We differed in our opinions. Some of us thought he’d land in LA LA, to stake his claim to an acting career and play the Superman savior role for the dwindling career of Kobe Bryant. Others of us thought he would go to the New Jersey/Brooklyn Nets, Dallas Mavericks, or even stay with the Orlando Magic. I hoped he’d flounder in a miracle sign-and-trade to the New Orleans Hornets or Charlotte Bobcats. And I’ll tell you why.

For one: I didn’t really care. I was more interested in the winding down of the NFL.

For two: I was anticipating the return of baseball and salivating over an Albert Pujols’ new beginning with my beloved Angels.

For three: I was gearing up for the NBA playoffs, that so far have been brilliant with the performances of Kevin Durant and LeBron James.

A sign-and-trade to one of the above two teams made for good news and even better conversations. Can you imagine swinging a club with a few cronies, drinking beer, talking about Dwight Howard in a Bobcat uniform?

“Billy did you see where Howard went to?”

“Nope.”

“The Charlotte Bobcats, dude.”

“The who?”

“The Bobcats, they started from scratch when the Hornets moved.”

“Never heard of em.’ You gonna swing or not?”

The irony behind that trade would have made sense to every one of us who resent Howard for one ridiculous reason: He stole the “Superman” name from Shaquille O’Neal and hadn’t the decency to think of anything else. Just because he jumped nine inches in a superman cape to win a dunk contest, doesn’t mean he can stake claim to a mantle only real superstars can carry.

What has Howard ever won? A dunk contest. Oh, and Defensive Player of the Year, a rebound title and I’m sure, somewhere someplace, a body building competition. But besides that? Best Smile his senior year in high school?

Look, I’m not denying the man is gifted with incredible height and an athletic intangible to go along with it. But Howard has never and never will be, a franchise player. He will always be the raw inefficient offensive player who needs three other scorers to make him relevant.

Case in point: 2009. Howard and the Magic propelled passed LeBron James and the Cavs en route to their first Finals appearance since Penny and Shaq in 1996. They were manhandled by a superior Laker team in five games, a series during which Howard never scored more than 21 points and shot just 39% from the floor. Instead of Howard, it was Hedo Turkoglu who made a name for himself in the previous series against the Cavs, leading the team in scoring and hitting clutch jump shot, one after another, in the closing minutes of the fourth quarters.

Dwight Howard has been lucky enough to be a big partly skilled man in a moment in NBA History so parched for big men it makes Ron Jeramy’s addiction to sex look geriatric. In fact, Howard hasn’t, technically, been the best big of his generation.

Had not, Yao Ming broken a femur every time he stepped forward, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. We would be discussing the monumental career of Yao Ming, the man who bridged the basketball gap between two hemispheres. Instead we all know the unfortunate end to Yao Ming. A stoic soul with a keen, sensible, personality, and a meek humility, not to mention a 15-foot bank shot better than most guards and the body of a giant. It ended prematurely short, as all good people do, according to Bill Joel.

But Howard on the other hand, has had a relatively painless career. Until this year, Howard had played in 90% of his games. This is the only dividing factor critics use in discussing another big of his generation, Andrew Bynum, who like Yao, has been brushed off with injury woes. This year Bynum played an injury free year and equaled Howard in most categories (considering he shared rebounds and points with two other stars: Kobe Bryant and Pau Gasol).

2011-2012 season

Andrew Bynum             Dwight Howard

Games Played: 60              Games Played: 54

Points: 18.7                          Points: 20.6

Rebounds: 11.8                   Rebounds: 14.5

Blocks: 1.9                             Blocks: 2.1

Field Goal %: 55.8              Field Goal %: 57.3

Free Throw %: 69.2           Free Throw %: 49.1

MPG: 35.2                             MPG: 38.3

When I originally heard the Lakers wouldn’t part with Bynum for Howard, I though they were absolutely crazy (And they still might be)! Bynum was a spoiled-brat, pampered by Laker ownership since he entered the league as an unproven and awkwardly lanky nonathletic 18-year old. He’s been injured often and shown little to any drive at using his god-gifted frame. Howard was the proven somewhat likable and consistent veteran. And then this year happened and my philosophy went to horse manure.

