Everything Points to Kobe Bryant as GOAT.

A time-out is called. For most games, in most arenas, this means there's a lull. It's a time for fans to stretch. Chomp on a hot dog. Watch outdated video clips on the big screen while hoping to catch a t-shirt from a cannon. Not this time.

Kobe Bryant is in the building. And, the Lakers are down one point with precious few seconds on the clock. As a result, there's a buzz that permeates through the arena. Goosebumps pop on the entire crowd. It's time for the GOAT.

The game resumes. And, the result is actually sort of anticlimactic. Kobe Bean Bryant hits yet another game winner. Ho-hum. Just another day at the office for the player who has just passed Michael Jordan as the world's best basketball player of all-time.

Early Years - Chucker (Jordan) vs. Teammate (Bryant)

Sure, Michael Jordan scored more points. But, he also played about 6,000 more minutes, obviously skewing the totals. Plus, Kobe Bryant was the first non-center to ever be drafted directly from high school to play in the NBA. He was a force from Day One as an 18-year kid fresh from prom with pop superstar, Brandy. But, he was only 18... and the L was afraid of letting such a young guy take over so quickly. Fortunately, Bryant was wise beyond his years. He was a great teammate and accepted his role on the bench as a sign of respect and homage to all the past and present NBA greats, including his father, Joe Bryant.

Jordan came into the L in his prime, from a college basketball factory. He joined a bad team that was desperate to let any rookie come in and take over. It didn't matter if it helped the team win games. Jordan more than obliged. He led the league in shot ATTEMPTS nine times in his first 11 (non-injured) seasons. He even took the 5th most attempts in the league as a ROOKIE!

Bryant just kept waiting. And, waiting. He was the consummate teammate. And, his teammates followed his lead. Finally, the franchise couldn't contain his talent any longer and the Lakers ran away with three straight titles.

Prime Years - Lead Dog (Bryant) vs. Lead Dog 1a (Jordan)

Look, this published (thus obviously legitimate article) isn't aimed to diminish Jordan's legacy. He was the greatest player ever. At least he was until Kobe Bryant surpassed him. (Did Jordan ever do that?... of course not.) To many less trained NBA minds, they see only the top layer of statistics and awards and accolades. But, true savvy NBA minds delve deeper and dig around in the muck that separates the truly elite. That's where Kobe Bryant shines.

Sure, Kobe Bryant teamed with Shaq for a few seasons. But, he proved he could lead a team of complementary players back to the Finals without another star player. And, he proved he could win the Finals with a collection of complementary players, too. Jordan played alongside Scottie Pippen for his entire run of playoff success.

Scottie Pippen made seven All-NBA teams. He often ran the Bulls offense. Plus, he was the best perimeter defender in the league during the Bulls' run. This allowed Jordan to coast on defense by guarding the opposition's weaker perimeter players. Bryant, on the other hand, is considered his era's premiere perimeter defender and challenges the opposition's top scorer. It's a testament to his leadership. He sacrifices individual offensive stats and glory by doing the dirty work necessary for a team to win games and championships.

Take a look at shooting percentages. Jordan bobos contend that it's what really separates the two stars. Jordan shot .497 for his career. Bryant has shot .456 (and rising). But, take a closer look. Bryant is more skilled than Jordan. That allows him to do more with the ball, including shooting beyond 16 feet. Bryant's true shooting percentage is .558 nearly identical to Jordan's! Plus, let's not forget those first few years when Bryant was being asked to take clutch shots in deciding playoff games at the same age when Jordan was playing East Tennessee State. Sure, Bryant's team still counted on the teenager for the biggest shots, but he was a teenager and not yet in his prime. So, his stats suffered.

In addition, the ability to hit three pointers goes beyond the stat sheet... especially in the Triangle offense. The offense is predicated on spacing. And, with Bryant being the superior long-range shooter, the Lakers can space the floor better than Jordan's Bulls ever could.

