A Forgotten Friendship: The Story of Quentin Richardson and the Free Throw Line

It doesn't exactly take a heroic effort to get sent to the foul line in the NBA. You drive to the hoop, go up for a shot, take a little contact, and earn yourself a pair at the stripe. It's not rocket science. Now, there might be a game or two where a player will be hesitant taking the ball to the rack and go free throw-less for a short span. But to play in multiple games at the swingman position in the NBA without ever shooting a single free throw is nothing short of miraculous. A few weeks ago, we looked back on the career of Nick Anderson. Anderson famously became spooked of the free throw line in his later years, and even played an entire campaign one season, spanning 169 minutes, without once going to the line. Turns out that was just chump change compared to our boy Quentin Richardson.

The forward for the Heat has played a staggering 322 minutes this year and is still yet to attempt his first free throw. Don't bother rubbing your eyes or adjusting the brightness of your screen. You read it right the first time. 322 minutes. And not one free throw attempt. Is he afraid of something here? Did a teammate jokingly tell him that the free throw line is actually a "danger zone" loaded with hidden landmines and traces of anthrax, only for Richardson to miss the sarcasm entirely and regard the comment as a legitimate national security threat? How else to explain a starting small forward in the NBA playing that many minutes without ever taking a free throw?

With Nick Anderson, it was understandable. The memory of the '95 Finals never stopped haunting him, and he eventually became Polynice-esque at the line, causing him to make a personal vow never to return. Richardson, on the other hand, is a semi-respectable 71% free thrower for his career. He's always been able to get himself about 100-120 freebies a year. Now, all of a sudden, that number has been whittled all the way down to Goose Egg City. I know Q-Rich has essentially become a 3-point "specialist" these last few years (with 'specialist' being used very liberally), but he is taking that title to new and dangerous heights this year. When you are able to play the shooting guard/small forward combo position in the NBA as a starter for as many games and minutes as Richardson has without earning a single trip to the line, and not be banished to the NBDL or Slovenia in the process, it is truly a miracle of the highest proportions.

I've always been a sucker for unique streaks in sports. When Baron Davis repeatedly failed to shoot better than 50% in a game for nearly an entire season (62 games total), I basically shut down the rest of my life to devote all my attention towards it. In the world of baseball, I developed a secret affinity for Rondell White's bizarre stolen base streak, and was crushed when it finally came to an end. (White registered at least one theft in each of his first 14 big league seasons, and oddly enough, in the last 6 years of the streak, he stole one, and one only, every single year to keep the streak alive. Tragically, in season #15, ol' fella couldn't get the legs going for a single attempt. I'm still recovering.) Former Piston legend Terry Mills took the city of Detroit by storm in 1996 when he canned 13 consecutive treys to tie Vanilla Brent Price's NBA record. Those 13 bombs might have only spanned three nights during the season, but to us wide-eyed Pistons fans, his name might as well have been DiMaggio.

To most NBA fans, Quentin Richardson is just a washed-up swingman gunner who no longer does much swinging or gunning. He doesn't capture any headlines and will never be the focal point of a Kornheiser/Wilbon on-screen debate. His durability has and always will be a major issue, and there have even been some rumors that Q-Rich is planning to change the name on the back of his jersey to "Smits" in honor of his similarly oft-injured Dutch mentor.

But to me, Quentin Richardson is so much more. Because there are good streaks. And there are bad streaks. But it doesn't matter to me...I like 'em all. Which is why I'll be paying extra attention to those Miami Heat box scores in the coming weeks.

You'd think it would be impossible for any NBA player to keep logging court time and hoisting the rock without ever once getting bumped or grazed in the process. But then again, nobody ever thought Brent Price and Terry Mills would knock down 13 straight from long range. And nobody ever thought that Kwame Brown could fumble 768 consecutive post entry passes without once making a clean catch. But those things did happen. So maybe Q-Rich can go the whole year without ever stepping to the free throw line. I know I'll be watching. (Even if I am the only one.)

Because after all, a streak is a streak, and no matter how obscure or bizarre it happens to be, sometimes you just have to sit back and acknowledge the consistency, appreciating the little nugget of minutiae that is being cemented into the long and glorious history of the NBA.

I love this game...


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You Can't Make It...So Why Take It??

