It’s hump day, and Basketbawful is here to mount your leg in celebration. Oh, and I’ll be previewing tonight’s games, too.
Utah versus L.A.: Game 2
Kobe Bryant. Congratulations to the Black Mamba for finally winning his first Lifetime Achievement Award MVP. It’s been 12 years, thousands of jumpers, and several teammates/coaches/GMs thrown under the bus in the making. Put your hands together for Kobe Bryant, ladies and gentlemen! Random note: According to Carlos Boozer, “If we can go out there and ruin [Kobe’s MVP] party a little bit by getting a victory, that helps us a lot.” Thanks so much, Captain Obvious.
The free throw line. The Lakers were spoon-fed on the line in Game 1(46 attempts), particularly Kobe, who connected on a franchise playoff-record 21 in 23 attempts. Some would say this is because the Jazz are a physical, bump-and-grind team that makes opponents pay for their forays into the paint. Others would argue that it’s because Kobe is allowed to forearm and elbow his way to the basket and then gets a favorable whistle whenever he misses a shot. But you know, truth is subjective, so make your own decision. Random note: According to Carlos Boozer, “If we can keep [Kobe] off the line, that would help us a lot.” Thanks again, Captain Obvious. Keep this up and I’m promoting you to General Obvious.
The field. The Jazz were way off the mark in Game 1 — 37.9 percent shooting — and they’ll probably need to, you know, hit some shots if they want to compete in Game 2. Andrei Kirilenko’s good looks will only get them so far. According to Carlos Boozer, “We’ve got to make some adjustments.” Yup. General Obvious.
The boards. Utah bullied their way to some serious rebounding dominance in the first game of this series: 58-41, including 25-8 on the offensive glass. Memo to the Lakers: Giving up 25 offensive rebounds is usually a problem.
Hands and feet. You know how the Lakers got 46 free throws? That’s because the Jazz played defense like a drunken octopus, and their wooden limbs hacked and slashed their way to 34 personal fouls.
Carlos Boozer. Is Carlos in a mini-slump? Here are his shooting performances from Utah’s last four playoff games: 6-for-14, 6-for-17, 8-for-18 and 3-for-13. Sure seems like it to me. Random note: According to Carlos Boozer, “I’d love for us to go out there and get a win. For us to come back (to Utah) with a split would be much better than coming back here 0-2.” Carlos Boozer…a four-star General Obvious.
Orlando versus Detroit: Game 3
The game clock. I would be willing to bet one million Basketbawful bucks there won’t be any clock malfunctions in Game 3. What do you think?
Reverse stat curse. Orlando has lost nine straight playoff games to Detroit, including both last year’s 4-0 first-round sweep that 2003 series in which the Pistons took the last three games to overcame a 3-1 deficit. One more loss would tie the Magic with three other teams for the second-longest postseason losing streak to one team in NBA history. There’s no way Orlando is going to fall victim to that kind of obscure statistical anomaly…right?
Ball control. The Magic need some. Badly. They turned the rock over 19 times in Game 2 — Dwight Howard, Rashard Lewis and Hedo Turkoglu combined for 17 of them — and those bumbles transformed into 22 Pistons points. According to Jameer Nelson, “When you turn the ball over you aren’t giving yourself a chance.” Look out, Carlos. Jameer might have his eye on your generalship.
Dwight Howard’s thumb. Superman deep-sixed his ditched his thumb brace because he couldn’t grip the ball. “There were a lot of passes and rebounds that slipped right out of my hand. It was fine in practice the other day, but before the game the ball was slippery, and I just had to get rid of it.” Huh. It’ll be interesting to see whether the thumb effects him tonight.
Jason Maxiell. Stan Van Gundy opted to leave Mad Maximus open in Game 2, and the kid went 5-for-5…shades of Caldwell Jones in Game 2 of the 1982 Eastern Conference Finals. And I’m betting I’m the only person who would have thought of that. Never mind. Anyway, I’m guessing the bro’ of Van Ghouly will instruct his players to get a hand in Maxiell’s face going forward.
Hair power. This was sent in by Deadspin reader Ben: “Detroit Pistons FACTS!
— Samuel Dalembert got a funny mohawk before game 4 of the Pistons-Sixers series.
— JJ Redick has a mohawk that is funny in a different way.
— The Pistons are undefeated in the 2008 playoffs against Mohawk Teams.
