Would You Name Your Child After This Man?

Tony Campana has looked uncomfortable at the plate all season. He's batted .262 in 33 games, including two doubles, but generally doesn't offer much but a threat to bunt. Campana did enough in Monday's 7-3 win over Colorado, singling in the 3rd, and working his at-bat long enough in the 4th to allow Geovany Soto to score on a wild pitch.

In center field, however, is where Tony shines. Not because he's a particularly good fielder, although his speed does allow him to cover a bit of ground, but because he's not alone. Tony has friends, and plenty of them in center field.

This is nothing new. The bleacher bums love embracing their outfielders, especially the undersized, overachieving ones that have "Career Minor-Leaguer" written all over them. Tony was drafted by the Cubs in the 13th round of the 2008 Draft. He's stolen 144 bases in his minor league career, and carries a cumulative average of .303. Not bad, but he's still 5'8 and doesn't hit for any power, and has been told countless times he'd never make it. Adversity! That's the ticket.

I presume, it's difficult to boo him because of the adversity he's overcome. Even if his on base percentage continues to hover around .300 (from the 2-hole), Tony is well aware of his get-out-of-jail free card. One has to look no further than the different ways Soriano and Campana interact with the fans to witness the sort of privilege Campana enjoys.

Soriano and the left-field bleachers play a little game. "How many outs Sori," the fans yell, and Soriano more often that not obliges. He waves his index to indicate one out, and his index and pinky to indicate two. Sometimes he'll turn around and watch the crowd. His willingness to engage is usually determinate on his performance. It's unclear, to me at least, the purpose of the "How many outs" game. I've sensed the left-field bleachers feel Soriano will likely forget the number of outs, and are just trying to keep his head in the game. Or maybe they're seeking the thrill of a celebrity response. Can I get a retweet?

Beyond the number of outs, Soriano is generally disinterested in what the fans have to say. He carries himself as if he's heard it all before, probably because he's heard it all before. Or he doesn't understand English too well. I don't know. He seems to get the most joy out of tossing the third out into the crowd. He waits for everyone to stand up and get frantic and teases a few people before pointing to the lucky winner. I suspect he enjoys imposing his will on the game within the game. And tossing a ball is easier than hitting a 1-2 slider in the dirt out of the park.

Thirty-three games later and Campana is still reveling in his new found celebrity. Fans in left center and right center (mostly in right) shout things that I cannot make out. Tony seems to hear them just fine. He's the type of celebrity that takes all autograph requests. It doesn't matter if his reservation is in five minutes, there's people that came to see him, and these people need things signed. Tony flashes his boyish smile as if a female fan offered to blow him after the game. She might have, I can't hear what they're saying, remember. And then he does the cutest thing. He waves at a young fan. Not with his free hand, but with his glove. That big bird's nest of a thing. He'll do this a number of times and the 25-year old will look thirteen doing it. He can hit .150 and you still can't boo him. You just can't.

A drunk woman stands up and makes slaughterhouse-appropriate sounds. Tony smiles at her too. Jesus, this kid is a saint. "Tony," a guy yells. "I'm naming my first-born son after you." Tony laughs and is probably blushing. He has the best job in the world and now will be the namesake of someone's child.

Rockies catcher Chris Iannetta hits a high fly to short center field. Campana camps under it and records the final out of the game. Right center begins chanting Tony's name. The Cubs won and a bunch of people would rather cheer for him. Take your time getting healthy, Marlon. Tony could use a few hundred more friends.

Jimmy Butler and the Heroic Journey

David Stern stepped to the podium. With the 30th overall pick the Bulls select Marquette senior Jimmy Butler. Before mentioning physical attributes, collegiate accomplishments, or anything basketball-related, the ESPN analysts tripped over themselves to peddle "The Jimmy Butler Story: Great Kid, Great Story." Butler's childhood adversity, happy ending and inimitable spirit were the talking points. Similar to Derrick Rose during his MVP campaign, Butler's demeanor will probably take on a life of its own. Chad Ford even took the time to recommend Butler's story to all of his Twitter followers -- the story he wrote.

