Month: May 2008

  • Guts and Small Ball

    AP Photo by Jim Mone

    Francisco Liriano was almost as disappointing as Nelson Liriano. There has been a disquieting wave of injuries—to Michael Cuddyer, Kevin Slowey, Adam Everett, Scott Baker, Nick Punto, and, most depressingly, to Pat Neshek.

    The offense has been erratic; the power and team on base percentage alarming. Up and down the lineup the new additions—and there are scads of new additions—have been underperforming at the plate. The bullpen has been as shaky as it’s been in years, and seems ill equipped to absorb the Neshek blow.

    On paper, certainly, the Twins appear to be a team with all sorts of concerns, and so far almost any close scrutiny of the stats would seem to bear that out.

    And yet—at this point, at least—every team should have such concerns.

    The question, of course, is how the hell are the Twins doing it? How the hell do they even hang with a team like the Red Sox, let alone take three-of-four from the most powerful, most multi-dimensionally talented team in the universe? How has a team that has allowed more runs than it has scored, and that is thirteenth out of fourteen AL teams in both homeruns and OBP, managed to grind its way to twenty wins and first place in the Central?

    That’s a damn good question, and I’m not sure I have an answer for you. It might well be a fluke. The Twins have handled the Central so far (at a 13-8 clip), and they’ve been pretty dominant at home (14-7). Where things get a bit worrisome is in the team’s numbers with runners in scoring position (.311 BA, .371 OBP, and .452 SLG) and runners in scoring position with two outs (.315, .376, and .420). In a freakish season (or in the case of a freakishly good hitter), an individual might sustain those sorts of numbers over 162 games, but you pretty much expect that they’ll eventually level out for the team and be more reflective of their overall performance, which so far hasn’t been terrific, to say the least. A small ball team in today’s American League pretty much has to have a dominant pitching staff. They certainly can’t expect to lead the league in homers allowed and live to drink champagne in the post season.

    The Minnesota pitching staff, from the starters to the bullpen, has been gutsy. It’s been crafty. It’s battled and pitched in and out of jams and, on the nights the Twins have won, generally been just good enough. There hasn’t, though, been the domination we came to expect from Johan Santana every five days, and, in recent years, from the back end of the pen. Joe Nathan has been (mostly) his usual stout self, but with Neshek sidelined there’s a level of pressure—and right now it sort of still feels like desperation—that we’re unaccustomed to feeling in the late innings. Is anyone yet feeling entirely comfortable with any of our seventh- and eighth-inning options? If we’re going to have to start extending guys like Rincon, Reyes, and Crain (all of whom have battled arm problems) what kind of trouble are we potentially looking at or asking for?

    I fully realize that at this point that’s just typical neurosis, but given what’s transpired thus far it also sort of feels like unpardonable gratitude, so like everybody else I’ll just wait and see and hope.

    The division has obviously been a bit of a mystery in the early going, and everybody seems to be battling some problem or another. I’ve said previously that I think the Detroit Tigers are facing a constellation of problems that are going to bedevil them the rest of the way, and I still believe that. They obviously have the potential to put up outrageous offensive numbers, but they’ve been up and down, and their starting pitching has been putting them in a hole night after night; if I’m not mistaken, twelve of their sixteen wins have been come-from-behind affairs, and that shit will wear on even the best offense.

    The White Sox? Can’t stand them, and I expect them to be as erratic as their manager all season (if Ozzie doesn’t get fired).

    The team that’s been lurking in the weeds for the first six weeks—and, actually, they’ve just started lumbering ashore and shaking off the milfoil—is the Cleveland Indians. As exciting and unexpected as the Twins’ performance has been, am I alone in feeling more than a little bit queasy about the fact that, even after taking three-of-four from Boston, our local nine still finds itself with just a game-and-a-half cushion?

    Finally, for all of us Jason Kubel fans—and there must be at least a couple dozen of us out here—is it time to shut up and accept that our pet project is entering Rich Becker territory? I suspect we may have no choice if Craig Monroe continues to energize the team with his offense and take away Kubel’s at bats. And after watching Monroe the last week I’m prepared to admit that I was probably wrong about him, provided, of course, that he continues to prove me wrong. Which, since I really am a fan, would make me nothing but happy.

  • Sauced Again

    Sauced is run by John Conklin, a friend of mine, and is a great
    addition to the Northside. I am, however, puzzled as to why John gets a
    great review
    and my restaurant, Papa’s Pizza and Pasta, gets totally
    ignored once again. We have been on the corner of 42nd and Thomas for three
    years, and are still the best kept secret in Minneapolis. We offer East
    Coast Italian American cuisine and have quite the following. However,
    getting the word out that we are here is a full time job. When you
    mention other restaurants in the area and not us, it sure doesn’t help.
    We offer food and service that is second to none, and yet we continually
    get ignored. Stop by sometime and see what we have to offer. Mr.
    Iggers, you were here a couple years ago and still we don’t exist. I find
    that very puzzling.

    Mick Brogan, Minneapolis
    Letter

  • The True Powerhouse Behind KISS

    When the glitz and the flash
    and the devilish showboating are stripped away, Ace Frehley shines as
    the true powerhouse behind KISS. In his legendary band, the "spaceman"
    often got swallowed by Gene Simmons’s fire-spewing antics and Paul
    Stanley’s notorious onstage preening. But it was Frehley’s axe-wielding
    that gave musical credibility to the band’s campy allure. He is
    currently proving his fury on his first solo tour in 13 years.

