The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • The Three Pointer: Off the Schneid

    Game #34, Home Game #17: Miami 91, Minnesota 101

    Season record: 5-29

    1. The Importance of Glue

    Other players scored more points, grabbed more rebounds, doled out more assists, and generally exerted a higher-profile on tonight’s rare Wolves victory than the two glue guys I consider to be most crucial to the win, Ryan Gomes and Marko Jaric.

    For that matter, Gomes himself has had games, especially recently, where he’s shown off more obviously than he did tonight. But this Miami game is what I had envisioned when I penciled in Gomes as the team’s second-best player at the beginning of the season. It wasn’t just that his versatility enabled coach Randy Wittman to get away with a daring lineup switch. He was also the calming agent on a squad dripping with flopsweat at crunchtime, the one who took the hands away from the Wolves throat when it looked as if the team was going to choke away what was once a 19-point lead to the second-worst team in the league.

    We’ve all seen it before from this ballclub: the rote perimeter passes and faux-aggressive dribbling accomplishing nothing but wasting time. Then, tick-tick-tick, the spin-dribble in traffic, or the forced lean-in trying to draw the foul, or the shot taken almost deliberately off balance for no ostensible reason, or–at long last–the now-gallant chucking up of a prayer because the 24-second clock is expiring. These are the crunchtime moves of performers angling to hedge their choke against extenuating circumstances. It’s a mentally frozen team psychologically preoccupied with not looking stupid or of being the goat, which of course dramatically increases its chances of looking stupid and being the goat. That’s the way the Wolves played most of their half-court sets in the 4th quarter tonight. But Gomes was a prominent exception.

    When I mentioned Gomes’s ability to remain unruffled during an otherwise rocky crunchtime, coach Randy Wittman didn’t entirely agree, inferring that Gomes, too, turned down a couple of easy shots he should have taken–and given that Wittman was understandably both ebullient and relieved by the win, and in a mood to slather credit on his troops, he might be right. But the coach then identified two of the three plays that had me pinning gold stars on #8, and correctly called them "the big shots" of the game.

    First the one Wittman didn’t cite: With nine minutes to play and the Wolves lead dropped to 8, Gomes faked a jumper, dribbled to his left and nailed a 17-footer. For most of the season Gomes has been a catch and shoot guy, and for him to vary the script and still go up easily and in rhythm was body language telling everyone he wasn’t feeling any pressure. Fifteen seconds later, Jaric committed a foul and the Wolves were in the penalty with 8:51 to play, against a player, Dwyane Wade, who had 16 fourth quarter FTs against them in Miami. The heat, if not the Heat, was on.

    But with 8:02 remaining and the Wolves up 9, Jaric found Gomes in the corner for a trey and again he didn’t hesitate, went up smoothly, and buried it. At a time when the Wolves’ offense was clearly floundering, this was a big basket; and a signal they wouldn’t fade under the expected barrage of free throws Miami was going to be shooting. Then, with 2:36 to play, Miami cut the lead to 6–closer than they’d been since midway through the first period. The squads traded misses until, with about 90 seconds to go, Gomes got the ball and drove down the left lane, suddenly dumping it off to Jefferson for a lay-up that put the Wolves up by more than two possessions with barely over a minute to play. Huge basket.

    The preceding paragraphs are also an abject lesson in why you don’t go chapter and verse about glue guys. Describing subtle contributions, or steady play in relatively dramatic moments–and watching the Wolves tighten up as their lead eroded on their most winnable game of the month was, unfortunately, dramatic–still can’t do them justice.

    Anyway, Gomes was also crucial to Wittman’s decision to shake up his lineup by replacing Craig Smith with Rashad McCants. That put Gomes at the power forward slot, opposite not Udonis Haslem, who guarded Al Jefferson much of the time, but Heat center Mark Blount. Now all Wolves fans know that Blount is a shrinking violet in the paint. But it’s still notable that the 6-7 Gomes was trusted with the assignment of containing Blount, which he did mostly by fronting him, but occasionally playing behind him on the low block. Gomes also had to play all the rotations on zones from the power forward slot. The bottom line is that Gomes outrebounded Blount 6-4 (surprise, surprise, eh?) and also grabbed three steals and dished for 3 assists against just one turnover while getting 13 points–stats better than Blount’s across the board.

    I’ll be more succinct about Marko’s glue heroics. First and foremost, he was the primary defender on Wade, forcing him to make a bevy of acrobatic layups in order to get his 25 points. More importantly, he stayed in front of Wade well enough to prompt six turnovers from the Miami superstar, including four in the fourth quarter, and to draw a charging call on Wade for his 5th foul, further limiting Wade’s aggression (kudos to gutsy ref Dan Crawford–the best in the game–for making the right call there). He also hit 6-9 FGs (5-6 from inside the three point line), and dished as well as scored off of penetration, finishing with an 8/2 assist-to-turnover ratio. It was a game tailor-made for the "good Marko"–chaotic, sloppy, and prone to spurts of opportunism.

