A Breakdown of the Pacers Roster

Larry Bird is more excited than he's letting on.

You think it would be the opposite, but when a good team loses, the world seems to be splitting along its fault lines. Fans stick their heads in the oven and Kendall Gill suggests the Bulls "pick up another big man," as if there's a pile of them decomposing on Madison Ave. The Bulls lost at home without Luol Deng and Taj Gibson to a much-improved Indian Pacers team. No Taj Gibson means Brian Scalabrine, originally substituted for defensive purposes, ends up missing the potential game-winning shot. There are no mysteries surrounding the injury-free Bulls. They'll be back to the ECF against Miami, everything until then falls under "team building" or "ego stroking." The injuries are the only IF. We know how good the Bulls are when healthy. For that reason, the Pacers are much more interesting. How good are they really?* Below is my -- as always -- very serious opinion of each player on their roster.

* - Pretty damn good.




DAVID WEST - If you kept a close eye on West during yesterday's game you saw a player who was thoroughly enjoying himself. His overall demeanor -- big whooping laughs, reckless flailing of the arms, and childlike enthusiasm, gave the impression he was the Pacer most looking forward to avenging last year's playoff loss. Except West was not a member of last year's playoff team, yet still seemed to have a personal vendetta. West relishes contact. He's the increasingly rare player who doesn't mind fighting for a board and then puffing his chest out when he's accidentally smacked in the mouth. His toughness is a welcome addition to a team that was already pretty tough. I get the impression he tattooed the 'X' on his left arm himself.

DANNY GRANGER - So much of what the Pacers have been building the last three years is dependent upon Granger playing like a superstar. He'll churn in the occasional performance, like last night, where his stat line looks nice because he converts some easy baskets around the rim and hits three of his four three-point attempts. Then you see he missed three of his four 17-19 footers and got lit up by Ronnie Brewer on the other end and you just have to tip your cap on this particular day. The chaos he created ultimately worked to his benefit. Frustrating as it is, Granger will follow this game up with a 5-18 and five more turnovers. The Pacers always rebound and play solid defense, but they live and die with Granger's outside shot falling and that is not a particularly good spot to be in.

ROY HIBBERT - Hibbert broke his nose on Sunday and now wears the same style mask popularized by Rip Hamilton. There is no player in the NBA who looks better in a face mask. Hibbert always struck me as the horror movie villain. He's enormous, lumbers down the court in no particular hurry, and seems to be confused about everything except shanking the guy face guarding Granger. He probably owns a shed with a lawnmower and a chainsaw and a closet full of flannel sweaters. Hibbert looked confident in the post yesterday and his confidence on the basketball court is the most terrifying thing of all. His improvement spells disaster in the form of the frontcourt slasher film he released last night.

DARREN COLLISON - The Pacers are on the verge of contending in the East. They're good enough defensively to put a scare into someone in the second round. All teams on the verge are a piece or two away from being perennial conference favorites. Collison is the guy everyone thinks needs to be replaced. He's lighting quick but plays out of control. He can get to the basket, but doesn't have the strength or size to finish consistently around the rim. He's just there. A good player but not good enough for a team with title aspirations. His presence is a sobering reminder that in all walks of life, despite doing your job competently and occasionally brilliantly, you can always be replaced.

PAUL GEORGE - George is the Wild Card. He already is an excellent defender who, at 6'9 can guard positions 1-3. How his offense comes along will be the biggest question. Should George live up to his promise of being a 20 ppg scorer, Danny Granger all of a sudden becomes expendable. Danny Granger becoming expendable, I would argue, is a good thing. At the same time, if George stays an elite defender and never polishes his offensive game, the Pacers still got a steal with last year's 10th overall pick. Every year, a guy drafted in the 8-10 spot ends up becoming an impact player that a team drafting earlier foolishly passed up. George is that 2010 guy. In hindsight, you think Minnesota might have preferred him over Wes Johnson?

