We will continue to view the NBA season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Sixers in our comments section.
The threadbare sheets feel like cobwebs in her hands. As she lets them evaporate from her fingers, she counts the threads that remain on her skin, like stray hairs on an old man's scalp; they wiggle like legs plucked from a grandaddy spider in the breeze blowing in from the open window. Elton remembers how summer days in Durham when she used to trap grandaddy long legs in glass jars and pluck off their legs, using metal tweezers because she didn't want to dirty her hands.
Sitting on the hardwood floor, her own legs cramping and burning, Elton feels as if her own muscles are being squeezed by giant pair of tweezers. She is the twitching limb of a dismembered body, having lived out the American dream to its most bloated possibilities under the bright lights of southern California, all of her lies and deceit having brought her here to a seedy motel in Philadelphia, the birthplace of Declarations, of separations, and reinvention.
Elton would like to pull herself up from the floor, clean herself of experience, and put on a new dress, but her spot on the floor is as low as any valley, a stranger named Igoudala is in the shower, and the threads of that new dress are already as worn as the bed sheet.
Knock. Knock.
"Who's there?" she doesn't recognize her own voice, shattered like last night's shot glasses.
"Open the door, Elton. It's time to go home." The voice is more familiar than her own.
"Allen, is that you?" she asks the question as if she fears either of the two answers it might render.
"Is that the maid? Tell her to come back in an hour." Igoudala is out of the shower, a towel around his waste, droplets of water running down his shoulders clean as tomorrow's sun rays. Elton sits on the floor, frozen between Igoudala in the open doorway of the bathroom and Allen on the other side of the room's shut door. She goes back to rubbing the bed's cobwebs between her fingers and thumb, shaking her head slowly from side to side, like a weather vane in a stagnant breeze.
In an effort to gear up for the NBA season, we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Grizzlies in our comments section.A chewed up dog pisses on a garbage can that stoops by a rusty fire escape. Imagine Napoleon dragging on all four paws to plant a French flag in midst of a wasteland, and you have what this mutt has accomplished. A thick sludge made up of what appears to be either coffee or lava lurks in the curb. The whole street smells of urine and fast food. Hot air creeps up through the cracks in the sidewalk, as if the whole neighborhood rested over Hell's furnace. At night, devils walk in and out of apartments and down rickety metal stair cases, making deals and bargains, over souls and minds and time, whispering through televisions and crack pipes. The dog lowers its leg, pokes its nose up in the air, and smells the new day, already cloaked in yesterday's guilt. The canine barks at an oncoming car and then mopes down the street passing by the window of a first floor apartment.
The window is open, and flies buzz in and out of the slits in the screen. An old man rests face down on a cot that sits beside the wall opposite the window. Next to the cot is an old milk crate, coated in dusty magazines and newspapers. Piles of old clothes litter the floor. They look like they either came from or are on their way to the local thrift store. On the floor below the window is an old television set, complete with an aluminum foil antenna and a knob for changing the channel. The television has not been usable since the switch from analog to digital.
The man on the cot rolls over and places his two feet on the floor. With his toes, he can feel that the floor needs to be vacuumed. Hard bits of dirt and old toe nail clippings nibble at the bottoms of his feet. His head rests in his hands. The day is not met with enthusiasm.
He takes an old pair of slacks off the floor and pulls them up over his legs to his waist. An old leather belt still weaves its way through the loops; he tightens it to the third notch, to keep his pants from sagging like the young hoodlums that roam the block outside his apartment. He doesn't bother changing his undershirt; it's only on day two. He puts a button up on over it, and tucks it in. His shoes are well worn, and the laces feel like they will fall apart in his hands as he ties them. On his way out the door, he grabs his hat and jacket. He looks like an old newspaperman, like he knows stuff in books but is smart enough not to tell everyone he meets. The shoulders of the jacket show that he used to be a strong man, but, now, they curl like the cover of a paperback book that's been folded in half. The jacket looks worn like a book's broken spine. He passes the landlord, Mr. Stern, on his way out.