At first glance, Butler's transition from homeless, to adopted family member, to professional athlete seems like the basketball version of The Blind Side. But look closer and you'll find the elements of Joseph Campbell's monomyth, often referred to as the "Hero's Journey."

In his seminal 1949 work, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell argued that all cultural myths share the same fundamental structure. The monomyth also holds up when applied to contemporary works of fiction. Campbell describes three sections of a hero's journey: Departure, Initiation, and Return. Each section includes a number of stages that need to be completed in order to move on to the next section.




http://www.whatmyworldslike.com/


We're currently at the end of the "Departure" section of Jimmy Butler's journey. The lumps he takes against NBA-caliber talent will serve as his "Initiation" stage. Employing Maricopa Community Colleges' nice summary of Campbell's "Departure" section, here's how Butler's life parallels the Hero's Journey.

DEPARTURE

1. The Call to Adventure: The call to adventure is the point in a person's life when they are first given notice that everything is going to change, whether they know it or not.

Butler's mother kicks him out of the house at age 13. A hero's journey cannot truly begin until he or she is separated from their comfort zone, which in most cases, is family.

2. Refusal of the Call: Often when the call is given, the future hero refuses to heed it. This may be from a sense of duty or obligation, fear, insecurity, a sense of inadequacy, or any of a range of reasons that work to hold the person in his or her current circumstances.

Butler initially has trouble finding a home to harness his abilities. He bounces around from friend to friend. Extraordinarily, to his credit, Butler's refusal of the call is not due to his own fears or insecurities, but of those around him.

3. Supernatural Aid: Once the hero has committed to the quest, consciously or unconsciously, his or her guide and magical helper appears, or becomes known.

Butler meets Jordan Leslie and develops a friendship with him. After much hesitation, Leslie's mother decides to take Butler in. With a roof over his head, support system, and structure in his life, Butler is afforded enough stability to harness his basketball talents. Depending on your perspective, Leslie or his mother could be the supernatural aid, or both.

4. The Crossing of the First Threshold: This is the point where the person actually crosses into the field of adventure, leaving the known limits of his or her world and venturing into an unknown and dangerous realm where the rules and limits are not known.

Butler leaves behind the high school and Juco scrubs and heads to Marquette University. He finds it isn't as easy to score at the next level. He struggles to find playing time and his coach Buzz Williams is harder on him than any coach he had ever played for. Butler wants to come back home.

5. The Belly of the Whale: The belly of the whale represents the final separation from the hero's known world and self. It is sometimes described as the person's lowest point, but it is actually the point when the person is between or transitioning between worlds and selves...By entering this stage, the person shows their willingness to undergo a metamorphosis...

The transition from amateur to professional basketball. Butler's possible rookie struggles will likely serve as the "low point," and continue into the "Initiation" section. His metamorphosis is from an orphaned teenager to a solid NBA player.

* * *

Butler spoke to reporters about his defense after the draft, "I'm going to guard. I think that's where I'm going to make my mark in this league. I'm going to put in that work to be able to guard LeBron and Dwyane Wade." A heroic endeavor indeed. 

Big Z's Burden

Carlos Zambrano breaks bat over powerful left leg; sends chunks of wood flying.

Zambrano isn't the first or only baseball player to break a bat over his leg, but the act is most commonly associated with him. Pure, unbridled rage is how some choose to view this act, and really, Z's career up to this point. Similar to how Dennis Rodman used to take off his jersey and whip it into the stands after being ejected, Zambrano's bat-breaking takes on the same measure of unpredictability. Rodman could fling his jersey into the stands one hundred times without incident, but that 101st time could very well be the day he chooses to manufacture his jersey into a self-made noose and ring the neck of the nearest fan. Zambrano breaks his bat into two even pieces and does nothing more than bang them together as if to call his dog in for supper. But would anyone be surprised if he tossed them at an unsuspecting spectator, or even threatened to attack Houston pitcher Jordan Lyles with the sharp side?

