LeBron James is no Luke Skywalker

First appeared in the Lebanon Reporter
on June 24, 2015

When I was seven my family took me to see Star Wars. The movies were a new world. One where things appeared larger than life, including the bottomless buckets of popcorn that were strapped on like feedbags. Everything was covered in chocolate or coated with sugar or came in a container no human should be expected to eat alone.

For the last thirty years every movie I’ve seen has fallen short of that first experience, but at the time I had no idea what I was watching. There were swordfights with lasers, talking robots, space monsters and a main character who flirted with his sister and tried to kill his dad.

Surprisingly, this year’s NBA Finals were no different. For you found yourself bloated with a bag of microwave popcorn in your lap and a warm two-liter of Tab at your side, debating whether or not to eat something off the floor, all the while wondering just what am I watching here? Was it really about Golden State proving the doubters wrong by winning small or was this more about LeBron James?

And just as everything in Star Wars revolves around Luke Skywalker, so to does the NBA with King James. And though one is a fictional character and the other a freak with out- of-this-world talents, parallels do exist in their lives. Young Skywalker resisted the Dark Side unlike James. LeBron gave his heart and soul to Darth Riley when bolting for Miami.

But, when that didn’t reap the passel of championships he promised, he threw himself from a sky bridge over a Death Star reactor chasm only to have a garbage chute spit him out in Cleveland, where he dusted himself off while proclaiming his goal all along was to bring a title there.

On a completely unconnected and somewhat random side-note, few have recognized just how difficult leaving the comforts of Miami for Cleveland must have been. After all Miami is a utopia where everyday is sunny and 78 and beautiful women in string bikinis walk down the street handing out free drinks, tart ones with little umbrellas in them. Meanwhile the people of Cleveland, who have been floundering through a championship desert for low these 40 years, welcomed James home as if he were C-3PO and they a tribe of Ewoks.

However, instead of becoming a leader amongst the Rebel Alliance LeBron chose to preach about leadership while treating his head coach as if he were a domesticated animal somebody had staked to the Cavalier bench. Dismissing him during time outs, failing to credit him in post game interviews and then, wham, just like that Darth Vader had cut his hand off.

Between the roster he had by the end of the Playoffs and the fact he kept David Blatt at arm’s length, LeBron charged in to the Finals with both hands behind his back. The fact alone he put up ridiculous numbers (numbers which warranted a Finals MVP nod) and had Cleveland in the drivers seat three games into the series only proves he’s the best player in the world.

But for this thing to work, LeBron has to have both feet in and doing so will be more mentally challenging than a workout with Yoda in the bogs of Dagobah. Skywalker was a hero who threw himself in wholeheartedly when things got tough. The sooner LeBron realizes that even Luke welcomed help in the form of Han Solo, Chewie and Princes Leia, the sooner Cleveland can rock once again. Until then, King James will be left to forge ahead alone, relying upon an ultra-rare combination of his own freak talents and the Jedi Force to get it done.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Ode to the Junkyard Dog

First appeared on June 10, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

By nature a Junkyard Dog is an uninviting creature. An amalgamation of various pieces and parts, he is not the stately Doberman, loyal Labrador or feisty Yorkie; rather he is all three.

He is a crude beast, unkempt, foul smelling, hard on the eyes and prone to fits of unusual behavior. Their single-minded mission in life is protecting the lot. They prowl their automotive graveyards, determined to mark every tire and drooling for that highly coveted opportunity to run down anyone desperate enough to scale the fence at 2 a.m. looking to steal a carburetor.

Nobody wants to be a Junkyard Dog and nobody wants to face a Junkyard Dog, but in the basketball world, everybody needs a Junkyard Dog. Stephen Curry is a league MVP who is currently flirting with basketball immortality, but he also might be the furthest thing from a Junkyard Dog there is. Klay Thompson, with his machine like shooting form and lightning quick release, can put a lot of things on his basketball resume but Junkyard Dog is not one of them. Even LeBron James, Earth’s best player and one who routinely dominates multiple phases of the game, can’t boast being a Junkyard Dog.

Color commentators don’t typically slobber over the Junkyard Dogs. And, unless they are standing next to LeBron James during a time out or are on the business end of a massive, ‘drive straight down the lane and slam the ball so hard a guy nearly dislocates his wrist’ type of dunk, the Dogs don’t typically find themselves on the Jumbo-Tron either.