"I'm not running a charity, Iverson. You gotta give to get," Mr. Stern says these words without looking up from his crossword puzzle. " You gotta give to get in this world."
"Can you watch my door for me? Broke the lock last night when the key got stuck." Allen Iverson is only half lying. The lock on the door is broken, and it did happen last night; but a key never entered the lock. Allen lost his keys on his way home from the bar, and used his shoulder to force the door open, busting the lock. Allen didn't remember the ordeal until he put his left arm through the sleeve of his dress shirt. The sharp pain of a sprained rotator cuff helped him to remember everything from searching the bar for his keys, from his regular barstool all the way to the toilet, to his impromptu decision to yell, "Geronimo!" while charging into his door like a buffalo with a limp.
Mr. Stern responds to the request, "Gotta give to get. Give to get." He saves the rest of his vocabulary for his puzzles.
Allen eyes the gray sky as he walks down the sidewalk, wondering to himself, "How the hell did I wind up in Memphis?" He does not find the reasons to be all that revealing. He got laid off from his job at a Detroit auto plant, and he was told that his age made him an insurance liability. When he first heard the explanation, he planned on taking the company to court; but, on his way home that day, he slipped on some black ice and threw out his back. In court, the company's lawyers demonstrated that Allen Iverson could no longer physically perform the task of lifting up car doors hour after hour and day after day. Allen lost the case, and moved to Memphis because it was warmer than Detroit, cheaper to live than LA, and had a better bar scene than Charlotte. It was also as far as he made it on his way to Miami before his car broke down. Memphis meet Mr. Iverson, the man without a true destination.
Allen walks by a chain link fence. He holds his right arm out, and drags his fingers along the metal. He walks as if each joint in his leg has a bullet in it; each step presses bone to lead. The pain causes Allen to stop. He clings to the fence with both hands, and peaks through the diamond-shaped holes at some kids playing basketball on the other side. Two tall gangly boys are picking teams. To Allen, they look like teenagers. Their smiles look like their baiting the world to come close enough to their mouths to be swallowed, and their laughs suggest they are cocky enough to try.
"I'll take Gasol. Who you got, Rudy?"
"Conley."
"Thabeet."
"That's all there is, OJ. Who else am I going to pick? That old man with the limp? Puhlease. We'll take you two on three," he takes the basketball he's been dribbling between his legs this whole time and heaves it at the kid named Rudy. "You other scrubs can go play over there." He points to a backboard across the court with no rim. Streaks of brown mark where the rim should have been. As the game begins, Allen thinks how light the ball looks in the hands of these boys, like they're gods dribbling the earth. A sharp pain in his back then reminds him what a toll playing Atlas can have. He turns from the court, and walks on. It's late morning and time for a drink.
The 22nd of July Movement may soon be known as the 7th of September Movement: Commandante AI met with Memphis Grizzlies officials today, and the invasion may soon be underway.
If El Commandante were to sign with the Grizzlies, then his main objective would be to take over the airwaves in Tennessee and unite the local citizenry under a common banner. In other words, AI would be the voice and the face of La Revolucion, but he would not be the arms, the spine, and the legs driving his doctrine to victory. The grunt work would be carried out by the Grizzlies' youth: O.J. Mayo, Rudy Gay, Marc Gasol, Mike Conley, Zach Randolph, and Hasheem Thabeet.
The question being asked is whether or not El Commandante can transform these young visionaries into activists. If he can, then the Volunteer State will undergo drastic changes. The likes of which have not been seen since the Tennessee Valley Authority was created to dig the southeast out of The Great Depression, which just so happens to be the current state of Memphis basketball.
A key to any successful guerilla movement is that it remain aggressive in its mobility. A guerilla force does not have the size nor the strength to become entrenched in the mindset that geographical gains outweigh winning over the local citizenry. Philadelphia is no more important to the cause than Denver. The real battles to be won are in the hearts and minds of the people, and radio waves do not recognize strategic terrain, city limits, or national borders.
