Al Horford Has Angel Wings: Identity, Injuries, and Hope in the NBA

"We'll be alright once we get _________________ back."

What sports fan hasn't at some point uttered the above statement, whether out of confidence or sheer desperation? The imagination of sports fans exists in a realm of hypotheticals, what ifs, and naive wish fulfillment. Injuries to significant players flatten the playing field, allowing both wealthy and impoverished fans alike to create a parallel universe where, with one crucial addition, anything can happen. It’s the absence of a player that brings them down, and this absence also allows them to imagine the previously unthinkable: that a team whose achievement has grown stagnant can still shatter glass ceilings.

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.

Garbage Time: Cota, Oden's greg, and TNT

Teach: My school is in the middle of midterms, so I'm busy grading essays and last minute makeup work, which means in a week where Amare rumors are once again en vogue, John Hollinger places the Jazz at the top of his power rankings, LeBron is revealed to be a Free Mason, and UVA and VA Tech actually play for something meaningful for the first time since the Barbers were in C'ville all I have for you is an Ed Cota highlight reel, which floated around the Carolina boards this week.

And the fact that I'm grading papers right now makes it easy to compare Easy Ed to one of those students for which everything just comes floats, like sunlight, an ice skate, or birthday cake. Watching Ed play is like traveling in and out of the moment, on a hammock, in the backyard--timeless.

Oh, I almost forgot. There is this bizarre story, over at The Huffington Post, that shows Greg Oden really is like any guy who came of age in the era of Superbad and, therefore, is a connoisseur of fine wines as well as penis art. I am positive that regardless of what happens in his basketball career Greg Oden is destined to be a cult figure for years to come, and this story is necessary for proving that he is indeed 22 as opposed to 42.

In Oden's defense, the pics are over a year and half old, and he did not post them himself on the internet; and he immediately apologized when the story broke. While I think Oden did need to apologize, I can't help but think the people responsible for leaking the photos are the ones who owe Oden and the public an apology. I know this seems hypocritical, noting the above photo we posted, but one must ask are we helping, hurting, or simply having a laugh? And when does our laughter become an invasion of privacy? If we weren't all buying, would anyone be selling?

Langston:
Since our last Garbage Time, a lot in the world of hoops has happened. Kentucky took over as the number one team in college basketball and then lost their next game. The Lakers hit the double-digit mark in losses by dropping their second meeting with the Cavaliers, giving Cleveland the series win for the year and an edge in the battle for home-court advantage. Tennessee lost to Georgia, ending it's winning streak and introducing us to the peanut butter kid. Phil Jackson continued his annual tradition of giving his players books to read and then took his team for a visit to the Obama residence. Charlotte beat Phoenix for the first time in franchise history, Javaris Crittendon got probation, Mike Woodson shaved off his eyebrows, and the Knicks lost by 50. All of these stories are interesting, yet I think the most important recent development is the inclusion of Shannon Brown in the slam dunk competition. If you're immediately dismissing that notion while muttering to yourself about Lebron's refusal to enter the event, just watch the video.

Portland Trail Blazers Preview: "The Martha McKeen"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season (even though the season started last week), we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Blazers in our comments section.With a divine wind, this boat slices through water, making waves appear like loaves of bread. The sunlight crowns the waves in butter. That's on a good day when partaking of the ocean is like communion and eternal salvation. On any other day with a less than perfect wind, attempts at sailing around the sandbar can be as futile as a kamikaze mission. Today the wind is heaven sent, and if Commodore Roy were less hungover, then today would be the day that the little boat that could sailed out past the breakers and out of sight from the coast, like a dove sent from the beach into the great blue yonder.

But Commodore Roy is hungover, singing W. B. Yeats poems to the tune of Modest Mouse songs, banging his peg leg onto the hollow drum of the deck and playing slap bass on his thigh with the palm of his hand, and, unfortunately, he's yet to realize the anchor of the S.S. Oden still drags the bottom of the ocean's floor from where it was dropped the night before.

The heavy chain pulls at the beams of the boat's hull. Commodore Roy believes the creaking is the sound his skull makes after a night of too many bourbons. Nails are pried loose from wood, and, below the deck, water gathers like lead in the belly of a whale; it's gut is about to burst. The bleeding is internal, caused by an anchor no one can see. Sea gulls glide through sun rays on what appears to be the consummate sea breeze, but the journey of the S.S. Oden appears to be much shorter than her crew intended.

Greg Oden "This one is for the ladies"

Greg Oden has everything; skills on the court, money, women(they always follow), and he can sing. Ok he can't sing, but here is video of him doing it anyway.

My Great Grandfather told me a story of how he actually got to meet Greg Oden, it was at a campaign rally in Chicago when Oden was stumping for Woodrow Wilson.
As seen on Hard for the Yard