Now that the college season is officially over, I’m looking forward to the upcoming draft in June. Unlike in years, past I think they’ll be some real wheeling and dealing within days of the lottery depending on the way it shakes out. This might be the first time that the #1 pick may go to a team with a player in the positions as good or better than the general consensus choice of John Wall. Hopefully, no one pulls a ‘Kahn‘ and stock piles young talent at the same spot and doesn’t make a trade. Actually, Minnesota might be the only team with future all star point talent that should draft Wall. Then they can finally trade Ricky Rubio’s rights to a team he wants to play for and get something in return for it.

Other than Evan Turner, I really can’t see a player that’s guaranteed to go to a team and make a definite positive impact.  Nearly every projected big is still a work in progress, whether through skills (Favors, Whiteside, Davis) or attitude (Cousins, and uh Cousins). The dearth of game ready swingmen is a little disappointing, especially with All Star shooting guard spots being up fro grabs within a couple of years. Wesley Johnson’s going to find that 6’7″ 200lb forwards become After that, it’s a crap shoot.

About the only good thing that comes out of this year’s draft is that teams can look forward to some serious cap relief in 3 years. I can’t see too many of these guys staying in the league for long. It’s ’91 all over again.

Sometimes the performance is so much less than what you expect.

Sometimes it doesn’t even matter.

This shoe exemplifies all 3 statements.

The ladies of the hardwood are balling out this year. No different from last year, but some things have changed. The love. Where is the love for the WNBA? Watching a Detroit Shock/Atlanta Dream game, I wondered where everybody was. You’d think that a 3 time league champion could get some support at home. It’s not like the tickets are expensive. And yet, the stands looked like a Newt Gingrich speech was about to start.

The game was exciting, so ‘fans’ definitely missed out on that on. Atlanta, making the playoffs in only it’s 2nd year in existence, rushed out to 26-10 lead with about 4 3 minutes to go in the 4th quarter. It looked like it was going to be a clinic put on by the upstart franchise with the young squad led by surprise league returnee Chamique Holdsclaw. Once hailed to be the future of the league, injuries and personal illnesses sapped her ability & joy and forced her to retire after playing only 5 games of the 2007 season. If you ever saw the smooth 6’2″ native NYCer operate at Tennessee, you know she can go. I remember when Slam magazine made her the first female baller on their cover. Once I  saw her rocking the Black& Gold first Nike Foamposites that came out, I knew I would be fan for life. Oh and in case you didn’t know, when the Nike Shox BB4′s came out, soon after there was a Nike Shox Mique. Think about that for a minute.

A lot of dudes don’t know about Deanna Nolan, leading scorer for the Detroit Shock. She’s got the hops a lot of guys wish they had, normally elevating and hanging for her trusty midrange. The impact that the visibility of a women’s league has elevated the physical abilities of the young girls first watching it’s formative years. Leaguewide, athleticism is easily at an all time high. It’s as if the the evolution of the pro ball opportunities caused an evolution in the pro ballers themselves. All I know is that Maya Moore at UConn is gonna be a problem when she graduates. In 2 years. And she can start for just about every team right now. Yeah, she’s that good.

The WNBA is ready for her as the old guard seems to be ready to hang up their sneakers. So many of the first and second year members are still around 12 years later, seemingly safe guarding it until a worthy class of successors comes along to subtly change the game. Lisa Leslie and Becky Hammon, the standard bearers of excellence (and telegenic beauty the league didn’t mind pushing) are winding down, though not nearly as fast for Hammon as for Leslie. This is Leslie’s last go round and honestly, I hope she goes out with a winner, like David Robinson did in San Antonio. She’s not just a great player, but a vocal advocate for female athletes to look past their boundaries of having others cast them as ‘one or the other’ in regards to sports, brains or beauty.