Allen "Che" Iverson remains mobile, and he appears to be issuing a call to arms, wherever his revolucion becomes embedded. Reports from the underground are filled with rumors that the Comandante will take his fight to either New York, Miami, or Charlotte. He is a man, driven no longer by geographical connections, commerce, or trivial accolades, but by his will, like iron, to "[get] back on the court and [play] every game like it's [his] last."
To die for the cause is now the only cause, whether it reunites the Comandante with an old mentor, allows him to learn from a radical political philosopher, or gives him the chance to march side by side with a fellow freedom fighter.
Reports, surfacing from out of the jungles, by way of transistor radio, suggest that Iverson Guevara could be taking La Revolucion to a new continent. An encrypted message was recently intercepted by United States news bureau Yahoo!Sports. The message reports that the Greek basketball club Olympiakos is prepared to bring the once-braided revolutionary overseas for $10 million dollars over two years. The deal would make Iverson Guevara the commander of a guerilla force that stars former NBA players Josh Childress and Jannero Pargo.
(Guerillas Josh Childress and Jannero Pargo patiently wait for their new leader's arrival)
The move will either breathe new life into AI's anti-establishment doctrine or it will be as ill-fated as Che's efforts to revolutionize Bolivia as a foreign freedom fighter.
If AI brings "El Amor" to the fountainhead of Western civilization, then one could argue he will be taking the voice of hip hop directly to the country where the dominoes, that enslaved and colonized Africa, were aligned. Now, of course, that would all be very symbolic to the historian and social critic, the creators of propaganda, but for AI, a true revolutionary, it would simply be living "El Amor;" after all, when asked how it felt to be a symbol, Che Guevara responded, "A symbol of what?"
A symbol does not decide to be a symbol. The symbol just lives and does according to the moment. The symbol also can not control how others see it. If Iverson Guevara does leave for Greece, then some will view his journey across the Atlantic as a journey into exile and as testimony that he could not adapt his basketball skills and ego to old age and the demands of team basketball. Still, others will choose to see the journey as a freedom march, made by a man who never compromised and would not change for anything, or anyone, no matter how much his surroundings suggested that his survival demanded he make adjustments. Many people admire stubbornness, but even a domino that refuses to fall gives way to gravity.
Inspired by Bethlehem Shoals' statement that "Jordan was a sales pitch, Iverson a doctrine" and Allen Iverson's personal testimony that "In my heart, I know I'm a basketball player."
D, who works at a hotel in DC, describes Allen Iverson walking through the hotel's lobby this past season as the following: "He's the most ghetto dude in the NBA. He comes through in a wife beater, basketball shorts, socks, and sandals, holding a bottle of champagne like this," D puts a fist up in the air, as if he were on the gold medal stand in Mexico City 1968. Replace the bottle of cristal with a rifle, and one would have the movie poster for Stephen Soderburgh's 2008 film Che. That clinched fist is what holds the symbolism of a basketball revolutionary and a Marxist revolutionary together, grinding their images down into their most base ingredients, pestle and mortar style, so that anyone can take those ingredients and make what they will out of them. Men who live as symbols often lose control of their symbolism.
Admittedly, the idea of comparing a basketball player to a Communist soldier is a bit of a stretch, especially when that basketball player is best known for his individual virtuosity and Communism, as an ideal, would deny recognition of such feats. The comparison becomes even more tedious when one recalls the basketball player's disdain for practice, while Che Guevera would spend years planning how to overthrow the Bolivian government and months training in South American jungles. Allen Iverson's dominance of the ball, 22 FGA for his career, even places him at odds with Che Guevara's aims to redisperse land and property throughout the Third World.
At first glance, it definitely appears that Che Guevara's revolution would not allow for the individual expression of an Allen Iverson, except that Allen Iverson's individual accomplishments, in his mind, were all done for the benefit of the team: "Once I stop being aggressive on the basketball court, I'll be hurting my team more than helping them." AI averaged so many shots for his career because that's how he felt he could help his team win. During the 26th of July's overthrow of Batista, Che famously put down his medical bag and picked up a rifle, adapting himself to the needs of his situation, by going from healer to killer. Che's assertion to become a guerrilla gunner is what led him down the path to become Comandante. AI, in turn, became an NBA gunner because in high school and while at Georgetown he was the only viable scorer; yesterday's circumstances create the habits of today.
