With no definite purpose, JaVale McGee stepped heavily upon the March snow that lined the Denver streets. He told his new teammates that he needed a day to himself, to look for houses and neighborhoods. But if you could just see his face -- could follow his gaze as it moved upward to the vague mountainous altitudes in the distance -- you'd never see a glance to a realtor's name or the height of a ceiling.

Now JaVale was walking along a smoothly paved sidewalk. As he walked along the perfectly smooth concrete, JaVale nevertheless felt no surprise at tripping slightly over his feet every fifty paces or so. That was custom for him. But on his brows were gratitude and shock. For despite all his customary tripping, he hadn't yet fallen and scraped his knees. This was something new.

• • •

Most professional athletes go into slumps and streaks every now and then. With the psychophysical obsession that drives them, generally these athletes organically develop conscious rituals. These rituals are designed to avoid changing or continuing their current luck. To put it one way: You don't change the deck chairs when you're hitting .500. You change them in every way possible when you're hitting .100. But the man walking wide-eyed through Denver - just as surely a professional athlete - knew nothing of these slumps and streaks. His lot was to be consistent, no matter his rituals or approach. A bulwark of consistently met expectations.

However, this consistency wasn't of the Duncan type. Without fail, McGee's consistency was peppered with short bouts of unaccountable mental clumsiness, clumsiness that called into question his effort, dedication, and intelligence -- all in one stroke of cosmic meanness. He knew about the endless reels of inexplicable athletic failure he'd exhibited, knew these highlights were replayed endlessly in the minds of every basketball fan. He knew his blooper reel on Youtube was more popular than his highlights. He knew his name lived in infamy in the press. It was why he'd been traded to the Denver Nuggets in the first place and why the national reaction to the trade consisted of exactly two responses: respect for what he could do (begrudging, rare) and mockery for what he couldn't (ubiquitous, universal).

But he hadn't tripped and fallen down yet since landing in Denver, for whatever reason. Maybe it was the light oxygen in the atmosphere, the knowledge that all would be forgiven if he could start anew. Maybe it was the fact that he had a supportive mother and teammates he could now compete with in a straightforward way on a team that truly competed. Maybe there was no reason, or God was saving some epic choke in a bank for every time he didn't fall. Whatever the case, JaVale didn't know, and -- like all athletes on their first good streak -- didn't particularly want to know. After all, as all athletes know intuitively, thinking about the luck is the first mistake of superstition and a guarantee that the luck will go away.

But whatever he did - for the rest of his life, at least in Denver - JaVale McGee could never shake that luck.

• • •

On the other side of the gravel pond, Nene felt a bit disgraced at being traded, at least when he was really honest with himself. Sure, there shouldn't be a lick of shame in being ousted from one of the deepest rosters in the league, especially since he'd been battling injury. But there was always a disgrace in being rejected by any team. The air felt heavy in the capital of the United States. And to the Washington Wizards? There were quite a few dysfunctional franchises out there, but only one aspired to comedy. To be traded for JaVale McGee, a man who had to beg for a triple-double, who had the mentality of a 12-year-old that could dunk? It was a disgrace, and a player of Nene's caliber was not having an easy time justifying the inexplicable trade.

But, he supposed, there was no sense asking why or how, or trying to change the past. After all, Nene knew how to play the game of basketball, and that knowledge - combined with effort and statistics - had always buoyed him through any temporary lapse in confidence. Nene had the gift of consistency - maybe not in a given minute, a given quarter, a given game, a given season - but he would always come back to that old brand, the brand of Nene. Denver would have to go wanting for that brand for the rest of its existence as a city and a franchise. He walked with firm conviction - note the broad shoulders framing the proud mane - past the Reflecting Pool, not even noticing it all that much. In fact, he noticed it just sparingly enough that he managed to trip and fall into the pool. He was unhurt, but shocked. He wouldn't be shocked by such occurrences in a few weeks, as he became sadly accustomed to the many causes and manifestations of the clumsiness that would haunt his frame forevermore.

• FIN •

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.

At the deadline on Thursday, the Spurs made a trade for Stephen Jackson that also ended the Richard Jefferson era. I started writing and seriously covering what the Spurs were doing right around the original RJ-to-San-Antonio trade in the summer of 2009. After an seemingly endless series of varying horrible and decent pieces, I finally "broke through" with some quality pieces that winter. The following piece - written in January 2010, to an audience consisting solely of Aaron and myself - is probably my favorite. It tells of the story of Richard Jefferson's off-season courting by Mike Brown (who was coaching LeBron's Cavs at the time) and his doppelganger coach of the Hawks, Mike Woodson.

I was reading SLAM tonight, and I came across the following passage, in which Hawks coach Mike Woodson addresses his team before an important Mavs road game:

“...I don’t give a shit about the offense; you guys can score more than enough points to win games. The offense isn’t the problem. But you have to get stops on defense, and if you’ll listen to what we’re telling you, I promise you’ll get stops. The shit works, okay? The shit works, but you guys just have to have the pride and the heart to buy into it and do what we’re asking you to do every time down the court.”

Reading this reminded me of a little-known incident a few years back. Almost immediately after the 2009 Finals, Milwaukee small forward Richard Jefferson was being scouted for a possible trade to either the Cavs or the Hawks. Jefferson therefore had to make two private appointments with the head coaches of those teams, Mike Brown and Mike Woodson.

