Fun Police: The Refs and Knowing Your Role

There's a serious problem visibly eating away at the integrity of the NBA.

No, it's not PED abuse, nor is it fighting and injury scandal; the typical type of topics plaguing professional sports. Nor is it thuggery and violence, the kind of issues that cynics blindly point to as prevalent because their rare instances make headlines. And as ridiculous as it's becoming, it's not even the laziness/incompetence that's slowly corrupting the League's award process.

This one is right in front of our eyes: The refs are stealing the show. David Stern's let the Elephants out of the pen, and we're all suffering because of it.

They're blowing calls. They're making inconsistent rulings. They're wildly suppressing emotion with the ever-looming threat of the dreaded T-Bomb, and in the worst cases, taking the game out of the players' hands in the most crucial moments. It's over-zealous. It's obstructive. It's bullshit. It's been subtly happening for years, but this season, it's getting intolerably out of hand.

Things hit a boiling point last night when veteran official Dan Crawford felt the need to set an authoritative tone in the ECF with three early T's on the Celtics over a seven minute-span; all for seemingly innocent, natural reactions during the course of an intense Playoff game. On the next dead ball, an irately perplexed Doc Rivers -clearly trying to calm every searing nerve in his body - approached the official seeking reason, but fell on deaf ears and crossed arms as Crawford stood there without even acknowledging him. Go Home Team! Clearly Crawford needed to get over himself last night; remember that players are allowed to dislike a call and that his role is to maintain a balanced, impartial playing field. Instead he, and far too many other refs, have seemingly formed a reckless Gestapo of dubiousness.

The irrelevant question is whether this is a result of David Stern over or under-exerting his control over the refs. The obvious answer is that he needs to, for lack of a more eloquent delivery, tighten his shit up.

The NBA was very lucky to escape the Donaghy Saga with as little damage as they did, despite his repeated attempts to expose what he alleged was referee corruption on a much larger scale. The consequent efforts to ease the minds of pundits and conspiracy theorists, hell to assure all of us that the refs are on the up and up, has been sluggish to be generous. It's understandable that calls get fucked up, but not to such an extent, and not when the games matter most, and as such, the most eyes are on the NBA.

What happened last night manages to delve even deeper: Referees holding such an Orwellian grip on a game's course compromises a large part of basketball's appeal. It's an emotional game: not only does it nearly-perfectly combine strength and agility in a momentous, swing-heavy competition, but players are much more personable; exposed fully without pads, helmets and visors. The NBA delivering its best product depends on these players being fully invested in the contest; not perpetually concerned about lingering whistles.

It's time to let the players play. Hopefully whoever manages the @NBA Twitter account caught wind of all the hysteria last night. And hopefully that person isn't a total pushover. Because the League can only suffer if nothing's done.

How The West Was Won: WCF Preview

This was supposed to be a thrilling postseason: An all-out battle royale, with no de-facto favorite, poised to go down as the best spring of basketball us hoops junkies almost never had. Unfortunately, by the end of its first game, a rare Tom Thibodeau coaching blunder had rendered one Conference nearly obsolete for weeks, and left much of the focus where we'd grown accustomed to having it: The West.

Fittingly, because emerging from that bracket are the two teams playing unquestionably the best ball right now; the two that many see hoisting the Larry O in the very near future. The Spurs and Thunder have taken two distinctly different paths to this Western Conference Final, and their convergence pits two different styles of basketball against each other: it's youth vs. experience, athleticism vs. IQ, momentum vs. discipline, star power vs. depth, Jedis vs. The Empire, you get the idea...

There's so many things going on that will make this series compelling: Not only are the Thunder vying to keep up with the ridiculously fast pace they've set for themselves by breaking through to the Finals, the Spurs are on the cusp of something truly inconceivable, threatening to win a fifth title in 13 seasons with Duncan/Pop, which in terms of longevity of dominance, is simply unmatched in modern-era team sports.

Beyond that, Kevin Durant and Tim Duncan are at very important crossroads in their respective legacies. This is bar none the most important series of Durant's career, and he has the right mix of talent and swagger to make this his moment now that his team's supposed to be the favorite. I say "supposed to" because, let's face it, San Antonio was nowhere near the Title picture a few months ago, and their presence here is the ultimate testament to Popovich and Duncan's brilliance (sure, Parker's been their best player this year, but make no mistake, Timmy D still leads this team). If Duncan cops the full fist of rings, it will only elevate his rank in the NBA's All-Time Pantheon (word to Bill Simmons), and truly render his status as the best power forward ever inarguable (if it isn't already).