When Che embarked on a motorcycle journey throughout Latin America, the extreme poverty he witnessed changed his worldview. He began to see the need for a united Latin America, and he felt the pull in his heart to help the impoverished. AI grew up without running water, on a concrete slab, and was surrounded by violence. To AI, the pressures of a basketball game were slight; he'd already seen the worst of life in America, giving his game a militant chip on its shoulder. When AI crossed up Michael Jordan, he made a pivotal statement that meant more than just a possible changing of the guard on the basketball court. AI, soon to be tattooed and braided, crossed up a man, in possession of no political convictions, because political convictions might interfere with one's commercial appeal. Then, take into account that the media, in the '90s, viewed Jordan as the apex of "the right way" meeting sheer talent, complete with "the right way" stamp of approval from Dean Smith, while Allen Iverson came from the kente-cloth-wearing school of John Thompson, and one begins to realize that the crossover represented some of the class warfare that exists within the African-American community. AI assaulted the clean-cut image that the black bourgeoisie worked to construct in the public arena, which, much like the effects of landing on the Cuban shore, made him a hero to some and a villain to others.
AI's intentional statements on the basketball court became secondary to his unintentional statements off it, meaning that over time his tattoos, braids, actions with firearms, misogynistic rap lyrics, and refusal to practice became louder than his ability to carry Philly teams that weren't that talented into the playoffs. The same can be said of Che Guevara, whose violent actions often undermine his idealism. When asked if Cuba would continue to execute political prisoners, Che responded, "We execute and will continue to execute." Cuba and Che did not care about outward appearances, whether true or not, and AI stood on the same uncompromising ground when he responded to the NBA dress code by saying, "They're targeting guys who dress like me.... Put a murderer in a suit, and he's still a murderer." AI did not say he was a murderer, but, with that statement, he did admit he looks like one and that, no matter what he might wear, his actions would remain the same. Some people hear these statements and begin to fear that all that is good and normal about society will come crashing down, while others hear someone who will heroically stand by their doctrines until death takes them; "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."
Che Guevara was good as a revolutionary fighter but not as a governing figure, and the same could be said for the entire 26th of July movement; Fidel could take over an island, but he never knew how to govern it. Communist governments turn into the tyranny they initially despised and fought against. Che grew tired of his role in government and left Cuba, writing, "Other nations summon my modest efforts of assistance." Che then left to lead an unsuccessful revolt in the Congo, before returning to Cuba one last time. In his last visit to Cuba, the Argentine disguised himself and left for Bolivia incognito, where his efforts failed to grasp the hearts and minds of the Bolivian peasants; something the AI of the last couple seasons failed to do also. Bolivian soldiers executed Che, helping him to fulfill his words, "In a real revolution, one either wins or dies." Che died; the revolution was real. The reality of AI's revolution is still up in the air, like fog, or smoke, or one's breath in winter.
The height of AI's popularity came in 2001. He had more street credentials than any NBA player in recent memory because for four seasons he was the most productive anti-establishment figure in the League, and, when he took the Sixers to the Finals, he gained the attention and respect of the League's establishment, proclaiming the official end of the Jordan-Batista regime. The problem was that AI, being Che, was not good as a ruling member of the League. The most damage done to Che's reputation was his handling of the post-revolution trials, where he sentenced countless people to death by firing squad. In his post Finals years, AI's actions began to grow burdensome on the city of Philadelphia, and it was time to go. Denver was his Congo; nothing really amounted to anything there, despite AI's enthusiasm to tutor a young Carmello Anthony in the ways of La Revolucion. Supply lines were lost, and radio transmissions were intercepted; so AI was on the move once more.
