The Zach LaVine Conundrum

After I openly questioned the Bulls moves over the summer of 2021, they went and got really good really fast. To the point where in early-January, they were playing at a sixty-win clip—a stunning turnaround for a team that had won just 31 games the year before.

But as is so often the case, gravity showed up and asserted itself. Injuries smacked the Bulls around like a right uppercut from Mike Tyson. Brutally efficient, they didn't even wait for the season to get ten-games old.

The first Bull to go down was young forward Patrick Williams. Beginning just his second season, Williams was being counted on to provide some scoring heft in addition to his emerging defensive chops.

But in game-five against New York, Williams was felled by a wrist injury. It kept him on the bench for five months—or until the Bulls' freefall was well under way.

The talented-but-fragile Lonzo Ball lasted until mid-January. He, as much as anyone, was responsible for the Bulls' sudden ascent. His knack for disrupting opposing offenses created fast-break opportunities, which fed right into the Bulls' transition-oriented offense.

Such a fast-paced offense served to minimize the Bulls' height deficit up front and masked several defensive deficiencies.

As of Ball's last game (Golden State January 14^th) the Bulls stood at 27 – 12 and were in the thick of the battle for the Eastern Conference's top seed. From that point on, they went just 19 – 24, landing with a thud at the sixth seed.

And exactly one-week later, (Milwaukee January 21^st) fan-favorite Alex Caruso sustained a wrist injury. The same physical, gutsy play that endeared him to ticket-buyers also seem to guarantee he will miss portions of every season.

Caruso's injury knocked him out for two-months. And that was after a COVID protocol removed him from service from just after Christmas until two days prior to his fateful encounter with the Bucks.

With three long-term injuries to critical personnel, it's not really much of a puzzle why that sixty-win pace couldn't be sustained.

And yet there was one more injury that would befall the Bulls. Piling on? Absolutely. Life in the NBA? Absolutely.

Zack LaVine, the centerpiece of the long-ago Jimmy Butler trade with Minnesota, had become an all-star caliber player. He excelled in transition and was never afraid to take the big shot. A rising talent? Without question.

Except for one thing. LaVine has a bad knee which resists easy diagnosis. In his contract year, it must be driving LaVine to distraction to have his knee go bad now.

While he never missed the block of time so many of his teammates did, LaVine's knee impacted him even when he played. It neutered his first step while introducing a previously unknown element of hesitancy in his game.

Max contract? Huh. What was once a no-brainer is now one steeped in second thoughts.

How bad is his knee? Would LaVine accept a less-than-max contract loaded with incentives? If not, how would it impact his value in a potential sign and trade? Even in the worst-case scenario, would the Bulls be able to replace him at a similar salary?

Despite LaVine's resolute language about exploring free-agency, his leverage as been dealt as big a blow as the Bulls'. After all, who wants to hand a max contract to a potentially damaged superstar? Especially with Anthony Davis' stay in L.A. so fresh in everyone's mind?

In many ways, LaVine and the Bulls are stuck with each other. They can't adequately replace him without incurring the luxury tax. LaVine would suffer a giant financial hit by signing elsewhere. Unless revelatory news arrives about LaVine's knee, I have to feel interest in him will be fraught with reservations. The question of which Zach are we getting looms large.

If LaVine is serious about getting out of Chicago, the Bulls should be able to extract significant recompense for their twenty-seven year-old superstar. You know, like the Sixers and Nets did for theirs last year.

Right?

On the other hand, would the absence of LaVine conceivably free-up Nikola Vucevic? Speed the development and consistency of Coby White? Ayo Dosunmu? How about Patrick Williams?

Despite his offensive fireworks, LaVine is not much of a defender. In a purely theoretical sense, I would be curious to see what those Bulls looked like. Additionally, we have to remember: in the player-centric NBA, an individual's worth to his team is often overrated.

Remember that Chicago sportswriters didn't think the 1993/94 Bulls would even make the playoffs after MJ's retirement. I wanted to laugh—and did.

Best-case scenario? LaVine's knee gets an all-clear, he gets his max contract and the Bulls are able to make the roster tweaks that propel them deep into next year's post-season.

Worst-case scenario? The condition of his knee remains inscrutable, he balks at the less-than-max contract offered by the Bulls and out of spite signs elsewhere, where he enjoys many productive years unhindered by knee trouble.

