Due to the crushing unpopularity of the "Gothic Ginobili" brand, we have decided to take the blog in a different direction. Welcome to "Goth Gasol", a blog whose sole purpose is to make you think about death and get sad and stuff. To start things off, we have provided a statistical assessment of Pau Gasol's infinite sadness. Required reading.

I'm gonna be honest. I used to get a little jealous sometimes. Of Zach Lowe, you see. Lowe is something of a wunderkind -- a great writer, a great guy, and generally one of the smartest guys around in the NBA writing game. He also, however, has connections. (Not conniptions, those are different.) For instance, he recently had me run a few numbers for an excellent piece he wrote on defending the corner three. It was a great piece, and I was honored to help out. But had it been the me from months prior, I wouldn't have been able to help being a bit jealous of his access to such interesting numbers. However, that all changed a few months ago. I am jealous no longer. See, I found this one guy. Or rather, he found me. His name shall remain anonymous. This is mostly because I have no idea who he is. He contacted me after my prior piece on Kobe as Stavrogin to send me a detailed spreadsheet of the number of times Kobe has invented a new cuss about wizards during each NBA game in the last four years. I have no idea how he tracked this. Not a clue.

I never asked, and I filed the numbers away for the next time I do an analysis on cusses -- a rare but ever-present option for me. Anyway, long story short, he sends me completely unsolicited spreadsheets every few weeks on things that either make no sense whatsoever numerically or make me wonder who in the world could possibly have these numbers handy. Given our new rebrand around the ongoing sadness of Pau Gasol, though, the data he sent me the other day is of the most paramount value. We now have statistics for the number of Pau Gasol frowns for each game of the 2012 season. Armed with these numbers, we may now examine the relationship between Pau's sadness, egg consumption, and the Lakers' winning ways. Anyways. This is the post you've all been waiting for. It's my big break. So, let's get to it.

• • •

A few notes on the data. For the purpose of this analysis, we are going to simply assume that the number of times Pau frowned in a game is equivalent to how sad he was on the given date. I do realize there are a lot of problems with this approach. For one, this isn't the frown rate -- this is certainly not a per-possession statistic, and that's problematic. Just ask any of the prospectus guys. And given that Pau plays a variant number of minutes per game (though, it's a Mike Brown team, so mostly just "all of them") that means we aren't necessarily comparing apples to apples. As well, we have the issue that there was no data dictionary supplied by my informant. I don't know exactly WHEN Pau consumed said eggs. What if he ate the eggs after the game? That could hardly be expected to influence his performance. Also, what defines a frown? Are all frowns truly created equal? There's no type of intensity spectrum for the frowns.

Anyway. Despite the flaws, this data can really start to shed some light on what makes Pau sad. To help stomach it, here's a rudimentary correlation table.

What does this tell us? Quite a lot. First off, there's a very high positive correlation between the number of field goals more that Kobe took than Pau took and the number of frowns Pau had in a given game -- almost a 75% correlation. This would tend to back my general impression -- Pau exhibits his enduring Spaniard Sadness more when he's been frozen out for shots by Kobe. I beg you, watch his game. Watch as he stands at his favorite spot on the floor, staring longingly into the abyss of Kobe's 25th isolation jumper of the night. Gaze upon the sadness in his eyes, and try deeply to internalize it. Ask yourself, dear readers: were you that sad, could you truly be expected to go hard in the paint? Well, no, not you, you're not even 6 feet tall! We'd put you on Nash. But you get the idea.

Many other aspects of this correlation table piqued my curiosity. For one thing, why the hell did my informant put in "number of days since Christmas"? It has no correlation to anything interesting, and only served to remind me of the Christmas cards I never put in the mail. I still feel guilty about that. I don't get why he had to give me that information. (Clearly, Pau doesn't either.) We get some nice splits on the eggs dimension -- an insignificant 1.1% correlation with sadness, but a higher-than-expected 12.5% correlation with the outcome of each game. It appears that the more eggs Pau eats, the more wins the Lakers rack up. To some extent. This relationship becomes even more prominent when you take out March 7th, a game where Pau had a great game and ate a season-high 25 eggs... in a loss to the Wizards -- if you remove that game, the correlation jumps to 25%. Truly an outlier performance from Gasol. In short: if the Lakers really want to win more, Jim Buss needs to keep the Spaniard's stomach assuaged and the piping-hot Paella flowing.

On the subject of splits, let's look at some key performance splits that the data allows us to examine.

• When Pau Gasol has eaten less than two eggs on a game day, the Lakers are an abysmal 5-14. When he eats 5 or more, the Lakers are 16-3. Other than the previously discussed outlier, the answer is clear. When Pau eats no eggs, the Lakers lay one. Pau absolutely needs his eggs if the Lakers intend to be a force in the west to finish the season. This, however, will have little to no impact on Pau's sadness -- on less than two eggs, Pau averages 32.4 frowns a game. On greater than 5, he averages 29.5 frowns. An incremental decrease, sure. But nothing to write home about. Expect not a happier Spaniard, Laker fans. Also: there is a game (the OKC game a few days back, actually) in which Pau Gasol consumed negative three eggs. I'm not sure what that means. I'm not sure I want to know what that means.

• Pau Gasol's play is, surprisingly, rather unaffected by his soul-crushing sadness. When Pau frowns less than 30 times in a game, he averages a game score of 15.9. When he frowns between 30 and 40 times, he averages a game score of 14.3. When he frowns more than 40 times, he averages a game score of 13.1. These aren't wonderful numbers, but they aren't really different. They're indicative of a man who fights through the pain, and plays through his sadness. The corresponding W-L records are as follows: the Lakers are 15-6 when Pau frowns less than 30 times, 11-11 when he frowns between 30 and 40 times, and 5-2 when he frowns more than 40 times. To a man of my statistical background, this would seem to indicate that the Lakers really need to keep close tabs on Pau's frown production in any given game. If he's having a "happy" game, then just stay cool. But if he's in that danger zone between 30 and 40 frowns? Turn up the taunting. Release the Kobe. The more Pau frowns, the more likely you'll get to that sweet spot of 40+ frowns a game, where the Lakers are (albeit on limited data) producing wins at a 71% clip!

• Expectedly, as Christmas gets farther away, Pau Gasol gets more and more sad. His season low for frowns was on Valentine's Day, indicating that the Spaniard was on his best behavior for his lady-friend. I mean, don't want to harsh the mood, right? Much respect to the big Spaniard. Regardless. His 2nd lowest total was on Christmas, and that makes sense to me. After all. I'm Jewish (though my father is Christian and we celebrated Christmas as well as Hannukah in my youth), and even I can't help but be happy on Christmas. It's a time of joy, if you let the commercialized dead-eye Santa dolls into your heart. As Christmas gets farther and farther away, his sadness seems to be increasing -- and given that the Lakers have a 5-2 record when Pau is at his most depressed, that's bad news for every Western team hoping they'll collapse down the stretch.

When I saw this data originally I was going to create a model of Laker wins based on Pau's sadness and the exogenous factors in the data. I chose not to, because the data is relatively limited and I didn't feel confident that a model would really do better than just a straight analysis of the data. Regardless. I hope this post has helped shed some light on Pau's sadness for the uninitiated. Pau is a sad man, and it distresses me to no end to see him this way. Please send your regards. And if you have any idea who the hell sends me this data, tell him to stop reminding me about those Christmas cards.

... Also, perhaps more importantly, tell him to stop stalking Pau Gasol.

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Ever had a really bad case of writer's block? I had one when I started this post. It was possibly the worst block of my life. I was unusually absent not just on here, but also on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, et cetera -- not by design, but because I quite literally couldn't write anything. I'd tweets and delete them for being too banal. I'd write Facebook status updates and balk at the ill-fitting verbiage. I'd try to write something for ANY of the sites I write for -- here, 48 Minutes of Hell, Goodspeed and Poe, etc. -- and it just ended up being unfit for editing. I'd delete it and start over, and kept deleting it until I'd spent hours at a keyboard with naught but a cute little phrase to show for it. That's where I was for quite some time. And it was incredibly frustrating. Breaking out of writer's block is a difficult task, partially because you keep illogically raising the bar for yourself. You may know the type. I kept telling myself "to make up for this block, I need to make sure my first piece back changes the game. It needs to be one of the greatest things I've ever written. Because if it isn't, I'm letting down the readers who took the time out of their day to read my work." And then you get the yips, and you can't write anything even remotely close to your expectations. The cycle continues.

So this was my best effort yet to wrest myself out of my block, back in the block. I went going back to the basics. The very basics. Today I'll examine the main reason -- in my view -- that the NBA produces such a wealth of fun narratives in every game and every season. In pursuit of this, I drew together a pyramid of examples to examine what makes team sports -- and specifically the NBA -- so easy to frame into entertaining narratives. To pare the pyramid to its essentials: there are seven basic levels of granularity by which you can analyze the NBA. The levels range from dynastic narratives -- spanning multiple years and a full career -- to possessional narratives -- spanning singular possessions on offense and defense between component players and teams. In between, we have five different levels of granularity. And there's a split in each level between stories centered on players and stories centered on teams. I've put together a graphical representation of these types of stories -- with examples -- and will be discussing them in full, level by level. Let's begin.

DYNASTIC NARRATIVES

Guiding examples: Michael Jordan, the Duncan Spurs, the Dolan Knicks.