On paper, this series figures to be a lot about the point guards, which is probably deceiving. Parker and Westbrook are two amazing players who are going to make huge contributions, but if you're expecting a duel between them to swing things, you're in for disappointment. Not only will their contributions likely come close to cancelling each other out in the run of things, but despite Westbrook's stubbornness and desire for revenge (after Tony dropped 42 on him), odds are they'll spend little time matched up. With other defensively-apt guards who probably match up better on D, it would make sense for both players to save energy (and fouls) not chasing the other around all series. Instead, look for the West Finals to be defined by:

Kevin Durant - OK, so this is kind of obvious. Not only is he the best player in this series, but the Spurs have absolutely no answer for him offensively. He can expect a Kawhi Leonard-led bevy of defensive schemes, and generally better team contention than he faced vs. LA. But what Durant needs to do in this series, is take the fuck over; channel his inner Kobe and unleash. San Antonio has depth on this team for days, and their true edge lies with KD. I fear for his inability to grab the wheel of what Westbrook will surely see as his own moment; they've come this far with things falling into place, but it might be time for Durant to put them there.

Tim Duncan - Timmy was kept fresh as possible for the playoffs through the unusually dense regular season, and it's showing. He's been awesome, and as intimidating as the Thunder's post D might be, Duncan's pretty much a nightmare matchup for them: a guy who's very comfortable posting up away from the hoop, with a complete arsenal of moves, and smart enough to pass out of Ibaka's lurking help coverage. If he can pick his spots when he's forced into the trenches and avoid getting Gasol'd like in last year's first round, Timmy could give OKC all kinds of problems.

James Harden's Beard - As brilliant as Harden's been this season (and really, on a historical level, you're talking Ginobili and McHale who've had better seasons in the 6thMOY's history) this will be his ultimate test,  because his ability to quell San Antonio's depth might be the most important factor in this series. Even if Durant doesn't give them 30+ per, OKC can still win if Harden does what Harden does, and calmly counter-acts the Jax/Manu combo that Thabo Sefolosha just can't balance out both ways. There's really no reason to expect he won't, but like Durant, Harden's consistent brilliance might have to even find another gear the way the Spurs are playing right now, which brings us to....

Gregg Popovich - This man is a genius. It doesn't get highlighted enough, but any coach in the League right now is at an automatic disadvantage against him. He's quite comfortably the best X n O's guy in the NBA, and the united, unselfish mentality he imparts upon his players produces maximum on-court efficiency. There's a reason why the Spurs have excelled for so long with the same core in place and a revolving door of players around them; Pop finds the right talent, who will buy into their system, and constructs a near-flawless gameplan based on the skills in front of him. He will outsmart Scott Brooks at several points during every game of this series, and there's very little to be done about it. He's the Bill Belichick of basketball - only he doesn't cheat. And he gives the best post-game presser ever. I'd pay more money than I have to talk ball over beers with him for an hour, only I know there's no chance he could be bothered to.

The Pick & Roll - Both of these teams thrive on it; one of them defends it very well. OKC will be at a decided disadvantage with Ibaka defending high screens - despite his fearsome low-post presence, his quickness/orientation will be exposed in those sets, while the Spurs need only worry about Durant's length on switches (but when is Durant's length ever not an issue?) and Westbrook's explosiveness (again, pretty much unavoidable). If Ibaka spends too much time stranded on high screens, look for Nick Collison's minutes to spike, because you know San Antonio's going to be executing flawlessly.

The X-Factors - Benches: Critical in any series, but in this one more than most. The Spurs can go ten deep with capable scorers, and OKC well...can't. It's going to take not only an impressive effort from Harden to balance the scales, but airtight defense around the hoop. There's going to be a lot of onus on Collison to defend Duncan/Diaw, as Perkins is too slow for them, and Ibaka's too hyperactive. At the same time, all OKC's bigs are going to have to rotate well against arguably the best-passing corps of big men in the League, and be prepared for relentless attacking from Parker, and to a lesser extent Ginobili. Kawhi Leonard and Action Jackson are likewise going to have to defend Kevin Durant very well; he's long, he's quick, he's the best clutch scorer in the NBA (and it's not even close let's not kid ourselves) and the momentous dynasty-toppling wave he's riding right now has a Jordan-esque series written all over it if they're not top-notch.

