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.
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