Empires in Decline: The Sun Sets on the Boston Celtics

The following four paragraphs were adapted from an article, in "The Wall Street Journal", entitled "Sun Setting on British Power" by Alistair MacDonald (we made them about basketball):

A Day in the Life: Kevin Garnett

Late Tuesday night, I received a phone call from a number I didn't recognize.  I answered the phone with the typical excitement one has for a phone call at 2:30 in the morning. Fully expecting a drunken conversation with a forgotten friend, I was ready to answer, mumble it's late, and hang up, but to my surprise, the call was from Kevin Garnett's agent returning my request to interview a player I've always admired for his defensive intensity,  all-around skill, and passion for the game. That was in April and I never expected any feedback, let alone an interview. After all, I am just an unknown blogger for an unknown blog from an unknown town in Virginia.  Not everything goes as expected.  I got an interview with KG, and Game 3 of the NBA Finals may not have been the moment of crisis that everyone believed it to be.

Before arriving at the cafe in Chestnut Hill (where we agreed to meet), I was overcome with a nervous energy after thinking of the pure intensity with which he plays, and I wondered to myself if this volatility is for real or if it's all a show.  And who could blame me: what with all the incessant screaming, chest pounding, and browbeating. No one could be that intense, or could they? That's when I found out the truth. I walked up to the all-star, greeted with a hug, and as I escaped his embrace I got the following shot where he screamed at the top of his lungs about the availability of his favorite breakfast pastry.

This was certainly the most interesting situation I had ever been in, being screamed at  about the availability of scones, a snack usually reserved for quiet tea parties, hosted by gentle grandmothers. I tried my best to take it in stride. We had coffee. He had the scones he was looking for and we moved on to the next stop, the neighborhood grocery store. As we were entering the store, I wondered to myself what could he possibly be shopping for, I mean he must have a personal chef that does the shopping and cooking for him. Then I noticed KG was already at the other side of the grocery store, moving a mile a minute and talking even faster. Somehow I caught up to him, only to have him yell at me once again.

After his agent explained to him that I was not an employee of the Whole Foods store and that I'm the photographer following him for the day, he responds by informing me he just really needs apple sauce, that his craving for the food burns deep within his gut, and I didn't question the man or his cravings, no matter how odd they appeared to be.

We searched for apple sauce over the next twenty minutes.  He wanted "the southern kind with the redneck on the jar" (I was previously unaware that there was more than one type of apple sauce). Thankfully, I found someone who worked there. Before explaining what I was looking for, the clerk said "You're here with KG aren't you? Here's the apple sauce he wants." Dumbfounded, I asked how he knew what we wanted, and without skipping a beat, the clerk states, "KG comes in here twice a day for the same thing, and he never remembers where it is."

After handing off the apple sauce to Kevin, he responded by beating his chest and putting his head through a glass door in the milk aisle. After regaining his composure, we headed to his last errand. The last stop would be to pick out his outfit for the local Emmy's, for which he was presenting an award for best public access show. Once inside the clothier, I sat down expecting a long drawn out search for the perfect suit. Before I could check my watch for the time he appeared from out of nowhere dressed in a tux.

At that point, he introduced himself as if he were James Bond, prompting me to decide that my time was up, the interview was over. I had learned almost nothing about the man, other than when he screams that it's not just for show. It's just who he is, whether on the basketball court or in a grocery store looking for apple sauce. The man is G, KG! and he wants everyone to know that the Celtics still have a few bullets left in their gun--consider Game 4 a warning shot.

Bottled Ships: Dr. Manhattan and the NBA's Brat Pack

At some point the brute force with which the Celtics have dismissed the brightest stars of the NBA's future becomes less about their own aggression and the lack of it in their opponents.

Don't get me wrong, I'm in complete awe of this Ponce de Leon like quest that the Celtics are currently taking.  As Bethlehem Shoals points out in his piece "The Fourth Man," this Celtics team is not only willing itself into the Finals but into our hearts and minds.  I, like Shoals, always viewed the KG era in Boston as that of a desperate mercenary.  I even came to the conclusion during this year's first round that this desperation was so acute that it became as awkward as a man hewn in the midwest reincarnating himself as some silly adolescent fantasy of wealth and all its stereotypes; in other words, Kevin Garnett was a basketball Gatsby, twitching, nervous, "pale as death," and annoyingly desperate.  That view is now shattered.

