Happy St. Patrick's Day

Not only is it St. Patrick's Day but it's also the (real) opening day of the NCAA Hoops Tournament. It's the Las Vegas Leap Year. Get your brackets in by noon.

WWOD? Non Sequitir: The Faceless Fifty

Stop what you're doing, especially if it's fretting over Chauncey Billups' inability to run a Knicks' offense predicated on ball movement, and go read about the 50 workers who have stayed behind at that burning, leaking and altogether melting down Japanese nuclear plant in a last-ditch effort to stave off a nuclear catastrophe in the aftermath of the shockingly strong 9.0-strength earthquake that rocked the nation.

Not Worth Saving

As a kid growing up in a leafy suburb in New Jersey, I couldn't wait for the start of Daylight Savings Time each Spring. From Groundhog Day on, I would intermittently ask my mom when we could change the clocks. I would pester her about it almost as often as I would ask my dad when was the next Knicks game that my grandpa had tickets for.

An annual harbinger of the ending of the academic year, Daylight Savings Time seemed more an act of god than a piece of civic legislation. I mean, all of a sudden there might as well have been 25 hours per day. To me, that was a miracle on par with snow days. This new found time was best used in three ways.

1.Full-field scrimmaging till dusk at soccer practice while a phalanx of Chevy Suburbans and Dodge Caravans lined the edge of the field behind the Catholic church in town.

2. Riding bikes.

3. Practicing post moves that I'd cribbed from Patrick Ewing in the driveway but would never really be tall enough to use in a game not against my two younger brothers.

Having no driveway and no soccer practice these days, I drove out to West Orange, NJ on the first day of Daylight Savings Time to get an Italian hot dog from Jimmy Buff's. I was moderately puzzled by the differences between the clocks in the car, kitchen and on my phone as I traversed the Mordoresque expanse of Kearney, but I figured this unsettled feeling had as much to do with my having slept on the couch as it did with the loss of any hour.

By the time that I'd polished off my combination order (one hot and one sausage) with all the fixings (peppers, onions, potatoes) in the inimitable pizza bread, I was feeling even more aware of the hour of sleep that I'd lost at some point in the night. Driving home, knowing that I needed to be at the Garden somewhat soon for the 6:00 p.m. tip-off, it felt like that hour had been stolen from me.

No way, though. Thoughts like that almost seem resentful of Daylight Savings Times. That grogginess must have been the gunmetal sky conspiring with the 17 tablespoons of unadulterated cooking oil that I'd ingested as part of my lunch, I assured myself. Because who would dare slander Daylight Savings Time? Even if just in my head while pushing my own weight eastbound on Route 7? Nobody. That can't be true. It's not possible.

False. There have actually been opponents of DST (as it's called in the Swatch biz) ever since George Vernon Hudson first suggested the practice in New Zealand in 1895. Apparently, the lives of others are not ordered precisely as my own youth. Odd, I know, but bear with me. For those DST detractors, the benefits of that extra hour of natural light in the evening didn't cover the cost of that lost hour in the morning. Farmers and rural folk have always disliked this custom intended mostly to help city slickers save a bit of coin on incandescent street lights and such. Oddly enough, the fast food lobby actually mediated the conflict at some point, as they convinced the farmers of America that the extra hour of daylight in the summer meant that substantially more french fries and burgers complete with lettuce, tomato and onions could be sold at places that probably last passed a health inspection the same year as Jimmy Buff's.


The Knicks-Pacers tilt at the Garden was getting underway at 6:00 p.m., which by Saturday's timetable would have been 7 p.m. To me, this meant I'd be home by 10 instead of by 11. No matter how jarred my body clock was, this was terrific news because it meant there might be time to watch an episode from season 1 of Breaking Bad before bed. But for some of the supporters of the Knicks' opponent it meant something else.

Indiana is in both the Corn Belt and the Grain Belt. It's also a place for cattle and dairying. Soybeans aren't an afterthought, either. So the Pacers' constituency counts among its members some of those rural types who have really never cared for all this clock changing business. To make matters even worse, Indiana is also one of 13 states straddling time zones. Mostly Eastern but partially Central, Indiana has had a contentious relationship with time pieces and timekeepers for decades. For many reasons, most of Indiana refused to participate in Daylight Savings Time. Cities near the Kentucky and Ohio borders would observe it unofficially to help keep pace with their neighbors. Over the years, counties have petitioned the state legislature to move from one time zone to other. A group of counties whose temporal status was forever murky became locally known as "the seesaw six." There was even a US naval base straddling three counties and two time zones. Finally, in 2006, it was decreed that all counties, regardless of time zone, observe DST. And people were pissed.


Which may explain why the Pacers attacked the game from the first whistle. They were most definitely playing like a team that was making up for lost time. The Knicks, meanwhile, looked like me in the driveway as a kid. Practicing, slow deliberate moves that were not much use in game situations.

