offensively gifted player who had several fantastic years for a team that never won a title. His bar argument epitaphs will always include the word “but.” He was a great on offense but. The Suns were great but. The question that clouds this discussion is that Amare is 26, but he is an old 26-he came into the league at 18 and had microfracture knee surgery several years ago-and the wonder I have always had is what will happen when Amare loses his explosiveness. This happens to all dunkers, something that Chris Broussard touches on in his fantastic book “The Art of a Beautiful Game.” But not Amare. How will Amare adjust? His entire athletic life consists of the suppression of his physical inferiors. This is a man who, when he sees Tolliver coming at him, thinks “I hope he jumps.”[2] How could he exist not at the apex?[3]

The knock on Amare will always be his defense. Amare always ended up in foul trouble when he covered centers-the Suns for a time seemed happier paying for Marcus Banks rather than a backup center-and when Amare has been truly unleashed (2008 after the trade deadline, 2006-7, the second half of 2010) is when Amare can stay on the court because the Suns have a true center (in these cases: Shaq, Kurt Thomas, and Robin Lopez) so Amare doesn’t have to guard the center. It’s very true that the best way to defend Amare was to keep him on the bench, ensconced in foul trouble. And the frustration that followed, as he was sent back out to defend a center and possibly pick up more fouls, is always evident.

But that shouldn’t obscure the player that Amare actually is. He was, and is, an outrageously gifted specimen of a human being, who won the Rookie of the Year in 2003 and was truly unleashed by the combination of Steve Nash (who became the partner of the best pick and roll I’ve ever watched[4]) and Mike D’Antoni (who seemed content to let Nash run the roll as often as he felt necessary). Was he also unleashed by the league’s increasingly relaxed calling of moving pick and roll fouls? Yes, probably.

In pop culture, he most closely reminds me of George Hearst, as portrayed in the show Deadwood. Hearst arrives as unsubtly as possible to the frontier town, smashing apart buildings to suit his needs as easily as he smashes unions. He arranges murders, intimidates business rivals, and removes the finger of the current town boss. Why are you making this decision Mr. Hearst? “{Because} it’s my will. To which I will have you bend.” Does Amare stray too far from the idea of a robber baron? No. He is a conqueror. He sublimates others for the good of himself and his team, and he does so in an abjectly terrifying way. He is Ghengis Khan, staring bitterly into the wind coming across the steppe. He is Alaric II, looking down at Rome and wondering what it would look like on fire. But it is probably General William Tecumseh Sherman who is his best historical comparison. Sherman was given a mission, like Amare: to put down his enemy. He chose to make the war total, to dominate not only soldiers but citizens, farmers, and indeed the entire South.

Which is why Amare is such a confusing and mysterious player to most fans. They see his inattention on defense, his curious inability to control the boards, and his brash style of play and they are turned off. It doesn’t connect with the will to dominate at the other end. All those things are true. They see Shawn Kemp, who is Amare’s best comparison in the history of basketball. But Amare is not Shawn Kemp-Amare does not grab his crotch and point at his downed opponent to humiliate them. He simply downs them. Amare’s frustration comes not from being a poor teammate but being upset with himself. Imagine being possessed with such great natural gifts, so much so that you are unable to wield them properly. That’s what I see when I watch Amare. A man struggling with an otherworldly body. When he explodes to the rim, Amare exists on another plane of existence.

But Amare just doesn't want to get the basket. He wants you to jump. He wants you to try and stop him. He wants you to plant your feet, elevate, and stretch. And then he will go over the top of you. Amare is coming for the basket. Don’t try to stop him. You might as well try to reason with a hurricane. But if you want to try to stop him then he will meet you in the air. He would welcome the opportunity to throw it down in your face. He hopes for the chance.



[1] It would be unfair to say Amare is totally dependent on his physical prowess. He has a very reliable 15 foot, which best serves as a deterrent from his defender playing off him.

[2] As quoted by Amare himself, while being interview by Jared Dudley on Dudley’s ongoing “JMZ,” feature on Twitter. When Amare is discussing the dunk, he’s stroking the facial hair at his chin and I feel a sense of wonder in his voice as he looks into the camera telling how he “went over the top of him.” I feel like the wonder comes from two places-a potent mix of “I was able to do that,” and “Did you really I believe that I couldn’t do that.” The latter thought is the one I see hidden in every sneer that Amare wears.