• • •

Concerns for the complex and heavy schedules of all three men led Jefferson to suggest instead that he meet with both coaches simultaneously. Jefferson supposed that they could meet up in a practice facility for his demonstration, after which they would all get some dinner and discuss where he could fit into their respective teams. This suggestion was well-received by both Woodson and Brown, and so the only remaining unknown was the location. Jefferson said it would be a little questionable to meet up in a Bucks' facility for a demonstration that could very well send him packing, so he suggested they all meet instead in San Antonio at the Spurs' practice facility. After all, Brown had served under Spurs coach Gregg Popovich there, and Woodson had served under the legendary Larry Brown, Popovich's mentor. This seemed reasonable enough for all parties, and it was settled. The plane tickets were bought.

Now, at this time I was working as a mop-boy at the Spurs' practice facility. After all, I was 16, and I was living in one of the plusher suburbs in San Antonio. It was the perfect summer job. I even met David Robinson once in the gym as he showed his church group how important practice is. The Admiral liked me instantly because virtue and skill stand out like a strobe light to him, and I was really effective and methodical with a mop at that time.

I was also a basketball fanatic and an amateur sportswriter. In the dog-days of 2009, before iPhones and Androids had hit the market, I kept a primitive cassette tape recorder on my person wherever I went. This tape recorder caused both amusement and annoyance in the Spurs players, and I would often try (with very limited success) to invite myself to private player meetings. So when I heard that Woodson and Jefferson and Brown were coming to my gym, and that I was supposed to mop the whole gym before they arrived, I became restless with possibility. I quickly created a mopping schedule that would guarantee me close proximity for the duration of their visit, and even planned to get into their graces well enough that I could eat with one of them afterwards.

It's important to note here that Coach Brown and Coach Woodson are very similar in appearance. They are both the same brand of hefty, of the same height, somewhat muscular, and bald. They have extremely similar tastes in clothing. Mike Woodson's skin has a somewhat lighter shade of brown, and Mike Brown has glasses with very thick rims. Mike Woodson has a black goatee. Mike Brown has a different black goatee. If Mike Brown lost his glasses and they were standing together, I would have legitimate trouble handing the glasses to the right one, even if I'd seen from whom it had dropped.

Anyway, I worked very hard that morning in preparation, and when noon rolled around, Richard Jefferson arrived in the gym corridor in an old Arizona jersey. I went over and gave him a high-five and immediately meshed with him. Jefferson was clearly down-to-earth and humorous. "You're gonna have to tell me which one is which, when they arrive. Tap me on the shoulder once if it's Brown, twice if it's Woodson." he said to me, chuckling. I couldn't tell if he was kidding with that, but he clearly found the humor of the situation in either case. I showed him my tape recorder and told him I was going to tape the whole conversation. He cracked up. "Their voices are really different at least, right?"

"I... don't know, Mr. Jefferson. I can't think of one without the other. I'll probably mix up their voices a couple times." I admitted. "I can't even remember which one has the glasses. It's going to be a hell of a transcription job."

Jefferson was greatly pleased. "Haha, I knew it. Same here, John. I remember that Brown has the glasses, but only because I just finished watching that amazing LeBron buzzer-beater in Game 2 against the Magic. So let's see: I know Mike Brown has the glasses, and I think Mike Woodson has the facial hair, but now I forget if Mike Brown has the facial hair - no, he just has those ridiculous jowls."

"They both have jowls, Mr. Jefferson, and I think they both have goatees. That's one of the many reasons they're so hard to separate."

"Alright, you're definitely invited to dinner," Jefferson smiled. "Get this, the three of us are having dinner together after the demonstration. We're gonna get a booth at a local family restaurant with 4 seats. The two of us are going to sit on one side and Woodson and Brown will have to share one side of the booth, just squeezing together, side-by-side. The image makes me laugh every time I think of it. I'm going to use every wile in my faculties to ensure it happens. Having you along will just help out that much more. We'll sit on the side before they even know what has hit them."

"Wow, thanks!" Jefferson had delivered so much further than I would ever have imagined. "Okay, two things. First, can we get a still photo of them sitting together?"

"No, absolutely not. They are crafty. Both of them are ridiculous, but crafty. Best not even to risk it. You must be a master of discreetness with the tape recorder by now, though, right?"

"I'm good enough."

"Good. But yeah, no photos. I mean they won't want to be seen together, and they definitely wouldn't go for that. Also, it could very well poison the afternoon for me, and I don't want that either. Heh."

"Mr. Jefferson?"

"Yes, John?"

"The facility didn't tell me why you all were coming today, they just told me who the meeting was for. What is the meeting about?"

"This is going to sound odd..."

Jefferson then laid it all out, essentially telling me that this off-season might be his last legitimate chance at being signed by a contender and getting a title that had thus far eluded him with the Nets and Bucks. This was actually a huge interview for him, I considered. Suddenly something crossed my mind.

"Wait, why the hell is Mike Brown looking for a small forward? That's LeBron's position. You're a bit older, but nowhere near a back-up yet, especially in terms of the salary you'd want."

"Yeah, honestly, I've been watching a lot of Cavs games. I don't know what the hell he's thinking. Woodson either. How familiar are you with the Hawks?"

"Not much, sir."

"They don't really need a small forward either. So why are they both - " and Jefferson trailed off in thought.

For the same thought had crossed both of us simultaneously and we made eye contact to prove it.

"You don't think..." I began, but the thought was abruptly truncated and momentarily forgotten for the appearance of a noise from the gym's corridor.

"I'M READY FOR SOME GOOD SHIT RICHARD."

Well, Mike Woodson was here. He was smiling at Jefferson and Jefferson smiled back. I had been diligent with the mopping, so now I had the luxury of stopping to make myself look somewhat respectable, and the three of us traded introductions. I spoke to the Hawks coach with careful respect. The tape was rolling now.

"Hello, Mr. Woodson. I'm just the mop-boy today."

I then laid out my slightly contrived reason for being there, with conscious emphasis on my insignificance.