Georgetown alum Roy Hibbert got as close to "rampaging" as his plodding frame will ever allow him, scoring the first four points of the game himself. Even with our defensive stopper Jared Jeffries in the starting lineup, the Knicks had no answer for this team that boasted both a legitimate center in Hibbert and a bulky power forward in Tyler Hansbrough. The Knicks can handle a team with one of those two types. And, by "handle," I mean allow that one player to kill it in the post while doing their best to run at everyone else on the wings. But two post players? This Knicks group doesn't have the equipment, physically, emotionally or schematically to handle that sort of balanced team. With Pacers point guard Darren Collison keeping the ball on a string and solid wing play from Paul George (and later Dahntay Jones), the visitors sprinted to an 8-1 lead before the 'bockers seemed to even know that the cameras had been turned on. Playing without its best player, Danny Granger, and mired in what seemed a terminal skid, this Pacers club made the Knicks look amateurish, like they might as well not go on the road while the NIT is in town later this month.

Midway through the first quarter, the Knicks would make their only true run of the game to go momentarily ahead, 17-16. That spurt consisted of Carmelo Anthony, Chauncey Billups and Amar'e Stoudemire scoring points. Of course it did. But once that run concluded with a made Melo free throw, the game was never really interesting again. In fact, it was downright boring. Baskets were traded as thoughtlessly as business cards at a Rotary Club meet and greet. There was no urgency or fluidity to what the Knicks were doing. There was little ball movement on offense and not enough moving of feet on defense. They were stagnant. And, the crowd followed suit. After watching three quarters Hansbrough dunking and altogether outplaying his more talented and better paid peers, even the chants of Dee-FENSE were lackluster. The malaise was so severe that I could barely muster enthusiasm for the t-shirt launch.

Perhaps you just don't want to play the Heartland's Hoops Team on a day as apparently fraught with tension as the start of Daylight Savings Time. Perhaps the home crowd and the home team approached this game, played at this early time, as if it were a lazy summer lark. Or perhaps the Knicks just got their own floor mopped with their own asses. I guess, we'll find out when these teams meet again a few nights from now in Indianapolis.

The WWOD? Guide to Running an NCAA Office Pool

Big-time men's college hoops powerhouses - like Kentucky, Duke and Ohio State - that clinched their respective conference titles on Sunday afternoon, have plunged headlong into an incredibly a hectic 96 hours. From finding out where they're scheduled to play this weekend during the Selection Show on Sunday night to scouting their upcoming opponents and traveling to the various first-round tournament sites, there are few people busier than the coaches, equipment managers, athletic directors and players participating in the Big Dance.

The only folks who may have more on their plates this week? Those hale and hearty men and women running an old-fashioned NCAA Tournament pools in offices around the country. Brackets must be printed. Scoring systems divined. Cohorts recruited. Witty emails composed. And fees collected. Running your office pool can be a weeks-long whirlwind of clandestine office work, done with great personal risk of paper cuts and an increased exposure to algebra.

Or you can just start a pool on Yahoo or some such place on the Interwebs and not have to do much of anything but send one email. But before you click to accept their terms, I ask you to consider a better way.

On General Ludd and the Virtues of Handcraft
As the Industrial Revolution was changing the face of English culture at the tail end of the 1700s, one man is reputed to have stood up against the forces of change. One man is supposed to have spoken out in favor of the work done by human hands (albeit slower work that often came at greater expense). This man, Ned Ludd, smashed a pair of mechanical knitting machines that were taking away jobs for him and his buddies.

As the Industrial Revolution (not to be confused with The Puppy That Lost Its Way) gained steam in the 1810s and '20s, a swarm of British textile workers rose up under Ludd's name and smashed looms across the land. The Luddites were revolting across England and tying down British troops that were needed to fend off Napoleon. This brouhaha was such that the breaking of looms became a capital offense. Yeah, that means it was punished with the death penalty. And, no, "breaking the loom" is not a nineteenth century euphemism for sodomy. In 2011, now that we're not so hung up on losing our jobs to looms, "Luddite" is a mildly derogatory term for someone who hasn't waited in a long line for an IPad.

As someone who would love to not have a mobile phone tracking my every movement and making me available to everyone (except my lovely girlfriend who can call any time she wants) at all times, I can respect the Luddite worldview. Which is one of the reasons that I am a huge advocate of running your office pool the old fashioned way: with printed out and filled out paper brackets. Leave this newfangled click-and-drag stuff to the rocket scientists and shut-ins. I say, let's scribble and cross out names on greasy well-worn pieces of paper like the degenerate gamblers we are.

Aside from my own rejection of change and fondness for the gambling days of yore, there are a handful of reasons why it's better (and more fun) to have competitors manually fill out and submit their brackets.

Top Five Reasons For Paper Brackets

1. Pay to Play. Someone hands you a bracket and the fee at the same time. There is zero hassle about collecting money from people who sign up online but you never see in person.

2. My Mac Ate My Bracket. With most offices populated with a mix of tech-savvy youngsters and middle-aged folks who need a child or spouse to get that danged DVD player to work, the use of hand-filled brackets eliminates any cries of "I meant to pick X but the computer gave me Y."