A reputation is a powerful thing. Many times, simply having a reputation for being good at something outweighs the reality of whether or not that skill actually exists. I present to you now, Exhibit A, in this demonstration: Rasheed Wallace and his reputation for being a guy with the ability to "stretch defenses" with his long range shooting. NBA followers for years have touted Sheed's "inside-outside" combination, and his uncanny knack for a power forward to step out and knock down the three. But when you stop taking all of these myths as gospel, and actually watch Mr. Wallace play for several seasons in person, you ultimately discover the truth. Just because he likes shooting the three does not mean he can shoot the three. I just thank the Lord he's doing it somewhere else now.

The Celtics lost a rare home game Friday night to the defending East champs, the Magic. Interestingly, heading into this game, Doc Rivers had went public with his unhappiness regarding the team's shot selection and their propensity to settle for the deep ball instead of attacking the basket. Prior to the game with Orlando, this excerpt appeared in the Boston Globe.

The Celtics have become 3-point happy at the wrong times this season. Coach Doc Rivers finally stepped in, telling Rasheed Wallace to limit the threes, during the final quarter of last night’s 109-95 win over Golden State. "I got on him, and I rarely do, about the threes. Because even though he was wide open, it’s really tough. I mean, he was wide open and he took two, but we had just taken two quick ones."

So all of this was said heading into the Friday night game with the Magic. Rivers was clear; more ball movement, better shot selection, less 3s. What does Rasheed do? He goes out and jacks up eight bombs from downtown, making a grand total of zero. Now there are very few players in the NBA that can hoist that many 3s in a game and get away with it. Steve Nash...Andrea Bargnani...maybe even Jason Richardson, with the way he's been stroking it this year. But Rasheed Wallace?? After a very specific order from his head coach to "limit the threes"??? He shoots eight of 'em????? Trust me when I tell you after watching this man play in Detroit for the last six years...the more 3s he takes, the less likely you are to win the game. How did the Celtics do Friday night in that game with the Magic? They lost by five, and scored a season-low 78 points. It was an ugly affair, filled with clumsy offense and errant shooting. And our man was at the center of it all.

I still do not know where Rasheed Wallace's reputation as a "dangerous outside shooter" originated. It's the classic case of, "Never let the facts get in the way of a good story," because the facts in this matter do nothing to support this longstanding claim. Sheed has played in the league for 15 years. You wanna know how many times he has shot above 36% from beyond the arc? Once. And that was 11 years ago. Keep in mind, 36% is not some ridiculously high number for a 3-point shooter. It's probably a little below average, at best, especially for a player that fires them up at the rate Sheed does. How many times did we as Pistons fans have to watch Rasheed on those silly "pick-and-rolls" in late game situations when there was nary a "roll" to speak of? He would set a lame pick, float behind the long line, wait for the pass, and then jack it up as soon as the ball touched his fingertips. The shot would almost always go begging, and you were left wondering how this continued to be viewed as a smart offensive strategy when it worked so infrequently.

Take a look down south, where Atlanta currently sits in the catbird seat of the Eastern Conference with a glistening 11-3 record. Sure, they picked up high-scoring guard Jamal Crawford in the off-season and franchise player Joe Johnson continues to do his thing, but it's been the emergence of Josh Smith that has been one of the biggest differences for Mike Woodson's crew. Before this year, he'd been a freak athlete too block-headed to take full advantage of his insane set of physical gifts. He would dominate for periods, make the occasional highlight play, and far too often, become lazy and go hang out in three-point territory. Should he have been spending that much time out there, or for that matter, any time out there? The answer is a resounding N-O. He was a putrid shooter from long range, and each one of the 100-150 bombs he attempted every year did their own small part in making you realize that this guy was simply "never going to get it." Sound familiar? After all, that's basically the way Rasheed's whole career has been. No light bulb ever went off for him. He entered the league shooting a relatively low amount of threes, usually between 30-50 a year. That changed very quickly. By the time he had gotten comfortable in Detroit, he was practically paying rent outside the line, routinely forcing up over 300 a year, culminating in his unforgettable 2005-06 campaign when he managed to sling 434 from distance. Free-throws for Sheed that year...183. Way to use your 6'11" frame to your advantage, Sir. But Josh Smith made a decision as this season approached. He was going to become a smart player for the first time in his career. He was not going to become another Rasheed Wallace.