DAHNTAY JONES - Jones is the designated guy who is always overly excited on the bench. Good play by a teammate, better play by an opponent, it doesn't matter. Jones is happy to be courtside and he's happy to let his voice be heard, and he's happy to piss off the people who paid for front row seats because he's waving a towel in the their face all game. Every good team needs a guy like Dahntay Jones for no other reason than he gets under the opponent's skin. When Jones enters the game, the adrenaline rush could prompt him to lift a vehicle or rescue a child from a burning building. He'll probably turn the ball over trying to do too much instead.

LOUIS AMUNDSON - Enough with the ponytail. A ponytail has no place on a the basketball court (cue WNBA joke). At least Noah rectified his situation by opting for the bun. The bun looks even more ridiculous but at least curbs the problem of hair flying in everybody's face when jumping for a rebound. Here's my suggestion: like the NFL, ponytails in the NBA should be free game. If it's there, you can pull it without being assessed a foul. Amundson would think twice about trotting that stupid-ass look out onto the court if this was the case.

GEORGE HILL - Hill spearheaded the "Collison Is The Weak Link" Movement. Someone should have told him Collison's replacement is going to start in front of him too.

TYLER HANSBROUGH - I like Hansbrough. I know, as a Bulls fan, I'm supposed to feel the opposite. Nope. If you thought West relished contact, then Hansbrough worships it. Hansbrough brings a fullback mentality to the game of basketball, which is why he's so loathed. Fans appreciate style and finesse and Hansbrough possesses neither of those things. He's probably taken Adderall since age seven, which has permanently fixed his face into a stupid scowl, but also contributed to his laser-like focus. I'd love to go to war with this guy. I just wouldn't want to ride in the passenger seat of his Hyundai Elantra because he'd clearly have no problem driving over the median.

LANCE STEPHENSON - Regardless of records, it looks like the Chicago-New York rivalry is never going away. Bulls fans, I know, are enjoying the collapse of the Knicks. I'd prefer the Knicks be good because I'd prefer the games mean something. Anyway, Stephenson is the latest New Yorker supposed to be the "Next Big Thing" who, like the Knicks, has repeatedly face planted. So if you take joy in the continued failures of New York, look no further than Lance Stephenson.

A.J. PRICE & JEFF PENDERGRAPH - Oh Hey! Of course I recognize you guys. High school, right? Junior-year Spanish? No? Oh RIGHT! That time at the mall eating Sbarro. No? Listen guys, I've gotta run. It was nice catching up with you.

JEFF FOSTER - Fuck Jeff Foster.

Tom Thibodeau Responds To His Critics

OHHHHH. It must suck not being the head coach of the Bulls. I wouldn't know anything about that though.

It's come to my attention that a few Backers -- Boggers --Blockers --Bloggers? Bloggers? Is that how you say it? It's come to my attention that a few BLOGGERS have a problem with the way I've been running my team. MY team. Now look, I understand what it's like to be angry. I watched guys like Vinny Del Negro land head coaching jobs while I was stuck masturbating in the film room at 4 in the morning. Doc preached his ubuntu shit and hid fake hundred dollar bills in EVERY away stadium and the media loved him for it. I drew up the defenses anonymously. Do you have any idea what it's like to draw up a defensive game plan for the Lakers? Try to imagine willingly putting your foot in a crocodile's mouth, looking that crocodile in the eye as he lets your foot rest gently in the back of his throat, and then just sit there as he starts to nibble on your big toe nice and slow. Then the crocodile gets bored and offers your foot back. You want to run but you put it right back in there because that's what you have to do. The crocodile is having a little trouble biting down properly and then Ron Artest comes out of nowhere and hits a fucking three. All the sleepless nights, the shitty eating habits, the premature balding, and past success come to the forefront of your mind as you realize: There was nothing I could have done to prepare for that.

I was always a bit of an obsessive as a kid. I memorized numbers, particularly the years movies were released. The Sting - 1973. The Graduate - 1967. Scarface - 1983, the original version was 1932. Ask me any movie, I know it. Why do I tell you this, you ask? I...well...you see...sometimes I get sidetracked and before I know it I'm revealing embarrassing things about myself. You know, I treat basketball like I used to treat those movies. The finished product; title, release date, etc. was the important thing. I wasn't at all concerned about the actors. A good director takes what actors he's given and makes a hell of a movie. Sometimes his focus on a scene becomes so intense he forgets that one of the actors should not have been in the scene. Then by the time he yells, "Cut!" he hasn't the time or the money to go back and redo it. So the scene is filmed and it's already the end of the third quarter and I realize Derrick has played every minute of the game on a bum toe. Do you see what I'm saying? Work with me here. I'm not the best at conveying my thoughts.