Remember when I noted that nobody has hit more game-winning shots than Kobe Bryant? It's true. Think about it like this... where would Jordan's legacy be without Steve Kerr? Remember, it was Kerr who bailed out Jordan in the Finals. Before him, it was Paxson. Before him, it was Craig Hodges. Before him, it was Trent Tucker. Jordan always needed that three-point specialist to offset his limited range. Bryant is the top dog AND the three-point specialist for the Lakers. As a result, the Triangle offense runs better.

Doing More with Less.

Jordan lost 52 games and MADE the playoffs, where they were swept immediately in uneventful and predictable fashion. In fact, Jordan's teams were 1 - 9 in the playoffs until Pippen's arrival. Now, take a look at what Kobe Bryant did with a cast of also-rans and stiffs.

Look at some of the starters on Lakers playoff teams: Smush Parker, Brian Cook, Chris Mihm, Luke Walton, Kwame Brown. Yet, not only did the Lakers make the playoffs, they almost pulled off an unfathomable upset in 2006. Led by Bryant's exceptional play on both ends of the court, the Lakers took the heavily favored and All-Star-laden Phoenix Suns squad to a 7th game. Unfortunately, Bryant couldn't do it alone. His team fell apart in the clinching game. Hey, at least he made it there... something that couldn't be said for Michael Jordan, sans Scottie Pippen.

The Future.

Jordan rubes will point to six rings. That's great. But, let's not forget that the guy played until he was 39 years old! Kobe Bryant already has four and he's only 31. He's in his prime. In fact, with his new low-post game, he is shooting at a career high. Many are claiming that he has the best postgame since Hakeem Olajuwon. That's no surprise, the two legends are great friends and worked on each other's low-post games this summer, sharing each other's secrets.

Plus, Bryant is the defending champion. And, he recently won MVP and a Finals MVP. Bryant is finally being rewarded for making his teams relevant every season. Even if his team doesn't ultimately win the title, the Lakers still have made the Finals multiple times before succumbing to other legendary teams. For Jordan, it was feast or famine. Titles or bust. That's great on the up years... but, offers little incentive for fans on the down years of irrelevance.

Bryant is relentless. And, a guy who has never quit. Something that even the biggest Jordan apologist would have to acknowledge was not their boy's strength. Case in point: 2007. Bryant was weary from carrying scrubs like Brown, Walton and Parker to the playoffs. He asked politely for more help. Then, he demanded it like any great leader would. The team finally took his advice and the rest is history. Jordan, on the other hand, has not been as shrewd putting together a team. After all, he's the one who drafted Kwame Brown #1 in the draft! The same carcass who Bryant dragged along to the playoffs.

We've all seen the lists of players, coaches, executives, ex-players, media celebrities, reality show contestants and shopkeepers who regale Bryant with "GOAT" status. The honor is obviously well deserved, and virtually the consensus. More people continue to hop aboard. I should know. I used to despise Kobe Bryant. But, it only took a closer look into his greatness to revel in the player and the person. With his training and his constant improvement, he should remain relevant for another decade. And, that means many more than six titles.

Down goes the title argument. And, down goes the Jordan as GOAT myth.

Get ready for it. It's coming. Or, as many of us blogging NBA minds are quick to note... it's already here.

My chemistry teacher would be proud.

I slept through most chemistry classes during high school. But, I never slept through an NBA Finals.

So, I may not know the symbol or atomic number for barium. But, I know a championship-caliber team when I see one. Now, you tell me which is more important?

Virtually every NBA championship team has had clearly defined roles and great team chemistry. For some reason, Cleveland has lost some of their identity once the rotations were shortened for the playoffs.

Now, it's reverted to four guys standing around and waiting for LeBron James to do something. That's not how you win championships. It's a team game. Even Jordan, considered to be the GOAT by most, wouldn't have won if his teams didn't have (1) a legit second fiddle who stepped up, and (2) role players who knew their roles and executed in them.

Let's delve deeper. The 96 Bulls had 7 players average 20+ minutes during the regular season. And, 7 players average 20+ minutes in the playoffs.

The Cavs had 9 guys average 19.6+ minutes in the regular season. Only 5 are averaging more than 19 minutes in the playoffs.