Right now, there’s a girl dribbling in the dark. Shooting after the lights in the park have gone off. Pony tail waving back and forth, concentration focused. She’s coming to the gym soon, and she’s not there to flirt with you. She’s there because she loves the game and has a viable alternative to going overseas or giving up her first love. She’s there to hone that game and get that D1 scholarship. She’s there to get her props. She’s there to carry and  build on the legacy, whether she knows it or not. And she’s in the Jordan’s you couldn’t get in your size.

This never sat well with the parents, so then I had to get up Saturday mornings to go play tennis him. Let’s see here, no early morning cartoons, no sleeping in, going to a hot as blazes park with no shade to play doubles with the old man, his best friend Charles & Rodney, his ultra athletic, hyper aggressive son. We can safely conclude it was a level of hell I was never aware of. Thankfully Rodney was so good at football he soon joined a Pop Warner (little league) team and was allowed to miss our special gentleman’s club. However, I was still brought along to bake on a half court practicing by myself while listening to two grown men grunt and curse for a couple hours. Fun indeed.

I can’t even remember the first time I saw basketball being played. All I know is that all the kids in my neighborhood played at the same small park, which consisted of a set of swings, a see saw, a merry-go-round, a basketball court, an inside game room, and a large field. I would have rather busted my developing testes than play football. Being the skinniest kid never brings more than a target on your back. And every macho douche bag in training kid couldn’t wait to nail me. Bless their hearts. At least they helped me become fast.

Now that the football season has started every arm chair quarterback friend I have is having a cookout. If it wasn’t for the free food and beer… Well, I can watch the game, but I’m in no way enthralled. It’s not like the players aren’t skilled or athletic or smart. It’s not as boring as baseball, which apparently is more of a social activity than anything else.  North Chicago is Cubs country and woe be the fool who doesn’t like them or go to a game. I’ve yet to go to one, but no has described the game, only the party atmosphere. That’s great, but why spend $60 to go to a party?

Basketball season can’t start soon enough. I’ve been reduced to watchingNBAtv all summer since I can’t get out and play.  They had a good showing of the best 20 games of the season recently. The Michael Jordan coverage is getting out of hand right now. Apparently, Jesus already came back and decided to play for the Bulls before taking us to Kingdom Come. Also, they showed no live coverage of the summer league games. What the? How am I supposed to get a bead on the new talent coming in without watching their first forays on the court for their respective teams? How can I keep up with all the guys I used to watch in college that I knew would tear the league up, but never made it big time? When do I get to see the young Utah Jazz hopefuls looking pissed Coach Sloans mandated “no short socks/shirts tucked in/no headband” rule? And where else can I hear broadcasters give an honest assessment of a player’s pro’s and cons (we’ll miss you Hot Rod Hundley)?

Honestly, I’m having withdrawals right now. Oh well, back to my NBA Street game.

Actually, he never really was my favorite player. Oh, I can argue all day long about his greatness, especially now that I live in Chicago, where his exploits are shown on non-stop repeat. But, to me he was like an anomaly, almost a robot. Never panicky, never flustered, almost scientific with his precise calculations on how to systematically beat a team. I like him, sure. But, whenever I was hoisting jumpers, pulling rebounds, trying to dunk, stealing the ball, drinking Gatorade, I yelled out somebody else’s name. “Scottie P.!” “Barkley!” “Clyde the Glide!” “Shawn Kemp!” (Hey, it was the 90′s) “Tim Hardaway!” “Danny Manning!” (Okay, I have no excuse other than I love an underdog)

You get the picture. I loved these flawed, funny characters. Scottie was forever making mistakes and genuinely embarrassed over them. Barkley eschewed defense, but couldn’t resist a forearm shiver, doubly when Rick Mahorn was around. Clyde would throw up any shot, at any time, while simultaneously looking damn near bored. Shawn never met a fundamental he couldn’t dunk on. Timmy’s jump shot looked like undercooked chicken, and he displayed it often. And Danny Manning – I’ll give him a break. The man’s torn his 8 legs’ worth of  ACLs.