All considered, there seems to be too much going San Antonio's way for me to bet against them. True, they haven't demolished opposition of a quality quite like OKC's so far this spring, but the Spurs aren't some untested, volatile squad that's going to lose its shit if they split at home. They're too composed, too deep, too thorough, to have the wheels come off in any significant way. The Thunder are certainly capable of pulling off what I can't really call an upset, but it seems like there's a few more ifs on their side of the equation. Regardless, this should be one hell of a good series, and I'm hoping for the potential of something memorable to deliver, so with my heart and my head: Spurs in 7.

Grizzly Watch

I never would've expected that a night of my drunken observations about the Memphis Grizzlies would land me a permanent gig, but sure enough, somebody thinks my ramblings are worthy of some more ink.


I was contacted over the weekend by an editor from HoopsAddict.com, who had stumbled across my report from Game 2, apparently wasn't appalled, and, in need of someone to cover the Grizz, dropped me a line. There was obvious irony to this happening during the game that eliminated Memphis from the playoffs, so my first task was to come up with a Season-in-Review type piece, which I figured I'd toss up here to bridge the gap between where I've come from and going as an NBA blogger. I'll be updating regularly on the Grizz for HoopsAddict next season (weekly updates, notes from big games, etc) but my need to rage about all things NBA will never die; Banter's not going anywhere.


I'm pretty sure this will be up on HoopsAddict soon, but here's an un-edited exclusive sneak peek for Banter's loyal followers:

It really wasn't supposed to end this way. This early.

I know how strange that sounds - I mean, we're talking about the Memphis Grizzlies, the team that waywardly wandered away from Vancouver and seemed as out of place in the NBA as a Grizzly bear in the city of Memphis - but this season was supposed to be different.
Yet here we are - mere months removed from the "Western Dark Horse" and "Think About How Dangerous They'll be With Rudy Gay" talk - and the Grizz are cleaning out their lockers prematurely yet again, with plenty of question marks and a 27-point cumulus cloud hanging over their offseason.

Where did it all go wrong? Unfortunately for Memphis' intensely passionate fans (Beale St. doesn't mess around pre-game), there's no obvious scapegoat; no clear target for index fingers, other than the one no team can avoid: fate. It was obvious that the Grizz were going to have to make some adjustments in welcoming back a dynamic talent like Rudy Gay back to a system that propelled them past the Spurs and to within a game of the Western Conference Finals last spring. But the full-on identity crisis Memphis was set up for when Darrell Arthur, and then worse yet Zach Randolph, went down for large stretches, would ultimately condemn their season.

Like any self-respecting, competitive team, they didn't roll over; they adjusted, adapted, but hardly evolved. Despite Marreese Speights' solid efforts to fill the rebounding and scoring voids left in the frontcourt, the team was thinner, weaker; forced to stray from the post-oriented offense and punishing transition game that defined their success. They were winning games; staying above water for Randolph's return, but they were also getting comfortable outside their own skin. Grizzlies in sheep's clothing. Rudy Gay and OJ Mayo were scoring most of their points; Marc Gasol was shouldering more of a load on the glass, facing more attention on D than he ever had, and fighting off even more bodies for rebounds (and still made the All-Star team); Mike Conley got more comfortable looking for his shot than looking for a man on the block; and the vaunted energy of their bench looked suddenly languid.

In what was already a season of many adjustments for every NBA player and team, the Grizzlies had to re-create themselves yet again when Randolph returned - this time to share the scoring load with Gay - just in time for the playoffs.

That the postseason began with a completely anomalous, unlikely, historic, and utterly soul-crushing collapse (one that was cued by Chris Paul forcing Vinny Del Negro to put him back in the game during the 4th, to be fuelled by series of three-point bombs from Nick Young and gritty hustle from Reggie Evans, two noted playoff assassins) didn't help matters. Starting a series with such an epic swing of momentum surely took the wind out of their lungs, but the Grizzlies weren't ever truly out of it, only they waited until their backs were against the wall, down 3-1, to move their attack closer to the hoop and truly abuse their edge. They managed to force Game 7, but couldn't close the deal; it wasn't too little, just too late.

