Nasteedunx

White Boys Can't What? VI: Trew Dat!

2011-07-10T15:33:00.001-04:00

Once again, Derek, THIS is all YOUR fault. I hope you're proud of yourself.

All them Gold Gloves, World Series trophies and All-Star Games. Not to mention 3,000 hits, dives into the stands, chillin’ with opponents during bench-clearing brawls, miraculous playoff-saving flip throws to catchers, and copious shawties in your GQ cover-model arms… all while reppin’ America’s Team and America’s Pastime in America’s City for over a decade.

See, Derek, because of all you’ve done, Eugene “Pooh” Jeter has to spend the entirety of his professional basketball career going out of his way to make a name for himself…and on every occasion that he DOES make a name for himself, his last name gets absolutely butchered. Seriously, “Mister Yankee” sir, how can you sleep at night?

What’s that? Why, of course he goes by “Pooh!” Let’s be real, how many bruthas do you know who can comfortably roam the streets with the name “Eugene?” Exactly. Besides, Pooh is a far simpler name to remember on the court; Jerome Richardson understands this dynamic completely. And going by “Pooh” is far simpler than having to correct 98 percent of the population who mispronounces your last name because of some sweet-swinging shortstop.

When it comes to Pooh, it’s not Jeter as in “Peter.” It’s Jeter, and that rhymes with “better,” and that stands for “better move your butt out the way when Vanilla Sky comes raining down on ya.” Just ask the BallUp streetball crew...

Heck, ask his own teammates. Even they gotta grab an umbrella when the oop goes up.

Poor Pooh. His first sign that something might be amiss is anytime bruthas willingly call white dudes by a white-related nickname. “White Chocolate,” “Whyte Cloud,” “Vanilla Gorilla,” "The White Transformer," “Ivory Express,” “Caucasian Sensation,” “The Latvian MJ,” “Half ‘n Half,” "Snowstorm," “Pale Rider.” If you run into ANY names like this, and especially any Escalade-sized opponent black teammates lovingly call “Avalanche,” by all means, stay clear of the rim!

“Vanilla Sky” comes off sounding like some bad Tom Cruise flick, or some kind of crazy-strong scented stuff you can get from the dude hawking incense and oils on the No. 2 train. But it’s one moniker Tim McGrath goes by, lest he be confused for a country singer, a red-headed Australian Rules footballer, or, maybe worse, a cousin of the dude who used to rock for Sugar Ray.

It’s not like Vanilla Sky didn’t warn anybody. Also going by “Trew” as well as “Prime Time” in the Venice Beach circles, the 6-foot-5 former San Diego State guard’s grainy exploits from his Cal State Dominguez years have been out there for awhile now, for anyone bothering to scout him.

Poor Pooh. It all seemed pretty straightforward, textbook even by NBA standards. Especially after many years toiling away in Euro Ball, the Dakota hinterlands, and the WCC, Pooh’s seen enough white cats and non-NBA scrubs to know where to spot up for the charge in the paint. Surely this guy’s no different. Is he?

(jump to 6:20)

Poor Pooh. Here he is, just months removed from the pinnacle of his professional hoops career, nearly a decade trotting the globe since his lowly collegiate days as a Portland Pilot, after years as an NBA summer-league staple, finally getting some rookie burn with the Sacto Kings, even starting for a hot minute at the point.

Here he is, triumphantly handling the rock back in his hometown of L.A., donning that Kings purple ‘n black, getting a chance to showcase his skills at the world-famous Drew League in front of young headliners like Kevin Durant, Tyreke Evans, DeMar DeRozan, Michael Beasley, Wesley Johnson, Dorrell Wright, Nick Young, Shannon Brown, and Austin Daye. A chance to show the Kings why they might wanna pick up that team option for next year before the lockout kicked in. A chance to show these young’uns how them old rooks get it done!

And then here comes Vanilla Sky to rain all on his parade. Now he’s gotta feel a little less like a “Pooh,” and a lot more like “Eeyore.”

But the unkindest cut comes when the inevitable word of mouth goes around (“Some White Boy dunks all over an NBA Player… Who???”), and after spending all year trying to make a name for himself, it’s time for phonic correctness all over again.

“It’s not ‘jeet,’ it’s ‘jet.’” As in, “That poor Pooh boy better jet out the gym and go home.”

Poor Pooh. He gets Hoopmixtaped On by a heretofore unknown (now very-well-known) white kid in a summer league game. And what could possibly be worse than getting the phrase, "He Got Pooh'ed On" bronzed for all streetball eternity? Now more than ever before, everybody other than his mama (and his world-class sister... couldn't Carmelita teach him how to run?) is pronouncing his surname like a certain pinstriped shortstop from Gotham.

Who’s to blame for all that shame? Don’t blame Vanilla Sky. I’m looking at you, Derek. Send him an autographed glove or something.

~iyf

Fakin Da Funk VI: Griffin ON Mozgov -- Blake and The Fat Man

2011-02-14T18:28:00.000-05:00

Egged on by his pudgy peer, Blake Griffin gives new meaning to the term "facial features."

November 20, 2010, 6:30 PM EST

Los Angeles, California

Staples Center, Clippers locker room

“I can’t play tonight, boss. My knee is still badly swollen.”

“That’s not all that’s badly swollen. Look at yourself, Baron!” The silver-haired man looks down in disgust at the rotund point guard, now woofing down the last morsels of his 4x4 cheeseburger. “What kind of role model are you to the young men on this team? This is not what we’re paying you to do!”

“No, you look, Donnie, my job is to heal up and get these boys winning again. Yyyyour jobs…” Baron Davis pauses to grab a pinch of his Animal Fries. “…are to keep the eyes of your nightly harem away from our 'beautiful black bodies' while we're dropping soap in the shower and, oh, to sign my paychecks. Novel concept, huh? I hear Dunleavy Sr.’s in shape, have you signed his checks yet?” As his team’s miffed owner waves him off and saunters out of the locker room in disgust, Davis offers one last parting shot. “Don’t you have some sweatshops to attend to or something? Friggin’ owners. Hey, yo, Griff, come here!”

The Clippers’ 6’10” manchild, Blake Griffin, saddles up beside his self-appointed mentor. Davis backhand slaps him in the bicep, leaving Griffin to wipe off some In-N-Out spread himself.

“I keep telling you, son, you’re supposed to be covering for me when I’m back here eating dinner. That’s you and Aminu’s main job, aside from the Krispy Kreme runs. You like old bigoted dudes running up on you and glaring while you chow down?”

“I’m not a rookie anymore,” Griffin retorts, only to hear his protest mimicked in a chiding manner by Davis.

“Please, that’s bunk. They’re not making up a Sophomore of the Year award for you just because you were out last year! Besides, you know who’s coming after your Rookie of the Year award tonight, don’t you?”

“Umm... Landry Fields?”

“Nah,” Baron sucks through the last sip of his Neapolitan shake. “Good guess, though. That Moscow dude… Timothy or something like that. I dunno what the phrase for ‘hot sh*t’ is in Russia, but he think he that, because he was killin’ fools over there in Eurobasket. Your dude Amar’e tells me that they getting ready to put him on. Major minutes, since they know Eddy Curry ain’t gonna play, he’s so out of... never mind. Look,” Baron pokes Blake’s arm again, causing Blake to instinctively check for spread. “You need to get out there and show Moscow Man how we do!”

“I heard you posterized a Russian or two back in your day,” Griffin says, smirking.

“Back in my DAY? To hell with you!” Davis smirks. “But thank you for bringing that up, because it brings me to my next point. I keep telling you, you need to keep getting more like me… Why you looking at me like that? I’m serious! We got parallel paths, Griff. High School All-American dunk contest champs, tore up our knees in our freshman years... we kindred spirits, right?”

“Now, I need you to go out there and be Baron Davis tonight. The Donald wants Baron Davis out there tonight, and dammit, he’s gonna get Baron Davis -- through you. Be reckless, fearless! Hot dog it a little, drop some fancy dimes tonight, don’t worry about turnovers. And if you got an open shot, take it. B-Diddy Ball!” Davis pauses to finally employ a napkin. “Oh, and my big ‘come-up’ dunk in the NBA was actually on K.G.... ‘back in MY day.’ It’s time you go get yours.”

“You’re not talking about Amar’e, right? I was invited to his skills academy camp in college. I ain’t posterizing him.”

“Amar’e? He’s smart enough to know when to get outta the way, so you’ll be left with dudes like Gallnari at the rim. Or better yet, that Russian kid. Speaking of Russians, though, that brings up my last point. You know I’m lookin’ out for ya, right... what’s goin’ on with this?” Baron gestures his fingers in a circular motion around his face.

Griffin sighs, and facepalms. “We talking about my skin again?”

“Of course, man. You ever see a 40-year-old cat with freckles? It’s sad, man, sad. Not a good look. Seriously, you don’t wanna be that guy.”

“Okay, I know, and we talked about this. I got the lemon rinds and the sour cream thing going… anyway, where are you going with this? What’s all that got to do with Russians?”

“I was at a beach party a few weeks before The Emmy Awards, and my homeboy’s girl Jessica Alba tipped me off about this skin cream they use over in Russia. I hear it’s all the rage on Rodeo Drive. She says it makes freckles disappear.”

Griffin's eyes widen. “For real?”

