Only Seat in the
House
SPORTS
by
Christopher Dean Heine
March
3, 2001
the morning after
Heroine
Sheiks singer Shannon Selberg was smarty-pantsying
around as he has done for his entire career. His
band was performing at the type of hip warehouse
party you used to see in television commercials
back when all of those Internet companies still
had money to waste. The warehouse had three main
rooms. One for clubbin' dancers, one for people
to mingle about mod furniture and one for the live
music. The crowd consisted of some of America's
finest consumers. The types of people who think
they have taste and therefore spend a lot of money
on clothes -- even on used ones. Shannon too was
dressed for the occasion, wearing a funny silver
top hat and his signature fake mustache. He prowled
around the stage shirtless, playing with the mic
off the stand. He would poke his finger into his
chest sometimes. One time specifically, he poked
his temple. Another time he started tapping his
arm veins, and then he fake-smirked and strolled
off. Shannon, of course at his age, seemed
tired and a little sad. He looked like the crusty
ol' American ballplayer biding his time in the Cuban
leagues, pre-Castro and post-reality. My friends
and I talked about Shannon's old band The Cows a
lot as we watched the Heroine Sheiks. Let's put
it this way: The Cows are still winning even if
they ain't playing no more. But then the old knuckleballer
finally came with some hard stuff. The Sheiks were
doing their usual 3rd-rate Jesus Lizard imitation
towards the end of the set. Shannon made the OK
sign with his right hand and repeatedly choked and
crooned over the guitar noise, "Are you O-KKK?
Are you O-KKK? Are you O-KKK?" He would point
the OK sign at the sizable crowd with every K sound
like a rapper would. He looked at the crowd in mock
concern. He didn't want to, eh, hurt the children's
feelings it seems. He repeated the line a lot throughout
the song. It was a real good hook. No, it was a
gigantic hook. Big enough to hang an elephant's
carcass. At the end of each chorus he would grin,
finally with a tint of genuine humor, into the well-dressed
New York crowd.
March
15
11
pm
For those of you who care about the NBA, an acquired
taste these days, the only real news about Michael
Jordan potentially coming back is that the Lord
Jesus Christ of marketing is fat. He is working
out because he is fat. Two-hundred-forty pounds.
That's probably obese by the publicized medical
reports we all hope are somehow warped. Even at
six-foot-six, Michael is a fatty caddy. Moving on,
maybe he will come back, maybe he won't. It says
here that MJ won't win another championship if he
does come back. The kids he once knew as Allen Iverson,
Kobe Bryant, Tim Duncan and Rasheed Wallace are
grown men now. And they aren't watching their
waistlines. This is the difference between
sports and other sectors of the entertainment industry.
Sinatra could still embarrass Michael Bolton with
half a lung in his final days. A wink and a smile
don't do you shit in athletics.
Coaches in the NBA
are like dish rags. Some are disposable and some
just stick around. All you ye followers know from
experience that every time a team fires a coach
and hires the players' favorite assistant coach
(via endorsement from their star player the franchise
wants to keep happy) as "interim" head
coach ... well, you know that it doesn't work. The
team will go on a nice streak, maybe win 7 out of
10 games, and then lo and behold, go back to their
loser ways. What does this tell us? Coaches in the
NBA do not coach in the classic John Wooden way
of Xs and Os. All they really do is gain players'
confidence, sometimes an uncle-like trust, and milk
it as far as possible. Successful guys like LA's
Phil Jackson and Philadelphia's Larry Brown are
not great coaches. Well, they might be, but for
right now, we don't know. Right now they look like
Alan Greenspans. Their greatest ability is coating
the fears of power brokers until the power brokers
agree to abide by game plans the power brokers aren't
sure exist. And then voilà in the case of
these two! Magic. The voodoo gameplans work and
people become disciples. But at least once
every week, like Greenspan, Phil and Larry look
dirty as hell. Do you know what I mean? Fuck.