The three-point section of Josh Smith's stat line this year has been virtually non-existent. And not just an, "I'm gonna take maybe one or two 3s a game so I don't go into withdrawal" kind of thing. He has literally sworn off the three-point shot entirely. Save for one last-second desperation heave against Miami last week with the first half clock winding down, young Josh has not taken another three-pointer this whole year. And the difference it has made on his game has been evident from opening night, when he made 7 of 10 shots and handed out 8 assists, leading to a double-digit win over Indiana. He is shooting a career-high 54% from the field. (The first time in his career he's been over the Baron Davis mark.) His rebound and assist figures are also the highest they have ever been, and he's committing less turnovers than at any point over the last four seasons. He's like a new person, and it all traces back to his cathartic admittance that he could not conquer his personal devil, the three-point line. It has turned him into one of the most feared players in the league, and it has made the Hawks a legitimate contender in the East for the first time since Mike Fratello was roaming the sidelines. As for Sheed, I wouldn't expect a similar revelation at any point in the near future.

Watching Rasheed Wallace play for the Pistons over the last number of years was one of the more frustrating experiences any Detroit sports fan has had to go through. You always heard from people on TV and around the league that he was such a "team player" and that his "basketball IQ was off the charts," but I got news for you. It was all a whole lot of...you know what. The man could have undergone a Josh Smith-type renaissance at some point in his career, but he never did. He just got worse. That 0-8 three-point performance against Orlando is the perfect reminder of the type of player Rasheed has always been. His coach put out an order for his team to follow, and Sheed simply ignored it. In yesterday's game against the Knicks, a two point escape job in overtime, his minutes were sliced in half. After playing a season-high 34 minutes in the game with Orlando, Sheed played just 15 on Sunday, his lowest total on the year. And he didn't exactly make a case for a bump in that playing time. The old gunslinger snapped off six shot attempts in his limited appearance, again making zero, including a goose egg for three from TreyVille.

As a Pistons fan, I'm just grateful that those shots are being taken somewhere other than the Palace. His act grew tired over the years, and for people to think his addition suddenly makes the Celtics the favorite again in the East is absurd, to say the least. Most good shooters will tell you that the reason they keep on shooting is because no matter how many in a row they miss, they still feel like the next one is going in. For bad shooters like Rasheed, that mentality leads to self-destruction, and an NBA career ultimately defined by countless bricks, plummeting shooting percentages, and a reputation that could not be less deserved.


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A Mismatch in Any Era

The Detroit Pistons have not been playing their best ball of late. Their big men are struggling to contribute offensively, the guards are forcing the action a little too much, and Jonas Jerebko gets more uncomfortable offensively with each passing moment. It has led to three straight losses, albeit to a trio of playoff teams in the West. Looking ahead to Saturday night, the Pistons travel to Salt Lake City to take on the Jazz, and the point is this. The Pistons could trot out five Hall-of-Famers for that game. They could bring back Dave Bing and Bob Lanier in their primes. They could lure Kelly Tripucka back to the Pistons' announcing booth for one more night. Hell, they could be given a 25-point lead at the beginning of the game, be allowed to play the whole 48 minutes on a never ending power play, and be given permission by the NBA to have both Abdenour brothers on the sideline to serve as dual head trainers. None of it would matter. Because as any knowledgeable Detroit basketball fan knows, the Pistons never win in Utah.

A little history here to see exactly how devastating the Curse of Utah has been. It hasn't always been like this for the Pistons and Jazz. After all, when the Jazz played in New Orleans and were led by Pistol Pete Maravich and a generous entrée-sized portion of rice pilaf, the Pistons had tremendous success. They would go 6-4 in the Big Easy during the five short years the Jazz took residence there. Then everything changed. The annual Mardi Gras celebration forced the Jazz on a month-long road trip in the midst of a playoff run, and the franchise decided that was the last straw. They packed their bags and headed for the friendly skies of Salt Lake City, but as the Pistons would discover in the years to come, "friendly" would be the last word to describe a trip to this godforsaken city. "Hell" would be more like it.

The first Pistons-Jazz clash in the new Utah digs took place in the 1980 season. It was too much Adrian Dantley, and not enough Kent Benson and Phil Hubbard, and the Jazz romped by 14. This became a familiar sight. The three years to follow also brought L's to the Pistons ledger on their annual Utah trip. The '84 season also saw a Jazz home triumph, only this time they were especially hostile hosts, exploding for 143 points and winning by 18. Again, the next three years all told the same story: L, L, L. The Pistons had traveled to Utah eight times, and come up short every single time. Finally, in 1988, the 'Stones broke through. They squeaked out a 3-point win, and then somehow managed to make it back-to-back wins the next year with a 4-point thriller in double overtime. Perhaps the pendulum was finally swinging back in favor of the boys from Motown on their yearly jaunt to Jazz Country. Think again.

