The System Works

I was caught watching USA Basketball last week. Women's basketball.

Well, not exactly. My job is to make DVD copies of certain TV broadcasts. These are used for a variety of things; scrapbooks, banquets, PowerPoints, broadcast training. I am the "reproduction of any part without the express written consent of the NBA is prohibited" guy. A pending request was in for the women's basketball gold game, and I was in the midst of filling the order. And I was entertained.

Beauty In Details

There are many reasons I love basketball, but here's one:
The game was designed with beauty in mind.

The story of basketball goes like this: Dr. James Naismith was obsessed with physical fitness and wanted his students to exercise during the winter. Dr. J had a few soccer balls lying around unused (too cold outside to play). Dr. J hung a peach basket on his gym wall, gave his students a soccer ball, and told them to run. And the beat goes on.


I, along with 99% of you, discovered basketball via jams and Jam. My chronological basketball memory starts with an impressive human being denied multiple times by the world's most incredible athlete. If Dr. Naismith's game began as pastel, ours was augmented by watercolor.

The mistake, of course, is to define basketball solely in pragmatics. There is more to the game than acrobatics and athletics, just like a painting is more than just wall art for a den. As Confucius once said, everything has its beauty...but not everyone sees it. But if the game is beautiful and there's beauty in its details...how can we excavate this inner beauty?

In other words, how can I convince my girlfriend that she'd like the sport? (Kidding.)

(Aside: Basketball is the easiest sport for anyone, including the fairer sex, to appreciate. Football is rigidly constructed, a 3-hr baseball game has about 15 total minutes of movement, and hockey is violent in a way that disrupts common sensibilities. Try hoops first. You're welcome.)

The answer, of course, is to take your time. Watch. Pay attention. Notice how much attention one player gets over another. Notice those adjectives in action: laughter, dispair, hubris, gloom. Ignore the stat graphics.

Also, I don't suggest using March Madness as your theoretical framework. Learning hoops via March Madness is like learning how to roll out of a moving car on a freeway. You will learn, but you'll probably die first. You'd be better off watching your cousin play in the park.

Before football takes over in four months (or earlier, if your fingers type E-S-P-N.com), watch some hoops. I'd suggest the NBA. Why? Because of something Edgar Allen Poe would say:

Beauty, of any kind, in its supreme development, excites the soul to tears.

- M.B., II

Winter Solstice

[Editor's Note: This reads as a tongue-in-cheek critique of commercialism or a new-Age script for Soylent Green. I did not mean for this to happen. I like other sports, but there will always be a special place for true hoop in my heart.]

I love the winter. I am a weirdo.

Winter is defined by its kinetic energy. There's no time to consider feelings and thoughts. It's too damn cold for that. Summer is for contemplation and nostalgia, winter for precision and spatial reasoning. It takes mental ingenuity to turn your living room into a beach volleyball court. Especially when a family trip to Barbados is not an option.

Summer is, in contrast, literally and figuratively warm. It's easy to wait your turn, spread your limbs, and allow the action to slide in your direction. Even the season's definitive sport, baseball, insists on patience. Wait, and catch the ball when it comes to you.
Winter demands that you pursue action. Or hibernate, if you can develop an immunity to cabin fever. Catch the object in motion, or better yet, trap the object in motion that stays in motion.

If you want to escape the cold weather, try basketball. Basketball is always moving, always active. Don't worry about warming your hands; friction is built-in. Feel free to make erroneous analyses or suspend judgment. Basketball understands. Basketball is forgiving. Basketball is frenetic, and knows that mistakes will be made. At times, it may be a little hot to handle.

If you want readily digestible basketball, I'd encourage March Madness for starters. It's a whiz bang form of competition, no different than an three-legged race or an episode of Supermarket Sweep. March Madness meaning making is in the moving pictures and corporate memes. Despite what they say, no prerequisite learning is required. This makes it much easier to applaud faceless shooters making jumpers in a well-lit garage. And by the time it all ends, you'll need a stimulus respite.
You're welcome, baseball.

- MB, II

LINSANITY

There is a poster of Allan Houston that hangs on my wall. It's tattered after its many hours in truck trunks and college dorm moves, with a hunk of Allan's jumper missing from the top-right corner. More than anything else, it signified my intense fandom for a popular but inept franchise.

