People hating on Kobe Bryant at this point are just total f*cking idiots.
Yes, I know it is too bad he and shaq could not get along. And i also know about the affair in Boulder, and some of his minor personality flaws. But anyone that is still wanting to talk about Colorado, you clearly haven't spent enough time on the internet, and those same personality defects are what makes him, MJ, and very few others in the history of the game great.
Here's what's truth here: there is no way to possibly minimize what Kobe stands for in a pure basketball sense. Even if you buy into the "he's a selfish player" crap, there's one unavoidable problem with that logic....... being selfish alone does not get you on the same level career wise as Michael Jordan.
There have been tons or great scorers in nba history—"just scorers"—take Tracy mcgrady, Allen Iverson, Dominique Wilkins, alex english and the like....... and yet none of them have been capable of what kobe has accomplished: Multiple MVP's, allstar and all-nba selections, 6 finals apperances, and 4 world championships...and a gold medal for good measure.
It's unbelievably difficult to score this much: 9 strait games over 40 points, 3 strait over 50, 81 in a regulation game, avg of 35.7 ppg in a season, 56 in a half, 30 in a quarter(multiple times). He once was leading the mavericks entire team in a game at the end of 3 quarters the score was Kobe 62,Mavs 61!!!!!! those feats are the stuff of myth, just ask MJ himself!
Look people, this shit is not easy. You can't come into it cheap. And if you watched Bryant play for a split-second, I'd like to think you'd grasp at what an advanced basketball presence he is on the court. The silliest part of it all is he gets better every single year, to simply point out footage from past games is almost embarrassing. This guys footwork has been perfected beyond anything we have ever seen before.
He is speed, power, skill, determination, and inteligence all rolled into one incredible ballin' machine.
If you hate him then you're discrediting your own love of the game.
At this point, hating kobe would reflect poorly on you as a thinking human being.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
MY ROOTS TO THE GAME (first entry)
The other day I was at home, flipping back and forth between a Lakers game and a Timberwolves, when my 2 ½-year-old daughter came sprinting into the room. She slid to a halt, looked at the TV and, as if announcing it was her birthday, proclaimed:
"Daddy watching basketball!"
"That's right," I said.
"Daddy likes basketball a lot."
She cocked her head.
"Why?"
"Well," I said .......
and then pondered what to say………..
Do I talk about watching the game or playing it?
Do I mention the college game or the NBA?
Should I use props?................as any parent knows………. props kill with two-year-olds…..or just hand her a copy of anyone of my numerous basketball books from my youth ……
Or maybe I should start by telling her what it's like to fall in love with the game, as I did when I was only a few years older than she is now. I could tell her about Nerf hoops in my friends basement, and growing up a fan of the teams my father liked, and how, to a six-year-old, late 90’s pictures of Kobe Bryant made him seem more Afro-god than an actual man.
I could describe the hoop outside my parents' house, the one at the north end of the narrow, slanted concrete path along the front of the garage that, if used correctly, acted as a double-teaming defender. I could talk about shooting by moonlight, when the ball becomes a near ghost hissing through the air, or how to get perfect rotation on your jump shot with gloves on in 20 below weather, or the art of the cross-over in the snow, ( I’d like to see Allen Iverson do that) and about the day that all those figure-eight drills paid off and that dusty piece of leather went from stranger to friend, something that be directed and controlled, not just contained.
Maybe I could tell her about Saturdays, the same Saturdays that our mothers loved as much as we did….when they would drop my friends and I off at the local gym and leave us there all day long, were we would beg for pick-up games with anybody who had even seen a basketball before.
Maybe I could go for the classic “glory day’s” story about how “great” I was in high school….but that would be boring for her……
My explanation could focus on why I love the game now. I could talk about a tony parker underhand scoop shots that rise like helium balloons, and the way college students swarm the court—as if a river dam had burst 60 rows up—after an upset win over a high ranked team.
I could tell her about nine seconds left, the floor spread and the arena roaring like a f-16 jet as Kobe Bryant holds the ball at the top of the key, about to break thousands of hearts in an entire city.
I could describe how being in the bleachers at a state championship game feels like surfing a tsunami and how, after a lifetime of pulling out a little pump fake to the right before shooting a jump hook, my father still does it every time he plays, not because it works……..but because it's like catching up with an old friend for him. I could share with her the day I finally beat my dad when he was really trying, and how happy I was that day…..and looking back how sad It makes me now.
I could explain how March Madness has the power to propel men off bar stools as if there being ejected from an air plane seat and make them perform windmill high fives while yelling, "HANNNSSS-BBRROUUGGGHH!!!"
And I could confess that even today, I could spend hours talking to someone at a dinner party and never made a true connection like the one that comes from running a seamless give-and-go with a complete stranger during a local pickup game.
I could warn her that, sure, there are flaws in the NBA game—like isolation plays, zone defenses, and guys who can hit their friggin’ heads on the rim but can't dribble left handed, or having to watch the Timberwolves vs. Clippers in late January.
But all it takes to make me forget them is to watch Steve Nash make a one-handed lefty bouce pass through a forest of arms to a cutting Amare for a slam. Or staring blank-faced at my television while some of the games greatest ever, MJ, and of late Kobe, meticulously break down even the best defenders to make an impossible shot look easy.
I could describe seeing a play on ESPN highlights Saturday night, then seeing it attempted again live Sunday afternoon on the playground.