Howard flaunted his egotism all year with a round about approach to answering one god damned question: Dwight, would you like to be in Orlando or not? And while his teammates concocted a decent year swirled with media malaise, Howard embarrassed his coach in live interviews and bowed out early with what some critics describe as a makeshift snot nosed injury.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzORXMDvJzQ

Dwight, clearly, is not Shquille O’Neal. Shoot! He isn’t even the quiet gamer Al Jefferson is. I am beginning to think Bynum has more upside because of his offensive skill set and now for certain, Yao Ming with a dose of good health would trump him in ever major statistical category. You just can’t like a guy who flaunts himself around like a two-dollar hooker in a mismatched set of heels.

Howard fooled us all into thinking he was the funny charismatic star with a humbled determination to make his teammates better. Howard can’t even make himself better.

He shoots free throws wore, yes WORSE than Shaquille O’Neal.

He is outspoken a’ la bridal-gowned Dennis Rodman.

He is a quitter.

Dwight Howard is a quitter.

Dwight Howard is Baron Davis with a better body. You can blame God for that one. He is wielding a shredded cape, and shooting straight to Hollywood, collecting endorsement money and what will soon be one of the largest contracts in league history. But the O’Brien trophy will never be his if he wins one. It will belong to guys like Turkoglu, with the ability to hit a big shot and knock down free throws. Howard will be the face of the project but the men beneath him, the glue that holds his bloated self-ego together. If I were Magic owner Rick DeVos I would approach the Hornets and ask for the rights to Anthony Davis and a montage of role guys, and wash my hands clean of him.

O! But if only the world worked that perfectas. If only the world was just that damn ironically poetic it would be too good for words. Damn.

I am a realist with specks of surrealism poking through my veins.  When I see mountains, I see mountains, though I admit, beneath their weighty crouch of pine trees, one can see shadows that resemble crow-dark figures. But the difference between a person like myself and those who dream of trolls and witches, is I prefer reality, whatever the hell that is*.  What-ifs are a futile form of phantasmal thinking. They are as pointless as is asking for charity from the big wig munchers sitting in Armani suits atop the towering buildings of American money trade.  But I must confess, as I grow older, more restless with the direction of Father time, and mount toward a gush of a pre-midlife crisis, the what-ifs linger like tinkling pennies in the piggy bank of the soul. Why, what, when, and how become a blabbing second personality–they control you from the inside-out with illusions of a glittering fantasy world.

Okay, not really. But the build up was quite nice. Writing Fan-Fiction ranks 209th on my list of literary successes, behind a research paper on the mating practices of cockroaches*.  I guess I’m learning to become more intrigued with the futurist perspective, the cruel reality of what the intellectuals call historical luck. So I’ll give this elementary form of literature a shot.

When M.J prematurely bolted from the NBA in 1993, after being crowned with vice-God status, oh, and three consecutive titles, David Stern and co. found themselves swallowed in the belly of “who next.”  David Robinson? Hakeem Olajuwan? Patrick Ewing? Reggie Miller? Shaq? Penny Hardaway? Chris Webber? and the list of plausible courtship’s continued. But none of them fit. For one, Robinson, Olajuwan, and Ewing all split time as the best centers in the NBA. They tore each other apart, night in and night out, passing title hopes to one another like a plate of chicken wings. Miller was just too funny looking to take serious. Shaq was dominant, but didn’t have the “that’s it” factor like his airness. C-Webb was a poor man’s Charles Barkley, and Penny Hardaway, a second fiddle to the big fella.