In college, I bet my roommates that the Knicks would make the playoffs. That was freshman year. Something should have told me that gambling on Mardy Collins, the undead Anfernee Hardaway, and a guy who's best play is most conducive for NBA Bloopers than Inside Stuff was a harbinger for disaster. By senior year, I wore my Knicks shirt in the confines of my dorm, refreshed games on my laptop, and looked for hope in Allan Houston's crimped follow through.

But I did it. WE did. We kept hope alive. Enter Jeremy Lin.

Jeremy Lin is as much from China as I from Africa. He was born in Palo Alto, CA, same town as crazy James Franco, Condoleeza Rice, and the Grateful Dead. His Dad, a Taiwanese immigrant, saw the game, loved the game, and imported its core components. And we are all better for it.

On Tuesday night in Toronto, Jeremy Lin sat across from 75 reporters, 25 of Asian descent. Lin was given a stamp collection, and asked to record a message in Mandarin. He obliged. All of this happened before he took a dribble at the Air Canada Centre.Jeremy Lin is "WOW! YOOO! AHHHH!". Jeremy Lin is "BANG! BOOM! POW!". Jeremy Lin is young Busta Rhymes on a Tribe Called Quest track. I've never seen a city swoon so quickly for an athlete, so much so that folks are openly nervous over a certain superstar's return.

Does he have flaws? YES. Lin had 8 turnovers, and ranks second in turnovers during the month of February. But a closer look at that stat is telling: Lin is surrounded in this futility by Russell Westbrook (1), John Wall (3), Lebron James (4), and his prototype Steve Nash (5).

Can he improve? YES. Lin's got a ways to go before he reaches the rarified air of 50-40-90, the full realization of a guard's potential in the DiAntoni offense. Those are Steve Nash numbers. The gold standard.

I implore you: watch the man. Don't be afraid to cheer. And if at all possible, use words.

- M.B., II

Xavier vs. Cincy - Who's To Blame?

I happened to see the entire Xavier/Cincinnati game last Saturday in real time.

Well, almost the entire game. I happened to miss the fight, which happened to be THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF THE GAME. How was I supposed to know? Xavier was up by 20, so I walked away to make mincemeat out of my mountain of folded clothes.

Like any black man who remains leery of how mainstream media handles situations involving young black men in an athletic forum, I write this reaction based solely on my in-game analysis and the subsequent game press conference. I didn’t want to read any Op-Ed pieces to jade my opinion.

That being said, I take umbrage with a few people:

1. The Refs: I just so happened to watch this game on Saturday (as I was folding clothes) and stuck with it despite Xavier being up by 10-15 throughout the second half. Cincinnati’s always had a reputation for attracting athletes, and I knew of Mick Cronin because of Lance Stephenson – NYC high-school hoops legend, former UC guard, and current member of the Indiana Pacers’ farm team. There are worse things to do while folding clothes (like watch “X-Men 3: The Last Stand” on FX).

Fights just don't break out...there has to be a trigger. And there was. These guys were chippy all game - and the refs let a TON of stuff go. If you're an NCAA referee officiating this game, you KNOW these schools hate each other. And on the off-chance that you didn't even know that, you KNOW the star guard from the visiting team (Cincy) slandered the NCAA Player of the Year candidate (Tu Holloway) from the home team (Xavier). By the way, the home team is nationally ranked (#8), so people at home WILL be watching.

You've GOT to be aware and call the game tight. Even if folks get mad and complain on SportsCenter afterwards.

2. The Coaches: Re-watch the fight footage again. Why did both teams have their starting players on the court? Remember: Xavier won by 23. We should have seen scrubs litter the court; guys who wanted to play in the rivalry game and maybe score a few cheap ones.

This is why Mick Cronin doesn’t get off the hook, even though he publicly skewered his players in the presser, to the delight of basketball purists everywhere. Cronin should have pulled his starters. Game’s over. Give your kids a chance to cool down and save face before the handshakes.

3. The Xavier SID - If you're the Sports Information Director at Xavier, you CANNOT let you star player speak in the Court of Public Opinion (the media) five minutes after he was involved in a fight. How do I know this? Tu Holloway was still wearing his uniform. He's 18-21 years old. He just got punched in the face and cursed at. You KNOW he's still going to be heated. Call off the presser, take the heat, and save the face of your school.

