I idolize/d Byron Scott and Magic Johnson. Loved the 39-win team in 1993 that nearly knocked off the all-mighty Charles Barkley-led Suns. At the age of 12, I loved Sedale Threatt. Embraced Cedric “the Garbage Man” Ceballos as the most underrated swing man of the 90’s and still root for the grinning spin doctor of humor with a dominate unrelenting game and a personality to match it: Shaquille O’Neal.

You see….I like me some Lakers. But I just don’t love the maniacally self obsessed Kobe Bryant. That’s it.   

That was in my opinion (key word there…pay attention), the worst move in franchise history, when the team opted to send Shaq packing to Miami in favor of Kobe. It set a precedent that anyone and everyone was/is recyclable. And Shaq, the man who made Kobe Bryant Kobe Bryant is not ever, for one second, recyclable. 

So I began asking the question: Why do I have to go down with the ship if I hate the captain? Why don’t I get to be a free agent with my fansmanship? Why do I have to keep rooting for a team whose face I no longer support? Little did I know just how common my Central-Coast -swing-state perspective was.

A perfect example of this was documented by our own Owen Main in the Spring of 2011. Main asked the question in this article: Is the Central Coast a Giants or Dodgers country? And the answer was neither. What we discovered about ourselves was that we just don’t take sports that serious here. We have beautiful women, concerts in the plaza, an electric farmers market, beautiful downtown’s, stunning antique architecture, award-winning wine country, great bars, rolling Irish-like hillsides, hiking, rugged beaches, pines by the sea, clean air, low crime, abundance of restaurants, wonderful school systems, plentiful tourism, fishing, lakes and according to Oprah, one of the happiest environments in the world. 

Hakuna Matata.

Here, we embrace the many shades of grey and not the childish infatuations or irrelevant loyalty to organizations that have no grip whatsoever on our SLO life.

So here is my short opinion on the Dwight Howard landing in Los Angeles:

I think the move to land Dwight Howard was the second worst decision in team history. He’s a malcontent disconnected character with a lust for Hollywood stardom. And though I agree that Andrew Bynum was a glass kneed fool with a cheap and uninspired heart, he was, for the time-being locked up longer than one freaking year.

One year. 

In the Summer of 2013 when Howard is an unrestricted free agent, he will do as he’s promised all along by signing an enormous contract with the Brooklyn Nets to become the billboard face of Jay-Z’s franchise. And then what? Steve Nash is 40, Bryant a crippled 35 and Meta World is off in India learning to braid hair and meditate. 

The Lakers now have one year to win Bryant his sixth ring and are still only the third best team in the Western Conference. Not to mention I give them only a smidgen of a shot against the deep defensive minded Bulls and no shot whatsoever against the steam-rolling, LeBron-led Heat. I can name four teams right now with a deeper rotation: the Thunder, Spurs, Bulls and Heat.  And the upstart Pacers are on the fringes.    

So just remember this article when Dwight Howard is an underachieving underwear model with his low seeded Nets teams and you’re stuck watching pick and rolls between Steve Blake and Jordan Hill.  Learn to stop throwing rocks and sticking your tongue out at pragmatic realists with a fair take on things. It’s getting tiring and old and I would like to have a mature conversation.  

For many of us, Summer means little to our fansmanship. As much as we try to appreciate America’s great past-time, Baseball is too slow and monotonous. We are seeking more than just an old timers’ game; more than five dollar English Leather cologne.

It is supposed to be the fun-time of the year. Many of us get time off of work to visit the world, sit on the beach, party with friends. Most importantly for us bachelors (and non-bachelors if we’re honest) the quadruple B’s are out in full force–blond, bronzed, bikini’d, bodies.

Head out to Avila Beach or Pismo for an hour and you will have plenty of memories by the time you’re done eye-surfing the summatime candy.

But hold on. Just hold up a bit. We don’t want to be creepers now do we? When you took the career job or said I DO, life took a turn for the better. Life was no longer a never-ending scene from Baywatch, and you are no longer David Hasselhoff and his abundantly woodsy chest.