So as it was, after nearly two years in limbo, MJ stopped the pathetic whiff of the bat,  saving the NBA from the folly of ESPN2 status. But he was 35, and though God can’t be held by the shackles of age, clearly he had only three years left. So for three years the NBA garnered another glory run. We watched MJ’s greatest moments. 72 wins in ’96 and title 4; 69 wins in ’97, a heroic 38 in-game 5 with the flu, and title 5, and then his best, at 38, without a healthy Pippen, he won title 6 in ’98 with a game winner. The replay of the legends final moment paused in our minds forever. We fixated on what he’d given us for fifteen years, yet he wasn’t coming back, so we began to croon over the “what now?”

And this is where the world got murky. What-ifs clouded the senses. We glorified the likes of Jerry “score twenty on twenty-five shots” Stackhouse, and Grant “got hurt tying my shoe” Hill, as the ones who’d ascend this trialsome period. Because the compass of greatness passed over us with a gray fog of finality, we wandered lost, like the Israelites begging for redemption. Yet along it was not us, or his airness, that would lead us out of this dark place. It was the powers that be: historical luck, a.k.a., the Sam Bowie syndrome.

Draft day, 1996. Pick 1: Allen Iverson. Pick 5: Ray Allen. Pick 13: Kobe Bryant.  The boyish eighteen-year-old face, with pleasurable dimples, and a rail thin body, shyly bumbled to the stage, beneath a veil of lights, and a flutter of pictures. He wears the Charlotte Hornets’ shades of blue on his ball cap, perfectly slack at the side, further admitting to his school boy demeanor.  Charlotte is ecstatic. The cities deflated NBA economy inflates a bit with a keen interest in the High School boy who’s been compared to his airness. Pedestrians walk about the city whispering the what-ifs, the could it be’s, for a team coming off an average 41-41 season, with a superstar wing in Glen Rice.  Still lamenting over the tragedy of losing Alonzo Mourning and Larry Johnson to trades, the city hopes for a revival of the 1994-1995 season which saw the Hornets boast 50 wins. Surely the young kid could evolve into a dynamic threat, creating the most explosive duo in hoops–Bryant the athletic poster child, and Rice, the cool, collect, three-point aficinado,  segwaying the Hornets into a true playoff contendor.

Yet like me, the Charlotte Hornets are realist.  They wagered on Bryant to be a bust like  Harold Minor or Isaiah Rider.  And in so doing, they traded the thirteenth pick of the 1996 draft, Kobe Bryant, to the Los Angeles Lakers for veteran center, Vlade Divac, altering the league forever, and Hall of Fame faces such as Shaquille O’neal, Phil Jackson, Kevin Garnett, Tim Duncan, and Pau Gasol.

But what if the Hornets froze with a premonition of the boys greatness, further tossing historical luck down the philosophical drain? And Sam Bowie acted as the sports George Santyana, reminding Charlotte not to repeat history, but to transcend it with wit and insight? Assuredly the man known as the Black Mamba would be the face of Charlotte, a team with successes and failures, and his legacy slung in blue, not purple and gold.

1996-1997 would be a season of building blocks. Rice would continue as the teams breakout superstar, while Mugsy Bogues runs the show, and Anthony Mason controls the middle.  Bryant would come off the bench for hard-working Dell Curry, at nearly twenty-five minutes a night, and show enough flashes of greatness to replace the veteran Curry the following season.

1997-1998 would be a season in which Bryant starts at the guard position. Rice now thirty, begins to be haunted by the lack of a championship, and chooses to demote some of his shot totals to the nineteen-year-old.  Anthony Mason plays third fiddle, and continues to play as one of the leagues premier do- it- all big men.  David Wesley, Bobby Phills, and Del Curry battle for back-up minutes, and Wesley wins. Phills fades into obscurity and Curry becomes a veteran, on a guard heavy team with little to any usage and retires. Bryant averages in the mid-teens, struggling down the stretch, and the Hornets lose in the 1st round.

1998-1999 was the season of the lockout and first post-Jordan experiment, acting as a minimal launching pad for Bryant. The Rice and Mason injuries allow for Bryant to assert himself offensively as the teams go to guy. Though there are flashes of stardom in the wake of the teams injuries, the youngster still lacks a consistent jump shot, and the assertiveness to tell off veterans like Derick Coleman, and J.R. Reid, who both shoot far too much for players with their lack of offensive abilities. The team misses the playoffs.