    Despite his being only one-fourth
    of the ’70s scare-glam troupe, the packed crowd at First Avenue
    lauded Frehley with a fervent welcoming that could only come from hardcore
    KISS fans. We’re talking decades-worth of KISS t-shirts, hazardous
    air-guitar, vocal cord-shredding screaming, and a mass of head bangers
    that would have clogged the stairwells if not for one over-worked club
    employee. Everyone was trying to make it feel like 1975 again. And,
    through squinted eyes, it kind of looked that way.

     


    photo from Space Ace Online

    Frehley’s band emblazons
    the epitome of hard rock attitude: not a stitch of non-black clothing;
    black-rimmed eyes; way too expensive haircuts. Ace is the only one who
    doesn’t fit in. The pale white make up has long been washed down the
    drain. Tonight he’s wearing leather pants and an unfortunate beer
    gut. The only remnants of his past-glamdom showing as he swishes his
    still-long hair about. The sound is different, too. Frehley’s newest
    incarnation is way heavier than KISS ever was. When Frehley is in control,
    it’s a loud beast.

     

    Frehley dabbled in his solo
    material. "Rock Soldier" from his Frehley’s Comet days, was a
    particular sweet spot early in the show, with Ace embarking on a 10-minute blitzkrieg of a solo. Mostly he took from his KISS material.
    "Into the Void" and "Torpedo Girl" were sing-along favorites.
    "Love Gun" was a riotous encore after nearly two hours of KISS deep
    cuts. This was Frehley showing his authentic KISStory, even luring the
    band into the trademark side-to-side bobbing of the original quartet.

    It was another solo tune, however,
    that became the stand-out show stealer. During "New York Groove" Frehley
    played with a blinking Les Paul fitted with LED lights. Nearing the end,
    his band left him, and Frehley switched guitars to a custom-made Les
    Paul that shot out flames and left thick, white clouds of smoke hanging
    over the audience. It was Frehley’s shining moment, as he embarked on
    a solo only rivaled by the top of metal’s elite. It is an onslaught
    of noise, which doesn’t try to have a melody or any kind of chord
    progression. Its only goal is to be loud as hell. And, well, he overshot
    the mark into ear-ringing madness.

    Aside from musicianship, the performance gave a good glimpse at the rest of Ace Frehley. When Simmons
    and Stanley aren’t stealing the spotlight, Frehley proves himself
    to be quite a character. His onstage banter includes talking about his
    favorite science fiction novel from high school, his 1976 onstage (and
    accidental) electrocution, and how he is "having so much fun on tour
    it should be illegal." His candor was awkward, but charming, and often
    interrupted with bouts of his notorious, dorky laughter. He could quite
    possibly be the biggest nerd in rock, but he rolls with it.

  • A Precise Poem

    Employing a tactic I’m pretty sure I’ve picked up from the current presidential administration, I’ve decided to take a new approach to truth. Namely, I’m going to make it up. And make it up in such a way that justifies every decision I decide(r), and in such a way that makes me feel better about my life, and the enveloping society thereof.
    So here goes: Everyone is reading.

    And because everyone is reading, there is a high demand for poetry.
    And because there is a high demand for poetry, once a week, possibly on Mondays, but certainly not limited to Mondays, I’m going to try really hard to post a Poem Worth Reading on this blog.

    I know I know I know, this is supposed to be a blog about books, and probably shouldn’t contain any actual literature, unless it’s hyper-linked. Nevertheless, poems are great. They’re (often) short, and powerful, and sometimes they even rhyme, which makes you feel happy for reasons you probably can’t define very well. And people should read more of them. More, even, than they already are. Which is lots. Because everybody is reading. Obviously.

    This week’s Poem Worth Reading is by Yehuda Amichai. Usually he tends toward the political, and is scarily good at it. However, though one could probably read some Israel-Palestine into this, it’s mostly just sexy. I figured it’s spring, so why not get a little racy.

    Read it. Everyone else is.

    A Precise Woman

    A precise woman with a short haircut brings order
    to my thoughts and my dresser drawers,
    moves feelings around like furniture
    into a new arrangement.
    A woman whose body is cinched at the waist and firmly divided
    into upper and lower,
    with weather-forecast eyes
    of shatterproof glass.
    Even her cries of passion follow a certain order,
    one after the other:
    tame dove, then wild dove,
    then peacock, wounded peacock, peacock, peacock,
    the wild dove, tame dove, dove dove
    thrush, thrush, thrush.

    A precise woman: on the bedroom carpet
    her shoes always point away from the bed.
    (My own shoes point toward it.)

    Translated by Chana Bloch

     

  • Insomnia

    Thin are the night-skirts left behind
    By daybreak hours that onward creep,
    And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
    That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
    But in half-dreams that shift and roll
    And still remember and forget,
    My soul this hour has drawn your soul
    A little nearer yet.

    Our lives, most dear, are never near,
    Our thoughts are never far apart,
    Though all that draws us heart to heart
    Seems fainter now and now more clear.
    To-night Love claims his full control,
    And with desire and with regret
    My soul this hour has drawn your soul
    A little nearer yet.

    Is there a home where heavy earth
    Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
    Where water leaves no thirst again
    And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
    If faith long bound to one true goal
    May there at length its hope beget,
    My soul that hour shall draw your soul
    For ever nearer yet.

    —Dante Gabriel Rossetti (May 12, 1828-April 9th,1882)

    Happy Birthday, Dante!

