//www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-mU-YSk32I

Dwyane “Flash” Wade was last seen wearing a number three around his chest with the logo of a fiery basketball swishing through a hoop. According to Miami Metro specialist Dexter Morgan, “Wade was spotted two weeks ago in Indiana, doing his usual mid-air trickery and picking the pockets of his foes.”

But that Wade, the man adored as “Flash” after the comic book hero Flash Gordon, has dispersed into thin air. “What I think,” said Tim Thabo Tanner, a ravenous geek of the comic book series, “is that Wade was like the human incarnate Flash Gordon.” While inhaling marijuana for his chronic anxiety, Thebo added, “The thought is a weight on my mind. It’s just way too much to bare. Imagine it yourself…” he finished, before descending into his coloring books and broken crayons.

Wade, best known for his MVP performance in the NBA Finals in 2006, when he averaged 37.1 points per game on 55% shooting, has, for the time being, been replaced with a lesser replica, a replica Heat Executive Pat Riley refers to as “Wade version 0.5.”

“Half a Wade is better than no Wade,” said Riley, bewildered as to where exactly his master of ceremonies is. “I imagine he may be in New York City disusing a possible house swap with Carmelo Anthony,” Riley Finished.

Anthony could not be found for comment, but his bespectacled Robin could.

“I was lost for a bit,” said the man known as Amare, “and then I found my groove again,” brushing his dork rimmed glasses to the higher surface of his nose.

Wearing a  jean vest (see vest here) with mid- 90’s like Snoop shorts and black converse sneakers, Amare joked it away. “Aint’ nobody worried about Flash. He’ll find his groove.” It is hard to take anyone serious who wears a jean vest, but Amare’s words are a harbinger of hope for Flash’s teammate, LeBron James.

In a press conference Monday night,  James outcried, “I need him to give me a big game, he still has it in there,” referencing the poor play of version 0.5, who has shot just 37% over the last six playoff games. On Monday night, 0.5 scored 19 points on 7 of 19 shooting, to go with 8 assists and 6 costly turnovers.

“Where is 1.0 when you need him?” James asked before succumbing to a snot nosed sob.

It is hard to tell the two apart but both versions of “Flash” have blinding differences. Wade 0.5 is slow as molasses and insecure on offense.  He has no jump shot whatsoever and his body is breaking down.  On the other hand, 1.0 is dynamically gifted around the rim, able to draw fouls and free throws at-will. He is fast as lightning (hence: “Flash”) with a killer mid-step cross over and methodical first step. On defense, 1.0 blocks shots with arms as long as a sloth and the leaping ability of a North American flying squirrel. 0.5 resembles a christmas tree swatting at the ball.  

To put it short: 1.0 is to hammock as 0.5 is to falling coconut.

And while the rest of America is drawn into this sad story, many, including the de-sleeved Amare, find hope. “I know Wade 1.0 myself, and look man…he has always been a real sweet guy,” before brushing aside a few tears. “I know he’ll journey back. He’s got heart, brothers. Heart.”

MISSING PERSONS SUMMARY:

Name of individual: Dwyane “Flash” Wade

Age: 30 years and 169 days

Last seen wearing a number 3 with an enflamed hoop logo on the front of a jersey

Missing since May 24, 2012, in Indiana. (Witnesses say he may have jumped in the air and never come back.)

Whereabouts suspected to be somewhere in the New York City Metropolitan area.

If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Dwyane Wade, please forward those tips to lebronjames@ineedaringtobecrownedking.when?.now! Or just send them to luke@fansmanship.com .

Two – minutes, twoooo – minutes,

says the baritone,

and the crowd surfs and swells,

the clock ticks and tells,

the eternal sands of time.

We are made to die.

Each moment and ember of sun light

setting and re – setting;

the dust of our hearts contained.

Until the baritone begs us pardon,

namesake and fame,

by which we do – or don’t deny

implode fracture.

LeBron fades.

Rim, ruckus, ball lies flat on floor;

his name jarbled between one – two

tapping beats of the dribble,

post stop and pop.

Clank.

Is he clutch? Can he kiss and

close? Will he when he can he?

Ride a rafter’s heaven to point

of full explosion —

most valuable, most gifted, most determined,

most strong willed, most groomed,

but what then? why not? why not now?

To whom much is given much is required —

Dwyane Wade, Chris Bosh, Spunky Spo and

the part of Riley’s unforgivably plastic

and unmovable hair,

sifting the gold from the grain,

Like time ebbing out a star, creating another,

Before it bursts and falls and blues

depressed in the backdrop

of I shoulda, coulda, woulda…

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.

Take the L.A. Lakers for example. The greatest “coach” of all time, Phil Jackson, aka “zen master,” does about as much coaching as a cow. His low gruff voice, and quirky communication style, whispers a total of ten words during your average ball game, while Kobe demands the basketball from every player not named, well…Kobe.

It doesn’t get more awkward than this.

Is it fair to say, in today’s NBA, the central component to winning is rooted in the player of the hour, and less about set, or the God forsaken defense. Jackson’s eleven rings have been pieced together by two mainstays, one of which Jackson would rather not have exposed. The first of these large pie pieces is his “superior” triangle offense. A set that is more simplistic in its orientation than an episode of Blue’s Clues. This equation of basketball has been at the forefront of all his title teams, yet the truth of the triangle offense is that Phil never conceived of it. It was Tex Winter, his long time assistant in Chicago, who stole the set from USC’s great coach Sam Barry, and evolved into the faster paced NBA game.

Too bad Tex is ugly. @owenmain, gotta want it.