My view of Kevin Garnett as a tragic figure stalking another NBA championship into oblivion began to break apart the moment Boston exiled LeBron James on the island of Elba, and the perception was completely shattered with last night's 94-71 Game 3 win over Orlando.  Garnett is not Gatsby.  He is not reaching for the green light.  But rather he melded with the light. He's now more like Bruce Banner, or-- better yet--Jon Osterman.

The old Garnett was obliterated by a knee injury that left him as loose particles, destroyed, lost, suspended, and this season we judged Garnett as deceased, not realizing that what we were witnessing was his reassembling into a figure able to collapse time into a single moment.  And now the fate of the NBA universe rests in his hands, and the Finals looks to be a showdown between this timeless Garnett, the essence of creation, and the driven intelect of Kobe Bryant, who, like Ozymandias, has spent his whole life studying the greatness of past conquerors--Alexander the Great, Ramses, MJ--in order to surpass them.  This showdown is nothing new.  In fact, what we're about to see is a 1980s' cult comic transformed into an underwhelming blockbuster.  I say underwhelming not because the basketball will be be subpar and unentertaining but because we already know the story. This was supposed to be the year when the NBA stepped fully into a new era, when the younger generation of stars seized the torch from the previous generation, but, instead, we have a reliving of the past; and trying to relive the past usually leads to feelings of disappointment.

Over on Straight Bangin'  Joey argues that the NBA is a changed place today because the NBA's best player, LeBron James, is not ascending his throne as and when he should, but the NBA is no different than it always was.  If one continues to view the NBA in terms of the players as forces, then, yes, the NBA may appear different when in truth it is not. The NBA is a place where organizations act as forces.  Look at the short list of teams that have championship banners as proof, and the fact that once again the Lakers will play the Celtics for an NBA title shows that little in this League ever changes. Anywhere other than Boston Kevin Garnett would be a Gatsby, but, in Boston, he's Dr. Manhattan.

One could argue that where KG differs from his comic likeness is that his reincarnation has made him more sympathetic to other players in the League, noting his advice to LeBron at the end of their series to go where the organization will help him win a championship, stating, "you can't get youth back."  The problem is that KG's statement, whether he intended it to or not, embodied the coldness of the NBA's seas because KG's statement also made the claim that franchises like Cleveland and Minnesota do not win championships, which is the elephant in the room that rarely gets mentioned in basketball circles.  In fact, the only person who does mention it on a regular basis is Michael Wilbon.  Many people always argue that the Lakers vs. the Celtics in the Finals is what David Stern and the television networks want, but the 1990's saw huge ratings in the Finals and not once did the Celtics play the Lakers.  The real problem for the NBA is that it appears to have bought into the idea that it needs the Celtics vs. Lakers narrative to unfold again and again, which ignores the League's real problem that so few teams ever win championships.  This past decade eight different MLB franchises won the World Series and eight different NFL franchises won the Super Bowl, but only five different NBA franschises won the NBA Finals; and all but one of those teams already had a championship banner.  The other Leagues each had more than one first-time winner, and baseball, the League without a salary cap, also saw two franchises end nearly century long droughts.  Could it be that both baseball and football are more popular because they speak more to the American dream and the belief that something can come from nothing, that hay can be spun into gold?  And in the NBA, hay is always hay, and with his ability to see the past, present, and future simultaneously, was KG not warning LeBron that, hey, Cleveland ain't winning a title now or never--the NBA is an unbroken rainbow spun from purple and gold and green threads.

The Brat Pack didn't age well.  Over the last decade, while Shaq, Duncan, Kobe, and Garnett, ruled the roost, a lot of spring chickens were supposed to be planning coups, but here we are at the end of the 2010 season and Kobe and Garnett are about to go at it again and the questions facing LeBron's generation are now more than where they will play next year but what are their true colors.  With the exception of Dwyane Wade, this group of players has accomplished very little other than individual awards, and, for the most part, they do not appear to be leaders.

When I say LeBron's generation, I'm basically looking at the draft classes from 2002 through 2004.  I'm going with these years because it's from these three drafts that the nucleus for the USA basketball team is drawn.