    2. Inside-Outside

    Having argued in my last trey for less Jefferson-Smith on the front line and more burn for McCants, I was pleasantly surprised by the rejiggered lineup. In retrospect, I don’t think it was the difference in the outcome of this game–during his brief stint, Smith murdered Blount in the low block by flashing down into the paint and using Blount’s well known distaste for flesh and flesh contact, getting 7 points and 6 rebounds (and, alas, 5 fouls, an ongoing Rhino vexation) in just 13:43. But having McCants around for the opening tap is really the only way right now to prevent Wolves opponents from packing the paint against Jefferson, especially when Shaddy erupts, as he did tonight, for 18 first half points on just ten shots (8-10 FG, 1-1 3ptFG, 2-2 FT). What Wittman appropriately demands, and what McCants has done recently, is to vary his attack, from full-court dashes in transition to explosive penetration in the half court to quick midrange jumpers and, finally, three-pointers.

    When McCants is on his game, there is more room and less pressure for Jefferson to score. Hell, there is more space for everyone to score–that’s why an inside-outside scoring tandem is fundamental to even mediocre offenses. That the Wolves have been trying to get by exclusively pounding the ball into Jefferson–or relying on the likes of Telfair, Jaric, Brewer, etc. to score from outside–is a rather large reason why they’ve been so dreadful on offense the past month. Toss Randy Foye into the mix, and you’ve got three players capable of getting bushels of points in the paint–with about two dozen cavaets–involving health, maturity, pecking orders, etc.– that we won’t go into right now.

    Besides, even this win comes with a sobering reality check. After combining for 30 points on 70% shooting (14-20 FG) en route to a 59-point first half, the Jeff-Shaddy combo played like jokers and exerted no leadership or command against an opponent begging to be put out of its misery in the second half. The most jaw-dropping stat in last night’s box score is zero turnovers for Jefferson. That’s only because all the times he muffed well-timed and -delivered entry passes resulted in him putting up a more difficult shot instead of an easy make, or being forced to pass it back out. His only basket in seven third quarter attempts was a tip-in 15 seconds after intermission, and in the fourth quarter one of his two baskets was the crunchtime dish from Gomes,
    who did all the heavy lifting. At 3-10 FG, Big Al came up small in quarters three and four.

    McCants was as bad in the fourth period as Jefferson was in the third, going 2-10 FG after nailing 8-10 in the first half and 2-4 in the third quarter. Wittman inferred that some of that might have been because Shaddy was willing to step up and let it fly while his teammates were fearfully spurning better shots. But even granting the point, McCants seems better able to bang home those treys or finish those serpentine journeys to the hoop when he team is up or down by 20 points, or in the first half, rather than when the score is close and the game is late.

    Nevertheless, balance out the bad and the good and you still have a player who went off for 27 points–pretty much his average the past two games as well–on 12-24 FG. Shaddy wrested a missed Jefferson free throw from Udonis Haslem (no mean feat) and laid the ball in. He snuck in for another offensive rebound and putback midway through the second quarter. He hit a respectable two out of five treys but also muscled his way through traffic for at least two left-handed layups. Oh and there were also the 8 rebounds and 4 assists. Overall a fabulous game, but, McCants being McCants there was of course some bad with the good, just as his "bad" games frequently contain silver linings.

    3. Hit and Run Observations

    Watching Ricky Davis pile up the turnovers–five, in 25:24–take breaks on defense, commit a dumb foul or two, and wring about three percent of the potential from his talent produced some Pretty Ricky flashbacks that actually put McCants, who schooled him most of the game, in a much more favorable light. Then there was Blount and his pathetic defense, aversion to contact, 4 boards in 35:37, and dutiful going through the motions. About the only consolation for Heat fans is that Antoine Walker had one of his worst games of the season. That said, ‘Toine’s been a stand-up teammate under trying circumstances, Minnesota bagged a first-round pick, and the Wolves don’t have the toxic twins poisoning their locker room.

    Minnesota would have won by 25 or 30 tonight if Sebastian Telfair could shoot. Let the record show that Bassy finished 3-10 FG and turned down about three times as many wide open looks throughout the course of the game. Nine assists versus three turnovers is nice, but the more frequently defenses can disdain his jumper, the less and less passing alleys and angles he’ll have against dropping-off defenders.

    Randy Wittman pointedly mentioned a very rigorous practice the team had yesterday in the context of tonight’s uptempo win. If the Wolves beat one of their next eight opponents–Phoenix and Golden State twice apiece, plus Houston, Denver, Boston and San Antonio–maybe I’ll buy that taskmaster approach. Meanwhile, it was just good to be able to see him smile at that postgame podium for a change. He opened his remarks by saying, "Well, we got off the schneid finally." Yes, yes you did coach. Here’s hoping another schneid isn’t headed your way.

  • Sex and Duluth

    I’m
    feeling very married these days. More than when I stood in front of the
    judge, more than when I opened a joint checking or co-signed a
    mortgage. And even more than when I drove away from the hospital with
    our first child.