Promiscuity is a bad bad word now, it will cause you to pull a groin or pat on tiger balm morning, mid-day, and night. It is not meant for us mature ones, but for the spry youngsters with a libido the size of Roseanne.

This my friends is no fun, I know. Yesterday I nearly pulled a hamstring on the stationary elliptical. I was trying to both watch ESPN and fake-run at the same time. Sounds easy enough, but nearing thirty, nothing has become easy. The “honey yes, honey of course, honey I will,” sorts of answers, are all that are easy. My life is a tedium glass house, I say no and the world comes crumbling down.

Summatime…

Remember playing ball nine to five on the blacktop with a few friends? It’s seventy five, a clear ardent blue coats the horizon, and the dead day just slumped on your shoulders with not a thing to do. Each one of your pretended for an eight hour period you were MJ, Scottie Pippen, Penny, Shaq, Larry Johnson, Zo, Grant Hill, or Hakeem.

Those were the days. Now, as a tax-paying citizen you’ve grown to resent the group I listed above. As you collect your unemployment from your poor paying teaching gig, your rose colored glasses including your young affair with believing in the impossible have slapped the basement of your life and crumbled into a million little pieces.

Summatime…

Relax, at some point all of us end up washed up. If an epic duo like Will Smith and DJ Jazzy Jeff could never produce anything more than their one-hit album, then trust me, you and I will be forced to scan, fax, make copies, and staple for a living.

But what Summatime foreshadows are feelings of freedom. Despite our limited free time and fading memories of running the black top with skinned knees and soda pop, we all have a place within us that can go there.

Who would of thunk watching men’s professional tennis could excite me like Pam Anderson’s bobbing twins used to? Now as an unemployed man I have the ability to depressingly relive the glory days and bring back the first loves of season: sports, sports, and more sports.

Yes, sports.

Currently, A-Rod is stepping closer and closer to Barry’s all-time home run mark, Tiger is trying to return to form and assume his rightful place as golf’s all-time greatest, and the best living tennis player is still playing at an extremely high level in Roger Federer. Not to mention on Sunday, Jeff Gordon won his 84th NASCAR race, ranking fourth all-time on the list and assuming at forty one, he may go down alongside Richard Petty as the greatest driver in World history.

All this and it’s Summatime. Some things to keep an eye this Summer as you either bum it or find the time in your hectic life to Tivo something. Keep an eye on the Boston Red Sox, who after starting the season 1-9, currrently own the second best record in Baseball and are on pace to be just the ninth team in league history to eclipse 1,000 runs scored in a season.

Watch A-Rod continue his climb to home run greatness, as he sits just thirty four shy of the great Willie Mays mark of 660 at fourth all-time.

The NBA draft on June 23rd is always an intriguing experience. For NBA fans, this not only can shape your future (think Boston in 07′ with the trades of both KG and Ray Ray), but offers a glimpse in the leagues future. This year the popular names are the tweeners, Jimmer Fredette of BYU and Kemba Walker of Uconn, both highly talented but not sure lottery choices as of now.

Normally the draft would be all fun and games. That is if there was not a looming NBA lockout. According to NBA analyst Charles Barkley, the owners are at a “point where they are going to try and break these players unions down.”

Like the NBA’s situation, the NFL lockout has to be the most intriguing situation for sports fans. Most of us wait the two dead  Summer months: June and July, for August when football training camps report and news regarding trades begin to swirl. As of now, both sides remain at a stall and the idea of living without football for many not only kills their Summer, but does away with Sunday beer drinking hoots around the tube. Now Church is the only sad option.

June gloom is definitely upon us. A marshmallow cloud bank over the Pacific does it justice. Not only are we concerned about our lack of freedoms living as grown adults but we also may have to live without two of our favorites next year. In order to keep the faith, now would be a good time watch Baywatch re-runs or finally take up those dance lessons.

