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.

It seemed to be a hard-fought and physical game. Both teams were playing really hard and it was a close game. I’m writing this actually while it’s still going on. But the TV is off.

The Heat had the ball and Joakim Noah slipped and fell while guarding Chris Bosh. Bosh turned and drove to the basket and was fouled by three Bulls players. Carlos Boozer was the second Bull to get to Bosh and, arms raised above his head, made sure that Bosh wasn’t able to get a shot off. While arms were tangled, Boozer was clearly the stronger of the two and Bosh ended up sprawled out toward the baseline while Boozer stood where he landed, on his feet, with his arms raised.

After talking with his fellow officials, Joey Crawford went to the scorer’s table and called Boozer for a flagrant foul. My TV was off before Bosh could even shoot a free throw. The Heat were losing by three points (I think) at the time of the foul. I’m sure it won’t be for long…

This is the NBA I despise. Where there is espoused-only toughness. Where 6’10” athletes need protection from the refs. Where a hard foul turns into a flagrant foul and where the refs still don’t have control of the game.

This is the NBA, where Kevin Garnett can spout off a profanity-laced tirade and bully all he wants. Where Rasheed Wallace can call Vladamir Radmonavic “Borat” without repercussion.

This is a league that is all bark and no bite. Where a player’s acting tough is always rewarded and where a player’s actual toughness almost never is.

This is the NBA where a “tough” act that is actually related to the game – basketball warrior protecting his basket – is penalized most harshly.

Listen, I get it. When there are players whose athleticism and star power make them transcendent, you want to give them every opportunity to show that off. To market the game, it is important to have defining slam dunks and plays that maximize a player’s athleticism.

Tell that to Michael Jordan. Jordan was hacked harder than the Boozer foul at least a few times per game in the playoffs. Did we appreciate the game less then? Did it negatively affect Jordan then?

Tell that to Shaquille O’Neal. While he was the most difficult player to officiate, Shaq was fouled harder than Boozer fouled Bosh probably ten times per game. Since Shaq was typically the one left standing, the fouls were almost never deemed flagrant. Again, did it make me appreciate Shaq less? Absolutely not. How many more dominant years might Shaq have had if the NBA was as liberal with doling out flagrant fouls from 1997-2004 as they are now.

I’m not saying a league needs to allow a McHale-like clothesline. I don’t want to get back to the fighting times, when Kermit Washington almost killed Rudy T (for more, read The Punch – a great book).

What I am saying is that I’d love to see how LeBron would actually react when it wasn’t so assured that he’d be protected by the officials. I’d love to see whether Chris Bosh would go into a shell or change his takeoff point the next time he drove to the basket in order to absorb contact.

Unfortunately, today’s NBA doesn’t allow for or require these things from its players. Call it “Namby Pamby” or “weaksauce” or just overprotected, marketing-driven basketball. It doesn’t matter what you call it. It’s the way of the world now.

Miami’s BIG 3 will continue to roll. And I’ll continue to watch hockey — or maybe just keep the TV off altogether. I do live in California, and it is starting to get warmer…

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

When trying to capture the overall implications of this most recent trade deadline, one needs to realize that there were a lot of risks taken and futures mortgaged. There hasn’t been a deadline similar to this in recent memory where so many superstars were swapped. Some trades could be honestly questioned. Some made complete sense. Some teams made out and some teams got taken for the proverbial ride. Let’s go ahead and delve into “who, to where, for what and why?”

The headline for months was the much hyped “Melo-drama,” as it was so cleverly described. We couldn’t see that one coming, could we? While ESPN’s Chris Broussard basically conjured the validity of a Carmelo Anthony for Andrew Bynum trade out of thin air, the real competition in the waning days for Anthony’s services was between New Jersey and New York.

It was much publicised that New Jersey was having significant talks with Denver up to about a month ago, when in a display of impatience, Nets owner Mikhail Prokhorov nixed all talks between the two. They became the New Jersey “Nyets.” Most thought this was due to Denver simply needing more in return for an Anthony package than New Jersey was willing to give up. The truth of the matter may have been that Prokhorov finally saw the light and realized what was truly going on.