“For real, for real! They got all kinds of good product over there, man, and it’s all placenta-based… No, stop making that face, it ain’t gross at all! Smoothes all that skin out. J-Lo swears by it. And they got products for men, too. They got this conditioner that totally relaxes your hair. You know how AK-47 went from looking like Sonic the Hedgehog to one of those Partridge Family girls?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess... Wow.” Characteristic of most of his conversations with his mentor, Griffin's face reflects a mix of bewilderment and skepticism.

“Listen, the stuff works, man. It would take care of all that red Brillo-pad stuff you got up there. You know what? I bet you twelve dozen Krispy Kremes that the Moscow kid is using it right now.”

“Well, I'm not gonna just run up and ask him, so…”

“You don’t have to. Just while you’re out there, when he tries to foul you, rub his head and find out. Bet you can tell. If I’m wrong, I’ll put another 20 smacks into that child obesity thing you got going.”

“Alright, deal, bruh.” Griffin heads back to his locker.

“And one last thing, Griff. I got four words for you. Chocolate. Iced. With. Sprinkles.”

~iyf

Fakin Da Funk V: Vince OVER Weis - The Knicks Get In "Over Their Heads"

2010-09-25T15:10:00.002-04:00

September 25, 2000 - Cripes, it's been ten years already? What anniversary is this: paper, tinfoil, copper, Teflon?

Seriously, don't you feel ten times older, thinking back on it? With his ample hops fast becoming a distant memory, Vince Carter sure looks like he's tacked on a zero to his age, too. But if, like Cher, we could turn back time, we'd take it all back to that simpler era, when "Y2K" was the biggest threat to human civilization, "French Fries" were just french fries, bread was a nickel, and a collection of young high-flyers were emerging in the pros, each with an eye toward seizing the mantle of the greatest player of that generation. If falling short of that goal, at least, they'd gladly take over the nightly highlight reel.

Already the show-stealer of the NBA's 2000 All-Star weekend and now half a world away, in Sydney's Olympics, with the help of some Nike Shox, Vince was about to act upon a whim conceived while watching the high-jump athletes the night before. I remembered the world in the moments before the news arrived in the Northern Hemisphere that something was just witnessed that can only be seen to be believed. "If you haven't seen this," our local sports talk show host barked through my Sony Walkman, on an otherwise mundane, yet bright and sunny weekday afternoon, "you had better get home right now and turn on the news. I won't even try to do it justice. It wouldn't be fair. Get to a TV set and watch it now. And have your VCR set to Record!"

Up to the very moment Vince Carter turned the world of superlative athletic feats upon its axis, heated debates in sports taverns everywhere revolved around the question of whether the greatest pro-sports poster dunk of all time was: "(a) Michael Jordan over Patrick Ewing," or "(b) Scottie Pippen over Patrick Ewing." Poor Patrick! Thankfully for him, Vince Carter was about to make "(c) None of the Above" a very real option.

Now, roll the clock just more than a year further back, to the 1999 draft, and some folks in Gotham were realizing that it may be time to draft a big center that would bring a new lasting legacy to Knicks basketball, anything other than just being dunked on by the best athletes of our time. And the fractured Knicks management team was ready to oblige with a name that would go down in infamy as a symbol of personal, and organizational, futility. A player that was destined to become a laughingstock in New York, even before realizing his destiny as the unfortunate seven-foot-two soul between Vince Carter and two points.

July 1, 1999 – Knicks War Room at Two Penn Plaza, Manhattan

(Cast: Dave Checketts – MSG President, Ed Tapscott – interim GM, Jeff Van Gundy – coach, Ernie Grunfeld – former President/GM, demoted to special consultant April 20)

“So Jeff, tell me… are you over it, finally?” For his query, Ernie Grunfeld receives a finger more pointed than Jeff Van Gundy’s nose.

“Screw you, Ernie! I had to coach my a$$ off to get us to the Finals this year. And I’m not bailing this roster out anymore, not after you let my guys go.”

“WITH THE 11th PICK IN THE 1999 NBA DRAFT…”

“Your guys? Starks and Oak don’t have it anymore, and you know it.”

“…THE CLEVELAND CAVALIERS SELECT…”

“On my way out the door, can’t you be a little gracious I made those moves for you? It’s time for a new approach, man! Besides, Patrick’s era is drawing to a close, too.” Grunfeld settles into the conference room a bit sweaty, not from feuding anew with Van Gundy, or the task at hand, but because he is fresh from a full day of packing his wares. After an illustrious 17-year career playing, commentating, and making personnel decisions, his stint with the Knicks organization ends tomorrow.

“TRAJAN LANGDON OF DUKE UNIVERSITY.”

“What the hell are the Cavs doing?” Van Gundy whispers under his breath, before responding.

“Gracious, Ernie? I’d have been gracious if you didn’t chicken out on the deal Checketts approved with the Warriors for their pick before last year’s draft. For Allan Houston and cash, we’d have had the Rookie of the Year, Vinsanity, right here in the Garden. Half-Man, Half-Amazing, was halfway-here, before YOU in your infinite wisdom blocked the deal! That Sprewell swap was just a make-up trade and you know it! Tell me, Ernie, did you bring me Spree just because I’ve already lost my hair, or because you thought he’d have choked me out by now?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! There’s no need for any more disparaging words between you two,” interjects President Dave Checketts, his palms shrugging on his colleagues’ shoulders.

“C’mon… we’re freakin’ Eastern Conference champs! Am I right? The sky’s the limit from here. So let bygones be bygones, shall we? Now, think of today as our Y2K readiness plan. We’re getting the 15th pick, man! We haven’t had a chance to pick this high in almost a decade, and it’s crucial we make the right choice.”

Van Gundy raises another finger, this time in the air. “Well, I am telling you guys, if we’re going into the next millennium the right way, we need a point guard. You wanna talk eras, Ernie? The Charlie Ward era is over. He’s maxed out his potential with us, and I think it’s certain we’ll have William Avery available when we pick. Just imagine the potential leadership we'll have here... another Mark Jackson, only without the big mouth!”

Checketts nods as the secretary knocks on the door. “As much as I love the possibility of bringing Ron Artest here, I think you’re right, Jeff. With all the cash Minnesota’s spending on Brandon and Peeler, no way do they take a guard this high.”

“Mr. Checketts, Ed Tapscott’s on the LAN line from D.C., he’s ready to be conferenced in.”

“There’s your Paper GM,” Grunfeld mumbles to Van Gundy, apparently not far enough from Checketts’ earshot. “I heard that, Ernie!”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Tapscott offers, receiving “good evenings” in return of various states of genuineness.

“Okay, now I know we’ve rehearsed our game plan already, and we’re in agreement that we’ll take William Avery if he’s available, Ron Artest if he’s not.”

“You’ve got it, Ed,” Van Gundy confirms, and Checketts adds, “I’ve got our PR team preparing our responses for taking Avery over Artest.”

“Now that’s all fine and good, but before we go forward I’ve got one more name to run by you guys.”

Attention turns to the draft board, where Aleksandr Radojevic's name just got scratched off after getting picked by Toronto. “Damn,” ponders Grunfeld, “Toronto’s gonna have a new “twin towers” with Radojevic and that Bender kid.” “Who you got in mind, Ed?”

“I’m thinking we do something we never do, something bold... I say we go European.”

“Ah, Kirilenko!” says Grunfeld.

“Nyet,” Tapscott replies, leaving the Knicks War Room a bit puzzled.

Grunfeld grumbles, “Umm, you know Radojevic just went off the board, right Ed?” “This ain’t a trick, is it Ed?” adds Van Gundy. “You know the Ginobili kid is Argentinian, not Italian, and it’s way too high to take him anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Who are you talking about, Ed?”

“Frederic Weis,” Tapscott replies, now leaving the Knicks War Room more than a bit puzzled.

“Ed… why are you bringing up names just minutes before we pick?”

“You guys didn’t get my memo with the “Best Center in Europe” SI article attached?”

“We thought you were joking!” Van Gundy retorts. “We’ve seen no tapes of that guy. He’s got a bad back, I hear he’s a softee, won’t work out over there for anybody, and he didn’t bother to come over here to show our scouts what he’s got…”

“But Donnie Nelson from Dallas got a good look at him over the years, and so did I. I met with his agent, Didier Rose, outside of Paris, he’s a stand-up guy. He owns the team, and he reports that his back is just fine.” Grunfeld wonders quietly whether it was something the French put in the cheese or the wine that got to his replacement-in-waiting.

“Hold up,” Van Gundy butts in, laughing. “He’s his agent AND his owner? How do they get away with that over there?”

“Never mind that, Jeff, they’re cool with that in France. Weis isn’t here, but Didier is here in D.C. right now. Trust me, with guaranteed money he’ll be on the first one in camp, showing you all his wondrous skills. Once he arrives, he will be the talk of the rookie camp. Heck, he’s 7-foot-2, it’s not like he can hide! Noone overseas wants to be here in the NBA more than this Weis kid. Don’t worry about the foreign angle! Heck, in Donnie’s first year he had y’all scratching your heads about taking that German kid that high.”

Van Gundy interjects again, “I’m still scratching my shiny dome, Ed. That Nowitzki kid is a shooting forward that can’t shoot!”