    While my marriage has seen its share of compromise, we’re on the
    brink of its biggest conciliation to date. We’re moving for my
    husband’s career – to Duluth.

    It’s a good opportunity; it really is. But I’ve been so deep in
    mourning I’ve had a hard time hearing all the good reasons. My husband
    had to all but don sock puppets (speaking loudly & slowly) to help
    me to follow the logic of the career potential, the insurance benefits
    (we currently buy our own) and the beauty of moving to a less inflated
    housing market. It’s all good; I know, but we’ll be moving for his great adventure and I’ll be the tag-along – the little woman, the Stepford wife.

    So I’ve been in ostrich mode lately and decided to cope by not. I
    ordered all six seasons of Sex and the City (SATC) from hclib.org and
    have been watching them on my Mac laptop – propped up on the kids’
    bathroom stool – where I can see it while in a hot bath drinking a glass
    of wine. This is a good place to be while waiting for your bed’s
    electric blanket to heat up.

    And while I was deep into my media therapy session watching the
    writer commentary, she said it. Some fancy screenwriter was commenting
    that SATC had to be in New York because it is so alive, so vibrant…and
    because (and I paraphrase here,) “Who would watch a series called Sex
    and Duluth    ?”

    NO SHOUT OUTS TO THE SAD WOMAN IN THE BATHTUB!

    This got me thinking that it’s NOT the time to invite me to a bridal
    shower. I’ve long held the belief that one should be wary of any life
    event that requires a “shower.” Those of us who have done said event,
    like the married women who typically throw these gatherings, can’t
    bring ourselves to tell the bride the cold truth about her future
    institution, so we just buy her a Cuisinart instead.

    I’m afraid if I attended in my present state, I would lose my head
    and leap up and start shaking the bride. “Don’t you know that what this
    party means? One day you could be unexpectedly plucked from the beige
    rambler of your dreams – the one with the open floor plan, first floor
    laundry and solid school district – and cast out of the Cities to a
    place that is the butt of screenwriter jokes!” I’d then have to
    straighten myself up, smooth out the bride and excuse myself to the
    restroom where I’d climb out the window.

    Of course, it is not like I’m leaving the Twin Cities forever. I’ll
    be back for overnights probably twice a month to retain some writing
    clients here and stay with my fabulous mother-in-law.

    And there are moments, when I’m clear-eyed and possess a willing
    spirit, when I can actually see where my husband is coming from. It
    really is a great opportunity for our family and Duluth does have a
    tempting lifestyle. But I’m not putting everything I own into a truck
    for job or a big lake. I’m doing it because I love my husband and want
    to support him in his career as he has supported me in mine. Because
    you see, I’m married.

  • Toot Toot

    DANCE
    It’s Getting Hot in Here

    You
    might have to wear your full-body parka snowsuit to the show, but once
    you step inside, The Rabbit Show Dance Ensemble promises to turn up the
    heat with some hotter-than-hot dancing. Representing an elusive Minnesotan summer and sunshine is the goal
    of the thirteen choreographed dances that are part of the performance. Entitled Hot and Cold: The Minnesota-Siberian Express, this train is
    sure to be a one-way ticket to the tropics. —Kate McDonald

    7.p.m, Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949; $6-$10.

    MUSIC
    Mandolin Sans Souci

    Whether or not "Sans Souci" actually means "no problem" in French is quite besides the point. What is more important about the cultured quartet with the possible francophone name is that it includes a banjo. And an upright bass. And a mandolin. And The Sans Souci Quartet plays bluegrass. What more could you want? No problems? Well, you’ll have no problems here. —Kate McDonald

    9 p.m., 331 Club, 13th Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-331-1746; free.

    PERFORMANCE
    Take to the Stage

    Move over internationally-know performers; it’s our chance to be on the Walker’s McGuire Stage! Kinda. New York choreographer Miguel Gutierrez’s new production Powerful People seats the audience on the stage for a theatrical performance that celebrates a close immediate connection between audience and performers in the present moment. Powerful People Everyone is also the first performance of the the Walker’s Out There 20 series. —Kate McDonald

    8 p.m., Walker McGuire Theater, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600; $20.

  • Better Than An Italian Supermodel

    So how was JesusChristmas for you all here in the United States? I have been away over the holidays but I have not been wasting time.

    Au contraire.

    You see I have been busily working in France test driving cars that most people can only dream about. Cars even hotter than France’s new President’s bride to be (a former supermodel, shamelessly so). I’ve included a shot of the F40 I picked up in front of the Ritz on the Place Vendome’. This is the Ferrari that everyone wants due to its umitigated brutality (the last full car designed by the Holy Devil himself.)

    My photos are taking too long to upload at present but a Veyron is in here as well as a Gullwing and some more classic Bugattis, Alfas and Porsches.

    Who needs women, nez pas?

    (That’s what Nicholas has been known to say.) 

  • Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Irrelevance

    2007 was almost certainly the first year in my adult life that I abandoned more books than I finished. For years I was a masochist about reading, and once I made any sort of investment in a book –bought it, checked it out from the library, cracked the pages– I felt obligated to finish the damn thing, no matter how unpleasant I found the actual reading experience. But after gutting out way too many lousy books in 2006 —The Emperor’s Children, for instance– I was reminded of something that someone (John Irving, I think) once said about the subject in a Paris Review interview. I’m paraphrasing here, but the gist of it was this: When you get to be a grown-up you no longer have to finish everything on your plate if it doesn’t taste good or you’ve had enough.

    I’m also at an age where the math has become daunting. I now have to face the sad fact that I’ll never get around to reading all the books in my house, let alone all the other books that I keep bringing home with me or would still like to acquire and read. A lot of probably essential stuff just isn’t going to make the cut, so why should I be making crappy compromises at this point?

    I shouldn’t, of course, but I still do. I still get sucked into all manner of atrocious nonsense, some of which I have to confess that I genuinely enjoy. In the last year I’ve read or spent too much time looking at books on rats, ants, dowsing, stuttering, flying saucers, tongue speaking, cremation, and circumcision. I’ve read what is essentially a history of dirt (Theodor Rosebury’s Life on Man), as well as pulp histories of torture, the Black Hole of Calcutta, and Voodoo. I spent a good deal of time browsing in The Faber Book of Madness and The Oxford Book of Death.

    There are also books that I return to year after year: the stories of Borges, Eudora Welty, and Chekhov, Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, Cellarius’ Harmonia Macrocosmica, Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, the Pushcart Prize anthologies, and various collections of photographs.

    Every year, as I spend more and more time trying to play catch-up, I seem to read fewer new books, and to spend more time simply looking at books, and many of my favorite books from 2007 were visual pleasures, which isn’t to say they didn’t have stories to tell. My favorite, in fact, is a small and lovely collection of photos and captions that is as powerful, heartbreaking, and life affirming as any novel I read all year. It made me, however briefly, glad to be alive, even as it made me terrified to grow old.

    Here are my favorites, roughly in order of how much time I spent looking at and thinking about them:

    1. The Day-to-Day Life of Albert Hastings, KayLynn Deveney
    2. The Collected Poems: 1956-1998, Zbigniew Herbert
    3. Tree of Smoke, Denis Johnson
    4. The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies, Robert Kirk (a classic of 17th-century weirdness reissued by New York Review of Books)
    5. The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolano. The other Bolano stuff I tracked down was equally terrific.
    6. Nature’s Engraver: A Life of Thomas Bewick, Jenny Uglow
    7. Dog Days Bogota, Alec Soth
    8. An American Index of the Hidden and Unfamiliar, Taryn Simon
    9. Cultural Amnesia, Clive James. I found this obsessive and irresistible, despite the wrong-headed takedown of Walter Benjamin.
    10. Like You’d Understand, Anyway: Stories, Jim Shepard
    11. The Last Novel, David Markson
    12. Paris-New York-Shanghai, Hans Eijkelboom
    13. The Principles of Uncertainty, Maira Kalman
    14. Neck Deep and Other Predicaments, Anders Monson

  • Many Thanks to Moskal

    Thanks to local designer George Moskal for making me feel all
    Lindsay Lohan-like this holiday season. He lent me one of his dresses! I wore it to
    a belated holiday party last Friday night; see the craftily cropped outtake
    below. Because, you see, even with a pretty dress on, I still can’t feel good
    about my big, frizzy mop of hair.

  • Markers on the Road to Decency

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Have a Beer and a Book

    Join us for Raking Through Books, The Rake’s monthly happy hour
    book club, at Kieran’s Irish Pub.
    This month, meet authors Biloine W. Young, Wing Young Huie, and David
    Parker. Exploring human rights, activism, the power of story, and
    determination of spirit, these three authors tell their work here and
    around the globe. Featured books include My Heart It is Delicious, Young’s story of the Center for International Health; Looking for Asian America, by Huie; and Before Their Time: The World of Child Labor, by Parker — all of which are for sale at a 20 percent discount from the University of Minnesota Bookstore. Plus, participate in our new Monthly Book Swap: Bring a book, take a book! Meet people who read books! Have a beer. —Jennifer Havrish

    5:30-7:30 p.m., Kieran’s Irish Pub, 330 2nd Ave. S., Minneapolis; free.

    BOOKS
    The Department of Homeland Decency

    What does it mean to bring decency back to America? (Some might even question whether or not it ever existed here in the first place.) Does it mean wishing folks a "Merry Christmas," rather than a "Happy Holiday"? Does it mean never referring to s-e-x as anything other than "it"? According to Susan and Frank Fuller’s new decency manual, it does indeed. The Department of Homeland Decency’s Decency Rules and Regulations Manual
    dissects the Rules and Regulations of the USA Decency Act and describes
    in great detail how such rules may be executed for co-existing in a
    wholesome, more civilized nation. Is this irony? You’ll have to read it for yourself to figure that one out. (But remember, you can choose to interpret it however suits you best.)