In a dynastic narrative, you examine an NBA story from the broadest possible view. That is, not on a single season, but on the accomplishments of a team as they go through a period marked primarily by either a single player or a single concept. Contrary to the general thought, a dynastic narrative need not be positive: you could make the argument that the 2000 Knicks are one of the stronger dynastic storylines of the last decade. They were defined by a single overriding personality in James Dolan, and the depths of their failure -- a decade without a playoff win despite being a taxpayer in 8/10 seasons -- is both memorable and virtually unprecedented. Looking at the NBA through a dynastic lens gets you to pieces like Dwyer's classic "Your Champs, in Your Eyes" piece on the appreciation of a dynasty, no matter when it may be. As I stated before, you can also look at each of these concepts through a singular player: for a lighter example, see John Krolik's "The Giving Z" for a demonstration of how you can look at a player's career without beating statistics over the head or obfuscating your point under mountains of excess words. (Example of that: everything I've ever written.)

SEASONAL NARRATIVES

Guiding examples: The title team, the upward movers, the franchise revitalists

Seasonal narratives are more common, though often less edifying. Most commonly one will find them in the form of season retrospectives -- team beat writers looking back on a long-fought season, or fans aggravated over their playoff exit leaving their keyboards bare as they excoriate their teams. And then there's the opposite pole: The team that actually wins the title. The player that put it all together a la 2011 LaMarcus Aldridge. The franchises that finally -- after trying so long -- get into the playoffs or get their first playoff win. A particularly compelling and memorable season retrospective for me was Silver Screen and Roll's 2011 retrospective following the Mavs sweep -- the format is memorable, the writing splendid, and the presentation worthy. On the player side, you have the Pinstriped Post singing songs about Dwight Howard's true value as a player after his MVP-worthy 2011 season.

STREAK/STRETCH NARRATIVES

Guiding examples: The 2011 Cleveland Cavaliers losing streak, Kevin Love's double-double streak, Jeremy Lin's rise

While this is a somewhat rarer story in the world of NBA blogging, perhaps that's an oversight on our part. If you look at any particular game, chances are there are going to be some element of noteworthy streaks at play. The streaks may last seasons, like the Spurs winning their umpteenth-millionth game straight against the Clippers in San Antonio until this year's flop. There were, however, an abundance of stories about the Cavaliers' losing streak last year -- this alphabetical take from Truehoop was always my favorite. And from the player perspective, I was going to use a story on LeBron's various 2009 streaks, but this game recap I read a few hours ago that goes into Love's current streak of eye-popping numbers spoke to me, and I had to plop that down in here.

GAME NARRATIVES

Guiding examples: EVERY GODDAMN RECAP EVER, single-game record performances, rivalry stories.

Essentially the gold standard of an NBA narrative. The recap. "How was the game?" Recaps don't have to be noteworthy to be a story, they simply have to conclude. I'm of the view that everyone should write a few recaps, but nobody should write more than 20-30. They're a bit creatively stagnant, usually, and they keep you mired in bad habits when you try to migrate to different levels of granularity, in my view. Still, my favorite aspect of the game narrative come in the form of recaps that go far beyond the facts of the game -- sure, team A beat team B, but what did it feel like? In terms of the AP recaps, I don't know if any of them can beat this late-2009 recap of a Wizards-Nets game. It pretty much has everything -- a nondescript game that demanded a larger story than just "Hyuck hyuck the Wizards won," a strange and disturbingly compelling storyline of a declawed Arenas, and a bunch of random details (the sunglasses Blatche wears in the locker room, Blatche discussing his work ethic, the fact that nobody but Blatche mentioned in this article is still on the Wizards just three years later, etc) that tie everything together. There are tons of excellent recaps among the blogs, as well. One of my favorites has always been this throwaway recap, primarily for the amazing title: "Lakers 99, Timberwolves 94: Lakers kidnapped, replaced by cardboard cutouts. Wolves still lose."

HALF/QUARTER NARRATIVES

Guiding examples: The Pacers' brilliant 20-21 quarter versus the Nuggets in 2010, the Brandon Roy quarter, Melo's 33 points in a quarter.

These are somewhat interesting in that -- like streak stories -- they tend to be ignored in the postscript but entirely compelling as they happen. Part of what makes basketball a beautiful game is just that aspect of it, and the entire reason I wrote this piece in the first place. There are amazing NBA articles written about virtually every stage of the game process -- from the dynastic to the possessional -- and as well, when watching the games, you quickly realize that any basketball game can be infinitely differentiated into the sum of its component parts. Every possession can be compelling. Every sequence can bedazzle. Every quarter has its own story to tell, if you're looking hard enough. Or, if you wait long enough, you're bound to get a single-quarter or a single-half story that's simply sublime -- this particularly close-knit portrayal of Brandon Roy's miracle quarter is the defining example of this type of pyramid story.

THE MINUTE/MOMENT NARRATIVE

Guiding examples: The Spurs' furious game 5 rally in the 2011 Grizzlies series, 13 points in 33 seconds, LeBron's last game for Cleveland.

Honestly, I don't think I can say anything that Joe Posnanski's piece on that last example doesn't demonstrate in full. At all. Just read it. That's what a minute/moment story should look like. That's how you write a story. Just look at it, now.

POSSESSIONAL NARRATIVES

Guiding examples: Buzzer beaters, game winning defensive stands, NBA Playbook

It's here that I have to stop and really think back to why I love the NBA -- and more than that, the sport of basketball -- so much.

I like baseball. I'm not a huge football fan, but I can see the attraction. Hockey is okay. But basketball stands alone, in my view, at allowing this kind of granularity. The narratives discussed above -- the game, the season, the dynasty -- all of those are truly applicable in any sport. But possessions? A possession is an infinitely differentiable conceptual puzzle piece, with a distinct beginning and ending, and a easily broken-up storyline all its own. That's special, and it's something you really only see in basketball. The offense versus the defense. The offensive player driving into the teeth of the defense. The pass, the cut, the jab step. Every little piece makes up a thread in the tapestry that defines a basic possession. Each possession, strung together, creates a minute. A minute strings to a quarter. A quarter to a game. A game to a streak. A streak to a season. A season to a dynasty.

Every aspect of basketball comes down to this -- a drama in one act, a possession where two tacticians move their sentient chess pieces and hope that nothing goes wrong. The stark calculus of the possession is probably the thing that I find the most fun, really -- a possession has a clearly delineated start, and a clearly delineated ending. In a way that no other sport but baseball really captures, the possession allows you to distill a free-flowing liquid game into a series of bite-size pieces. There's the knowledge that at any time, to enhance your knowledge of the game, you truly could take every possession of a basketball game and try to map out what's going on. In football, or soccer, or hockey... this isn't nearly as straightforward. It's as liquid or more, and as slippery to define. But a possession is a naturally occurring distinction. It's a definition that comes from the rules itself. Not all plays will be the Thunder's perfect play.

But in their own way, all possessions are different. Different defenders, different results, different tics. And it's in that ideal that basketball becomes beautiful. It's through this that a mere game takes on so many layers of differentiable brilliance, and in my view, what brings so many wonderful writers and thinkers into the analysis of the game we love to watch. The possession is the thing that drew me in, and continues to inspire me to write more. I can't say this piece itself broke me out of my writer's block, but it certainly reminded me why I love the game. And whether or not I can still write the 5 pieces a week I wrote last December (spoiler alert: probably not, though I needn't do that any longer), that's something we all need to do every once in a while.

In the end? I love basketball. That's why I write about it.

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Audiences know what they expect, and that is all that they're prepared to believe in.

A good friend of mine went nuclear on my productivity the other day through a stream of Twitter links to articles on Berfrois, an extremely interesting (though dense) site that I'd never had the pleasure of browsing before. One article in particular that demanded my undivided attention was this one, outlining the Kierkegaardian perspective on the concept of theodicy. Fully unpacking the ideas at play in Aylat-Yaguri's article is somewhat beyond the scope of this blog, and frankly, beyond my depth as a thinker. I don't intend this to be a discourse on a thinker I've always found difficult to parse, and as such, there will be little more mention of Kierkegaard today. Instead, I'd like to discuss an old Aristotelian prescription parenthetically outlined in that Berfrois article.

In Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, he prescribes that poets should in all work "prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities" while excluding entirely all that in the realm of irrationality. It's been quite a while since I've read any Aristotle -- at least two years, probably more -- but I distinctly remember being impressed by that quote when I read it the first time. It distills the heart of writing a serious fictional narrative into a simple either/or statement, and manages to encapsulate the real reason many writers flounder when pushed into action with their readership's imagination. It's not that they are poor writers, or that their ideas aren't excellent -- it's that they simply never get that inherent buy-in from the reader. They can't ford the gap between the improbable and the impossible in a way that satisfies the reader. And they leave many readers wanting, knowing the story lacks that simple buy-in that improves everything. Despite the brilliance of their work, oftentimes, they simply can't bring the reader in. One of the best writers of the last decade was a basketball player. His rival? Lesser in the eyes of the populace, greater in his own mind's eye, free from the audience at hand.

Yep. We're talking about Kobe Bryant and Tim Duncan, once again.

• • •

In basketball, there are three levels of possibility. The first is obvious -- the truly impossible, the things that can never be done because the rules of basketball simply don't work that way. You can't have a six point single shot (although you can have a six point possession). You can't score from the opposing baseline -- you'd need to pass it to someone first, you literally aren't allowed to shoot the ball from the opposing baseline with no time off the clock. You can't punch other players in the face, unless you want to be suspended for the rest of the game and the rest of the season. And -- perhaps most importantly -- you can't defend every possession perfectly. There will always be some ghost of a chance that the shot is made, and as a defender, you have to live with that.