“But he’s showing some promise, and that’s all you want out of a project after year one. Look, this guy can come in and can learn toughness and defense from Patrick, and he has time to get groomed for that starting center spot. Over time you can slide Camby over to forward. Just as sure as those twin towers outside your window aren't going anywhere, I'm telling you, nobody’s going to get points over the top of either of those two! I assure you, in a few short years from now, people are not gonna even remember Kandi Man from last year's draft, but they’ll remember the projects that pan out. And this here is the project with the most upside in this year’s draft, at the perfect position when Patrick retires. Heck, he could be such the franchise center for so long here, by the time he retires, Patrick's kid will be ready to play for us!”

The War Room, dumbfounded, continues to listen as Tapscott passionately makes his case for the Frenchman. “You guys want Avery and I understand. But point guards are a dime a dozen these days, you can get young guys like Steve Nash or Derek Fisher on the cheap. Decent centers are a hard commodity to trade for.”

Van Gundy asks, “Well, what about Mutombo? He’ll be a free agent soon.”

Tapscott bursts into laughter. “Dikembe Mutombo? Please. Didn’t you see what our boy Camby did to him in the playoffs? Mark my words, and you can’t see but I’m wagging my finger… no way is he ever coming to the Garden. Besides, if you looked at the article, the Hawks are seriously looking at Weis to do for Mutombo what he could very well do here for Patrick. They’ve got four picks, including the one after ours, so if we don’t take him, they will.”

“WITH THE 13th PICK IN THE 1999 NBA DRAFT, THE SEATTLE SUPERSONICS SELECT… COREY MAGGETTE OF DUKE UNIVERSITY.”

“Slow down with the Blue Devil drafting, already, damn!” Grunfeld thinks to himself. “Corey will be a mainstay in Seattle for as long as the Sonics are around.”

Meanwhile, Tapscott rambles on. “And look at our wing options. Spree’s not going anywhere, the fans will insist that we extend him and Allan Houston. We’ve got plenty of defense, and we’ve got Dennis Scott to hit threes for us, so what is Ron Artest and his hometown fans going to do for the next few years, other than induce headaches for you while he’s buried on the bench?”

"We could just put him in the stands behind us, he can deal with all those hecklers when they get too rowdy," Van Gundy jokes, gesturing as if to say, "never mind" when Checketts looks at him to clarify.

“Well,” Grunfeld admits grudgingly, “you make a strong case for going with a project center. But, I hear Artest is having his people call teams above us and tell them he doesn’t want to be drafted by them, he wants to come play here. How are we going to deal with the backlash, especially if we take somebody no one around here has heard of?” Grunfeld begins to wonder why he should even care in the first place.

“Not to worry, we were going to have this Artest problem anyway when we take Avery. And with his personal “party animal” issues, he was going to drop anyway,” Tapscott responds. “He’s got a fighter’s mentality, sure, but he’s not the kind of guy we need here to win a championship. The media will come around once we explain it to them. Look, I’ve got some talking points for you guys to rehearse when we take Avery, and just in case we have to take Weis, I’ve got you covered as well. Jeff, you tell them that Weis is a quick study and has good, soft hands that allow him to catch and shoot, which is just perfect for your offensive game plans.”

“You do have an offensive game plan, right, Jeff?” snorts Grunfeld. He received a different finger from Van Gundy this time, turned upward. Checketts crowed, “Don’t start, gentlemen!”

“You can give them the old adage about always going with size when in doubt, Jeff. And, Ernie, you’ll say, ‘There was a chance to get a talented big man at the center position, and it was too much to pass up. We're delighted to have a center to work with Patrick, to learn from him and then ultimately, down the road, step into his very, very large shoes.’”

“I’ll let you be the fall guy for that one, Eddie. You make the case for him in public… since you’re so eager to step into my very, very large shoes.” Even Van Gundy bursts into laughter at that.

“Alright, enough with the sideswipes,” Checketts demands, “but let’s all be clear, Ed, we’re taking Avery. Period. There’s no way he doesn’t fall into our laps, the Wolves don’t just stockpile guards for no clear reason.” The War Room nods and grunts in confirmation at Checketts’ declaration. “But Ed, we trust your judgment. If you think we should take this Weis kid ahead of Artest as our fallback, then fine. But let’s not waste any more time on this, we’re taking William Avery, got it?”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ve got it, boss. But I’ll just add that we don’t want to be on the wrong side of history here. We can keep our winning legacy well into the next decade with the selection of Freddy Weis...

"While he’s raw, he always has his head in the game, and I guarantee you, his coming out party to the basketball world will be at the Olympics next year. He’ll be involved in a memorable, spectacular play that will have the SportsCenter guys and the New York media crowing, and have our Knicks fans scratching their heads as to why we didn’t pick this guy. Or… making us look real good if we did. Just like Nowitzki, NBA executives will look back and cry at the missed opportunity to draft Weis. And a decade from now, we’ll be remembered fondly for such a bold move. Like I always say, if you’re going to make a mistake, make a big one.”

“Yeah, whatever. Get your Avery card ready, Ed.” The War Room laughs.

“Alright, gentlemen, I’m signing off. Talk to you guys in a few minutes.”

Van Gundy and Grunfeld look at one another and nod their heads. Grunfeld giggles, “Hey Jeff, how does that song they play on the radio go... 'I Don't Want No Scrubs?'" "You and I don’t agree on much, Ernie, but we both agree that Tapscott has some hare-brained ideas sometimes. Frederic Weis, you gotta be kidding me!”

“I know,” Grunfeld smiles at Van Gundy, genuinely, for the first time in a long while. “At least we know we’re going with…”

“WITH THE 14th Pick in the 1999 NBA DRAFT, THE MINNESOTA TIMBERWOLVES SELECT – WILLIAM AVERY OF DUKE UNIVERSITY.”

In unison, the Knicks War Room lets out a collective: “@#$%^&*!!!!”

~iyf

Celebrity Posters IV: NFL WRs Getting Dunked On

2010-08-24T18:04:00.001-04:00

"It Ain't Safe No More..."
~Busta R.

Yeah, we get it. T.O. ~~thinks~~ knows he's nice...

But the man who famously declared "I Love Me Some Me!" surely was hating him some he last month as a former Idaho State Bengal (Antoine "Miles High" Millien, now a "former" Globetrotter?) caught the newest Cincinnati Bengal gloating beneath the hoop at Rucker. Just seconds after catching his oop... oops!

Now... must Chad's running mate change his last name to Terrell OuchoIStinko?

Not necessarily. Fortunately, the man with ten more washboard abs than Super Bowl titles is not even the first NFL player smashed on in the last year... not even the first wide receiver. As we approach Kickoff 2K10, here are a couple more players getting unwittingly flagged for Poster Interference.

Here's Philly receiver Jeremy Maclin catching a Second-Down-And-1 during the Eagles' offseason exhibition in May. Sorta alligator-armed it, though, once he figured he was gettin' got. Even up in Pottstown, it's best not to get caught going over the middle:

And for a Third-Down-And-1, here's T.O.'s former running partner Roy Williams illustrating what happens when the back of your head, not toe, meets leather. The shutdown corner in this one was former Texas-Arlington point guard Marquez Haynes.

~iyf

You Just Got YouTubed! IV: Here's A Tip... GET OUT THE WAY

2010-06-02T16:29:00.001-04:00

The following video collection of tip jams and putbacks on people is brought to you by your dear friends at JanSport. JanSport Bookbags! Because, wouldn't you rather have one of these ridin' your back?

~iyf

Please, Ivan Brothers, Don't Hurt 'Em!

2010-03-14T13:09:00.002-04:00

Right on time for the Madness of March, a YouTube viral campaign from your friends at CapitalOne.

Because, as you know, there is NO worse indignity worse than getting dunked on so badly your credit score goes down! Toss in a face full of squirrel fur for good measure.

The upshot: a hapless coach from "West Eastern State" (OK, Pacific U. really) heads into the hinterlands and recruits Vikings (no, not Bryant McKinnie... we're talkin' dem ol'-school 8-foot tall Vikings) in a desperate push for relevancy on Selection Sunday. Vikings are exempt from that minimum-900 SAT thing...

After the horned fella yells, "WHAT'S IN YOUR WALLET?!?" into his teabagged opponents ear, his teammates have to remind him that basketball shorts don't come with pockets.

~iyf

You Just Got YouTubed! III: Dunked On in the Snow? That's COLD!

2010-02-26T12:45:00.007-05:00

Thanks to a one-two punch of El Nino and global warming (cooling?), a lot of cats are gettin flat-out buried this season, under one blizzard after another. Some of the more landlocked competitors kill time with snowball fights, while others... well, you'll see, in this wintry-mix installment of You Just Got YouTubed!

#1 - Daniel and his Driveway Lobbin' ballers are straight 'beastin' in the snow. Danny Boy, in fact, has gone completely bananas...

#2 - Death by frostbite?

#3 - Frostbite's Revenge

#4 - Caught slippin' under the hoop...

#5 - Madcatcon's lookin like a fool with his sweatpants halfway to the ground (dude, seriously, not a good look!)

#6 - C'mon, Zach, don't just stand there... what a Downer!

#7 - Zach, while you're down there, at least make a snow angel or somethin'!

#8 - Look out Anthony... freeze warning!