One game Pavlovic plays. Szczerbiak sits. The next game, it's reversed. In this series, Gibson has played 3 minutes. 16 seconds. 3 minutes. And, 21 minutes. Guys don't know their roles at the most critical juncture of the season. Athletes are creatures of habit. Routine. Clearly defined roles. Cleveland doesn't seem to have that right now. And, thus, lacks the incredible chemistry they showed for the first 85+ games of the season.

Maybe Mike Brown should have slept more back in high school. Or, simply listened to me.




[Note: I still contend that it's Cleveland vs. LA in the Finals.]

I'm Taking Over.

I like Minneapolis. I love basketball. Unfortunately, the two don't mix right now. The Timberwolves are awful. And, with no GM and no coach... there is no future.

But, that is about to change. Soon.

The Timberwolves will soon be managed by a guy who actually knows basketball... a guy who has common sense. A guy who will entertain. A guy who will rip players, coaches, rube fans, refs, even the owner when it's necessary.

And, a guy who can build a winner.
Who is this special guy?

ME!

Seriously, this makes sense. I'm the guy for the job. My pithy comments on this rarely read blog prove that I'm ready.

But, I can't do it alone. I need your help.
Please email the Timberwolves and let them know that you think I'm the guy for the job. I will return the favor with courtside seats for anyone who passes along kind words about my basketball acumen.

Email the team HERE.

In related news, I will be focusing all of my energy into nabbing the GM spot for the Wolves, so something has to give. The blog is on hiatus. Truth be told... you won't notice a difference.

The Two Best Players. EVER.

Jimmy Chitwood (Hoosiers) vs. Billy Hoyle (White Men Can't Jump).

Everyone should know about Jimmy Chitwood by now. He was an incredible shooter who led lil' Hickory High to the state championship. But, how much of his greatness is a myth?

And, then you have Billy Hoyle. The fast-talking, poorly-dressed playground legend in gray socks who stole and lost money from ballers up and down the coast. Was he a legit talent, or Wesley Snipes' second fiddle?

Let's find out:

Jimmy Chitwood. 6'2" Guard. Hickory High.

With the benefit of film editing, Jimmy Chitwood shot about 80% from the field in 1951. In fact, one ESPN columnist estimated that he shot 78% and scored 30 of his team's 42 points in the championship game. We even see an unedited clip of Jimmy shooting free throws earlier in the movie. He makes nine before missing one... and that miss is important. (Jimmy only missed four shots the entire movie) It revealed his weakness. It came as soon as the coach challenged him... and it revealed Jimmy to be a headcase.

Jimmy was what I like to call a malcontent. the kind of guy who only played when HE WANTED to. And, for the coach he wanted. He was also a ballhog... although he only averaged 18 ppg. (Clever editing, style of play, or system player?) Plus, only a malcontent would DEMAND the ball and create a team mutiny when the coach calls another player's number for the last shot.

The final play also shows Jimmy's lack of basketball IQ. He holds the ball until four seconds are on the clock. He then launches a contested 26+ footer and doesn't give his team a chance for a rebound. Stupid play. He's LUCKY that the shot went in.

Sure... Jimmy hits the shot. But, he did everything HIS WAY. He joined the team when HE wanted to. He played when HE wanted to. And, he shot whenever HE wanted to. Let's just say he didn't lead the All-Hicksville Valley Conference in assists in 1951. And, nobody enjoyed playing with Jimmy Chitwood. Plus, don't even get me started about defense. Jimmy was Steve Nash without the muscle, intensity and commitment. Just horrible.


Billy Hoyle. 6'0" Guard. Playgrounds.

Billy Hoyle was shorter. Had horrible form on his jump shot. And, was easily duped. In fact, his dimness is perhaps his greatest flaw. Billy Hoyle trusted EVERYBODY. He believed that people were inherently good. Chitwood trusted nobody, except himself.

It's why one was a great PG who sometimes lost because of inferior teammates tanking, while the other was a top-notch scorer who demanded the last shot.