This is what many of the media types would like for you to believe. That Zambrano is uncontrollable, and an inherent ball of rage. His spats with Michael Barrett and Derrek Lee, his demolition of the Gatorade machine, and his other scattered tirades over the last 11 years serve no greater purpose. They're simply who he is.

Wrong.

Consider Zambrano's most recent bat-breaking incident: May 31st against Houston. Zambrano had given up 5 hits through the first 5 innings, including a solo homer in the 4th to Brett Wallace; the only run on the board at this point. Surely, he senses this might be one of those solid performances wasted because of lack of run support.

Blak DeWitt leads off the bottom of the fifth with a double. Tony Campana sacrifices him to third. Geovany Soto strikes out with one out and a man on third. With the pitcher batting next, the RBI was Soto's responsibility and he failed. But Carlos Zambrano doesn't view it that way. After working the count to 2-2, Zambrano stuck out on the fifth pitch of the at-bat. His anger and subsequent bat-breaking were most likely directed at himself for not getting the run home. Even though that RBI should have been taken care of by Soto. Such is Big Z's burden.

National League pitchers aren't expected to hit. They are expected to pitch well and then be able to lay down a sacrifice bunt when the situation arises. This is why so many of us can become flummoxed when we see Zambrano put so much pressure on himself to succeed at the plate. We don't expect pitchers to hit, and therefore, pitchers shouldn't expect to get a hit either. But Zambarno prides himself on being a complete player because, by nature, he's accustomed to placing the burden on himself.

Not to rail on Sammy Sosa, but Sosa was content with going 1-5 with four strikeouts, a home run, and a fielding error. He recognized his role as an entertainer, and as long as he hit long balls, he was doing his job. Hitting a home run is an individual accomplishment. It helps when people are on base, and pitchers definitely change their approach (i.e. more or less hittable pitches) based on the merits of the rest of the lineup, but a teammate cannot hit a home run for their teammate.

Carlos Zambrano cannot win a game without the help of his teammates. They need to make the routine defensive plays and an occasional spectacular one, and they need to provide a decent amount of runs. Players like Zambrano, who look to assert themselves in every way they can, are uncomfortable with the amount of control afforded to them. I'm not suggesting that Zambrano doesn't trust his teammates, but that he places an unbelievable, even unrealistic burden on himself to succeed. When he doesn't see the rest of his teammates do the same, it frustrates him.

Here are a few quotes from ESPN's "Zambrano Apology" article to illustrate my point. These comments came a day after Zambrano's now infamous rant in which he criticized Marmol's pitch selection and said the Cubs were playing like a Triple-A team.

"I really feel for this team. I think sometimes I care too much. I just want this team to do good. I don't like to be in this position where we keep losing and keep losing, and we don't do nothing about it. I just want to win with this team and do the best I can."

Zambrano speaks like a man who takes the Cubs' failures personally, even though he's been one of the lone brights spots this season. Also notice the apparent disconnect between him and his teammates, "I think sometimes I care too much." As opposed to his teammates, who don't seem to be as bothered by losing as him. I can't help but read "I think sometimes I care too much" and feel like Zambrano is condemning himself. As if being passionate about winning is a bad thing.

"I have a mission here. I've said it since I've been in the big leagues, and that mission is to win with the Cubs. Anything can happen in the big leagues. Anything can happen in the next two months. The previous two months we didn't play well, we didn't pitch good."

Say what you want about Zambrano, but he's been intensely loyal his entire career. It's rare in today's athletics to see an athlete intent on winning with a particular franchise.

"It's not over yet. Believe me guys, it's not over for the Cubs."
              
Even the most optimistic of Cubs fans don't feel this way.

Zambrano hasn't always handled things well. The less-mature Zambrano probably would have strangled either Ramirez, Marmol, Lopez, or all three, after the game. He instead took the more diplomatic route, going to the press, and was blasted for that as well. While Zambrano probably didn't need to call out Marmol by name, his comments were veracious and necessary. Some folks haven't come to Zambrano's defense, I suspect because they mistake his anger for selfishness, rather than an unparalleled will to win. 