My mother used to worry about me when I was seven years old. "Play outside," she said. "Your brain will turn to mush sitting in front of the television all day." I had no friends. Just a basketball, a ripped pair of jeans and perfectly respectable crew cut. I dribbled that ball -- boy did I dribble. I dribbled and dribbled and dribbled and I still wasn't any good. I used to bounce the ball off my foot and send it flying down the street. I ran after that ball and when I caught up to it I would start dribbling again. Inevitably, the ball would bounce off my foot again and I'd keep running for it. This WAS basketball to me. Lots of running. Constant motion. I loved the way the sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eyes. It stung. I enjoyed the pain. The pain was intense and good for me because I needed a different sort of pain to compensate for my lack of friends. I found running around all day with a basketball more than sufficient.

A couple years later, my mother became even more worried. "I'm worried you're going to kill someone, Tommy. I should have you committed." For Christmas that year I received a magnifying glass from my eccentric uncle. He told me, "Fame is a magnifying glass." I didn't understand the quote or its significance at the time, but I did enjoy the grotesque beauty of my magnified penis. The magnifying glass became my new companion. I took it outside with me, and, to my mother's dismay, dug around the garden. "That's not a garden hoe, Tommy," she yelled out the window. I pouted and stuck my tongue out at her and made my way to the front of the house. As fate would have it, another boy about my age, a boy I had never seen in my life, was riding his bike. He spotted my magnifying glass. His eyes lit up. "Cool," is all he could say.

This boy, Dennis was his name, showed me what magnifying glasses were really used for. We sat Indian style on the sidewalk and watched the ants go by. Dennis raised my magnifying glass to the sun. I watched as the sun beams reflected through the glass onto the pitiful creature. The ant, I thought, was dancing. What a fun time. "NO," Dennis said. "He's dying. We're KILLING this ant." My eyes lit up this time. Was that much control possible? Could I really impose my will on the universe? I watched as the ant withered and crumbled into the sidewalk. It was dead all right. We had ran it into the ground. I smiled bigger than when I received the Bulls coaching job. I couldn't stop smiling. My mother scheduled a psychiatrist appointment for me that day.

Running after basketballs for hours on end and accelerating the deaths of small, harmless animals were my childhood hobbies. Take from that what you will. Just know, I am always prepared. I will never let a Ron Artest situation happen again. Psychiatrists are not to be thanked. They bring to light all of your personal inadequacies, and worst of all, they make YOU tell them. Sure, I would love to carry you to the finish line only to have you hop off my back and break the tape yourself. I'm in control now. This is MY team made in MY image. They like playing through injuries because playing through injuries is what basketball players do.

Write your blogs and air your grievances. Last year it was Keith Bogans. This year it's playing time. Next year it will be something else. I'm trying to see where ya'll are coming from but the light reflecting off of my Coach of the Year trophy is a bit blinding. See you in June, suckas.          

Scalabrine Minutes

Brian Scalabrine strips away the familiarity and comfort of his Chicago Bulls home warm-up. It's time to go to work.

Brian Scalabrine, by virtue of playing on an NBA team, will forever be confounding. His game is not the confusing part. Scalabrine is a moderately skilled player who, at this point in his career, does nothing on the basketball court particularly well. His value is as a locker room guy -- a guy who keeps the other players loose and helps them understand the system he knows in and out. Scalabrine, by all accounts, is a sharp basketball mind and a future head coach. The NBA is filled with smart bench players. Why is it that Scalabrine is the only one who receivers standing ovations?