Where things get a bit trickier to describe is after you leave the comforting warmth of the absolute. The impossible not because it's logistically against the rules of the game, but because it defies the viewer's prescribed notions of possibility. There are the patently possible high-percentage plays -- the simple layup because of a blown defensive assignment, a wide open corner three from a good shooter, a Steve Nash free throw. Et cetera. There are also the virtually impossible nil-percentage plays -- a Dwight Howard three point shot, a triple teamed hail mary halfcourt shot, a post-up play against a prime Tim Duncan with less than two seconds on the clock. These aren't impossible, nor are they always going to happen -- they just seem like it. If you were to assign probabilities to them, the virtually impossible would probably happen less than 5% of the time. A patently possible play would be converted over 90% of the time. In-between those two? It becomes the province of the viewer to determine how probable a play is, and whether or not it's possible at all. That's where Kobe comes in.

• • •

Consider: the Duncan Spurs achieved the improbable with some regularity over the previous decade. Duncan carried one of the worst supporting casts in the last 30 years to an incredible title run in 2003, and he did so averaging 25-16-5 on a team that averaged just short of 95 points per game and 60 rebounds per game. As well as being the team's defensive backbone, and consistently guarding some of the best big men in the game throughout the entire playoffs. The issue is, from a narrative standpoint, that Duncan never made any claims to the impossibilities of his actions. Nor did he make it a media showcase over how dominant he was, a la Shaq. Duncan simply played incredible, generation-defining basketball.

He did not seek deification for his actions or absolution for his sins. He just wanted to play the game, and in his plodding consistency, he convinced the world that his feats -- while improbable for such a small market fan -- were all patently possible and even expected for a man of his talents. Duncan is content to simply be the best at his position to have ever played the game. He's content to consistently pull off the improbable -- but well-agreed upon possible -- feats of greatness that typified some of the other all-time greats like Bill Russell, Moses Malone, and Oscar Robertson. There is no shame in that. Kobe Bryant tries to style his game after the elusive probable impossibilities that the fans eat up. Tim Duncan simply does the improbable, night in and night out, with no concern for his fans or ego. There is a fundamental difference in approach in the games of Kobe Bean Bryant and Timothy Theodore Duncan.

Understanding this is key to the heart of the true philosophic rivalry between the perennial foes.

• • •

I am not a probabilist. I had several wonderful professors in my undergraduate education who were, but I quickly discovered that I simply wasn't cut out for it. I don't have the mental faculties to calculate probabilities on the fly, like only the best probabilists can. I'm more of the slow and steady type of statistical thinker -- the model builder, the experimentation enthusiast, the ever-considerate analyst. But there's one excellent anecdote that sticks with me from my probability lectures. One example that my probability professor was fond of involved Shaquille O'Neal and free throws. I walked into class one day only to see a giant picture of Shaq projected on the board, and a random event simulator my professor had programmed beside the picture. I don't remember most of what he said, but a reasonable facsimile of what stuck with me follows:

"Today's lecture begins with an applied example. Shaquille O'Neal is an NBA player. He used to play for the Los Angeles Lakers. He is terrible at free throws. Absolutely awful. In 2001, in just 74 games, Shaq shot 51.3% on 972 free throws. Relative to the NBA average of 74.8% in 2001, that's abhorrent. Still, given that he's essentially shooting a coin flip for each free throw, and shooting a ridiculous 13 free throws per game, what would one expect his best performance to be?"

A brave soul pipes up. "I'd expect him to have a 75% game at some point, professor."

"Interesting. Let's run the simulator a few times. I've programmed the simulator to generate all 972 free throws over and over, giving us the longest streak of made free throws Shaq has assuming that he's truly a 51.3% free throw shooter." He ran it the first time. "In this run, he made 17 straight free throws." Again. "Now, 25 straight." Again. "Now, 15 straight." Again. "Wow. 32 straight makes from Shaq. That's certainly going to have the L.A. Times waxing poetic about his free throw stroke, won't it?"

"How does this compare to reality, though?"

"Glad you asked. Shaq's best performance in a single game was a 100% performance, where he made 13 of 13 free throws in a April 17th win against the Denver Nuggets. In fact, Shaq actually had 12 games of 75% or better free throw shooting, if you count his three in the playoffs. He also had 12 games of 33% or worse. Had he coupled two of his best games from the stripe, he could've gotten 25 straight free throws in a year where he shot 51% overall from the line. We all know the law of large numbers, here -- we know that in the long run Shaq is going to hit that 51% line. After all, we programmed the simulator that way, and he's a career 50-50 shooter. But how he gets there is neither prescriptive or predictable. In the long run, you are more and more likely to see random streaks of sustained performance dramatically better than the average. Or dramatically worse than the average. Shaq also had games of 0-11 and 5-19 in 2001 -- had he chained those together, Shaq could've MISSED 25 in a row in the same season.

"Probability is a funny, tricky mistress. You know you'll be right in the long term if you go by the numbers, but when you're looking at a granular short term in a long string of draws, you're just as likely to be right in a short term prediction as you are to be horribly wrong. That's the curse of being a probabilist. You may have the greatest probability model on the planet, and you may have the perfect probabilities of every event you aim to predict. You're still going to get things wrong, and you're still going to have completely inexplicable streaks. They aren't impossible, and though they are improbable in the long term, they're probable in the short term if you consider the fact that you're looking at a long-run game. Perhaps you can claim them to be unlikely in theory. But in practice, they'll always happen. And as you try to reassure people you know what you're doing, you need to keep this in mind, and realize that you're never going to convince everyone. You will always stop short of a truly perfect prediction. That's the peril of our art. As well as the promise, if you look hard enough."

• • •

Given the subjectivity of probability, then, and the preponderance of temporary dispersions from the long-run average, there should be little question as to why Kobe Bryant is the most popular player of the recent decade, while Duncan finds himself rarely discussed. As I noted earlier, everything between a Steve Nash free throw and a Dwight Howard three is essentially a glorified gray area of what is varying levels of possible. The greatest trick Kobe and Jordan ever played on the world was convincing the commentariat that their shots are impossibilities, but regardless of that probable makes for a true clutch player. Tim Duncan's fatal flaw as an NBA player, if there is one, is that he didn't follow Kobe and Jordan's new world order. It is now required for NBA players to convince the public that their impossible feats are -- while still impossible -- altogether probable when they're in control.

That is the art of clutch basketball, as it stands today. The concept of clutch is aesthetically a concept most akin to painting a picture. As Duncan's Spurs and the Moses Sixers demonstrated time and time again, simply being clutch isn't enough. Simply being a dynasty isn't enough. Not anymore. Bird, Jordan, and Kobe changed the game. In order to be "truly" clutch, or to dominate the ESPN narratives that make the NBA tick, you need to put on a show, and paint the picture that what you're doing is something akin to Sisyphus finally rolling his stone up the hill. It is your responsibility to not only make improbable shots, but to make the audience believe that your exemplary clutch performance is a probable and predetermined success.

Kobe's exaltation of the self and his accomplishments have driven his fans -- and, as a whole, the basketball community -- to simply accept his contradiction. We all know that it's absolutely impossible for Kobe to be as good as we imagine him to be in the clutch, and as Henry Abbott has often pointed out, the numbers indicate that he simply isn't that good. But with the story as he's told it, and the image as he's built it, we have a tough time really grasping that. We have a tough time separating the Kobe of our imaginations from the Kobe that exists in reality. Kobe has positioned himself to, like Jordan, forever straddle the divide between what we all know he'll do and what he can't possibly do. Kobe's image has been carefully developed over the years he's played. And Kobe has, more than anyone, successfully created the air of the probable impossibility around his every action.

Their careers represent the parallel poles of Aristotle's prescription. As stated, Aristotle has always preferred the narrative strength of a Bryant, Jordan, or a Bird. But as Duncan and Kobe suit up for one last mutual grasp at a overwhelming triumph of their ideals, I find myself wondering just how accurate the prescription really is. Duncan may not have sought his audience as Kobe did, but in the end, his accomplishments and philosophy towards his career left its mark on history all the same. And as they cruise towards the end of their respective careers, the prospect is slowly dawning on us. As things stand, the Spurs and Lakers are the 2 and 3 seeds in the west, respectively. How better, then, for one last rodeo to come before the new age fully replaces them? Kobe vs. Duncan, the two philosophers collide once more. The audience sees Kobe, and expects him. Duncan has always been content with idling in obscurity. And as he rallies his troops and prepares to focus once more on a winning formula, I wonder just how long he can keep churning out improbable season after improbable season before we realize that he too has been fording the impossible, vintage 1999.

He just gave us a few years to realize it. Good guy, that Duncan.

• • •

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

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I spent a lot of time this weekend wondering why, exactly, March Madness captivates the nation. It's not an easy question, especially when you consider people like me. Context: I really don't like college basketball. Earnestly, honestly don't. Partly it's because I went to Duke. I didn't have the greatest undergraduate experience in the world, and my distaste for my school's administration and the overlying social schema of the university significantly tempered my enthusiasm for the basketball team. As did my general dislike of Coach Krzyzewski's style of coaching and Duke's occasionally-deserved poor reputation. Outside of Duke, I'm not really a fan of any college teams, and as I just outlined, my Duke fan credentials may be among the weakest out of any sports I actively follow.