The real debate now turns to whether Iverson's time in Detroit was his Bolivia or was it just a stopover in Cuba on his way to Bolivia. If it was his Bolivia, then Iverson is now entirely irrelevant, and it happened overnight. For most of Che's tenure in Bolivia, it was unclear whether he was actually in the country or not, much like Iverson's appearances with the Pistons. If Iverson died in Detroit, then it was not a death to inspire martyrdom, but a death that his critics can savor because he went down without a struggle, not showing up to the games with the attitude that he would die a hero's death, which makes one believe that Iverson did not die in Detroit because Iverson was always willing to take the extra hit and get up from it. He was into proving the possibility of impossible physics; human flesh and a rifle defeating the gears of helicopters and tanks; the peasant over the aristocrat.
Iverson's past history suggests that he will get up from the Detroit debacle. In 2008, he still managed to put up 22.8 ppg, proving he still has basketball left to play. He went to Detroit, shaved off his braids, and he will resurface incognito with the Grizzlies or the Clippers or some other team that feels they need him; and he will go because "El Amor" is the most important quality for a revolutionary to possess. "A real revolutionary goes where he is needed," and basketball needs Allen Iverson to resurface and prove that his "El Amor" is true; otherwise, basketball fans just spent the last fifteen years duped by a false revolution.
I understand why Denver and Detroit decided to swap Allen Iverson for Chauncey Billups (McDyess isn't staying in Denver). I understand how the trade benefits both teams in the long term and possibly both teams in the short term. I understand why a lot of reporters are now excited to theorize about the future of the Detroit Pistons. I find myself doing the same, but for all the positive spin this trade is receiving, I'm not sure I'm willing to buy all of it.
I'm hearing a lot of the discussion focus on salaries, playoff seedings, consecutive year streaks in the conference finals, championships, consecutive years of losing in the first round, points per game, years in the league, and ages of the players involved, but I'm hearing very little about the emotional impact of this trade on both teams, which is especially important to the Detroit end of this deal, but not limited to the men who reside in the Motor City.
Three key players for both teams have been featured repeatedly in interviews on ESPN, sharing their initial reactions to the trade, and all three of these players seem very reluctant to embrace it. In fact, I would say all three would like to take a trip with Marty McFly and kidnap Joe Dumars and Rex Chapman. Rasheed Wallace, Tayshaun Prince, and Carmello Anthony do not like this trade, and that matters.
Carmello, when talking to reporters, sounded like his childhood hero had just been murdered. If Iverson was his Superman, then this trade was his Doomsday. Carmello seemed to dwell more on the fact that a future Hall of Famer and close friend of his was sent to the Eastern Conference than he did on the fact that his team received a Finals MVP in return. Iverson and Carmello, while friends off the court, never really complemented each other well on it. Yes, they put up some huge scoring nights, both individually and as a team. No one will forget the night they blew out the Sonics(R.I.P.) by a score of 168 to 116, and they did amass 50 wins last season, the most ever for an 8th seed; but this team was never going to win a championship.
The front office conceded this point this past summer when they traded Marcus Camby away, possibly the only player on the team who played consistently good defense (Najera and K-Mart I offer my apologies). Iverson and Carmello both needed the ball in their hands to be effective. The only way either one impacts a game is by scoring, so it's no wonder that both look to shoot first and that young players like J.R. Smith sometimes get lost in the shuffle. Iverson and Carmello are not ballhogs, but they never complemented each other well. J.R. Smith is 23. Carmello is 24. Iverson is 32 and in the last year of his contract. Iverson had to go. Camby's exit, in hindsight, foreshadowed this departure.
Enter Chauncey Billups. He solves a lot of the problems that have belittled this franchise's efforts over the last few seasons. He's a better floor general than Iverson. He has a better feel for getting his teammates involved, which will allow young scorers like J.R. Smith to develop into more consistent scoring threats, and while 168 point games will no longer happen, neither will the 168 point losses that follow (shortly after setting the record the Nuggets suffered an abysmal blowout of their own). Billups will come to embody the accountability a coach demands of his players on the floor, defensively and offensively. Iverson never did that for George Karl.
