Endangered Hoops

So as of today, Michael Jordan is now 48 years old. Forget the indifferent arguments that he could still play today; the man is old. And he’s getting older. Creating some type of MJ tribute almost never works and that’s mostly because the man has been the focal point of an unimaginable amount of post tributes. I still remember watching the time leading up to his second retirement in 1998. As a slight showcase of how iconic he really is, we stopped school to watch his retirement. When SportsCenter brought those old “Jordan Moments” out, I was there leading the 6th grade class in a unified homage. I still have the tapes.

But sooner or later, he will reach a point – if he hasn’t already – where he no longer resembles what we want him to. For now, we will continue to look back in the past at the expense of the future. Normally, running with such talk is stupid. But since today is February 17 and since today is another born day for the Greatest Athlete of All-Time, I will allow it.

Lets head back to Sports Illustrated – I’m sorry about the redundancy – to bring a nice story on His Airness from the fabulous Frank Deford…

Even allowing that we might overstate the point, it is not uncommon for the most memorable of our athletes to reflect their times. Certainly, the Babe was at one with the Roaring Twenties, just as Jackie Robinson perfectly represented the grand societal advances of the postwar years, and as Ali and Billie Jean so symbolized the turmoil of their period. Likewise, Michael Jordan is not merely so extraordinary for what he does. He also has been the right, best athlete for us now, for this relatively serene and altogether prosperous fin de si�cle, when the United States rules alone, as much superculture as superpower.

Read the entirety of the story here…

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

What once was.

You feel old? I do. Sports can do that to you; it’s like one morning you wake up and everything you grew up with is old, aging or just plain forgotten. Call me obsessed. I seem to talk about this stuff a lot. But life would be worth nothing if it meant forgetting the past.

This morning, Philadelphia Magazine posted one of the more jarring and intimate looks into what it means to be a “has-been.” In this case, the subject is Allen Iverson. Written by Robert Huber, it’s one of the more honest evaluations of the once mighty star turned fallen victim:

Does Allen Iverson have a prayer of making it here? People who know him in America, or think they do, seem to find the idea laughable. How do you go from practically living in casinos and drinking heavily to Istanbul?

“I’m not like I was when I was in Philly,” Iverson says, “when I was 21. I didn’t have five kids. I didn’t have the responsibilities I have now.”

His old teammate Eric Snow tells me he knows Iverson wants to get back to the NBA. But Iverson says no. He’s done that, had his career there. He’s in a new place now, a city and country that have embraced him. There are millions more fans out there, all over Europe, that he can play for. And that’s what he intends to do, because the truth is, Allen Iverson has nowhere else to go.

Gerard Rancinan/Sports Illustrated

This was so fantastic, it reminded me. Flashbacks.

Predictably, the greatest story ever told on the Answer was written around the peak of his powers (2001) by a guy named Gary Smith, who just so happens to be called the greatest sportswriter on the planet. With varying reports coming back from Turkey, some saying Iverson can’t fit in and that the team is disappointed in his play and others offering up rays of light for an adventure that was supposedly destined to fail, this is as good a time as any to dig back into the Archives for a look by Sports Illustrated at the women in both Allen Iverson and Larry Brown’s lives…

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Two women waited in a tunnel, outside a door. Light danced off the diamonds dangling from the black one, and a red rose jiggled in her hand. She was 39. She couldn’t stand still. The white one stood by the wall, unornamented, holding her 92 years and her silence.

The door began to open and close. The younger one sang out greetings to the tall men coming out. Both women’s eyes stayed fixed on the door. At last the two shortest men of all exited the locker room. One wore the tailored suit, short gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles of a tenured professor. The other’s hair was stitched in cornrows, his skin covered with baggy clothes and tattoos. It was unusual that they walked out together. They had always been so far apart.

“That’s my boy!” cried the younger woman. “My baby won the game!”

“That’s my boy,” the older woman said quietly. “He coached the game.”

The women turned to face each other for the first time. “What’s your name?” said the younger one.

“I’m Ann,” said the older one. “I’m Larry Brown’s mother.”

“Oh my God! My name’s Ann too!” hollered the younger woman. “I’m Allen Iverson’s mother!”

Read the rest of the story here…

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

It’s probably impossible to accurately create a new way to define Kobe Bryant. He’s been the subject of countless sit-downs, millions of published articles and too many great covers to even remember them all. But at his essence, he’s a murderously effective basketball player and no one captured that more memorably than Sports Illustrated’s Chris Ballard did during the Lakers run to the Finals in 2008.

With the Lakers reeling (sort of) as they come into their hyped Christmas day matchup with the Miami Heat, the spotlight will once again – as it always is – be on Kobe Bryant and his between-the-lines battle with LeBron James and Dwyane Wade. Going strictly off this beautifully-written piece, I think he enjoys that.

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A great moment in humility it was not.