3. Graphology. Now, I don't think that you can necessary learn about a person by the penmanship of their bracket, but I do think that people put more of themselves into a handwritten bracket than one they fill out online. For starters, most online bracket games have players select winners in such a way that the big picture is somewhat obscured. Whereas the breadth and depth of the tournament stares you in the face when you fill out each line of a paper bracket. All of the If... (Team X wins) Then... (They Might Face Team Y) And... (They might meet in this location of significance) Which... (Means that I have a hunch about who will win) Abstractions that make this so fun are much more likely to come into play. People worry over paper brackets while eating lunch, dripping mustard or spilling coffee on them. They cross out earlier picks and doodle in the margins. It's just not the same without them. It's also a lot harder for contestants to (e)mail it in by quickly clicking on team names before the deadline. Long story short, people try harder and care more with paper brackets.

4. Scoring Updates. Not surprisingly, I ran the annual office pool at my previous job. There had never been an office pool there and it grew each year that I was with the company. By the time I had moved on to greener and friendlier pastures, the annual office pool had become something that those who participated really looked forward to each spring. Aside from the inherent thrill of gambling, the emails with the scoring updates were always a fave facet of the tournament. These emails became so popular, in fact, that even a few folks that didn't participate asked to be cc'd on the emails throughout the duration of the tournament. Now, this is the first way in which running an office pool with paper brackets puts more onus on the lifeguard. But we'll worry about that later. In the meantime, emailed updates from the person in charge are integral to a solid pool because they provide a common meeting place for all participants. Rather than logging on to Yahoo separately to see what's happening (or not even checking once things are underway) everyone gets to find out where they stand at the same time. A ripple of excitement shoots through the office when that first notice goes out on the morning of the second day of the tourney. There is a collective experience that bonds everyone together and gets people talking. And, this may be the best (and only) situation for the "reply all" email function. All of a sudden, the Marketing VP is commiserating with the guy in the mail room because they both are at the bottom of the standings. When done right, the scoring updates foster the sort of camaraderie that makes the office pool great (and lucrative).

5. Freedom. Working outside the confines of Yahoo, ESPN, CBS or whichever media conglomerate you favor allows your office pool to use whatever scoring system you choose.

A Note on Invitations: When breaking ground on a new office pool (regardless of whether you're using paper brackets) one should be moderately careful of whom they invite to come for a swim. This sort of gambling is, I believe, still illegal. It's also a renowned time suck that some workplaces may frown upon. Send an initial email out the Monday after Selection Sunday to those intrepid souls that you know for a fact will participate. Ideally, this number will include people in various departments or areas of the office. Ask these players to forward the email to anyone else they think may be interested. In your initial email, it's worthwhile to name drop the most senior person that you know will be participating in a "Well, we all now that Mr. Knudsen is going to go with his alma mater UNC even though they missed the tournament" sort of way. This should put a bit of institutional muscle behind this operation and help grease the wheels. If you get the word out on Monday then you have until noon on Thursday for participants to come out of the wood work. And they will.

Lastly, be sure to attached PDF of a bracket to your invite email and also include a hyperlink that leads to a printable version of the bracket. You want to make it as easy as possible for people to participate. Mostly because you want their money but also because it's more fun that way.

The WWOD? Risk-Rewarding NCCA Office Pool Scoring System
In order to show that my preference for paper brackets isn't just some self-indulgent whim, I've created a scoring system that I think fosters more competitive spirit than the standard scoring employed by most online bracket vendors. The thrice-tested WWOD? scoring system rewards those who correctly pick upsets. Because being right when the UC Santa Barbara Gauchos take out the University of Florida should not be just as valuable as correctly tapping Kansas to get past the Boston University Terriers. That is not what this tournament is all about.

When Taylor Coppenrath and the Vermont Catamounts knocked off Syracuse on TJ Sorrentine's three-pointer in 2005, and I had actually guessed prognosticated that result in the office pool, well, I wanted a statue erected in my honor next to the water cooler. Is that so wrong? I don't think so. And while I haven't set up a quick-turnaround statue company, I have composed this upset-emphasizing scoring system. There are two main components of this paten-pending method.

1. The WWOD? Upset Bonus
When an upset occurs and a bracketeer has correctly filled it out on their bracket then they get the difference of the team's seeds added to their score as an UPSET BONUS. So if the No. 15 UC Santa Barbara Gauchos really do knock of the No. 2 seeded Florida Gators and you were to correctly guess that then you would receive 13 bonus points added to your score.

2. The Fibonacci Normalizer
With such extravagant bonuses for picking first-round upsets, you might ask, "Well doesn't this mean that everyone will just pick every upset hoping to rack up bonus points?" And, it might if I hadn't already thought about that and created a scoring system that makes correct picks increasingly valuable as we get deeper into the tournament. In other words, if you go against all the high seeds early to accrue bonus points then you'll be hosed as the tournament advances.

I scoured the world of mathematics (read: googled "math" and "counting") when trying to find out a way to raise the scores incrementally by round. Finally I tracked down a certain Leonardo of Pisa, who brought us the bestselling Liber Abaci. The son of a successful Italian merchant, this guy learned about counting and numbers from the brightest minds of the Arab world and convinced Europeans to give up Roman numerals for the much easier to compute 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. The adoption of the Hindu-Arabic numerals by the West was really a game-changer in world history. Sort of like the addition of the three-point line.