    COMMUTING
    The Great Commuter Challenge

    It’s Bike Walk Week
    — a celebration of biking and walking on both sides of the river. Start
    your week and your day off with a race of sorts, perhaps even a living
    breathing commentary on urban congestion. Choose a mode of
    transportation — car, bike, bus, or feet (personally, I’d like to see
    some more creative endeavors) — and join the travelers at Merriam Park
    Community Center for a 7:40 a.m. departure. Or simply welcome their
    arrival to the Minneapolis Central Library after 8 a.m. — and put your
    bets in now for the level of sweatiness you’ll encounter. Minneapolis
    Mayor RT Rybak will travel by bike. Ramsey County Commissioner Toni
    Carter will combine foot and transit power. And, well, (I can’t help
    but be amused by this)
    Strib transportation/commuting reporter Lea Schuster and Strib Roadguy blogger Jim Foti will be traveling by car. And that’s not all: they must run errands as well. All contestants must pick up a Wall Street Journal and tickets to Bedlam Theatre’s Romeo and Juliet, and return a book to the Central Library. Who will make the finish line first? Could it be you?

    7:40
    a.m., begins at the Merriam Park Community Center, 2000 Saint Anthony
    Ave., Saint Paul; ends between 8:15 and 8:30 a.m. at the Central
    Library outdoor plaza, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis.

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Goth Prom V: Contrivance, dues ex machina.

    Last year, over 900 people attended the Goth Prom. This year, don’t miss out on the fun. "Contrivance promises to be the ultimate prom experience, one designed specifically for those that are able to appreciate the diversity within the subcultures present in the Minneapolis/St Paul area." Feel left out or restricted by your own prom? Now you can experience the fun. (Or was it even fun back then?) Get decked out, and enjoy the crowds, the wild attire, two-for-one drinks from 9-11 p.m., and some rippin’ good music by DJs Oxygen and Nitrogen. (And Geeks, don’t worry; they’ll be another prom for you soon, too.)

    9 p.m. – 3 a.m., The Saloon, 9th and Hennepin Ave., Downtown Minneapolis; no cover.

    ALERT: If you cannot cope with same sex couples, stay the hell away.

    FILM
    Happy 40th Anniversary, 2001!

    In celebration of the 40 years since Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Heights Theatre
    is showing the 1968 masterpiece, digitally remastered in 70mm, a
    project of Kubrick’s before his death in 1999. This historical
    depiction of the future raised many questions as to the existance of
    life and the mysteries of science and space. And who doesn’t love a
    bunch of monkeys dancing around a mysterious monolith? Follow man from
    his pre-historic ape-man status, when he first uses tools to conquer
    his environments — into the present day (the future, at the time the
    film was made), when man has set out to conquer space, and perhaps even
    life itself. —Hannah Simpson

    3:50 & 7:10 p.m., Heights Theatre, 3951 Central Ave. NE, Columbia Heights; $8.

     

  • Obamania

    photo from Pander Watch

    (read aloud)

    Obama!

    Obama, mama!

    Obama mama, blackjack!

    Obama mama blackjack, jackpot! Smoke a lot?

    Brain rot?

     

    Minnesota

    pep rally, rock show! Let’s go! Cash flow!

    Are we here? Do we know? Where to go? Say so!

    Minnesota slam dunk. In the trunk. No junk.

    Put it in the mix, punk!

     

    Hoosier daddy

    Indiana Tarheel store bought fortune wheel.

    No more vacant lots. Hard fought short shots.

    Jacka lacka jackpot. Spin the lever. Maybe not.

    Don’t forget to get the pot.

     

    Summer winner?

    Who knows? Who cares? Cash flows down stairs.

    Hoosier daddy, where’d he go? Izzy at the rock show?

    Scalpin’ tickets on the street? Where to meet to beat the heat?

    Save the country from the dogs, high hogs, rollin’ logs.

    Save the country sez you, home brew! Who to screw?

    Are we in a hot spot? Be cool, somethin’ new.

     

    Tell a vision

    Sunday morning on the tube. Am I just another boob?

    Tell it to me wholesale. Rock The Nation; find the Grail.

    Are ya lyin’ press corps? Tell me just a little more.

    Over under, what’s the score?

    Who’s a whore?

     

    Revolution,

    is it real? Can you feel?

    Buy a T shirt?

     

    (not to be confused with "God Bless America")

     

  • The Future of the Past

    Everyone ponders the future. Whether it’s five minutes from now or five million years from now, it is bound to creep up in some form or another. Stanley Kubrick reinvented what it means to be a filmmaker in 1968 with the design of a fictional world in the year 2001 that questions the mysteries of science, technology, and evolution.

    It is a fact (a sad one) that I had never before seen this epic
    adventure, sci-fi thriller, and I think it’s safe to say I was spoiled
    in witnessing it for my first time as a digitally re-mastered 70-mm
    film, a project of Kubrick’s before his death in 1999.

    Although the scenic design and clothing are simply a futuristic version of the ’70s, including lava-lamp chairs and fishnet stockings, the influence of computers and their impact on human existence was a fairly spot-on prediction on Kubrick’s part. In our technologically dependent generation, anxiety arises if a cell phone isn’t in arms reach or if the most inconceivable of situations happens: no internet. Humans, the only beings on the earth with the ability to think logically, place most of their trust in machines.

    Believe me, I’m just as guilty as the next Jane Doe, but there’s something to be said for Kubrick’s undeniable projection.

    Kubrick showed a great deal of audacity in creating this film. Without
    the aid of special effects, he relied heavily on the construction of
    sets and superimposition. (No computers, you say?)

    Perhaps the most interesting character in the film is a computer called HAL 9000 (coincidentally one letter off of IBM). An eerie blend of human and machine, HAL takes control of the conditions aboard the spacecraft, hence controlling the scientists on board. (And we’re worried about human terrorists?) HAL, although ghostly sinister, provides a smart-ass, manipulative comic-relief, probably even creepier because the humor comes from a man-made machine.