Imagine making it your life mission to win with a franchise that is best known for finding every conceivable way to lose. That is the self-imposed burden Zambrano walks around with all day. Live like this for eleven years. How even-keeled would you be? 

A Wolf In Genie's Clothing

The day has finally arrived. Shaquille O'Neal has decided to retire and I'm overcome with the sentiment I always thought I would be: It's about time. Shaq's beaten and bloated body checked out three years ago. His media personality -- the attention-seeking egomaniac that cunningly masqueraded as a charming quote machine has run its course. At age 39, Shaq finally retired and don't think for a second that his timing -- a Wednesday, on the day off between NBA Finals games -- was not strategic. He wanted the spotlight all to himself, and the media will undoubtedly comply. It's the least they could do, really, for someone who provided week's worth of headlines and talking points during his 19-year career.

I'm probably being too harsh on Shaq. For all of his perceived character flaws, he was a tremendous player. Probably the most physically dominant basketball player I've ever seen. My appreciation for Shaq's offensive prowess divvies up nicely into three parts, which coincide with his stints in Orlando, Los Angeles, and Miami.

I was five years old when the Magic selected O'Neal with the first overall pick in the 1992 Draft. Growing up, I remember hearing about the physically imposing presence that Shaq was. He unabashedly dunked on his opponents, he brought down backboards, and did so because he was so much bigger and stronger than everyone he went up against. According to the people around me, Shaq was basically a brute. He dominated more because of his strength, almost in opposition to a fruitful set of basketball skills. This partly accurate understanding seems to have stuck.

When Shaq joined the Lakers in 1996, I was mostly preoccupied with the Bulls. Shaq's turn-of-the-decade championship years were when I really started to pay attention. I was intrigued by Shaq because he was still the most physically dominant player in the League -- capable of 30 and 15 every time out -- but possessed skills that I rarely heard people talk about. Sure, many if not most of his points were catches within five feet that he easily threw down. But I remember Shaq's footwork in the post being much more advanced than I would have thought for someone his size. I also thought he was never properly credited for his excellent touch around the basket. This was also around the time when team's began employing the "Hack-a-Shaq" philosophy. Shaq will always be remembered for his poor free throw shooting, mainly because sending him to the line in the early 2000s was the only chance you had at containing him.

Shaq joined the Heat in 2004 with plenty left in the tank. He almost won the MVP after his first year in Miami and was rewarded with a 100 million dollar contract. He began to break down the following year and was never truly the same. Shaq could no longer play major minutes and had lost some of the underrated athleticism that made him more than just a dunker. Forced to contribute in other ways, Shaq became a great passer, particularly out of double-teams in the post, and was a huge reason the Heat won the title in 2006.

O'Neal's last three years have rubbed me the wrong way. He was dealt to Phoenix and made some disparaging remarks about his teammates and coach in Miami on the way out. This was Shaq's specialty through out his career: he burned bridges everywhere he played, and disregarded the efforts and importance of the star player that played alongside him; and even non-teammates such as Yao Ming and Dwight Howard who threatened to take his spot as the next big thing at the center position. He blatantly chased championships during the last two years of his career in Cleveland and Boston. All of this has been swept under the rug though because he's Shaq. And the good-natured, 7-foot goofball couldn't possibly be in it for any other reason than to dunk a few basketballs and share a few laughs.

* * *

It's time to open up "The Box." "The Box" is a white, 16 x 25 cardboard box that weighs roughly 15 pounds and sits atop my bookshelf. It is filled with basketball memorabilia I collected during my childhood, mostly between 1993-2003. I start digging around inside whenever I feel the urge, or something like Shaq's retirement happens. I found a few interesting Shaq artifacts.

Here are a couple of cards from Shaq's Lakers days. Notice the way the back of both cards focus on his size and strength. Click on all of these pictures to enlarge.