And in terms of the actual play quality, March Madness (as with all college basketball) is lacking. There are a myriad of problems with the college game. There's the distastefully long shot clock, the uninteresting offensive strategies, the low talent level, the unnecessarily gimmicky contracted three point line, and the overall low intensity level compared to the best NBA games. The only thing that the college game really has over an NBA game is the crowd effect, but really, that doesn't at all impact how fun to watch a college game is, except perhaps in the last few minutes. Despite all this? I love the first four days of the NCAA tournament. I really do enjoy it. I find it captivating, and I can look past the college game's obvious flaws. If only for four days. But... why?

After some rumination, I think I've solved the puzzle.

• • •

Consider the concept of the bandwagon as applied to sports. Most people hate it. There are a rare few who accept being called a bandwagon fan, and it's used as a pejorative in casual sports talk. "Those damn bandwagon fans." ... "You became a Heat fan after they got LeBron? Bandwagoner." ... "You root for the Steelers, the Yankees, the Lakers, and Duke? I... what?" In sports, among hardcore fans, the bandwagon is synonymous with the negative. In my case, I actually met the person in the 3rd statement on the night Duke won the 2010 championship. It actually ended my night early, and had I not ran into a girl I was crushing on, I would've proceeded to wander all the way back to my dorm as I wondered when I started rooting for the same team as that guy. Yeesh. Suffice to say, the bandwagon is not a positive thing.

Which is not to say the theory of the bandwagon is a bad thing -- if you break from the prescriptions of fandom and the unstated mores of sports, there's a lot of comforting aspects about a bandwagon. Humans are inherently social creatures. In sports, the bond formed by one's rooting interests is strong -- meeting a fellow Indians fan at the airport is an immediate topic of discussion. Meeting a guy with a Kyrie t-shirt at a bar makes my day, and often even my week. Meeting fellow fans of your team is great. By rooting for a team with the largest bandwagon, you maximize the chances of having these bonds with random people. You have a higher probability of being able to find people to watch games with. You have a larger group of people to interact with on a fan-to-fan basis, and (given the general qualities that form a bandwagon) you probably have a significantly higher chance than most of "your team" winning a title and following an entertaining (read: winning) team in most sports. If the idea of being a bandwagon fan wasn't so stigmatized among the "real" fans, we'd probably all realize the odd logic of it from a social perspective.

Except we already do. We just don't admit it to ourselves, yet.

Enter the NCAA tournament. March Madness is an event that essentially demands a bandwagon. Have you ever heard of a sports fan who enjoys the tournament, but only watches games rooting for their team's rooting interests? Sure, I watch the tournament and hope for Duke to do well, but hell if I root for any other team based on my actual rooting interest. I root for close games, fun matchups, and the manna of everyone who watches the tournament: upsets from the underdog! Sure, you may know nothing whatsoever about the team you're rooting for. Hell, until Norfolk State beat Missouri this year, I had absolutely no idea that the school is in Virginia. In fact, it's only an hour or so from where I live, which is a good thing to know in terms of finding basketball in my non-NBA blessed area. But again: I knew nothing about Norfolk State beyond the number next to their name. That was it.

Did that prevent me from screaming my support? Not in the slightest. That's a bandwagon, though a thinly veiled one -- it's a bandwagon for the underdog. At any given moment, you can walk into a room of 20 people watching a game and expect that 19 of them -- like you -- know virtually nothing about the teams playing and are rooting for nothing more than the higher seed to pull the upset. When Ali Farokhmanesh canned his gigantic three pointer in 2010 to eliminate Kansas (a team that I still maintain was the best college team that year, by a rather large margin), there were scarce few around the nation who weren't cheering. "That's what March Madness is all about", they tell us. And they're right. March Madness is a chance for every sports fan in America to throw away the natural predisposition against the bandwagon and experience all the benefits of a bandwagon -- rooting without the pain of losses, the omnipresent bond of a common rooting interest, and the higher probability of being happy with the outcome -- without any of the stigma.

In this sense, March Madness allows sports fans to step out of their self-imposed shell. It allows us to -- for a week or two -- forget all that fandom teaches us about how wrong bandwagons are and participate in them whole hog. We can experience the feeling of rooting with abandon for teams we know virtually nothing about. We can feel that social bond felt by bandwagon fans who can walk into a bar and know that 9/10 casual fans will -- like them -- be happy to see their team's success. We can see and feel all these things, and we can do it without feeling the isolation that bandwagon fans feel when confronted with the hardcore obsessives in every sport. That's what March Madness does for me. And at the end of the day -- low quality basketball accepted -- there's something to be said about having that experience once a year. Pretention be damned. It's fun, harmless, and interesting in small doses. Emphasis on the "small", though. Because if I see another UConn-Butler game, I just might go postal.

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This was an atrocious day of basketball in a lot of ways. The NCAA tournament had one of the least engaging first days it's had in the last 10 years, absolutely devoid of drama or underdog victories -- in today's action, only a single upset occurred (courtesy of 12th seeded VCU, a team I support and enjoy given that I currently live in Richmond). That was also quite literally the only compelling game, with a decent last few minutes for those who sat through a relatively boring first and a quiet second. Otherwise? Terrible tournament action, and barely worth the hype. Up until about mid-morning, it appeared the NBA's trade deadline would be as boring. Luckily for us, that didn't quite happen. Tomorrow we'll be featuring a 3-on-3 style post with Adam, Dewey, and one of our new writers going over some of the results. This is my contribution to the discussion, in the format of four reactions I had to the deals at hand. Hope they inspire some thoughts.

• • •

1. The Bucks and the Warriors both got what they wanted.

This is somewhat odd to say, because I don't totally agree with what the Bucks wanted. But I do think that this is the rare type of trade that's mutually beneficial and takes no advantage of poor GM tendencies on either side. For the Warriors, they're going all-in on a last ditch attempt to clinch a top-7 pick and keep Utah from getting their protected pick in a loaded draft. They traded two rotation players -- one of whom played almost 40 minutes per game and was ostensibly their offensive mainstay -- for a player whose season is over and a player whose contributions this season have been marginal at best (and whom they immediately flipped for a player that duplicates the production of Dorrel Wright). They're considering holding Curry out the entire rest of the year, essentially leaving their fate in the hands of Nate Robinson, an in-and-out David Lee, and a disgruntled team that has almost entirely checked out. They may not get a top seven pick, but it won't be for lack of trying.

As for the future? Murky, but I can't say I'm too down on it. The Warriors -- if they succeed in keeping their pick -- will enter the court next year with an intriguing five-man rotation of Curry, Thompson, Lee, Bogut, and a lottery pick (Kidd Gilchrist, anyone?). Bogut was the best player in the deal given his defensive impact on a team's overall composition and his ability to play big minutes -- his offense has been lacking since the gruesome arm injury, but his defense more than makes up for it. Especially when put next to an offensively talented lineup with Curry, Klay, and Lee. They paid a bit of a price to do it, parting with a young all-defense bench man in Udoh and their talented (albeit cancerous) scorer in Monta. All the while taking on the Bucks' worst contract. But they've built a team well designed to tank the rest of this season and come back next season with a much higher ceiling. It's actual progress towards a contending franchise, in other words, something that the Warriors have been virtually allergic to in the last decade. I can't knock that.

As for the Bucks? They want the playoffs this year, and the revenue that entails. They want to rebuild the franchise's image in Milwaukee by making the playoffs and putting together an exciting team. With Ilyasova, Jennings, and Monta? They have that. It's an oddly composed bunch, and it has a high probability of blowing up. But they replaced two players that weren't going to be playing for the rest of the season with a talented scorer and a talented backup big man. The Bucks are -- as we sit -- in the 8th spot in the East. They may have just strengthened their team enough to punch their ticket. As for expanding the team from here? We'll see. They have a ceiling right now as a middling eastern team. That's not fantastic, but if they can just get healthy and get there, perhaps then they'll have the ability to trade up with their extra cap space and start really contending. Until then, a trade where they freed loads of cap space and acquired two young, talented players will have to do. Not bad.

• • •

2. The Cavaliers were jobbed, and Cavs fans are being ridiculous.

Look. I understand the general logic that the supporters of the trade tend to peddle -- Cleveland had to hit the cap floor, and the deal was about getting something for Sessions. Anything. But taking on Walton? Walton's contract isn't just bad, it's toxic money for a player who is worse than nothing. Ramon Sessions was not a good fit for this year's Cleveland team, and Cavs fans were endlessly frustrated with his penchant for freezing out Kyrie and refusing to give up the ball. I realize that. But he was in no way a low-value commodity. If you look at the Laker trade logically, the Cavs paid almost $7 million dollars (Luke's salary when you add the trade kicker that makes it even higher) in dead weight non-expiring salary to acquire the 25th pick in the 2012 draft. Because to the Lakers, the pick is how much it would've cost them to peddle Luke onto any team in the league, even disregarding sending the Lakers any salary at all. They wanted -- and needed -- to get Luke off their books. The draft pick wasn't for Sessions. It was to do the Lakers a favor and take their worst contract. Then, after having done that, the Cavs traded Ramon Sessions for the rights to swap the Heat's 2013 pick with the Lakers' 2013 pick. Think about it that way, and you begin to see how odd of a trade it was.