Hoyle "might be able to pull a couple of passes out his arse"... but, he was more than that. The guy could shoot. In fact, except for a few misguided dunk attempts... he doesn't miss a shot the entire movie. (More creative editing?)

Hoyle was versatile. He could play shutdown one-on-one D against much larger players . And, he could set teammates up for any shot (including 720-layups by short, fat guys) at any time. Hoyle knew how to play the game the right way, and was deadly on the pick-and-roll. That would seemingly give Hoyle the edge over Chitwood. But, hold on to your short shorts.

Hoyle was a headcase, too. Not the malcontent type like Chitwood. He was a pu$.$y whipped chump who dressed poorly. He also ONLY played for money. He was a mercenary, and not a very good one.

He didn't know his own athletic limitations. He was willing to sacrifice everything to prove a meaningless point. And, it cost him time and time again. Plus, let's not forget that he was easily duped, too. Sometimes, you can be too trusting. As a result, he became a chump.

I've been battling in my mind over these two great players for the better part of two decades. I can't figure out which guy is the better player. I need help...


Help ABE:
So, you have one game. Your life depends on it. Who do you take... Jimmy Chitwood or Billy Hoyle?

Back in my day...

I know why the Timberwolves suck.

They are still stuck in 1983. Unfortunately, McHale is no longer flanked by Bird, Parrish and Maxwell.

A rash of stories revealing a new way of using new stats to your advantage in the NBA has flooded the blogosphere. But, apparently, none of these stories (not to mention the premise behind the stories) have reached Minneapolis yet.

And, it's not difficult to find the reason.

After all, he's 6'10, looks like this guy and walks like my 93-year-old Great Aunt. Kevin McHale is a self-professed "old-school" guy who still wears Bill Cosby sweaters and still watches reruns of his cameo on Cheers on this thing.

Do you really think he's up-to-date on this new way of thinking about the game?
Of course not.

He brings up how "simple" the game is in every interview. Heck, he was so sure of his antiquated methods of player assessment that he didn't even contact Rashad McCants' college coach prior to drafting him. Oops. Maybe he should have. Roy Williams didn't think McCants was ready. He wasn't...

Anyway... I can imagine the scene in the Wolves front office (on one of the few occasions McHale is present...and not off hunting with the owner's blessing.)

New Intern: Should I study game film to analyze the exact locations on the court that our players shoot significantly better percentages?

McHale: Nah. Tried and true analysis is a fad. Around here, we stick to my quickly deteriorating memory and nostalgia of a bygone era to get things done.

Now, go get me a Diet Rite cola and a Whatchamacallit. I need a snack before Night Court comes on.

Mike Miller is flirting with me.

Maybe, it's the playful tussle of his hair. Maybe, it's the late night calls on my cell phone. Maybe, it's the pansy ass basketball he's been playing...

Whatever it is, he is pining for a piece of my heart (the part McCants hasn't stolen). And, for a piece of my blog.

Well, since I'm a sucker for the wily charms of bad Las Vegas prop comedian look-a-likes, I succumbed to Mr. Miller's advances. So, here goes...

The guy sucks. And, I think he's trying to steal my soul.

Let's examine Pansy Ass's resume: Career 14.0 scorer who never averaged less than 11.1 points per game. He is being paid about $20 million over the next two seasons. And, the #1 reason he was brought to the Wolves in the Love/Mayo trade was to give Jefferson an outside SHOOTER to play off from the post.

So... what have we seen?

Mike Miller has taken FEWER shots than Sebastian Telfair in 34 of the team's past 38 games.
I don't blame Telfair.

Last week against the Lakers, the Wolves played without its top two scorers, Foye and Jefferson. So, what did their veteran wing do... 0 - 4 for 0 points.

In fact, he passed up TWO 13-footers on the same possession to pass the ball to Jason Collins. Collins threw up a 16-foot airball. I don't blame Collins.

My detractors would claim that Miller is shooting 49%. I'd point out that Telfair is shooting 36% and Miller keeps forcing him the ball.