1999-2000 was a season of fine tuning the teams direction. Now season four of the Bryant/Rice experiment, the Hornets feel the pressure to make this thing work. Bryant now expects to be the man on a team stacked with paling reflections of one time all-stars. Coleman comes to camp overweight and is nothing more than a seventh or eighth man off the bench. Rice still has the ability to score, but at 33, with brittle knees, and a bad shooting elbow, his percentages drop, as does his demeanor. Mason’s ruptured leg causes the greatest decline, and though he averages a double-double through determination, he is unable to be counted on as anything more than a role guy. Rookie Baron Davis comes excited and both he, and Bryant, give life to a team in steep decline. Bryant averages 20-25 a night, Rice at 17, and Davis around 12, but the team misses the playoffs for a second straight season.

2000-2001 was a new beginning. The Rice/Bryant experiment did not work. Rice is dealt to a playoff team in need of a shooter, as is Mason, gone to free agency.  The pick up of Jamal Mashburn gives the team a much-needed offensive punch at the swing position. Bryant continues to shine, and records his second straight all-star appearance. He averages 25-28 points a night, while Davis continues to grow into a good point guard, though his shoot first attitude perturbs the star Bryant.  Both have a slightly poor relationship, and the friction causes the quiet tempered Mashburn to fade far into the background. The team makes the playoffs but fails to get anywhere but the second round.

2001-2002 was the final recordable season. Season six for Bryant, and the cities lack of drawing power for big name free agents, causes him to seek a new home. They still have the trio of Bryant, Davis, and Mashburn, but they are unable to upend the Eastern Conference elite: Pacers, Sixers, and Nets. Davis is nothing more than a poor shooting eighteen point, six assist point guard, and Mashburn is on the steady decline. Bryant averages 30+, but has become the same type of player as a Vince Carter or Tracy McGrady, a shoot first player with few playoff credentials.

2002-present has been a vague unreadable sign. Bryant, McGrady, VC, Iverson, Duncan, Garnett, Shaq, Wade, Bosh, Nowitski, and Durant all battle for superstar supremacy. It is fair to say, at this point, there would be no comparison between Bryant and Lebron. Lebron would clearly be the best of the best, lacking playoff successes. Duncan would probably have six titles to his name, and Garnett two. Bryant gets caught in the free agency fray much like a McGrady  or a VC, and continues to experience nothing more but all-star appearances and playoff losses.  Though a phenomenal athlete and tremendous scorer, Bryant is a poor man’s Dominique, nothing more than a top thirty to fifty player of all time.

The problem with WOW & Fan Fictionites, is they live in a world with little to any REAL credential*. It is creative in that it feeds the never-ending need to enslave oneself to something born far from reality. But what greatness is there in a world nobody cares about*? As I sit back, sipping on a beer, shooting the shit with friends, I am amazed at the tremendous ability life has to shape things with the hard and near impossible decisions. We all have made piss-poor choices, shoot, choices meant to be regretted over. But in the regret, we become better people, and learn how to fruitfully shape the real world. We will no longer (hopefully not) concern ourselves with our Bryant for Divac swaps, because whether we are the recipient of greatness or not, we’ve given ourselves over to the great collective–a fabric of souls interconnected by the dominoes of our lives.

I’d trade Bryant for Divac full well-knowing the kind of player he’d become.

For every Bryant there’s a Divac, both serving their place in the ying-yang world of sports.

Divac: hard-working, playoff contender, smart, and the greatest flopper of all time.

Bryant: five time champion, Olympic champion, top ten great of all time, top five scorer of all time, thirteen time all-star, one time MVP, and the list continues to mount.

The greatest flopper of all time lends itself to a round of merry humor– which we all need.

But if the Kobe accolades say enough for the name of reality, then, who the hell wouldn’t make that trade, and who would possibly have the guts to re-arrange the beauty of such greatness?

–Luke Johnson