"Alright, you can stay. I used to be tough shit at mopping when I was a teenager."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, I fucked up at the beginning, but then I learned how the shit should be done. Do you want to me to show you?"

"Umm, yes, sure, Mr. Woodson..." I only hoped the bandwidth on my tape recorder could sustain all of this 'shit'. Woodson grabbed the mop and started dousing the floor with dirty water from the mop bucket. I briefly wondered if Woodson was going to try to light the doused region on fire. He furrowed his brows as he tried to remember how to grip the mop, and, in his baldness, gave us an impromptu lesson on how skin can cling to and dance along the skull on demand.

"So first you want to like...pretend the mop is a fuck-horse. Do you know what a fuck-horse is, ...John is your name?"

Before I could try to define a fuck-horse (I didn't know whether or not I hoped "fuck-horse" was actual slang), Mike Brown appeared in the same corridor of the gym that Woodson and Jefferson had entered through. It occurred to me that Jefferson and Woodson had barely spoken in the five minutes so far of this incredibly important interview.

"How are you all, Richard, Mike, ..."

"John, sir. Just an honest mop-boy."

"I was showing John here how not to fuck that shit up with mopping. The shit I know about mopping, on the other hand, works."

"You told him about the fuck-horse technique?"

"I was just getting to that, Mike."

"I just knew you were a fuck-horse adherent, Mike. How dated."

"It's the shit that works!"

Mike Brown considered this, and visibly rejected it with his hand. "No, the fuck-horse is dated. If you aren't riding the shit-train with your mop stroke by now, well, that's sort of like trying to do algebraic geometry in a modern setting without any knowledge of the Zariski topology on algebraic varieties."

"What the hell?" Richard Jefferson said quietly enough to be mostly inaudible but loudly enough to interrupt.

"It's plenty dated is all I'm saying, Richard. How have you been? Let's sit a spell and I'll lay out what I want to see from you today."

Brown began to strike me as the kind of coach that would sometimes listen to all of a player's problems and have intelligent responses, but at the end of the day would not be there for his players or anyone else that interfered with his arbitrary whims.

Woodson, on the other hand, struck me as being almost fatherly in modality. He may have been cross and vulgar in disposition, but he had made a sincere connection with Richard and I, with none of Brown's pettiness or distance. Whatever a fuck-horse might be, Woodson legitimately thought that I, a mere mop-boy in a different city, should know about the mopping technique, and for my own benefit. There was a warmth there that infected Richard as well.

We all walked towards a table outside the gym, I having officially joined the party. Woodson tried to carry the conversation as we walked. "Richard, I undoubtedly have a role for you here in Atlanta."

Brown was not to be out-done and quickly cut him off. "Richard, I have a bigger role for you here in Cleveland."

"Your shit seems deceptive, Mike." Woodson astutely observed. "What are you going to do, Coach, trade LeBron?"

It was something that was going to be said but it was still surprising to hear.

"Maybe I will trade LeBron if I can get my hands on Richard before you. I think losing 10 extra games or so is worth it. No offense," he turned to Richard, "but I already won a championship as an assistant in 2003, in this very city!"

Richard quickly responded, "I was on the Nets then, Coach." Having briefly misremembered the Spurs' Finals opponent in 2003, Brown actually looked a bit apologetic, and trailed off on a "Well..." as he turned back to Woodson. We all sat down at a table outside the gym.

After we'd sat down, Brown continued his tirade, "...All I'm saying is that 2003 will be plenty enough for me if it means defeating you to get Richard Jefferson, Woodson."

Just a moment more and it was obvious that the husk wars had begun. Woodson shot the first blow. He pursed his lips as if for an angry kiss, and furrowed his eyebrows as before. "You fuck-horse," Woodson spoke with incomprehension, "How could you? You unfathomable fuck-horse."

Still wondering what a fuck-horse could be, I nevertheless held my tongue. Brown would trade LeBron, his franchise player, in order to win this petty battle? Was this what real adulthood would be like? I felt afraid, I must admit.

Brown, upon being called a fuck-horse, didn't react with scorn at all, but his face almost turned inside out as he tightened up in concentration, as if trying to look at his own eyes without a mirror. The skin around his mostly-shaved eyebrows stretched taut towards the top of his cheeks, almost wholly covering his eyes beneath his glasses. As this happened his hand stroked his chin, as if stroking a goatee that didn't exist anymore, as if his clean-shaven chin was evidence of a great difference between himself and Woodson. He nodded up and down very quickly. Infinite husk, I supposed. Standing up, his glasses suddenly became very bright, like reflecting the sun. Brown took his hand off his chin and stared at his counterpart.

"Coach Woodson."

"...Yes, Coach Brown?"

"I am a bit of a fuck-horse, aren't I? Threatening to trade away my franchise to win this meaningless personal tiff. Reminiscent of a fuck-horse, eh?" Had he read my mind? No...we had all thought that.

"I'm... so sorry I said that, Mike." Woodson made a very humble gesture of apology.

"No. Don't take it back. I'm a true fuck-horse and I'm happy to admit it. I want all three of you to admit it." We all reluctantly said so to him. "But let's have some perspective here. The only reason either of us coaches showed up at all is because we knew the other would. Don't lie to me, Mike, you have just as little use for Richard as I do. It was a petty gambit on your part and you should at least admit it like I do."

But Woodson refused to comply. "Richard, come on, let's go to the gym. I want to see the way you'll..."

Brown interrupted and Woodson ignored him. "...drive in the lane." Astonishingly, the coaches had both finished Woodson's sentence.

