W 110-109 OT

Last night was a special night.  Not because it rained in LA.  Not because romance has entered this embarrassingly single life.  No shooting stars were spotted.  No elusive lottery was won.

Last night the Lakers grinded out an overtime thriller against the Celtics.  It wasn’t definitely wasn’t “showtime” but Los Angeles pulled off what sportswriters, critics, and announcers had all agreed upon: the impossible.

But it wasn’t my passion for the game that made last night so memorable.  Please, let me explain.

I’m not sure if you could call me a true fan.  I only started watching the Lakers because of my father.  Ba is a genuine sports aficionado–the legends and stories we talk about he experienced.  You should see how his eyes glaze over when he talks about Bill Russell or reminisces about Tyson’s glory days.  Ba was born a year before the second world war ended and spent the majority of his life in New York City.  That should tell you something about his contemporaries.  One day, not long after we moved to California, I found him settled on the sofa watching a Lakers game.  I nearly did a double-take; I knew my father was a die-hard Knicks fan.  Was he jumping ship?  No, he replied, first of all, we didn’t have cable anymore so he couldn’t watch any of his beloved NY teams play unless they were visiting the west coast.  My other reason, he confessed, is Kobe.  I’m not a Lakers fan, but watching him is like seeing poetry in motion. He jabbed a finger in my face, Mark my words: he’s going to be a legend.  This was before the 3-peat, before 81 in Toronto, before 61 in the Garden, before the MVP award, before the kid-the fro-the Mamba was making…history.

So I started watching as the Jordan comparisons grow.  I watched him singlehandedly outscore an entire team.  I watched #8 change to #24.  And slowly but surely my love the for the gold and purple grew.  You can call me a sellout but screw you, I don’t care cause I can’t help it.  I fell for the Lake-show and I fell hard.  I’ll always have a special place in my heart for my Knickerbockers but with all drama, terrible basketball, and finger pointing they became like the girl/boy you once loved but barely know anymore.  But let me return to my main point.

It’s no secret that I take Laker games very personally now.  A single “W” or “L” can make or break my night.  It’s a curious phenomenon if you really think about it.  I can’t very well describe the feeling, but if you’ve ever rooted for a team, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  They become your superhero and the court their greatest battleground.  And for the next 48 minutes of regulation they become the embodiment of your dreams for victory and success.  When they shine you shine, when they bleed you bleed.

Life hasn’t been easy for me lately.  Failure and rejection have been becoming increasingly familiar companions.  I’m a generally positive person–overly idealistic some say.  I have dreams and aspirations.  But nowadays it seems that with every step I take forward life drives me backwards three more.  There are mornings where I wake up in bed and just lie there, wondering if I’m only chasing pipe dreams.

A friend texted me at half time.  Lakers will lose tonight.  I didn’t bother responding.  It was the message I’d been hearing over and over ever since Bynum was injured.  Every time I turned on the TV, checked the internet, or turned on the radio there seemed to be another person predicting a crushing defeat for the short-handed Lakers.  Every comment just got me more depressed.  Maybe it was stupid to believe in what you wanted if it wasn’t realistic.  Maybe dreams were for rich people.  And lucky people.  Not normal people.  Normal like me.

Oddly enough the Lakers stayed within one or two shots of the Celtics nearly the entire game, but with less than five minutes left things started to unravel.  It was as if the bright lights of LA were finally getting extinguished by the cold, harsh realities of Boston.  Nightmares of the near-40pt bludgeoning the Lakers suffered at the hands of the Celtics last June were flashing in my mind.  I crumpled slightly in my chair, feeling defeated.  The Lakers valiantly fought back to come within 3 but doom seemed inevitable.

Kobe was at the 3pt line, staring down Paul Pierce.  He raised up and let the ball fly.  Swish.  I leapt to my feet.  Cold-blooded, Reggie Miller commented as the replay rolled, Only a cold-blooded killer like Kobe could stare you down and drain a 3 to tie the game.  I bit my lower lip and glanced around the room frantically like a cold-turkey crack fiend.  Maybe we can win.  Maybe they can do the impossible.