There is only one man who can answer these pondering’s, that being “Big Shot Bob,” otherwise known as Robert Horry, who made a living with the Rockets, Lakers, and Spurs, en route to seven rings by nailing the clutch shot.

Why does this matter? He was never a star, but he has rings galore bronzed on his swish- svelte fingers. 

In today’s NBA we judge  all-time greats by how many rings they’ve won and whether or not they led their teams to title town. But is this a fair assessment, considering a life-long bench guy like Horry can be carried to seven?

Never was Horry the franchise guy. In fact, as great as he seemed in closing minutes, Robert Horry never became the player we expected him to be after his timely three point shooting for Houston’s 2nd title run.

Horry’s brief stint in Phoenix after a trade in 1996, proved he was not endowed with a star motor. A hot tempered, dramatic and aloof head case, Bob languished averaging 6.9 points at a career low shooting clip: 41.8%. A trade by mid-season to the L.A. Lakers–a team filled with Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal, Nick Van Exel, Eddie Jones, Elden Campbell, and Cedric Ceballos changed the trajectory of his failing career.

So why then is Bob a champion? Why not franchise guys like Barkley, Malone, Stockton, Dominique, Ewing, or Reggie Miller?

Each of those listed above were worthy of winning gold, were they not? All of them were respective franchise pieces with the heart, skills, and late game heroics to hold the O’Brien.

The answer to their problems was Michael Jordan’s Bulls: a team of role guys surrounding the king of the sport with that IT factor needed to win it all. Something today’s critics use to gauge greatness and rank the all time elites.

So what is the issue then with the tautness of this old-time equation? Why not turn a blind eye and allow this to be the answer to everything?

Simply because it just does not add up. It does not offer enough answers. If Big Shot Bob has seven, or the likes of Jack Haley–former twelfth man for Jordan’s final three peat has three, the equation’s a bit off. We need something else, a new perspective when thinking of the greats and why and how they never hung the O’Brien.

And I believe individual luck IS the partly the answer, luck, a maddening machine random like the California Lottery. Historians prefer the term historical happenings–a notion that choices are made for no other reason except that they were made, and the dominoes re-arrange the cosmos of a world more closely inter-connected than we might wish it to be (think guy who smells like farts at the movies, or the swine flu victim winding a cough onto the back nape of the neck.)

Luck.

To think Michael Jordan fell to number three in the 1984 draft could be easily overlooked for a variety of reasons: Sam Bowie, the number two pick before MJ, was a  college superstar and a big man compared at the time to the greats. The Blazers already had a gifted wingman in Clyde Drexler andat the time the league was built around bigs: Kareem, Sampson and Olajuwan, Robert Parish, Patrick Ewing, and Moses Malone.

But that doesn’t make things less ludicrous.  Look at how the draft shaped the NBA forever. MJ goes to an ordinary Bulls team built in perhaps the greatest city in America, where he wins ROY, ultimately five MVP’s, slam dunk contests, becomes the games biggest mogul, and wins six titles. Alongside Oprah, MJ is easily the greatest name in Chicago history and can be attributed for an economical explosion that saved the lower West side of the city once run with crime: drug abuse, gang wars, and prostitution.

Bowie, in the annals of the NBA, is known as ‘the bust.’ He never won a thing in the pros: no all star games, no shoe deals, thus injuring the once bright ideal the Blazers had in trading their franchise Center Bill Walton to Boston.

This, my friends, is the Sam Bowie, a supernatural element that cannot be ignored.

Luck.

Yet like so many children born into inner city poverty without the tools necessary to change their lives, we cannot judge the stars through the a similar bias, because not all players are born lucky into a posh franchise. The gift of playing in Los Angeles or Boston does not come to everyone. Not every player is born into a showtime era, a team so deep they make the ocean look like a kids pool.

