Against the Dying of the Light

Devin Harris is now allowed to become a man.

I was not a fan of this trade, on Dallas' part. I just didn't think two years of Jason Kidd was worth ten years of Devin Harris. Now, I'm not that good at analyzing basketball - I leave that to those that actually know what they're talking about - but I was pretty sure about this one.

Nothing wrong with Jason Kidd. He is, as has been proven year in and year out for more than fifteen years, composed purely of amazing. But Devin Harris is, in his own quiet way, pretty damned good - and ten years younger. All this has been gone over. You know this already. But why, I wonder, did nobody ever talk about Devin Harris? Or the Nets, for that matter?

I don't pretend to be unbiased, or objective. Therefore I will not pretend that I watched much of the Nets, lately. They sucked; they were ugly; Jason Kidd and Vince and RJ were allegedly good, but ultimately weren't really; that's all I needed to know. But now I think I'm going to have to, because a free Devin Harris is one I want to see. Avery Johnson is slightly fascistic, as far as I can tell, but Devin Harris always showed flashes - of brilliance, of potential, whatever - that were squashed a bit by Avery's Napoleon complex. That is, of course, blatant unfounded conjecture. Just because he's short and squeaky doesn't mean he's Napoleonic. He may just be a cartoon character. But I digress.

The one constant in the trades this year was that those going West were old and proven, and those sent back East in their place were young and full of potential. It seems the trend now is to mortgage a team's future for the sake of the present - I suppose because it's much easier than actually building a good team. All it's doing, though, is making the West super-competitive now, while making the East young, sucky, and secretly exciting. The exceptions are the Lakers, who manage to be both young/exciting and competitive, and the Celtics.

But in five years, who will be good? Think of how much of the old guard will be gone. The Suns of 2013 will be the Heat of 2007. The Spurs will be in the regenerative phase of the championship machine. Melo may be smiling a little less. Yao will look like Shaq does now, unless he goes the Mutombo route. Dirk will be half-heartedly chucking it from outside...oh, wait. But the other teams, the young and sucky ones? The East, in other words? Think about it.

The Atlanta Hawks have Acie Law IV and Al Horford. They have Josh Smith and Other Josh and Marvin; they have Joe Johnson. Could they draft another guard? Could they ever get a decent coach? Would they get to be great? If they did, would anyone care?

The Chicago Bulls have the Big Three of the future in Noah, Thomas, and Sefolosha - assuming one doesn't get traded, which is probable. In the "Crappy lately, but still somewhat good" column they have Luol Deeeeeeng, Ben Gordon, and Kirk Heinrich, not to mention Nocioni. Noche does something I used to see Taurean do - "Aren't you guys going to play? Fuck it, do I have to win this game all by myself?" Scrappy, is the word, for the lot of them. We'll have to see if scrappy=good.

The Heat can not keep going in the way that they're going. Not that they must not, or they should not - it is, I'm fairly sure, impossible for a team this talented to suck this badly for very much longer. They're not young. But give them a few years of lottery picks, and they will be. And any team with D-Wade and Shawn Marion on it is okay with me.

And the Nets. The Nets have Devin Harris. Maybe RJ and Vince could get their acts together. Who knows what'll happen after that? They'll go to Brooklyn, maybe get LeBron. It's impossible to tell. But I know I'll actually be watching them play, this time around.

It's a cycle, I suppose - this shift in power, the old and the new, the wise trades and the bad ones. The young eventually outstrip the old, and every generation is better (maybe). But, eh. It's impossible to tell - all one can do is pray.

Phoenix-Red Simplicity, Enshrined In That Not Extinguished Fire

The problem with describing basketball is that to be specific is to rob the description of its meaning. The stories of basketball are universal, eternal; to describe this hard-luck story, this single mother raising her tall skinny son to stay away from drugs and gangs, this nice boy from across the cornfields, is to take away that part of its power. But here I will be specific, and detail the most beautiful game I've seen in a very long time: the game between Phoenix and the Warriors.

It seems that Golden State is involved in a lot of these pretty games. And it's not hard to see why - if basketball is about speed, and skill, and shooting, and .0001 percent of humanity athleticism, then Phoenix is the epitome of basketball. And if that is so, then Golden State is the epitome of Suns basketball. (Plus a large helping of absurdity, an insane fanbase, and some of the best stories/tattoos in the league.) The Warriors are basketball in its purest form, and the Suns are close behind; and this was, therefore, the best game of the season, without a doubt.

When the Warriors are on, they are on. They're so on that they burn. When Stephen Jackson is pulling up threes in opponent's faces - when Baron Davis is hitting every shot he tries - when Monta Ellis is too fast to see, and Matt Barnes is making saves that seemed impossible - when Boom and Stack Jack and Matt Barnes are all getting technicals, not to mention Nelly - when Kelenna and the rooks are being exciting, and when Andris Biedrins is pulling in rebounds - rebounds! - it's every tired cliche possible to make. It's a circus, it's a choreographed dance, it's ridiculousness in basketball form, it's basketball the way it was always meant to be played. And the Suns, well. They're pretty good too.

There were times, in that game, when there wasn't a single player on the floor over six foot eight. In the same way that being separated from a lover will let one realize that one wasn't much in love to begin with, it's games like this that cause a spectator to think - Well, what's so great about big men anyway? Imagining Chris Webber (much as I adore him) and Shaq in that game - perhaps waiting under opposite baskets as the other players race by, glowering at each other from across the court and waiting for their turns to rebound and block shots - gave me, honestly, chills. No, this wasn't the National Basketball Association: this was basketball. This was five guys against five guys and see who scores more points. This was short-shorts and Julius Erving and only the showiest kind of D. This was perfect.

As interesting as the show the clicking, churning Warriors put on, as they always do, was the ongoing flux of the Suns. Are they, perhaps - heretical as it may be - better without Shawn Marion? Shaq will not, ultimately, make them much better, at least as far as basketball goes. But they played some of their best ball without Amare, and maybe they'll play better without the Matrix. Maybe Boris will remember that he's good at basketball, and try shooting sometimes; maybe Grant Hill will find his old glory; maybe Steve Nash's back will stay in one piece for that last half of the season. Maybe Brian Skinner will grow some hair and dye it purple, to go with that beard of his. Who knows? I want Steve to get his ring. And I hope that he gets it this year, while he can still stand up - even if it means that Iverson doesn't get it, or Jason Kidd, or Dirk, or any of the numerous others who should but don't. Maybe the Big Cactus, the Big Gaseous Body, the Big Knee Injury Waiting To Happen, can get Steve that ring. Or maybe the absence of Shawn will do it.

But that's half a season away; all one can pray for now is a playoff series between the Suns and the Warriors. The implications of that thought are, truly, goose-bump inducing.