The Pistons played twice more in the Salt Palace (one of the more underrated arena names from the 'Pre Corporate Naming Rights' era), getting handled both times. The Pistons must have exhaled a bit, knowing the Jazz were moving from that wretched building where they had managed just two wins against ten losses. Off to the Delta Center, the new state of the art facility that would now hold close to 20,000 screaming Mormons intent on making it as difficult as ever to get a W in their multi-wived territory. First trip to the new digs...two point loss in a nail-biter. Ron Rothstein came aboard in '93...Bam! 24-point shellacking courtesy of the Mailman. It was Don Chaney to the rescue in '94 and '95, but sadly his dynamic duo of Rafael Addison and Oliver Miller wasn't enough...they lost both contests by a combined 45 points. Doug Collins took over right where his predecessors left off, making three Utah treks to Utah and coming home empty on each occasion. Thankfully, the lockout forced the league to adopt a reduced 50-game schedule in 1999, and the NBA had some rachmanos for the Pistons, sparing them their annual plank walk in Utah.

This decade of Pistons-Jazz basketball got off to a most inauspicious start. Termed the "Bryon Russell Conspiracy" in these parts, this was the game where the Jazz had a clear shot-clock violation in the final seconds that was inexplicably ignored by all three referees, denying the Pistons a final shot to win the game. (I went into greater detail on this game in an earlier blog...2nd item down.) Somehow, the Stones got up off the mat and took revenge by winning back-to-back Utah affairs in the 2002 and '03 seasons. No matter how much Rick Carlisle frustrated me during his two years as Pistons head coach (and yes, I still wake up in a cold sweat 2-3 times a week over his mismanaging of Corliss Williamson's minutes in 2002), I must give the man his props for going 2-0 in the Utah Dungeon. Granted, in his first win, Karl Malone and John Stockton were a combined 77 years old...and in the second win, Malone missed the game entirely and was replaced in the starting lineup by John Amaechi, but it remains a highly impressive accomplishment by Carlisle, nonetheless. The last six years have been status quo in the "rivalry." Loss after loss after loss after loss. To see a perfect display of the Jazz home dominance, go back to the Pistons' championship year of 2004. They rode into Ostertag's World carrying a 4-game winning streak. Forty-eight minutes later, that streak was up in smoke. Chauncey and the boys then reeled off eight more victories. So that's 12 wins in 13 ballgames for the eventual champs, and the only loss during their hottest period of the season came at Utah. Coincidence?? I think not.

Sometimes I wonder...what makes traveling to Utah and getting a win such an impossible feat for our Detroit Pistons? There have been other dominant teams out West over the years, but none of them strike fear into the hearts of Pistons fans quite like a trip to Utah. For so many years, you knew a game with the Jazz meant endless Stockton-to-Malone pick-and-rolls, where your only hope as a defense was that the ball might eventually be swung around to some mook like Shandon Anderson or Scott Padgett. There's Jerry Sloan, who's been guiding that ship ever since they made the switch from peach baskets. There's the bloodthirsty Utah crowd, which seems to be louder and more intimidating than any other in the league. NBA talking heads would constantly clamor about the noise at Arco in Sac-Town, or the near-impossibility of scoring a victory in Spurs Land; but it was always those hooligans in Utah that made you fear for your life, even while sitting at home watching on TV from 1,700 miles away. And don't think you're getting a fair whistle in Utah, either. The refs are about as impartial as Brendan Fraser's fellow students at the end of School Ties. It is fairly common that a team will outplay the Jazz in their gym, but still fall short due to the alarming disparity at the free throw line.

Let's remember here...I'm about as much of a "homer" Pistons fan as there is in the world. I was the guy that had psychotic hallucinations about the Pistons actually coming back against Cleveland last year after two demoralizing blowouts to open the series, even going so far as to use a Hugh Grant romantic comedy as a source of inspiration. All that being said, I will now also tell you that the Pistons have absolutely zero chance of winning in Utah on Saturday night. 100% Loss...0% Win. I hate to be Mr. Doom and Gloom, but the numbers in this case are simply impossible to ignore. Consider these numbers.

-The Pistons have played in the Jazz' current home (now EnergySolutions Arena...maybe the worst creation of the "Corporate Naming Rights" era) 17 times...they've won twice.

-They have played the Jazz 19 times this decade, home or away...again, they've won twice.

-They have lost 8 in a row overall in the series, including a 17-point drubbing in Salt Lake last year.