The game broke for a commercial and I found myself praying.  A little over the top?  Maybe.  It may sound ridiculous but at this point this game meant more to me than basketball.  God, please let them win, I pleaded.  Please show me the impossible is possible.  I want to believe we aren’t slaves to measured predictions and statistics.  I wanna believe that it ain’t over till the fat lady sings.  I want to believe that dreams can come true.  One minute thirty on the clock, Lakers down 2.  Kobe’s at 3pt line again, jab stepping.  He raises up.  Pierce’s hand is all but palming his face.  The ball cracks through the bottom of the net.  The Lakers lead by one.

You know how the rest goes.  LA beats Boston by one in overtime.  The underdogs triumph.  The naysayers tighten their jaws.  A lot of people in Vegas are weeping.  And a young man finds a glimmer of hope, maybe a tiny reason to dream.

The impossible is possible.  Never stop believing.  Maybe it won’t work out.

But maybe it will.

If You Really Want It…

There are only a handful of companies I can name that have had as consistent, effective, and powerful advertising as Nike. And of Nike’s incredible repertoire of commercials, print ads, and marketing campaigns, few have left a bigger mark than their Air Jordan work. Has Nike found the heir [or air] apparent? Maybe…

This is a great understated commercial Nike Basketball [China] did with Pharrell Williams for the release of Kobe Bryant’s new low-top Zoom IV shoes. I won’t go into the groundbreaking design of the sneaker because most of you could care less, but I thought some of you might appreciate the artistic element of the commercial and the impression it leaves. The imagery and clips work extremely well with the syncopation of Kobe’s voice and Pharrell’s beat.

“If you really want it…you will push past pain…”

Watch it here.

Do you believe in magic?

He was known as the “Doctor” for his surgical precision and professionalism on the court. You may not know basketball, but chances are you’ve seen clips of his mighty fro skying in for the dunk or the ridiculous hangtime wraparound layup. Julius “Dr. J” Erving paved the way for MJ and was the inspiration from which Dre and Celtics Coach Rivers got their names. But even legends have closets. Some lock them away. Others get exposed. But a brave few choose to crack them open and face the skeletons within.

So this is by no means a basketball blog but I couldn’t overlook this article about Dr. J reuniting with his daughter who was born out of an 1980 affair. It’s no fairytale, but it is a vivid story that’s worth reading. This story is special because you don’t see a superhero–you see a man who made mistakes but got a second chance, a mother who fought for the best, and a daughter who finally found her father. I may not believe in “happily ever afters” but I do believe in “new beginnings.” Read the story here.

Can I whine a little?

What the hell, Stephon Marbury? Those are the only words I can find right now.

Last night found a star-studded attendance at the Staples Center, even for the NBA’s most popular team. In one sweeping look you’d be greeted with the faces of David Beckham, Spike Lee, Gwen Stefani, and of course our courtside-stalwart Jack Nicholson.

“Got a good show?” Kobe asked Lee after his 28pt [7rb 6as 4st] performance willed the Lakers past a 15pt halftime deficit to beat the Knicks 116-114. “Yeah,” returned the smug director. I can imagine a sparkle in Kobe’s eyes as his face hardened. “Then take your ass home.” This encounter was straight from the mouth of Bryant himself. Hilarious. Apparently they were talking smack all night, ‘a la MJ in the Garden. As far as I’m concerned, the only other player that can jaw with Lee like His Airness is number 24 (don’t get me started about Kobe vs. Lebron; that’s a bone I’ll pick later). The only thing better would have been a drunken brawl between Spike and Jack Nic’. They’re pretty much courtside doppelgangers.

But this post isn’t about the Lakers or their fans. This is about huge disappointment that is Stephon Marbury. That’s the one person I did not expect to see on the sidelines. Because of his recent bout with the NY management he actually bought a courtside ticket with his own money was chopping it up with Spike from the spectator section. Some people laughed but I could only weep.