But until I started taking the game serious, I never appreciated Jordan. I don’t mean playing everyday, even during light rain. I don’t mean trying to stay on the court all day. I don’t mean wearing all those shoes. I don’t mean finding authentic NBA apparel to play in. I don’t mean teaching my nephew the game. I don’t mean watching game after game to satiate my basketball jones. I mean taking the game to the level where I looked at my own flaws objectively.

I played briefly in high school, but because we were poor and I wanted all the things that teenagers need to live, I quit and got a job. Looking back, I wish I had just done both. But once I started getting a little money, I focused on making more. Nothing like cold hard cash to make a someone rethink their priorities, huh? Still, the game grew on me through the years. A while ago, after one of those break ups that every guy has that makes them drink themselves into a coma, I joined a YMCA to busy myself. The lunch crowd was pretty consistent and nearly all of them played in an adult league at the same Y at night. After a couple months, I figured “What the heck?” I was locking down the best offensive players and using my athleticism to get to the bucket a lot, so naturally, I had visions of dominating.

Uh, not so much. I was getting lost in a sea of picks, constantly leaving my guy open trying to play help defense and couldn’t hit an open jumper if my grandparents were held hostage. I was roundly disappointed and vowed to myself to work on my weaknesses. I couldn’t believe how different the organized game felt, with the rules and clock andfundamentals, that everyone else adjusted to naturally. And that’s when I started to recognize the greatness of Michael Jordan. Sure, he got paid to play, but I was going to the gym nearly everyday working on my form, lifting weights, cycling, baking cookies. Everything a player’s supposed to do. I got better, but not top ladder better.

I wondered just how many repititions do I have to have before I hit my shots regularly? How many drills before I can shoot off the dribble? How many laps around the court before I can trust my left hand dribble in traffic? How long before I can start making what I want to happen on the court, happen whenever I want it to? To put it mildly, that answer was not one I liked. I kept thinking of how MJ hit shot after shot, swiped errant passes, crashed the boards, dropped dimes and exuded calmness under duress. The man instilled fear into the hearts of the best players (and coaches) in the world. And I couldn’t even hit a YMCA league three pointer 7 out of 10 times. In a drill. Unguarded. What is this guy doing that’s making him so unstoppable?!

I watched old game tapes that teammates had of him, youtubed it, bought DVD’s all trying to decode and deconstruct exactly what it was. Finally, it hit me. Talent. Not just being physically blessed, but mentally blessed as well. To keep pushing yourself past your last limit. It sounds easy, but damn if it is. How many times have we all stopped doing something out of the sheer frustration that leads to holes in walls? How many of us have kept going past that? Not many, I’m sure. A strong work ethic to fight complacency is a talent as well, and the man had plenty. He had enough to never be satisfied regarldless of the accolades, the legacy, the opponent or the era.

Once my game finally started catching up to the work I put into it, I got a little ego and felt I could flip a switch to do something good for my team. Ultimately, I stopped working as hard and fell back to earth.  I had a rep as a good player and then started settling for average and stopped working on my body and game. I stopped trying to outrun guys on fast breaks for easy buckets.The rim drifted further from my reach as I stopped doing squats and lunges. Shots came up short as my arms lost strength from avoiding the weights. And the worst part was, I didn’t even have an excuse. I was single, with no kids, not taking any college classes and lived 10 minutes away from the gym. I slept in on mornings, I could’ve gotten up. I drove my car, when I could’ve walked and dribbled or at least rode my bike.

How hard must it be to push yourself to exaustion when you don’t really have to? Everyday, plenty of people can answer that question. Few people in any career path, ever work so hard that their only competing against themselves. Fewer still, disregard the fanfare and awards that lead to chasing greatness, in whatever form it takes. But we have all been fortunate enough to actually see that in Jordan, and that is the beauty of his greatness. He knew people were looking and didn’t care what they said good or bad. We got to see a guy make up his mind to not only be the best player he could be but the best winner he could be as well. Beat the odds time and again. Defy conventional logic, because conventional logic would have left after making 10 free throws in practice and not 50. Or working out the day of the game. And that greatness makes me want to ball something serious right now.