For his troubles, Leonardo of Pisa later had a number sequence named in his honor. Even though his name was Leo, this number sequence was called the Fibonacci Sequence. It is a string of numbers in which any number after the first two, which are 0 and 1, is the sum of the previous two numbers.

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144 ...

One of the special things about the Fibonacci numbers is that they occur in nature, such as in the branching of trees, the arrangements of leaves on a stem and a bunch of other stuff. And, if something is good enough for Mother Nature then it's surely good enough for our office pool.

Points Values By Round:
Round 1: 2 points for each correct pick
Round 2: 3 points for each correct pick
Sweet 16: 5 points for each correct pick
Elite 8: 8 points for each correct pick
Final Four: 13 points for each correct pick
Championship Game: 21 points

Scoring Example:
Again, if those No. 15 UCSB Gauchos really do knock off No. 2 Florida then anyone who picks that game correctly gets 2 points because it's a first-round game + 13 points for the Upset Bonus. That's 15 points for that one game.

Each game is tabulated thusly. Games in which the higher seed prevails just get the appropriate round value. This applies to every game in every round. So if a No. 3 seed edges a No. 1 seed in the championship game then anyone who correctly picked that winner receives the 21 points for the round + the 2 points for the difference in seeds.

For all the attention paid to upsets in this system, most bonus-based leads evaporate in the Sweet 16. And that 21-point score for nailing the champ is hard to beat. Just like with most scoring systems, the winning brackets will need to have their Final Four largely intact and tend to have the correct champ. The true difference with the WWOD? scoring system is that those who sniffed out the right Cinderellas will get a slight boost over those who went chalk in a year when a common pick cuts down the nets. It's very hard to win this sort of pool if you don't get at least one of the few big upsets correctly.

The Stakes
This is totally dependent on where you work. If you're the sommelier in the employee lunchroom at Monocles and Scepters Incorporated then maybe you can go as high as $100 per bracket. But I've always gone between $10 and $20 per bracket. Ideally, no one will be intimidated by price and a handful of people will play multiple brackets.

The Lifeguard at the Office Pool
And, here's the part you didn't want to hear. Running an office pool this way, the right way, requires someone to do a lot of work. You've got to compose clever emails that include references to the tournament itself as well as the various folks in your office. You've got resist the temptation to spend the big wad of money at a bar during the first weekend of the tournament. And the second. You've got to do math. And then check your math. And then re-check it because Lynda in Accounting thinks you might have her score wrong. You've got to carry around an Inter-office envelope with all the brackets stuffed inside and not lose that envelope. Or change any of the brackets in that envelope. And you've got to deal with everyone waiting on scoring updates after each round of games. Because they will.

So, yeah, it will take up a lot of your time.

But, that's also part of the fun. You can distract yourself from a month of your actual job. It's also a great way to meet people in your workplace and get people to see you in a slightly different light. And, yes, that light may be tinted by gambling but it will also illuminate your leadership skills and ability to complete a complex project. Oh, and it will keep you from working. Did I mention that?

Now, in the name of Ludd and Fibonacci and Coopenrath go out there and start some workplace gambling!

He Do This

Fine. I'll admit. Deep in the hidden recesses of my hoops heart, it has been a minor struggle for me to learn to love watching Carmelo Anthony stop the ball as the Knicks run an increasing number of isolation plays. Despite his ability to play that style better than most of his peers, the seeming stagnation flashes me back to Al Harrington, Jamal Crawford and Zach Randolph.

Now, don't get me wrong. I wanted the Knick to trade for Carmelo Anthony, even writing some time long before the Summer of LeBron that I'd rather root for Melo and the upstarts trying to usurp the King then for a team built around an increasingly dickish James.

In spite of my affection for Melo, I have still cringed when he's gone through his brief cold stretches because few plays look as wasteful as the missed iso jumper early in the shot clock. Of course, I understand that coach Mike D'Antoni has to tailor his offense to the skills of his top players. And, I understand that allowing Melo to face up on a defender on most places on the floor isn't exactly a bad play. Or, at least, it's not as bad a play as letting Harrington do it.

Last night, though, Anthony had a message for me. A message that I received by way of the Memphis Grizzlies' bench. When Melo released the above game-winner, the Grizz reserves were hollering in his ear that his effort was astray. Once the ball dropped through the net, Anthony turned to them and simply said, "I do this."

There was a rakish grin on Anthony's face as he backpedaled down the court after that make. With arctic confidence, he just kept repeating those three words. Because he does this. Which means that anytime I feel like the team has abandoned the pick and roll and the breakneck pace for half-court clear-outs, I need to remind myself that it's a make-or-miss league and we've got a guy who makes when it matters:



Even if that winning shot had clanged off the iron, and the Knicks had gone on to lose in overtime, I still would have liked the way that last play looked. It wasn't Jamal Crawford dribbling down the clock at the top of the key before one crossover dribble and an off-balance jumper. Unlike the final possession in the recent loss to Cleveland, D'Antoni had his team run the offense. Toney Douglas initiated the action, passing it Anthony on the left wing that he loves. Amar'e came over looking to run the pick and roll, but Zach Randolph was staying home on him. With the Grizz overplaying Amar'e, it was up to Anthony. Who jab stepped Tony Allen and pulled back and rose for the winner. Because, all together now, He Do That.