It had been blatantly obvious from day one of all trade discussion that Carmelo wanted to be a New York Knick. He is from New York and saw playing in the Mecca of basketball, Madison Square Garden, as a life-long dream. While the Nets have particular fan strongholds in the New York/New Jersey area, and even though they started vertical construction on their new Brooklyn Barclays Center three months ago, they are no competition for the Knicks as far as the brightly lit stage of the big city of dreams is concerned.

Prokhorov is no idiot. He is the 89th richest man in the world. You don’t find yourself at that level of wealth by getting played by 30-year old team presidents and general managers like Josh Kroenke and Masai Ujiri. He finally came to the realization that the Nuggets were only using trade discussions with his Nets as a leverage play against New York. If New York thought New Jersey was a player and had a legit shot to score Anthony, Denver could trade him to New York, where he was inevitably going to go anyway, for much less than they would have had New Jersey not been in the picture.

All of this front-office analysis aside, what does this trade do for the bottom line of buckets?

The Nuggets parted with a superstar in Anthony, as well as a serviceable point guard, albeit in the sunset of his career, in Chauncey Billups. The less newsworthy of these two players was a significant part of this deal. Billups still can hit big shots, is one of the best veteran leaders in the league, and will mesh with Knicks Coach Mike D’Antoni’s run-and-gun system almost instantly. New York also got throw-in forwards; Renaldo Balkman, who was originally drafted by New York in 2006, and Shelden Williams, whose only note of significance in his meager NBA career has been being the husband of WNBA superstar Candice Parker.  Quite a resume.

The Knicks parted with a young and improving point guard in Raymond Felton, as well as New York sociological attraction, Italian forward Danilo Gallanari. Also headed to the Rocky Mountains are roundly-skilled forward Wilson Chandler and big-man project Timofey Mozgov.

The Nuggets got a full hockey line, but the Knicks got a superstar, a championship-seasoned veteran and two expiring and insignificant contracts. While each team got a lot of what they needed for the point each franchise currently is in their overall process, the advantage still has to go to the Big Apple. A top five superstar is a top five superstar, especially packaged with a solid veteran point guard.  You trade what is needed to be able to acquire these two if you are the Knicks, even if you have to give up your right arm and your first-born to get them.

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A cornerstone and respected leader in this league, Jerry Sloan, retires? The longest tenured coach in the NBA just walks away after twenty-two seasons right in the middle of his twenty-third? Now that all-star point guard Deron Williams has been traded to New Jersey two weeks after this unpredicted turn of events, popular and reasonable belief can only consider two options as to why Sloan walked away. Either Williams did what he could to push Sloan out the door through open defiance simply out of his own choice, or the “bling” in his left ear that should belong on Kate Middleton’s finger whispered to do the same because old man Sloan was cramping his style. Either way, Williams played a part, and I have a feeling Jazz management and ownership saw the writing on the wall. The fact that Williams was going to become a free agent in 2012 only had something to do with his ousting. His attitude and arrogance is what ultimately got him shoved out the door and banished to one of the league’s worst situations.

Not only did Utah get to unload an egotistical malcontent, but they made out with the biggest trade deadline steal in recent memory. Williams may be arguably the most complete point guard in the NBA today, but he is still only one player. Last I checked, Deron Williams can’t pass the ball to Deron Williams.

In return for Williams, the Jazz received a solid point guard replacement in Devin Harris. They also acquired last year’s number two overall pick in the draft, twenty year-old potential-phenom forward, Derrick Favors. Giving up on this kid so soon is seemingly a display of impatient haste by the Nets, is it not?

What a great deal for the Jazz, given there was no way Williams was going to resign with Utah after next season, right? Well, that’s not all they got. Let’s toss in two first-round draft picks, one from the Nets and one from the Golden State Warriors.  Both of these picks could very well be lottery picks, given the foreseeable ineptitude of New Jersey and Golden State in the coming years. Wait, that’s not all? How bout three million in cash for the pocket as icing on the cake? A top ten to fifteen point guard, a number two overall pick who is twenty, two potential lottery picks, and cash?  For one player?  Feliz Navidad, Utah.