4. The Arena Officials: Every NYC high school principal knows this: When two schools with a checkered past meet up, you MUST have security guards present. (Heck, when two schools are competing in a heated matchup of ANY sort, you’d better have security present.)

Look at the fight again: The only people holding the players back from beating on each other were coaches. Mick Cronin is no taller than Jeff Van Gundy. He's not stopping a 6'10'' Yancy Gates from clobbering someone. You don’t need the security guards to DO anything initially…but you do need them to BE there as a deterrent to chaos.
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UGH. Fortunately, this incident happened during the middle of an incredibly busy stretch in sports (NFL, Heisman, Sandusky, Fine, CP3 & Dwight Howard trades) so the media outlets are scattered about and can’t cover the fight with unabashed bias. Good.

By the way, I made ALL of these assessments w/o injecting RACE. I could have been describing 10 white guys fighting from some Division 3 school in Iowa. But don’t be fooled…race is present here (especially in the Mick Cronin presser) and it is REAL.

One's thing certain here: You can't blame this one solely on the black guys.

M.B., II

Mystery Cosby Theater 3000

"Whenever something looks good, it's compared to something that was good."

I was riding shotgun this time, talking television with my pal Smalls in his passenger SUV. In his early years, Smalls was a production assistant for a comedic titan on one of his spin-off prime time sitcoms. We always commute to work together, which gives Smalls time to dish advice to a kid walking in his tread marks.

"I had a deep respect for Mr. Cosby. We all did. Everyone on his sets were black, and everyone worked to the best of their ability. No one wanted to disappoint Mr. Cosby."

Smalls told those stories with a tempered patience, pausing only to make room for his innocuous laugh. He loved his time on The Cosby Mysteries and spoke of the show in reverential tones best saved for kings and potentates. It almost made me forget that Cosby Mysteries only lasted for one season.

Almost.How can a show with an iconic comedian die after a mere 20 episodes?

"Whenever something looks good, it's compared to something that was good."

In other words, the success of The Cosby Show is what doomed Cosby Mysteries. It's hard to fulfill such great expectations. If Lisa Bonet couldn't hold her own as a Cosby daughter, how could we expect her to carry lead on A Different World? Exactly. We couldn't. (And that's not even counting her dalliances with Lenny Kravitz.)

We're never going to get another Cosby Show, because our world has since evolved. 1982's America was ripe for a humorous but genuine expression of the black family. Bill Cosby was the man with the tools to tell the tale.

I say this in the context of "Reed Between the Lines", a show that appears a Cosby spin off sans the blessing of the comedic emeritus. Let's give it a chance. Sure, Malcolm Jamal-Warner looks exactly the same 20 years later. Yes, I know that his mock wife is Diana Ross's daughter. But give the show a fighting chance. Watch an episode. DVR the rest.

And maybe we can move towards creating another transcendent situation comedy.
BET's "Reed Between the Lines" - Season 1: Episode 1
The show opens with a steady pan of an open-air kitchen, with Dr. Alex Reed (Malcolm Jamal-Warner) cutting vegetables in the sink, alone. The action begins as Dr. Carla Reed (Tracee Ellis-Ross) strolls into the kitchen, looking at her husband with sultry, inviting eyes.

"Hey baby...oh, is that a sexy English professor I see cooking in my kitchen?"
Well, then. Was I the only one surprised the "Reed" pulled out the word "sexy" within the first thirty seconds of the new show? Bill Cosby would've NEVER let that word hit open air in Brooklyn.

"I am Chauncey, your personal chef."
"Oh, I forgot it was roll-playing night, but OK."
You know who just got totally hosed? Parents who let their kids stayed up for the premiere. Dang. How the heck do you explain "roll play" to your kids?

"Ummm....no honey, 'roll-playing' is a game where little monsters come out and tickle mommies and daddies. AND YOU CAN'T PLAY UNTIL YOU'RE MARRIED."

"I hope I can handle whatever it is your serving me..."
"A bed, a BAY-ed you say..."
You know what I hate? Bad Southern accents. Tracee Ellis-Ross sounds like a maniacal Polly Purebread. Or, better yet, like Kristen Wiig from SNL.