    As someone who has grown up in a technological age, I was particularly struck by the amount of patience needed to understand the film’s meaning. The 30-minute scenes, where no dialog is exchanged, is enough to make a person crazy. This was a brave move on Kubrick’s part because he used the film as a way to express a psychedelic and philosophical art form, a fairly new idea in the late ’60s. Kubrick didn’t set out to offer straight-forward answers, but to leave the audience with their own thoughts. "You are free to speculate, as you wish," he once said, "the philosophical and allegorical meanings of 2001." It’s no wonder the "flower-child" generation ingested so many mind-altering drugs.

    Whether or not you’ve ever seen the film, you’ll appreciate seeing this digitally re-mastered version on the big screen. Just don’t turn to hallucinogens to elucidate the film’s meaning.

    May 9-15, Heights Theatre, 3951 Central Ave. NE, Columbia Heights; $8.

  • Cherry on a Spoon

    What she didn’t understand, Miriam thought, what she really didn’t understand was this stupid cherry on a spoon. The huge sculpture sat there in its lake, its bright red cherry poised happily on the grey spoon-bowl’s ridge, a symbol of Minneapolis. What about it excited people? What, exactly, was the point? She sat on the grass by the pond, head tilted upward, mulling it.

    Miriam was a museum studies major, although she had started college doing studio art. During that long first year, she spent more time in the art supply store than actually making art. She loved to touch the taught canvases and read the names of all the colors of paints. Ochre seemed to promise sex, cerulean undiscovered planets-every object was expectant, waiting. But when she set up an easel in her room or in class, the brush made primitive, directionless marks, unresponsive to her oblique desire to paint something. In the hours just before an assignment was due, she would chew on the dead ends of her long brown hair or the handles of her wooden brushes. Finally, she understood why someone might throw a bucket of paint over herself and then run hard into a wall one hundred times.

    But self-abuse wasn’t art.

    When she expressed that opinion in her art history seminar-having by then cut her hair into a blunt bob and changed her major-the professor shook his head. “What, then, is art, Miriam?” Allowing a short pause, he then pressed the forward button on the rickety slide machine with greater than usual verve, as if having made his point.

    If self abuse was art, Miriam had thought, freshman year of college had been a post-modernist masterpiece of cheap keg beer and dubious sexuality, encapsulated in the nickname that still made some of her old friends laugh. Before learning about “Black-out Sniper,” Miriam had never thought about her liaisons buffered by alcohol and darkness as being anything but normal-at least normal within the realm of freshman year. At parties everyone was drunk and looking, scanning dimly lit, crowded rooms with hopeful and later glazed eyes for another pair of eyes with the same idea. Every tasteless poster on her guy friends’ walls validated that practice. Beer Goggles, one read, getting ugly people laid for fifty years! She was under no illusions about her appearance, and was in fact more critical of herself than anyone else.

    She reminded herself of a painting by Goya; her face pale, eyes big, chin receding just a little, like those inbreed Spanish aristocrats. Arrested by her face, people were often surprised by the solid, almost voluptuous frame that contrasted sharply with the fragile tint of purple under her eyes.

    The cartoon man on the poster gave her the thumbs up and smiled, holding his frothing pint out in a gesture of toast. Go for it, he seemed to say. So how could she be doing the wrong thing when, drunk at a party, if she met someone she liked, she stuck with him until the party was dying down, and, if he was willing, took him back to her dorm room? It was true, the guys she picked up usually turned out to be way more intoxicated than her, having proven their manliness by doing beer bongs and 40’s, and they rarely remembered her the next day. But that suited Miriam just fine-they had both gotten what they wanted, after all, and it wasn’t like anyone was watching.

    Or that was what she had thought. As she was leaving a party one Saturday night, a drunk friend grabbed her elbow and whispered, “‘Black-out Sniper.’ Get it?” For a moment, she didn’t get it. She looked around her, trying to figure out what her friend was talking about. The she turned to look at the boy she was with-his drunkenness was suddenly far more apparent. Miriam felt nauseous as the heat of embarrassment mixed with the alcohol in her stomach. She left the boy standing by the door and fled to her empty dorm room, her eyes burning and itchy from tears she wasn’t yet shedding. In the silence of that night, as the alcohol wore off, Miriam’s emotions moved from shock and embarrassment to shame to anger and indignation, then back to shame that felt like anger until the emotions couldn’t be distinguished. That she should have to feel this shame was more than a betrayal of privacy. It was a betrayal of the mantra, the promise, that had helped her, helped them all, get through high school. The promise that when they got to college, the holding back, the fear of discovery, the claustrophobic family dinner table at which nothing could really be hidden, would be gone. No one would be watching them anymore.

    But people were still watching.

    Exhausted and still awake as the sun came into her dorm room window, Miriam decided that she was done. Done with college boys who couldn’t handle a woman taking what she wanted without becoming a needy mess afterwards; done with girls who called you a whore if you tried. After that party, Miriam stopped hooking up with guys and stopped drinking anything except for good wine. After all, she reasoned, she couldn’t be in the art community without learning to like good wine and despise the swill served at openings.

    Miriam had left freshman year and the Black-out Sniper behind her, but she was still of the opinion that if you waited for a man to make the move, you would end up watching hundreds of fucking piano concerts and contracting cancer from second hand smoke in shady music venues. That was why she had sat down on Jason’s piano bench, and why she had held his hand in the light rail, and why she had finally suggested that they move from the couch to the bed.

    Jason. He was probably still sitting in the coffee shop with a stupid look on his face, his forgetful fingers clutching his coffee mug.

    Her eyes filled with angry tears and she was back in the sculpture garden.

  • NBA Second Round Update Thread

     

     Celtics-Cavs Update: Squared series after 88-77 Cavs win last night.