The only player with a 40-20 in each of the first two games of a Playoff series. When you accomplish something having to do with points and rebounds that Wilt Chamberlain didn't, you're other-worldly.

In 2000-01, O'Neal scored 974 more points than any other center. By contrast, Dwight Howard led the League in scoring amongst centers in 2010-11. He scored 111 more points than Brook Lopez.

Here's a Shaq action figure. He's donning his 1993 NBA All-Star jersey. This once belonged to my brother. Hopefully he's not still looking for it.

And a Shaq basketball (the signature is not real). I remember taking this ball outside and playing with it once. Then a voice inside my head said, "What the fuck are you doing, Joe? You're going to want this to be in good condition so you can look at it when you're older." Foresight.

This is a Shaq rookie card in which he yams on Alonzo Mourning. Mourning probably got away with the foul.

Also making an appearance: Ol' Jud Buechler from the back-lookin' Tom Tolbert.

Remember me? I was the bald white guy that used to annoy the shit out of you during halftime before Jon Barry. Suck it, Jon. You'd be unemployable if it wasn't for me.

Shaq rookie card equipped with shiny, silver encasement. I thought this one would be worth at least 50 bucks. I saw it on eBay for as low as $1.25.

            
Shaq should be a controversial figure. Instead, he endeared himself to the media early and kept fans wrapped around his finger. Shaq was great at deflecting his own personal shortcomings into funny quips. He was also a hell of a basketball player, and a cultural icon. We'll remember him mostly for the latter two, and it's probably better that way.

"That's It."

Peep the relaxed pose. I thought we had Game 5 in the bag.

Shock would be the appropriate word. The manifestation of "shock," especially amongst a large crowd will often turn raucous, and even violent. No such uprising occurred within the one hundred or so people filing through the Madison St. exit via the Third-Level United Center seats. Replace the Bulls jerseys with sports coats and fedoras, and you have an atmosphere reminiscent of the opening scene of Modern Times. Only one major difference: the figurative sheep in the movie are heading somewhere (to their grueling, soul-sucking factory jobs), and Bulls fans are leaving. Essentially walking away from the 2010-11 season.

In stark contrast to the ending of any sporting event, the mass is mostly silent, save for a few murmurs. Even if they wanted to discuss the game, it's unclear if they even knew what just hit them. Probably not. A teenager at the bottom of the stairs digs into his black backpack. He pulls out a Dirk Nowitzki jersey and throws it on. One guy begins to chant, "Nowitzki, Nowitzki..." He doesn't know the "W" is pronounced as a "V."

The symbolism is clear: Dirk Nowitzki will save us from validating the Miami Heat's season. They were good enough to beat the Bulls, but if they choke in the Finals? That would be almost better. One year down, five more to go. But Dirk Nowitzki isn't adding to the Bulls trophy case and the mass knows that. The Mavericks can win the title and it might make some of them feel good momentarily, but it won't change the fact the Bulls will end the season with practically every trophy except the one that matters.

The Nowitzki chants slowly fade as the man realizes no one is chanting along with him. But perhaps most amazing, is the teenager wearing the Nowitzki jersey expects no acknowledgement. He didn't try to play to the crowd or search for approval. He simply put the jersey on and continued to walk. His own one-man protest. But did he think the Bulls even had a chance at Game 5? Was the Nowitzki jersey just a precaution or the acceptance of an inevitable defeat?

After about ten minutes of silent waiting, my girlfriend and I squeeze into the #20 bus. We grab the two available seats closest to the driver. A massive woman with sad eyes and a shower cap atop her head sits across from us. She takes up two seats.

"Who won?" she kindly asks me. I can't tell if she's a sports fan, but I detect a tone of indifference in her voice.

"Not us," I mumble. I have the tendency to do that.

"What?"

"The Heat," I say.

"Oh," she responds softly.

In a strange way, her presence is very comforting. If anything, she reminds me that this isn't the end of the world. There are people, in the city of Chicago, on the bus outside of the United Center at that, who could care less about the outcome of this game. We don't say another word to each other for the rest of the ride.