You read it here first. The Magic need to steal Redick’s hair gel or shave his head. Otherwise, this series is over in four.
Slate’s Robert Weintraub, like many of us, loves the old purple prose of early 1900s sportswriting, the Grantland Rices, the men who painted epic tales of warriors, grizzled combatants and lardywarks too manly to wear gloves. In an occasional series, Weintraub writes about the week’s best baseball game in the style of the vaunted sportswriters of yesteryear. This week: The Twins’ comeback win over the Tigers.
One would think the legions of scribblers who emptied out of the press section after a mere half dozen tallies in the top of the initial innings would know better. Surely, they had learned the lesson of Henri Cochet, and would never assume a result, regardless of score. Granted, it was the Sabbath, and Lord knows home and hearth are more important on the Day of Rest than mere sport. But those that departed should consider themselves accursed — they missed a famous rally by the Minnesotans, who pulled themselves from a six-run hole to stun gun the Motor City Tigers, 7-6.
The Lads from the 3-1-3 were like a sailor just returned from a months-long whaling voyage — eager to get started and quick to finish. The Wordy Whirlwind, Curtis Granderson, emerged from his mother’s basement to rock a Leadoff Long Sock to the deepest reaches of Humphrey’s Hothouse. 1-0, Stripes, while the concessionaires were still stuffing X-Ray Specs into boxes of Cracker Jack. Legally Boof Bonser was the starting moundsman for the Fraternals, and he absorbed a beating like those the Pinkertons regularly dole out to those who dare brandish the Union Label.
Knocks by Mucho Macho Magglio, Squeeze Guillen and Edgar Rent-A-Wreck ballooned the lead to four. And a day that was starting sour for the Boofy One started positively acerbic for battery mate Just-So Joe Mauer. Not since he stopped squiring beauty queens around the Twin Cities has Joe been so un-Mauer like in his flailings. First, he failed to stop a Boofball before it reached the backstop, despite the fact that The Pudgy Pinko had swung and missed. Cagily, Ivan had found a way to reach first, despite showing Napoleon-invades Russia-like judgment in the batting box. Squeeze scored the game’s fifth tally on the play as well. Then Mr. Perfect compounded his error by trying to nail the Commie Catcher as he tried to pilfer the Middle Sack. The throw sailed high, wide, and Gable-handsome, and another tally ticked on the big board.
Just when it seemed this Land of Ten Thousand Lakes didn’t have enough water to extinguish the flaming Cats, Legally Boof managed to jujitsu the overconfident Granderson, who swung like Atlas but missed like the weakling with sand kicked in his face. Still, the Rivetheads were on a pace to score 54 runs in the game. And with Kenny “Fold ‘Em, Already” Rogers assuming twirling duties for the Olde English, the half-dozen should have been safe as houses.
But the Sons of the North Star don’t believe in phrases like “should have” when it comes to base ball. They prefer phrases like “it’s not over until we’re naked.” Indeed, appearances to the contrary, only the cartoons had unspun from the projector — the feature presentation was still to come (also, the newsreels, but we all know those can’t be trusted).
Justin “Loonie” Morneau’s shrieker plated a tally in the fourth innings, a seemingly innocuous development at the time, but one that would have a spiraling effect similar to the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand. Nick “Runto” Punto smeared a slopball for two sacks in the following innings, bringing a pair of Siamese all the way around. Pope Bonser apparently had brainwashed his way to forgetting the debacle out of the starting gate, and was firmly in command. Somehow, that Half-Dozen from Hades hadn’t etched the result in adamantine — halfway through the voyage, neither squad’s landfall was guaranteed.
Things were calm until the Stretch Innings, when a display of infield fallibility poached the Stripes. The Coward of Camera County acquired a pair of speedy outs, but grooved a “fastball” to Matt “Rebel Yell” Tolbert, who whistled one for two bags. Then came the contest’s hinge action. Runto dribbled one down to the Left Base, where “Squeeze” Guillen has relocated. ‘Los is still finding his way around the neighborhood, and on this play, he wandered down a dead end street. His throw would have been competent enough had he been wielding a pipe bomb, but for horsehide, it was woefully inaccurate. Whereas E6 was seldom applied to his name during Squeeze’s shortstopping days, this wild one was already E#6 on this nascent campaign.