     It is always so easy to blame the coach, but I don’t see how Rivers avoids castigation here. He has decided that veterans new to the team are more reliable than the guys who got him 66 wins. Last night PJ Brown had a stellar game flashing out for that sideline pop shot, and he wasn’t too shabby on defense either. But having PJ on the floor enabled Mike Brown to keep Joe Smith on Brown and Varejao on KG, meaning, as Levi astutely pointed out in the comments below, he was the go-to guy in the low block at crunchtime. Bad idea.

    But the killer for the Celts is this Sam Cassell fixation. It gets a little wearisome listening to folks blaming Rondo for all the shots he has taken (Magic Johnson, with his predictably stupid, star-centered analysis, hammered this point) without noticing that Rondo made half of his 14 attempts in 33:47 and was a minus -5 while the Celts as a team made 38.6% in 48 minutes and were a minus -11. Cassell, by the way, was 0-5 FG and minus -6 in just 14:13, while Boobie Gibson ran circles around him–a mismatch so blatantly obvious I was hollering for it in the stuff I wrote before the game.

    Levi is also right that Ray Allen is co-goat in that he is not being aggressive at all in terms of looking for his shot, and with Rivers stupidly leaving Eddie House on the bench in favor of Cassell, the Celts only have a midrange game versus the Cavs.

    Last but certainly not least, how good is Lebron James in the postseason? As his encore for dismantling the Pistons last year, he’s pretty much single-handedly winning this second-round. He had 21 points last night–nobody else on the floor had more than 15. He had 13 assists–nobody else on the floor had more than 4. And during the 3:43 he sat at the end of the first half, Paul Pierce shot 2-4 FG. Pierce also scored two buckets in the brief time Pavlovic was on him when the Cavs went small, meaning that the vast majority of Pierce’s misses in a 6-17 FG night came with LeBron on him. Got that? The leader in points and assists by a huge margin and the shutdown defender on the other team’s top scorer. Bravo.

     

    "And we’re baaaaaack!" as the Jimmy Fallon character Joey Mack used to say on SNL.

    With a game on every night, the dilemma has been to put something up that isn’t immediately dated. At the risk of disrupting some really insightful comment threads that occur when I let things languish, my solution is to update my content as we go along (for example, I’ll only post about the Eastern Conference on this first go-round then come back and add the West after today’s games) and then post every two or three days. So let’s get to it.

    Detroit-Orlando: An unmagical bore

    There is a glaring difference between the caliber of play in the two conferences in this second round, with the intensity and ability of the two Western series utterly compelling, while the East is clearly least, a maddening array of missed opportunities, a pair of skirrmishes of strategic ineptitude and dysfunctional execution. And the Pistons-Magic matchup has thus far been worst of all.

    With 7:42 left to play in the third quarter Saturday, the Magic were up by 15, 63-48, to a team obviously missing the injured Chauncey Billups at both ends of the court. The Pistons proceeded to go on a 28-7 run that had them up by 6, 76-70, with 8:40 to go. During that 10:58 of action, Orlando went 2-17 from the field. Clueless Jameer Nelson led the squad in shots during that woeful stint, making one of five and missing two free throws. Nelson’s missed free throw with 44 seconds to play also spelled the difference between a loss and overtime in the 90-89 defeat. True, Nelson generally had his way with Rodney Stuckey, but when Detroit subbed in defensive specialist Lindsay Hunter, why did Nelson keep chucking?

    Nelson is just one of many goats here. Fresh off his being named to the All-NBA First Team as center, Dwight Howard was horrible, shooting 0-9 from the field in the final 43 minutes of the game, a period that saw him grab 6 offensive rebounds without converting a single one into any points–three missed putbacks and misfired jumpers by Nelson (twice) and Keyon Dooling ensued. Meanwhile, SVG clung to a crunchtime matchup of Dooling on Rip Hamilton, against all evidence that it could succeed. This was manna from heaven for matchup maven Flip Saunders, who posted Rip up on Dooling about a half-dozen plays in a row. Yes, Hamilton missed a couple of j’s over Dooling, but Van Gundy’s refusal to utilize the double team and to leave Dooling–who is four inches shorter than Rip and had four fouls at that point–out to dry was idiotic, especially after Hamilton fouled Dooling out (the frustrated Drooling picked up a T as he exited) and hit those free throws down the stretch.

    Understand that this was a game Orlando had in its hands. All they needed to do was play fundamentally sound defense and move the ball on offense. Instead, they let Detroit beat them in transition off the turnovers (something that simply hasn’t happened as often in the Utah-LA and SA-NO series, where transition D is a priority), refused to run any plays into the post for their lone All Star, let Jameer Nelson imagine himself as the catalyst of the offense rather than a fourth option in the half-court, and had Hedo Turkoglu burn all kinds of time off the clock so that when his terrible scoop shot off the drive barely grazed the front iron at the end, Orlando couldn’t even desperately foul in time to save the game for another possession.

    If I were Detroit, I’d leave Billups on the shelf for the next two games (if it comes to that) against the Magic, give him time to fully heal. Because either the Celts or the Cavs are a significant step up from Orlando, and the Western champion will be at least a step up from there. Put simply, Detroit doesn’t need Billups to close this out–in fact Hunter got better as the game went along, a nice little dividend for the Pistons if the gritty vet can find a rhythm with these extra minutes–but if he isn’t mostly healthy in the matchups after Orlando, the Piston have little or no shot to advance.

    Celtics-Cavs: Still Waiting on LeBron

    Oh how the national network audience wanted to canonize LeBron James last night, declare him fully back in all his glory after his putrid 8-42 FG flop in the first two games of the Boston-Cleveland series. And one could convincingly argue that LBJ delivered, stuffing the stat sheet for 21 points, 8 assists (half of them dazzling), 3 blocks (all of them dazzling), 4 steals, the snuffing of Paul Pierce on defense (Pierce had more turnovers than field goals) and a game-best plus +29 in 40:15 of play. What more could anyone possibly want or expect out of the 23-year old superstar?