"You know what five minutes is? First place, last place."
Oh, clean humor! How I've missed you! We haven't been together since NewsRadio! I was SO afraid no one knew how to write you anymore!

"Mom, you leave your keys in the door again...Ohh."
This little girl is hella saditty. And yes, I used the word saditty without knowing what it even means.

(First commercial = "Where's the Beef?")
Dylan from Modern Family? This can only mean good things for Cosby Show 3000.

"Well, I just set up a blind date with a gentleman I met on the subway.
Wait a minute, how can that be a blind date?
Well, he can't see."
Glad to have Dee from "Wayans Bros." back in the fold. And she looks EXACTLY as she did TEN YEARS AGO as the police officer in the office building. Seriously. I flipped to MTV2 and checked.

Is there a secret laboratory that freezes supporting TV actors in carbonate? And is it owned by one of the Isley Brothers?
"It always has to be about you, doesn't it?"
Quick recall of the Dee/Wayans Bros. point: Our casting director is currently batting 1,000 and throwing strikes like Jimmy Key Dave Stewart in R.B.I. Baseball.

"Carla, no man should be friends with his ex. She couldn't seal the deal, and that's her problem!"
TELL IT GIRL! Men on Art just gave that line two snaps in a circle.

"OK...I LIKE SEX TOO MUCH!"
That's what she said. Or what Eric Benet said.
(I swear, BET really doesn't want kids watching this show. But isn't that like half your audience...gone?)

"That spinach salad was delicious. It's like there's a party in my mouth, and you're the DJ."
Every time I see the phrase "party in my...", I feel the irresistable urge to yell the word "TUMMY!" I blame this on DJ Lance.

“I’m texting…I don’t have to spell it right. You just have to do it right.”
This would be a great line for anyone not named Theo Huxtable.

"I'm making my famous Alex Apple Turnovers. But get this...I don't turn them over."
I don't get how this is humorous. How is sexual innuendo with a complete stranger funny in any circumstance?

Mom Reed: “I love art. And I love my family. And I really, really love my husband.
Baby Girl Reed: “Ooo, I can see that lady’s privacies! HE’S SHOWING HIS PRIVACIES TOO!”
I love how baby Reed is just running around pointing at naked art. I also like that high school kids go on class trips. We would've gone on trips in high school too, if our entire class wasn't hog-tied to our desks.

"No. Bourgeois people eavesdrop, I was straight up being nosey."
One of my criticism of black comedy has always been this: Is it possible just to write to an universal audience? To just BE funny? Does every joke need to address some hidden insecurity within the community? That's the greatest gift that Cosby gave: he showed America that blacks have the same problems and deal with them in similar ways that any family would.

“Women like that are fantasies. You are a reality.”
OK, so this is almost the same exact line that The Game dropped on their first day to BET. I'm beginning to think that acknowledging "wifey guilt" is a rite of passage.

“Professor…I seem to have lost my homework. Perhaps you’ll have to keep me after class to teach me a lesson.”
Tracee Ellis-Ross is the funniest person on this show. Hands down. But if we replaced Joan with Toni juuuuust for these scenes, do we really get a huge comedic drop-off?
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a guy. If you were in your underwear, that train has already left the station.”
Oh, Malcolm Jamal-Warner. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

“I look at other women all the time.”
SHUT UP! DON’T LET THEM CATCH ON! DON'T BLOW OUR COVER!
/meneverywhere

“Just because I look at the menu after I’ve ordered doesn’t mean I don’t want what I already have.”
This may be the worst thing to say to a woman with high heels in hand.

“I happen to be very happy with what I have, and I don’t need anything else.”
“So are you saying I don’t need to wear high heels to bed and dress sexy for you?”
“Hey, hey…let’s not get crazy.”
Glad they made this point. Women reading this: JUST BECAUSE YOU GET MARRIED DOESN'T MEAN ALL BETS ARE OFF.

“The Hamburger Helper hand came to life and started tickling me. I don’t like getting tickled.”

Overall Grade = C
When I was a kid, I was used to three things every morning. Toothpaste on my toothbrush. My clothes ironed and on my doorknob. And my Dad's Cream of Wheat every other morning.