These opportunistic Twinks rushed into the opening like Sooners. Zombie Zach Miner replaced The Roaster, who retired to a chicken dinner in the clubhouse. A brace of safeties later, the scoreboard read 6-5, and Miner left his team with Major difficulty. Bobby “Sydney” Seay replaced the Z, to be greeted by the Gibraltor-like physique of the All-American Swing himself, Just-So Joe Mauer. As usual, the grandstands were packed with local idolators of the St. Paul Saint. They had sat sullen as their Hero suffered in the game’s early stages, but now they cheered with a full-throated roar that reached Krakatoan decibels. And, as any good protagonist does, JSJ delivered when spotlit. A stroke of genius right up the box was good for the tying and go-ahead tallies, and, with Tunney-like improbability, the Twin City Paladins had erased the elephantine deficit and emerged on top.
There was still work to do, and the firm of Guerrier and Nathan was up to it. “A Touch Of Sleep” Nathan ran into a spot of ill in the ultimate innings, once again thanks to the derring-do of Mr. Blogspot. He legged out a 75-footer, and applied some larceny to the Middle Bag. A safety from the Acquisition would have tied the contest, but unlike Mauer, El Grande Posterior failed to deliver decisively. Joe winged a trio of Whamm-O’s past the helplessly befuddled Cabrera, and the Twins had managed an unlikely Brooming of Panthera Tigris.
Afterward, wearing nothing but his soup-strainer, Hard Pack Leyland bristled, in language unsuitable for the softer sex. “There will be changes tomorrow,” he promised with Kaiser-like intensity. If those words don’t send a shiver down the collective backbone of the Motown Nine, they are as devoid of humanity and emotion as they have seemed on the pitch of late.
So, somewhat recently cut Minnesota Vikings defensive lineman Darrion Scott is a charming fellow, full of love, hope and child-rearing tactics that you might not find in the Oprah magazine. Let’s take a look into Scott’s fortitude-building attempt at putting a plastic bag over his son’s head.
According to the criminal complaint filed in Hennepin County District Court: The boy’s mother heard the child’s muffled cries and found Scott, who is 6-3 and 290 pounds, holding the bag over the boy’s head on April 26. She said the boy was on his back on the floor, his legs kicking and that Scott was holding the bag tightly around the boy’s neck.
She told police she had evidence of previous injuries while the child was in Scott’s care. A doctor who examined the boy said there is a reasonable degree of medical certainty that marks on the boy’s arm and ear were intentionally inflicted and were consistent with either burning or being struck.
Scott’s defense: He was trying to help the kid by teaching him how to get the bag off his head. This reminds us of that time that our father tried to help us learn how to swim by trying our arms and legs together, tossing us in a laundry bag and chucking us into a lake. Made us stronger. ***
Whenever Dave Winfield and Bud Selig come together to cook up an idea, you know it’s going to be good. Reportedly it was the two of them who came up with this one: a ceremonial draft of Negro League veterans by all of the Major League teams, to be held next month. Expect the Nationals to actually insert one or two of their picks into the starting lineup.
Under the initiative, teams will “draft” surviving Negro League players. The individuals selected will represent all the black ballplayers that were denied a chance to play in the Majors because of their skin color. Major League Baseball will preassign draft selections, based in part on any requests teams might have. Each team will compensate the player it selects with a stipend. Major League Baseball will pick up the travel expenses for each player (and a companion) to the Draft headquarters in Orlando.
My question: How will the draft order be decided? I think it should go by the year that the team became integrated. So the Dodgers would get the first pick, and the Red Sox would choose last (and then trade that player the following season). In any event, you can watch the draft live at BaseballChannel.TV at 1 p.m. ET, with the 2008 First-Year Player Draft at 2 p.m.
One of the reasons I don’t attend many minor league baseball games in Tennessee: All the drunken babies. It’s the Chattanooga Lookouts’ popular Half Price Beer Night For Babies promotion, in which anyone two or younger can get completely hammered under the close supervision of team mascot Looie the Lookout (foreground). Suddenly Britney Spears doesn’t look like such a bad parent, eh? If you like your babies with starter Mohawks and raucously intoxicated, then enjoy more in the video after the jump.
OK … actually, the beer bottle appears to be empty. But how did it get that way, and how many more empties are under the seat?
The NBA Closer is written by Matt McHale, who woke up this morning without Internet access and had to rush off to a Caribou Coffee, where the “free WiFi hotspot” actually cost him a bag of Deep River potato chips. When he’s not finding a way to do his Deadspin column at the last second, he can be found wiping the sweat out of his armpits at Basketbawful. Enjoy!