    Scoring off dribble penetration, that’s what. The Cavs would be up 2-1 instead of the other way around if LeBron had been able to finish at the rim in Game One, and they won’t win this series if he can’t get to the cup and either convert the layups or the free throws the rest of the way. The only blemish in James’s game Saturday night was his 2-11 bricklaying from inside the arc, giving him a horrendous 10-43 FG total on non-3-pointers in the first three games. That’s 23.3% shooting on two-pointers for arguably the best penetrator in the NBA.

    Fortunately, LeBron has gotten to the FT line 35 times in the three contests thus far, and made 25, or 71.4%. What that number tells you is that the Celts, much like the Wizards in the previous series, are determined to make LeBron "earn it at the line." That’s code for "beat the shit out of him."

    Yeah, I’ve heard all the old-timers talk about how the game isn’t as tough as it used to be, that the flagrant foul rules have sissified things and that back in the day–when men were men and wore shorts so tight they got hernias when they saw a pretty girl in the stands–players could administer a proper beatdown in the
    paint without worrying about those nanny refs butting in.

    Well, like most occasions in any arena where old-timers are talking about their prime, it’s about four parts bullshit (due to exaggeration) and one part truth. I’m old enough to give the old-timers a run for their fading memories, starting watching hoops in 1959 at age 6, and I can tell you that there is more gratituous pounding and takedowns now than there ever was. First of all, the athletes are bigger, quicker, jump higher, and head to the hole more fearlessly, meaning the potential for injury is greater. Second, all the contemporary players have heard and bought in to the bullshit about how the vintage NBA was tougher. It wasn’t.

    Yeah, maybe you had more burly white guys slugging each other with elbows–call it joustling with a vengeance–down in the low block. But the infamous Kevin McHale takedown of Kurt Rambis back in the 80s is so widely remembered precisely because it was relatively rare and particularly violent. You didn’t see guys clotheslined and cross body-blocked nearly as often as you do today–and, to reiterate, when it did happen, they weren’t moving nearly as fast, jumping as high, and being finished off nearly as thoroughly. How many of you old-timers remember Dr. J getting clocked the way LeBron has gotten clocked in the past couple of years? Or what about other erstwhile high-flyers like Elgin Baylor, or even Michael Jordan? The Pistons had a deserved reputation as Bad Boys, but watch them try to intimidate the Bulls and compare it to the way the Wizards went after LeBron in the first round this year. They are very very comparable, and yet Washington’s Brendan Haywood can actually call LBJ a crybaby, even as his punk-ass gets schooled by Ilgauskas for most of the series. The old timers are spooling out self-aggrandizing nonsense and the young’uns full of testosterone are gobbling it up and turning hoops into something as stupid as hockey.

    Unfortunately, that’s what it has come to. It turns out that yesterday I was switching channels between baseball, hoops and hockey, and saw the end of the Red Wings-Stars hockey game. The goalie cheap-shoted a Stars skater right at the end of the game, the player retaliated with a swung-stick spear into the goalie’s chest, where all the padding is, and the goalie went down like he’s been tasered. After seeing the replays it was clearly all an act. So later in the day I’m watching LeBron drive and James Posey–a player I like and respect–cheap shots him with a hand across the neck off the drive. It was properly ruled a flagrant foul, but James, like Detroit goalie Chris Osgood, played it to the hilt, going down and grimacing like crazy, rolling in agony. So what we’ve got now is alternately more cheap shots–just off the top of my head I can think of Jason Kidd’s takedown of a Hornet player, Marvin Williams horse-collaring Rondo, Raja Bell doing his thing on Manu Ginobili, the Stevenson clothesline and the Haywood push on LeBron, and I’m not even counting Boozer knocking out Landry’s tooth because that really was accidental–and more ostentatious acting, of the sort made famous by the flopping Spurs. These two things beget each other, and it is time to call bullshit on the whole thing, increase the penalties for flagrants, institute a foul for flopping, and tell the senile braggarts that they really didn’t eat nails and the daughters of their opponents for breakfast.

    But back to LeBron: I think the punishment has had an effect. I think the Wizards did rough him up and that the Celts are doing the same thing. And when you get called a crybaby anyway, maybe the best course of action is to zip it to the open man and find your long-range jumper rather than put up with all the abuse. In any event, I repeat, the Cavs don’t win without LeBron scoring enough off the dribble to collapse the Celtic D for Z’s short pops, Szczerbiak’s long-range catch-and-shoots (and if Mike Brown doesn’t bench him every time Wally puts the ball on the floor with a defender on him, I’ll start believing all the terrible things people say about his coaching), and Ben Wallace’s wide open layups and putbacks on the weak side followups.

    As for the Celts, I’m delighted to report that KG is having a monster series. His aggressiveness toward the hoop sealed the deal in crunchtime of Game One and he alone came out ready to play in Game Three. Meanwhile, what has happened to Ray Allen? Paul Pierce understandably has his hands full, but if Allen can’t make the likes of Szczerbiak or Boobie Gibson pay on the offensive end, Doc Rivers might as well go with Eddie House to spread the floor.

    Bottom line, this is still anybody’s series. I thought the energy that Ben Wallace, Delonte West and Joe Smith brought to the floor in Game Three was as important as LeBron’s regal peformance in securing the victory, and think that every time Rivers relies on Sam Cassell to get things rolling he is gambling mightily. Mike Brown needs to make Boobie Gibson a permanent matchup for Cassell, then instruct him to never leave his feet when guarding Cassell and to put down the throttle every time he has the ball with Cassell on him. If the Cavs win Game Four, we’re going to get pounded by that home/road split for the Celts until we all turn the sound down. BTW, Boston doesn’t have to win one damn road game to capture the trophy, so let’s give that a rest, eh.