#9 - Ridky shows his opponent how it's done. Golden rule of streetball: never guard a man whose mama misspelled his name...

~iyf

Celebrity Posters III: "The Game" DUNKED ON in ABA

2010-01-09T14:42:00.014-05:00

Alton "Sonny" Smith III might want to be really careful about who he's running with, or at least against. The 6'-4" Phoenix native, former Concordia University-Irvine hooper and Odessa Roughnecks Arena Leaguer is featured on a YouTube vid showcasing his boosties in practice, and the video header notes, "Sonny beat Gilbert Arenas at the Nike Real Run in Triple OT." We hope he's not shaking Agent Zero down for any wager money from that contest, since as we know Gil's recently become a world-reknowned "shooting guard" for all the wrong reasons.

Sonny's getting mad bounce while ballin' with the San Diego Surf in the ABA minor league, and now he's really pushing his luck. The Surf's January 5 contest pitted them against the Los Angeles Slam, featuring former streetball star Larry Williams, aka "The Bone Collector." The Bone Collector's services might literally be needed though, after Sonny flew to the rim to challenge the Slam's captain and leading scorer, Jayceon Taylor. You know him as former Billboard Rap Artist of the Year and perennial beef-maker "The Game."

The 6'5" straight-outta-Compton forward and former G-Unit superstar is back on the scene next month with a new LP, "The R.E.D. Album," and can use all the pub he can get. Of course, we here at Nasteedunx are happy to help... in our own special way.

If you're wise, The Game is not exactly the celebrity you'd want to try and show up on the blacktop or the hardwood. He's just a couple years removed from a two-month jail stint for punching a guy and meeting him in the parking lot with a pistol from his Escalade -- after a trash-talking pickup game at a Compton high school. For Sonny's sake, hopefully The Game's probation officer bought a ticket.

The Game's not rocking the mic in this gym, so little chance BET or MTV is hanging around, and an otherwise trivial hoop contest probably means ESPN is not there with cameras in hand. But thankfully for us, you can always count on TMZ to be there! The Game dropped 19 points on the Surf before getting T'd up and booted... but not before ol' Sonny dropped THIS on him. BANG!

Hate It Or Love It, Game. The Underdog's On Top!

~iyf

WHITE BOYS CAN’T WHAT? V: Whyte Cloud -- Wipe Yourself After That Royal Flush!

2009-12-05T21:17:00.004-05:00

Naming oneself, coincidentally, after a well-renowned brand of cottony-soft bathroom tissue might not be the ideal way to build an intimidating rep on the blacktop. The imagery of being used as a receptacle for opponents’ posteriors on their way to the hoop… not exactly what’s hot in the streets, no?

Such a sobering sobriquet didn’t appear to hinder Forrest Ray “Whyte Cloud” Fisher III, a 6’4” former junior college hoopster, Marine, and briefly prominent NBA D-Leaguer who sent his rep sky-high after wowing ballers and fans alike on the AND1 Mixtape Tour. After getting waived in the NBDL, Fisher made a run for the border two years ago, and has been wrecking shop down in Mexico’s pro leagues.

His exploits with lower-tier online streetball outfits was what truly caught the attention of the AND1 elite, and his dominating performances during Open Run got him first “In the Building,” then “On the Bus” after showing out in the feature contest, leaving announcer Duke Tango clearly in need of some White Cloud toilet paper after that last “OOOOOH, BABY!” So automatic from long-range, he later boasted, “I am the best shooter in America, right now, nobody can prove me different.” Professor Who??

Thanks to Tom Hanks’ low-IQ, Oscar-winning performance, running the streets as a lanky white dude named “Forrest” these days almost demands adopting a nickname… pick any one! But Fisher’s choice of a fluffy, absorbent, 2-ply alias doesn’t need explaining on the courts anymore. Ask this dude caught under the rim below to explain why they called him “Whyte Cloud,” and you won’t hear no **** about Mr. Whipple. Rather, after he gets his neck fixed, he’ll let you know Whyte Cloud had a penchant for bringing the thunder and raining down on unsuspecting bruthas’ parades.

Whyte Cloud’s online rep and newfound hype got him some burn during the NBA’s budding D-League tryout camp. He managed to get drafted in the 8^th round, and started the season as a backup guard with the L.A. D-Fenders for a few games.

You just don’t wanna gamble with this guy, whether he’s taking you to the hole… or holding three Aces on the Flop. See, the new forecast for Whyte Cloud is not an appearance in the NBA, but the WSOP, as a professional poker player. One way or another, Gilbert Arenas, watch out… Forrest Fisher is comin’ for ya!

Now more popularly known in cyberspace as “TRYPL3THR3AT 7”, Fisher came away with a little bit of dough at the Oklahoma State Championship of Poker. His furious obsession with online poker caused him, admittedly, to not be playing with a full deck at times, so to speak…

"I really did get addicted to playing online poker. Is this a bad thing, yes when it rules your life. i was playing between 16 and 20 hours a day, everyday. no lie. ok, you wanna know what about my job, i play basketball professionally and it was the offseason. it all really started with this 1 day. read the following blog about that day.

"well, it was so bad i would go to sleep with the mouse in my hand and wake up and get right to playing. after about a month of this and people starting to say something about it i started to drink, and drink alot. Now let me say 1 thing, heavy drinking and playing for profit is not a good combination. i got down and nearly lost everything, wife, job, money, everything.

"The first part of stopping the problem is admitting you have one. Luckily i did, just in time too. I went to rehab and got some therapy. Well, i am back and healthier than ever. I must say my poker sucks now though. But i will let you put that up to the test. Im no longer addicted but the poker junkie in me still lives. lol

"Just remember, poker is fun, lots of fun, but it should never take the place of what really matters in life. Just a little testimony."

Sounds like a dude who's getting his life back in balance. From now on, when he’s bringing “The Nuts,” Fisher hopes it’ll be against the likes of cats like Phil Ivey, rather than Royal Ivey.

Still think Whyte Cloud won’t get where he wants to go? You’d better not bet on it.

~iyf

Where Are They Now? XI (2007, Updated 2009)

2009-08-18T09:04:00.009-04:00

This edition of Where Are They Now includes two names you maybe haven't heard. Or maybe two that you THINK you haven't heard.

(January 2007)

Victim #11 - James Felton

A sad story, but James Felton died in October 2006. "Natural causes." Heart failure, technically, at the age of 27. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of America will ask, "who the hell was James Felton?", and rightfully so. But the truest, bluest of Nasteedunx fans, and perhaps one mega-millionaire in Texas, will immediately place a cap over their hearts and offer an R.I.P. to a man whose turnaround ended before it ever could really begin.

James Felton was destined to create a Legend. As the summer of 1996 approached, the 6-foot-9 Felton had transferred high schools and was preparing to guide his new team to a New Jersey regional title, and gain more national exposure in the process. Kentucky was laying on the recruiting pressure thick, and his high school coach quoted Rick Pitino as saying Felton was one of the top ten basketball talents he had ever seen. Ever. SLAM Magazine placed him on a photo spread with two other nationally-hyped names, Elton Brand and Lamar Odom. In the pros, KG was the young stud of the moment, and NBA execs were ready to pluck the next 6-foot-9 star from the high school sky and offer millions. Rising out from the Jersey City projects and comparable to a young Derrick Coleman, Felton had no doubt he'd soon be that star.

James Felton was determined to create a Legend. Scouts, recruiters, sneaker company reps and reporters flocking to the prestigious adidas ABCD Camp in Teaneck, in his home state, were the perfect vehicles to cement his future superstar status. He played well enough during the camp to justify playing in the ABCD All-Star Game for seniors.

July 10, 1996, and James Felton was just moments away from creating a Legend. A wiry, 17-year old, 6-foot-8 wing player, not among the top 500 ranked players entering the summer and unknown to most scouts outside of Central Florida, began to make a name for himself in the scrimmages, upstaging the prime camp draw (Lamar Odom) with sweet shooting, precision passing and wild hops, earning his way into the all-star showcase. It was in this game when Felton found himself isolated in front of the basket as the player, whose name to this point had only escaped the lips of the most serious scouts, emerged from the left wing on a fast break to hurl a violent windmill dunk over the 6-foot-9 manchild who leaped in a futile attempt to block the shot. Like Doctor J, this young man had just "rocked the baby to sleep," and powerfully punctured the ball on the head of a player who was supposed to be the hometown headliner of the camp. In what could only be described as an understatement, pandemonium ensued in the gym.

Said the wonderchild in retrospect: "After I made that dunk, I had chills run through my body. It's like the moment I knew I had finally arrived." Manhattan (now Seton Hall) coach and famous uber-recruiter Bobby Gonzalez said of the dunk, "It was unbelievable. The whole camp stopped. It was like a moment in time when everything stood still."

And with that, James Felton helped create a Legend. Only it was not his own. Within one year, YOU would come to know that Legend simply by the moniker "T-Mac." But at that moment, the shockwaves were reaching every corner of the continent. You should appreciate that this was an age that preceded the capacity of cell phones, video recorders, e-mail and the Internet to get the word out instantly. You should also recognize that the summer of '96 was just the start of the NBA's decade-long obsession with high school players. Pro scouts having witnessed KG's raw potential in the League were convinced to take a chance with kids like a smug Kobe Bryant and a less-confident Jermaine O'Neal in that year's draft. But those players had been watched closely for many years. Like James Felton, the world never saw Tracy McGrady coming.