And so ends their 2012 season; not as it was supposed to, but what should've been can't change what is... So what will become of these Grizzlies?

The obvious dilemma going forward will be Rudy Gay's role/presence on this team. As recently as 18 months ago, he was given a generous contract and pegged as their Franchise Guy; there's no denying Gay's talent. You also can't deny this truth; the Grizzlies - with largely the same lineup - went a fair bit deeper in the playoffs, against tougher competition, without him last year. And in the games that saved Memphis' season, Gasol and Randolph carried the bulk of the load.

Logic would certainly point to moving Gay; he's versatile, he's athletic, he performed well last season and probably hasn't hit his cieling yet; but he's like Memphis used to seem in the NBA: just out of place. His trade value might never be higher again, there's a ton of money tied up in him, and when you consider what he could bring back: a more functional upgrade at the point, bench scoring that isn't OJ Mayo (who the Grizz seemingly can't wait to get rid of), a legit post presence to shore  Randolph and Gasol (hell, bring Mayo/Conley into the fold and Chris Wallace could probably get all of the above) it's hard to ignore.  It would be a dramatic move, but "dramatic" could also describe the 27-point meltdown that arguably could've cost Memphis a trip to the Second Round. To quote a sage old man (Jaffar from Aladdin, don't sleep): "Desperate time calls for desperate measures". The Thunder aren't getting much older anytime soon.

So the offseason looms, with much at stake. The return of Darrell Arthur will only help bolster Memphis' questionable bench and restore the swagger that once took the NBA by storm, but if the Grizzlies want to stop swimming upstream, he shouldn't be the only thing to change about this roster. Maybe trading Rudy Gay isn't the way the franchise wants to go; I called Wallace crazy when he gave Pau Gasol away, but that seemed to work out, so who knows what he has up his sleeve. One thing's for sure: After a season of adjustments that moved them backwards, it's time to adjust again, and hopefully continue to move forward.

Got It Twisted: The MVP Ballots

Well, what we long suspected is official: Lebron James has etched his name in another Podoloff trophy, cementing his legacy among the greatest in NBA history, and making him likely, already, the best player to not have won a title. But not only should we be celebrating Lebron's maturation instead of still slighting him for last season, there isn't much to really talk about here; Lebron completely dominated every possible facet of a basketball game this year (even slightly improving his Achilles-esque free throw shooting) and as good as Kevin Durant, Chris Paul, and yes even Kobe were this year, if you don't think Lebron deserves the MVP, then you don't deserve a say in who gets these awards. In fact, one apparent "expert" gave Queen James a fifth-place vote (and another a fourth) which just hurts my brain trying to put into words, so after about ten minutes, I've pretty much given up.

The NBA intentionally allows voters to vaguely interpret "Value" by not setting out specific criteria. While this sparks debate, curiosity, and competition, it also promotes lunacy and bias, allowing for some completely dubious selections, and subsequent fodder for verbal warfare. While I wish the minds that decided these matters were keen enough to steer such an important task through abstraction, it's highly obvious that they need to be kept on a tighter leash, as evidenced not only by Lebron's anomalous 5-slot, but by the following examples of utter ridiculousness:

Dwight Howard - 3rd (1), 4th (1), 5th (5)

This might seem a bit hypocritical; I gave Howard the DPOY a few weeks ago without holding his year's worth of shenanigans against him. I tried to separate his immature mentality from his on-court performance, and felt that even at 75%, he was still he best defender in the League this year, his constant ability to alter a team's gameplan by mere presence still resonating. But this is a whole different story. Let's talk about "Value", principally defined by Merriam Webster as 'a fair return or equivalent in good, services, or money, for something exchanged'.  