    Besides, just watching the way these series have unfolded, does anyone seriously think the eventual champ is coming out of the East?

    First Road Win Captures the Second Round in the West

    As I was saying about ugly takedowns…

    Actually, I honestly don’t think Ronnie Turiaf was trying to pound Price; at least not as blatantly as has occurred a dozen other plays in this postseason. It was just an unfortunate landing that had Price’s arms unable to protect his head from splitting open on the floor. It deserved to be a flagrant, of course, but I think if Price gets his hands down and there isn’t blood everywhere, Turiaf stays on the court instead of getting booted. On the other hand, Turiaf obviously hit Price hard enough to spin him; that and bumping against other players going down is why Price could break or brace his fall. And after calling for tougher penalties on flagrants, I can’t really rebut Turiaf getting tossed. But all things being relative, the actual hit Turiaf laid on him doesn’t even rank in the top ten goon moves for this postseason.

    As for the game, well, the issue here is how long do you or should you ride your stud superstar when he clearly isn’t the best option for your ballclub? This is what I knew would happen to the Wizards when Arenas came back–Agent Zero has enormous ability and an even bigger ego, and his desire to make an impact screwed up the pecking order that has served Washington well in his absence. And you could see it coming a mile away–I called it in the Cavs-Wiz series preview.

    Now Kobe Bryant is a different story. The flare-up of his back obviously rendered him into an ordinary athlete, but what makes Kobe Kobe isn’t just athleticism, it is great court vision, his wiley ways when he has the rock, his insatiable competitiveness, and ability to come up big in the clutch. So if I’m Phil Jackson, yeah, I probably call Kobe’s number in the huddle during the crunchtime timeouts–but I stipulate to him that if others are open, check those options too. I leave Kobe at his rightful place atop the pecking order, but plant the seed that the way to win when your back is ailing and the brutal Jazz won’t let you get a clean look even if you are healthy and quick is to find the open man and let him take the shot. Which is exactly what happened on the drive and kick out to Lamar Odom for that tying trey near the end of regulation, a perfectly called and executed play.

    But too often, Kobe tried to do it on his own. Odom bailed him out once with a great follow after Kobe blew the layup, and Derek Fisher was the hero of the dozen-point comeback in the final few minutes of regulation, yet Kobe kept trying to summon
    all the physical gifts normally at his disposal, long past the time when everyone watching knew he couldn’t. Hey, the refs even bailed him out on that Kirilenko "foul" right in front of the Jazz bench.

    No, the Jazz deserved to win this game, and if they designated the game’s number 1, 2, and 3 stars to come out and take a bow like in hockey, the top guy would be Deron Williams, who has pretty much demonstrated that nobody but Fisher can guard him effectively on the Lakers–LA fans will be throwing things at their TV sets the next time Jordan Farmar is assigned to Williams. In a contest loaded with tremendous crunchtime shots, none was better than Williams moving to his right after nearly losing the ball at half court and then launching over a looming Pau Gasol. You also have to give a curtain call to Mehmet Okur, whose reputation for coming up big when it matters most was burnished a little further today with his step-back treys and that immensely important offensive rebound he pulled down.

    But do the Lakers win this game is Kobe is healthy? Yes, I think so. You can’t keep Kyle Korver on the floor as often, for example, and AK-47 doesn’t get to swoop behind Kobe for that block off penetration–how often does a healthy Kobe lack the quickness to get his shot blocked cleanly from behind? For that matter, how often does Kobe get his shot blocked five times in a single game? But it isn’t Kobe’s injury that should have Laker fans kicking themselves; it is Kobe’s refusal to do what was best for the team. If you are beseiged by back spasms for the last three quarters plus overtime, do you really want to jack up 33 shots, especially when Odom and Gasol combined for 21-34 FG? Odom in particularly looked ready to take over a few times (he would have been the third guy called out to take a bow afterward), and having him get the chance to secure a 3-1 lead heading back to LA would have been a boon for the Lakers regardless of how it turned out today.

    Instead, Kobe overreached. Even the fact that he got 10 assists isn’t all good news, since it was half of the Lakers total in 53 minutes of action, demonstrating how little anyone else was allowed to create. The ostensible point guards Fisher and Farmar had *zero* assists in a combined 37:08, and only two turnovers combined, meaning their role in igniting the offense was minimal. Now, Fisher got in early foul trouble guarding Williams and Farmar was waaay overmatched–he was minus -19 in a scoreless 18:43–but the Lakers’ forte is ball movement. All five of their starters can sling the rock. So why is it that only Kobe, Gasol (4) and Luke Walton (3) had more than 2 assists, while every member of the Jazz starting five posted at least three, led by Williams’s game-high 14 dimes? Ball movement leads to high percentage shots and forced fouls by the opposition. Well, the Jazz shot 52.6% from the field and went to the line 45 times. The Lakers shot 47.4% from the field and went to the line 25 times. Kobe and Gasol combined for 49 FGA and 12 FTA.

    I still think the Lakers are going to win this series, provided Kobe’s back improves enough for him to play without martyrdom in Game Five. But Williams and Okur have both proven to be tough matchups. Odom can’t guard both Okur and Boozer, unfortunately, which means Gasol has to step up–his defense remains one of the Lakers’ few obvious weaknesses going forward. Of course Turiaf may get suspended for his takedown of Price, further complicating things. In the backcourt, I’d think about Walton playing some point on Williams. In any case, this series is better contested than I envisioned when I called it for LA in 5 or 6 at the onset.