For some, seeking a new home is like divorcing an abusive wife. In order for Mitch Richmond to adorn gold, the talented and true shooting guard had to eventually break ties in the perils of Sacramento. Karl Malone found it necessary to join with Kobe and Shaq in 04′ after a long tenure in Utah. And even the humble Clyde Drexlerleft a hell of a situation in Portland to win it Houston. All three of which were great with or without (Sing it Bono) a championship.

The reality of the situation is heart breaking for most. We as childish dreamers wish our favorite player could be greater than the others, but this is not real. Embracing a pragmatic approach to the sport tied less to your heart strings will allow you to see greatness wrapped in many different packages. 

Reality 1: Great players DO NOT win championships, great TEAMS win championships. The 2004 Detroit Pistons are a perfect example of this. A team of role guys without a future hall of famer, the Pistons had the momentary IT. Call it faith, hard work, purity, and any other beautiful thing you want, but to explain why they won a title over an L.A. Laker team stocked with four future hall of famers would be absurd.

Reality 2: Like the stars in the sky, NBA STARS need other STARS. Think for a moment about the teams who’ve won championships the last thirty years. All of them have one thing in common: team depth and stars surrounding stars. Magic had Kareem and Worthy; Bird–Mchale and Parish; Dr.J–Moses Malone; Isaiah–Dumars and Rodman; MJ–Pippen; Hakeem–Clyde; Shaq–Kobe and Wade; Duncan–Robinson, Parker, and Ginobili; Pierce–KG and Allen.

Reality 3:  Winning titles does mean a lot, but it does not mean everything for a myriad of reasons. If the 1919 Chicago Blacksox or dirty referees like Tim Donaghy can throw World Series and playoff games, then how serious can we take this thing? Not very. Take everything with a grain of salt and learn other decided facets when it comes to judging all-time greats: MVP’s, All Star appearances, Career Totals, Game Winners, Ability to close, Athleticism, Re-defining the sport, dominance-ometer, and sociological affects.

LeBron James is not a sell out because the guy wants to win, he’s a realist. A star unselfish enough to admit that NO star including himself, can win a title completely on his own.

LeBron is stuck in the the Bill Clinton Vacuum. Though he does great things, he is brushed aside because of one unlikeable decision.

But greatness is not a grade school quiz on being friendly, it is brutal giftedness. And likeability is not the twin brother to being great.

LeBron made a  decision to better his career andhis life. Leading a Cleveland Cavs team the last seven years, that never boasted anybody better than a has-been version of Antawn Jamison warrants James departure.  No it does not warrant the overdone TV cinematic’s regarding “the decision,” nor the Pat Riley blowout introduction party in South Beach. Yet neither should it foster the illogical hysteria across America attempting to deny the man’s sheer dominance and greatness.

This isn’t patty cake kids. We are talking about a production entertainment, where all titles are but a decorative decor. They might help the woman look fine, but if that woman is not fine without the jewelry or the tight fitting jeans, I say run, run as fast as you can.

Drop by the nearest bar and have a scotch on me. Look through the world with freshness and at what is truly great (it is not the girl next to you.). It is the scraggly bartender able to whip up drinks faster than the average Joe.

Watching Sir’ Dirk diggler his way between double teams then drop the off-foot fade away, with feathered bangs haunting his brow is like hot chocolate with a bust of hand-whipped cream lapping at the tongue…sizzle sizzle and more busty sizzle.

My nizzle.

Fans swore off of Dirk after his Mavs famous meltdown in 06′ and 07′; said he was overrated, couldn’t hit the big shot, seven feet but soft as butter, a lanky vanilla–sweet but melts with contact.

Well not so fast.

In the meantime Nowitski has collected an MVP, eclipsed twenty thousand career points,and freeze framed his Shaggy Doobie Do face in the list of all-time greats. Dirk’s freakazoid bar, with his insante giftedness to dribble like a point, hit the fade away like a guard, rebound as a forward and finish inside is Lady Gaga unparalleled.

Did I just say Lady Gaga unparalleled?  I did because Dirk is the the greatest powerforward to ever play this game.