What happened Steph? I used to look up to you. You were strong. You were fast. You had a wicked crossover that put China’s great wall on the floor and a stroke that you could pull one step past the halfcourt line. You pretty much patented the teardrop and abused Tony Parker so bad he personally admitted you had his number. You started an organization like Starbury that was an ingenious and practical way to improve life for kids in the hood. You were a hometown hero. You made me proud of being from the City and when you were finally dealt to the Knicks you were my one reason for watching that sorry team that looked nothing like the gritty squad of my childhood.

Dammit, Steph, you were the man and I was willing to stand up for you even though nearly every commentator and sports writer criticized you every chance they got. Why? Because you were a joy to watch, because your game was everything I coveted: the explosive drives, the smooth jumpers, the no look passes and jarring crossovers, taking to the cup fearless against men nearly twice your size. But now at the mention of your name I can only hang my head. Every headline only gets me more depressed.

Signs of the fall:

1. You tried to sue your own company: I don’t know all the details of what went into this but that’s just absurd.

2. You ran Larry Brown out of town: one of the greatest coaches of our time. You guys couldn’t put all the personal stuff behind you for at least one postseason run? Once again, I wasn’t there, but after watching what he did with Philly and Detroit I’m pretty sure it wasn’t mostly his problem.

3. The tattoo: let’s face it, Steph. You have an abnormally large head. And as if God’s “gift” wasn’t enough your scalp shines like the frickin Chrysler Building at night, drawing even more attention to it’s colossal size. Your cranium rivals Jermaine O’neal’s noggin and that fool’s like a foot taller than you. And he cut his braids. I can only image what Zidane could do with a dome as enormous as yours. It’s ok. I have a large shiny forehead myself. But then you had to go pull a Mike Tyson on me. First of all, that Starbury logo is not something you want on your body when you’re forty. Secondly, putting that ridiculous tattoo on the side of your noggin only attracts more attention to your huge skull. Don’t try to bring JKidd’s onion-head into this–he’s averaging 9, 6, and 8 right now and has two Olympic golds. Off the top of my head I can only think of two other guys with large tattoos on their heads right now–Tyson and the Game–and you should have taken a cue from their obvious mistakes.

From what I understand you were put in a bad situation this fall. I don’t blame you for what happened, but what ensued is what concerns me. Either way you look at it, there’s a reason your teammates barely acknowledge you right now. You left them out to dry. You might still be in a righteous place with the organization, but there was multiple occasions when your peers needed you and you were apathetic. You said it yourself–this wasn’t about them, this was about the front office. This is a situation where you should have made an exception, strapped up and went to war for your homies even though you technically didn’t have to. In fact, if you did, who knows if it would have expedited your proper exit? Now we’ll never know. Were you afraid of them using you? You’re still drinking from a $21 mil contract and if you played five games or more you could have made some noise about it. I’d still be backing you up if that’s what happened.

But it didn’t. You sat. And now you’re sitting on the sidelines of a Lakers game with the celebs instead of sitting on the bench with your squad. And by the way you look better on NY’s bench in tweed than courtside in leather. Maybe I don’t know all the details and I’m just talking in ignorance. But from what I’ve seen and heard the whole thing’s just a damn shame. You were looking so good preseason. I was telling all my friends you were coming back to kick some serious ass. To show CP3 and DWill that there’s veteran legs out there faster than Kidd and stronger than Nash. To show the world that you’re still one of the game’s best that they almost forgot. So you weren’t part of D’Antoni’s plan, just like you weren’t in Phoenix. But at least you could’ve exited in style. Maybe you could’ve even made him feel sorry for it. But now you’re proving his point. New York’s already got Plaxico and Isaiah Thomas to cringe about. And today I have another hero who’s past is the only thing I can reminisce about.

Gimme something to be proud of, Steph. Gimme something to fight for again. I still believe in your heart and your ability. It’s not about how you start. Man, look at the way you take it to the hole. It’s not even about the bumps you hit in the middle. You know this.

It’s about how you finish.