"See, I knew it. If there's any more of a bull story, if there's any more of an arbitrary question to ask Richard Jefferson, I'd love to hear it. We've all seen Richard driving a hundred times, even young John over here," I nodded, "This interview was a ruse from the get go. I may be a fuck-horse, but at least I'm not naive, Coach."

We all just sat in silence for awhile. Woodson could not deny what was clear: Mike Brown had seen right through him.

"I guess that makes you a shit-train, Coach." Mike Brown gloated, "Not even a proper fuck-horse."

"Alright," I asked, "What the fuck do those words mean?"

Brown ignored me, but I caught Richard Jefferson spitting with laughter for a moment, "Now that all of this is settled, how about we get some dinner at the Applebee's. Do they have Applebee's in San Antonio, I forget?"

At this point Tim Duncan appeared outside the gym, obviously dying to start his first practice of the off-season. He noticed us sitting there and came a bit closer. As soon as he recognized Coach Brown, he smiled and prepared to greet us. Duncan's smile was increased when he recognized both Richard Jefferson and the virtuous mop-boy that always had the tape recorder. We were all about to say hi to Duncan. But just then, Duncan saw Coach Woodson and a change came over his face; he immediately made an about-face and walked the other direction, with an unmistakable disappointment. He knew instinctively what all of us, except Woodson, had derived from the conversation: that Mike Woodson is Dark Mike Brown, a Mike Brown that lacked even the awareness of his status as the Dark Mike Brown.

The interview was over and I went to Applebee's where Brown and Woodson told me that they both needed mop-boys in their respective cities and Richard, with fraternal obligation, shielded my eyes from their vulgar mopping demonstrations.

After Aaron's four observations yesterday, we got a collection of our other writers together to talk shop about some of the other trades. Join Adam, Alex, and Alex the Second as they discuss the Rockets, the Spurs, and the Wizards. Along with a bonus discussion about the Nets. Which technically makes this a 3-on-4, but we won't tell anyone if you don't!

• • •

1. How did the Rockets get Marcus Camby and a late-first rounder for Jordan Hill and a late-second rounder? How in God's name did the Blazers still end up doing pretty well?

Alex Arnon: It’s easy – Daryl Morey. Sure, you have to account for the fact that the Rockets also gave up Hasheem Thabeet and Jonny Flynn but this isn’t 2009 any more – as a sidenote, my favorite part of this trade is that during the 2008/2009 NCAA basketball season I lived in Eugene, Oregon surrounded by Blazers fans and if I was to see the Blazers’ 2012 roster of Oden, Flynn, and Thabeet I’d have instantly declared a Rip City dynasty. Instantly. In the end, Houston gave up nothing (and as a Knicks fan, in the case of Jordan Hill, less than nothing) to acquire the ghost of Marcus Camby and move up from their mid-2^nd round pick to the Lakers’ late-1^st round pick in a supposedly loaded draft. I don’t really see what Marcus Camby can do for the Rockets outside of giving them a veteran presence and an expiring contract, but you certainly can’t complain about moving up in the draft and knowing Morey, there’s someone he definitely has his eye on.

As for the Blazers, I’ll keep it simple – they did well because they’re officially now in full-blown tank mode. In this league it’s impossible to succeed as a perennial middling .500 team and they know this. They need more talent to replace the all-NBA training room squad of Brandon Roy and Greg Oden and they’re hoping to do it with their lottery pick this year alongside the pick they acquired from the Nets in the Gerald Wallace trade.

Adam Koscielak: Well, there was more to that, I mean, Hasheem Thabeet and Jonny Flynn, man. But seriously, Daryl Morey is a wizard. And not in the bad, Andray Blatche way. Hill was underachieving and lost in a depth chart, Thabeet and Flynn are less useful than most undrafted players at their position at this point (Zabian Dowdell will always be in my heart). Morey worked the phones, found what he wanted and got it. Unfortunately for him, he also pissed Kobe off by prying Derek Fisher away. Beware of the Mamba, Houston, he's going to be hunting for ya now. As for the Blazers, this was NBA 2k12-esque. I have a suspicion that the mythical Blazers GM is actually the NBA 2k12 trade finder. The flip side however is this; the Blazers were essentially rewarded for choosing to turn their team around into a shitty one. This happened on a night that the Suns sans Steve Nash and Grant Hill beat the Clippers. Makes you wonder why the league is discouraging hard work. Either way, Rip City just turned into RIP City. Now you can fully expect LaMarcus Aldridge to go down with a mild case of the tank flu.

Alex Dewey: The Marcus Camby trade was a rental, as he's a UFA after this season, so this trade made more sense than I'd initially given it credit for from the Blazers' end. Still, even though getting anything for a future UFA is better than getting nothing in FA (as we saw play out with Dwight), you'd think the price for a rental would be more than pennies on the dollar. Same with Ramon Sessions, but in that case, even the Cavs got a 2012 first-rounder and a potential leap for the 2013 draft. The Blazers got a second-rounder and two 2009 sub-prospects. In exchange, they sent a supremely talented, experienced rebound-and-block center to a Rockets team that now has a vague, nontrivial chance of contention. It's just one season, but the price seems rather low to go from, say, 4.5 to 7.5 expected playoff games in one stroke.

• • •

2. Who won the Warriors-Spurs trade? Warriors, Spurs, both or neither?

Note: Richard Jefferson, TJ Ford (retired), and a protected first-round draft pick to Warriors
__Stephen Jackson to Spurs.