    Available today in bookstores nationwide.


    Castro’s Spoken Autobiography

    Regarding Fidel Castro: My Life: A Spoken Autobiography — we’re curious about what the old man has to say, and we’re
    hoping for wardrobe and grooming tips, along with colorful yarns about
    outlasting ten American presidents. Plus, how can you resist a
    two-colon title? —Brad Zellar

    Available today in bookstores nationwide.

    MUSIC
    A Voice that Soars from Lebabon to Canada

    Since she won first prize in the 2000 Operalia competition (founded by Plácido Domingo), soprano Isabel Bayrakdarian has performed in many of the world’s major opera houses. The stunning, young Armenian-Canadian is best known for her work in Mozart operas, which she has sung continuously during the composer’s 250th birthday year: Susanna, Zerlina in Don Giovanni, and Pamina in The Magic Flute have been her calling cards, along with Marzelline in Fidelio, Adina in L’elisir d’amore, and Rosina in The Barber of Seville.

    8 p.m., Ordway Center for Performing Arts, 345 Washington St., St. Paul; 651-224-4222; $22-$45.

  • How to be a Neighborhood Hero

    A
    young family moved in on a nearby street and we’re determined to give
    them a warmer welcome than what we got. It’s not like folks were mean
    upon our arrival, but there is more than one house on the block with a
    lawn service, drawn curtains and a dark porch light on Halloween.
    Either they’re in the Witness Protection Program or they’re dead.

    So we decided to host a neighborhood New Year’s get together to
    show-off the new people, kid-friendly of course. The invitations were
    met with enthusiasm, and by that I mean A LOT of enthusiasm. We’d
    causally mention the event and people wanted in – and to bring friends.
    Then I got a phone call from another friend who heard about it. And
    could they bring some other kids they were watching? You get the
    picture. Plus, it got to be a real rush to extend invites to such happy
    recipients.

    Now, let’s be clear. This has VERY LITTLE to do with us as hosts and
    EVERYTHING to do with the nature of the holiday. While Christmas is the
    epitome of child fare – everyone wants to see the kiddies around the
    tree, New Year’s Eve is its polar opposite. And since you can’t pack
    your babies up with the Christmas décor, it’s simply a non-event for
    parents.

    I’ll be honest here; it did get a little wild. The party topped out
    at about 34 guests, nearly half being kids – and keep in mind we didn’t
    even invite our core friend group. At points, I was holding babies
    whose names I didn’t even know and passing them off to adults (no
    backsies!) while I tried to keep up with the all the food people
    generously brought.

    We fired up the inflatable jumpy house in our rec room (an impulse
    purchase that helped me through a very dark week last winter – don’t
    judge me) threw a movie on the TV and 60 mini-corns in the oven. And at
    8:00 p.m. we lined up pots and pans, gave each kid a spoon and brought
    in 2008 with a ruckus. It was the New Year somewhere, right?

    The party broke up around 9:20 (we’re in our 30’s and have little
    kids – don’t judge us.) On the door stoop, people thanked us like we
    had given them a kidney. They put their kids and their crock-pots back
    onto their sleds and shuffled off into the dark, cold night.

    Two dishwasher cycles and a Hefty bag later, our house was nearly
    back to order. It was definitely worth the effort; but then again,
    public service usually is.

    Read more essays by Lucie B. Amundsen.

  • Michael Dorris: Lessons in Anguish and Drink

    I’ve spent the day researching the life of Michael Dorris: reading him, reading about him. And the dark, frantic moral of his story seems to be simply that some lives are unlivable. This is not a comforting thought.

    He was an extraordinary writer. No matter what his myriad sins, this man had a way on the page that was gentle and lucid and lyrical. I’ve no doubt it inspired other people to be better than they were, even if he, the writer, was hiding a self so sinister he eventually killed himself (in 1997) rather than be revealed as the Hyde that he was: nocturnally — when he was out of the public eye — an unspeakably monstrous man.

    In addition to being an essayist, a novelist, and a scholar, Dorris was the author of a 1990 memoir called The Broken Cord, which is among the loveliest, most heartbreaking books I have ever read. More important, he more than anyone was responsible for publicizing the scourge of fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS) particularly in Native American populations, and for calling on legislators to enact laws that would make it illegal for a pregnant woman to cripple her unborn child by drinking.

    In his 1992 testimony to the Centers for Disease Control, Dorris said:

    Unlike so many good people — scientists and social workers and politicians — who have chosen out of the kindness of their hearts and the dictates of their social consciences to become knowledgeable about fetal alcohol syndrome and fetal alcohol effect, to work with their victims, to demand prevention, I was dragged to the subject blindfolded, kicking and screaming. I’m the worst kind of expert, a grudging, reluctant witness, an embittered amateur, and, above all else: a failure. A parent.