Iverson will average more points than Billups. He may even average more assists than Billups; he did last season. But Billups finally brings an Alpha Dog with championship credentials to Denver. Iverson was never that. His trip in 2001 to the NBA Finals was a fluke caused by geography, set in motion billions of years ago when Pangaea decided to make herself into a puzzle, and Carmello has always been the talent, but not the leader. At Syracuse, the heart and soul of the 2003 champions was Gerry McNamara. Carmello was the bone and the sinew. The issue at hand now becomes can Carmello admit that he's not a leader and let Chauncey Billups do the job. Carmello can take all the big shots and lead the team in scoring, but will he allow Chauncey to hold him accountable in the huddle. If so, then this trade works for Denver. If not, then the Denver Nuggets wind up like The Wonders in That Thing You Do., where Jimmy was the talent and Guy was the brains, or the glue. Anyway, the combination didn't work. They broke up after one hit. I guess George Karl is Faye.
The more interesting part of this trade to discuss is on the Detroit Pistons end, which means I probably should have mentioned it earlier, seeing as most people probably stopped reading three or four paragraphs ago. Rasheed and Tayshaun are clearly not thrilled with the departure of their teammate Chauncey Billups. Tayshaun said it himself that it's hard to watch a guy one's played with for six years leave, especially if he was the leader of the team. Imagine the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without Leonardo. Now, imagine the Ninja Turtles replacing Leonardo with Casey because that's what Detroit just did by trading Billups for Iverson. Casey's awesome with a golf club to the face, but he's never been part of an ensemble cast; and it's likely he hits as many turtles as foot soldiers, but I digress.
The problem goes beyond the chemistry issues. They're just fertilizer to the weed I see growing here. Joe Dumars came out and said to the media that this trade has huge implications on Detroit's cap space for this summer, and it does, which has caused all sorts of ridiculous theories about Detroit making serious efforts to pursue Lebron James. Let's get one thing clear: Lebron James will never wear a Detroit Pistons jersey. Detroit is not a step up from Cleveland. Lebron becomes a free agent in the summer of 2010, not 2009, so the Piston supporting cast, whose window may have already closed, will be another year older. Rip Hamilton will be 32 then. Rasheed Wallace will be 36. Tayshaun Prince will be 30. The guys on this team with championship experience will be old by 2010. Now, I'm not saying that Joe Dumars is not seriously trying to hunt down the King, but he will not be successful; and it doesn't matter if Lebron's agent represents the entire Pistons locker room, which brings us to the issue of chemistry.
Most trades that are made to free up cap space take place much closer to the trading deadline because one team wants to rent a player for the playoffs and another team wants to dump payroll and rebuild. One team focuses on today, while the other looks towards tomorrow. Denver just traded for a 32 year old point guard. Denver is clearly focused on this year and next year with the move. While Denver seems intent on the here and now, Detroit seems intent on the here, now, and everywhere. Joe Dumars is like the eye on top of the pyramid, a Masonic symbol.
Joe Dumars made this move three games into the season because if Rasheed and Tayshaun come around on the move emotionally and Rip Hamilton can come off the bench, then perhaps this move keeps Detroit competitive in the East. The problem is Joe Dumars showed his hand. He let everyone, including A.I. and Rasheed, know this deal was to clear cap space, which makes one wonder will either of them invest themselves into a one year project. Don't be surprised if either one finds himself on the move when the trade deadline approaches.
Rasheed's emotional state about the trade is not just a result of how he feels seeing his army lose a loyal soldier, but because he knows what it looks like when entire armies surrender. He felt a Russian winter when he was still a Blazer. He can see the writing on the wall, just as Iverson should have seen it in Denver when Camby was sent packing. Teams don't rebuild one player at a time; whole platoons are sent packing and withdrawn when the occupation has stretched six seasons.
Detroit just folded up their tents and started saving for tomorrow. Now, all we do is watch, wait, and listen. tck tck tck tck tck tck tck tck tck tck tck tck.............explosions can be the end or the beginning of something