Alex Arnon: The Spurs, easily. If you took a look at each of their 2010/2011 season stats, Stack Jack put up a PER of 14.64 while RJ put up a 12.42. Taking a look at their contracts, they’re receiving nearly the same exact amount of money through this season and 2012/2013. But while Jackson’s contract expires that year, Jefferson has a player option for 2013/2014 that you know he’s going to take. So it’s 2-0 in the Spurs’ favor thus far with the knockout blow coming in the form of Tim Duncan calling him “the ultimate teammate.” They’ve gotten back one of the pieces of their dynasty and a player they all love. While they are certainly questions about Stephen Jackson’s mental stability, I’ll just leave you with this Tony Parker quote: “He was crazy, but it was a good crazy with us.”

Adam Koscielak: Win-Win. The Warriors apparently content with getting Bogut decided that they can take a little extra salary for a first rounder, while the Spurs managed to get Captain Jack relatively cheap. There are question marks here (Can Pop coach Jack?), but if Jack decides he's all in, San Antonio just acquired a very dangerous scorer. If he doesn't, hey, that just means more Kawhi Leonard for you and me.

Alex Dewey: At Pounding the Rock there's a great discussion that summarizes where many of us Spurs fans find ourselves: we have relentless trust in the Spurs' braintrust, endless acknowledgement that RJ was never going to be "that guy," acknowledgement that S-Jax is the ultimate teammate and someone that steps up to the plate when necessary. But we also have fear that this is the Richard Jefferson situation all over again, where another kind of middling, mediocre statistical player gets an in with the front office purely because of character and attitude and Popovich has to figure out how to reconcile S-Jax's limitations with a borderline-contending team, only to lose a season trying to find a role for S-Jax, and again the well-meaning faith in the front office turns out misplaced. Still, it's hard to argue that S-Jax isn't exactly what the Spurs need in terms of attitude, and it's a laudable attempt by the Spurs to keep the window open.

• • •

Adam Koscielak: You could make a sitcom scene out of Prokhorov's day, really. Imagine Deron Williams as his girlfriend on her anniversary, Dwight Howard's skills as an expensive gift, and Dwight himself as a salesman. Just imagine Dwight calling Prokhorov and telling him that his gift won't be there, only to flip flop a few times in the next few scenes, until finally, pressed for time before the anniversary, the rich Russian buys a crappy bouquet called Gerald. The disappointed girlfriend then decides to leave to her equally rich, but a bit more caring high school sweetheart. End episode.

Alex Arnon: The Nets’ situation somehow reminds me of the 1996 Tickle Me Elmo frenzy. Billie King is the parent who promised their child that they’d get them a brand new Tickle Me Elmo toy for Christmas that they could name Dwight without knowing that it was sold out. Having gone to every store trying to find one after hearing mixed messages on whether or not it was in stock and coming out empty-handed on the night of Christmas Eve, Billie King finally decided to compromise and bought his kid a small Oscar the Grouch plush that he had named Gerald.

Alex Dewey: Great metapho- Wait, that was 1996? What the hell? Tickle-Me-Elmo was 16 years ago? Wow. I don't even know what to say.

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...?

"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.

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.

All of which, I think, is as it should be. Why should we ask Kobe to change? It seems manifestly clear to me that he’s not nearly as interested in winning as he is being perceived as somebody who is only interested in winning; he understand that immortality is really about perception. To which I say: Good. Bravo. Encore. Because there’s room in the league for this. Jackson Pollock produced very few accurate bowls of fruit. There’s room in the league for somebody whose ultimate goal is to use basketball, because it makes the basketball more compelling.

--Danny Nowell, Kobe Doesn’t Care About Winning, and That’s Okay

Interesting, Mr. Nowell. Please consider with me the grand triumvirate of the Western Conference, retired in 2022:

• In 2022, Steve Nash heads up Canadian basketball and several charity groups. The archetypal representative of Canadian Basketball, Nash may not have gotten a ring, but he'd had a long, illustrious career worthy of the Hall of Fame. Today, he teaches children how to run a pick and roll at a basketball camp. His characteristic high cheekbones are now set in middle age by grayer hair and slower knees, such that he looks like a latter-day D'Antoni. The familiar squeak of his sneakers across the gym makes a bird's rising staccato - a sound somewhere in the center of the triangle whose points are laughter, support, and affirmation - a wordless, worldly half-chuckle punctuated by dribbles and education.

• In 2022, Tim Duncan is tubing and waterskiing with his family. It's a bit ridiculous to see a seven-footer ride a jet-ski designed for a child, but it's relatively safe and Duncan demonstrates that it is quite possible. Steering with his feet, Duncan's standing navigation on the tiny jet-ski is not only possible but also amusingly precarious. Craftily avoiding the inevitable tumble before a small wave, Duncan sits down and signals his family's boat to stop for a bit to wait for him to catch his breath. He switches jet-skis, this time drinking the can of soda he'd won from the endlessly amusing bet. Absolutely nobody knows that he does this with his time.

• In 2022, Dirk Nowitzki demonstrates his encyclopedic knowledge of jazz and Kraftwerk to his stunned mentor Holger Geschwinder as they re-invent the musical phrase the same way they - in past years - had reinvented the basketball shot. Mad scientists on the shores of the Elbe, their songs are as much about the calculus of variation and the pressure of their hands upon the keyboards as about the workings of the soul, but - with the Teutonic eventuality of the verb completing a sentence - the soul does enter into the equation at last. As night draws forth, allowing for rest, they go their separate ways in the reflected moonlight on the Elbe at Dresden, absconding silently with keyboards and keytars in hand, laughing through peaceful paths that wind through adjacent forests, sounds of perfect music rattling through their ears.

The gist of Nowell's fine piece is that Kobe's re-appropriation of basketball for his own ends - whether or not those ends are conducive to winning - is inherently compelling in the mythology of the NBA. I agree that Kobe is quite compelling - the winner who set his own terms. But the constant attempts to fuse perception and reality - the staged rituals, the laughably predictable media bickering, etc. - have always fallen flat with me.