Biggie and the Unnamed Knicks Cuckold

It was 14 years ago today that Brooklyn-born hip hop juggernaut Christopher Wallace - better known as Biggie Smalls or the Notorious B.I.G. - was killed in Los Angeles. A tuxedo-wearing gunman in a Chevy Impala pulled alongside the Suburban ferrying Biggie and opened fire. Riding in the passenger seat of that 'burb, the drug dealer turned wordsmith was killed. Despite the fact that a whole lot of people thought they knew who was behind the shooting, the murder was never solved by the LAPD, and is actually still being investigated on the Left Coast.

All these years later, the vivid street narratives in Born to Die and Life After Death remain poignant and surprisingly fresh. At turns angry, hilarious and vulnerable, Biggie has got songs for all seasons. And even one about banging the girl of a player on the New York Knicks. The last song on the first disc of Life After Death, "I've Got A Story to Tell," details what happens when Big's liaison with the lady of Knicks player at that fellow's crib is interrupted by the player returning home from a game against the Utah Jazz, who were fittingly in town the other night. Surprisingly, hilarity, not violence, ensues. Well, there is a robbery and there are threats of violence. But it's funny. Really funny.

Who y'all talkin to man?
Uhh
Check it out, check it out
This here goes out
to all the niggaz that be fuckin mad bitches
in other niggaz cribs
thinkin shit is sweet
Nigga creep up on your ass, hahaha
Live niggaz respect it, check it

I kick flows for ya, kick down doors for ya
Even left all my motherfuckin hoes for ya
Niggaz think Frankie pussy whipped, nigga picture that
With a Kodak, Insta-ma-tak
We don't get down like that, lay my game down quite flat
Sweetness, where you parked at?
Petiteness but that ass fat
She got a body make a nigga wanna eat that, I'm fuckin witchu
The bitch official doe, dick harder than a missile yo
Try to hit if she trippin dissapearin like Arsenio
Yo, the bitch push a double-oh
with the five in front, probably a connivin stunt
Y'all drive in front, I'm a peel with her
Find a deal with her, she fuck around and steal, huh?
Then we all get laced
Television's, Versacci heaven, when I'm up in em
The shit she kicked, all the shit's legit
She get dick from a player off the New York Knicks
Nigga tricked ridiculous, the shit was plush
She's stressin me to fuck, like she was in a rush
We fucked in his bed, quite dangerous
I'm in his ass while he playin gainst the Utah Jazz
My 112, CD blast, I was past
She came twice I came last, roll the grass
She giggle, sayin i'm smokin on homegrown
Then I heard her moan, honey I'm home
Yep, tote chrome for situations like this
I'm up in his broad I know he won't like this
Now I'm like bitch you better talk to him
Before this fist put a spark to him
Fuck around shit get dark to him, put a part through him
Lose a major part to him, arm, leg
She beggin me to stop but this cat gettin closer
Gettin hot like a toaster, I cocks the toast, uhh
Before my eyes could blink
She screams out, "Honey bring me up somethin to drink!"
He go back downstairs more time to think
Her brain racin, she's tellin me to stay patient
She don't know I'm, cool as a fan
Gat in hand, I don't wanna blast her man
But I can and I will doe, I probably chill doe
Even though situation lookin kinda ill yo
It came to me like a song I wrote
Told the bitch gimme your scarf, pillowcase and rope
Got dressed quick, tied the scarf around my face
Roped the bitch up, gagged her mouth with the pillowcase
Play the cut, nigga comin off some love potion shit
Flash the heat on em, he stood emotionless
Dropped the glass screamin, "Don't blast here's the stash,
a hundred cash just don't shoot my ass, please!"
Nigga pullin mad G's out the floor
Put stacks in a Prada knapsack, hit the door
Grab the keys to the five, call my niggaz on the cell
Bring some weed I got a story to tell, uhh...

Yo man, y'all niggaz ain't gonna believe what the fuck happened to me.
Remember that bitch I left the club with man? Yo, freaky yo. I'm up in
this bitch playa this bitch fuckin run them ol mink ass niggaz and shit,
I'm up in the spot though. One of them six-five niggaz, I don't know.
Anyway I'm up in the motherfuckin spot, so boom I'm up in the pussy,
whatever whatever. I sparks up some lye, Pop Duke creeps up in on some,
must have been rained out or something *laughing* because he's in the
spot. Had me scared, had me scared, I was shook Daddy - but I forget I
had my Roscoe on me. Always. You know how we do. So anyway the nigga
comes up the stairs, he creepin up the steps, the bitch all shook she
sends the nigga back downstairs to get some drinks and shit. She gettin
mad nervous, I said fuck that man! I'm the nigga, you know how we do it
nigga, ransom note style put the scarf around my motherfuckin face,
gagged that bitch up, played the kizzack. Soon this nigga comes up in
the spot, flash the Desert in his face he drops the glass. Looked like
the nigga pissed on his-self or somethin, word to mother! Ahh fuckit
this nigga runs dead to the floor, peels up the carpet, start givin me
mad papers, mad papers. (I told you that bitch was a shiesty bitch cuz!
Word to mother I used to fuck her cousin but you ain't know that! Hahaha.
You wouldn't know that shit. Really though.) I threw all that
motherfuckin money up in the Prada knapsack. Two words, I'm gone!
(No doubt, no doubt... no doubt!) Yo nigga got some lye, y'all got
some lye? [conversation fades out]