ABCD Camp creator and adidas basketball director declared T-Mac to be something like a phenomenon.“Nothing like Tracy had ever happened before at ABCD… His name spread through the camp like wildfire.We’ve had kids come out of the woodwork before, but at least they were known by somebody. Tracy was a complete unknown.”

Hoop Scoop proclaimed the sleepy-eyed Florida prodigy the "sleeper of the decade," and a young man who entered the camp not touted among the top 500 prep prospects ended his summer at number two, right behind the much-hyped Odom. Hoops reporters scrambled to find this McGrady kid. Desiring to become a factory for blue-chip basketball recruits, Mount Zion Christian Academy in North Carolina made it easy to find him. Pitino began wooing McGrady with a scholarship offer… instead of Felton. SLAM and SI wrote feature articles on McGrady and his new nationally-dominant team. USA Today names him the National High School Player of the Year. A 1997 McDonald's All-American, he wowed the crowds at both Mickie D's and Magic's Roundball Classic.

You know the rest of the story. If not for the electrifying dunk over James Felton, Tracy McGrady would not have been the ninth pick in the '97 draft. He might never have had the chance to discover that a teammate on the Raptors, Vince Carter, was actually his cousin. We might never have seen the spectacle they put on together at the 2000 Dunk Contest. The ABCD Camp sponsor, adidas, would never have the chance to offer a $12 million dollar shoe contract, unheard of for a high school kid (say thanks, LeBron), and ride the T-Mac hype train out from under the shadows of MJ's Nike and AI's Reebok. No free agent pay-day with the Orlando Magic. Nounreal 13-points-in-33-second torching display with the Rockets against the Spurs. If you don't know the rest of the story, just ask Kornel David, Alonzo Mourning `n P.J. Brown, Yao Ming, Othella Harrington, Drew Gooden, and Shawn Bradizzle what T-Mac did to them.

You may know a whole lot less about James Felton. While it's easy to claim him a victim of McGrady's success, he was really a victim of diabetes plus undiagnosed mental imbalances that led to bouts with depression, alcoholism, multiple personalities, and kleptomania in a community where crime pays. If these flaws were ever diagnosed, they went largely untreated because people wouldn't look at a 6-9 specimen, who could "run like a deer" and put the ball in the hoop, and see a troubled young man.

In his senior year, he burned his bridges with Kentucky staff during a Midnight Madness trip and, following the advice of a former assistant coach, decided to stay close to home, heading to St. John's instead.

His teammates included Queens' Finest (freshman Ron Artest), Felipe Lopez, Lavor Postell, and Zendon Hamilton. With Felton, recruits Erick Barkley and Roshown McLeod, the Red Storm would have been a certain lock for an NCAA title in a couple years. But within months he'd miss a flight to the season-opening tournament, invite friends to MSG practices who'd pick the locker rooms clean, and try to pawn off Lopez's sneakers. When he finally did play, he got schooled by Elton Brand in a matchup with Duke. Lethargic attitudes at practice caused the Johnnies to rescind their scholarship after just six games. He would tell the media he was sent packing because he failed a test for marijuana, but the NCAA didn't test for this drug.

Florida State would give him a second chance that same year, only to find players with clothes, money and jewelry missing, and a VCR lifted from the locker room. The sticky-fingered Felton, now at 6-foot-10 and 260 pounds, couldn't hide from disgrace and was dismissed by the `Noles before he could reach eligibility.

After toiling at a community college in Jersey to regain eligibility, St. Peter's College would give him a second second-chance at Division I-A ball. The Peacocks' bridge got burned too. Showed up at practice drunk and pushed the coaches around. Promised he'd get his alcohol problems, and his legal troubles from trying to pawn stolen property again, behind him. His head coach bent over backwards to arrange a final exam that would help him become academically eligible. For whatever reason, Felton skipped the exam, then lied to his coach, insisting he took it.

Felton's strange trip brought him full-circle back to Teaneck, New Jersey, the town where fate took a wrong turn when he crossed paths with McGrady. He regained just enough trust to get a third second-chance, this time a scholarship with Fairleigh Dickinson in 2000. He got suspended for most of 2000-2001, the season McGrady earned his first All-Star Game appearance and the Most Improved Player award. In 2001-2002, T-Mac was an All-NBA First-Team selection. In 2001-2002, Felton managed 24 games and was All-Northeast Conference at center, putting down 20-and-7 per contest for the Knights, although at 4-25 it was the team's worst hoops season ever.

Beside a training camp tryout with the Nuggets in 2002, the NBA never really came calling for his services. He spent time that fall with one of the roving Nike Elite exhibition squads colleges used to thump just to get their season started with a home win. Played Ohio State twice in a month, once with Nike and then weeks later with the Harlem Globetrotters , lining up with "Officer" Olden Polynice and "Blindman" Cedric Ceballos. An overseas league would show a little interest, but another outstanding arrest warrant for robbery kept him from securing a passport.

His last notable stop was in the fledgling ABA league with the Boston Frenzy . Felton spent a few games in 2004 sharing the bench with Kobe's pop and Frenzy head coach "Jellybean" Bryant, plus 7-foot-7 Neil Fingleton, Moses Malone, Jr., and three AND1 ballers: Spyda, Helicopter and Prime Objective.

He eventually returned to the Garden State and worked as a substitute teacher for the Jersey City public schools, but sadly never could tear himself away from the bottle. His wife found him dead in their apartment in October, and many believe it was a combination of binge drinking and failure to take his diabetes meds.

We'll never know, had fate had sent him in a different direction (say, if Felton were the dunker that day instead of the dunkee) whether he could have found his way into the pros like his colleagues and received some real help to straighten out his life, or if instead his eventual death would be as high-profile as Len Bias'.

We'll never know. But we do know that Tracy McGrady would not have become "T-Mac!" without the role played by James Felton. Hopefully, Tracy McGrady knows, too.

(2009 UPDATE: About a year and a half after this Nasteedunx article, ESPN Magazine sportswriter Bruce Feldman offered a personal synopsis of Felton, who caused now superstar McGrady a momentary bout of amnesia. When asked if he remembered Felton, McGrady replied, “Nope… Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. He was That Guy. The Dunk.”)

Facializer #11 – Zachariah "Dunk on Anybody" Andrews

Put down your Kleenex! After such a sad tale, I promise no more sob stories.

I would just like for you to know that Zack Andrews was named Missouri Valley Conference player of the week for Bradley University in November. The 6-foot-8 forward joined the Braves as a transfer from Yuba College last year as the team joined the NCAA dance for the first time since 1995.

I'd just like you to know that Zack is leading the Valley in field goal percentage, and leads the team with 7.4 rebounds to go along with 10.9 points per game.

Stop looking at the screen like that. Whaddya mean, "Who the hell is Zack Andrews?"

Well, a not-so-aptly named "guard" from Sierra College would definitely NOT like you to know what Andrews did above his head in a community college bout in 2005. You'll recall it made Sportscenter's #1 play that night.

(2009 UPDATE: Still a Playa, still throwing it down. Zack was last seen professionally overseas in Spain, in 2008 with El Costa Urbana Playas de Santa Pola, and up until this past May with C.B. Rayet Guadalajara.

He's also been spotted frequently in North Cali, bopping on ballers as an alumnus with the Sacramento Professional Development League -- alongside NBA players Bobby Jackson, Mike Bibby, Matt Barnes, and Kevin Martin -- the Blue Collar Preps program, and YayArea'sFinest Mixtape.

Also a touching blog from 2006 on why Thanksgiving Day holds a heart-wrenching place in his mind -- on second thought, you'd better hang on to that Kleenex...)

~iyf

WHITE BOYS CAN’T WHAT? IV: Mike Marra -- That Just Ain’t “Right”

2009-07-20T20:23:00.006-04:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, we may have found Him.

First, take JJ Redick’s collegiate shooting prowess. Now, add a dose of vintage Darrell Griffith’s boosties, and you have just given Doctor Frankenstein a run for his money. This particular monster masher goes by the name of Mike Marra, and you have just created the dude who might win the College 3-Point Shootout AND Dunk Contest in the same weekend.

The tatted-out 6’5” Northfield Mount Hermon grad was plucked by Louisville. Cards coach Rick Pitino crowed that the young gun was “the best shooter I had ever seen.” With apologies to Billy Donovan and Tony Delk. Oh, and Mike’s a good paisan to boot:

"I was joking with my son (assistant coach Richard Pitino) and said go out and see if you can find me a terrific Italian basketball player. We laughed about it and he said, 'Sure, I'll make that a priority.' A couple of months later he said, 'I found that Italian and can you believe he's from your favorite place - Providence, R.I.' He said he could flat out shoot it. I went to see him a few times. I've been recruiting for a long time - he's the best high school shooter I have ever seen in my life. I know that's quite a statement. Now he has to get the rest of his game to catch up to his shooting prowess. But he has NBA range, he gets it off quickly and he has perfect form and perfect arch."