• • •

More than any of that, after all, I want to think of where Kobe will be in ten years. Because if Nowell is right, then he is inextricably tied up with his own hyped-up narrative. Yes, Kobe is the "Black Mamba" - an offensive genius hell-bent on touches and individual dominance - and all that entails, but Kobe is also the Black Mamba Media Narrative and the Black Mamba Media Narrative Media Narrative, etc. Kobe is what you think of Kobe, because Kobe places so much import on public perception and legacy (to blaspheme a little bit in Nowell's way, even more than he cares about winning). Kobe is so tied up with his brand and his own legacy and his own narrative that we get shivers of cultural decay when Chris Paul and LeBron go into the shallow end of that same pool. What Kobe does with his own branding is as ruthless and high-volume and irrational as his late game and as efficient as his overall game.

So what does Kobe do when that's all over, in 2022? Does he make Commissioner Silver an offer to buy the Toronto Raptors for the soon-to-be-obvious purpose of slowing down their pace so that they average less for a season than his fabled 81-point masterstroke? Does he linger in the league with two broken ankles and no feeling in his hands, just to play an ancient 15 mpg, gunning for 40,000 points and an ultimate respect for his game by a public with its still-unyielding, sentimental respect for Jordan? Does he even like basketball anymore? Does he show humility to the rookies less than half his age, or does he show a legendary fire - now with the qualifier "cranky" - that inspires them to work harder? Does he even care about the rookies, anymore, or does he tell them - with the rueful pessimism of the too-experienced - their exact ceiling and maximum career duration, just to get them thinking about their own impending demise? Does he try in subtle and not-so-subtle ways to end history with himself, making random dirty hits on semi-stars, knowing that his targets probably wouldn't retailiate, but who might provoke a season-cancelling brawl that spirals out into the end of the league and of basketball? Does he act as a sincere, role-playing mentor? I doubt that one most of all, even as I find his continued presence in the league plausible. But above all, I don't know, in the best possible way.

No, I don't know what Kobe in 2022 looks like, but it's a hell of a lot more interesting to think about than to focus on a Kobe that - like so many dismal dictators and demagogues - wants to use his talents for irritatingly selfish, megalomaniacal purposes. While that's part of the equation, it's just one variable in the input and output of Kobe's personality, a variable you could lose and still get most of the details right. Kobe is not Kobe without wounds and slights and the self-serving narratives that must run in his head and that must perpetually spill over into the collective minds of this league and his fans, with the media happening to catch a few strategically-placed drops.

Nowell has a great point that Kobe belongs precisely because he is different from (and morally challenging and compelling in his difference from) the rest of the league (and the rest of us) in his sheer irrationality and his unwavering confidence. I couldn't agree more, and yet it's not just efficiency and winning that mark the difference: Unlike fictional characters like Don Draper that are as limited and as well-conceived and as conflicted as his writers and actor Jon Hamm can provide, Kobe's limits and expressions are precisely those of life, and one day he will have to face death and retirement and sorrow and irrelevance and the shell of a legendary body, without the promise of another day to recast his legacy. I look at the glistening, masked, and gauzy mortality that may endure as the immortal memory of Kobe Bryant and wonder where he'll be in 2022, when perhaps for the crude statistical logic of media attention he is finally left alone with his legacy as his only comfort.

Everyone give a warm welcome to Jake Harmon, one of our two newest contributors. Jake will be contributing odd fictional tales and reflections of an NBA fan living in the depths of the United States, also known as Alabama. It's tough out there for an NBA fan. He's a political science major who'd much rather major in "deep thoughts about basketball." We enjoy those thoughts, so we'll endeavor to give him the platform to do that. Have at his first piece, an excellent muse on a dreamlike Bobcats game, and the last part in our trilogy of independently written Jordan posts that were -- somehow -- happened to all be connected anyway.

Sometimes I fall asleep at night, and I dream about watching a Bobcats game. And they're just getting blown out, the camera cutting around looking for the perpetually visibly frustrated Jordan. The camera finds him and fixates on him, and he just looks livid, wringing his hands, tongue out a little bit, eyes intent. The Bobcats turn the ball over and get dunked on again. The crowd is silent, the only noise in the stadium the low murmur of disinterested small talk between the odd fans scattered around the arena's stands and the squeaking shoes, the pounding of leather on the hardwood. There's no talk between the beaten Bobcats, they shuffle up and down the court seeming mentally checked out. Going through the motions. Another botched possession, fastbreak, dunk. Bobcats down 30 in the third. And just then, Jordan knows he can't take it. The camera maintains its focus on him, seemingly for an inordinate amount of time. As though the cameraman senses the man in the stands will be more significant to this game's outcome than anything currently taking place on the floor. As I sit and become transfixed by the prolonged shot, that surreal mixture of timing, imagery, and silence, something magnificent happens. And somehow, much like the cameraman, I watch it unfold and question if I ever really thought it wouldn't happen. Jordan is overwhelmed, he stands up from his seat; not in anger or exasperation, but with an intense focus and steely gaze that, while different cast upon his now aged visage, seems somehow intrinsically right. As true and compelling as phases of the moon, not a mask of indifference but a revelation of passion that millions and millions of people around the world forever have burned into their memory.