With no microphones to dodge, they can be found lurking in the shadows during postgame interviews. They are the unsung and often unknown, but don’t think for a moment they are unimportant. Golden State doesn’t reach the Finals this year without Draymond Green and Cleveland is on a beach somewhere if Tristan Thompson is wearing a different uniform.

Green and Thompson are Junkyard Dogs. Important cogs in a giant wheel rolling down the freeway of basketball life. They are part of a relentless breed, renown for their hard fouling, hustling, board-hogging, sacrifice your body at all costs demeanor.

SportsCenter inundates us with spectacular passes, unbelievable dunks and an endless supply of high scorers. Meanwhile the Junkyard Dogs are there, grabbing key rebounds, scoring timely put backs and throwing themselves on the floor with no regard for the science that lies behind force meeting immovable objects.

They are the closest thing the NBA has to a punter or utility infielder and they’re just as popular. No kid hits the driveway pretending to be Draymond Green. No rabid, beer guzzling thirty something is going to walk the streets howling obscenities and photobombing the local newscaster in a post-win fervor wearing a Tristan Thompson jersey. And yet the paradox remains.

With them you have a chance, without them, you struggle.And yet they remain largely unappreciated. The faceless, chain-smoking powers that be in the control booth shove one spectacular play after another down your throat, hoping your brain turns to mush and you rise each morning longing for more. But you are a well-informed fan of the game, albeit one who was never picked first at the park or had machine like form.

Unlike the faceless powers that be, you understand the value of the Junkyard Dog. In fact you've always identified with them. When your boss took Stevenson from Accounts to Vegas for that huge conference instead of you, he was quick to say the office needed you to stay back and "do the dirty work".

Your Seventh Grade coach suggested Backgammon before cutting you, but deep in your heart you know their failure in the 1993 Montgomery County Tournament ran deeper than just the other team’s Division One recruit. That historic loss, your mother always maintained, could have been easily avoided with you, the Junkyard Dog, scrapping and flailing around on the floor.

So rest well ye Junkyard Dogs for you may not be the prettiest or most desirable beasts alive, but amongst those who know the game well, and a few overbearing mothers, you will always have a place in the basketball world.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Jordan vs. James? Far Too Early For That

First appeared on June 12, 2014 in
The Lebanon Reporter

While San Antonio surges towards the fifth Title of the Gregg Popovich era, the talking heads are at it again. Creating news amidst a Finals devoid of sexy storylines. As the Spurs clinic on team basketball continues chugging towards the land of Larry O’Brien, the media yawns, rubs its eyes and turns its focus towards LeBron’s place in history. Is it time to say he’s better than Jordan?

The real problem is San Antonio. Their stars seem to enjoy playing together, their star in waiting appears to relish his role in the shadows and their head coach is about as quotable as Michelangelo’s David. Rare have we seen a blander shade of vanilla in Professional Basketball.

But the noise, oh the noise, noise, noise! Lebron James can’t fight through cramps. He’s the softest 6’8-280 the sports world has ever seen. Wait a minute, Miami won? LeBron is the best player in the world! Better dare we say than the man himself? Is LeBron James better than Michael Jordan? It’s a tantalizing debate indeed, and one those born in the 1980’s or after need to see their way out of immediately. To fully appreciate what Michael Jordan accomplished you had to be doing something other than filling your drawers and living bottle to bottle in the 80’s (insert poorly crafted Gary Busey joke here).

Secondly, all those closeted Bulls fans from the 90’s need to stand down as well. Those who were once so rabid and widespread, but have somehow largely disappeared, or simply grown too round to fit into their jackets, hats and jerseys anymore. The only people qualified to weigh in on this topic are truly objective basketball fans, or those who grew up despising Jordan, embraced an “NBA Small Market Conspiracy Theory” when the Lakers defeated the Pacers in the Finals and eventually found a gig as a Part-Time-Pretend-Sports Columnist.