The triangle runs through its big man. It’s fond of a point-forward to bring the basketball up the floor, with the guard angled strong side corner, and the big, stationed on the strong side block. The point guard drifts to the weak-side three point region, while the power forward sets up weak-side, ten feet from the hoop, awaiting a possible alley-oop, or offensive rebound.  It is a set that my Junior High girl’s basketball team mastered in a matter of minutes. Not shittin’ you.

The second piece, one of which Jackson would love to leave locked in his coaching vault, is the long list of stars who have driven his ship to greatness: Jordan, Pippen, Shaq, Kobe, and Pau, to name a few. These players define the simplicity of his life; a lack or where-with-all to deliver momentary on the fly operatives, affecting the game as a whole. For Jackson it was simple–give the greatest player in the history of the universe the ball, M.J., or one of the most dominate big men in league history, Shaq. If not, let Kobe create, or Pippen and Pau bail you out.

Yet he has been glorified for every one of his eleven rings.  In today’s sports world money talks more than matter, and world-championships scream dollars signs, endorsements, new arenas, and top notch free agents. Whether or not a coach stumbled into the situation,  he becomes the face of both sporting and economical successes. He’s awarded a heafty contract extension, and his job as a coach, takes on a life of its own. With a multi-million dollar deal, he rivals players for dollars made; the house, the car, the women; and learns to  self-preserve his good-life, rather than coach and govern his club.

That is until he stumbles, ala Pat Riley post- 2006, and thus the coaching is dead.

This is why Jackson won nothing when Jordan retired. In 1993-1994, a season with Pippen at the head of the food of chain, the Bulls were man-handled by the superior Knicksin six in the 2nd round. Jackson’s zen-abilities, would have been better suited for a naked hippie commune in the surrounding mountains of Santa Cruz, then they would (take a breath and ahhh…) coach.  Had it not been for Jordan’s return, Jackson would of periled in defeat, and become the face of self-help healing courses.

His inabilities as a coach–communication and relateability–created a problem in 2004, when his Lakers lost to the Pistons, a group of better coached role guys, in the finals. Jackson’s means of self-preservation were evident when he he stepped down after the finals defeat then wrote a book, “The Last Season,” in which he lambasted the players he’d loved the last three title years. It begged the question, whether or not Phil was saving face for not only a debacle, but one in which he was at the helm of. The poorly written re-telling aimed its attack at Kobe Bryant (who trust me, I know had a part in it, but…) looking to pass the blame toward one of the greatest players this league has ever seen.  Jackson’s book earnings are disputed, but have been placed in the ballpark of five to ten million dollars, not to mention, his ass-kissing gestures in the book, mainly thrown at the Buss family, acted as an incestious form of career insurance, further flowering his enormous life savings.

Funny how, just five years later, a championship, new contract, and the pride of his league best tenth ring, changed things. Jackson is to “the boy who cried wolf” as Kobe is to…Jordan? Hmmm.

Across the country, another hyper clown is making headlines. Eric Spoelstra, otherwise known as “coach Spo” has been ring leading a circus parade, the Miami Heat, with dance grooves, circa drug ring mid-70’s. He’s had the “difficult” job of winning with the likes of three superstars in Bron Bron, D-Wade, and Bosh, all three, who would be the face of a franchise anywhere in the world.

With every win, spunky “Spo” becomes prouder of his club, not to mention his players. I’m sure Juwan Howard, the five minute a night washed up big man feels the love too. Or Eddie “Gan’sta” House, believes in himself because of coach Spo’s love for not only his star-children, but his middle class role guys.

Well…not so fast. During the team’s suprising 9-8 start, D-Wade made headlines when he proclaimed Spo to be “not my guy, but my coach.”  The small statement sent shock-waves through the organization because it proved Spo was not only unable to gain the respect from his players, but had the lack of gumption to move his team in the direction he saw necessary. It also asked the question of whether or not today’s NBA players are coachable? It would seem no, considering the NBA is now more of a drive through of entertainment than it is the patience of fine dining.

Larry Brown is a perfect example of a guy who loves to coach. He expects his players to run his sets, his plays, his defense, and come to practice.  But it is this expectation that has made him a journey man in the world of professional basketball. His puritanical approach to a team sport has led to many of his firings by a league looking for athletic players to excite a crowd feigning for entertainment, and the slick backed hip-hop moguls (dub Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind“) to lead them there.

On February 9th, in a one point win over the red hot Pacers, Bron Bron rose above three defenders to hit a go ahead jumper with thirteen seconds to play. His line: 41pts, 13reb, 8ast, 3stl, were evident of his dominance. But he had Wade and Bosh both wide-open, closer to the hoop. The obvious play was to deliver the ball for a better shot, to two superstars, mainly Wade, a one time champion, top five player today, to win the game. But Bron was feeling it, and took the shot with confidence. As he hit it, Spo could be seen jumping around like a grammar school fan, with eyes as wide as dollar coins. Which was disappointing.

For many of us who’ve watched enough basketball to know what the hell we’re talking about (your cue to exit this article if you don’t), the best player on the Heat the first forty four minutes is Bron, but in the last four, is clearly Wade. He’s led a team to a title, made big plays on the biggest stage, and hits free throws with better consistency. But Wade is now second fiddle to a corporation in Bron Bron, who sells more jerseys, tickets, shoes, and clothing. Because of this, Spo’s ability to coach was tossed out the window, and the entity of El Brondo, ran him over like a freight train.

Lucky for Spo, he delivered. After the game he was quoted, “Bron’s motor was insane tonight.” Really, insane? What a word choice. He sounds like a braces wearing sport’s fan, more passionate about a player, than he is a cool collect coach. I wouldn’t be suprised to see Spo in Cancun this summer, with a Bron jersey slung on his short, stubby white physique,  dropping ‘dope’ and ‘fly’ like a  wannabe ‘partna’.

Get out.

–Luke Johnson

luke@fansmanship.com