    I’m a living, breathing encyclopedia of what hasn’t worked in curing or reversing the damage to one child prenatally exposed to too much alcohol. Certain drugs termporarily curbed my son’s seizures and hyperactivity but almost certainly had dampening effects on his learning ability and personality development. Fifteen years of special education — isolation in a classroom, repetitive instruction, hands-on learning — maximized his potential but didn’ t give him a normal IQ. Psychological counseling — introspective techniques, group therapy — had no positive results, and may even have encouraged his ongoing confusion between what is real and what’s imagined.

    Brain surgery hasn’t worked.
    Anger hasn’t worked.
    Patience hasn’t worked.

    Love hasn’t worked.

    (from Paper Trail, Harper Collins, 1994)

    I read this and several other of Dorris’s essays last night, not out of literary or professional curiosity but because I was trying to figure out the motivations of the man.

    His words ring true to me, despite everything I know. Despite the allegations by Hennepin County investigators that Dorris abused (sexually and physically) four of his five living children before taking his own life in a New Hampshire hotel room. He was a man who had lost a child — his older son, Abel, whom he’d adopted at the age of three then tended and coached for 20 years — and appeared, for all his egregious sins to be entirely shattered. Grief-stricken, not just because his grown son was hit by a car and killed. But because his life, while he’d had it, had been such an unholy mess.

    Dorris reportedly bullied, hit, kicked, and screamed at his children. He probably — though we in the public will never now know — sexually violated his young girls. He tortured the son afflicted with FAS whom he believed (or said he believed) could pay attention if only he tried. Dorris’s conduct was, in the strictest sense of the word, unforgivable. But at the same time, he seemed genuinely bewildered and undone by his inability to help his child.

    Today, desperate to understand and learn from the mistakes of those who’ve gone before, I actually contacted Colin Covert, the terrific writer who covered the Michael Dorris story back in ’97 and went on to become the Star Tribune‘s film critic.

    An excerpt from Covert’s landmark investigative piece "The anguished life of Michael Dorris":


    Although Dorris’ writing about his family humbly noted many of his
    shortcomings as a parent, it never hinted at violence. But his son
    Abel, describing his life in an epilogue to "The Broken Cord," cited
    incidents in which Dorris pushed the retarded boy "face first into the
    wall." He said Dorris punished his younger brother by shutting him
    alone in his room to cry for hours.

    "What I want to know is, what was your gut feeling at the time, as you
    investigated?" I wrote to Covert. "Was Dorris guilty? Was he victimized? Was it a combination of the two?
    He seemed — in his writing — to have been wrecked by his own inability
    to cure his adopted children. Was this simply hubris turned ugly? Or was it a
    father’s grief so dark that it took him over and made him do terrible things?"

    I signed my name, then added a postscript. "I am the parent of a profoundly disabled child and I find that as he grows
    older — and becomes more intractably impaired — some of the people around him have begun to behave in odd and hurtful
    ways. That’s why I ask these unanswerable questions. . . ."

    Here’s what I did not say: One family member no longer speaks to me — or to my two younger children — because she faults me for my 19-year-old son’s worsening struggle with autism. And a caregiver my son once loved and counted on has become punishing, hostile, and sporadically cruel, probably because he cannot deal with the fact that his attention did not constitute a cure.

    Frustration, fear, and hopelessness seems to have driven these once caring people completely insane. And I am afraid of going over the edge with them. I read Dorris, in part, to remind me. To hold me back from being so jaded that I, too, am useless.

    Covert must have sensed some of this in my e-mail. He wrote back immediately, advising me to re-read the piece and draw my own conclusions. Then he added a postscript of his own. "I wish you all the strength in the universe. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers tonight."

    It’s amazing to me how much that sentence — coming from a virtual stranger — matters. Tomorrow, there will be a meeting at which we will, hopefully, begin to determine my son’s future. And I will try once again to rally faith that despite all the uncertainty and cynicism surrounding him, he has one to face.

    It is ironic, I admit, but I opened a bottle I’d been saving — a 1996 Lyeth Meritage — to help me figure this out tonight. Bottled the year before Dorris died, this is a red table wine that’s aged and acquired a bite, like an old man with a wicked tongue. It’s sour upon first sip, cherry and apple cider and vinegar and, yes, piss. But the finish is smooth and knowing, as the Atlantic surf receding, a definitive end to a wine that’s lived long enough to know how to exit. I like it because it matches my mood, which is both determined and resigned.

    It is tempting, as a writer, to act as Dorris did: to use words in order to appear collected and enviable. He did this to his — and his family’s — detriment, I think. Said Mark Anthony Rollo, editor of an Indian newspaper called The Circle: "Michael started falling apart, I believe, when the chasm between his
    public persona — which was in a sense fictional — and his self in
    private life just couldn’t be reconciled."