It's like Miller wants to get in Telfair's pants almost as much as he wants in on my blog.

Losing a Step... and then some.

I am saved.

And, I owe it all to this guy. No, not Shane Battier. He doesn't care about me. But, the author of that article, Michael Lewis, apparently does.

He must have known that after a quarter of a century playing semi-competitive basketball, that I was seriously considering putting my last pair of high top shoes on a shelf in the furnace room. Forever. I could no longer do the things that came so naturally for so long.

I told myself that it was a good run. I learned a lot about the game... and about myself through the years. I don't feel old. I don't really look old. So, why was the world of basketball rushing by me like Rashad McCants on his way to the Sacramento Airport?

For a couple of years, I found an excuse for everything. But, deep down... I knew. I had seen what happened to guys like Gary Payton and Kenny Anderson. NBA players who seemed to go from young to old overnight. I refuse to become that guy.

I told myself that it only happens to guys with actual athletic ability. My game was always played below the net. I'd be fine.

I lied.

My friends and teammates lied to me, too. They'd pat their chest after one of my errant passes as if to say, "I should have known you were going to throw the ball 12 feet behind me at ankle level."

Their pep talks lacked any sense of the present. "Dude, you know you can get hot at any time. You're due. Remember when you hit those 7 threes in a row."

Yeah, I remember. It was before that guy had his first kid. He has four more kids now. Time flies when you're a sucky basketball player.

The final straw: When their overenthusiastic cheers after I hit a three were befitting the efforts of a special ed kid playing in garbage time.

I was no longer just lying to myself. I was embarrassing myself.

It was time. So, I asked the gal pal to bring the boys to their first ever basketball game. I talked myself into some dopey melodrama about the symbolic gesture. Their first game would be their father's last. (Yes, I DO need a life outside of basketball and movies on the Oxygen network.)

All it did was make me press even more. Subsequently, think even more. And, unfortunately, suck even more.

It made me realize how far I really have fallen. I couldn't remember the last nice assist I had while on the move. (Sorry, but being a top-notch inbounds passer isn't enough.)

I can remember the first time an opposing player said, "Let him shoot." I was indignant. "How dare you... don't you know who I am?" The second time it happened, I was confused. The third time... I think I cried.

But, then Michael Lewis saved me.

Basketball isn't only about scoring. Or, beating come chump off the dribble. Or, dazzling wraparound passes. It's also about the subtle push in the small of the back as your opponent drives by you and attempts a layup. The hidden wonders of friendly banter with the officials. Moving screens. And, the extra pass that nobody else seems to notice.

Alas, the crossover to the rack comes out as often as Tim Hardaway at a George Michael concert. The awe-inspiring pass is as rare as a Yinka Dare assist. But, that doesn't mean I am completely useless. I can still do little annoying things that help my team win sometimes... while annoying the hell out of the other team.

There will still be fleeting moments. (It's not like I'm the suckiest of the sucky basketball players for chrissakes.) But, instead of once a game, or week, or month... my moments will come once a year. I might as well take up golf.

But at least I now have hope, thanks to Mr. Lewis. All I have to do is make my teammates and opposing teams read the article so they stop treating me like a chump on the court.

Continuing to lie to myself will help, too.

He's Coming. And, You Can't Stop Him.

I know some people dig him because he's arguably the best player in the NBA. And, some dig him because they are provincial homers. And, others dig him because he's not Kobe Bryant.

I get it. LEBRON JAMES is really good. He's great. He may be the best ever... maybe. Eventually.

But, that's the problem. You're only fueling the beast. I HATED Michael Jordan. I couldn't escape the guy. I'd turn on NBC... "Hey, it's the Bulls." On the rare occasion it wasn't the Bulls... "Hey, it's Jordan being interviewed at halftime."

I'd flip to a non-sports related television show... "Hey, there's a Jordan commercial." I'd flip to another station... "Hey, there's another Jordan commercial. Was that the Footloose guy?" Lame. I'd go visit a friend's house. "Hey, nice 24 Jordan posters in your room, dude."