The popular explanation deems Scalabrine "the human victory cigar." He only plays when the Bulls are blowing their opponent out. His entrance into the game then makes it official: the Bulls have secured a victory. When the UC crowd chants for Scalabrine, they're really just chanting for the game to be wrapped and delivered. There's of course more to it than that. What makes Scalabrine different from the 12th man on the bench in every other city is his appearance. The curly red hair, pasty skin, pot belly, and lack of athleticism are the traits you'd give your 2K Created Player because they look funny. He's the exact opposite of what a prototypical NBA player is supposed to look like. Seventy-five to eighty percent of the UC crowd on any given night bears more resemblance to Scalabrine than any other Bulls player, and people like rooting for players they look like. Appearance-wise, what truly separates Scal from the crowd is his height, furthering the popular fan delusion that they too would be a professional basketball player if they were 6'9.

To Scal's credit he doesn't seem upset over the increasingly patronizing chants. He only cares about the respect of his teammates and coaches and dismisses his name as one that "just sounds good coming off the tongue." Bulls fans have been debating about the "Scalabrine" chants since last year. Some consider them harmless fun and others feel they are embarrassing and racially motivated. Race and overall appearance, I believe, do play the biggest factor, but if Scalabrine isn't offended and his teammates aren't offended, then let the crowd chant. Scalabrine and the chants aren't going to disappear anyway.

This is what I came here to talk about: Scalabrine is seeing more playing time this year. It's been strange. Last year, even with a 20-point lead, the "Scalabrine" chants fell on deaf ears. This year, the "Scalabrine" chants are followed by Scalabrine checking in. Could it be? Has Thibs finally started to soften up and concede the game is in hand? Of course not, the rotation is just different this year. You probably don't remember and neither did I, but Scalabrine was part of the regular rotation early last year. He appeared in only 18 games on the season and played 87 total minutes. Forty-nine of those 87 minutes were in the first five games of the year!

Carlos Boozer's preseason injury left minutes open at power forward and Thibs favored Scalabrine off the bench over Kurt Thomas. Boozer returned and Thomas played well in Joakim Noah's absence, leaving Scal as the odd man out. This year, rookie shooting guard/small forward Jimmy Butler occupies Thomas' old roster spot. When it comes time to clear the bench, Scalabrine gets the call because he no longer has three guys playing in front of him.

The reconstructed roster then, more so than a condensed schedule or Thibs' loosening his authoritarian grip, is the reason Scalabrine has appeared in 8 of the Bulls' first 16 games. So if Scalabrine minutes are your favorite part of the Bulls game,  thank Kurt Thomas for taking his forearm shivers and silky smooth elbow set-shot to Portland. Send him a "Thank You" card. Or a telegram.   

John Lucas III's Historic Night

John Lucas III made his first NBA start Wednesday night in place of Derrick Rose. The game was everything you would expect from a contest between the Wizards and the Rose-less Bulls playing their third game of a back-to-back-to-back. That is to say, a perfect game for Lucas to make his NBA debut. There were plenty of bad shots, sloppy turnovers, and JaVale McGee goaltends to go around. Lucas' teammates were noticeably frustrated at his attempts to play isolation ball and reach the 40 shot mark. But who cares? The Bulls won and Gail Fischer interviewed Lucas after the game. Wiping the sweat from his forehead he panted, "I was just trying to contribute out there. My teammates have confidence in me." I don't know about all that but his performance was certainly a cause for celebration in a less than illustrious NBA career.

With increased playing time comes the ability to rack up personal achievements, and John Lucas did just that. Interestingly enough, his record numbers corresponded with some lesser known numbers relating to the evening.

POINTS - 25

25 - Number of minutes it took for Lucas to gain clearance into the United Center. Lucas was stopped by a security guard three hours before tip-off and asked for identification. "What for?" he responded. "I'm on the team." The security guard did not believe he was a member of the team. Lucas' calls to Tom Thibodeau, camped in the film room since the end of last night's game, were unsuccessful. An unidentified employee of the UC was finally able to interrupt Thibs' masturbation session to a clip of a perfectly executed pick-and-roll defense by pounding on the door loudly. Thibs vouched for his starting point guard and Lucas was allowed to enter.

FIELD GOALS MADE - 11

11 - Number of times a Chicago sports columnist led today's piece with, "It's a good time to be a three. Only one month removed from Robert Griffin III's Heisman Trophy acceptance speech, fellow Texan John Lucas III ... (and later) It's safe to say, there's a new sheriff in town.