    I decided tonight, after a couple glasses of the Meritage, that it is better to be open, flawed and unsure, rather than covert and vain. Even as a writer, even in print. It is wrong — and dangerous — to put forth a front of heroism while living an addled life.

    Perhaps that is the lesson of Michael Dorris. If, indeed, one exists.

  • The Three Pointer: Squandering Development Capital

    Game #32, Home Game #16: Denver118, Minnesota 107

    Game #33, Home Game #17: Dallas 101, Minnesota 78

    1. Beating A Dead Horse

    Al Jefferson and Craig Smith took the floor for the opening tap Friday night so you knew the Timberwolves would fall behind early. And, why, yes, Denver scored the first 12 points of the game and was up 12-2 when coach Randy Wittman mercifully subbed in Chris Richard for Smith with just 3:24 gone in the game. By the time Smith returned alongside Antoine Walker for Richard and Jefferson seven minutes and three seconds later, the score was 28-21, meaning the Wolves had outscored the Mavs 19-16 during that stretch. Nevertheless, to begin the second half, it was again Jefferson and Smith matched against  Marcus Camby and Kenyon Martin. And again Denver jumped out, this time 5-1 to go up 66-53 before Wittman gave Smith the hook, in favor of Walker.

    When I asked Wittman after the game why Smith was yanked twice, he said because the Rhino wasn’t getting back quickly enough on defense. Okay, got it.

    The Dallas Mavericks came to town this afternoon. They started a front line of DeSagana Diop, Dirk Nowitzki and Josh Howard. The tricky matchup, of course, is Nowitzki. Ah, but not for Randy Wittman. He goes with the old tried and untrue, Jefferson at center, Smith at power forward and Ryan Gomes at small forward.

    Listen folks, I really would like to be more original in my criticism of this ballclub. But when a squad is losing 29 of its first 33 games, including the last 8 in a row, and is getting demonstrably worse, not better, I feel it is important to point out the main reasons why this seems to be happening. And with precious few exceptions, it has to be said that when Jefferson plays center and Smith plays power forward, the Timberwolves get their ass kicked.

    You have a wealth of stats to back this up, and I won’t go back and get them (scroll back on previous posts if you want). Let’s just focus on this afternoon. By what logic do you send out a beefy undersized former second round draft pick, who was twice benched in the last game for not getting back on defense, and who has trouble guarding players outside the paint, as the one to match up against the reigning league MVP, who just happens to be a half-foot taller, quicker, and a deadly outside shooter? Do we really need a manual with the words Craig Smith vs. Dirk Nowitzki = bad matchup in bold print to prevent this from happening? Apparently so, because when Smith went to the bench with 2 fouls in the first 3:35 of the game, Nowitzki already had 7 points and the Mavs were up 7, 11-4.

    Now without question Nowitzki is a brutal matchup problem for most every team–that’s a main reason why he’s MVP. But there were at least three better options for Wittman than Craig Smith. One would have been to play Jefferson at center, Gomes at the power forward opposite Nowitzki, and Corey Brewer at small forward on Josh Howard. Or kick Marko Jaric up to the small forward slot and slide Rashad McCants–he of the 34 points the previous game–in at shooting guard. Or go big, with Chris Richard or Mark Madsen (Michael Doleac didn’t dress) at center beside Jefferson at the power forward and Gomes at the small forward. Or throw a front line of Jefferson at center, Walker at the power forward guarding Nowitzki, and Gomes on Howard. Because Gomes, Jefferson, Walker, Jaric, Madsen, and Richard are all better matchup options on Dirk Notwitzki than Craig Smith.

    And indeed, all but Richard got a chance to guard Nowitzki at some point in the game. For the most part, Nowitzki burned them all, finishing with 30 points on 12-20 FG and 5-5 FT. But Walker and Gomes took away his easy looks from three-point range, and it was good to see Jefferson reach down and get feisty with Nowitzki in the 3rd and early 4th quarters, bodying him up and making it a personal battle. Jefferson lost that struggle but the notion that he waged it, wagered a little of his personal identity on trying to stop someone for a change, was one of the few silver linings in this nasty 23-point spanking that wasn’t even that close.

    Again, I understand I’ve said all of this before and am "beating a dead horse" as they say (unfortunately a very fitting analogy for this Wolves team right now). But Al Jefferson and the Minnesota Timberwovles play much much better with a legitimate center on the floor. Today, Richard and Madsen played center for a combined 21:08. During that time, Dallas outscored Minnesota by 2 points. In the 26:52 Madsen or Richard was not playing center, Dallas outscored Minnesota by 21 points.

    This continues a year-long pattern that surely has been noticed by *someone* in the organization by now. The only logical explanation is that Wittman and the front office stubbornly see some benefit in perpetuating a consistently bad lineup. Yeah, one coujld argue that Dallas’s first quarter blowout quickly made the Madsen/Richard minutes in the second half garbage time, negating the plus/minus emphasis. (A full six minutes into the game, the Wolves had 1 rebound, 1 assist, 3 turnovers and were allowing the Mavs to shoot 78% (7-9FG).) But then how to explain Richard going plus +3 in the first quarter against Denver the other night–when the game theoretically was still in reach–only to never again see action during the other three quarters? No, the Jefferson-Smith pairly has been willfully rammed down the throat of Wolves fans by this coaching and front office staff. Wittman has occasionally justified it as providing better front court offense, but the awful defense from duo more than negates that supposed advantage.