In the long term, this isn't the worst deal in the world for the Cavs. But the idea that the Cavs couldn't have done anything with that money is absurdly short-sighted. Teams regularly send picks over to other teams to take bad contracts -- with the Cavs' monster cap space, Chris Grant could've pulled off some cost-cutting acquisitions for other owners to ensure they stay under the tax. Several second rounders, possibly some late firsts, etc. And while he still can, Luke's awful contract going to seriously endanger the Cavs' ability to ensure a clean book going forward if Grant does the sort of cap rentals that can net the Cavs picks. Ramon Sessions was far, far more valuable than a pick swap in 2013. No matter what your opinion of his game is. At the very least, to make this trade even remotely fair, Grant could've drawn in Andrew Goudelock or Devin Ebanks instead of Kapono. Just some sort of young and marginally talented player for the Cavs to take a flyer on. Instead, the Cavs get two busted contractual husks and paid almost $10 million dollars to acquire a terrible draft pick. Was it worth it? Could they have put more pressure on the Lakers and done better, getting Goudelock or Ebanks instead of Kapono? Or refused to take Walton altogether and forced the Lakers to use their TPE? Of that I have no doubt.

And for that reason, I can't really say I have any reaction to this trade beyond a gross taste in my mouth and some residual annoyance from being repeatedly told on Twitter that Boosh (from I Go Hard Now) and I were not real Cavs fans for being quite low on the overall trade. Really, guys. It wasn't a good trade. It wasn't a strictly atrocious trade, but there's no way you could call it a good one.

• • •

3. The Thunder were -- outside of the Nets -- the biggest deadline losers.

I'll try to keep this short, as I didn't mean for these to be quite this long. But I'm of the strong opinion that besides the Nets (whose awful deadline is mostly due to Dwight's decision rather than any mistakes of their own volition), there isn't a team in the league who had a worse trade deadline than the Thunder. Why? Simply put, the West looks a lot stronger right now, and the Rockets -- a team the Thunder have already lost to twice and a team that seems to be forming an odd rivalry with the Thunder -- immensely strengthened their team and increased their chances of getting to the playoffs in the 8th seed. Much like the Grizzlies of last year were to the #1 seed Spurs, the Rockets getting the 8th seed would be the worst-case-scenario situation for the Thunder. The Rockets love playing them, always get up for the games, and just added two key pieces that will pay dividends in the playoffs, at least for one year. The Rockets really do remind me of last year's Grizzlies, and that should scare the Thunder.

Beyond that, the Lakers returned to strong contender status. The Spurs didn't strictly improve, but they didn't really get worse either. The Grizzlies are a scant few days from Z-Bo's return. The Clippers just got Nick Young for absolutely nothing. Beyond the Thunder (who did nothing), the Mavs (who emphatically did nothing), and the Nuggets (who got a tad worse), everyone looks just a wee bit better. The West looks significantly more formidable now, and although the Thunder spent the early season lapping everyone, if nothing else the playing field looks to be a bit more fraught with peril come playoff time. That's bad news for a team that will enter the playoffs as the odds-on favorite in any year, but it goes double for a year where we'll be seeing back-to-backs in the first two rounds and added randomness in the playoffs. Watch out, Oklahoma City.

• • •

4. Prepare for some awful basketball, folks.

Finally, the capper to the post. Prepare for a lot of really, really bad games. One unfortunate consequence of the constant firesales is that there are now at least 5 teams aboard the tanking bandwagon. For the rest of the season, Portland and Golden State are going to be trying for picks as early as they can get. The Cavs are desperately trying to avoid Kyrie's attempt to play them all the way out of the lottery. The Warriors probably need to go 5-22 if they'd like to ensure they keep their pick -- if they do this, they'll essentially be throwing every game on the road and playing like one of the worst teams in the history of the NBA for the remainder of the season.

This has a cascading effect. When teams play tanking teams, they don't tend to try very hard, and coaches tend to rest their players. So don't be particularly surprised if not only are the tanking teams incredibly excruciating watches, their opponents are atrocious as well. And don't be particularly surprised if the miasma -- already hanging over this season's head -- spreads to more as the fatigue grows worse and more teams start tanking for Anthony Davis after his predictably long and beastly tournament run.

It's a rough life, I suppose. At least the lockout's over...?

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"I feel they have to roll the dice. It might be tough, but I feel we've got a great opportunity. But they've got to roll it." -- Dwight Howard, 48 hours prior to the 2012 Trade Deadline.

There was a general outrage at this comment, a persistent thread. Doubt, confusion, denial. Could Dwight Howard have really been so flip with the future of his franchise? With the emotions of his fans? It defied logic. Much like everything surrounding the Dwightmare that consumes us as we find ourselves barreling closer to the penultimate act in the sordid demise of Howard's everyman image. Nobody as nice as Howard portrays himself could've thought it wise to publicize that kind of a challenge. Unless, of course, it's an act -- a ruse not unlike that of every NBA General Manager in history.

You see, this comment is not one-of-a-kind. It's the latest in a long line of superstars asking their front offices to take a leap of faith. There is a secret handbook that every GM receives upon their ascension. It details many of the commonplace pitfalls and risks inherent in their new position. It tells of the failures of GMs long past, and the successes that they could emulate. It tells of the lines they cannot cross and the lines they can freely ignore. Most importantly? It contains a litany of warnings. One of them, word for word? "Thou shalt be forced to roll the dice. (Or, more likely, pressured into it by an unhappy star.)" True story. Otis Smith is not the first GM to be forced into taking his personal roll in the history of the league.

With this in mind, let's take a walk back through time and examine some prior rolls.

• • •

8:23 P.M. June 15, 1975. Milwaukee, WI.

Cigar smoke hung around the room. The lines in Wayne Embry's face told a story, if you knew how to listen. Unfortunately, the artist formerly known as Lew Alcindor did not. He sat across the desk, nose upturned with a bemused expression. Wayne was not as amused. "Come on. You can't be leaving me out to dry like this."

"I'm being honest. I'm not going to resign in Milwaukee. You knew that all along."

"I always thought you were joking, and besides, I'm your GM now. We have a different partnership."

Kareem sighed. "Look. I'll say it again. I want out. I told Sports Illustrated I hate Milwaukee. I'm doing everything I can to ruin my reputation with our fans. And if you don't trade me to the franchise I want, I'm going to go from the NBA to the ABA and jump ship to the Nets. You don't think that our new Commissioner might be a bit... say, mad at you if I do that? Might want to make you the fall guy? After all, it's a rare GM that damages the league so much as to let the league's reigning MVP -- and one-time champion -- jump ship to the rival league. And let's be honest. With me in the ABA, they'll be the better league."

"This is depressing."

"To whom? Me, or you? I think it's cruel to keep the best basketball player on the planet -- and arguably the greatest ever -- cooped up in this hell-hole. Let me out. Stop this nonsense and trade me. You can roll the dice, Wayne, and see if I follow through. Try for one more title, hoping it'll save your job. Or you can do the right thing and make the trade. Everyone will understand. I've given you more than enough deniability for the board of directors. You'll keep your job. I enjoy your company that much. We're still friends, Wayne."

"Do I really need to take this terrible Lakers offer? You're worth much more."

"You can't trade a star for a star, Wayne. Especially when everyone knows how the story ends. Just take the peanuts. It'll pay off later, I'm sure. The Bucks will be back. But it won't be with me, it won't be with Oscar, and it sure as hell won't be with Dr. J. Why did you draft him, again? You really thought you'd pry a man like him up here if I can't take it?" Wayne motioned for Kareem to leave. He shrugged, took a cigar for the road, and left.

The next day, Kareem was a Laker.

• • •

11:31 P.M. June 10, 2000. San Antonio, TX.

R.C. Buford paced the halls of the Alamodome. When will he call? He'd been waiting for hours. Just a few days prior, Tim Duncan had returned from his all-expense paid trip to Orlando. Grant Hill had bought in days ago, and agreed to sign in Orlando as a free agent. This terrified the Spurs war room. They had plans, but no piece on their roster was nearly as attractive as Hill. In his scant 6 years, Hill had already become the Pistons franchise leader in triple doubles. He was arguably the most talented wing still playing, and he was young. He was improving, even. The Spurs had an aging David Robinson, a sick Sean Elliot, and the hometown advantage. But that was essentially it, and with Duncan making a living out of being laid back, it was impossible for any of them to get a read on what he was thinking.

Buford had met with Popovich and Robinson shortly after Tim's return. David had taken a detour from his family's long-planned Hawaiian vacation. The break infuriated his wife, but he had to do it -- the big man felt a kinship with Duncan, and while the Kobe-Shaq Lakers looked to be a strong challenge, he had faith that his talents with Duncan's could overcome them if the franchise drafted well. Robinson had met with Tim, and though he couldn't tell Buford of the decision, he said things looked hopeful. But Buford wouldn't be optimistic until he heard it from the man himself. Popovich said the same.

There was a tell-tale ring, and Buford jumped. Damn nerves. He answered. "Hello?"

"I am in your office, R.C." There was a click as the other line went dead. Buford looked around nervously and went for his office. He rattled the handle, knocked and opened the door. The room was too dark to see. He flipped on the light switch. There was fog rising from the floor. Tim Duncan was sitting at his desk, enrobed and besmocked with a large wizard hat. There was a game board sprawled across Buford's desk and a stack of papers he could've sworn weren't there before. Duncan was flipping idly through a book. Behind him sat Mike Brown, eating licorice.

"Hello, R.C."

"Tim... excuse my french, but what the fuck?"

"I would like to play a game of Dungeons and Dragons with you. In my experience, it's the best way to reliably gauge who a man really is. It's second only to killing a man, and as I am not in the business of murder, I prefer wizards and Renaissance fairs and that sort of stuff. You know. That's how I operate, as it is."

"... does this mean you're going to re-sign with the Spurs?"

"Oh, yeah. No, there was never any actual doubt about that. I mean, Orlando is nice and all, but it doesn't have a beach. That's a serious problem for me. I'm from the Virgin Islands, remember, and my real passion is surfing."