Yes you heard me. My condolences to Timmy Duncan, but today I am writing with a blasphemous resignation to the truth of things. I have post stamped this through the mailman, and asked his caddy Sir Charles, to verify its arrival. Dirk is not only the greatest powerforward, but when it comes to closers is listed as: MJ….Bird…..West…..Kobe….Dirk.

Monday’s performance was one of the greatest this league has ever seen. Dropping 48 on OKC in game one of the Western Conference Finals, he did it in Gaga fashion: 12-15 shooting, 24-24 from the free throw line, hitting clutch jumpers late to close out the Thunder in the fourth quarter. Setting the tone from the get go, Dirk started 4-4 with the Mavs first ten points, and twenty in the first half. It was obvious  that this Sir’ Dirk is no longer living under the devils of his past.

OKC looked stupefied in his wakes and had no answer for him all evening, throwing seven different defenders his way including: former Defensive Player of the Year Thabo Sefalosha, and block king Serge Ibaka. His unguardable abilities and size caused former NBA coach turned ESPN TV personality Jeff Van Gundy, to continualy pose the X and O question, “How do you stop that?” His sidekick, former point guard Mark Jackson returned, “You got to close the air space.”

Air space?

This is not about some make believe air space, this is about fate. As much as I love the twenty-three year old Durant–a two time scoring champ, and gifted 6’10 wingman with the ability to hit the three, take you off dribble, and get up and finish, I am aware that his moment has not arrived yet.

It was obvious Monday who the better team is. This is not your usual lay-down and die Dallas Mavs team who’ve become more of a hard-nosed defensive squad with their yet classic art of tres droplet supremes. Key moments on Monday included: Barrea sparking Dallas with twelve straight points in the third, and Jason Kidd bringing stability at point when Darantula made it a game scoring Jasseven of his teams ten points in a 10-0 run in the fourth to pull to within five with 3:34 to play. Like a black widow spider dangling from a single thread, only to lose her luscious prey a few inches from her triangular grasp, that is as close as things would get. This year there is no hesitation from the Mavs–a collective of cast-aways, bridging their way to title ascension.

And with a German juggernaut like Dirk taking them there, it bids the question, “will this finally be their year?”

Go ahead, compare him with Charles Barkley. He was a unique talent that could also do things no one else in the league could for his particular sub-era. Charles, also like LeBron, after not being able to win a championship as a centerpiece, sought out another all-time great to try and fancy his finger with the ultimate shine. D-Wade, giving Hakeem a call at this point in time, might behoove you greatly.

Be my guest, compare him with Karl Malone. He also revolutionized a particular skill-set for his time and place. Try as they might, the greatest assisted connection of Malone and John Stockton could not reach the pinnacle. Karl, also like LeBron, “took his talents to a Beach,” this time Venice Beach, after his failure in the hopes of confetti and champagne in Utah.

The angle of these comparisons is simple: you can group James with a group of all-time greats if you so choose. Just make sure that group of all-time greats you are grouping him with is the one filled with the all-time greats that either never achieved championship immortality at all, or never won a ring as the heads-and-shoulders “best” player on their team.  Make sure to separate that group from guys that had the ultimate, the ring and the clutch gene that looks the penultimate in the face and laughs. To group James beyond this elite group is myopic, is in some way bias, and simply beyond a stretch of reality. He can sit at the Barkley and Malone table no problem; just don’t place him at the head table with Jordan and Bryant.

But hey, anyone can reveal “what is,” right? I’d like to burrow into “why.” What is below the surface? Why are his elite talents ostensibly devoid when it matters most?

I believe it is a culmination of many factors. It starts with a lack of humility. LeBron already thought he was much better than he actually was at a very young age. He was the guinea pig, the Neal Armstrong of today’s phenom basketball player that is coddled like a movie star from a junior high age. We are just now seeing the full tsunami of this generation come through the league, and LeBron was the Pioneer. Just search Sports Illustrated’s archives, and in February of 2002 you will find a barely 17-year old “Chosen One” in his St. Vincent – St. Mary Irish #23, trying to emulate some kind of Magic Johnson Showtime dime.