And who’s to argue? Never mind his dunk-contest exploits at the beginning of the vid below, peep the deadeye range at the end:

But the best slam dunkers of the Caucasian persuasion know that pinpoint-accurate shooting gives opponents the sense that it’s ALL you can do on the court. And once you’ve set them up, then you can go out and do wicked stuff like THIS to busters…

Just ask Dave “Stiltz” Rufful, a Dartmouth forward and aspiring right-wing rapper with the “Young Cons”…

… what it’s like to get a wooden spoon of Marra-nasty sauce.

Stiltz got windmill-dunked-on so vehemently rough and awful (rufful?) during a spring run, by his former high school teammate no less. Anybody feel a breeze?…

…Fox News immediately sought cover for Rufful, convening a 5-star Swift Boat panel that night to discuss:

“COULD MIKE MARRA BE A COMMUNIST?!?”

BILL KRISTOL: “Well, I mean, c’mon, let’s be reasonable. At least Marra cuffed it on Ruff with his RIGHT hand…”

ANN COULTER: “But he went at the rim from the LEFT! A typical bleeding-heart approach! What an infidel! Basketball is so inhumane anyway, nothing like hockey… Oh, I’ll be back. Spencer Hawes just tweeted me.”

JUAN WILLIAMS: “That’s the problem with white kids like Marra, anyway. Too much basketball culture! Turns them into tattoo-plastered windmilling thugs. That’s why I took up hopscotch during my leaner years...”

GERALDO RIVERA: “I just hope for that Vanilla Ice boy’s sake he put on some decent deodorant.”

CHRIS WALLACE: “We cannot confirm at this time whether Michael Moore is buying exclusive rights to the tape for his next documentary, “RIGHT MEN CAN’T JUMP.”

SARAH PALIN: “It’s what I always warn Trig, that THIS is what happens when you hang with the liberal elite at Ivy League schools like Louisville.”

PANEL: …

MIKE HUCKABEE: “Er… we’d better go to break. UP NEXT: Richard Jefferson and the NBA’s Closeted Agenda Against Opposite-Sex Marriage.”

~iyf

Please, Bill Walker, Don't Hurt 'Em!

2009-05-18T19:20:00.006-04:00

Not proving able to hang with the likes of Dwight Howard, it appears perennial Celtic and rim-clinger Billy "Sky" Walker has finally found a level of competition he can hang with (literally) over the summer!

He tells these poor tykes, "You don't have to go to camp. I'm bringin' camp right to YOU!" lol

Celtics Youth Basketball Summer Camp. C'mon parents! Don't wait until it's too late for your kids to have their dreams crushed. Sign 'em up today!

~iyf

Mutombo All Up in Dzee House

2009-05-02T17:04:00.007-04:00

First Shawn Bradley, then Alonzo Mourning... now Dikembe Mutombo is calling it a career. Sign o' the times, I suppose.

Deke will have more quality time to work on other skills... like bowling, horse riding, golf, remodeling bathrooms so he won't bust his head everytime he needs to wash his hair.

I just hope he doesn't go the Manute Bol route and feel obligated to blow what fortune he has to pay off half of the Congo on the way back to some leaky hut down there. But he's a giving guy, and he seems to have decent control of his finances, so who am I to worry?

You wonder, with the league's tallest dunkbait suiting up for the final time, what centers are really out there willing to play the victim and persistently produce facial dunk mixes for the next generation of high-flyers and low-post bangers? It's gotta be players who are talented AND healthy enough to stick it out for at least a decade. Oden and Yao have suspect feet... Bynum and Nene can't stay on the court for long... Dwight seems to pick and choose his block attempts... guys like Chandler and Dalembert look like they'd rather be doing something else with their time... and Hilton Armstrong, Brandon Wright, Roy Hibbert, and Cheikh Samb seem more destined for D-League infamy. Plus coaching staffs are pulling centers further away from the rim each season. So the "Halfway-Decent Centers Getting Dunked On Mix" era may well be coming to a close.

Like Zo, there's a Nasteedunx blog coming soon ("Not in Dzee House of MutMMMPH!") to highlight opponents' most degrading slams climbing up Mount Mutombo. And yeah, it's safe to say there's a LOT of them, a veritable cavalcade of All-Stars and other ballers transcending two generations. But Deke deserves his time to shine. And I imagined coming through with a bunch of Dikembe DunkOns to be fair and balanced. Alas...

Take a guy who's 7-foot-2 but has always been challenged on the offensive end. Set up offenses where he hardly has to touch the ball unless he's rebounding. Take defenders who don't take him seriously enough to challenge him under the rim. And the result is -- well, why don't we let him tell us?

Yo, Deke, in 17 seasons... how many times have you been pictured throwing it down on somebody?

Oh. And that was on Mark Jackson, not even the Tom Chamberized version at that. So should that even count?

Well, anyway, if you folk out there in cyberspace find some more, holla. Meanwhile, here's the only other ones I could dig up to tickle your fancy.

~iyf

Fakin Da Funk IV: Baron on AK-47 (FROM AMERICA, WITH LOVE)

2009-04-10T19:08:00.031-04:00

After putting the Monster Mash on AK-47 in the Playoffs, a guard with mad hops gets to Mash something else. It’s all part of “The Deal…”

DATELINE – Saturday, May 12, 2007, 5:19 AM PST

Hilton Oakland Airport Hotel - Oakland, California

It’s five a.m., and no, there was no good night’s sleep for Mr. Andrei Kirilenko. Tossing and turning on the bed at his grungy Oakland hotel, he couldn’t get any winks. Just hours removed from a grueling playoff loss to the Warriors, Andrei is flipping disdainfully through the meager porn offerings on the hotel’s on-demand TV network, doing his best to avoid SportsCenter. At a ridiculously long postgame press conference, he was pretty coy with reporters who were seemingly more interested in the details of a meaningless garbage-time play than the game itself.

"I think I was late on the help. That's why I got dunked on. At least I got on the poster."

Would’ve been nice had he gotten back to the room and had his lovely wife waiting for him. Alas, Mrs. K wasn’t having it on this night. She wasn’t giving it, either.

His better half, Masha, stumbles through the door. She’s sauntering gingerly into the hotel room, hair disheveled, lipstick smudged and, as best as Andrei could tell, a tad bowlegged. What in blazes was so exciting about Oaktown nightlife that had Mrs. Kirilenko running the streets until five in the morning?

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Miss Lopatova,” he bellows to Masha, rubbing the back of her head as if someone’s been tugging at her hair.

“Andrei, sweetie… you remember we made that Deal, right?”

Up to now, The Deal always seemed to work out quite nicely for AK-47. At a time when fellow NBA young bucks are saddled with alimony payments, baby-daddy paternity suits and DNA tests, tempestuous underage babysitters, strip-club fight wounds, money-grubbing rape accusations, and smoldering spouses with ridiculously short leashes, Andrei Kirilenko has himself a Deal. One ensuring wedded bliss for he and wifey for as long as they both shall live. It seems that the prenup arrangement includes a clause that allows AK a little, shall we say, wiggle room in the bedroom. Specifically, once a calendar year at any time, Andrei is allowed to cheat. With whomever, whenever. No pre-approval, no questions asked, no guilt trips.

“What’s forbidden is always desirable,” Masha explained when The Deal got leaked to a reporter. “And athletes, particularly men, are susceptible to all the things they are offered. It’s the same way raising children. If I tell my child. ‘No pizza, no pizza,’ what does he want more than anything? Pizza.” So, she figures, what’s wrong with her hubby coveting an occasional pizza pie, or a piece o’ tail, every once in awhile?

It is an agreement that causes almost every red-blooded American male to pause and bow, to bestow praise to the Russian supermodel for this noble and flexible approach to lifelong fidelity… and every red-faced American woman to roll her eyes in disgust. Masha, Masha, Masha!

But with all the media hype over the leaking of this clause, there’s another half of The Deal that no one bothered to ask about. One that only Masha knows quite well. In return for being so flexible, The Missus gets one lifetime chance to find a man who’ll do her right… for one night only.

Just weeks ago, it was at the grand opening of her new fashion shop in The Gateway shopping plaza in downtown Salt Lake when Masha had a notion to cash in on her end of The Deal. She had just opened a boutique for tall men and women to find stylish yet casual clothing, not an easy find outside of L.A. or Vegas. Part of her business strategy was particularly to cater to NBA players passing through, a public relations ploy sure to attract other well-heeled customers in turn. Well, one particular pro-baller who stopped by, got a pair of customized and perfectly-tailored jeans, and bought a fedora with bullets in it, offered the voluptuous shopkeeper and part-time pin-up model quite a tip. Oh, and a phone number. The note with the number read, “You’ll Know When to Call Me. I’ll Send You a Signal.”

Now, while at the hotel peeking at the conference semis Game 3, between episodes of "Martha Stewart Living," Masha fixes her eyes on Fedora Man. Up by a comfortable 20 points with just minutes to spare, almost as though he knew she was watching, he decided the time was ripe to send out The Signal. He blew past the flailing Jazz guard Deron Williams on the left wing, drove to the hoop and illustriously sacked her Russian husband as if he was getting revenge for Apollo Creed in Rocky IV. Game Over.

Photographers and cameramen around the arena must have sensed the tremors before the Quake, because they caught shots of this utter destruction, in progress, from every conceivable angle.

As the Oracle Arena erupted in joy, he inexplicably pulled out his jersey, “poppin’ the collar” from the waist up.