-The best players out of the 2002 draft are Yao Ming and Amar'e Stoudemire.
-The best players out of the 2003 draft are LeBron James, Carmelo Anthony, Chris Bosh, and Dwyane Wade.
-The best player from the 2004 draft is clearly Dwight Howard, but it's worth mentioning that his running mate Jameer Nelson is also from that draft.

The end of every decade is a gauntlet for younger players, placing them in a crucible, and the player whose heart winds up the hardest usually winds up ruling the next decade.  Only three of these players are still playing, but the first year of this new decade has not gone well for the players that are supposed to be its cornerstones.  Yao is a fragile giant.  Amar'e appears to have let his 2007 suspension and all the trade rumors write off all life's events to chance, as seen by his Lamar Odom got lucky comments.  Carmelo failed to step into the leadership void created by his coach's absence.  Bosh missed the Playoffs.  Wade's career continues to follow Tom Cruise's popularity arc post Nicole Kidman, and Dwight Howard appears to be more Clark Kent than Superman.  This offseason several of these players will be driven by instinct or impulse to change teams or to stay put, and whoever can resurrect their career out of the ashes of a postseason that burned like St. Elmo's Fire will most likely be drawn to the light of a franchise that's won before; and when these players are offered the leading parts in a franchise's narrative, we will begin to reach a verdict on whether they are style over substance or substance over style because most likely these moths will fly to the teams whose past accomplishments burn brightest (i.e. Chicago).


Kevin Garnett did not gather the particles of his being without an effort of will and the catalyst of Celtic Pride, and one has to wonder if LeBron's generation has had their willpower stunted by hellicopter moms, coddled out of them by AAU coaches, neglected as a result of celebrity granted and not earned, or if they were simply born without it.  Regardless of what weakened them, they will not be what we want them to be without the aid of a mighty franchise pushing them out to sea.

Or maybe this generation is reversing the stereotypes placed upon it, that they need everything at the click of a mouse or the push of a button, by waiting patiently for their time to come, rather than seizing it.  Afterall, even as Dr. Manhattan, KG can't stay on Earth forever, so the question becomes what happens to all the world's bottled ships once the cork and glass that caged them disappears--do they sail or do they sink?

For Modernity's Sake: Round One of the NBA Playoffs

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. 

--F. Scott Fitzgerald                                                                                       

I have a hard time letting go of the past, especially the last decade, which is why the San Antonio versus Dallas series moves me to slouch into bed after midnight and crawl into school the next morning pushed forward by Yeats' gyres and, at most, five hours of sleep.  Relegated to the first round, for the second year in a row, this series is less than it once was, yet it feels more like the Playoffs than any other series being played this postseason, at least for someone who still refuses to fully embrace a new age of basketball with all of its new laws and forces, which just like the old laws and forces, leave a fan ignorant to do anything but applaud through the night and yawn through the day.  I'm tired.  I'm refreshed.  My existence is a tightrope through the tides of TNT.

Celtics Take 1-0 Lead Over Heat: "Two Comedians"

The Celtics won the first game of their first round series with the Heat by a score of 85-76.  The best player on the floor was clearly Dwyane Wade, who put together a stat line of 26 points, 8 rebounds, 6 assists, and 7 turnovers.  Paul Pierce once again showed off his fragility, whether it was due to his delicate physical state or needy emotional character is up for debate. KG elbowed ever closer to the status of a crotchety old man at the Y, growing more and more frustrated with the loss of his own athleticism and, therefore, his own importance, and, somehow, the real catalyst for these theatrics was the long lost court jester, Quentin Richardson, who found the inspiration (testicular fortitude) to take on the spineless role of Iago and whisper sweet nothings in the ear of KG.  KG's response got him suspended.  The Playoffs are clearly upon us, and this scene from Saturday night deserves its own Ed Hopper piece:

Romeo, played by a Kevin Garnett believed by some to be too old for the starring role, holds Juliet's head in his hands and weeps.  Juliet is played by an aging star as well, Paul Pierce, who has a reputation as a great actor in scenes containing the bed cousins of life and death, and even the occasional resurrection.  However, Pierce falters in scenes of the mundane, appearing bitter and cross that not every moment of his career can be seen as dramatic as bearing a cross on his way to the grave and, ultimately, his greatest triumph.  