-And now for the coup de grâce...the Pistons are a ghastly 18-41 all-time against the Jazz of Utah, by far their worst winning percentage (.305) against any opponent in franchise history. Second would be the Celtics...third would be the Lakers. You get the idea.

There aren't many times during an NBA season when you can say with complete and absolute certainty that one team has literally no chance of winning a particular game. Well, this is the rare exception. The Jazz are by no means steamrolling over the NBA in the season's opening weeks. They will enter Saturday night with a pedestrian 6-6 mark. Mehmet Okur is out with an injury and there's something called a "Wes Matthews" starting at shooting guard. On paper, they look very beatable. Against the Pistons, however, they are indestructible. So don't bother tuning in Saturday night or checking out the box score Sunday morning. This game's outcome was decided 30 years ago when that godforsaken Mardi Gras festival forced the Jazz out of New Orleans and into Utah, where they have now taken up permanent residence in the personal nightmares of every Pistons fan from Saginaw to Saugatuck. Utah has always been a state well known for their commitment to religion. But Saturday night, the big fella upstairs will be firmly on the side of the Pistons. They need all the help they can get...


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"Sometimes When You Win, You Really Lose..."

As moviegoers, we are always in search of the "perfect film." The one that makes us laugh, makes us think, and keeps us smiling from the opening credits through the final frame. But has a movie ever actually achieved this mythical status? That's debatable. Groundhog Day gave it a good run, but ultimately fell short due to the skin-crawling presence of one Andie MacDowell. A Few Good Men was also close to perfection, but it gets penalized for the awkward "Are they or are they not a couple" dilemma between Cruise and Demi. Ghostbusters II remains an all-time great, but is docked severely because of the terrifying painting of Vigo the Carpathian that kept me awake every single night from 1989-92. The search for the perfect movie is almost always a fruitless one, but there is nothing more frustrating than thinking you really have a shot, only for the dream to come crashing down in one fateful scene. Let's take a little trip down memory lane and deal with a movie, White Men Can't Jump, that was capable of flawlessness, but too often carved a path leading directly to sheer frustration.

Billy Hoyle is the definition of the tragic American figure. He was a basketball sensation until his career got derailed by an ill-fated point shaving incident courtesy of the famed "Stucci Brothers." He had a fiery, trivia-laden, Latina girlfriend on his arm, only he was too absent-minded to figure out how to keep her happy. With the right mentality and a bit of luck, ol' Billy could have had it all. And at one point during the flick, it looked like he was well on his way. He had defeated Sidney in the opening-scene shooting contest. He had a couple more successful hustles, leading his jar of cash to be almost filled to capacity. Yes, he got cleaned out by Sidney in a backstabbing reverse hustle, but even that couldn't keep Billy down. He reconciled with Sidney, they entered the 2-on-2 tourney, and won the whole thing, albeit with enough trash talking and threats of violence to make even Anthony Mason blush. Things were all good for our man Billy. He was a champion. He was on his way home to be with his ever-supportive girlfriend, who also was prepared to surprise Billy with pizza and wine. (An odd combo, but any girl who's at home awaiting your arrival with a pizza is a keeper.) And he had a check for $2,500 in his pocket. So Sidney's driving, Billy's riding shotgun, and the conversation inevitably turns to dunking. I wish they would have just stopped the movie right there. Cut, print, send to the studio. Go no further. Unfortunately, we had no such luck...and neither did Billy.

We all know what happens next. Billy repeatedly tells Sid he can "stuff it." Sidney shrugs it off and hits him with the nondescript, but goading, "Ok, fine." They locate a random "goal," on the side of the road, and before you know it, Billy is putting up his half of the five grand that he can dunk the ball successfully given three tries. One heartbreaking minute later, Billy goes "miss, miss, miss" on his three attempts and we are left sitting in the audience shaking our heads and cursing under our breath. But the question remains...what made Billy think he could jam?!?!?? Dunking a basketball is not one of those athletic achievements that changes for a person on a day-to-day basis. Either you can, or you can't. Simple as that. Like Billy, I've always been a capable hooper with range from deep and a supreme knowledge of the game. But make no mistake...I'm a 6-foot Caucasian with absolutely no illusions of ever flying above the tin and flushing it down unless they one day decide to spring-load the floorboards and shrink the ball to the size of a plum. But here's Billy, vertically and athletically challenged, putting all of his newfound bankroll on the line for a task that he had to have known full well was a virtual impossibility. If he wanted to parlay his money that badly, why not challenge Sidney to another 3-point shootout? Or go find the nearest roulette wheel and throw it all on black? It's so hard to get into his head here and figure out what in the world he thought was going to happen. If you ain't a dunker, you don't just walk onto the court one day and accidentally throw one down. It's not like hitting a half court shot. If you can't dunk, you can't dunk. Period. No amount of pride or determination is going to change that.