"It's alright, we just need a little help," a man who steps onto the bus a few stops later says. "We just need to get rid of Boozer and we got three picks this year. We just need to get that boy [Rose] a little help." If it was only that easy.

As I step off the escalator up to the second floor of Ogilvie Train Station a man in a suit approaches me from my right. He takes one bud out of his ear and asks if the Bulls won. I tell him they didn't. "What?" he screams, as shocked as he is angry. A man to my left confirms, "The Bulls lost?" I nod my head. They both go on their way.

I'm the bearer of bad news. The guy in the Rose jersey intent on bringing everyone's mood down. Kill the messenger. Tomorrow is Friday for God's sake.

My girlfriend is in line at Dunkin' Donuts. I lean against a trash can. The confident, "I'm with the GOAT" swag from the picture above has disappeared. I feel like an extension of the trash can. A woman sitting near me is bundled in blankets from head to toe. She must have at least three blankets wrapped around every inch of her body. She has three blankets, a small coffee, and a beige handbag. It takes her a moment, but she is able to adjust the top half of her first blanket enough to peek her head out.

"Did we win?"

"No," I smile.

"So that's it?"

"That's it."

It took uttering those two (three?) little words to finally accept what had happened an hour ago. This was it. I remembered back to last summer when this current roster was being constructed. I remembered scouring the Internet, hoping for the latest news, or amusing myself with some of the rumors. I remembered, as the season drew on, feeling the Bulls would win every game they played. I hadn't felt like that since 1998. I remembered thinking, sometime in February, that the Bulls were good enough to win it all.

I realize now that I've never felt so strongly about a team as I do this one. The 1990s Bulls were an inheritance. I wasn't alive during the down years and too young to remember the battles with the Pistons. I was lucky enough to be born in 1987 in the state of Illinois. My childhood coincided with the second half of Michael Jordan's career and some of the greatest teams in NBA history. My childhood was the Bulls and I did nothing to deserve it. I was simply born in the right place at the right time.

The 2011 team felt more like a well-deserved promotion. I continued to support the Bulls through the 2000s and this year's team felt like repayment for the ups and downs (mostly downs) endured over the last decade. If any fanbase could claim to have paid dues, it's Bulls fans born into the glory of the 1990s who continued to stick around through the 2000s. On the Jumbotron before the game they showed a mix of highlights from the Championship teams and juxtaposed them with the 2010-11 highlights. Knowing already this wouldn't be they year, I nearly cried. A successful Bulls team, to me at least, is more than just having fun and watching good basketball. A successful Bulls team is a large chunk of my childhood and it's that feeling that I always hope can be recreated.        

On the train ride home I pondered the different ways to write about this game. I thought about what I believed to be the slanted calls in the third quarter, the deja vu moment when Rose missed his second free throw to tie the game (I was at the December 18th game against the Clippers when Rose missed the game-tying free throw with less than a second left), fuckin' Boozer, our lack of 4th quarter offense, the unbelievable way LeBron took over the 4th, etc. It wouldn't occur to me until the next day that the only way I could appropriately write about this game was to relay the moments after and the interest this team garnered, even amongst people who probably didn't watch a game all year.

I attempted to give the Bulls a standing ovation moments after the game ended. I stood and clapped alone. Maybe it looked too much like I was applauding the Heat, or maybe others weren't willing to follow the lead of a man screaming obscenities all game. Either way, I felt the Bulls' season-long effort deserved to be recognized. This was never supposed to happen. But somewhere along the line, all of us became so convinced this was the year.

My girlfriend and I stepped off the train and made our way to the 7-Eleven across the street. Dark and nearly one in the morning; the traffic lights were turned off. All we saw were a bunch of flashing red lights. Kind of fitting. My brother had parked the car in the 7-Eleven parking lot. He sat against the hood smoking a cigarette.

"How did ya like that third quarter?" I asked.    