In fact, Pierce's favorite role in his long career, that exists somewhere in the cloudy realm of better than good but not quite great, is the time he played Jesus in a Hollywood version of Jesus Christ Superstar.    The production was also the first time Pierce teamed up with Garnett, who played the part of the Virgin Mary.  Critics hailed the film as a real life example of the Immaculate Conception, or something out of nothing; after all, the cast did not even meet before shooting started, much less rehearse.  The chemistry between the two stars and their supporting cast was uncanny, as they and their agents had followed a bright star to Boston where a majority of the film took place.  Rajon Rondo was stunning as a more than tempting Mary Magdalene and Ray Allen possessed the knack of disappearing and then reappearing, with burro in hand, as the thankless, always mortal, father figure, Joseph, in The Greatest Story Ever Told.  

The film was an artistic achievement, as well as a box office smash, and the careers of the cast were finally embraced by a pantheon of past greats, that didn't seem to mind even the most expletive filled Awards speeches by Garnett, forgiving each f-word from out the Madonna's mouth as a sigh of relief that all her hard work and difficult choices, such as leaving the place of her birth, were not in vein.  Times were good, and most believed more were on their way, but the group's follow-up effort to their Biblical epic (fans loved their 2009 version of The Big Chill, while critics wondered why the most talented Celtic was cast as a dead man, whose scenes were cut from the final version, even if his death brought out the most from everyone else).  The epilogues of epic myths are often underwhelming in comparison to the stories that birthed them.

Now, the ensemble is reunited, and Kevin, his limbs trembling, cries into his Paul's closed eyes: "Oh, here/ Will I set up my everlasting rest/ And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars/ From this world-wearied flesh./ Eyes, look your last!/ Arms, take your--"

Paul jerks to life, wincing in pain, "Dude! don't squeeze my shoulder so hard!  I told ya'll I hurt it in dress rehearsal putting on my corset."  Kevin stares into Paul's now wild eyes, not knowing how to handles his co-star's ad-lib, whether to kiss him and die or to walk off the stage and say forget the whole thing, neither of us is a teenager anyway.  

"Man, this is terrible.  The lines aren't right.  Casting's terrible.  'Sheed's the only one pulling off his role as Mercutio, which means he's just gotta run his mouth," comes a voice from the front row, which Kevin and Paul can not see because of the stage lights.  "I should have listened to Joakim.  Ya'll lost whatever it is after spendin' last year singin' 'Ain't Too Proud to Beg' like you were a bunch of Kevin Klein's."  The voice, full of frustration, sounds exactly like Quentin Richardson and pauses to let the insults sink in, just long enough for someone to throw an elbow, but even Kevin's long arms can not reach all the way to the front row, if only he were closer.  "That's it.  I'm outta here.  I'm goin' to see Michael Bay's Transformers 3, starring LeBron and Shaq.  It'll be overhyped, but at least it's got some bad ass robots."    

The rest of the crowd erupts in applause.  After nearly an hour and a half, Quentin's monologue is the first genuine acting of the night.  Kevin can hear them picking up their things.  He can hear them moving to the ends of their aisles.  Here he is on the biggest stage in the world, playing one of the greatest parts in history, and the crowd doesn't even have the decency to watch him die--they'd rather follow this harlequin out the door to see some Hollywood bastardization of what was once a great '80s cartoon show.  Kevin can't stand it.  His eyes boil over with hatred.  All of his injuries, all of his pain, all the years of feeling like no one noticed him, he sees it all parading in front of him, following Quentin Richardson, as if Quentin were a pied piper leading all the snakes in Eden.  Kevin leaps off the stage screaming, throwing elbows, biting, pulling and pushing his way through the crowd.  They grab at him.  They try and stop him.  But somebody will die tonight.  It doesn't have to be Romeo.  It doesn't have to be Juliet.  All Kevin knows is that this play is a tragedy, and, as Kevin moves through the theatre like a tank in Tiananmen Square, a calm voice arises over the chaos, "For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo."  The voice is that of Dwyane Wade's, a man accustomed to getting the last word.