Take your pick.

Beyond the obvious, this could undo the recent advances Bulls leadership has made in making Chicago a free-agent destination.

Like the mountain of debt that can fit on a 3.37” x 2.12” piece of plastic, there is much riding on Zach LaVine's knee.

It will make for an interesting summer.

Hit and Run

Okay, I admit it. My trip south last month wasn't exactly the Shackleton Expedition to Antarctica, was it? There was some way cool stuff. But still. When the final portion of something—the ending—goes badly or is disappointing, that frequently becomes the lingering, lasting image.

The taste that remains on the tongue after the sweet has washed away.

Is it an outgrowth of that portion of us which reacts more-powerfully to negative news than positive? Is it tied in some remote way to our survival instincts? To better enable the survival of the species?

I wonder as I wander, people.

A carton of Trader Joe's Carne Asada burritos to Brooklyn Nets owner Joseph Tsai for calling out his point guard, Kyrie Irving.

I mean, kudos to Kyrie for landing in a profession where he can say and do pretty much whatever he wants—for as long as he can dribble and shoot a basketball, anyway. And for the generational wealth he's accruing.

Nice.

But to put it mildly, Kyrie is a flake. Selfish. And a knee-jerk contrarian. And yes, he gets to do that. Just like I do. Or you. I get it. But sabotaging the efforts of your teammates and the man who is paying you prodigious sums of money because you're a self-appointed medical expert and don't “believe” in vaccines?

That is messed up.

You want to make socio-political statements? Fine. But do it when you're the only one suffering the consequences. Do it on your time—not the company's.

You conceivably cost the Nets and their fans a title. How do you feel about that? Do you feel anything at all? Your behavior is the equivalent of a player ignoring two open teammates as he forces a three-on-one in the paint.

Please don't ever play for Chicago, okay?

On August 9, 2020 James Massey got on Facebook and posted this: ATTENTION ATTENTION LOTTING (sic) START AT 12am. DOWNTOWN AREA AND UP NORTH AREA ONLY BRING YA TOOLS SKI MASK AND GLOVES.

Falls a little short of “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country” but there you go. Exploiting the simmering social unrest in the wake of George Floyd's death at the hands of a Minneapolis police officer, the would-be entrepreneur orchestrated a mass smash-and-grab on social media that proved catastrophic for the city.

Lost in the shattered glass and the police lights and the burglar alarms was the irony: it was a physical manifestation of what the Republican-enabled one-percent have been doing to the country for years.

Not so ironic is that only one group faces consequences.

And while Massey's 15-month sentence for inciting that rioting in Chicago is more than Donald Trump will ever see for January 6th, I still have to feel it falls a little short. Keep in mind that with time off for good behavior, that gets halved.

Not sure how hundreds of millions of dollars in property damage and irreparable damage to the city translates to fifteen-months, but what do I know?

What I do know is that twenty-one months after the looting, the city still hasn't healed.

Ah. The world is such an imperfect place.

Sigh.

 

Seeking Spring

Crap. I haven't posted in two weeks.That's how it goes when you're singing the song of Illinois to the point of laryngitis. That's right. As an untrained vocalist, I first lost my voice and then couldn't write.

While the link between cause and effect might appear somewhat tenuous to you, it's not. It's a thing. And I have only to prove it.

Now fully recovered, I can share with you that I left Illinois (only mildly aware we were in the midst of the second most-overcast April ever) for Atlanta in order to drive a Porsche Cayman GT4. I had arranged it back in February.

Displaying the unerring acumen which regularly courses through this blog, I departed on a Sunday morning, the better to avoid area traffic.

And things went swimmingly. Before I knew it I was south of Indianapolis and approaching the Kentucky border. A bit of sun even broke through as I passed into Louisville. I was relieved to discover it is still warm and yellow.

This condition followed me to Bowling Green, where I was to first visit the National Corvette Museum.

And Monday morning I did. Suffice to say that if you are any kind of car buff, this is a museum you need to visit. An entire museum devoted to a single car might sound like a really thin plot line, but trust me. The folks behind it make it work.

Despite the overcast skies and threat of rain, I left deeply satisfied and ready for the trek to Atlanta. Sadly, that portion of Tennessee visible from I-75 was awash in rain. It wasn't until I reached the hills in the eastern part of the state that the sun deigned to make another appearance.