Or I could tell her how Ray Allen squares up on his jump shot so perfectly that, if he were on sand, he would spring up and, upon returning to earth, land precisely in his footprints.
I could tell her about reverse layups with so much spin that, when the ball hits the backboard, it shoots sideways as if yanked on a leash, and on the way bench guys stick out their arms to hold each other back, as if saving one another from oncoming traffic, because the last play was just too damn crazy.
I could tell her how the pick-and-roll might be the oldest play in the book, or even the only play in the book, and teams still can't stop it. And I could tell her how one day I'll sit her down to watch a Bulls game so she can see the most beautiful play in sports….. a perfectly executed backdoor cut executed by Scottie Pippen and MJ himself.
I could tell her all these things, but she wouldn't understand, at least not right now.
Props wouldn't help either…… even if I had Elmo and friends running the half-court trap on our living-room floor against a team of web-kinz, it would be lost on her. After all, basketball's a game you have to grow into, and with luck you'll never grow out of it.
So instead I decided on the simplest explanation.
"Daddy likes basketball," I said,
"because it makes him happy."
I paused.
"Especially when the Lakers Win."
"Daddy watching basketball!"
"That's right," I said.
"Daddy likes basketball a lot."
She cocked her head.
"Why?"
"Well," I said .......
and then pondered what to say………..
Do I talk about watching the game or playing it?
Do I mention the college game or the NBA?
Should I use props?................as any parent knows………. props kill with two-year-olds…..or just hand her a copy of anyone of my numerous basketball books from my youth ……
Or maybe I should start by telling her what it's like to fall in love with the game, as I did when I was only a few years older than she is now. I could tell her about Nerf hoops in my friends basement, and growing up a fan of the teams my father liked, and how, to a six-year-old, late 90’s pictures of Kobe Bryant made him seem more Afro-god than an actual man.
I could describe the hoop outside my parents' house, the one at the north end of the narrow, slanted concrete path along the front of the garage that, if used correctly, acted as a double-teaming defender. I could talk about shooting by moonlight, when the ball becomes a near ghost hissing through the air, or how to get perfect rotation on your jump shot with gloves on in 20 below weather, or the art of the cross-over in the snow, ( I’d like to see Allen Iverson do that) and about the day that all those figure-eight drills paid off and that dusty piece of leather went from stranger to friend, something that be directed and controlled, not just contained.
Maybe I could tell her about Saturdays, the same Saturdays that our mothers loved as much as we did….when they would drop my friends and I off at the local gym and leave us there all day long, were we would beg for pick-up games with anybody who had even seen a basketball before.
Maybe I could go for the classic “glory day’s” story about how “great” I was in high school….but that would be boring for her……
My explanation could focus on why I love the game now. I could talk about a tony parker underhand scoop shots that rise like helium balloons, and the way college students swarm the court—as if a river dam had burst 60 rows up—after an upset win over a high ranked team.
I could tell her about nine seconds left, the floor spread and the arena roaring like a f-16 jet as Kobe Bryant holds the ball at the top of the key, about to break thousands of hearts in an entire city.
I could describe how being in the bleachers at a state championship game feels like surfing a tsunami and how, after a lifetime of pulling out a little pump fake to the right before shooting a jump hook, my father still does it every time he plays, not because it works……..but because it's like catching up with an old friend for him. I could share with her the day I finally beat my dad when he was really trying, and how happy I was that day…..and looking back how sad It makes me now.
I could explain how March Madness has the power to propel men off bar stools as if there being ejected from an air plane seat and make them perform windmill high fives while yelling, "HANNNSSS-BBRROUUGGGHH!!!"
And I could confess that even today, I could spend hours talking to someone at a dinner party and never made a true connection like the one that comes from running a seamless give-and-go with a complete stranger during a local pickup game.
I could warn her that, sure, there are flaws in the NBA game—like isolation plays, zone defenses, and guys who can hit their friggin’ heads on the rim but can't dribble left handed, or having to watch the Timberwolves vs. Clippers in late January.
But all it takes to make me forget them is to watch Steve Nash make a one-handed lefty bouce pass through a forest of arms to a cutting Amare for a slam. Or staring blank-faced at my television while some of the games greatest ever, MJ, and of late Kobe, meticulously break down even the best defenders to make an impossible shot look easy.
I could describe seeing a play on ESPN highlights Saturday night, then seeing it attempted again live Sunday afternoon on the playground.
Or I could tell her how Ray Allen squares up on his jump shot so perfectly that, if he were on sand, he would spring up and, upon returning to earth, land precisely in his footprints.
I could tell her about reverse layups with so much spin that, when the ball hits the backboard, it shoots sideways as if yanked on a leash, and on the way bench guys stick out their arms to hold each other back, as if saving one another from oncoming traffic, because the last play was just too damn crazy.
I could tell her how the pick-and-roll might be the oldest play in the book, or even the only play in the book, and teams still can't stop it. And I could tell her how one day I'll sit her down to watch a Bulls game so she can see the most beautiful play in sports….. a perfectly executed backdoor cut executed by Scottie Pippen and MJ himself.
I could tell her all these things, but she wouldn't understand, at least not right now.
Props wouldn't help either…… even if I had Elmo and friends running the half-court trap on our living-room floor against a team of web-kinz, it would be lost on her. After all, basketball's a game you have to grow into, and with luck you'll never grow out of it.
So instead I decided on the simplest explanation.
"Daddy likes basketball," I said,
"because it makes him happy."
I paused.
"Especially when the Lakers Win."
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