The ensuing scene plays out predictably. Billy returns home to Gloria, eventually comes clean that he lost all of the bread (again), and she storms out, leaving him with a couple cold slices of 'Za and an escalating fire inside the motel room. She puts all of the blame on Billy, and that is understandable. But not so fast. What about the winner of the aforementioned Dunk Bet, a Mr. Sidney Deane? I'm well aware that in the world of hustling, there are no friends, only potential marks. We learned this earlier in the movie. But this wasn't even hustling. This was simply Sidney taking advantage of an unstable buddy during a desperate period in his life. Sidney knew Billy was always looking to turn one dollar into ten, and ten into fifty, and he pounced on the opportunity. That's not what I call being a friend.

I also take exception with the famed sports movie writer/director, Ron Shelton, and his handling of this portion of the film. If he wants to make the flick all about streetball and hustling, that's fine. At that point, I'd pretty much swallow everything with a grain of salt and realize there are no morals or ethics involved. But Shelton makes it about more than that. We see a relationship developing throughout the movie between Billy and Sidney that extends away from the blacktop. Even though most of their interaction takes place with a ball and a basket, there is clearly another element at work here. When Billy needs help getting Gloria on Jeopardy, it's Sidney who assists him in making it happen. When Sidney's crib gets robbed and he's strapped for cash, he goes to Billy to help him win one more money game against The King and Duck. Believing these two guys were friends was easy for us as viewers. Their chemistry was undeniable, both on and off the court. Even with the unsavory hustle job by Sidney earlier in the movie, they settled their differences and came together for the tournament victory. So why, Mr. Shelton, did you find it necessary to pull the rug out from under us again and have Sidney fleece Billy for a second time??? I'm sittin' here 17 years after the movie came out, and I can't wrap my head around it. It's gotta be one or the other. Either they are mortal enemies and out for blood at all times, or they are loyal friends willing to lay it all on the line when the chips are down and their partner is struggling. Shelton selfishly yanks us back and forth throughout the 115 minutes when all he really had to do was pick a dynamic, stick with it, and let us jump in with both feet.

White Men Can't Jump will always be considered one of the best sports movies of all time. And that isn't really debatable. There are a million memorable lines, countless hilarious scenes, and some pretty respectable hoops action. Wesley and Woody were both perfect in their roles, as were all of the supporting pieces. Even Snipes' pesky and annoying sidekick, Kadeem Hardison, starts to grow on you after a while. But it could have been the best. It should be one of those movies you see on TV and automatically decide "That's it...I'm stickin' with it 'till the end." But it's not. Because it can be so freakin' frustrating. Because of Billy's hard-headed ways. Because of Sidney's paper-thin loyalties. And because of that damn dunking scene. Maybe one of these days, I'll get past it, and enjoy the movie for what it's worth. But I don't think so. Because everybody knows that white men can't jump. Everybody, that is, except for Billy Hoyle.


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Hoopin' Dinosaurs, Bad Jokes, and a Shocking Discovery in the NBA

There might not be a more enjoyable team to watch in the NBA right now than the Toronto Raptors. Friday night, the Raps trailed the Clippers by 22 on the road. But they kept scrapping, kept moving the ball, and by the time the 4th quarter started, the game was deadlocked. Twelve feisty minutes later, the Raptors had worn down the Clip Show, and were rewarded with an easy 15-point win. But it was the way they did that made it so enjoyable to watch. Franchise player Chris Bosh, the man that is near-unstoppable when he wants to be, did a lot of everything on this night. He hit for 21 points, hauled in 14 boards, and handed out 6 dimes. And unlike most of the other superstars in the league today, he continued to share the ball even at the game's most critical stages. Whereas other "stars" demand the ball at these moments and tell everyone else to scram, on this night Bosh simply took what the defense gave him and reacted. If Chris Kaman was guarding him straight up, he would take him to the rack. If the double team came, he would find the nearest Raptor sharpshooter. And there are plenty of those.