However, it goes beyond that. It stretches further than just a preconceived throne in all its majesty. His constant lapse in judgment seems to be an ever-progressing monster with James. He just can’t help himself. And even with the factor of the scrutiny of a microscope following him, he has exposed himself time and time again by saying or doing the worst possible thing at the worst possible time. How can this be explained?  Some people just have the virus of absolute obliviousness?

It has nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with character. Be it on-camera during post-game interviews, he and Jim Gray wrapping uncomfortably for supposed production value before “The Decision,” or his constant spamming of ignorance on his Twitter feed.  There is, at its core, something missing with LeBron.

Most recently on Twitter, for LeBron it’s now “war,” he is a “soldier” and it’s time for “battle?” Does James even vaguely remember how Kellen Winslow, Jr. was vilified for the very same inconsiderate and insensitive statements no more than five years ago? You are supposedly a grown-ass man, LeBron. When will you start acting like one and not like a juvenile?  Champions don’t behave like this, do they?

I believe the road to making it right or at least respectable in the department of public relations starts with James cutting the fat of some of his supposed “advisors.” With LeBron, this is mostly a collection of his childhood friends.  I know if I had the friends of my youth helping advise me in my career, I’d end up selling hot dogs at Costco.

Advisors are supposed to give advice in the best interest of their “client,” right? What James could really use are less people to telling him what he wants to hear, and more people telling him what he needs to hear.   He needs less childhood friends and more of the industry’s best PR-geniuses. You have the money? The underlying fact of the matter simply is: surrounding yourself with gravy-training “yes” men has never ended up taking anyone anywhere close to their full potential.

All the analysis of this social ineptitude be as it may, let’s return to the bottom line of “on-the-court.” Recent examples relating to the overall theme being presented are becoming more and more prevalent. Just checking in with your favorite media outlet over the past two weeks will reveal as much. We don’t even have to begin to list the history of buzzer-beating failures from past seasons.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

On Thursday versus their heated inter-state and Atlantic Division rival, the Orlando Magic, the ever-present issue reared its ugly head again. This time it capped off an implosion of epic proportions. With the Heat up 24 in the 3rd quarter, Orlando went on a 40-9 run, highlighted by Jason Richardson going 5-5 from behind the arc in the second half.

Despite the avalanche, the Heat had a chance to tie in the final possession. Chris Bosh badly missed on a 3-point attempt, and upon the Heat scrambling for the offensive rebound, Lebron had a wide-open 3-point attempt with only seconds remaining. The expected occurred once again.  These aren’t just insignificant regular season games that don’t matter anymore. This victory for Orlando pulled them to within 3.5 games of Miami in the Southeast division.

In the Heat’s last home game prior to this debacle, also they blew a lead in an eventual loss to the New York Knicks, this time of the 15-point variety. A clutch performance by Carmelo Anthony coupled with some stout New York defense lead to the Knicks taking the lead in the closing moments. With a chance to be the hero in the closing seconds once again, a James drive to the hole was thwarted by the shot-altering defense of Anthony and a greatly-timed blocked shot coming from the weak side by Amare Stoudamire. The “King” was again unable to rule.

On February 24th, The Chicago Bulls had their turn. What was different? The Heat didn’t blow a late-game lead this time, but rather were neck-and-neck with the vastly improving Bulls for the entire contest. What was the same? Lebron missing yet another clutch shot, this also an uncontested 3-pointer, down 3 with 15 seconds remaining. You are supposed to wear a crown? Maybe a court-jester cap is more suitable for right now.

These recent instances are obviously just part of a small sample size. That doesn’t make them any less relevant of a piece in the way the overall puzzle is being sculpted. Go ahead, put the pieces together yourself. It’s the same as what you see on the box cover – the “King” bricking another game-winning shot when it counts.