Remembering 1.7 Percent

Let me preface this post by stating, with the exception of the statistics, I don't believe a word of it. If that makes me less of a Bulls fan to the blind faithful, then I'm OK with that. Unable to sleep last night, I began thinking of ways to curb the sting of being down 3-1. This was the best I could come up with. They are a bunch of numbers that have no bearing on the outcome of a basketball game, but I'm hoping they can put things in perspective for some fellow Bulls fans. They didnt' help me sleep at night, but they may make someone feel better about the situation.

1.7

Let's start with the most glib number of all: 4 percent. Teams down 3-1 in the Playoffs have a 4 percent chance of winning the series. Of the 200 teams that have been down 3-1 in a series, 192 of them went on to lose that series. But there have been eight to pull of the impressive feat, and here they are (the home teams are bolded):

2006 - Suns over Lakers (Western Conference First Round)

2003 - Pistons over Magic (Eastern Conference First Round)

1997 - Heat over Knicks (Eastern Conference Semifinals)

1995 - Rockets over Suns (Western Conference Semifinals)

1981 - Celtics over 76ers (Eastern Conference Finals)

1979 - Bullets over Spurs (Western Conference Finals)

1970 - Lakers over Suns (Western Division Semifinals)

1968 - Celtics over 76ers (Eastern Conference Finals)  

1.7

While the odds aren't good, 6 of the 8 teams to come back from 3-1 were the home team, just as Chicago is. Obviously, 2 home games of a possible 3 remaining would seem to be an advantage. But notice that only 3 of the 8 comebacks were from either the Western or Eastern Conference/Divison Finals. One would suspect coming back in the later rounds would be more difficult, considering the competition would likely be tougher. This actually isn't the case. 

1.7

Let's start with the glib again. For nine straight years, the NBA has seen a Conference Finals series start 3-1. In each year, the team down 3-1 has lost. Five of those teams have forced a Game 6, and four have lost in five games. None were able to force a Game 7. Since the NBA began playing Conference/Division Finals as a "Best of 7" format in 1958, 47 series have started 3-1. Of those 47, 25 ended in 5 games, 14 went to a Game 6, and 8 went to a Game 7.

1.7

Three of the 47 teams (1981 Celtics, 1979 Bullets, and 1968 Celtics) were able to defeat their opponent after falling behind 3-1 in the Conference/Division Finals: good for 6.4 percent of the time. Two of those three were the higher-seeded team, even though 5 of the 8 who forced a Game 7, were the lower-seeded team.

1.7

To recap, teams down 3-1 in the Playoffs win their series 4 percent of the time. Teams down 3-1 in the Conference Finals win 6.4 percent of the time. Higher-seeded teams are less likely to force a Game 7 in the Conference Finals, but more likely to win a Game 7 if they can force it.

1.7

Bringing us to 1.7. You most likely knew the significance of the number, but if you didn't, here's why I've typed it at every paragraph break. In 2008, coming off a disappointing 33-49 season, the Bulls finished with the 9th worst record in the NBA, and were given a 1.7 percent chance of landing the 1st overall pick. The Bulls, of course, won the pick and drafted Derrick Rose. The improbable occurred and the future of our franchise was forever transformed. Had the odds held up and the Bulls received the 9th pick, they probably would have chosen between D.J. Augustin, Jerryd Bayless, or Brandon Rush. Try to imagine how successful the Bulls would have been the last three years substituting Rose for either of those three.

The moral of the story is the odds don't always hold up. Bulls fans should know better than any NBA fanbase about pulling off something deemed impossible. If a dream with a 1.7 percent chance can come true, 4 or 6.4 percent doesn't seem all too bad, does it? The games need to be played, just as the lottery balls needed to be chosen. Sure, there are hundreds of thousands more factors that go into how a game can be decided, versus basically the luck of the draw in the lottery. But if 1.7 has taught us anything, it's that "ANYTHING IS POSSIBBBBBBBBLE." Am I really going to end the post like this? Yes. Yes, I am.          