He moves sleekly across the stands to the stairway, somehow more graceful than I expect him to be. More graceful than I remember him looking in a long time, but it's unmistakably him, toes straight, shoulders squared and forward, head at a slight tilt but eyes as straight and sure ahead as a cresting ship breaking the waves of a tide that cannot stop its advance. He reaches the bottom of the stairway to the court's edge, and accelerates slightly, a slow jog towards the bench, arms bent 90 degrees, swaying back and forth rhythmically as though on an elliptical, that undeniably perfect form and grace visible on this aged body, seeming both entirely alien and entirely appropriate to my dreaming eyes. As though the rust has been shaken off, some sort of inevitably temporary weight has been removed, and the man is who he must have always been. And as he approaches the bench, gliding slowly to a stop beside the coach, he leans in, eyes narrow and fiery, barking something quietly. The coach nods, gestures. Time-out. The listless bobcats players take their time collecting on the sideline, but only momentarily. Jordan doesn't seem to regard their approach, as he accelerates and glides away and down the tunnel towards the locker room. The coach and the players discuss something, there's a still in the huddle. Not the still that has become routine here in Time Warner Cable arena, one of broken hopes and spirits, of meandering thoughts seeking stimulation before the inevitable time that the uniforms can be removed and they can go home, disappear into their private lives. Deny the world the chance to take any more away from them than what is already being taken night after night on that court.

No, this still is different. It's not excitement, so much as it is looks of confusion, some perhaps of alarm. But not disconnected, all engaged. And then it happens, as the timeout is nearly at its end. It's as though all the energy is somehow sucked out of the room. He emerges from the tunnel. Older, face more haggard and wrinkled than I remember it, even having seen it only moments prior. But it doesn't matter. It's in his eyes, the way he moves, so effortlessly despite his age and increased frame. He is not conditioned, yet somehow moves as though there is no one more athletic on the planet. His arms swaying in that rhythmic motion, head at a slight tilt, eyes ahead, jaw edging from side to side, a piece of gum narrowly visible through his pursed lips as he chews. And on his body a Bobcats uniform. Michael Jordan enters the space, gliding forward. All grace and physical power. And the arena is silent. Not the dull murmur of disinterested crowds, or jeers of bandwagon fans of the away team. Absolute, utter silence. And then, as Jordan slows to a stop next to his teammates, everything explodes. How could it not? It's thunderous, all-encompassing. Somehow the stands are no longer half-empty, a smattering of fans. Every seat is filled, the lights seem somehow brighter, everything has changed and it is imminently, immediately, different. Thousands and thousands of fans, every seat in the house packed, every man woman and child off their seats screaming in enthusiasm, excitement, and wonder. The Bobcats players' alarm and confusion replaced by what can only be described as awe. They seem bigger somehow, their backs straighter, their chins higher, their faces energized and filled with emotion. In a moment, everything has changed. It's 1989 in 2012, where the lights cannot shine any brighter, the people cannot possibly scream any louder, and the inevitability of Michael Jordan taking over this game, his eyes filled with that familiar fire, his body moving with all the litheness and strength that it ever had, only the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth belying the truth in my haze. The timeout ends, Michael Jordan takes the floor and catches the inbound pass, and the din of the crowd in that arena becomes so deafening and so powerful I'm forced out of reverie. Back to reality, where I sit and watch this same familiar scene.

Watching a Bobcats game. And they're just getting blown out, the camera cutting around looking for the perpetually visibly frustrated Jordan. The camera finds him and fixates on him, and he just looks livid, wringing his hands, tongue out a little bit, eyes intent. The Bobcats turn the ball over and get dunked on again. The crowd is silent, the only noise in the stadium the low murmur of disinterested small talk between the odd fans scattered around the arena's stands and the squeaking shoes, the pounding of leather on the hardwood. There's no talk between the beaten Bobcats, they shuffle up and down the court seeming mentally checked out. Going through the motions. Another botched possession, fastbreak, dunk. Bobcats down 30 in the third.

And even though I know how this will end, I still want to believe. I see it so clearly.

As part of a oddly connected three part Gothic Ginobili set of Jordan-related posts, we present the opening salvo; a muse on Jordan's greatness by Alex Arnon, one of our newest contributors. Alex is a New York Knicks fan living in Vegas. He's an excellent writer and a better person. Go follow him on twitter at @alex_arnon. Then come back to read this post, because it's a good one.

It's been not but a few hours since LeBron James and the Heat had their nine-game winning streak broken. Already the media, bloggissists, and basketball Twitterati are beating the drum of their favorite narrative – you know, the one that says LeBron James just isn’t “clutch”. Never mind that no one can truly define clutch or when it occurs (last quarter? last minute? last 24 seconds?), people just know it when they see it – and they see that it’s a trait LeBron just doesn’t have. But what people don’t seem to see, and perhaps don’t want to see, is that it might not be not LeBron’s fault that we don’t think he’s clutch. Maybe it’s ours.

• • •

Few will disagree that Michael Jordan was the greatest basketball player of all time. The aspiring basketball players of this generation - almost without exception - pretended to be MJ making a championship-winning buzzer beater while growing up. With all his undeniable talent and constant branding, Jordan has become our archetypical basketball superstar – if you want to be the best basketball player, you want to be Like Mike, and naturally the two best players to come after Jordan have endured constant comparisons to Jordan. Kobe Bryant has reveled in the Jordan comparisons, basically becoming MJ 2.0 (or 0.8 depending on how you want to look at it). And ever since LeBron was deemed The Chosen One in high school, we threw the same exact expectations onto LeBron’s logic-defying shoulders.

But who were we to decide LeBron's fate? The same thing that made Michael Jordan MJ makes Kobe the Black Mamba - this ceaseless, maniacal, and almost sociopathic drive to be the very best by any means possible. And in this rush to proclaim LeBron James the next Michael Jordan, we all just kind of assumed LeBron had the same killer instinct without stopping to think that maybe, just maybe, not everybody wants to be (or should be) Like Mike. What if LeBron doesn’t? Should we hold it against him? As someone who has held a grudge since the day of “The Decision,” I can finally say no. Yes, I felt let down and maybe even a bit betrayed by his unprecedented choice not to become the alpha dog, but a part of a trio of stars. But now that we can think about it rationally with hindsight, isn’t it all a bit selfish of us to feel let down by LeBron's choice?

