Damian Lillard, his numbers and his words

This past Friday the Portland Trail Blazers handed the Golden State Warriors only their fifth loss of the season. In this upset, Portland’s point guard Damian Lillard turned in an iconic performance in which he scored 51 points. The cliché structure of that lead sentence and the miracle nature of Lillard’s performance are, for the most part, self-evident. What’s not self-evident, however, is why this game was relegated to the backchannels of the NBA universe. You could not and would not have seen it on ESPN, TNT, or TBS, which means the phenomenon of Lillard out dueling not just Steph Curry, who had 31 points, but the entire contingent of Splash Brothers is an event left to the imagination.

In a not-so-subtle act of self-promotion, I imagined such a performance looking something like “Damian Lillard was Sentenced to Prison inFrench Guiana”, at The Baller Ball. However, I wrote this bit of fiction in the days leading up to Lillard’s explosive proclamation, when the politics of basketball saw fit to leave him off the Western Conference’s All-Star roster.

The piece I wrote explores the relationship of Lillard to the Portland franchise. After all, a year ago the Blazers could still imagine themselves as title contenders, for they featured one of the best starting lineups in all of basketball. The offseason watched all of that disappear suddenly into what is now a Portlandia diaspora. Good bye, Batum. God bless, Wesley Matthews. You are missed, Robin Lopez. Cursed by thy name, LA! In this wreckage, the Blazers should have died. But they have not. Lillard (and CJ McCollum) keep them fastly alive. And the team currently sits ready to assume the Western Conference’s seventh seed.

What I find so fascinating about Lillard and the Blazers is how his taking the franchise’s reins is about more than basketball. His association with Adidas is well-documented, but he is also quickly becoming the one of the League’s most vocal stars. He is a rapper, but his raps are also as political as they are personal. There’s this freestyle on Sway’s radio show that’sworth a listen, and there’s also this video which debuted in the limelight of aTNT prime time game. These attributes, as much as his point guard skills, are why Lillard follows in the footsteps of a Bill Walton or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. And, moreover, they’re also why the basketball court is such an easy staging area for social commentary and allegory. 

Maybe I'm wrong, but Damian Lillard feels like something bigger than a basketball player. 

Bryan Harvey tweets @LawnChairBoys. 

Been on vacation, but here are some recent NBA links.

Over the last week, my wife and I were in several places other than home. I still operate by flip phone, so traveling usually means I become unhinged from the internet. The blog dries up and cracks like old mud, and I have no idea about what's taking place in the world. Still, here are some recent pieces I wrote for ESPN TrueHoop's BallerBall:

American Idol Judges the NBA's Western Conference Playoffs

Ryan Seacrest: Last night, our judges laid down all the things our Eastern Conference teams need to work on and strive to improve in order to make the Finals, so today we're bringing you their critiques of the final eight Western Conference contestants. Now, remember these are music professionals giving insider tips to basketball players on how they can maximize their athletic potential into pure entertainment.

Things That Come to Mind When Gerald Wallace and Ron Artest Meet

As the Lakers attempted a second half comeback against the Blazers last night, things got chippy, to say the least, resulting in Gerald Wallace having multiple stare downs with multiple Lakers, but none of these was as earth moving as when he and Ron Artest locked orbs and the Portland crowd chanted, "GER-ALD-WALL-ACE."

Poet in the Post: Ode to Greg Oden

Greg, I hear your knees creak.
I hear that when you run up
and down the court
your hips and knees and wrist
creak like an old tree trunk

and that you've grown so stiff
you have to watch the world pass by
from an all-seeing folding chair;
men much older than you sprinting by,
like ravens, making you look
like some lost wanderer
who comes trolling the local gymnasiums
and playgrounds for spoiled youth.

I hear the children recognize you
by the limp of your five o'clock shadow.

Greg, I hear your knees creaked until they cracked,
and I wonder why you traded your eye
for wisdom and not new joints.

Why didn't you saw the legs
off your eight-legged steed
and strap them onto yourself
like a pair of Forrest Gump braces?
Isn't that what gods do--
make the crippled walk, dance, and leap?

How come you couldn't heal yourself?

Greg, how come your name
couldn't heal your body
and keep your sons from being so weak
that mistletoe could slay them?

I never understood a mythology
that teetered on top of a gimp tree
and the promise that the apocalypse
would come through the jaws
of a snake; I never understood
waiting on the end of the world
like one would wait for a mail man--

I never understood how jenga
translated into a religion.

Greg, I wish the world hadn't toppled you,
and that when we sifted through your ruins,
like piles of junk mail,
an ode to the new world had sprung forth--
full of exaltation--
rather than the exhausted lament:

we are the giants we were born to disfigure.