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In the most questionable move made when considering the implications of the real race for the ultimate prize this season, Celtics general manager Danny Ainge sent stalwart center Kendrick Perkins to Oklahoma City along with jitter-bug guard Nate Robinson. Wait, I thought Perkins getting hurt during last year’s finals was the sole reason you guys couldn’t get over on the Lakers, Danny?  He is supposedly that important to your team in crunch-time, yet he is this movable less than a year later? Sounds like that excuse back then was just a cry for a crutch, reminiscent of the squeaking from Paul Pierce’s wheelchair brakes. Yes, this trade has now proven that was in fact cow excrement you were smelling from the mouths of New Englanders after the Lakers were celebrating the spoils last year. How does your excuse look now, crybabies?

On the red-eye to the land of “chowdah” comes former Thunder forwards Nenad Kristic and Jeff Green. Green was originally drafted by the Celtics, and was then subsequently traded on a draft-day deal to the then Seattle Supersonics for Ray Allen. Ainge was obviously high on Green that draft, but when given the opportunity to add a sharpshooter like Allen to the centerpiece of Paul Pierce and at the time, recently signed free agent Kevin Garnett, he sold out.

While that move then ended up helping bring a championship to Boston in 2008, Ainge now making the deal for Green reeks of desperation, ego, and a chance at some sort of twisted “I told you so.” When you consider the thought-process of the idea behind the trade, Ainge claiming Green could be the heir-apparent to Kevin Garnett, what he gave up to be able to claim this possibility is borderline comical.  Ainge trading Perkins for Green because he kind of ‘reminds’ him of Garnett is the equivalent of Mitch Kupchak trading Andrew Bynum for Thaddeus Young because he kind of ‘reminds’ him of Lamar Odom. Way to go, Danny. This is the move that people will point to when you are forced out the door in a few seasons.

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As the schedule continues, unflappable to the time needed to digest all the recent changes in the league-wide chemistry, the positioning for playoff seeding will obviously become more heated than it has been to this point. Now comes this very segment we have all been debating for months, and with the shock of these recent moves, questions instantly arise:

Can the Lakers ‘flip the switch’ and make child’s play of the Western Conference like in recent years past?

Is the Spurs’ chase-rabbit record really who they are?  Did regular season records do anything for the Cavaliers the past two seasons? Can unproven playoff role-players like George Hill, Dejuan Blair and Gary Neal become championship-level counterparts?

Does Dallas still even have a seat at the Western Conference table?  Are they to be taken as a serious threat?

Is the addition of Kendrick Perkins the much needed ingredient of inside presence the Thunder need to be an actual and legitimate player in the Western Conference shakedown?

Can the defensive blockade Tom Thibodeau’s Bulls are displaying carry them up to the level of the Eastern Conference elite, and most importantly, carry them in a seven-game series?

Are Dwight Howard and Stan Van Gundy’s mess of wing players even relevant as we come down the finish line?

Will Danny’s Ainge’s ego in trying to prove he was right about Jeff Green cost the Celtics a realistic chance at the title in their now dwindling years near the top? I know this much for sure, Laker and Heat fans are ecstatic about the loss of Kendrick Perkins. The Lakers now hold a distinct size advantage and the Heat now don’t have such a size discrepancy against Boston.

And lastly, as far as the Heat, will the most gravy-trained collection of elite stars in recent memory topple the naysayers? Will they reach The NBA Finals in their first try at conceived and orchestrated glory? Good luck big three. You’re going to have to drag your dirty-dozen along with you en route to a title. The bricks of Mike Miller and James Jones are building a structure of mediocrity thus far for the level of overall talent you have boasted. The Heatles? Give me a break, “King.” Win something, then talk. I’ve never heard of a King who doesn’t have a crown, you paper champ.

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Questions and vemon aside, when all is said and done, the choices made and paths sought at this deadline will effect these upcoming moves as much as they will effect numerous moves down the road. Some teams played for now and some teams played for later.  Playoff-time reveals destiny, and the free will of the trade deadline move-makers plays a major role in the fate of the actual move-makers on the court.  Now that the trade deadline has come and gone, the time to really make your move is upon us.