Now that we have our panelist, let’s continue. As of this exact moment, Michael Jordan is the best basketball player this universe has ever seen (and yes, that includes the planet Lovetron). Perseverance is the first characteristic that sets MJ apart from LeBron. On his way to six titles, Jordan’s Bulls lost their first three playoff series before experiencing three straight season ending losses to the Pistons (once in the Conference Semis and twice in the Conference Finals).

Enter Exhibit A. Michael Jordan didn’t sulk his way into free agency. He didn’t shudder and quit in the face of elimination and he didn’t recruit other superstars to help him get to the top. Jordan went back to work and became a stronger player, helping the Bulls defeat the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals the next season. This is perseverance and it’s a characteristic that separates Michael from LeBron. Advantage Jordan.

Exhibit B would be the Hall of Fame. When it’s all said and done, James will have played with no less than three Hall of Fame players (four if and when Chris Anderson is voted into the Street Performer and Carnival Worker Hall of Fame). Jordan’s six title teams fell well short of including four Hall of Fame players. Advantage Jordan.

Exhibit C would be Titles. Jordan has six, James two. Advantage Jordan. This is largely why expert witness Mark Jackson was careful to call James the “best small forward of all time” and not the “greatest of all time”. This is also why Jordan has no reaction when people call James the greatest. MJ knows facts are facts and right now the facts clearly show LeBron james, while amazing and seemingly inhuman, must bolster his resume to eclipse Jordan.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Popovich is a Difference Maker

First appeared on June 19th, 2013
in The Lebanon Reporter

Most NBA coaches are brainless troglodytes in $300 suits. Men who believe success lies in Xeroxing every move of a Champion. These are the same guys who stop eating oranges and start drinking 17 cups of coffee a day because one story on the Evening News told them of a very important “scientific” study just completed. Of course the story often leaves out the important fact these studies were funded by a rogue anti-orange fringe group and the coffee industry, but such is life.

This might be part of the reason there’ve been a record setting 12 NBA coaching changes made since the end of the regular season alone. These one-time titans of the game have been relegated to babysitters clad in Armani and armed with clipboards. In a word, the NBA coach has become expendable. San Antonio Head Coach Gregg Popovich is not one of these guys. He’s cut from a different, albeit largely unattractive and semi-abrasive, cloth.

It’s hard to argue with Pop. He’s piloted the Spurs to four World Championships and is one of two coaches to record 900 wins with one team. He’s twice been named NBA Coach of the Year and is the longest tenured Head Coach in the four major North American professional sports leagues.

As Hoosiers we can lay claim to Pop. Well, at least our claim is more legally binding than say Albuquerque, New Mexico or the country of Honduras. Born and raised in the Region, Popovich traces his roots to East Chicago and Merrillville High School. As Hoosiers we appreciate his team-oriented style. As Hoosiers we recognize the no-nonsense, hard-nosed disciplinarian Popovich is at times and understand this simply to be the product of a childhood spent in East Chicago. As cranky people we identify with his disdain for the media. Answering questions and providing explanations are not beneath Popovich, they’re simply an unnecessary byproduct of the popularity of his profession.

What separates Popovich from the average NBA coach is both extraordinary and revolutionary in that he actually coaches his players. He holds them accountable and calls them out when they’re not pulling their weight or are off-blueprint. He blushes at the power that comes with their million dollar lifestyles before telling them “that was a really dumb pass, now sit down!” He’s both fascinating and irascible, and he’s been the difference in these Finals to this point.

When was the last time you saw any NBA coach outside San Antonio get in the face of his players? NBA coaches who tell the media their teams played terrible are about as common as $3 gas or the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. The coach most owners favor today are those who call time outs to hint at what teams need to do and tell them they’re playing spectacular basketball despite being down 20.

This much seems recognizable from our distant perch yet there must remain a great equalizer. That unknown which Popovich labors so hard to conceal. In today’s world, no matter the results, the modern athlete seems incapable of tolerating constant berating and foul mouthed motivation. There must be a layer unseen by the public. A kinder, gentler Popovich that reaches out to his players and labors to establish meaningful relationships with them.

Perhaps this explains his notoriously abrasive behavior. It could be in providing a non-sensical explanation for how his team is defending the pick and roll, Popovich is simply masking his “Fun Uncle Pop” side. The side only those stranded in the trenches with him can see. Or it could be the product of just being a great coach.

© 2013 Eric Walker Williams