[3] I’m reminded of aging blondes, shirts tight across their chest, thinking of how the bar used to grind to halt when they would enter. Now they are hunched over, discussing Match.com and furiously drinking exotic martinis. How will Amare react? Will he settle down for a life of fifteen-to-eighteen footers? Will he keep driving even though the finish might not be there?

[4] That’s right, I said it. Screw you Stockton.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

It's true, I don't care what your middle name is

I'm not sure if there are two female singers that have been more popular over the last 6 months than Lady Gaga and Ke$ha. Their songs can really only be described as ubiquitous-it would be difficult to play a pop music channel for more than 20 minutes without hearing one of them sing. I would rate Lady Gaga ahead of Ke$ha in almost everything-from number of popular singles, originality, musical talent, and most importantly, outlandishness. When Lady Gaga does something, I feel mystified by it: her music videos, outfits, sunglasses, even her own sexuality-I'm baffled by it all. Still, even as I watch Lady Gaga do something I've never seen before (like, produce a video involving a women's prison for a song involving telephone reception in nightclubs) I can believe that I'm just watching the Madonna of the 2010's. She's an original, but she's still standing on the shoulders of giants. She's taken an old form, and made every facet of it spectacularly weird.

Now, like I said, I consider Lady Gaga a more original artist than Ke$ha-not even just a musical artist, but a performance artist as well. Every day when Lady Gaga walks around in public, she is performing. Which is why I think it's strange that Ke$ha seems weirder. In almost every way, Ke$ha is a contradiction-she is white Nashville native who raps. She is a woman whose main subject seems to be getting laid. Indeed, the whole point of "Blah Blah Blah" is finding love (and by love I mean dirty sex) in a bar with a random guy. The thing is-we haven't really seen this before. Excepting Lil Kim, whose rhymes from "Magic Stick" you really just have to look up on your own, Ke$ha has personified a slut in entertainment better than anyone. The whole persona of Ke$ha is a drunk mess: the first line of her album is "Maybe I need some rehab." What other female artist calls herself a "love crackhead?" Hell, she even starred in Katy Perry's music video for "I Kissed a Girl (and I liked it)" as the girl that Katy Perry wants to kiss! Lady Gaga's persona is weird, but we've seen weird before. And here's the ultimate contradiction regarding Ke$ha and Gaga: while Gaga's persona is, in the abstract, weirder (because honestly, which is harder to find-a girl whose a slut or a bisexual who stars in videos in just strategically placed tape and see through tights?), the fact that Ke$ha's persona is so honest makes her the one that is more strange.

I don't care how many times I watch the video where Gaga is captured by faceless dancers and sold into sex slavery to a Russian she later lights on fire. Or if she and Beyonce go on a killing spree in the Pussy Wagon from Kill Bill. Ke$ha is singing about relatively normal things, and her videos are even more normal than they should be: Tik Tok, the ultra popular song that has been talked about more than healthcare so far this year, has her waking up in a bath tub and progressing to a normal house party accompanied by a dude with a mullet. That's not what feeling like P. Diddy feels like! Sluts are normal; let's face it, they're all over the place. Wish there were more of them, too. But there aren't too many of them singing as honestly and explicitly as Ke$ha. Call it commentary on feminism in the 21st century, but it's still weird to hear a woman singing solely about getting banged in a car. Meanwhile, this is probably 25% of what men rap about. Flavor Flav never hid his desires. Neither does Ke$ha. There's no wordplay, subtext, or pretense. It's honest, and being honest about being a slut is still weird. Don't blame her though. Ke$ha just wants a little love in her glovebox.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

"I'd like an AJ and a Buzz"

Since you guys don't know me yet, you don't know that I'm someone that likes going out to a bar and having a few adult sodas. I consider myself an alcohol egalitarian: everything's good in my book. Do you want a beer? Sure I'll have one. Red wine? A glass never hurt anyone. Tequila shots? Just a few. Homemade moon shine I made in my bathtub using motor oil? Absolutely.

But as much as I love going out to a bar and having some drinks, I do think that there are always improvements to make. What can I say, I'm an innovator. So the first improvement that I'll be suggesting is a brand new drink, using a type of mix that I think is under utilized. Since I'm such a noble character, I will waive all licensing fees so that bars across America can start serving this drink immediately.