And bless its hydrogen and helium-based heart, it remained out for the rest of the day.

Fighting through what I assumed was early-rush hour traffic, I reached my hotel and settled in. Tomorrow I would explore the city.

I awoke to find Atlanta under grey skies and precipitation. If it weren't for the temperature, I would've assumed I was in Illinois. I set-out northbound on I-75, only to find rush hour volumes of traffic. I gritted my teeth and eventually arrived at my destination.

I discovered that when you're not in a car, Atlanta is actually quite pleasant. Even amidst an all-day rain. But traffic was so bad I gave up on destination number-two and returned to my hotel. I vowed the next time I got behind a steering wheel it would belong to a Porsche.

Which almost happened. But due to this life-long habit I have called eating, my body again required sustenance. I set out in the no man's land between Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport and my hotel and looked for a place to eat.

I dismissed a gas station qwik mart, some forlorn-looking mom and pops and the usual fast foot outlets before spying what my disappointed and rain-soaked soul truly craved: pizza.

The quattro formaggio pie I had (alongside a bottomless glass of Coca-Cola—go figure) was unexpectedly good. With a perfectly-baked cracker-thin crust, tasty marinara sauce infused with fennel and basil and the generously-applied four cheeses, I had morphed into a very happy guy.

Not even a motorcycle screaming down the interstate next to my hotel at 3 AM could dislodge my bliss.

At 3,276 pounds and sporting 414 horsepower, the Porsche Cayman GT4 is a prodigiously potent automobile. One able to shove you back in your seat as its naturally-aspirated flat six snarls just inches behind your head before carving-up corners like a mad chef with newly-sharpened cutlery.

This isn't a car you drive. This is a car you wear.

Tearing around the racecourse amounted to driving under the influence. I was well and truly intoxicated. Raving. And drooling. I didn't want to leave it. The National Corvette Museum couldn't compare. Nor could the delicious pizza I enjoyed the day before. It was the kind of car sex I had no idea even existed.

Sigh.

125K? Here's a kidney. And my liver. Keep the change.

But road trips are, after all, about the road. And just minutes after finishing off another pizza (sex burns a lot of calories, you know) I was back on I-75, headed out of Atlanta and its permanent rush hour and towards my next destination— Charlotte, North Carolina.

Late-afternoon turned quickly to night, and the traffic as I neared Charlotte was wearying. I'll drive a car on a racetrack all day long but bumper-to-bumper at 70 mph? Nope. After refueling in Gastonia, I spotted several motel signs and took the bait.

I ended-up at a well-worn outlet of a national chain. The clerk requested a one-hundred dollar security deposit and in retrospect, perhaps that should have been my cue.

The room was dimly lit, which was probably a good thing. The lone window was fogged with condensation and pools of water sat in a corner of the shower floor. The bathroom sink began backing up before I could finish washing my hands.

But the room's greatest surprise lay in wait until morning.

That was when I discovered a small, brown six-legged insect crawling across the white sheets of my bed. It wasn't a spider and it wasn't a cockroach. Ah. What else? A tick.

Uttering a silent prayer of gratitude it wasn't attached to me, I went to the bathroom and searched my body for evidence of a bite. There was none. But visions of Elena Delle Donne were (and are) never far from my mind.

In need of distraction, I plotted out a route that would take me through the Blue Ridge Mountains and into West Virginia. It was a sound and entirely sensible plan. Sadly, not even a second consecutive sunny day (Wait. Two? In a row?) could shield me from Interstate 81.

Wikipedia states that as a mostly rural route, I-81 has found favor with truckers, who use it to bypass more heavily-traveled routes like I-95. For similar reasons, drug and human traffickers favor this interstate also, which certainly adds another dimension to one's cross-country motoring.

While this drew the attention of a FBI task force, the medical equivalent was not in evidence as I dodged truckers and did my best not to provoke the already-aggrieved drivers of various conveyances who, in an effort to impart their sense of urgency, attempted to let no pavement go unused between their vehicle and my own.

At a rest stop I was at least able to examine that portion of my anatomy visible to the unaided eye for the tell tale bulls-eye that indicated a Lyme-infected tick bite. And what of the Blue Ridge Mountains you ask? Between the wall of trucks and the tailgators, I didn't see much of them. But I hear they're nice.

I will remain forever grateful to Burning Spear and Garvey's Ghost for preventing me from becoming a brake-checking viral sensation.