    Did anyone really expect the Spurs to roll over and let the Hornets run them off the court in San Antonio? Tonight’s thrashing was surprising only in how little resistance New Orleans provided, and demonstrated a few things that are obvious enough to be conventional wisdom by now. One is that Bruce Bowen was always a better matchup on Peja than on Chris Paul. Just because Bowen had some success on Steve Nash in the past doesn’t mean he could stay with CP3. Paul is quicker and a better dribbler under seige. Nash excels at dishing in the open court on the fly; take away that space for him to survey the terrain and his effectiveness diminishes much more than it does for Paul under the same circumstances. You pressure Paul when he has the ball and it is far more likely he breaks you down, and then contently chooses between shooting the open jumper or drawing opponents and feeding the bounce pass or alley oop into the paint. Nash is probably a better shooter when he’s being contested (he’s three inches taller than Paul), but Paul is better at getting uncontested, especially when it is an older, rugged-but-slower guy like Bowen doing the checking. By contrast, Bowen’s in-your-jersey approach really bedevils Peja, who was magnificent not only on the catch-and-shoot during the two games in New Orleans, but in running the floor, taking people off the dribble, and crashing the offensive boards. Now that Bowen is putting the clamps on Peja, Paul and Parker are both running wild, and thus essentially cancelling each other out, a situation that very much favors San Antonio.

    Which brings us to the power forwards. After a simply stupendous first three games against a Spurs team that plays postseason defense as intelligently as any franchise in 40 years, David West was due for a bad game and perhaps not coincidentally it came on a night when Tim Duncan seemed to shake off the aches and illness that have plagued him the past week. The two don’t guard each other much, of course, but each anchors the low post offense for their team, and to the extent they successfully draw the opponents’ attention, the wider the lane gets for their teammates on penetration, and the easier the putbacks for the big men on the weak side. West is a deadly midrange shooter and a joy to watch spinning off his baseline shoulder for left-handed shots in the low left block. I’ll bet tonight is his lone stinker of the series, particularly if he can keep his temper totally under control, which apparently was no mean feat this evening.

    For Duncan, well, what can you say? He looked old and slow in the two tilts over in the Big Easy, but particularly tonight Popovich seemed to bring him out a little further away from the low block and toward the sideline, so that the inevitable double-teams created more ball-swings to the weak side, creating more running for the opponents, and many many more open treys in the corner and at the top of the key for the Bowens, Finleys, Ginobilis and Udokas of the world. The Spurs weren’t exactly marksmen on all those wide open looks–they shot 8-26 from beyond the arc–but they both wore the Hornets down with all that chasing, and also generated a helter-skelter chaos that deprived New Orleans of defensive rhythm. Right about the time the Hornets were instinctively flying toward the perimeter, Duncan decided to spin to the hoop (he was an efficient 10-13 FG) or Parker penetrated the open lanes (8-12 FG). New Orleans was working harder and less effectively.

    The final indignity was Duncan (twice) and then Ginobili drawing three fouls on defensive stopper Tyson Chandler in the first 3-plus minutes of the third quartrer. Suddenly with 8:39 to play in the third, Chandler had five fouls and the Hornets were down 19. It was right around then that New Orleans mentally threw in the towel, along with everyone but the most Hornets-addled fan watching at home. Byron Scott emptied his bench shortly after the 4th quarter and the older, slower Spurs had their garbage time to relax and ready themselves for Game Five.

    It should be a tremendous game. Even after San Antonio won Game Three, the fight staged by the Hornets–they pushed the Spurs to the brink a few times in the third and fourth quarters–had me rethinking my pick of the Spurs in 6 or 7. But San Antonio kept refining and came out in Game Four playing that incredibly well-spaced and unselfish ball movement offense that de
    stroyed the Suns in Game Three of their first round series. Can San Antonio impose their enormous will on the Hornets on the road? Paul and West both seemed a little pissed and twitchy tonight, an ire that could go either way in their motivation for Game Five. When the Spurs are annoying, they are almost always winning. On the other hand, Chris Paul and David West are bona fide NBA stars, right now, despite their youth, and Tyson Chandler should be in the conversation with Dwight Howard (and some would say Yao Ming) for who is the best center in the NBA. Yeah, I know Chandler didn’t even attempt a field goal tonight. But he is the chip Byron Scott has to play to avoid the disastrous double-team schemes on Duncan that the Spurs have clearly parsed out. And that matchup, perhaps more than any other, will detemine how this series is decided.

  • Leave me alone… I am trying to sleep

    I used to think that when I was up at night and my hubby was snoozing, rubbing his back was a nice thing to do.

    Guess it’s not only not nice, but it’s annoying.

    All this time I thought I was being little miss affectionate, but instead… I have been waking up my partner when he is just trying to get some deep sleep.
    I never knew this until today.

    Also I never realized that when I am in a deep sleep and my husband does not WAKE me up to kiss me goodbye, he is not doing it to be mean. He is just trying to let me stay in that pleasant, peaceful world where we sleep like babies.

    Who knew? I didn’t, but I do now.

    All of the people that advise you before you get married to never
    go to sleep angry and always kiss your partner before YOU fall asleep, they got the first part right; but if your partner is in a deep, peaceful sleep and you don’t wake them up for a big smooch, this doesn’t mean you don’t love them. It just means you are being considerate — at least in OUR case.

    There is nothing like affection from your partner (when he or she is awake). I was on the receiving end of that deal this morning, and even though it’s cloudy and cold outside, I feel very warm and fuzzy on the inside. 🙂

    Good luck with the golf game, Honey. I promise from here on out to only kiss you when you are wide awake!

    Hey, you asked for it, Mister, and I KNOW whether you are really sleeping or you’re faking it.