Choose Your Words Wisely

Chris Bosh followed up an atrocious Game 2 with the best game of his career. He scored 34 in a variety of ways: midrange, off the dribble, pick and rolls, on Chicago's reeling defense. The benefit, to me anyway, of Bosh going off, is that reporters can ask Wade and LeBron about him. Naturally, they wanted to know what changed. Did he prepare any differently for Game 3? To which Dwyane Wade offered a glimpse into Miami's pregame locker room routine. Wade revealed that while most of his teammates play music before games, Bosh keeps to himself and reads a book.

This newfound information excited me. Attempting to read a book while a group of grandiose, self-important individuals make noise sounded a lot like my freshman year of college. Maybe Chris Bosh and myself aren't so different after all!

My thoughts shifted focus. What books could Bosh possibly be reading before a big game? The sociologist in me was hoping for something totally unexpected. Hopefully a piece of literature so far removed from my comfortable opinions about Bosh that would force me to reconsider everything I ever thought about him. Maybe Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? Roots? Lolita? The Odyssey (pictured above)?! There had to be more to Bosh than the soft, insecure, player with the strange mannerisms and a habit of getting all LL Cool J and licking his lips in a perfect circle.

In early May, Shandel Richardson of the Sun-Sentinel wrote about the differences amongst the Big Three. Bosh's love of reading and art, as well as his quiet nature were what Richardson felt set him apart from Wade and James. From the article:

...James and Wade are on their iPods listening to hip-hop lyrics in the locker room during pre-game. A few feet away, Bosh is plugging his headphones into his iPad, usually reading a novel or a book that teaches mental toughness.

The bolded was the answer I was looking for, but not exactly hoping for. So Bosh was reading a book or novel about mental toughness? That basically falls in line with Bosh's narrative up to this point. The article also mentions Bosh is a huge Harry Potter fan, by the way. I realize that saying a book is about "mental toughness" is ridiculously vague. Roots can largely be read as a novel about mental toughness, for instance. But doesn't this mental toughness business scream of self-help? Is Chris Bosh reading self-help books before games? More power to him if he is.

I was hoping for something that would put me on my ass. Like when I saw Andrew Bynum was reading Drown by Junot Diaz. No such luck this time around. It's still pretty cool that Bosh reads before games, though. As a coach, I probably wouldn't want my star power forward reading Lolita anyway.

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Mr. Joakim Noah has found himself in some hot water after directing a homophobic slur to an unruly fan while on the bench. Hint: Noah said, "Fuck you, faggot." "Fuck you" is fine nowadays. But "faggot?" Not so much. Here's the video:

Noah was fined 50 thousand dollars for his words and expressed regret in his conversation with openly gay sportswriter Kevin Arnovitz. I was watching the incident with my brother, girlfriend, and a friend. We were originally split down the middle about whether Noah was directing his rage towards himself or someone else. It seemed unlikely, at least to myself and my friend, that Noah would snap at a fan. I'm pretty sure he's heckled ferociously everywhere he goes.

Noah was most likely frustrated that he had just picked up his second foul in the first quarter. The fan apparently said something about his mother. I'm sure he's heard insults about his mother before, but combined with an ineffective start to an important game, the moment got the best of him. Obviously, Noah was wrong. He was wrong for using the word he did. He was wrong for paying a heckling fan the time of day to begin with. Unfortunately, the fan in question will face no repercussions. A small percentage of paying fans at every game feel the price of admission affords them the privilege of saying whatever they want to players and coaches. Other than Sam Amico's "One Free Punch rule," there isn't much the NBA can do. It's up to players to control their emotions, Noah couldn't, and was caught on camera.

What worries me is that this incident received as much attention as it did solely because a homophobic slur was involved. What if Noah had called the guy a dick? The NBA probably does nothing. While I commend the NBA for running ads and addressing offensive incidents such as this one, Noah's slur was only part of the problem. Heated fan-player interactions will outlast whichever form of ignorance our country is preoccupied with fighting.