FIELD GOALS ATTEMPTED - 28

28 - The number of dirty looks Ronnie Brewer gave Lucas during the Wizards game after Lucas opted to fling up a difficult shot rather than pass to Brewer for the open mid-range jumper. Also, the number of minutes (+1) Joakim Noah was on the bench.

REBOUNDS, ASSISTS - 8

8 - Number of "cousins" who called or texted Lucas after the game asking about tickets for "that Thunder game." Lucas was a star player for the Oklahoma State Final Four team in 2004 and gained a number of fans and admirers along the way. He does not, however,  recall having any cousins by the names of Ohcumgache and Buster.    

MINUTES PLAYED - 46

46 - Mike James' original jersey number. The Bulls signed former NBA journeyman and current D-Leaguer Mike James hours before tip-off to back up Lucas. The equipment staff acted quickly and were able to secure a number 46 jersey for James with his name etched on the back. Sensing he may pick up some garbage time minutes, James decided it would be best for any future basketball endeavors if he was not associated with this game in any way. He snuck into the locker room and replaced his jersey with a nameless number 14 and entered the game with 42 seconds to play.

Sheek Louch - Turkish Love

When the Bulls acquired Omer Asik on Draft Day 2008 in a three team trade with Portland and Denver, not too many Bulls fans noticed. The draft was already half-way into the second round and Jay Bilas, fresh out of measurements, sat in silence as Adam Silver basked in the glory of being David Stern without the vitriol. The Bulls had already made a more important acquisition that night, some might say. So important, the prospect of a 7'0 Turkish center who wasn't coming over for a few years anyway hardly seemed like a pressing matter. In the meantime, an exciting playoff series with Boston and the real possibility of signing LeBron James held us over. When Asik did come over in the summer of 2010, the reaction to his arrival bordered closer to indifference than any other concrete emotion. Kurt Thomas signed and figured to steal the majority of the backup center minutes. And how was Omer Asik pronounced anyway? I'm not sure anyone knew, and some of us still don't. We discussed him though and spoke about what we perceived to be his strengths and weaknesses -- all without seeing game tape or hearing a proper pronunciation of his name.

Asik was the great unknown two summer ago. The 7-footer who could solidify the second team's defense or the guy who wouldn't play at all. We had no idea. Did he speak English? It certainly didn't appear like it. When he did see the court, he was an easy target. He tired easily and attempted layups with the touch one might expect from the World's Strongest Man. He fell for pump fakes -- EVERY pump fake -- and looked so dumbfounded doing so he called into question the legality of pump fakes in Turkey. Then something clicked for Omer. He realized his size was his greatest advantage and the team was best served when he parked in the lane and stood straight up. By playoff time, Asik was a legitimate force off the bench, and arguably the second team's most important player. His block numbers don't jump out at you -- 2.0 Per 36 last year.* His value was in the number of shots he altered. Opponents driving to the basket struggled shooting over Asik and trying to get around him in mid-air. His presence in the lane was a big reason why the bench almost always extended leads last year and why Asik finished playoff games against the Heat and continues to finish games this year. Last February, most Bulls fans were more than willing to part with Asik for Courtney Fucking Lee. I think their opinions of him have changed. Asik is more than a Stacey King pun. He's a legit work-in-progress who would start for a number of teams in the league right now.

* - According to Defensive Rating, a statistic used to measure an individual player's effectiveness on defense, Omer Asik is the 7th best player in the NBA. Defensive Rating is not without its flaws. A player's rating is influenced significantly by the players around him. For instance, Carlos Boozer is rated 13th among all players, and 76ers players (the best defensive team in the NBA thus far) occupy spots 1-5. Still, this is a pretty reliable rating system and I find it telling that Asik is the Bulls' top-rated defender.   

I bring this up because Asik demonstrated his limitless potential on a single play yesterday. Early in the second quarter, John Lucas dumped the ball into Asik in the post and without hesitation he sunk a 12-foot hook shot over Kevin Love. It was a beautiful moment, and to my knowledge, the best scoring play of Asik's NBA career. Then I got to thinking: why can't he consistently hit that shot? Sure, he has NO touch and would probably have trouble consistently catching the entry pass, but I don't think developing a 12-foot hook shot in the offseason is too much to ask. Couple that shot with a few offensive put backs and Asik could easily average 10 points per game as a starter. The conditioning, defensive awareness, and free throw shooting should come with time. This sounds great, right? Well, maybe not.