While the anonymous cuckolded Knickerbocker is likely just a stand-in for the stereotypical ideals of straight-laced, milk-drinking masculinity that this overweight, black market superstar was trying to supersede, I did like to wonder who the gal would have been if the story had been true. Usually, I'd just assume that, Big was banging the wife of Charles Smith. A Connecticut-born college graduate who was well paid but little respected on the block (or at my suburban middle school). Smith's four misses in the waning moments of Game 5 of the 1993 Eastern Conference Finals were still an open wound in this town during the period when the song was likely recorded.



Life After Death was released shortly after Biggie's death in March 1997, but it was, according to my extensive Wikipedia research, originally slated for release on Halloween in 1996. An autumn '96 on-sale would have meant that most of the songs were likely written and recorded during the three-year window between September 1994 when Ready to Die dropped and the start of the 1996–1997 NBA season. Although the Knicks' roster was fairly stable during that span, the only clues that we have about the 'bocker from the song is that he was scared and that he kept a stash of cash in a Prada bag beneath the floor of his bedroom. He's also described as "one of them six-five niggaz," which likely rules out the 6' 10" Smith. Despite the scars I carry from Charles Smith's time with the Knicks' I'm going to say that he simply doesn't fit the description.

1994–1997 New York Knicks
Patrick Ewing 1994–1997
John Starks 1994–1997
Charles Smith 1994–1996
Derek Harper 1994–1996
Hubert Davis 1994–1996
Anthony Mason 1994–1996
Charles Oakley 1994–1997
Greg Anthony 1994–1995
Anthony Bonner 1994–1995
Herb Williams 1994–1995
Monty Williams 1994–1995
Doc Rivers 1994
Charlie Ward 1994–1997
Doug Christie 1994–1995
Ron Grandison 1994-1996
Greg Kite 1994–1995
J.R.Reid 1995–1996
Gary Grant 1995–1996
Brad Lohaus 1995–1996
Willie Anderson 1995–1996
Matt Fish 1995–1996
Scott Brooks 1996–1997
Chris Childs 1996–1997
Allan Houston 1996–1997
Larry Johnson 1996–1997
Buck Williams 1996–1997
Walter McCarty 1996–1997
Chris Jent 1996–1997

First, I think we can rule out the handful of white guys that played on the team since I believe it would have been noted explicitly in the lyrics if this dude was white. Next, I'd eliminate Ewing, Oakley and Mason. Mostly, because they are all too tall, but also because I think this situation ends with a murder if Oak or Mase are involved. Also, Rita Ewing ain't playing like that if it's going to jeopardize her settlement in the divorce. The Ewings also lived in New Jersey. Third, I'd tend toward knocking the older players like Herb Williams and Buck Williams from the list as they're likely married to women too old to end up in bed with a young rapper who they met at a club. Those veterans also probably would have had kids in the house. The next to go would be the itinerant players who only had a cup of coffee with the team during that span. Please move along Gary Grant, J.R. Reid, Greg Kite, Ron Grandison and company. After removing all those guys we're left with a group of young players and a few veterans, that includes Starks, Childs, Davis, Bonner, Ward, Christie, Houston and McCarty.

Of these candidates, I'd think that the religious Houston and Ward would have quoted scripture when faced with such a situation and that Biggie would have mocked them for it. More importantly perhaps, those Christian brothers didn't arrive in town until the very end of the window during which the song could have been written. Same goes for LJ (who is probably closer to being 6'5" then whatever he was listed as during his playing days), Bonner, Childs and McCarty. So I'm going to say that they weren't in town long enough to qualify. Elementary, my dear Diddy.

That leaves us with three likeliest candidates: Davis, Starks and Christie. Davis and Starks are both listed at 6 feet and 5 inches tall while Christie is just an inch taller. They all fit the bill. It's possible that Starks' nightmarish 1994 NBA Finals was brought about by having been "robbed" by Smalls at his home, and the former grocery store clerk does seem like the type that might have kept his money stashed in bags rather than banks. Of course, I see Starks opting for a plastic bag if given the "Prada or plastic?" choice. Now, knowing what we now know about Christie's wife, Jackie, he seems a darkhorse candidate. Lastly, Davis is the college-educated All-American sort that seems a candidate to have a Prada bag and to not stand up for himself. Such measured cowardice is the wise play, of course, which is why it may potentially rule out Starks. This a complicated case with a lot of ins, outs and what have you. Among the many unsolved mysteries surrounding this fallen icon, is the identity of the player that begged Biggie not to shoot his ass.