After scoring 25 of his 27 points in the second half of Game 1 of the Western Conference finals last week against the San Antonio Spurs, Los Angeles Lakers star Kobe Bryant said of his strong finishing kick, “I can get off” — that is, score at will — “at any time. In the second half I did that.”

Granted, Bryant was just being honest, but tact would dictate that he let others say such things about him. As you may have noticed, though, Bryant isn’t big on tact. Time and again over the last decade he has announced the particulars of his awesomeness. As teammate Luke Walton dryly puts it, “Kobe does not lack for confidence.”

Read the full story here…

No, there is no rivalry between the Boston Celtics and New York Knicks. That doesn’t mean there can’t be. But, right now, at this very moment, it’s stupid. Media hype. So upon downplaying tonight’s ESPN (7 p.m.) matchup between the Knicks and Celtics, I will now bring it back up to speed. New York is playing as well as they have since the days of Ewing and Starks and the main culprit for that is Amar’e Stoudemire, whom you may not have heard (kiddin’) is playing like the MVP of the entire League.

In the second installment of The Archives, Sports Illustrated’s Kelli Anderson takes us on a trip back to when Stoudemire was just a rookie…before the fame…before the injuries…before everything…

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Of all the reactions you’d expect from a 20-year-old NBA rookie whose coach just told him, “You got Shaq,” a canary-swallowing grin is not one of them. But unmistakable joy, even mirth, played over the face of Phoenix Suns power forward Amare Stoudemire as he planted a forearm in Shaquille O’Neal‘s back late in a recent victory over the Los Angeles Lakers. Earlier in the season the 6’10″, 245-pound Stoudemire had delivered a vicious dunk over the L.A. Clippers’ 7-foot Michael Olowokandi, dominated All-Star Kevin Garnett in a 38-point, 14-rebound performance against the Minnesota Timberwolves and leveled Paul Pierce as he drove to the hoop, leaving the Boston Celtics’ swingman with two broken front teeth. But Stoudemire didn’t know if he’d be so fearless when he finally confronted his hoops idol. “If I was going to be intimidated by anyone in this league, it would have been Shaq,” says Stoudemire. “But I wasn’t. I enjoyed every minute.”

Read the full story here…

Tonight’s matchup between the Chicago Bulls and the L.A. Lakers has me extra juiced for me than one reason. Yes, two of the best from each conference are matching up with each other, each with someone to prove: the Bulls need a measuring stick to see exactly where they are, minus Carlos Boozer, and the Lakers have played just three quality opponents all year, losing to a few of them. Not only that, but I’m interested to see what Derrick Rose does against a team as long and as athletic as the Lakers. His growth throughout the past year as a player and leader has been startling. Tonight will be his toughest test yet this season.

In honor of this, I decided to dig through the crates and find what I feel is the best piece I’ve read on Rose, his family and his roots. For those of you who are Dime fans, you may remember it was published in the 50th issue of the magazine (August, 2009). Written by Dime’s Austin Burton, the story takes the reader on a journey back to Murray Park, back to the South Side of Chicago.

This will be the first post in what will amount to an ongoing series of fantastic past work done by writers, authors, photographers, etc. Sometimes, I might post some of my own work. But usually, it’ll come from other sources. There is no timetable, no set periods for when I will do this. It’s more or less just because I enjoy reading great stuff…

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This is full circle.

Early Monday morning in the Englewood section of the South Side of Chicago, and Murray Park is alive. There’s the dude who just got out a week ago, Obama tattoo on his right bicep and cell-block muscles on every other visible inch of him. There’s the busty chick with two different hairstyles on her head and a pair of Nefertiti-like eyes tatted on her breasts. There’s the tall dude with four gold chains and waves that would put any R&B singer to shame. A couple of older female cops mill around, but they don’t seem too worried about anyone here. Little boys wearing basketball shorts and wide-eyed stares come through. And lots of teenage girls, armed with camera phones, trying to get a snapshot of the young man who isn’t much older than them, the man everybody is here to see: Derrick Rose.

The 20-year-old star of the Chicago Bulls is the prince of these streets. Born and raised a couple of blocks away from the park over on 75th Street, this is the court where Derrick threw up his first jumper and honed the crossover that would later drop NBA point guards on their asses. This grass field is where he began his comically brief baseball career, hurling fastballs and robbing base hits. This sidewalk on the West side of the fence is where he used to race his friends, sprinting up and down the block, sometimes with no shoes on, showing off the speed that would later carry him past Chris Paul and Deron Williams on the game’s most hallowed courts. In the summer of 2008, more than 200 people gathered at the park to barbeque, play ball, and listen to the radio as the Bulls chose Derrick with the No. 1 pick in the NBA Draft.

“Whoever got a warrant, get out of the picture!” yells Derrick’s older brother, Reggie Rose. He’s joking. But not really.

Word spreads quickly that “Pooh” is back in the ’hood, starring in his first solo magazine cover shoot as a pro. Although it’s well before noon on a workday, this impromptu block party is about 60 strong. Maybe an hour ago, it was more like seven. …

Read the full story here.