With the momentum of Game 3 now decidedly in the Warriors hands, the crowd thought it meant the night was over for their superstar. But Fedora Man suspected his night was just beginning. As Stephen Jackson dusts off the Bay Area’s Man of the Hour, Masha scrambles to find her cellphone... and her little black dress.

“Is that a… a… how do they say… a hickey?” Andrei is standing there dumbfounded, mouth agape, trying to find the words as Masha persistently realigned her bra straps. “I can’t believe you cashed in already. But with who?”

“Now remember the rules, dahling, no questions asked!” reminded Masha, now realigning her jaw. “But, if you really wanna know… that’s his car revving up outside.” With his curiosity killing him, Andrei makes a dash to the drapes and peers down to the street. Sputtering off into the dawn was a golden Mercedes. Twenty-two-inch rims. And a California custom tag that appeared to read, “BDIDDY5.”

Fedora Man strikes again. Hey, Fedora Man, how many times did you hit that last night?

Wow. Impressive!

“You were with HIM?” Andrei didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this latest cruel twist of fate. “That’s like, how they say, ‘Sleeping With The Enemy!’… Nyet, I don’t want to hear anything more – no wait, I do wanna know why!”

“I was watching the game tonight, and, well, you know how I value honesty,” Masha said, taking a deep breath after rubbing the sides of her mouth clean with her thumb. “Now I know you won’t take offense, but quite frankly, I suspected… and now know for sure… that Baron can take me higher… farther… to places you’ve never been, Andrei.” For a minute, he thought she was referring to the square atop the rim. “Plus, you know us Russian women like a man with big, scruffy beard.” Now that he could acknowledge. Indeed, compared to his furless chin, Baron indeed had quite a Flavor Saver on him.

“Now, all the ladies you’ve been with over the years,” Masha queries, her attempt to brush through Andrei’s hedgehog hairdo causing him to recoil, “has anyone popped them in the nose, keyed their car, or tried to go after them?” Andrei sighed, rolled his eyes, then nodded his head in the negative. “So I can expect you and your friends won’t do anything to harm my high-flying American baboushka, nyet?”

Andrei rubbed his chin, and pondered aloud, in his best Drago impersonation, “I MUST BREAK HIM.” Then he laughed. “Well, I do have connections. Us Russian men do know how to make people disappear, you know! At least let me get him a little sick, like my man Nikolay does it!”

Before she got nervous, he grinned and said, “Nah, I’ll get your little baboushka back on basketball terms when we get back to SLC for Game 5.”

“But look, I have a proposal to modify The Deal a little. Last night I was watching… well, never mind that… but anyways there was a commercial for a product called Elongawoodie…”

“I know about that, I almost bought you a case.”

“Oh, yes, thanks a lot, lovey! Well, I’ll buy it myself, a lifetime supply, IF you allow me to cash in one extra time this year, just this once. You see, Anna Kournikova was on the sideline at the Laker game, and…”

“Deal!”

Drei would eventually have his day, after dispatching Golden State from the conference semis and eventually getting the tennis-star hookup he desired in the offseason. But Masha is always quick to remind him, pills or no pills, who can take her higher. She blogged recently about her ongoing friendship with another Warrior who scores occasionally, albeit in the traditional sense.

“I was so happy for my friend Al Harrington who scored 38 last night! Al is a great guy. We were on vacation in France this summer. We were playing Charades on the boat and he was supposed to show the word ‘cucumber.’ He had no luck expressing or acting out the word ‘cucumber.’”

As Al held his forefingers out about a foot apart in a lame attempt to depict the vegetable, a vodka-influenced Masha absorbed a bony elbow in her side from her significant other after blurting out,”

“BARON DAVIS!”

The awkward thing is both Kirilenkos knew she deserved at least partial credit for her answer.

~iyf

White Boys Can’t WHAT? III: Is There a Docter in the Face?

2009-04-03T09:00:00.005-04:00

Looks can be deceiving, ‘tis true. Which of the guys on the stage above looks like the type who can throw it down in your mug at will? No, there are no “None of the above” options. Take your time.

So, did ya guess the shaggy-haired cat with the guitar? Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

Brent Docter. Hmmm. Seems like a pretty swell guy, a sports and fitness director at a Boys and Girls Club in Lincoln, Nebraska. When he’s not out cornhusking in his free time (I dunno what the heck they do out there in Nebraska! He tells Boys and Girls he likes gardening, art, and bowling… a stone-cold thug fo' sho'), he’s blasting speakers on stage with his progressive-rock band, Defunct Generation.

Forgiving Sunday

Under all that grunge-meets-Lennon exterior, though, belies a former high school state hoops champ, who took his game to junior college and wrecked shop on the hardwood.

Less than a decade ago homeboy looked like this:

Hell, didn’t we all look like that a decade ago, before we, like, started eating? At first glance, though, Baby Doc was not exactly somebody pre-destined to post YouTubes like “White Boy Nasty Dunks” or “Bus Driver 4-Man Poster Dunk.”

By the time he was a 6’2” senior (heading first to Lincoln School of Commerce, then to Doane College, snaring Business and Sports Management degrees), Doc had sick hops and no longer needed somebody’s ladder to grab the nets. If you weren’t careful under the rim, he’d happily do to you with the basketball, ironically, what Jeff Jarrett enjoys doing with his guitars. El Kabong, biyatches!

Here’s some House Call highlights of the Good Docter, rocking myriad High School and College opponents on courts the way he now rocks the house on stage.

~iyf

Please, Patrick Chewing, Don't Hurt 'Em!

2009-03-11T08:46:00.004-04:00

Ordinary folks are getting dunked on in ads more and more these days. A reminder from your friends at Snickers never to get caught milling around under the rim.

P-Ew: "What's Up, Brian? Care for some extra nuts to go with that chewy nougat?" lmao

~iyf

Celebrity Posters II: JOE BUDDEN - "I Dunk On Lil' Kidz." IN STORES NOW!

2009-02-26T08:00:00.004-05:00

Okay, no, I Dunk On Adolescents!, that's not the title. It's actually Padded Room, and it's rhyme-spitter Joe Budden's first studio-release album in about half a decade. If the fully-wrapped Lincoln Navigators patrolling my 'hood by the otherwise-underemployed are to be believed, it's IN STORES NOW! Don't snap your own ankles, now, slow your roll... you can at least finish the blog before taking off for "da Store," as I think they won't run out of CDs.

Harlem-born and Jersey-bred, Joe Budden was once a blue-chip hoops prospect in his prep school years, and pops up at celebrity basketball events pretty often, either to play or perform. In his first (and last, 'til now) major album, JB's "Pump It Up" became a certified anthem for the streetball courts...

...and with hits chock-full of such inspirational lyrics as...

Hold up she want work that twork that

Then again let me hurt that murk that
Til you gotta hurt back
Can't spit it out, boo you gotta slurp that
Can't cuddle after we done, it wasn't worth that
Joey I'm responsible for bringin Jersey back (And we bad huh)
She at the bar stylin' she throwing it up
She drink a little hypno, throwing it up
But I'm only dealing with freaks that wanna cut
Ma if you agree I want nut
Camcorder, get it played late night on BET Uncut (uhh)

...somebody thought it would be a brilliant idea to promote his newest album before some needy children, perhaps playing a little friendly game of hoops.

Oh, snap. Did I say something about friendly?

Joe took time out from promoting his album in Orlando's Parramore 'hood (Note to travelers: You will NOT find Mickey there. Or Shamu. Let's just leave it there, shall we?) to visit an youth center furnished with a halfcourt hoop out back.

Whether he offered any advice to the young heads as to the virtues of "spittin' it out and slurpin' that" is still in question. What's NOT in question is his eagerness to take at-risk adolescents repeatedly to the hole... and bury them in it.

These poor kids from Central Florida's Tragic Kingdom had more than enough to deal with. Crime. Drugs. Abuse. Poverty. Now, tack on lil' girls with broken ankles, boys having their shots swatted clear to Kissimmee, and kids getting smashed on left and right, hoop dreamz all shattered, all thanks to some once-aspiring ex-baller whose album just dropped and is IN STORES NOW! (see the trucks?) He's got these kids looking for "Padded Rooms" and "Halfway Houses" of their own, now.

To be fair, though, one girl did manage to drain a J in his eye. The LA Clippers immediately dispatched a scout to sign her to a 10-day. Sadly, Joe's good BFF buddy, Saigon, could not be reached for comment.

~iyf

Fakin Da Funk III: LEBRON ON DELONTE (From Knee-Knee, with Love)

2009-02-10T09:14:00.006-05:00

A couple years back, while trolling ESPN Page 2 I came across a fun Valentine's Day article. Delonte West opened up on February 14 about his ideal romantic evening, complete with a yacht, Jim Jones pumping in the Benz, some Moet, steak, skrimp, one prepubescent-tail-chasing crooner to serenade… and Popeye's chicken. Oh, and Jaws, too. Then-Celtic teammate and world-reknowned love doctor Orien Greene chimes in to add to the humor.

Some tidbits from the hilarity that ensues…

D-West: “So, I pick her up in my white convertible. From there, I'd have the music pumping on the radio. The Jim Jones pumping, you know, 'Summer in Miami' song pumping. Got to keep a little gangsta, you can't be too soft. You can't be in there playing some guy that's crying, talking about don't leave me and love me baby, wah wah and all that. So Jim Jones pumping and then from there, wind blowing through the hair, boom, we get straight to the point -- we eat afterwards because I don't want to kiss no onions. I don't want to kiss you tasting like onions and steak and mushrooms and everything.”