I'd go to basketball camps. "Hey, why is everyone wearing the same numbered jersey?" I'd go to the gym to get away. Hey, why does that guy wear that rubber knee thing with the top folded over to reveal the other color. And, why does that guy keep sticking out his tongue?"

I'd go to Foot Locker for new shoes. "Hey, where are Bird's Converse Weapons? Well... do you have any Magic Weapons? No... only Jordan's huh? OK. Give me those lame Avias over there on the bottom shelf I guess".

So, being frustrated... and wearing lame shoes, I would go to the movies. "Hey, 3 out of the 4 movie screens are showing 'Space Jam'. The other one is showing 'Roger Rabbit'." Woe.

So, I'd go home. And, cry myself to sleep. My mom would notice. She'd ask me if a Gatorade would make me feel better. I think she'd even sing that stupid song... Only Craid Ehlo hated that commercial more than me. More woe.

Thanks for nothing Mom. No wonder I left home so early...
___________________

But, I digress. That is NOTHING compared to what's in store for us over the next 15 years. I'm telling you. The backlash will be great. And, a lot of you will remember some old surly blogger "back in the day" warning you of James overload. And, you'll giggle. And, then cry.

To quote a movie that came out around the time Jordan entered the league: "You still don't get it, do you? He'll find [you]! That's what he does! It's ALL he does! You can't stop him! He'll wait for you! He'll reach down [your] throat and tear [your] fu#$ing heart out!"

OK. Maybe he won't tear your heart out (unless you live in Cleveland). But, the marketing/media onslaught will steal the soul from the greatest game I've ever played or watched.

Hello Good Folks of Sacramento...

I'll be back later to formally introduce myself... as well as the enigmatic mercurial malcontent that will soon be stealing your soul.

Stay tuned...

Wanna be a professional big city sportswriter?

The newspaper business in this country is in a freefall because of the slash and burn business practices in most newsrooms.

Apparently, some big-city newspapers have even resorted to hiring second-rate bloggers or message board posters.

Check this out (SOURCE): the last paragraph on the first page...

"The comments attached to many online sports stories, especially those regarding the Vikings, often devolve into the kind of petty, misspelled banter you might find on the wall of an elementary school bathroom stall. Many of the comments attached to this article rationally asked why a state swimming in red ink would spent $700 million to build a football stadium."

Note to Mr. Souhan from the Star Tribune: if you're going to rip ANYBODY for misspellings, please make certain that you and your copy editor double check your work. (At least in the very next sentence for chrissakes!)

Super Duper Super Bowl Musings...

Some thoughts as I watched the "big game":

1. It seems like it would be much more difficult to be the sign language interpreter when people like Jennifer Hudson sing the national anthem. With every note drawn out for 10 - 15 seconds... does the interpreter hold the sign... or make the sign extra slow? Seriously. The question nagged at me for the entire first half.

2. is there really a need for 5 - 10 suits sitting around and discussing the game for five hours? What's next... every NFL team has a failed head coach or executive represent them on the pregame show?

3. My gambling buddy called me at halftime. The line for the 1st half was Steelers (-3.5). All Arizona had to do was not throw a 100-yard Int TD. Ooops. He painted a great picture for me... "Imagine 400,000 annoying Turtle lookalikes bitching and moaning and carrying on." I know exactly the type he was describing. Some of those guys are reading this now. By the way, that TD also put the 1st half OVER. Vegas must have been going nuts during the replay.

4. Bruce Springsteen's junk got much too close to my face. That crotch slide into the camera was funny stuff. I think he really hurt himself.

5. It took me at least FIVE minutes to convince the gal pal that the pudgy guitarist in the halftime show was also this guy.

6. The gal pal HATES the Steelers. She realized that only after seeing this guy and this guy and especially this guy.

7. Granted, Kurt Warner's wife looks better than this. now. But, she still bugs me.

8. Steelers kicker, Jeff Reed, is trying way too hard to be noticed. Note to Reed, you're a frickin placekicker for chrissakes. No amount of dye jobs or crazy hair is gonna make people care about you anymore. In case you missed it. Here was Reed's fresh new look for the big game.