Well, that was sure…entertaining. Did you enjoy the 1994 NBA Finals? Do you miss those halcyon days of the Knicks-Heat rivalry? Has watching the Spurs slowly and methodically grind their opponents into paste over the last 10 years been the highlight of your existence? Then Game 1 of the Cavaliers-Celtics series was for you! And you are a freak. Please stay away from me and my column. I’m kidding. Keep reading. I get bonuses for page views.
This is how Kevin Garnett (28 points, 8 rebounds) described last night’s crap-a-palooza, which Boston won 76-72: “This was two heavyweights, just body-punching. There was no finesse, no jabs, just an all-out, beat-down, defensive fight.” He’s sort of right, assuming those “heavyweights” were two mildly retarded paraplegics drowning in their own spittle while having an epileptic seizure. Oh, and while on fire, too.
Look, there’s no way to sugarcoat this: The game was ugly. An abomination. An affront to the memory of Dr. James Naismith and all he stood for. Or, as Bill Walton might say, it was terrrrrrrrible…an embarrassment to the sport of basketball. If the NBA is a pimp, then this game would be its black-eyed bitch. Have I gone too far? Or have I not gone far enough? I’ll let you decide.
LeBron James — who came in a very distant fourth in MVP voting — saved his absolute worst for last night. The King played like the bastard prince of some lowly province or whatever the hell princes rule these days. He scored 12 points on 2-for-18 shooting. He committed 10 turnovers and was a single assist or rebound away from achieving the infamous triple bumble. He played so poorly that I honestly started wondering whether a Lucky the Leprechaun had drugged him before the game. Seriously, do we know what he had for lunch and where it came from? Somebody look into it. (Maybe he got some of Tim Duncan’s Gatorade?)
He wasn’t alone in the suckfest, though. Teammate Delonte West was 2-for-10 and Wally Szczerbiak was 5-for-14 as the Cavaliers shot a Mr. Freeze-like 30 percent from the field. And the awful wasn’t limited to Cleveland, either. Ray Allen scored zero points on 0-for-4 shooting and committed 4 turnovers in 37 minutes of lack-tion. Paul Pierce shot 2-for-14 and had 6 turnovers. Big Baby Davis had a four trillion. If it wasn’t for KG (who finished third in MVP voting) and Zydrunas Ilgauskas (22 points, 12 rebounds), I’d have to revise my earlier description of the game from “mildly retarded” to “severely retarded.”
Fun fact 1: With the game tied at 72-all, Garnett hit a basket to give the Celtics a two-point lead with 22 seconds left. So those that say he shrinks away from the big moments can go suck it. LeBron “Mr. Fourth Quarter” James followed up KG’s shot by boning a layup.
Fun fact 2: This is the final line from the Associated Press recap of the game: “James missed a long but meaningless jumper to punctuate his night.” That just cracked me up for some reason.
It’s hump day, and Basketbawful is here to mount your leg in celebration. Oh, and I’ll be previewing tonight’s games, too.
Slate’s Robert Weintraub, like many of us, loves the old purple prose of early 1900s sportswriting, the Grantland Rices, the men who painted epic tales of warriors, grizzled combatants and lardywarks too manly to wear gloves. In an occasional series, Weintraub writes about the week’s best baseball game in the style of the vaunted sportswriters of yesteryear. This week: The Twins’ 
So, somewhat recently cut Minnesota Vikings defensive lineman Darrion Scott is a charming fellow, full of love, hope and child-rearing tactics that you might not find in the Oprah magazine. Let’s take a look into Scott’s fortitude-building 
Whenever Dave Winfield and Bud Selig come together to cook up an idea, you know it’s going to be good. Reportedly it was the two of them who came up with this one: 
One of the reasons I don’t attend many minor league baseball games in Tennessee: All the drunken babies. It’s the Chattanooga Lookouts’ popular Half Price Beer Night For Babies promotion, in which anyone two or younger can get completely hammered under the close supervision of team mascot 
The NBA Closer is written by Matt McHale, who woke up this morning without Internet access and had to rush off to a Caribou Coffee, where the “free WiFi hotspot” actually cost him a bag of Deep River potato chips. When he’s not finding a way to do his Deadspin column at the last second, he can be found wiping the sweat out of his armpits at 