There's Hedo Turkoglu, the big off-season acquisition from Orlando. Once he finds his groove with this club and gets acclimated, look out. At times with Orlando last year, he was relied upon a little too much to be a playmaker and do things off the dribble. With this squad, and proven point Jose Calderon running the show, Hedo can float a little bit more and let the game come to him. Too often during last spring's playoff run he would wind up taking forced shots or making wild forays to the hoop simply because nobody else could really create their own shot. Now he can go back to being that guy from his days in Sacramento. The guy that blends in with the other pieces but can still get you 25-30 on a given night.

The aforementioned Calderon is about as fiery as they come at the point guard spot. He's like a cross between John Stockton and Gary Payton. Like Stockton, Jose is generally a very composed player and smart enough to run his offense fluidly, making few turnovers and getting the ball where it needs to go. And like Payton, he can absolutely flip out on his opponent if the situation calls for it. Late in Friday night's game, Clippers PG Sebastian Telfair tried leaning into Calderon to draw a foul on a desperation three. In the process, he caught Calderon above the eye with a little chicken wing elbow, and wouldn't you know it, the little Spanish firecracker absolutely flipped his wig. He got up off the deck, started screaming at Telfair, the referees...pretty much anybody within shouting distance that was wearing a uniform. Was he right? Ahh, it was questionable. Definitely some contact, but most likely completely inadvertent on the part of Telfair. Didn't matter to our boy. A few possessions later, Jose drove to the hoop and got a layup. And with a minute to go, and the Raptors now fully in control up by 12, he nailed a long bomb from beyond the arc and again started with the hysterics. Yelling towards the crowd, nodding his head violently like some kind of drunk bobblehead...and this was a shot to put his team up fifteen with less than a minute to play. The man might be certifiably insane, but he sho' is fun to watch.

Then there's the little known 2nd year guard from Italy, Marco Belinelli. Until his recent surge with 'Ronto, Belinelli was most known for going off in a summer league game last year for like 45 points. He then spent the actual season rotting in Don Nelson's typically overcrowded doghouse. Now it seems the Italian Bomber has found a home. He comes in off the Raps bench with one order: shoot. He's 6'5" with a quick release, making it pretty difficult to bother him when he decides it's time to fire. On this night, Bells banged out six buckets in his 28 minutes, with three of 'em coming from the land of plenty. It's funny watching him operate in a pick-and-roll situation because the defense reacts to him as if he is a normal guard that is capable of either driving or pulling up. That would be incorrect. This man has one thought on his mind, and that is hoisting from downtown. He's also the kind of guy that will have the ball in his hands with somewhere between 8-10 on the shot clock, only to decide, "Alright, it's up to me now...no time for any more passes!" leading to him dribbling in a circle for the next few ticks before letting fly from 27 feet. This kind of play definitely leads to streaky spells, but when he's got it goin', Mr. Belinelli becomes a very dangerous 4th quarter weapon for these Flying Canadian Dinosaurs.

And last but not least, the forgotten first overall pick from the 2006 Draft, Andrea Bargnani. The lanky Bargnani had a hard time finding his niche in the NBA during his first couple years. He fashioned himself as a Dirk Nowitzki-type double threat, but in reality, he seemed like more of a poor man's right handed version of Sam Perkins. His 3-point touch was suspect, and he made very little contribution on the glass. Still too early to be labeled an outright "bust," there were plenty of grumblings that the big fella was never going to live up to the lofty expectations that come with being Numero Uno in a draft. Fast forward to the present. In the season's opening weeks, Bargnani has taken the Eastern Conference by storm. Averaging just under 20 points per game, he has proven to be the perfect frontcourt complement to the similarly multi-talented Bosh. Bargnani is on his way to becoming the best shooter in the NBA. Yeah, you heard me. Not just one of the best...the absolute best. Doing most of his work from the outside, Bargnani is shooting over 50% from the field, a career-best 47% from long-range, and a mind-boggling 93% from the charity stripe. And this man is seven feet tall! If he continues to stroke it like this, the Raptors become almost impossible to defend. On a high pick-and-roll with Calderon, Bargnani casually floats out to the top of the key after setting the screen. If they choose to cover him out there, Calderon is free to roam and make a play for himself or Bosh on the weak side. If they double the guard, Bargnani is left alone from 23 feet, at which point the referee ought to just extend both his arms into the air and head back downcourt. It's always cash money for the Big Lasagna, and like his predecessor Big Smooth, the ball is released effortlessly without the slightest trace of physical exertion.

