On The Week's Top Five

1. Royalties

You know what upsets me far more than garish ceremonies celebrating a vestigial institution? It's people who utilize garish ceremonies celebrating a vestigial institution in order to engage in self-righteous condemnation. Let us say, for instance, that you are a sports fan, and you condemn the royal wedding largely because it is an exercise in garish symbolism. Does this mean that you are also in favor of the abolition of marching bands? Of school mascots? Of player introductions? Of uniforms? At some level, myths and symbols infuse every aspect of our culture, but nowhere more than sports. You may argue about the need for/cost of such symbols, but to completely disregard the notion that these symbols hold emotional weight for a great number of people is as ignorant as declaring that pep rallies are a national embarrassment.

2. The Culmination of the NBA Playoffs...

Will be that moment when Kobe Bryant finally engages in physical assault on Pau Gasol.

3. Proof of Life

You know the best part of those early seasons of The Apprentice? It was those segments when Trump would deliver his advice on business and on life, because I imagine the advice Trump would give to young entrepreneurs is very similar to the advice Ahmedinejad would give to young terrorists, if Ahmadinejad played golf.

4. Listening to...


"The Envoy," by Warren Zevon. Because I am feeling especially cynical today.*

5. Reading...

"An Accidental Hero," by John Ed Bradley, SI.** 

"True Colors," by Malcolm Gladwell.

*See Number 3.
**I would argue that Bradley is one of the most underrated writers in that magazine's history. I have yet to read any of his novels, but his memoir about playing college football at LSU is outstanding.

On Angry Men

So basically, Phil Jackson will say anything at this point, if it may afford his team some kind of miniscule competitive advantage. I don't know if this makes him a genius or just an arrogant Zen-infused bozo, but I suppose it works, because it generates animosity where none exists, and that seems to be the most effective motivator. There is nothing particularly likeable about the Lakers or the Celtics at this point in their history, and they seem to prefer it that way; they continue to generate granite blocks on their shoulders for reasons that are entirely illogical--at times, it seems like they don't even like each other very much--but also fundamentally effective. I suppose that's the model for the modern champion in the NBA: You have to be ornery and miserable. Anger is the new success, which is why the Suns are doomed.

So maybe that's LeBron's problem. Maybe he's had it too easy. Maybe someone should kidnap his dog; maybe if Delonte West had actually made a move on his mother, he might have played less like a catatonic. Maybe he should sign with the Clippers, just so he can learn what it feels to hate.

On Several More Inconsequential Things That Matter to Me

1. Kobe Bryant
He wins, and yet he still can't win. I suspect he will spend his offseason sequestered in a hyperbaric chamber on Mount Kilimanjaro so as to combat the aging process and facilitate his quest for three more championship rings. This, I presume, is the only thing that Kobe truly believes will make him happy. And I do believe that at the age of 55, Kobe will have seven championship rings, and he will also live on a gated compound in Malibu with a fleet of housekeepers and several dozen reptiles as his sole company, and he will blog often about the the crossover dribble and Shaq's checkered tenure as the president of Pixar Studios and the rise of the lizard people.

2. Bryce Harper
First off, it's baseball, so it's only marginally relevant.* But the same frenzy erupts whenever a prodigy chooses to somehow defy our expectations for him, as if he will immediately end up marooned in the Vast Marinovich Cavern of wasted potential. But is this always true? Or is this an example of what Leonard Mlodinow writes about: That our natural human prejudices simply lead us to remember the bleakest scenarios, and therefore color our perceptions?

For example: Here are the fates of the other nine high-school athletes to have appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated, courtesy of the Wichita Eagle's Bob Lutz. The success rate is actually much higher than I imagined, if we define "success rate" in terms of "becoming a productive member of society" rather than "LeBron James":

Indiana high school basketball standout Rick Mount, in 1966, was the first. He still has the No. 7 career scoring average in NCAA history (32.3 points). He played four seasons in the American Basketball Association before retiring.

Tom McMillen, another high school hoops standout, was a cover boy in 1970 and played 11 OK seasons in the NBA before serving three terms as a U.S. Representative.

Kansan Mike Peterson appeared in 1971, billed as a four-sport star. He was a good athlete at Emporia State. (Appears fine, according to the link above, though seems like he may relate, more than anyone else on this list, to Springsteen's "Glory Days."--MW)

Bruce Hardy, from Utah, was billed as the country's top prep football player when he appeared on a 1974 cover and played 12 years in the NFL with the Miami Dolphins.

