Southeast Division Profiles: Dwight, the Dog Walker

Russ previewed the entire Southeast Division earlier in the week, and to go along with that, here's a fictional profile of Dwight Howard:

On the horizon to any Saturday morning coffee sipper who happens to peak over the ledge of his or her newspaper, Dwight Howard's body rises like a great wooden mast, and the leashes that run out from his hands resemble the knots and grids of a ship's riggings, as he sails across the crosswalk.

Central Division Profiles: Noah, the Greeter

Russ previewed the Central Division earlier, giving us the tale of the tape, and now here's a bit on Joakim Noah, inspired by Chicago's constant use of him as trade bait and the idea that they really hate the player they just might need the most:

Every day Mr. Thibodeau comes to work he parks his car in the manager's spot right next to the sidewalk.  He steps out of his Lexus, shined like a black dress shoe, and walks around to the front of the building.  He could use the back door, but he doesn't.  He could use the side door, but he doesn't.  He could use any door he pleases, but he doesn't.  After he locks his car doors with a beep, the keys go in his pocket and stay there.  The man wants to go in the front door, and he wants to see the place through the eyes of the customer, so every morning Mr. Thibodeau assesses the professionalism and class of his dining establishment.  He wants it to come off as five stars even if it only deserves three.  He wants the the sum to be greater than its parts, and that's why he hates Joakim Noah, the matradee.

He looks Noah in the eye every morning and says, "You're an ugly son of bitch.  I hope you know that."

To which Noah responds, "Ugliness ain't nothin' but a flesh wound, and I'm all bone--tough shit, man, that's me, and beauty ain't got nothin' to do with what I do.  Feel me."

"That's some superficial bull shit if I ever heard it.  You think a salesman, a face of a franchise, looks and talks the way you do?  You think Dwight Howard welcomes people to Stan's Steakhouse with that kind of gibberish?  No, he doesn't.  The man smiles and flexes like an Adonis, while you smirk behind a freakin' bow tie, and for God sakes tuck in your shirt."

"The bow tie ain't got nothin' to do with sayin' hi.  The people get me," Noah responds, as Mr. Thibodeau continues to walk through the foyer, lit by a crystal chandelier.  "Mr. Thibodeau, I'm the people's champ, which means even if I go--I'm still here.  Sir, beg your pardon, but I'm a G."

Mr. Thibodeau does not turn around but quickens his pace and shakes his head.  He hates Joakim Noah. He hates his twisted face and his untamed hair, which clashes with the floral arrangements and swans made out of napkins.  He hates the way the man speaks, like a rough stretch of asphalt, dotted with yellow lines from Confucius.  He even hates the man's energy and how it has him there every morning before anyone else is even awake.

Mr. Thibodeau hates Joakim Noah.  He even hates Noah's loyalty because Noah puts up with his daily harassments, smiling and waving like some Wal-mart greeter, and that's just the thing--he can't fire Joakim Noah because Noah makes people feel as confidant in eating foods they can't pronounce as they do when buying frozen pizza and Doritos.  Noah makes people confident in possibility, despite making a tuxedo look like a blue vest and a yellow smiley face that gets by on little health insurance and crooked teeth.

Photo Credits: Langston deserves the credit for both of these photos.  Personally, I'm not sure which one looks more believable, maybe both?

Atlantic Division Profiles: Rondo, the Dreamer

Russ gave us a factual breakdown of the Atlantic Division, and I'll be bringing you the stories of the Atlantic Division.  Langston and I did a couple of these last Spring and thought we'd have another go at it, so here we have the Rajon Rondo story, as inspired by his departure from the US national team this summer:

The night before he was scheduled to go to the moon Rajon Rondo dreamed he was sharpening knives, outside a carnival tent.  After he finished shaping each blade, he would polish it with a blue and white basketball jersey, as a dream catcher swayed over his head like a nylon net underneath an orange rim.

Career Metamorphosis: Kendrick Perkins, Hired Muscle

It would be easy to dismiss Kendrick Perkins as a mere brute. His 6'10" and 280 lbs. make him a tree trunk of a man, and his face is a grimace carved from stone--call him Mount Rushmore, but with a mean streak.

Career Metamorphosis: Pau Gasol, Jack Of All Trades

Pau Gasol is a man of many trades, his flesh and his bones born from an age that required its sons to house the Renaissance in their very souls.  He is a tortured artist, often overlooked and sometimes misunderstood, who in an effort to support his life's work has had to delve into many laborious occupations, all the while stretching and pulling at his own bone structure and skin, until it reached the height of seven feet, in order to bear his screaming genius.