Monday Morning Schadenfreude

After the South Beach SuperFriends dropped another close game yesterday, the club's ertswhile coach Erik Spoelstra revealed that some tears where shed by his players after the latest loss. From these tears came a deluge of gleeful and mocking commentary.

According to ESPN Stats and Information, these two misses were the 12th and 13th that have come with a chance to tie or lead a game in the final 10 seconds of regulation or overtime. Amar'e Stoudemire blocked LBJ on a similar foray into the paint last weekend. Between that last-second loss to the Knicks and this last-second loss to the Bulls, the Heat have squandered a large lead against Orlando and been routed by San Antonio.

“The Miami Heat are exactly what everyone wanted, losing games,” said Wade after the game, acutely aware that the South Beach Schadenfreudes are the team that we all love to hate. “The world is better now because the Heat is losing.”

The Payback Trilogy

I've read enough Baseball Prospectus to understand that nothing I do, as a fan, has any effect on the outcome of a sporting event. Not my yelling. Not my would-be-witty blog posts. Not the spot where I sit while watching. None of my actions have any effect. Which makes me, in this regard, nearly as useful as Andy Rautins.

Now, I don't mean to say that I still didn't worry over which Jets jersey to wear during Gang Green's recent playoff run. Because I did. But I understand that the only purpose of such behavior was to give me something to do before the game and something to talk about during. My ensemble didn't help Shaun Ellis sack Tom Brady in New England or prevent Bart Scott from wrapping Rashard Mendenhall in Pittsburgh.

Recent events, however, have forced me to revisit this stance about my own ineffectuality. Maybe Bill Simmons is right. Maybe reverse jinxes matter. Maybe RBI is a valuable evaluation tool. And, just maybe the things I do and say and eat and drink can alter the performances of athletes that don't even know that I exist. Because that seems to be one of the only ways that I can explain how the woeful Cleveland Cavaliers have beaten the Knicks three times in three tries this season.


In case you haven't heard, those 2010-2011 Cavaliers have been one of the worst teams in NBA annals. Byron Scott's charges have just 12 wins. Seven of those triumphs came in the first month of play, but the comic sans wave crested in the first quarter of LeBron James' return to Cleveland on Dec. 2. With a vociferous crowd behind them, the Cavs took an early lead. The high point came when Antawn Jamison drew a foul while scoring a driving layup. He then knocked down the ensuing free throw to give the home team a 17-12 lead. From that made free throw up until now it's been a nearly uninterrupted free fall. The South Beach SuperFriends finished the quarter strong, with James scoring 11 of his team's final 16 points while assisting on the two buckets he didn't score. The next three quarters would go just as well for Cleveland as the close of the first.

The Cavs would go on to drop their next eight games before the Knickerbockers arrived in Cleveland for their first meeting on Dec. 18. The Knicks squandered a lead in the final minute of the game before capitulating in overtime. As I said earlier, the freefall was nearly uninterrupted. After that first win over the Knicks, the rudderless Cavs would go on to lose their next 26 straight games, establishing a new mark for consistent putridity.

When the Knicks next came calling at Quicken Loans Arena in late February, the 'bockers had just acquired Carmel Anthony, Chauncey Billups and assorted Balkmans from Denver. The new-look New York team stuttered and fumbled its way to a win over the Milwaukee Bucks in its first future outing, but would then go down in Cleveland. In that game, J.J. Hickson played with a ferocity that neither me or the Knicks seemed to anticipate, and it was only a fourth-quarter explosion from Billups that made this one close down the stretch.

Already rocking an impressive 0-fer against the least competitive team of recent vintage, Anthony sounded almost Rexian in making it clear to the media that there would be no messing around when Cavaliers visited the Garden just a few days later. True to his words, the Knicks began brightly in the game, with Toney Douglas continuing his recent streak of strong starts. TD attacked the rack for the opening score. Soon after, Melo dropped a three and then Amar'e got himself to the line after a strong drive. Douglas was propelling the offense at full speed, pushing it through Amar'e. When Jared Jeffries took a charge early it looked like this one would be over early.

To their credit, the Cavs would battle all night, playing with a confidence and an anger that one might not expect from a team so far down the standings. Some of the spirit of belief was imbued by recent arrival Baron Davis, who generally embraces the Garden stage, but just as much was contributed by bulky Newark-schooled Samardo Samuels. For all their brutish exuberance, though, the Knicks lead ballooned to 12 points midway through the fourth quarter as Stoudemire was again working himself past 40 points.

But with an offense operating at full speed only in fits and starts and a defense still being lashed together on the operating table, the home team stalled as the finish line came into sight. It shuddered and shimmied just like the 1986 Dodge 600 I drove used to as I'd force it to make that last hard uphill left turn toward my high school in 1999. This sudden and dramatic loss of locomotion was exactly what a drafting Davis had been waiting for. He exploded toward the tape, knocking down several big shots and playing with the been-there confidence that LBJ used to provide for this team in the building.