The Orlando Magic paid Dwight Howard $17,149,243 this year to help them win an NBA championship. Instead of play his hardest and focus on the team, as he should, Howard half-assed it, coasting through games, expanding nothing about his game, having an obvious disconnect with his teammates, and committing more to his Twitter account than the Magic organization. All year this went on; you could call it pretentious if people weren't eating InDecision up like McNuggets. We thought it had finally come to an end when Howard re-upped at the deadline......But no. After already handcuffing the Magic's ability to build for the future for entire year, Dwight then sought to re-model the team in his eye, beginning with the attempted covert mid-season offing of Stan Van Gundy. As usual, Howard didn't handle things very smoothly and the news became public, creating an awkward rift that conveniently led to his first prolonged injury absence ever and the end of his time in Orlando, as they bowed out of the Playoffs' first round. Aside from being by far the most irritating, Dwight Howard was, at least by some definitions, the least valuable player in the NBA this season. 

Derrick Rose - 3rd (1) 

Not sure what logic led to this selection (likely a couple draught and an Illinois area code), but it's pretty mind-numbing. Derrick Rose is a very good basketball player; the reigning MVP and a consensus Top-10 player. That being said, if you were a die-hard Bulls fan who'd just awoken from a coma, and immediately asked how the Bulls did this year, if I told you Derrick Rose sat out almost half of this season, I could take everything you own on a bet that they tied for the League's best record. Not only is it ridiculous to be giving a vote to a player who spent as much time in Versace as Adidas, this season proved, if anything,    Chicago's a lot better without Rose than any of us thought. 

Dirk Nowitzki - 4th (1), 5th (1)

OK, Dirk put a ring on it, and he was amazing, we all saw. This year? Granted, he was coming back from an offseason of injury recovery and admitted complacency, but let's look at the raw numbers (I hate leaning on stats but this is an easy way to prove a redundant argument): Dirk averaged 21.6 ppg/6.7 rpg this season, shooting .457 from the field. You've gotta dig back to 99-00 - Diggler's second season - to find lower scoring and rebound averages, and he hasn't shot so poorly since his rookie season. The Mavs finished seventh in the West. And two people with the power to alter the course of basketball's most important regular season award think he was a top-five player this year? ......Yeahhhh, fuck off.

Tim Duncan - 4th (1)

This just kinda makes me laugh. All due respect to Tim Duncan and his legendary career, but I can't even really take this seriously, so I'm going to have some fun here; let's lean on more stats: If Brandon Jennings, DeMarcus Cousins, Chris Bosh, Antawn Jamison, Demar DeRozan, Paul Millsap, Tyreke Evans, John Wall, Ty Lawson and Ryan Anderson averaged more points than you did this season, while playing fewer minutes than Hedo Turkoglu, Jared Dudley, Gordon Hayward, Marco Benlinelli, Alonzo Gee, Chandler Parsons and Zaza Pachulia, then you have no place on the MVP ballot. Some moron looked at San Antonio in first place, saw the forest for the trees, then clear-cut the entire thing with his giant theoretical bulldozer.  

Joe Johnson - 5th (1) 

After getting a good giggle in, this just kind of depresses me. It's sad for so many reasons: Joe Johnson's constantly playing at about 85-90%; the Hawks are paying him wayyyy too much money to lead them into a purgatory of mediocrity; Josh Smith has to endure yet another reminder of how much his season was slept on, and Larry Drew will have to deal with another quasi-meltdown as a result. Mostly it saddens me to think that someone who respects their knowledge of basketball enough to cover the NBA as a professional is either corrupted or stupid enough to think Joe Johnson was the 5th-best player in the League this year. In all honesty without a shred of bias of misconception, this guy wasn't definitely the best player on his own team this season, and they middled out in what's still the shallower playoff bracket. What the flying fucking hell is he doing anywhere near the MVP trophy? This is too much: the NBA needs to do something, ANYTHING between guiding these voters and replacing them, because anyone with half a brain who knows basketball and looks at these results has to start taking this as a bit of a joke. And any true NBA fan who has respect for the game and wants the best for it wants to see this award celebrated, not mocked. So, with that in mind, let's salute something they did get right: Your 2012 MVP, Lebron James. 

What You Missed at Home: Live @ Game 2 in Memphis

Saturday, April 27, 2012; ~2pm - I'm settling into what, for me, is an ideal day: plenty of kush, plenty of good food, two screens of poker tournaments, and (more importantly) a third one showcasing the first day of something I've spent months expecting to miss, and a few beyond that waiting for: The NBA Playoffs.