"Uh, San Antonio doesn't have a beach either."

"Oh. Guess I'm going to Orlando after all, nevermind. Mike, let's go."

"Tim! Wait!"

"That was a joke, R.C. I'd like to be known as a jokester from now on. I think that will improve team morale. Anyway, pull up a chair and do your roll check. I've got a great game plan. It's really a pity David and Pop couldn't make it, this was gonna be so much more fun with all of you."

Buford pulled up a chair and pointed to Mike Brown. "Why is he here?"

"Because he inexplicably owns a fog machine. I wanted some licorice, too. Roll the dice, R.C."

• • •

7:38 P.M. June 25, 2009. New York City, NY.

It's draft night at Madison Square Garden. A lot of strong talent in this class. A wealth of great prospects for the team administration to salivate over. Jay Bilas, there to wax philosophical about everyone's length. Fun times were had by all. Except, unfortunately, for David Khan. He sat alone in the Timberwolves war room. He'd kicked everyone else out, you see. This was the time for David to make the decisions. He was feeling very high on his capacity to make decisions on this night.

"Someday, this town is gonna be mine, David." He paused for dramatic emphasis. "Yes. You have made the moves. You've done the dirty work. And now you're on the precipice of a revolution. Or is it a revelation?" Khan twirled around. "It's both. Both, David. You know this. We know this. We're working together. You traded Mike Miller and Randy Foye for the 5th pick, which was probably the most egregiously one-sided trade since the Pau Gasol deal. You are picking 5th and 6th in the draft. We have scores and scores of talent ahead of us. But what will they be expecting?"

Khan pounded his fist on the table. "A BIG MAN! FILLING A NEED! Gross! They think we'll take Jordan Hill! Or DeJuan Blair! Or Terrence Williams. Someone who fills a need. But little did they know... oh... little did they know." Khan laughed. "I've solved the puzzle. I know how the Timberwolves can contend. I have scouted all of these players, through the power of my latent telepathy. I need not watch the games when I can feel them. And I know that Ricky Rubio is the second greatest point guard in the history of Spain, behind only the late Miguel de Cervantes. This pick is obvious. He has fallen to me, and I am going to take it." An intern knocked on the door. "ENTER!" A mousy college freshman entered timidly. He was scared. "Speak."

"Uh, sir... we only have 1 minute to send in the 6th pick."

"Boy, I have chosen Rubio. That is done. It's soliloquy time, now."

"Mr. Khan, we already picked him with the 5th pick. This is the pick after the 5th."

Khan gasped. "No! My dear intern, what have I done! I have retreated too far into the realm of fantasy and forgotten that I -- David Khan -- had already chosen Ricky Rubio with the 5th pick in the NBA draft! I must guard against such self absorption in the future."

"That's cool. We have like 30 seconds to pick a guy now, sir."

"Oh, uh... hey, who was that one guy from that great six overtime game that Syracuse won?"

"Jonny Flynn, I think."

"Khan's will be done. Roll the dice, young intern. I'm picking Jonny."

(Khan took 4 point guards in the first round. Jonny Flynn has shot under 40% in his NBA career.)

Fin.

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How do you follow a truly dismal team in your favorite sport? Like grieving the dead, everyone handles a 20-win team differently: Some prefer irrational optimism. Others would rather verbally abuse everyone in and around their awful squad, especially the optimistic folks. Others still simply switch teams, because they can't handle watching their favorite franchise mire in the cellar. There's no one right answer. But there are a few ways you can make your life-as-the-cellar fandom a little bit easier. And for today's post, I'm going to share just that. This is my general guide to following a terrible team. Keep in mind that the majority of this post was conceived in 2011 when the Cavs were going through "The Streak." You might not think this applies to you, but remember: For every great team there will always be a terrible team. And to fans of that poor franchise, advice like this will always be timely. And today's two seed might be tomorrow's lottery-bound trogdolytes. You never know, with the NBA. (Unless you're a Laker fan. Then you can stop reading this post.) In any case, I hope it helps. Let's get on with it.

• • •

There are two main points to keep in mind, for the general mindset.

Don't watch every single game: The first part is somewhat obvious, but bears repeating -- if your team is slated for a <20 win season, I beg you, don't watch them all. No one will be upset at you. It's an unfortunate situation, and it's fine for you to be reasonable about it. Watch as many as you need to know your guys, sure. But you simply can't watch them all. I watched a handful over 50 games during the Cavs' 2011 season. And I'm a sports blogger who generally watches one or two games a night, or at least tries to on a regular basis. I think if I'd watched any more, I'd probably have lost it and torn my Big Z jersey in half. Honest.

Develop some other rooting interests: Don't be a bandwagoner, obviously, but if I were you, I'd certainly figure out guys on other teams that you have inexplicable ties with or to whom you take a general liking. For me, those highlights were Steve Nash, Andre Iguodala, and Manu Ginobili. Maybe those specific guys will work out for you, maybe they won't. It's not just to tide you over: In fact, my love for my adopted Spurs was generally rooted in my liking for Tim Duncan and David Robinson as Cavs fans suffered the the legendarily awful teams at the turn of the millenium, and now we have a blog named after Manu. Go figure. My point is that you can find things you like watching, if you want to watch ball.

These two points are related: If you subject yourself to 82 games of dreck, you will give up on the game of basketball. You're going to give it up. I mean, it's doubtful even your PLAYERS want to sit there for all 82 games -- you certainly aren't a lesser fan if you don't want to sit through that. If you want to maintain a healthy fandom towards the game (and by extension your own team), you quickly realize that you need to break up the monotony of failure with a healthy dollop of "hey, woah, Steve Nash is having a vintage night! I love Steve Nash! Let's turn the channel and see him do his thing." This transference serves a double purpose. First, it reminds you that someday your franchise will have a highly-regarded draft pick fall into its lap and you'll have your own Steve Nash to prance about. It's also good because it reminds you that life is not terrible and worthless. And that Steve Nash is still alive. That's always fun, you know?

That's not to say you don't ever want to watch your team. When you do watch your own team, however, you need to take a slightly different approach. One thing that always helped me through the doldrums for the Cavs was when I got irrationally optimistic over some of our bit players. On the 2011 Cavs, that was Jamario Moon's big role (and Manny Harris, to some extent). I went into the season thinking Jamario would prove himself to be a starting caliber small forward and average something like 15-5-5 with decent shooting numbers on a fringe playoff team. I was clearly... ahem... wrong about that. But Jamario was still a fun player to root for, night-in and night-out. His defensive effort was always atrocious but he had a playful circus dribble he'd developed as a Globetrotter and his bench reactions to big shots or crazy events were always essential. He was fun to watch, if you squinted and ignored the fact that he was atrociously unfit for the NBA game at this point of his career. There were certainly Cavs games where the only really fun moment was Jamario breaking out some insanely stupid cross dribble that inevitably would result in a turnover but -- despite the constant failure -- looked fun and entertained me. There have to be players like that, even if you partially find them fun because you revel in how awful they are (like, say, Gana Diop or Sasha Pavlovic).

I like to think of rooting for a bad team as being on a swing set. You know the type. Remember when you were in elementary school, and you'd always want to get on the swing set at lunch? One of your friends would push you as you feebly kicked your feet for momentum, and you'd go wildly back and forth until you got dizzy and wanted to get the hell off. That's how you can expect your emotions to oscillate during the lean years. You'll have games that make you think "oh, wow, Manny Harris is sure gonna be a starting caliber NBA shooting guard someday" or "wow, we're one piece and a little bit of coaching away from being a passable excuse for an NBA team!" You'll almost immediately thereafter suffer games that make you wonder whether your team has ever seen a basketball before, and games where you wonder if your team would be improved if it acquired Matlock in free agency as the point guard of the future. I'd say "try to keep these oscillations to a minimum", but that's honestly a bunch of bull. You can't. Try as you might, you are going to think all these things, if only fleetingly, and they will alternatingly please and haunt you. It's your lot as a fan of a bad team. A good approach to take is: "We're not as good as we look; we're not as bad as we look." Unfortunately, the truth lies somewhere that you, as a fan, will never be able to access it. Sorry about that, and enjoy what you can.

Having gone over the general state of mind of the depressed fan, let's run through some positives. There are a few.

• Cheap seats. Insanely so. One of my friends actually was continually able to scalp literally free tickets to the Cavs back in 2011. If not free, he usually got decent upper levels for 10-20 and lower levels for 40 and under. It's not quite as cheap as a bad MLB team, but it's certainly cheap enough if you pick the right games. And the lessened financial burden on attending games has a few fringe benefits. You can take some time to sit in different seats around the stadium and actually get a sense of where the most commonly underpriced-for-the-view seats are (for my money, upper right corner in most arenas). You can get to know some of the concessions staff and -- if you can afford lower deck tickets -- some of the scoreboard jockeys and get on TV. You can develop the sort of "street cred" of a longtime fan that's incredibly expensive and borderline impossible to build up if you have a franchise that's actually good enough to demand high ticket prices. (Or, regrettably, one that vastly overprices their seats no matter how good the team is -- I'm looking at you, New York.)