9. Larry Fitzgerald is a TERRIFIC receiver. And, his humility on the field is very refreshing. Too bad his dad is a MASSIVE FRAUD. Here's the "journalist's" "newspaper".

10. Here's a closer look at the Pittsburgh Steelers kickoff returners. "Hey guys, let's really push hard on this return... and maybe we'll get out to the 24 instead of the 23 yard line this time."

11. We could see this on every single play. It's a matter of when they want to call it. And, the babying of QBs is beyond ridiculous. Just put the QBs in any one of these and be done with it for chrissakes.

12. The Steelers are a winning franchise. (whether cats like me like it or not.) It's instilled throughout all levels of that franchise. Arizona is a loser franchise. We saw it tonight. The Cardinals are still the Los Angeles Clippers of the NFL in my mind.

13. Santonio Holmes had a great game. And, made a great catch. This is next.

14. Without DVR, I would have wasted 88 hours and 34 minutes waiting for challenged calls being reviewed. Yet, in the grandest game of them all... at the most critical time... they don't challenge it. Why not? The game was already dragged out to 4.5 hours. What's another five minutes to ensure the call was accurate? If nothing else, imagine the suspense and amount of rage and pent up emotion that would be building if you were sitting next to this guy.

15. Not impressed with the commercials this season. Frivolity doesn't play well during harsh economic times, and this year's crop were safe and safer. Sans, the insufferable CareerBuilder ad where they kept repeating everything. I was so upset by the end that I punched the gal pal. Unfortunately, she punched me back even harder.

16. Heckuva game for drama and great plays... in between stupid penalties and shoddy defense down the stretch.

The Day I Went Shopping with Rashad McCants.

Kevin McHale can control Rashad McCants.

The GAP cannot. Especially during a 50% off post-Christmas sale.

It all started with an innocent email from your favorite blog author to your favorite malcontent NBA shooting guard via the Timberwolves official website.

The email stated (in part): "...In closing, I want to punch Rashad McCants right in the ear. Tell him to meet me at the Mall of America second floor rotunda at noon on Saturday for his beatdown."

I sent the email, and thought little of it again. Saturday came and the gal pal begged me to go to the Mall. I hate malls. I hate crowds. I hate shopping. But, I love the gal pal. So, I relented. We headed to the mall for a mind-numbing day of commerce and surliness.

As we walked past the vast open nothingness they call a "rotunda", a fairly tall man with an inordinate number of tattoos approached me.

Tattooed man who can't play basketball: "You Abe?"

Your favorite blog author: "Yep. Can you bend down a bit so I can punch you in your melon with a bit more force?"

Tattooed man who dates a third-rate pseudo-celebrity: "Why do you hate me so much? You a hata. You don't know me. I'm a good guy."

The author of this barely-read blog: "OK. You get one chance. Who is Rashad McCants?"

An awkward silence ensued. McCants stared at me. I stared at McCants. The gal pal stared at some random guy on the escalator (who probably doesn't spend so much time chronicling about other guys on a seldom-read blog).

Then, before I could say or do anything else, McCants grabbed my hand and began racing through the rotunda. I could barely utter a "Pray for me" to the gal pal before I was whisked away.

Our first stop was Old Navy. McCants was not impressed. Apparently, he is trying to set up his own clothing line (with some help from his sort of homely gal's influences in the industry).

So, we went to Brooks Brothers. That was a disaster. It ended with cheers and jeers from the sales staff and claims of racism from my escort for the day.

Next up was DSW for some warehouse-direct shoe options. McCants seemed very comfortable here. So comfortable that he simply walked out with the shoes he tried on. He asked what I thought of them, I said that they would look good on him on the far end of the Timberwolves bench during that night's game.

He agreed.

Next, we stopped at all 43 sports clothing/shoe/hat stores in the gigantic mall. McCants bought North Carolina paraphernalia at every one. But, he had to try it on first. (Cue shopping montage here). I put on a Duke hat. He scowled. I put on a Tyler Hansbrough jersey. He scowled. I put on a Timberwolves jersey. He scowled. Fun times.