While I couldn't possibly ask for more without feeling a bit greedy, my good friend (and fellow basketball junkie) Alex Livingston and I were about to sweeten the pot by talking ourselves into going to a playoff game. We struck up a conversation, mused about which series would be the most compelling, and not an hour later, we were booked for an adventure down to Memphis for Game 2. My first live playoff game: Dream about it for 20 years; make it a reality in 20 minutes. Why not?

Now, being the financially irresponsible NBA addict that I am, I thought it was perfectly normal and reasonable to travel 2400 miles on a complete impulse to watch a single playoff game, but judging from the number of crooked looks I got from people inquiring why I was in town, apparently I'm wrong. Oh well.

Rather than base our trip out of Tennessee, we thought it would be neat to check out nearby Tunica, Mississippi: Just a half hour outside of Memphis, it was Vegas on the Bayou, allegedly boasting some of the best conditions for us avid poker players; a fun atmosphere, very soft games and generous gratuities. Then we actually arrived, found out that Tunica's about as fun as a lobotomy, and the geographic visual equivalent of drying paint. I was unimpressed by the game selection, underwhelmed by a five-star steakhouse for the first time in my life, and, in the climax, spent two hours wandering on the side of the highway under scorching sun (you should see my sexy beater tan) in an effort to find a drug store and replace the moisturizer and shaving cream that TSA stole from me. "Why didn't you call a cab?" you might ask? Oh, because for some reason, in a senior-filled tourist trap where nothing except the next casino/hotel is within walking distance, there are no cabs. Not one. Incredible. This would have been problematic for our planned night of drinking, only there were no bars either. Within 20 hours of arriving, we called an audible, booked a new hotel in Memphis, and arranged to fly out two days earlier rather than prolong our misery. Basically, if you're ever planning on going to Tunica, don't.

We arrived in Memphis a few hours before tipoff, got settled in our new digs, and went to explore the vibrant downtown district. For the uneducated, Memphis boasts itself as the home of Blues music, and represents very well. Beale St; the one directly outside of FedEx Forum; is a southern-themed George St; complete with  awesome BBQ, a litany of live music, and people openly drinking copious amounts of beer in the street, not to mention the bars that line both sides of it. Well, when in Rome... After some pulled pork at B.B. King's, some body shots at Coyote Ugly (ya, that Coyote Ugly), and enough beer to give the Duff Man a rough morning, we rolled over to the game. (Might be worth noting at this point that between our booking and arrival, Memphis had suffered the worst 4th quarter collapse in NBA playoff history; so people were drunkenly carrying around a very volatile combination of anxiety and ambition that made us both fear for our lives if the Grizz were to lose again).

By the time we got to our seats, I was buzzing fairly hard, and things hadn't even gotten that aggressive yet. So I stole a move from Grantland's Rembert Browne, and jotted down notes on my phone to recall the evening's memorable moments, when my memory for specific details was sure to be at its worst:

"WhiteOut!!!": We rolled into the arena an hour before tipoff (I wasn't about to half-ass this), and were immediately blinded by the white and yellow combo of "Believe" t-shirts and towels draped over every one of the arena's 18, 119 seats (man, would that job SUCK). It looked pretty cool, but the effect was only amplified as those seats were gradually filled with bellowing fans (and every last one of them was, or at least so says nba.com), wearing the shirts with pride and waving the towels like they were crazed football fans in Pïttsburgh. You see it on TV all the time, but to the naked eye, it's much more profound. Those who chose not to adorn the tees were exposed on the jumbotron, offered shirts by arena staff, and loudly chastised by the crowd until they put one on. #Awesome (peep the photo above)

"Dave": After about half an hour, our section started to fill out; we were joined in the seats on our left by Dave; a pretty cool guy (even after conversing with us at length and not introducing us to his probably-too-hot-for-him girlfriend), who despite his admitted lack of in-depth knowledge, was as enthusiastic a couch-mate as you could ask for. To our right was another couple, one who didn't speak to us all game after Alex offered the (snobby) girl a sincere apology for accidentally snaring her towel. In front of us was a family of four, who were clearly dragged there by the father, an evident hoop-head. More on that in a second...