The under utilized mix? Apple juice. Who doesn't love apple juice? It's sweet, goes down smooth, and is an easy thing to mix with, as I found out. There are no good apple juice mixes that are commonly known, along with no good names for apple juice mixes. This is half the problem, as elucidated by Bill Simmons and Kevin Wildes in a recent podcast. Simmons was discussing drinking flavored vodka and tonic water-while you're basically drinking vodka and water, if you're at a bar and you order citrus flavored vodka, you're going to get some funny looks from people. Now I've never ordered an apple juice drink at a bar, mostly because I don't know of any places that even have apple juice behind the bar, but I imagine if I did I would get some funny looks from my knucklehead friends. "Apple juice? At a bar? Huh?" So we need a good name. There is a reason that Jameson and Ginger is being used in Jameson advertisements-because it's cool to say. The name just works, whether you're ordering it at a bar or you see it on a billboard. So we need a delicious drink with a name that is equally delicious to say. Here we go:

1. Apple juice and Vodka
Possible name: AJ and V
How's it taste: Well, it pretty much just tastes like any vodka mix. You taste the mix but there is something that is just behind the drink, a little hint of bitterness that keeps the drink from going down perfect. It's apple juice, but slightly worse. The vodka doesn't really improve the drink, just makes it alcoholic. RATING: C-

2. Apple juice and Brandy
Possible name: Nervous Gentleman
How's it taste: Better if it is served in brandy snifter. Everything is better served in a snifter. If I could choose anything to drink out of for the rest of my life, it would probably be a snifter. Hell, I'm drinking my coffee out of a snifter right now. Depending on how good the brandy is, it really makes or breaks this drink. If the brandy is subtle but still flavorful, this is a great drink. The brandy will overpower the apple juice, but not by much: it'll taste smoky but still good. But the brandy is of the cheap grape variety, this drink will taste weirdly sweet. It'll be drinkable, but just slightly....off. Like a brunette whose hair is dyed partially red. Interesting, but in the end, interesting doesn't always mean good. RATING: B

3. Apple juice and Rum
Possible name: Jungle Wasteland
How's it taste: Really good actually. I think it's superior to a Coke and rum actually, because you can really taste the rum. I used Mount Gay and apple juice perfect for masking the strength but allowing the taste. Throw in a little bit of Triple Sec and you've got a drink that's both potent and tasty. And by potent, I mean potent. Since they are easy to drink, you're bound to have the moment where you finish one, look at the bottom of your glass, and then realize you're already working on a buzz. "I already finished another one?" The next thought is one of the following: "Uh oh," or "I need another one." RATING: A-

4. Apple juice and tequila
Possible name: Virgin Saliva
How's it taste: The name comes from one of my friends, who thought it was a good name for whatever drink is as pure as a virgin's saliva. A bit weird? Yeah. Would you not want to order it at a bar? Potentially. Regardless, the name applies. Tequila and apple juice is a delicious drink. Just try it. Go to your liquor cabinet, grab the tequila, and then walk to the fridge and grab some apple juice. Mix them in a glass and sit down on your couch, because you're going to be there for a while. RATING: A-

5. Apple juice and scotch
Possible name: Act of God
How's it taste: Definitely the best of the bunch. The color and consistency match, and is actually even better when you had a splash of lime juice. Lime juice is the sour, scotch is the bitter, apple juice is the sweet. Throw in some salt and you've got the all the taste buds (note: don't actually do this). This is a great name as well: who wouldn't want to order something called an "Act of God." That is truly a badass name. Also, scotch is an under used drink at bars, even though it's a perfect drink for going out: goes down (relatively) smooth, conveys a sense of high standards, and will catch up to you as the night goes on. And isn't that we are really after, anyways? RATING: A+

Suggestions are welcome. I've got plenty of apple juice.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Hello

This is my attempt to start writing, categorize some of my asinine thoughts, and try to make sense of some things I see throughout my days. The blog is named after Benny Profane, a "human yo-yo and schlemiel," and I'll try to keep his spirit present in the blog. For all of my fellow gentiles out there, schlemiel means: an awkward and unlucky person for whom things never turn out right. That's sounds about right. Enjoy, and if you've read this far, thanks.