I'm not proclaiming the ballers north of the border to be the favorites out of the East, but something is definitely being built there. Bryan Colangelo, once the architect behind the dazzling Run 'N Gun Suns' squads of the early 2000's, is now putting together a similar group of marksmen in Toronto. Hell, even former Piston Amir Johnson has displayed an active pulse playing for this team, putting to rest previous rumors from his days in Detroit that he was born without an ounce of talent...or a human soul. So keep an eye out for this exciting bunch from Toronto. They run the floor, they move the ball, and they all know how to shoot the rock. I look for them to make the playoffs and possibly even get a little run going once they get there. Or maybe they are completely average and everything I just wrote was a blatant overreaction to one enjoyable night of NBA action. They were playing the Clippers, after all...


When you say someone has a "very dry sense of humor," doesn't that basically mean that they aren't the least bit funny? If you're funny, you let people know it. When you make a joke, people know you are making a joke. Heck, you throw a pair of those goofy glasses on with the fake moustache and I'm a happy camper. But with "Dry Humor" guy, you have to sift through the metaphors and the monotone delivery just to try and figure out what what this mook is talking about and why it might be funny. You know what all of these guys with the dry sense of humor have in common? None of 'em are funny. Not a one. And nobody ever just has a "dry" sense of humor. It's always "very dry." Is this supposed to make it better? I mean, is anything really better when it is dry? Dry chicken?? No thanks...that sucker should be juicy. Dry heat? No thanks...I enjoy breathing without feeling lightheaded. Dry ice? I still don't know what that means. So let's stop complimenting these unfunny people for their underrated "dry" senses of humor. They're not funny, and they never will be.


The Pistons and Wizards were getting set to tip-off Saturday night. The players took the floor, the referees got in position, and the coaches took their seats. Everything seemed perfectly fine and normal...then I saw it. It was an uncomfortable sight to see. No, scratch that...it was a startling, nightmare-inducing sight to see. No, no, no, scratch that, too...it was the single worst thing I had ever seen in my life. The it I refer to is none other than the starting shooting guard for the Washington Wizards on this night, Mike Miller. I don't know how else to say this, so I'll just come right out with it. He...looked...pregnant.

You heard me. The signs were all there. He was heavy. He was bloated. Looked like he hadn't showered since training camp. He was wearing a giant shoulder/torso contraption underneath his jersey, presumably a tool from Lamaze class to assist with breathing when the big moment arrives. His hair, typically well-coiffed and styled, now looked unwashed and grimy. It was excessively long, had strawberry blond highlights mixed throughout, and then in the back, Miller had fashioned some kind of dirty mock-ponytail deal that made him look like a cross between Mario Batali and the doughy, middle school version of D.J. Tanner. Almost makes you shiver just thinking about it. I mean, Miller was never Mr. America or anything, but at least when he was at Florida and early in his NBA career, he kept his hair clean and short, even if it did make him look exactly like Hilary Swank's character from Boys Don't Cry.

In the early moments of this game, maybe the second or third possession, a whistle blew and there was a short stoppage in play. The camera panned to a clearly exhausted Miller, bent over with hands on knees, and desperately gasping for air. Pistons' play-by-play man Mark Champion tried justifying Miller's fatigue by saying something like, "Well, that's what happens when you miss a couple of weeks. It takes time to get readjusted to the speed of the game." Nice try, Mark. Miller was most definitely panting and wheezing, but it had nothing to do with missed time. It had to do with the fact that he was carrying another human life inside his belly. Whenever Rodney Stuckey or Ben Gordon would start to make a move off the dribble to steam past Miller, you couldn't help but feel a tinge of sympathy. The poor man obviously had no chance of keeping up and would usually wind up grabbing an arm or piece of the jersey as they sped by. But it didn't end there.

See, pregnant women are known to be moody and irritable. Miller was no exception. Each time the referee saddled him with another foul, Miller would lose it. He made ugly faces. He whined incessantly. He had a look in his eye that said, "I need a big jar of pickles and a quart of chocolate ice cream...IMMEDIATELY!" At one point, a Piston slipped on a wet spot in the paint and the ballboy went to clean it up. Ninety-nine percent of the time in this situation, you assume it's just a player's sweat that dripped onto the floor, making it slippery. However, when Mama Miller is roamin' the hardwood, you really have to consider the possibility that homeboy's water just broke with a wheelchair/ambulance combo being needed pronto. The question is, how are Flip Saunders and Co. going to keep their expectant shooting guard safe as the year progresses and he enters his third trimester?? Your guess is as good as mine, but let's just hope that opposing defenses know better than to foul Miller hard as he enters the lane. There's a bun in that oven...


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