Asik's contract is up after this year and even moderately skilled 7-footers in this league GET PAID. The Bulls can extend a qualifying offer to him worth about 2.3 million but it's unclear if he will accept it. Asik can accept the qualifying offer and become an unrestricted free agent in 2013, or decline the qualifying offer and become a restricted free agent after this season. He'll stand to make much more than 2.3 million dollars per year from another team, so declining the qualifying offer would be wise. Should he decline and become a restricted free agent the Bulls can match any contract offered to him. But if Asik gets a sizable offer like I think he will, the Bulls probably won't be in a position to match it. Asik has shown glimpses of his potential on both ends and it's possible that potential will be realized in a different uniform.

In many ways, Asik is still the great unknown. We don't know if he'll ever develop serviceable post moves, or if he'll be playing for a team that even needs him to score. We don't know if he'll be able to stay out of foul trouble playing starter minutes. We don't if his hands will improve -- a problem that costs him one or two easy baskets a game. We do know he's already one of the best rebounding and defensive centers in the game and it's kind of scary to think where the Bulls would be with only Noah and an unproven backup. This unnerving thought could be a reality next season.                       

The Inevitable Tandems

Superstars change teams. A year and a half ago, following The Decision, 'pundits' tried to convince us otherwise. The most popular and definitive of statements to come from the mess: "Micheal Jordan never would have done that." 'That' being the most vile and disgusting atrocity one man could commit against another, verbalized in an all-too-serious tone. LeBron James' arrival in Miami was supposed to signify the end of competitive balance in the NBA and usher in an era were the league's superstars placed money (even though James took a pay cut), a desirable place to live, and playing alongside friends above winning. Winning, supposedly a player's sole concern in the good ol' days, is an easy concept to trumpet when players aren't making as much money or afforded the same less-restrictive free agent policies. These buzzword-driven discussions in the summer of 2010 didn't mean much. They all became different ways to say, I DON'T WANT THE BEST PLAYERS IN THE LEAGUE PLAYING FOR THE SAME TEAM, unless these players happen to collude their way on to the team I root for, in which case, I'm all for it.

Carmelo Anthony was last year's high profile player attempting to switch teams. Rather than wait for free agency, he sped the process up. He demanded a sign-and-trade because he could make more money signing the Nuggets' extension than signing as a free agent with the Knicks under the new CBA. Despite his selfish motives, I still thought he was doing the kind thing. He made it be known he wasn't going to resign with the Nuggets so they could get something in return for him. Denver did acquire a nice haul and to this day, various people on Twitter brings up how successful the Nuggets have been since they traded Carmelo. Cleveland was left with Antawn Jamison and no 2010 draft picks when LeBron left. Anthony to the Knicks was viewed as another instance of superstars teaming up.

Chris Paul was this year's Carmelo. He never explicitly stated where he wanted to go, but made it known he wasn't resigning with the Hornets. When news broke he was heading to the Lakers, the same outrage directed towards LeBron and Carmelo was not there. Part of this was probably due to the fact Kobe was no longer in his prime. David Stern, by vetoing the trade, also took plenty of heat and discussion away what the Lakers team would have actually looked like. When the Paul deal with the Clippers was finalized, the reactions were anything but disappointment. People were excited. LOB CITY! This excitement, no doubt, was motivated by the potential to see exciting basketball. But why not the same complaints of superstars teaming up? Is Blake Griffin not viewed as a superstar, or did the Clippers franchise, the NBA's model of futility, ease the burden? They're the Clippers, how much of a threat could they possibly be?