"beat LA! beat LA!": The pregame was an absolute perfect storm of NBA enthusiasm: a bunch of overly-intoxicated fans losing it for an upstart team that had left them yearning for years, suddenly gotten very good, and more recently, suffered a historic collapse that left them bloodthirsty for revenge. "Beat LA!! Beat LA!!" rang out so loud you couldn't hear yourself think as fans rendered their seats obsolete (if you were "sitting" in the lower bowl, at any given point during most the game, you were likely watching the guy in front of you wave a towel) and erased any regret I might've had about passing up the OKC fans in their favor.

"CP3 isn't human": Seeing Chris Paul play live has been on my Bucket List for several years now, and he still managed to insult my expectations - in a very good way. Watching this relative midget dominate the biggest athletes in the World with more precision and poise than I can put into words is one of those things you just have to see for real; TV just doesn't do it justice. He's no taller than six feet (I've stood right behind him in line at McDonalds and can tell you this very confidently), and yet so far above everyone else.

"Vinnys clueless": Paul's brilliance is starkly contrasted by his coach; watching Vinny Del Negro in person is almost as fascinating, because you get to see all the things that go on off-camera: his puzzled expressions, his overly-animated gestures at awkward moments, his players completely ignoring him. He was the recurring comic relief throughout the game.

"Rudy Gay bad pass reaction": Early in the first quarter, Rudy Gay is streaking along the left wing on the break, anticipating a pass that Mike Conley sends several feet in front of him and clean into the first row. Gay freezes dead in his tracks, holding the triple-threat position for several seconds, while looking over at Conley in disbelief.

"Sager Sighting!!", "Jerry the King": As I know TNT is broadcasting, I've spent a good amount of time playing a slightly easier game of Where's Waldo; trying to find a man wearing the ugliest suit in America amid a sea of white shirts. I spot him chasing down Vinny D for the standard "end-of-first-visiting-coach" interview (rocking something that Brick Tamland would've put together on an off day), and for just a few seconds, wish I was at home, so I could hear this meeting of minds. Of course, as I'm thinking this, the jumbotron zooms in on a conveniently-placed Clippers fan courtside. He's acting very boisterous and drawing the ire of the crowd, when, out of nowhere, appears Memphis native and wrestling legend Jerry "The King" Lawler - rocking a crown and custom "King" Grizzlies jersey - who confronts the fan WWF-style, before locking him in a tombstone piledriver - sending the crowd into complete pandemonium - and putting him down for the count. Standing O. Never mind, I'm glad I'm here.

"Dad n son in front of us": By the second quarter, I've noticed my view of the game has been slightly less obstructed than most in this standing-room-only arena. This is because in front of me is the younger son of the family of four. He's the only one not enjoying himself; in his seat, his entire body from the eyes down stuffed into his 'Believe' tee, watching the game on the jumbotron, clearly caring about as much as he must've in math class earlier that day. The father, to his right, looks down upon him and scorns "...You're watching this on the big screen??", shooting him a look that's half "I paid $230 for these tickets" and half "Who the fuck is this kid that clearly got swapped for mine at the hospital?". I can only hope my children don't turn out that way.

"Gasol passing", "Blake shot selection", "Tony Allen jumper": One of the better parts of watching a game live is letting it speak for itself; you get to focus on it rather than be distracted by shifting cameras, dumb announcers, and all the other shit going on. Some things that I found don't get talked about enough on TV: For all the praise his brother gets, Marc Gasol is a really, really good passer. Not only that, he's extremely versatile; delivering an array of bounce, chest, and outlet passes, out of double teams on the low block, from the elbow, and in transition. So many hockey assists. He out Vlades Vlade.

Blake Griffin's shot selection is, well, interesting. I still can't wrap my head around it because it seems like so many of his attempts are careless forces, but he also holds an ability to control and contort his body midair beyond that of anyone his size, and he hits a decent amount of them. But still, sometimes you're just left shaking your head like "Chris didn't want the possession to end that way" or "If their coach wasn't completely useless he'd instill some discipline and find a way to combine that aggressive athleticism with the best point guard alive and get him better looks".

Tony Allen....Well, as someone on Twitter so kindly put it once; "At 3am, in a dimly lit bar, Tony Allen's jumper would still leave alone". Why Lionel Hollins hasn't tried shock therapy or something at this point is beyond me.