Hockey player Bobby Carpenter went on to become the first American to score 50 goals in a season after appearing on a 1981 cover. (Played nearly two decades in the NHL.-MW)

Kristie Phillips was hailed as "The New Mary Lou Retton" in 1986 but instead went to LSU and became a cheerleader. (Phillips has accomplished a great deal since then, if we are to measure one's worth through Wikipedia.-MW)

Texas high school pitcher Jon Peters was on the cover in 1989 because of his 51-0 record. But he tore a rotator cuff and was out of baseball by the age of 21. (Peters appears to have turned out fine.--MW)

Kevin Garnett appeared in 1985 and has become an NBA star.

James, of course, is a superstar of the highest magnitude. (Charley Rosen finds this statement reprehensible.--MW)

3. Hydrogen peroxide
I find it kind of miraculous that merely by adding a molecule to water, we can create a product that disinfects my wounds, washes out my mouth, scrubs my contact lenses, bleaches hair, removes skunk odor, propels rockets, and induces vomiting in dogs.

*It's strange: Now that I've essentially become a baseball dropout, my only updates come through Facebook. So my complete knowledge of the game in the past month is this: Someone dropped a fly ball; therefore, the Mets are cursed. Also, the Royals are predictably terrible, and the Indians can only win when waterfowl become actively involved in the game, and the Phillies must be all right because no one seems to be complaining much. I suppose if I can find friends in 25 more cities, I will never need to watch a single inning ever again.

On The Future of Kobe

I still believe that the Lakers will win this series, and I still believe that Kobe will probably pour in 50 in one of these last few games, and I still believe that Kobe will be named MVP of these finals, and I still believe that his puckered gameface is the most frightening manifestation of an athlete's subconscious since the Tyson Era. But the today's essay question centers on Kobe's fatigue, on the fact that he has played nearly 1,200 games in his career (regular season and playoffs), and on whether perhaps this is the last of the best of Kobe Bryant we will ever see. It is a legitimate query when you examine the numbers: 82 games each of the past two seasons,* top five in minutes played four times since 2002. It would be the most shocking moment in the strange history of Kobe** if he were to suddenly hit a wall in the second half of a single game and find himself unable to ever again recapture his shot, and I don't expect that to happen--I expect Kobe will most likely defy the historical numbers and be able to play at a peak level for at least two or three more years.

But what last night did, at least for me, was lead me to wonder, for the first time, about what will happen when Kobe's career does begin its inevitable unraveling. How will it end? Ala Barry Bonds? Ala Woody Hayes? Considering that Kobe in full competitive fervor often tends to make Jordan appear magnanimous by comparison, and considering that Jordan's career essentially ended in Peter "James" Bond fashion, and considering that even now, at the height of his powers, Kobe appears one Luke Walton misstep away from rolling back prices to 1965, what will be his denoument? For that matter, does he have any hobbies? Golf? Model airplanes? Genesis concerts?

I don't know if Kobe has the power to reinvent himself, or if he will be able to actually find a purpose once basketball deserts him. In fact, I wonder sometimes if he's ever even thought about it, or if he is so singularly focused that he may actually become the first player in modern basketball history*** to spontaneously combust on the hardwood.

*Which raises another question: Why would Phil Jackson not insist to Kobe that he sit for at least one to two games each month during the first half of the season? Isn't that why Memphis is on the schedule?
**Well, OK, second most shocking.
***At least since Red "Red" Rosenbaum of the Rochester Royals in 1946.

(Photo: Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

On Kobe and Spike

I've always thought that even Spike Lee's failures tend to be relentlessly interesting, but I have to agree with the general assessment (made by Bill Simmons, among others) that Kobe: Doin' Work is both the dullest and the most uncomfortable film he's ever made. In case you missed the worldwide cable television debut, here is the idea: Spike chases Kobe around for a day, toting a phalanx of cameras, gaining unprecedented access to a locker room full of teammates who seem highly amused by this whole notion, and then Kobe steps in months later (on the night of his 61-point explosion against the Knicks at the Garden) to provide voice-over narration, detailing his thoughts and insecurities and quantum theories during a blase regular-season victory over the San Antonio Spurs. In other words, it is ninety minutes of Kobe "encouraging" his teammates by displaying an embarrassingly high-octane level of enthusiasm, ninety minutes of Kobe droning on about execution and laughing hollowly his at his own jokes, ninety minutes of Kobe reinforcing his perceived place as Phil Jackson's intellectual equal. At one point, he actually begins diagramming defensive rotations on a whiteboard. At another moment, Kobe lovingly declares that he and Jackson are kindred spirits because they "both love basketball, and we both love details."