March
21
12:30
am
I went down to Philadelphia last weekend to see
my favorite NBA team, the Philly 76ers, play in
person for the first time in my life. The 6ers are
really, really good this year. They have the best
record in the NBA. The 6ers have the league's best
scorer in Allen Iverson. But he was playing hurt,
and didn't really have it together. The 6ers also
have the league's best defensive force in Dikembe
Mutumbo. Now Mutumbo may know defense, and he may
know six languages fluently (no kidding), but the
this tree-like man ain't got a post move good enough
to score on a shrub. The 6ers played the Sacramento
Kings. With Iverson under physical duress, the Kings
handed the 6ers their hats, to put it nicely.
I have written
about Kings guard Jason Williams before, and let
me repeat: This white boy has some nasty shit crawling
out of his game. I won't try to describe it. Just
watch him and the Kings on NBC, TBS or TNT when
you get the chance. He ain't as talented
and valuable as someone like the Lakers' Kobe Bryant.
Kobe is a real franchise player, the maker of championship
banners and Sprite commercials. He can make baskets
over taller men and help your company clear sales
projections. Jason Williams, now, is a freak on
a team of freaks. The Kings basically consist of:
Williams, who is from a small West Virginia town
but has a street game born from the night dreams
of Earl the Pearl Monroe; three good Europeans players
that don't play like typical Euro wussies; and their
best player, Chris Webb, who also happens to be
their least interesting. Webber, the best
power forward in the NBA, has been paled by his
own teammates for overall coolness. Okay, Webber
is black and the other guys aren't and this is the
ultra-ebony NBA. Webber next to these white cats
is about as interesting as Whitey Ford standing
next to Jackie Robinson and Roberto Clemente. As
a two-decade NBA fan, I find it amazing -- because
they are so white -- that the Kings are the most
entertaining team in the league. (Is that OK-K-K?)
The Kings are like a team of hot-shot Larry Birds
with one great black player. The last time
a good team was this white was the Bill Russell-era
Boston Celtics. No one ever thought they'd see that
again. But unbelievably, here we are, the Kings
could win the NBA title this year. But they won't.
They clown too much.
It should be noted
that players from all races and ethnic backgrounds
are playing basketball in an increasingly similar
style these days. Somehow non-African-Americans,
locally and globally speaking, are slowly catching
up with our country's blacks in terms of basketball
ability, mimicking their techniques and body-language
in the process. This has been EVOLVING for four
decades or so. I'm dead fucking serious. I know,
a white man shouldn't say what everyone thinks,
(blacks play b-ball better and jump higher than
Woody Harrelson) but I just did. Didn't I?
Mike, as in the slimmer
Jordan, has been the creative force behind the globalization
of basketball-Americana, which is a macrocosm of
Mike, and to a lesser extent, American urban black
culture. I don't know how to clarify any of this,
but it really seems like white guys are jumping
higher these days and it seems like his AIRNESS
and his marketing prowess have something to do with
it all. Influence, dude. We all know its true. If
I were to purely think it and not write it, it would
be a trite endeavor. For me, for anyone. This next
point is not trite anywhere, however. European players
are actually playing like they are smart enough
to understand team defense. Chalk another one up
for Mike. He played great defense, conceptually
and physically, and now all the Swedes, French and
Chinese want to play great D and drink "Peepsi"
too. Mike on Olympus, the Swedes, French and the
Chinese pissing and shitting alongside an asphalt
court down there in Ithaca.
But now Mike's time
is up, as I suggested earlier. So don't come back
Mike. Zeus didn't age well either. We all die. With
that in mind, somehow I think Mike and Shannon Selberg
could have one meaningful talk, on a long drive
in the desert looking for a gas station perhaps.
As long as Shannon wears a long-sleeve shirt to
cover his heroin tracks. Mike probably don't dig
the smack. Might help him lose some weight though.
And fucking talk about Olympus!
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