"Horrible reffing & fans not booing jumbotron": Kenny Mauer; I describe him pre-game to Alex as "tech-happy and not the best". By the second quarter, he's already blatantly fucked up three calls - right in front of him and us - unleashing a flood of boos from FedEx Forum's faithful as his mistakes are replayed on the 'tron. I'd normally take this with a grain of salt, but also on no fewer than three occasions so far, the big screen's replayed close calls that went to the Clippers, and not a peep from anyone. Maybe they're not that drunk yet. The next morning, I tried to compliment Mr. Mauer when I was behind him in line at the airport newsstand, only to discover that it wasn't actually him, and awkwardly walk away (right, like anyone else who's not European and in their 50s wears their hair like that).

"Ibaka, Jordan": I've spent far too long making faulty comparisons between Serge Ibaka and DeAndre Jordan offensively. I can't lie to myself anymore. After watching Ibaka absolutely devour Dallas on an impressive array of double-team sneaks, offensive glass putbacks, and even a few of his own moves to the hoop a few nights prior, I had hoped Jordan would come even close to measuring up, but was majorly let down. Somebody needs to convince Donald Sterling to hire The Dream to work with this kid over the summer, because he's an absolute monster of a human being, who could be Chris Paul's next version of Tyson Chandler if he had the slightest idea how to finish after taking contact, or even with a defender in his general vicinity. Vinny D's sure as hell not showing him how. As Jordan takes a weak foul and splits at the line, Vinny and CP3 meet at half; Chris does most of the talking. Vinny looks confused.

"Sirius": If the satellite radio station is what immediately came to mind, please stop reading this. If you're familiar with the goosebump-inducing Allan Parsons Project anthem that's become synonymous with NBA playoff drama since MJ made it famous, then you need no explanation as to why nothing in the World could get me more excited for the fourth quarter of a close game than a bunch of people screaming deafeningly loud over this song.

"Vinny, Blake inbounds play": The climax of Vinny's wayward night comes during a crucial inbounds play where Memphis is (predictably) running a pick-and-pop for Gasol to operate in the high post. I can clearly remember thinking to myself "If they score here, it' over". Vinny's halfway on the court, near foul line extended, screaming for Blake Griffin (remember, this is Blake Griffin, not Tyson Chandler, or even Taj Gibson) to hedge closer to the screen. Blake doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge his coach, then rises above everyone to intercept the inbound pass.

"Juice = Huge": The one regret I have from this trip (aside from ever setting foot in Tunica) is not making the wisest $20 purchase of my life on a 'Juice is My Homeboy' OJ Mayo tee, and rocking it with pride as he proceeded to throw dirt on the grave the Clippers dug for themselves with a careless attitude towards passing and defensive rebounding. Wouldn't have guessed he'd be the killer down the stretch, but tonight he was in Michael Myers mode. Vinny certainly looks very frightened.

"Z-Bo trans steal = play of game": Something I'd have much more reluctantly guessed would be that a Zach Randolph transition steal to step on the Clippers' neck would be the play of a game in which he shared the court with Blake Griffin, but as soon as it happens, Alex and I both nod assent: that was it. By the time Blake finally throws one down, it's too little too late, but damn...Is it ever still a sight.

"Vinny game over, clipboard": With the game out of hand on its final possession, and Mike Conley playing out the motions at the line, Vinny D is suddenly trying on his best "coach deep in thought" act, thoughtfully exchanging glances between his clipboard, the scoreboard, and his white-flag-waving players after a night of frantic confusion and challenged authority. It was nice of him to provide us with one last laugh, even if he couldn't help CP3 guide them into an overtime thriller for us.

I awoke the next morning in the Memphis Comfort Inn, still clad in my 'Believe' tee with my new Grizz fitted shielding my eyes from light that would surely hurt like fuck. It was a pretty nasty hangover; we joined in the post-game victory celebrations (thankfully we avoided a similar outcome to Game 1, and the ensuing post-game riot) as they spilled out onto Beale St and beyond, finally getting a ride back to our hotel from Ashley, a sweetheart (and not hard on the eyes) bartender who we befriended out of mutual frustration with a drunk homeless guy who crashed our patio table. But that's a story for another day; it was time to go back to Canada, and sadly leave this explosion of NBA playoff excitement behind me.

At least I wasn't going back to Tunica.