Dwight Howard has always been a popular target for criticism. He smiles too much. He's too nice. He can't control his temper. He's too mean. He doesn't have a post game. His entire persona is contrived, in the same way Shaq's was. He's bolting to LA to follow in Shaq's footsteps. Like Shaq, despite dominating the league, we'll speak of Howard in terms of what he could have been. Well, Howard developed a post game. He's curbed his on-court temper. For what it's worth (nothing), he's not smiling as much anymore. Unlike LeBron, Howard and Paul have been absolved of the blame surrounding their team's shortcomings. Where LeBron is typically accused of not getting it done with a good enough bunch, Howard and Paul are victims of incompetent front offices. For this reason, in addition to the general public's desensitization to superstar movement, Howard isn't being killed for wanting to switch teams.

I can't help but laugh at the talk surrounding Howard, though. No one is mad about Howard wanting to switch teams, but they are mad about which teams he wants to go to. His wish list is reportedly limited to the Nets, Lakers, and Mavericks. In IDEAL-NBA, where winning is everything, Chicago seems like a no-brainer. The Bulls have tradeable assets, including a center to replace Howard in Orlando. They have the best point guard in the league to complete a duo that makes more basketball sense than any of the other superstar pairings. But Howard doesn't want to go to Chicago. Speculation ranging from Howard's ego to Adidas' secret motives to Rose's disinterest in recruiting have all been used to explain away Howard's 'faulty' decision-making. We're back to square one. People cannot comprehend that a basketball player could be motivated by something beyond winning a championship immediately.

Save for his free throw shooting, there is very little observers can criticize about Howard's game anymore. He's developed the low post game his fans and detractors have been clamoring for. His mere presence practically guarantees a Top-5 defense. He is the NBA's best rebounder and at times its most dominant player. All that is left to bitch about are his team choices, which feels funny looking back to the negative feelings surrounding superstar movement only two summers ago. It seems that fans of the sport have accepted that superstars will change teams to play with other superstars. Then question becomes, how entertaining will these partnerships be for me, the fan? Fans, I think are no longer falling for 'good ol' days' sentiments that were never true to begin with. They feel superstars teaming up in desirable markets is almost inevitable, and just ask that these tandems make basketball sense.

These Are Our Heroes

The Bears promote Mike Tice to offensive coordinator. 

Jay Cutler likens a successful offense to driving a car. A REAL one, not one of those hybrid pussy-repellents.

Mike Tice cannot think of a more apt comparison, and plans to incorporate this knowledge into his pregame "Light a Fire Under Their Asses" talks.

Caleb Hanie fell asleep in Driver's Ed classroom because he just wanted to drive, man. And when is he ever going to use this stuff in the real world anyway?

Mike Martz enjoys a white wine spritzer. He's working on that screenplay he's put off for far too long.

Lovie Smith locks himself in the office in preparation for next season. Then he discovers Xvideos. Nice little website they have there. He dials home, "I'm going to be in late tonight, honey! Don't wait up!"

The Packers are still the best team in football.

Punching A Hole

I examine the hole in my wooden closet door. It's staring back at me, laughing at my sadness and anger and momentary lapse of judgement. It taunts me everyday in a way only damaged personal property can. I open that closet door everyday to grab the day's clothes and there it is, smirking. I open that closet door later in the day to retrieve a pen, and the hole chuckles. I examine this hole and it looks like a poorly executed scoop of ice cream.* The brown-colored wood is not dark enough to pass for chocolate ice cream. A thin horizontal crack runs over the top of the damaged area to further punctuate the sadness which led to this hole's creation. It's only been here for three days and I already cannot stand this fucking hole in my closet door. This hole is pissing me off more than what led me to put it there.

*Upon further review, the hole also resembles the outline of Hitchcock's face in the intro to Alfred Hitchcock Presents...

I've always prided myself on being a fair, level-headed sports fan. I don't let team tribalism affect my ability to enjoy other players or teams or the sport as a whole. I couldn't imagine taking shit-talking beyond some good-natured jabs, much less swinging on someone because they don't support the same team I do. I don't let the outcome of a game ruin my day. I'm barely even nervous or frustrated while watching because I'm doing just that, WATCHING. The teams I root for have been on the good and the bad side of the score plenty of times and neither outcome has changed anything about my life. My view goes: sports are a diversion. A beautiful, time-consuming diversion from things like work, bills, illness, taxes, and spirituality. When serious, non-diversions cross over into the sports realm, as they often do, I become bored quickly. I just want to see the ball cross the goal line or put through a hoop.