• Meet other depressed fans. This isn't totally a relevant story, but I'll tell it anyway -- my first long term girlfriend was a girl I met at a terrible sporting event. At the time, I didn't like baseball all that much, and she didn't either -- we were both at a huge baseball stadium to watch a game, I noticed she was reading a book, and the game was so awful I couldn't bear to watch much more. Lacking transport back to my dorm, I decided to walk over and see if I couldn't bond over the dismal show. Sure enough, the team being as bad as it was gave us something to break the ice, we went home, and that was that. In the same sense, you have a common bond with every single fan in that stadium -- you're watching a team that you desperately wish wasn't so bad. I realize that there are a lot of antisocial people, but lord, bad sporting events are GREAT places to (if you feel up to it) get a bit tipsy and meet fellow fans. Make a few game buddies. Meet some people in a new town, or some circles you didn't know existed. Who knows, you might even be like me and end up randomly dating one of them for a year.

• Players notice you. This is something I haven't dealt with personally, but something I've had ample friends have good luck with. Players on bad teams get significantly less mail and fan attention than players on good teams. That's a fact of life and a totally understandable bias. However, players on bad teams don't think they're bad players per se -- players on bad teams (and, really, people in all walks of life) prefer to think of themselves as people who are good at their job but who have been thrust into a bad situation. If you like a player on your team, or you want an autograph, or you want to send some fan mail, you're far more likely to get noticed and responded to if you're a fan of a bad team. I know one friend who sent letters to his favorite Piston during their title years -- no response. A year back, he sent another letter of appreciation -- got back a signed photo and a thank you note. It's easier for players to blow off fan support as bandwagon junk mail when the team is good. When the team is bad, fandom shines a bit more and players seem to be a bit more receptive to autographs, praise, and encouragement. Fact of life.

• • •

Few actually consider these benefits when they complain about rooting for a bad team. And there's a good reason for that. They're kind of inconsequential. Sure, you can luck into some really amazing benefits -- teams tend to reward loyalty during the doldrums, so if you actually maintain season tickets during a down period, you're quite likely going to end up with upgraded seats next time the team is good. And the amount of credibility you get with other fans for sticking with your bad team is nice. But the fact that you lose all ability to trash talk kind of sucks. The fact that most of these become null and void if you don't live in the same area as your team anymore. The fact that nobody but the fellow fans can really get what you're going through on a fan-based level -- the memories of a sports fan are rather fickle, and while I certainly remember my time watching a hopeless cellar dweller, my empathy is limited because for the most part I simply block out the terrible year and focus only on the hope for the future.

Which, in the end, brings us back to the single biggest thing to keep in mind when following a dismal team. It will end. Give a team enough high lottery picks, and it may seem like hundreds of years away, but your team will eventually be competing for a playoff spot again. We can debate all day exactly how much better that is than being a truly terrible all-time bad team. But anyone who's rooted for a "worst team of all time" candidate knows the truth. It's better. And everyone who's rooted for one of those teams -- excepting, of course, this year's Bobcats (yet) -- knows that it gets better. Your team will not be terrible forever. You will not be hopeless forever. And eventually, you'll see people tweeting about the next awful team and -- instead of writing those tweets yourself -- you'll knowingly nod, retweet it with a nod to your past, and ignore it. Because you'll be in the future, your team will be good, and you'll be far too busy playing 3D Chess with Q to really focus on the plight of Twitter's Cardboard Sarver.

Now, all that said, let's return to the present and join hands in a prayer for Cardboard Gerald.

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Who would honestly appreciate a "superfan" on a personal level? Let's say you're related to someone who calls himself the biggest fan of your team who has ever lived. Let's pretend he has a solid case, and is unreasonably obsessed with your team. Do you find yourself proud of the depth of his hobby? Or perhaps just sketched out by the general air of creepiness that pervades the most obsessive of fans? For my money, I've always thought that I'd probably be rather unimpressed if I was related to a superfan -- I'd certainly appreciate their ability to enjoy life and throw themselves full hog into their pet hobbies, but I don't think I'd be able to get past the obsessive tendencies and the other things they could be doing with their money. I don't think I'd really like a superfan in real life, if I had to spend too much time around them. On a personal level.

And that's sort of the key. As a concept rather than a person, I don't think you'd find a single sports fan who doesn't harbor a tincture of respect for the hardiest of diehards. We may -- and we often do -- laugh at other team's superfans. We don't understand why they do what they do. But at our team's games, somewhere in our cold and barren hearts, we find it in ourselves to root for the crazy person on the jumbotron who's painted their face with the logo and is wearing enough official team merchandise to feed a poor Ethiopian family for a months. We see them dancing on the screen and we feel the kinship wrought of what may very well be the only singular thing that connects us. When we see the superfan, we know we root for the same guys. They galvanize us into a semi-patriotic fury that only dies down when we've left the stadium and had some time to reflect on how absolutely silly sports is. But for that moment, the superfan is the MVP of the arena, and the MVP in the hearts of many fans.

And then you've got the Clippers!

• • •

Having read the Clippers' statement, I can partially see where they're coming from. The Clippers feel that Clipper Darrell's persona is ripping off the Clipper brand. That's not altogether wrong. They feel that Clipper Darrell does not represent their organization, and that in his manner of dress and presentation, he was allowing ambiguity that made people think he did. That's fair. They do not want people who aren't under their employ to be profiting off their brand, and they don't like having someone out there with the Clipper name that they can't really control. It all theoretically makes a ton of sense, and all seems rather par for the course. They even offered him a free season ticket (something they haven't to my knowledge offered him on a regular basis -- he's had a technically reserved seat, and it's had the same occasional upgrades most long-time season ticketholders are rewarded with after 10+ years. But like any season ticket holder, it appears he's paid for it.) if he'd cease and desist. They've done things by the book, finally. Right?

Well, no. There are three main points at which the perfectly logical case I presented absolutely falls apart. First, Darrell has been doing this for over a decade. If the Clippers really wanted him to quit it, why didn't they do something about it years ago? Why let it get to this point at all? The Clippers have never been opposed to having a fan drive around Los Angeles promoting the Clipper name in his quasi-insane, quasi-brilliant Clippermobile whose modifications cost $14,000 and 3 months of hard work on Darrell's part. The free publicity Darrell brings the franchise has a certain inherent advertising value that -- when there's no other positive aspects present to build up fan interest in a cellar-dwelling staple -- helps keep casual fans happy and occasionally drives a nice little human interest story that drums up a few ticket sales. The Clippers understood that, and had no problem cashing in on it when times were bad. The idea that they can now tell him to throw the car -- and the persona -- away because he's making a few more dollars on it is somewhat shocking. They reaped the benefits for the last few years, now he doesn't get to make a few bucks?

Which leads me to my second point, and the one that really infuriates me. Please look at this picture.

Are you seriously going to tell me that this shirt makes him money? REALLY? How many people honestly own this shirt? How many people would WANT to own this shirt? This is Ringo Starr MSPaint artwork with less taste. If Darrell wanted to make money, he probably would need to actually be providing merchandise that isn't absolutely atrocious. He'd also most likely need to be charging more than the absolute minimum for the shirts -- back in college I was on a dorm council that had to find a T-Shirt vendor that would sell individual dorm shirts. I quickly discovered that $15.00 a pop was about the best you could do if you intended to make a profit -- most vendors would take enough off the top that charging below around $13 dollars would generally mean you'd actually be subsidizing your tenants' shirts. He's charging $9.99 for this crummy, atrocious shirt -- which is still too much, but it's a fair sight under what he'd need to be charging to make selling T-Shirts profitable. Which leads to the question of how Darrell is making money at all. If he's making more than $100-$200 a month, I'd be shocked -- and this isn't money that the Clippers would be otherwise getting, because anyone who's obsessed with Darrell enough to buy his merchandise or hire him to speak at an event surely already spends more than enough on the Clippers. They aren't just going to replace "Clipper Darrell expenses" with "more Clippers gear." He's not INFRINGING on their profits, and even if he was, the scale of his profits is so absurdly small that it's the equivalent of losing a few quarters under your seat cushion and having your crazy uncle search the couch and take the money. Are you going to order him to leave the house and get mad at him for it? Probably not, because in the long run, a few cents in the couch is absolutely nothing compared to the money you make in a year. The general tenor of the Clippers' note indicates he has some kind of insane sponsorship deal -- that's fine, I suppose, and it's reasonable for the Clips to want to stop that. Or they could've gotten him to give them a cut, instead. Or... really, anything but what they did.

Which brings me to the third reason why I can't buy the logical case. Did you actually read that press release? I may be off the mark, but I think it may be the pettiest press release I have ever read in my life. This is an entire organization -- a hundred plus people -- literally releasing a screed questioning whether one of their biggest fans is "actually a fan." Clipper Darrell turned down a job offer from Mark Cuban to do the exact same thing for the Mavericks, while the Mavs were in the midst of deep playoff contention. Were he not a true fan, it would stand to reason that he'd take a job with unprecedented inside access and a wealthy, supportive owner doing something for a salary that he currently does while paying out the nose. You could make that leap. You could also find someone -- anyone -- to read your press releases before you send them out, just to make certain it doesn't come across as the most arrogant and farcical letter since Gilbert's post-decision screed. Actually, this is worse. At least Gilbert's screed was focused on someone in his stratosphere of wealth. This is the Clippers' organization picking on a random fan because -- god forbid -- the fan stuck with the franchise so long he became inextricably connected to the franchise and is making a few hundred a month selling awful T-Shirts at a small profit, doing charity events that make your franchise look better, and being silly and embarrassing for money. That's all.