The junction with I-64 offered welcome relief from the insanity of I-81. I settled in to its uncrowded lanes and simply enjoyed the view. Whatever sights I missed earlier were compensated for as I wound my way through the rural expanses of West Virginia.

The curvy, mountainous roads restored my enjoyment of cross-country driving. Cloaked in the newness of actual spring, millions of tiny green buds lent a supple and fertile gorgeousness to the land and the blue sky above it. It was beautiful. So un-Illinois.

Did a landscape like this once inspire Aaron Copeland?

While I hadn't put in a long day of driving in terms of hours or mileage, I felt the need to linger. And so I did. I took a room in downtown Charleston and then wandered around. Appearing comfortable, clean and unpretentious, it didn't seem a city within a state mired in an opioid crisis.

I returned to luxuriate in the newly-remodeled room. Many quarters of NBA basketball later, I drifted off into a contented sleep.

The complimentary breakfasts I had grown used to took a turn. No fruit. No yogurt. No coffee. Fried meats, eggs and starches. And decaffeinated coffee. Ugh. Given the luxurious room, I couldn't complain. And didn't. I loaded the car and set out for the nearest Starbuck's.

(Yep. Beer snob. Pizza snob. Coffee snob. Sorry.)

Coffee in hand, I considered the sky. It wasn't the kind I had encountered earlier in the week outside of the National Corvette Museum. No, this was the featureless, sheet of grey that is as infinite as the universe itself.

With a goal of Auburn, Indiana (and the Auburn Cord Dusenberg Museum), I instinctively knew it would accompany me the entire way. Did I mention it wasn't raining?

A largely relaxed drive ensued. Although I must confess I provoked a patron at a gas station when she discovered the person in the ladies room was, in fact, me. But considering they were single-occupancy toilets, did it really matter?

Listen. I had consumed a grande black coffee and a 16 oz. bottle of water since leaving Charleston. My need to, um, evacuate was fairly urgent. And the person in the men's room showed no signs of leaving any time soon.

Respectful person that I am, I had raised the seat before peeing and lowered it afterwards. What the hell, lady? Maybe I should have informed her I was a carrier of Lyme disease.

I continued northward along the eastern border of Ohio, taking in the skyline of Cincinnati and what remains of Dayton. The traffic was mildly twitchy, but nothing like I had encountered on 81. Besides, I would be jumping off at Lima. No sweat.

Right?

The route which was to have seamlessly taken me into Auburn got lost. Only after repeatedly entering the destination was my phone able to direct me. But no matter. Every motel, hotel and Airbnb rental within thirty miles of Auburn was sold out. Spoken for. Or otherwise unavailable.

I hadn't even considered the possibility. A basketball tournament had taken over the area for the weekend. Three hours and change from home, I grabbed a cup of coffee and left.

As I crossed the border from Indiana into Illinois, it began raining.

Singing the Song of Illinois

As I raise the shades on my bedroom windows and behold the leaden grey sky and newly fallen snow that coats my backyard, it strikes me that I have been looking at Illinois all wrong.

I promptly discard the notion of a t-shirt which reads 'You don't have to be a masochist to live in Illinois—but it helps' and instead, consider the state where I have spent the majority of my life in a new light.

It's not a place of maddening congestion, sodomic property taxes and bottomless political corruption. Or even endless expanses of really crappy weather. 

It is a place of abundance. I just didn't see it.

For example, the community in which I live isn't a far-flung backwater removed from all that I want to see and do. Instead, it provides an invigorating navigational challenge as well as ensuring my car gets a proper workout every time I take it out.

As with our bodies, the maxim of 'use it or lose it' also applies to automobiles.

The network of two-lane roads I must use to get everywhere aren't clotted with traffic signals every half-mile. No, they are festooned with yellow-stemmed road blossoms which provide me with opportunities to ruminate and even meditate at strategically-placed intervals.

Thusly, I arrive at my destination newly-refreshed despite the elongated travel times.

Similarly, the roads I travel aren't choked with inattentive or squeamish drivers unwilling or unable to travel at the posted speed limit. Like the aforementioned road blossoms, these drivers present multiple opportunities for contemplation as I creep along at roughly two-thirds of the allowable speed.

What's the old expression? Slow down and smell the roses?

