Poet in the Post: The Heat of Crying

She told everyone I cried.
I don't remember crying,
but she said that I did.
She dumped me in fifth grade,
on the phone,
and then told all the other pony-tailed girls
that I cried like I was one of them.
I still don't remember the tears,
but I do remember being sad--
I remember being a sad, little fifth grader.

Paper Tigers: What Lessons Need to Be Learned by Miami's Big Three from Embarrassment

"Is Allah so unbending. . . . Should God be proud or humble, majestic or simple, yielding or un-? 

What kind of idea is he?What kind am I?"

--Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

I've got four years experience, but I am in no way an expert teacher. I still struggle sometimes with how to give upbeat criticism that doesn't crush a kid's hopes and inspirations. I also sometimes over react to small things, and I under react to big things. And I know there are times when my expectations grate on the kids, especially my AP students. I call them kids because sometimes I need to remind myself that they're still growing up and that car wash fundraisers and Prom and curfews are all more important to them than the knowledge to be found in 50 Essays. I call them kids because I need to remind myself that patience is required; they are not finished products--some of them aren't even on the same assembly line. But one of the few things I have learned in my short tenure as an educator is that students kids need to know you have a plan and they need to believe in it. And while they may not know every step of the plan or even need to know, you have to make them aware that the plan is a process and not an exact formula. The plan is never as simple as do this, then this, and then this happens. It's more like work on this, work on it some more, okay, now that you think you've mastered it, work on this new thing. It's frustrating. It's a battle of wills. It's cursing the powers that be, and it's wrestling with faith. No more. No less. Just complicated and tedious. Even painful.

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?

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.  

Miami Heat Preview: "New York Office"

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 Heat in our comments section.Ms. Haslem thumbs through the rolodex of the firm's contacts. The sound of cards fluttering under her hands sounds like a bird trapped inside of a bag, or the confines of a chimney. The wings beat against the frustration of limited space. Stop. And flap again, unable to find an opening. An exit. A chance to fly.

Her boss Mr. Wade has given her a limited time period in which to find a suitable candidate to aid him in resurrecting the struggling law firm, which is plagued by a dwindling list of clients and a downtown rent he can no longer afford. His instructions have been very specific: "Ms. Haslem, while I appreciate your previous recommendations, they have been found to be somewhat wanting. We need someone of strong character. We need someone who knows their role. We need someone who is healthy, and we need someone of sound thought and mind." In each trait listed, Mr. Wade implicitly reminds Ms. Haslem that all of her previous recommendations have failed to meet his criteria in some way.

The three most notable disappointments were Mr. Marion, who used his stylish brief case and designer threads to lure female clients into compromising positions on his desk; (the second) Mr. O'Neal, who often showed up to work incapacitated; and Mr. Beasley, who, blessed by obvious potential, chose to write his legal documents as sonnets, dedicated to the tragic nature of Van Gogh. Each of these man's failures to relieve the mounting pressures on Mr. Wade have brought him closer and closer to the truth that he may have to go from employer to employed; a truth he finds as deep and dark as a faultline.

Three and a half years ago Mr. Wade and (the first) Mr. O'Neal moved the firm into its downtown office, which at the time was freshly renovated and smelled of clean carpet and new paint. When Ms. Haslem hung the"Open" sign on the door, she felt the sign suggested as much about the future as it did about the firm's hours of operation. In a pink dress with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face, she stood on the sidewalk, proud as a flamingo, and addressed the door as if she were a bride about to be carried over the threshold, "This is exactly as it should be."

The only complaint Ms. Haslem had about her new place of employment, in that first year, was that the windows were painted shut. No matter how hard she pushed the windows would not budge. She even used a butter knife to chisel away at the paint between the window and the window sill, but all she managed to do was bang her funny bone against the glass in a manner that sent needles up and down her arm. The window was shut, and the fresh air of that first day at work soon grew heavy and stale, like a fart, incubating inside of a parked car, on a summer day. At first, Ms. Haslem thought, "how depressing?" but her spirit was not broken. She showed up the next day with oscillating fans and three potted flowers. If the breeze could not find its way into the room, then she would just create her own breeze to blow across an ocean of carpet.

Of course, that was during Ms. Haslem's first year at Wade and O'Neal Associates. Then the waves of paper work began to lap at her desk, and her ship began to break asunder, as she noticed Mr. O'Neal was embezzling money from the firm. She kept telling herself the numbers must be lying, but the numbers kept failing to add up. The decreases in hours logged by Mr. O'Neal did not account for his increases in pay. While Mr. O'Neal appeared more often on the golf course, Mr. Wade stayed later and later, as more and more of Mr. O'Neal's clients found Mr. Wade working their cases. Ms. Haslem watched the scenario like a weatherman studying a tropical depression that transformed into a tropical storm, and then became a hurricane.

The door of Mr. Wade's office swung open, and a gust of wind tore through the room. "You can leave, Mr. O'Neal. Leave now. Leave your clients. Leave your brief case. Leave your belongings on the desk. Use your two legs and walk to Phoenix for all I care, but your time in this office is done."

"Are you kicking me out after all I've done for you?!?" bellowed Mr. O'Neal. "Do you even know how we came by this office? That it's my representation and covering up of that slumlord Riley that is the only reason we came as far as we did--"

"I said you can leave."

Ms. Haslem watched as Mr. O'Neal exited his partner's office for the last time, tossing the waiting chairs at the foot of her desk, causing potted flowers to fall from their resting spots and spill onto the carpet, like broken shingles ripped from a roof top. Then Mr. O'Neal snatched a letter opener from Ms. Haslem's desk and slashed gashes in the sea of carpet, causing it to ripple all the way to the walls like distant islands. As Mr. O'Neal blew through the office's front door, Ms. Haslem couldn't help but notice, that from inside the office, the sign on the door read "Closed." Then she turned and took in the results of the tsunami, whispering to herself, but loud enough for Mr. Wade to hear, "At least nobody got hurt."

Since that day, Ms. Haslem has watched the reconstruction of the firm wear on Mr. Wade. His shoulders slump like an old man's under the weight of a heavy beam, and in the mornings he no longer enters the office like a rising sun, but as a worm that crawls out of the earth whenever it rains, slinking his way through the waiting area and into his office, where he takes out an index card and writes: "Mr. Knickerbocker, I'm ready to hear your offer."

He signs the card, and slides it into an envelop, knowing that if he sends the letter, he's giving up the dream of flying on his own, to become the pussy cat that licks its chops at the sight of a caged bird.

The number of the day is:

48, as in Dwyane Wade scored 48 points last night in a double-overtime thriller against the Bulls. He also added 12 assists, six boards, four steals, and three blocks. But back to those 48 points, they came on an amazing 15-21 shooting from the field. Making him just the second player in the history of the league (joining Wilt Chamberlain) to have that many points and assists, while having that high of a field goal percentage (71 %). He also shot well from the line (13-18) and was lights out from downtown (5-6). Oh and it just so happens that one of those steals and three of those points won the game for the Heat, 130-127.

Dunk of the Week

Emeka Okafor is known for his stellar defensive play and consistentcy in the paint. Overall he has had a decent NBA career considering he plays for the Bobcats. Yet head coach Larry Brown recently said he wants Okafor to be more assertive on both sides of the floor. Last night Okafor did just that by stepping up to challenge Dwyane Wade. Lets go to the video tape to see how it worked out for him:



Thats a shame

via Ball Don't Lie