Such are the psychic revelations of Kobe: Doin' Work.

I presume that this was Spike's attempt to craft a strictly technical film about the game he loves, a profile of a man in his element, sort of a documentary version of John McPhee's classic book-length profiles of Bill Bradley and Arthur Ashe. There is, in fact, no discussion of Kobe's background, or of his experiences outside of basketball, except for some platitudes about his children; as with every other attempt to understand Kobe, it is impossible to ignore the glaring omission of a single event that continues to define him, more than anything else, despite his best efforts to distract us.

Still, Spike had an intriguing idea--a thorough dissection of the complexities of a single NBA game through the eyes of its best player, an attempt to capture Kobe Being Kobe. The problem is that Kobe refuses to reveal himself in any way that even seems remotely real. His persona is either A.) laughably contrived or B.) completely hollow. At times, it is vaguely Batemanesque.* It is almost as if he is trying to make his public self as boring as possible, as if this will somehow negate the sins of his past. There are ways to get at this, to peel beneath those layers and reveal what is perhap the strangest superstar arcs of our time (as Mike Sager did here), but this is not that movie. This is ninety minutes of extremely unsettling small talk, ninety minutes of a man who would clearly prefer it if we just loved him for being Kobe. Whatever the hell that is.

*Though let me make clear: I do not think Kobe is a serial killer. Nor do I believe he is a fan of Phil Collins' solo career.

(Photo: Andrew D. Bernstein/NBAE/Getty Images/ESPN the Mag)

On the Tao of LeBron

I don't watch much NBA regular-season basketball. I'm not sure who does, with the exception of David Stern, Bill Simmons, Jack Nicholson and my friends at Slam magazine. Me? If I'm going to spend an hour absorbing something mindless and haphazard, I prefer Chris Matthews.

For the most part, the NBA regular season is a frustrating and defeatist exercise: It is 10 incredibly muscular and athletic men engaging in a glorified rec center pick-up game for 40 minutes, before 2 or 3 of the best dudes on each side choose to actually pick up their feet and play defense and engage in isolated games of one-on-one down the stretch. Sometimes, this lethargy carries over to the playoffs, which explains why one team can suddenly make up a 28-point deficit in the course of seven minutes. In no sport I can think of is the lack of effort such a glaringly obvious--and tacitly accepted--part of the game.

I don't think LeBron James can change this entire culture by himself. But I watched the Cavaliers dismantle the Hawks last night, and what was enlightening about it--what feels different (and strangely disconcerting) about watching the Cavaliers play--is that they actually seem to be playing hard all the time. They chase after loose balls. They throw the extra pass. They take charges (even LeBron, who saved what would have been an otherwise simple alley-oop dunk by stepping in on the passer at the last possible moment). "If the newly crowned MVP is willing to hit the court [and that often hurts] like an undrafted free agent trying to make the team -- it tells everyone else to follow his lead," wrote Terry Pluto. "Later in the first half, 7-3 Zydrunas Ilgauskas hit the court twice for loose balls. Remember, this is the same Ilgauskas who had five foot surgeries in his career."

I think that's what could wind up being most unique about the Age of LeBron (which certainly feels as if its glorious arrival is upon us). More than any other player in the modern history of basketball--moreso even than Michael Jordan--LeBron has a way of making his teammates care, of eliciting the kind of effort that seems almost anachronistic. Jordan accomplished this by being a taskmaster--and often, by being an absolute jerk--but we accepted this, because this was Michael's way, and it worked for him.*

But with LeBron, these things occur organically, given his natural tendency to pass before shooting, given his genial (and often outright goofy) persona. He can be dominant and still somehow be utterly likeable. I'm not sure if we've seen anyone like that in the modern age, with the possible exception of Magic Johnson. And--while I hope against hope that LeBron will somehow be powerful enough to cajole his peers, as well as the next generation of Lil LeBrons, into revolutionizing the NBA--I'm not sure we will ever see anything like this again.

*Kobe, of course, came of age the Era of Jordan, and therefore mimicked Jordan's domineering style. This is why Kobe was not very likeable, even before that, um, thing happened.