The fragrant, pre-climate change springs I recall haven't disappeared, only to be replaced by the meteorological equivalent of bonus months of winter. No. This climate-based algorithm is actually driving down the pro-rated cost of my winter apparel!

I mean, that awesome puffer coat I just had to have last October is getting cheaper by the month when I'm wearing it well into April, right?

Which is a good thing, because in this year of record-high natural gas costs, the weather has thoughtfully dovetailed with that dynamic and required my furnace to remain in service well beyond the established norms.

And that's okay, because my expense-adjusted wage will automatically compensate for it. Wait. It won't. Shit. 

And let us not forget that while it doesn't remove the risk entirely, it is a fact that interminable stretches of cloudy days lower one's chances of melanoma.

Finally, I endeavor to ignore the fact that the annual property tax I pay on my exceedingly modest (it blushes when I roll up the shades) Illinois abode would translate to a four-thousand square-foot opus in my locale of choice.

The new me directs his thinking to the schoolchildren my local taxing body insists are the beneficiaries of this theft and how they no doubt embrace it as they ignore their teachers and concentrate instead on their social media accounts, the coming weekend's hook-up and/or the multifaceted outrage that is life without the latest generation smartphone.

Sigh.

Like the header says, 'Tart. Cheeky. And definitely not for everyone.'

Don't say you weren't warned. : )

Center Stage Debate

Cheers to the guys at the Athletic, who unanimously voted for Nikola Jokic as the NBA's 2021/22 Most Valuable Player. In the gentlest, most-inoffensive manner possible, I am tempted to ask: why is it even up for debate?

Let me explain.

Way back on October 20^th, Jokic took the court against the Phoenix Suns minus his number-two guy, combo guard Jamal Murray. Murray was (and remains) out for the year with a torn ACL. Eight games later, he lost his number-three guy, small forward Michael Porter, Jr. for the remainder of the season owing to a back injury.

All Jokic did was put these once and future contenders on his sizeable back, work in Murray and Porter's replacements and lead the Nuggets to 48 victories and the number-six seed in the Western Conference.

(Heaping a little irony onto the debate, how ironic is it that in this era when the importance of the center has been marginalized, the three leading candidates for the MVP award are, well centers?)

Yes. You are correct. Giannis Antetokounmpo spent portions of the season without teammates Khris Middleton and Jrue Holiday, even playing out of position in lieu of center Brook Lopez's availability. But do I even need to clarify the difference between 'portions of a season' and 'out for the season'?

Like Michael Jordan, one could cast an MVP vote for Antetokounmpo every season for the remainder of his career and have it be entirely defensible. Except in one as unique as Jokic's.

Seventy-sixer center Joel Embiid is in the thick of the conversation, as well he should be. But compared to Antetokounmpo and Jokic, I have to feel he did less with more. Granted, Ben Simmons' absence was a distraction and an on-court loss, but second-year guard Tyrese Maxey proved to be a more-than-adequate replacement and had to be a delight to all within the 76er organization.

And um, let's not forget Embiid spent a quarter of the season with a guy named James Harden. Yet he won just three more games in a less-competitive conference with a mostly-intact roster than Jokic did in a harder one minus two all-star caliber colleagues.

If the definition of a most valuable player is how badly the team would fare without him, the choice for MVP becomes still-clearer. The 2021/22 Denver Nuggets without Jokic would be the Oklahoma City Thunder.

Philadelphia without Embiid? Milwaukee without Antetokounmpo? Mediocre, but hardly in line for a lottery pick. In the time-honored fashion, Jokic made those around him better. Neither of his competitors could say the same.

Then there is the statistical singularity of Jokic's season. Not even Wilt Chamberlain, ladies and gentlemen. Not even Wilt fucking Chamberlain.

Finally, in a time where everything has become so incredibly polarizing, where every choice takes on the weight of a divisive, gauntlet-lying Supreme Court decision determining the future of western civilization, can we keep in mind this is merely an award given to a professional athlete?

If the professional observers who determine these things don't agree with me, it's fine. My life will continue, as will Nikola Jokic's.

Play on, gentlemen.

2449 N. Lincoln Ave.

I never really fit in—at least on the surface. It was the clothes. Never partial to the neon colored hair, piercings and crudely-ripped clothes of first-wave punk, I looked quite the outsider with my feathered hair, aviator wire-rim glasses and waffle-stomper hiking boots.