I struggle to maintain this calm and collected ideal while watching college sports. I don't know why this is, but I always manage to lose my shit while watching the University of Wisconsin play football or basketball. Maybe there's more of a connection there because I walked the same campus as the athletes. I have just as much right to take pride in the school's name as they do. Maybe it's the lower skill level or the absence of 5-year 50 million dollar deals. I don't know. I've though about this often and have never come to a satisfying conclusion. All I know is I'm more invested in the outcome of college games even though, if given the decision, I'd much rather see the pro teams I root for win championships. Which makes the way I acted during the Rose Bowl so puzzling. These are real thoughts, quotes and adamant beliefs I expressed during the game:

Oregon is cheating with those shiny helmets. The sun is reflecting off them and making it difficult for the Wisconsin players to see the ball.

"Oh, fuck you Musburger, you insinuating son of a bitch." In response to Brent Musburger pointing out Wisconsin's sideline was in the shade, while Oregon's was roasting in the Pasadena sun.

Sure, it's easy when you're only 800 fucking miles away from Pasadena.

"Phil Knight is buying a championship for Oregon. The program would be completely irrelevant without him. No players would want to go there."

"That's a hold!" After 95 percent of Oregon's plays from scrimmage.

These are just the ones I remember. Point being, I said and thought some stupid things in the middle of the game that I wholeheartedly believed at the time. Then I see Jared Abbrederis -- the most dependable player on the team, the player I would specifically put in the ball in the hands of if I wanted to make sure it would NOT be turned over -- fumble the ball with the game on the line. The football stopped and lay dead like a fumbled football is never supposed to do. It fell to the grass and did not even make an effort to squirm out of bounds. The football lay there for what seemed like 30 seconds for an Oregon play to come and swoop it up. An Oregon player did swoop it up. "HE DIDN'T HAVE CONTROL," I shouted as the replay clearly demonstrates that he did have control.

Wisconsin gets the ball back at their 13-yard line with all of 16 seconds and no timeouts. My faith is nonexistent. Russell Wilson completes a pass to Abbrederis to the 42-yard line. The clock stops until the ball is set. Wilson completes another pass, this time to Nick Toon, down to Oregon's 25. My faith skyrockets. Surely, they can do this. Only 25 measly yards. But the time, oh I forgot about the time. Only 2 seconds. Not enough time to spike it. They'll have to run to the line, snap it and hope Oregon's secondary is the more confused of the two units. There's Russell Wilson, and he's spiking the ball. Zero seconds are on the clock. "ONE SECOND," I yell at the TV. The replays show the ball is still in Wilson's hand when the clock runs out.  Even my dilapidated brain is processing the information correctly. Wisconsin just lost a second straight Rose Bowl.

I calmly got out of my chair walked over to the closet door and punched it harder than I've ever punched anything before. Then I walked out, no emotion or feeling whatsoever, like I used to do after punching the old time cards at work. I didn't notice the damage until a couple hours later. My first thought was how could this have happened? Me of twelve-year-old-girl strength is not capable of punching a hole in a wooden closet door. But apparently I was because I was staring right at the fucking thing. When that thought sunk in I became ashamed. I had let the game become more than a game. What if the closet door had been a small child wearing an Oregon jersey? If they could see this closet door now, my loved ones would surely be embarrassed for me, a sober 24-year old who reacted like someone half his age would to a stupid football game. Like Michigan State, like Ohio State, all I wanted was a proper last play. A final chance to keep the ideas of glory and shared athletic experience alive.

I don't remember a single thing about last year's Rose Bowl. I remember the Badgers lost to TCU and the final score was 21-19. That's it. I very likely repressed the memory of that game. This year's Rose Bowl will not be so easy, mainly because it was such an amazing game. Oregon's speed and athleticism countering Wisconsin's bruising runs. De'Anthony Thomas. Montee Ball. Kiko Alonso. Russell Wilson. LaMichael James. A dizzying pace, two great offenses waiting for the other to have a letdown, an improbable fumble and last second spike that incredibly was even an option. I don't think I'll forget this game. If I do, there's a hole to remind me.