Soon enough, the Knicks were trailing in the final minute and forced to have Amar'e shooting a three pointer. As is his wont, he nailed it. Obviously. Former Dan D'Antoni protege and onetime apple of the Donnie Walsh's eye Ramon Sessions then went 1 for 2 at the line to give the 'bockers one last chance to avert disaster. Trailing 115-117, the Knicks had the ball with 7 seconds left (or less).

The ball was never going anywhere but Anthony. He lowered his head and he drove through the paint toward the rim, rising up into the air when he was halfway there. With a clean look above the fray to the cylinder, Anthony was oblivious to Samuels planted beneath him until both were tumbling toward the parquet. Whistle. Offensive foul. Game. Over.

While getting ambushed by an engaged Davis is not exactly the same as losing a lead in Cleveland or as no-showing in Cleveland, there is not enough lipstick out in the wider world to enter this pig in the beauty pageant. This was the worst loss of the season. Because it came after those other two. Because it came with Carmelo. And because it came after Carmelo talking about how this team would not lose the third meeting after dropping the previous two.

Those three wins for Cleveland account for the better part of the paltry five that this club has gathered since that relatively hot first month. But, why? How? Are you there God, it's me Margaret and I want to know how these players have consistently lost to those players?

Oh. I see. Damn. Yeah, our bad.

It's because we, as fans, wanted this for Cleveland. We wanted their homegrown hero to leave. We wanted the 26-game losing streak. We coveted LeBron James and we gleefully scribbled slogans on poster board to this effect. We printed Knicks jerseys with LBJ's name and number on them. It didn't matter one lick to us Knicks fans if Cleveland went 0-82 this season. Nope. In fact, our addition was always supposed to be there subtraction. That was, when you got down to it, part of the fun. Because we could get what they had just because of who we were: Knicks fans. This was the prevailing we-gomaniacal thinking. No?


For 18 months, the Knicks were the free agency bogeyman haunting everything that Cleveland did on and off the floor. We're responsible for the Cavs mortgaging the future for suitable sidekicks for James. Danny Ferry and the Cleveland front office felt incapable of building something strong and sustainable because the lure of James Dolan's money, Madison Avenue market share and Madison Square Garden seemed stronger than the quainter comforts of Cuyahoga County.

When it comes to the relationship between these two franchises, it matters only slightly that LBJ opted to take his talents to South Beach instead of Seventh Avenue because the Knicks and New York City created "The Decision." It was the confidence that we had of James' ultimate departure and the passion with which we wooed him that sewed the seeds of that heartbreak. These Knicks can't beat those Cavs because we created them.

As James would tweet, ain't karma a bitch.

Ew Be Illin'

The proliferation of 'Melo gear has me thinking back to the zenith of Knicks fashion. Run (right) can be seen sporting one of the most badass garments ever.

In Memoriam: Hank Gathers and Wes Leonard

It was 21 years ago today that Loyola Marymount basketball star Hank Gathers died after collapsing on the court during a game in the West Coast Conference Tournament against Portland State. Hands down the best college basketball player in the country and arguably already in the upper echelon of all basketball players amateur or professional, the 23-year-old had just thrown down a vicious ally-oop to stake his squad to a 25-13 lead with 13:34 still on the clock in the first half. Gathers, already with eight points in the game, high fived his teammate and best friend Bo Kimble as they got back on defense. Moments later, the physical marvel crumpled to the floor. He tried once to get up but couldn't muster the strength. A defibrillator was used on him shortly after he was removed from the floor, by that time his heart had stopped beating. His mother screamed and medical personnel scrambled. He was dead before he arrived at the hospital.

Earlier that season, Gathers had collapsed at the free throw line during a game at UC Santa Barbara. He missed his first shot. And dropped before he could loft the second. He was able to regain his feet and walk off the court under his own power. The senior star who was months from the NBA draft, where he was undoubtedly going to be one of the first players to shake David Stern's hand, having led the NCAA in points (32.7) and rebounds (13.7) during his junior season, was soon diagnosed with an abnormal heartbeat. He was prescribed medication and cleared to play shortly thereafter.



Eerily and inconceivably sadly, a young high school hoops star died yesterday shortly after hitting a game-winning shot for his team. Wes Leonard stood 6 feet and 2 inches tall but seems to have loomed much larger in the esteem of those who knew him in Fennville, Michigan. Last night, Leonard dropped in a game-winning layup in overtime to clinch a pristine 20-0 season. A gym full of high school kids clamored for their talismanic three-sport star as his teammates lifted him on their shoulders. And then he died. He was a teenager who had just hit the game-winner in a hoops game. And then he fucking died. Right there on the court. It would later be determined that he'd suffered a cardiac arrest due to an enlarged heart.

So, yeah, I've got no great point here, philosophical or medical. I certainly can't conjure any silver lining or greater good wrought by the public deaths of these two basketball players with heart problems. These are just two sadsadsad stories that by some terrible quirk of the universe are sort linked. That is all. Also, sorry.