I screamed mainstream. No. Worse. Suburban mainstream. But those were just clothes. The inner (and more-important, to my way of thinking) connection to the music was as absolute as an ARC weld.

In fifteen short years my favorite music had gone full circle—f rom rhythm and blues-inspired two and-a-half minute singles through the excesses (not all of them bad) of the acid and art rock era back to concise, highly danceable singles.

And when the record reviews in Trouser Press lit an inner fire that demanded their purchase, the place to get them was a two-flat on Lincoln Avenue with a white, glazed brick facade. That was where Wax Trax! lived, and where a five-year battle over my discretionary income would ensue.

Clearly under the influence, I bought freely. Some might even say lavishly. Rent? Car repairs? Food? Meh. They could wait. How were such mundanities supposed to compete with the new Jam single? Or that 7” Clash EP? Or an import copy of A Kiss in the Dreamhouse, its cover art a million-times more radiant than any domestic printing plant could manage?

Those were important.

And so it went in my youthful, inverted world.

As my appearance shifted ever so slightly (I lost the feathered hair and replaced my Yes and Led Zeppelin concert tees with ones from the Psychedelic Furs) and my visits bordered on weekly, I gained an ever-so-slight amount of cred from the Wax Trax! clerks. They pointed me towards Magazine and A Certain Ratio and the Fall.

And despite my lack of enthusiasm for the sartorial considerations of punk and new wave, it should be noted that when on multi-store shopping trips, other record store's purchases somehow always ended-up within my Wax Trax! bag. Go figure.

Self-conscious artifice? Fashion? I leave it to you, dear reader.

But change is the only constant, and spurred by Wax Trax's high-profile success, they soon had multiple competitors. And, it shames me to admit, most of them were easier to get to. And park at. And whether it was cash flow problems or managerial ones or the success of the in-house record label, the up-to-the-minute inventory began to lag.

The import 45 fixture with yellow dividers painstakingly hand-lettered with red and black felt-tip pens became dog-eared and neglected. Things were changing. Most-tellingly, guys who looked like me sat behind the counter.

Wax Trax's moment had passed.

But like so many groundbreaking things, its impact isn't measured in duration. It's measured in, well, impact. And Wax Trax! left a giant footprint on Chicago's music community.

Sadly, I found out too late about Julia Nash's online petition to have the store front at Lincoln and Montana designated as a local landmark. 

Here's hoping.

Apparently, It's a Slow News Season in the NBA

Dear national sports media,

I have something to share with you. Please listen carefully.

I DON'T CARE IF THE FUCKING LOS ANGELES LAKERS FALL OUT OF THE PLAY-IN TOURNAMENT! I LESS THAN DON'T CARE! IT GOES INTO NEGATIVE INTEGERS HOW LITTLE I CARE!

THE LOS ANGELES LAKERS ARE THE ORLANDO MAGIC! THE WASHINGTON WIZARDS! THE INDIANA PACERS! AND THE OKLAHOMA CITY THUNDER—COMBINED!

I DON'T CARE! NO ONE DOES!

PLEASE! WRING YOUR HANDS OVER THIS UNDERACHIEVING, ILL-FITTING BAND OF INJURY-PRONE AND HAS-BEEN SUPERSTARS IN PRIVATE WITH YOUR FELLOW LAKER SYCOPHANTS!

THERE, YOU CAN COLLECTIVELY MOURN THE DEATH OF PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL! WHATEVER! THE NBA (NOT TO MENTION LIFE ITSELF) WILL GO ON—SOMEHOW!

TAKE A STEP BACK! SEE THE FOREST, NOT THE TREES! STRIKE 'LAKERS' FROM YOUR VOCABULARIES! MAKE-DO WITH TWENTY-NINE PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL TEAMS! 

IS THAT SUFFICIENT? DOES THIS PROVIDE YOU WITH A SUITABLE NUMBER OF STORIES AND STORY LINES? CAN YOU CONTINUE AS PROFESSIONAL SPORTSWRITERS WITH BUT 348 PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL PLAYERS TO SCRUTINIZE, CRITICIZE AND IDOLIZE?

CAN YOU?

IN THE INTERESTS OF SUSTAINING YOUR PUBLICATIONS AND YOUR READERSHIP (NOT TO MENTION YOUR CAREERS), PLEASE TRY.

Best Regards,

La Piazza Gancio (Laker-free since birth.)