I’ve honestly begun feeling a bit sorry for LeBron recently. Yes, it seems a bit odd to feel sorry for a multi-millionaire athlete getting paid just to play the sport he loves and be famous, but at the end of the day LeBron is human just like any one of us. He has the same emotions we do and it’s why he deliberately made himself the villain of last year’s NBA season. Look: he'd spent his whole career trying to fit in and be who we wanted him to be and not who he truly was. The result was a cognitive dissonance that goes a long way to explaining that unsettling “at the end of the day, they have to wake up tomorrow and have the same life that they had before they woke up today” quote after the Finals. I think LeBron was just tired of being forced into the mold we had created for him, tired of being a square peg constantly rammed into a circular hole. LeBron truly didn’t want to be the bad guy or finisher but saw our collective expectations for him to be the killer and not the facilitator, and tried to act like it. But in this -- as so often when someone tries so hard to be something they’re not -- LeBron failed miserably.

Consider that LeBron is the first superstar of what is starting to be recognized as the AAU generation – instead of only meeting against the best players in their county/regional/state finals, the AAU organization allows for the best players from each region to form a super-team that can compete nationally, something MJ and Kobe never had the liberty of doing. And perhaps LeBron still carries this mindset: Maybe he doesn’t want to destroy the other superstars as Michael and Kobe did growing up so much as team up with them to play basketball for fun just as he did as a teenager. When you watch the documentary about his early playing career, More Than A Game, it’s hard not to be awestruck by just how happy LeBron looks to be surrounded by – and winning with – his friends. That’s not to say that LeBron doesn’t care about winning championships and being the best player that ever was, but those two things take a back seat to just enjoying himself and being the best teammate he can possibly be. It’s only natural that it was a difficult transformation for him to go from a team-oriented, fun-first guy to the selfish expectations of a post-MJ superstar-centric 2003 NBA dominated by guys like Allen Iverson, Tracy McGrady, and Kobe Bryant.

• • •

By all accounts, this is the season that LeBron has finally started maturing off the court and it seems to have fundamentally changed his personality – or else he’s showing us his real one from his high school days. He realizes that he’s not truly the villain. He realizes that “The Decision” wasn’t the best PR move. He's starting to have more fun during the post-game festivities. He says things like, “I’ve gotten away from the ‘hate’ stuff. I played with that last year and it wasn’t me.” That sounds like acceptance. LeBron is finally understanding that he doesn’t have to be the reincarnation of Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson, but the first iteration (and most likely the last) of LeBron James. With that understanding comes a weight off of his chest - in his mind, he no longer has to match the feats of anyone else but only has to enjoy himself on the court. And to enjoy himself, he’s not going to be the guy taking the buzzer beater.

Not that LeBron is egregiously lacking at the buzzer-beater. In fact, as the folks at Liberty Ballers showed in their excellent recent piece, LeBron is actually more clutch than Kobe in 7 out of the 8 different types of clutchness they measured. But I think a lot of the narrative discord comes from the fact that Kobe’s clutch shots are simply much better looking than LeBron’s, leaving a much better impression. By and large Kobe’s game winners are artistic jump shots that swish right into the net as time expires, creating a perfect highlight clip to be shown incessantly on SportsCenter the next day. On ther other hand, LeBron usually opts against taking jump shots and instead barrels down the lane, hoping to either create enough contact to get sent to the line or get enough space past his man to lay it in with a few seconds on the clock. It's not to say that LeBron is incapable of making the jump shots (game 2 of the 2009 ECF comes to mind), but that the majority of his clutch shots aren’t pretty jumpers like Kobe. If you were to ask basketball fans about the clutchest shot in NBA history, you’d most likely get one of the famous Michael Jordan buzzer-beaters – all of which are jump shots that look just like Kobe’s. Kobe’s shots, while no more or less clutch than LeBron’s, simply better fit our preconceived notion of what a clutch shot looks like. This is by Kobe's design.

LeBron doesn't actually lack clutch, but it feels wrong in the shadow of MJ for him to let his clutchness hinge on Udonis Haslem hitting a 50% midrange shot. It's feels wrong (for even less reason, considering Kobe's struggles in the clutch) that LeBron expects his coach to draw up a play that plays to the strengths and skillsets of his players, and defers to that play accordingly. But in a larger sense - to hear him explain it - “It’s just the way I’ve always played the game.” To LeBron, that moment isn’t about being clutch or unclutch, it is about just playing the game of basketball the way he likes to play it – getting teammates involved and having fun. As he said on February 25, “I’m back to just loving the game and playing at a high level, playing for my teammates and letting my game speak.” When’s the last time you ever heard Kobe or Michael say that?

So when you turn on ESPN or read the paper or visit your favorite blog today and hear that incessant clangor about how LeBron James isn't clutch in a game where he went 8/9 from the field in the 4th quarter, realize that it just isn’t true. It’s not that he isn’t clutch. He is. It’s that he doesn’t want to be clutch unless he has to be, something we never realized was possible after being conditioned by MJ into thinking making the last shot is what makes a player great. In the shadow of Jordan, we came to expect all our stars to be like Mike, complete with ice cold veins and a fierce competiveness. These were the expectations for LeBron, but now he’s become his own type of player – a player that can completely dominate a game, but wants just as much to get his teammates involved to have some fun.

And after a generation of “me-first, gotta get mine” superstars, maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.

• • •