There were days that the toothpaste hung off the edge of the brush, with the paste making stains along the bathroom sink, but it was still there. Some days my Mom would be too busy to iron our clothes. But we still had clothes to wear. Some days, when Dad stirred the porridge, it was lumpy and uneven in parts. But we still had food to eat before school.

"Reed Between the Lines" looks like my house on a typical weekday morning: Slightly uneven, a tad disheveled, somewhat sluggish, and lumpy in parts. Despite all these small idiosyncrasies, Reed will be dependable and consistent. And that's something worth fighting for.
- M.B., II

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

In the wake of Tiger Woods' resurrection, I'd like to promote a piece I wrote a few weeks ago for my boy Terrell McCoy's new sports cavalcade, Real McCoy Sports. The post can be found in its original state here. Feel free to stop on by, vote for us in Blogs with Balls' annual popular vote, and let TMC and the crew know how you feel about the general decor. Don't worry...I helped pick out the wallpaper.

Oh yeah, and while you're there...vote for me as your favorite sportswriter. If you do, there's a snow cone in my freezer with your name on it.

Tiger! You heard? Rory McIlroy just won the US Open!

Who?

ROAR-RIE MAC-EL-ROY. You know, the guy that you spooked back in April when you pretended to care about winning the Masters for a second. Just a second. You had me leaping for the TV remote for real. I postponed a date with my Mona Lisa just to see you finish the course. You hadn't played serious golf since "The Accident", but you still had those jokers shook. That South African won the Masters, but I know he changed his pants before the ceremony, you dig?

But yeah, Rory's the kid who folded like a lawn chair. Led for three rounds? Uni-brow? Can't blame you if you didn't notice.

Why should I care?

I don't know. Maybe it's because they keep comparing Rory to you.

Oh, really?

Yep. With the early major win and the talent and the long driver and stuff. Magazines are already setting money aside to write features about this kid - and they don't got no money! NBC had him sit down with their analysts at the Open. Cats were still playing in that DC heat, and this kid was talking to Hicks-y! Johnny said that Rory had "the best stroke he's ever seen"!

Don't sound so nervous. Half the country doesn't even know who - what's his name again? - RORY is.

You right man. I mean, Rory was rockin' a Jumeriah cap and Oakleys. Geez. Last folks I remember wearing Oakleys was those cops from Vegas in that Comedy Central show. And I couldn't even tell you what the heck a Jumeriah is. I'd bet anything those reporters just went onto their Windows 95 computers, dug out old golf articles, and put "Rory McIlroy" everywhere that said "Tiger Woods." Easy money.

See? You're starting to understand already. He may be hot now, but I was mercurial in '97.

You gotta help me remember Tiger. I was only 10 then. My pops told me that you wiped the floor with the kids your age three straight, and then applied for the PGA Tour. My Dad didn't know a golf ball from a donut hole then, but he knew talent. And he swears you've had it since Day 1.

(Laughs) Oh yeah, he must be talking about that segment I did with Bob Hope. Had no idea folks actually watched the damn Mike Douglas show. Your Dad needs a hobby or something.

Hey. Easy on the Dad jokes. At least he doesn't have trouble leaving voice messages.

No comment.

Anyway...my first memories of you were from those two Nike commercials. I have to admit, that first spot was pretty tight - after I got past your ridiculous "Bobby Bowden" hat. And then the second one, with the kids? I gotta give those corporate heads props for that.

It's really not that hard for them. I am Tiger Woods.

Yeah. You've proven yourself over and over again. I remember the Tiger Slam. Even though everybody is propping Rory McIlroy up as your newest rival, it's up to him to prove that he's nothing more than a paper tiger. One major title does not a legend make.

But you've got to come back man. I don't mind defending you, but it's starting to get tough. Can you at least win the Dubai Desert or something to shut these jokers up?

Don't worry. I'm only 35. I've got at least another 10 years in me. I'll be back in no time.

I hear that. And we'd better see that fast. Dust this kid off like you did Sergio Garcia.

But before you go, I got a question for you. I know we black folks love you, but do you love us? All that noise is just you looking out for your brand, right? I saw how you named your boy after ole Charlie Sifford!

(Smiles)...No comment.


M.B, II