    Wittman stalked away and cut off his press conference early today, once again vowing to make "changes," and once again callign forth all kinds of fighting analogies to say that the Wolves lack heart. Well, yes, it appears that way. Certainly less heart than they showed in November, and slightly less than they showed in December. But what the coach needs to remember is that the hearts of players grow, like their confidence, when they are put in a position to succeed.

     

    2. Make McCants Prove Himself

    Ironically, pairing Jefferson and Smith on the front line is one of the precious few things Wittman has done consistently for most of the season. Another, by default, is playing Sebastian Telfair at the point. What consistent Wolves watcher doesn’t have a very clear idea of what Jefferson, Smith and Telfair can and can’t do?

    But if Wolves fans are to endure an epically horrible season, they deserve that management, A) Identify which key players need to evaluated, and B) Get as large a sample size as possible by which to evaluate them. Put simply, there are certain players that need to prove or disprove themselves this season. And I’d put Rashad McCants at the top of the list.

    Why? Because McCants is the team’s premiere scoring threat on the perimeter. Because he has undergone microfracture surgery and needs to be physically vetted. And because McCants is a player of great virtues and vices, and the Wolves need to see if the virtues can be maintained with more consistency, and if the vices are a product of simple immaturity of something more fundamental.

    For all you McCants doubters out there, I understand. I see the scowls, the reach-in fouls, the neglect to penetrate and simply jack up jumpers, the bushels of points that don’t matter and the paucity of key hoops that could swing a game or two Minnesota’s way. But I also saw him get a career-high 34 in the flow of the offense Friday night. And I saw him get to the line 17 times in 55:24 over the past two games. The McCants supporters can appropriately note that if Al Jefferson goes off for 34 and 21 and shoots 17 FTs, we are all more apt to overlook his shakey defense, lack of passing and other deficiencies.

    Besides, what are your backcourt options, folks? Sebastian Telfair looks fried, Corey Brewer can’t stick a J, Marko Jaric is approximately as
    inconsistent as McCants, and Gerald Green is earning a C- in Basketball 101. Yes, perhaps McCants is a perpetual tease and a toxic head case destined to be more trouble than he’s worth. If the Wolves believe they know that to be true already, then they ought to be force feeding Corey Brewer in the backcourt rotation with Telfair and Jaric and given the vet Greg Buckner a little more burn to try and pull out a win or two. I think McCants remains an enigma. After awhile, that ceases to become a teasing mystery and turns into an deadly flaw–call it strangely willful inconsistency. But isn’t this lost season supposed to be about getting to the bottom of enigmas, and tossing away the bad apples and priming and then accelerating the development of those who seem to be getting a clue?

    Stick Shaddy in the starting lineup for 30 minutes per game, minimum. State that this will continue at least until Randy Foye returns, and quite possibly beyond. Take some of it out of Telfair’s minutes, some of it out of Jaric, and some of it out of Gomes–Telfair needs a breather (psychologically if not physically), we know the Jaric rollercoaster intimately already, and Gomes is hardly a sure bet to stick around once his contract expires. The notion of a Foye-Jefferson-McCants triad on offense remains the rosiest point-scoring scenario before the next NBA Draft.

    3. Quick Hits

    Remember all that talk about how much this team pulls for each other and how tight and enthusiastic they are? It has been true and it has been remarkable. But it can’t last much longer without some good news, like a win or two or Foye’s imminent return and a lineup shift that suddenly pays big dividends. Al Jefferson in particular is starting to get surly, McCants is a couple of weeks from blowing, especially if his minutes continue to yo-yo, and Randy Wittman’s post-game snits are already running out of juice.

    Also, remember all that talk about what a brutal schedule the Wolves had in December, and how things would improve in January? This was almost totally based on home games versus road games. For the record, the January schedule is if anything tougher than December’s. Portland, Denver and Dallas were all correctly figured to be losses. Miami at home without Wade and Shaq looks to be a golden opporunity to bag the squad’s first W since the Winter Solstice, but after that they have Houston and San Antonio on the road, Golden State at home, then Phoenix and Denver on the road before going to Golden State and Boston on either side of playing Phoenix here. If you’re wondering at what point the Wolves’ winning percentage falls behind Philadelphia’s NBA worst-ever percentage of .110 (9-73) from 1972-73, it would be 4-33.

    Kevin McHale, quoted in Wolftracks magazine: "Another solid veteran for us is Antoine Walker. He gives us a different look at the four spot and also can play the three spot. He can shoot and help spread the floor– and he understands the game very well." All true. And ‘Toine at the 3–what a concept.