I was starving. As he stopped to check out a sale at Anne Taylor, I went and bought a couple of Nutella crepes. I gave McCants one of them, but made him pay me for it. (He still owes me for those times I wasted watching him stink up the joint for the Wolves.)

It was getting late. And, uncomfortable. I'd spent more than an hour with my mortal enemy. And, all I had learned was that he was a lousy person to go shopping with when he wasn't a lousy basketball player who causes the local team to lose.

I think McCants was picking up the ominous vibe. And, his mood became very sullen. The malcontent had returned. The sulking, petulant shooting guard that is pouting his way out of the league (and its riches) began acting like a 12-year-old kid who was told he couldn't buy a new Wii game. I worried that he was gonna pull a J.R. Rider and kick some pregnant security guard in the back. To my surprise, and disappointment, he didn't.

I excused myself, citing chasing down the gal pal and her new guy pal as the reason. I added a "Hey McCants, stop sucking so much!" as I left.

The last I saw of him he was racing into and then out of the nearest GAP store amid shouts of "You gotta pay for that", "Hey McCants, you suck" and "That guy stole my soul".

Things I learned from Rashad McCants

Maybe I'm a jerk.

In light of recent charges that I may have an unhealthy obsession with second-rate NBA player, Rashad McCants, I've decided to present a kinder, gentler column dedicated to everyone's favorite wayward bum. Err, umm... misunderstood malcontent. See, I can do this!

Thank you Mr. McCants for teaching me:

1) That hooking up with the ugly sister is not always a bad thing. You could end up with the ugly sister of the ugly sister.


2) That my freshman year high school coach was right. A guy can help the team even by sitting the bench. Case in point: The Timberwolves are 11 - 25. In 9 of their past 10 victories... you've played a total of 45 minutes, despite averaging 20+ minutes in the other 28 games. You've also taught me that a guy can make the difference on the court even while wearing a sharp sweater vest. The Timberwolves have won their last 5 games when you don't play at all!


3) That guys with a tattoo stating, "Born to be Hated..." are indeed easily hate-able. Who would have known?


4) That Yakhouba Diawara of the Miami Heat is in line for a big raise. He's making $2 million less than you even though he's shooting better (37%) and playing for a winning team.



5) That if an employer ever owes me $2,620,215 guaranteed... I can phone it in and coast for a few months and still get paid.


6) That a single gimmick fueled by the justified hatred of one man can snap me out of my writing malaise.


I hope that my minuscule readership likes the less abrasive Abe. If anything, I think I've proven that we can all learn from one another. Even it's simple life lessons learned from the vile antics of a horrible basketball player who is trying to steal my soul.

DVR is Killing Me.

"It will change your life."

That's been my mantra for the past year whenever anyone has asked me how I like having DVR.

I meant it. DVR is the mother of all inventions for the culturally fit. I no longer watch anything live. Hence, no more commercials. No more changing plans to sit in front of an inanimate object at a specific time. No more disgruntled hissy fits because I'm stuck at Aunt Bertie's 73rd birthday party instead of watching my favorite tv show.

But, things change. I still contend that DVR will change anyone's life. Only... I didn't think it would end mine.

What do I mean?

I can no longer watch sports live. I just can't do it. Especially, a football game. Three plays. 30 seconds of nothing between plays. Then, commercials for two minutes. Back from commercials. One play. Two more minutes of commercials. Back for four plays... 30 seconds between each play. More commercials.

Basketball is nearly as bad. Do you realize how boring free throws are? I don't. With DVR... I no longer remember. Shaq could be shooting 96% from the stripe for all I know. I never sit through a trip to the line.

I now wait two hours after kickoff/tipoff and tiptoe around the house; careful not to take calls from certain friends. I avoid other forms of media, e.g., Internet, radio, altogether.

All so I can watch the game later and fast forward through the fluff.

I have a disease. I feel like I'm in an old/new Twilight Zone episode. The greatest invention of mankind is destroying me.

Help.