• • •

It's often said that the most meaningful fiction is that which imitates life. In the case of the Clippers, it's the opposite, and it's more like life imitating farce. We could make all the jokes we want about Dan Gilbert for his letter, and he deserves them. But this bush league Clipper response to one of their most loyal fans is beyond farce, and beyond all the worst stereotypes and expectations we could've had for the franchise. It's all the worst stereotypes about the Clippers distilled into one easy to digest package. It's as if Sterling knows we forget he's an awful person. He realizes that the team is good enough he actually has to actively remind us of his flawed priorities and why the Clippers have been so dismal for the last decade. And while I may be overreacting, I don't really think of this as solely a reflection on Darrell. As I started the post with, if I knew Darrell in real life, I probably wouldn't like him that much. But it's the principle of the matter. It's how they went about it. And more than anything, it's the utterly incoherent standards by which they came to this decision now, of all times. The Clippers aren't a joke at this point. They're a premeditated farce that happens to be good at basketball.

If this is any indication, that's all Sterling really wants to be.

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So, earlier today, the fantastic folks at Basketball Reference released to the public a marvelous database. It includes a highly interfaced and searchable play-by-play database for the past 10 years. This is, quite frankly, incredible. There's virtually nothing your heart desires that you can't search for -- player performance by the time left in the game, detailed stats of what happens when players make certain plays, team performance in certain situations... I don't think I'm being overly sycophantic when I say that this is among the greatest single advances in easily interfaced, searchable, and public statistical databases in the world of NBA statistics. There may never be any one or two people who mine the database for all the insight you can get from it. Ever. Long story short, it provides an easy way to answer certain questions, and the ability to learn how to raise better ones. To that end, I'll be doing a series of posts where I graphically demonstrate certain things that this database allows one to easily find. I hope that these will be useful to you. They're certainly interesting, if nothing else. Today's introductory topic as I sift through the data for interesting insights: how are assists distributed among the league's best setup men? Who are their most prolific partners? When in the game do they get them -- and what's the score when it happens?

Interesting questions. And it's easier to scratch at answers than ever. Let's dive in.

• • •

For this post, I'm producing graphs for the top 15 players in the league in AST% as of all games played on the 14th of February, 2012. Valentine's day! Because we love assists, here at the Gothic. For the data, you can go to our spreadsheet (or just search Basketball Reference yourself, obviously). I'm going to abstain from commentary in the post proper, because these graphs took a while to make and I think they speak for themselves quite well. I will commentate in the comments, if anyone wants to start a discussion. A few definitions, in case it's not immediately obvious. The charts are ordered 1 to 15 by assist percentage (or, the percentage of shots they assist when on the floor). Assists by margin refers to the margin of the game when the assist was made -- in theory, the "ideal" point guard would have more assists in a close game than in a game broken open. The assist target pie chart refers to, as one might expect, the players who completed the most baskets that the point guard (or the only non-point on this list, LeBron James) assisted on.

An interesting aspect (and one that I highlighted by using the team's secondary color to emphasize) of point guard play is what percentage of assists came from players outside their top 5 targets -- or, how many of their assists came from (usually) players they share less time with. Ricky Rubio is the best guard at taking advantage of the "others", with more assists coming to players outside his top five than any of those five individually. On the other end of the spectrum, Kyrie Irving has only registered eight assists outside his "main" five targets -- partly a reflection of the dismal quality of those others at finishing plays, perhaps partly an indicator that Kyrie's chemistry with the outer fringes of the Cavaliers pales to that of Ramon Sessions. The why is not our object, here, only the what. Assists by quarter is relatively self explanatory, and at the bottom of each infographic, you can see a demonstration through bars of how many of that guard's assists came on three point shots as opposed to two pointers (one area where Deron rules all comers).

All that said, here are the rest of the graphs. Enjoy.

• • •

Hope you enjoyed this trip through the seedy world of "hand-making infographics in Photoshop". For my next trick, I'll pass out in bed! Adieu, readers.

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Story based off Dave Murphy's Sager series, most recently Blue Velvet.

"So, this is my station." Craig Bartholomew Sager gesticulated with one hand while loosely adjusting the wheel with his other. "My jams, so to speak. I've never gotten a chance to talk about them with anyone, and I'm glad you're here to listen. Now, that's kind of funny. 'Here to listen' is just one word from 'hear' to listen. That's how listening works!"

Robert gave Sager a sidelong glance. "Isn't that the same word?"

"Hah, no, one is location-dependent and the other is something you do. You know? Here versus hear. They're homophones... Shaq always laughs when I use that word. But I learned it back in elementary school when things were different. It's a good word."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "Okay, Mr. Sager."

"Call me Craig. Anyway. You'd think this is any old local radio station, right? That's what you'd think. Right?" Robert nodded. "Well, you'd be right. Because this is my radio station from back home."

"Is it a tape of a radio station? I noticed your tape deck is on. I got kinda confused."

"You're smarter than the average bear, Robert. Yes, this is a tape of my local radio station I made back in the day, in the lean years. It's wearing down, but there's something comforting about it. I'd make a new one but I can't bear to give up Jim, here. He's the radio personality. He's dead now. But this, back when he was with us, is simply a great tape. Closest any man can get to perfect. Listen." Beaming, Sager turned up the dial.

The sound was cracking to an almost unlistenable extent. Atop the degradation by time inherent in any old cassette, the tape had an incredible amount of radio interference and random forest sounds. Which confused Robert, but not enough to ask why. As for the tape's true owner, none of that really mattered. He'd listened to the station his entire life. If there was interference, it was only covering up a catchphrase he already knew. He didn't need crisp audio to get it all stuck in his head. And that was the point, to let it stick. For Robert's money, though, it was virtually impossible to listen to. He winced at the volume.

"Isn't this a bit loud? And scratchy? Your tape has to be dying by now. You should tape a new one."

"Whoa now, Robert, don't be rash. Just because the tape is fading doesn't mean it's dying." Sager smiled his toothy grin as he turned the knob down. Robert prepared to riposte, but Sager interrupted him with laughter. "Hah! You hear that, Rob? It's his catchphrase. 'Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift. That's why it's called the present.' Untrue, you know, but I think it's a lot deeper than it sounds. Always have. It's a great line, really, and that's what Jim is known for. Er, was known for. He's dead now." A song started playing, with a telltale drum beat. The organ started. Sager started bobbing his head.

Robert knew the score. "One of my favorite one hit wonders. Brandi, right? Looking Glass?"

Craig turned it down a touch more, so he could speak. "Yes, sir! Such a great song... 'and there's a girl / in this harbor town / and she works / laying whiskey down / they say Brandi... fetch another round, she serves them whiskey and wine...' hah, man. Those were the days. I usually sing along to this one. I'll refrain for your benefit. But lord, the memories. Back in high school, there was a girl named Brandy. I used to tell her, you know, 'you're a fine girl' and nudge her. She always rolled her eyes. The song is beautiful, though, I never understood why she did that. If I knew any songs about a faceless Craig that were this good, I'd be blaring them to the world as a constant reminder. How about you? Ever listen to 'Me and Bobby McGee'? That was a great Robert."

"That wasn't a Robert. It was a girl named Bobby."

"Oh. Well, did you ever hear the song? I've always loved it."

Robert had. But he shook his head, and took great pains pretend he hadn't. Sager frowned. There was a few minutes of discomforting silence between them as the song proceeded. It stopped abruptly, a commercial break. "You know, Kenny always wondered why I didn't just burn a CD with these songs on it. I don't think he really gets it. There's something impressive about the radio experience. The commercial breaks are always so perfect. They keep you from getting too wrapped up in your song, they keep you grounded. They're what I imagine home would be, if I had one." Sager chuckled uncomfortably. Robert sighed. "I mean, I guess I have a house. But it isn't a home yet. Someday it will be. You'll see. And I imagine it'll be just like these commercial breaks. Is that what your home is like, Robby?"

He bristled. "Not really, no."

"Oh. That's... disappointing, Robby."

"Mr. Sager, my name is Robert. Don't call me Robby. Please."

Sager sighed. He turned the stereo back up. Eventually, Sager told the story of how he'd made the tape. As a young man he'd taken a radio out into the woods, unbeknownst to him on the edge of the station's reception. He'd placed the radio next to a tape recorder, and left it there for the requisite forty five minutes as he hunted. He'd return, flip the tape, and go back on the prowl. There were birds chirping at irregular intervals, distant gunshots, and a deer ambled by on crackling leaves. The tape's quality -- so distasteful to Robert's ears -- suddenly made a lot of sense. And as it turned out, Sager hadn't simply made just one. This was one of many tapes. He had gone through the process of making the tapes at least thirty times.

He would tape the station, listen to it, and if a song he didn't like came on he'd throw the tape back in the recorder and tape over the whole thing with a new recording. It had taken him months to find that perfect one and a half hours, completely absent any song he couldn't stand. Robert wanted to note how crazy that was, and how absolutely strange it was that Sager would go through that in an era where he could game to perfection the quality of a compact disc. He would've liked to. But something told him he shouldn't. Instead, he allowed his uncomfortable silence to make his point for him. Eventually, Sager stopped talking.

The interference that every man about to die understands came on the radio. Sager lit up. "Aha. So, we have the coup de gras of the cassette. Suzanne, by Leonard Cohen. Robert, have you ever ha--..." Robert cleared his throat and tapped the window, wholly interrupting Sager's reverie. "Oh, is this your stop?" Robert nodded. Sager pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, and looked at his driving partner. He handed him a business card. "Well, thanks for the company, Robby. If I can call you that now. One can go a little stir-crazy on the long drives, apologies for the chattering. Good luck out there, it's a rough world. Keep in touch."

"Goodbye, Mr. Sager. Thanks for the lift."

Robert was a hitchhiker. As Sager merged back onto the highway, he found himself alone once more.

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