O.G.: “What, you taking her back to the Mot 6 [Motel 6]?”

D-West: “So, where we going then? You know, with the female readers, I might get me a superstar off this one. I might get me Beyonce or something.”

O.G.: “Take her to your yacht, dog.”

D-West: “Sit down and have some dinner, some shrimps and steaks, keep it nice and breezy. Pop some bottles, some Moet Rose. The red Moet, we ain't popping no Kristal, it tastes like urination. We ain't popping no Kris, that's $500 a bottle. It ain't that serious. It ain't going to get you drunk. Make sure you put that in there. We ain't doing a $500 bottle, we're doing a $99 wine and dine. While we're eating, have a singer. Who should I have?"

O.G.: “R. Kelly.”

D-West: “I can't afford R. Kelly.”

O.G.: “You can't afford R. Kelly? Oh, you talking about you going to actually have him on the boat singing? Oh, man, you doing it like that?! I'm telling you, you all might not come back for two, three days.”

D-West: “So, we are done eating, man, we've got to have someone singing while we're eating. OK, so from there, we're doing a midnight skinny-dipping jump. Alright? From there, hopefully she's got money because I hope Jaws gets her, boom, make sure she got me in the will, bank, I'm good. Oh well, shark got her! Jaws got her. Nah, we ain't going there.”

D-West: “One more thing: When we're on the yacht eating, we're going to have some Popeyes chicken. That's for dinner. It's to let her know, put a mental image on her mind, first and foremost, if you ain't from the hood, you don't like Popeyes chicken. Everyone there loves Popeyes chicken and the biscuits -- phew. But that's just getting it on her mind, saying, you know, 'Yeah, I can wine and dine you, but I'm a little rough around the edges and I'm keeping it real with you. I can be romantic, but this is real, we're going to eat some chicken tonight. Chicken and biscuits.'”

It's particularly funny given the timing, because the Very Next Night after V-Day, Delonte was delivered a very special message, from a newfound acquaintance... ;-)

"February 15, 2006

Dearest Delonte -

From the instant that things took off, I knew you and I would become glued to one another. As I pressed not-so-tenderly against your Adam's Apple, I hoped that our One Shining Moment could somehow remain frozen in time, perhaps like a poster where everyone could someday say they, too, were a 'Witness'. So sorry about the bruises I left on your neck and chest: just tell your homeboyz you got a hickey!

But alas, due to circumstances beyond our control, we had to go our separate ways. I truly hope we can meet again sometime soon, perhaps next season, since you won't be around by the springtime, what with the playoffs and all. (Sigh!) Thinking of you, until then...

Sincerely,

LeBron's Right Knee"

~iyf

Zo-YO! The BEST of Alonzo Mourning

2009-01-27T08:12:00.026-05:00

It won't surprise you to know there's a Nasteedunx blog in the works cataloguing the very WORST of Alonzo Mourning ("Zo-NO!"). It might blow my blogspace capacity completely. But you know, the inevitable has happened, and the brutha's retiring on us (sniff). This brave shot-blocker continuously came back to the floor, from life-threatening surgeries and nagging injuries in the 2005-2006 NBA season to offer for our collective amusement what was, without question, the single greatest season of a single player getting spectacularly smashed on over-and-over-and-over.

The least we can do here at Nasteedunx is offer our praise, well wishes, and a look back to the prime-time plays from Zo's prime, when he proved capable on banging on scrubs and All-Stars alike.

We present Alonzo Mourning: Dunking ON People. For a Change.

~iyf

White Boys Can't WHAT? Part II: Hobbie-Horsed!

2009-01-13T09:24:00.016-05:00

Woe be to the one-dimensional slam dunking baller. Despite all one’s efforts to round out his game, perfect a mid-range jumper, morph into a lockdown defender, dominate the glass, and drop crazy dimes… the gravity-laden naysayers and critics persist. “Mad hops are all he’s got,” they’d whine.

Yet through it all, somehow, uni-skilled high school high-risers still manage to fill up NCAA Division I rosters, with coaches clamoring endlessly for ballers with “raw” athletic abilities and “boundless” potential, stats on vertical leap and wingspans dripping from their tongues.

Invariably, it’s a person of (darker) color holding down that coveted scholarship spot on the D-I bench, often in the form of some “fourth-year general studies major,” or “junior college transfer,” whose high school and AAU mixtapes on YouTube caused some recruiters’ jaws to drop to the floor. Many of these same cats sneak into the NBA draft, earning guaranteed-millionaire cash on this same foundation of raw, untapped, and often unrealized, potential.

Sadly, white dudes with ups as their primary calling card haven’t marketed well in the top tier of NCAA programs. Thus guys like former Illinois high school dunk champ Eric Hobbie, now rocking rims at McKendree University in southwestern Illinois, get relegated to unremarkable Division II or III or NAIA college careers, destined for a lifetime of service as somebody’s personal trainer, mascot jobs leaping through hoops of fire off of a trampoline, and germane duties like snaring those hard-to-reach items off shelves for little old ladies at Wal-Mart.

It’s not like the young man hasn’t tried to get noticed in other ways. The sole underclassman represented in the American Midwest Conference’s All-Conference 1^st Team last season, the 6-foot-6 Hobbie amassed 7.3 boards and 15.4 points per game, and 40.3 percent from three-point range, in a Pippen-esque second-fiddle role to the conference MVP, leading his Bearcats in blocks while second in steals. Boosting a top-ten NAIA program and currently riding a seven-game winning streak, Hobbie has helped make winning easy this year for head coach Harry Statham, now the winningest coach (and the coachingest coach) in all of men’s college hoops.

Before that, he was downstate Illinois’ high school player of the year, damaging opponents’ psyches as a high-flying forward for the Vandalia Vandals. Doing it all, he put up double-doubles, three thefts per game, and 42 percent from 3-point range, leading to an Associated Press All-State selection in his senior year.

You’d think Hobbie’s multifaceted game and winning pedigree would gain the warranted attention of top-notch NCAA programs. But concerns about the dreaded ‘tweener label persist. And besides, when you can do stuff like THIS to people, it’s quite easy for others to get distracted…

Even his coach, extolling Hobbie’s many virtues, struggled mightily to hold his tongue about Hobbie’s flair for the dramatic above the rim. “In practice, there were times, ‘Holy smokes! Did that happen?’ Some of the things he did were jaw-dropping.”

Hobbie would compensate for the lack of prime-time college interests by pursuing his true loves outside of basketball. And for those with ridiculous hops playing college ball, who among that group lists their top “hobbies” as hunting and fishing? Oh, and Dodge trucks?

“Deer hunting is a place I get away from things,” Hobbie said. “That’s where I made my decision for college, sitting up in a tree stand. McKendree was the best fit. I just wanted to stay somewhere close to home. I don’t fit in at a bigger school. I like to deer hunt and fish. Every day, every chance I get I do it. My dad had me deer hunting when I was 3 with him.” His biggest catch this year in the pond was an 8-pound bass. He did throw it back. Unfortunately for his opponents this season, he wasn’t as merciful on the court. Hobbie hurt them in every way possible. With an improved 3-pointer, he wasn’t afraid to step out and make his defenders guard him deep. He could also dribble up and hit the mid-range jumper, and as always, he was tough inside with a variety of post moves. He also posterized a few defenders – a kid on Flora especially felt what it was like to be Hobbied – with an explosive dunking ability that’s never been seen in Vandalia before.

Ill. Hoops magazine was referring to that ill, highlight-reel worthy slam in a game over Eric Ridge, a rival 6-foot-5 blue-chip prospect at Flora High. Hobbie’s high school coach boasted, “You could see Ian was going to challenge him, and, well, he found out. He was probably above the rim between his forearm and elbow, and Eric came in and, oh, my God. He came over the top of him with two hands.” Ian Ridge found out about Eric Hobbie a little too late for that game, and became the proverbial deer in Hobbie’s headlights. But it wasn’t too late for Ridge to realize if you can’t defend 'em, join 'em, taking up a scholarship to team with Hobbie at McKendree U.

Life ain’t fair for guys like Eric Hobbie. And when it isn’t, guys like him take solace by just taking it out on unsuspecting low-talent bruthas under the rim. Don’t get Hobbie-Horsed, Homie!

~iyf

nasteevote

2008-12-14T16:50:00.001-05:00

Where Are They Now? X (2006, updated 2008)

2008-12-04T08:01:00.010-05:00

December 2006

Facializer # 10 – David "Big Daddy D" Lattin

"If David Lattin hadn't dunked on you, I wouldn't be standing here running your offense." With that nugget of wisdom to his coach Pat Riley, Earvin “Magic” Johnson conveyed the impact of what would become a GREAT MOMENT IN CIVIL RIGHTS HISTORY!

Yeah, you know the story. 1966, Texas Western, all-black starters, underdogs, mighty whitey

Kentucky, lah-dee-dah. But I'm not here to get all Eyes on the Prize on you. This is all about poster-worthy dunks, after all, and many of the best would have never transpired were it not for this guy.

Seeing their likely foes go down in upsets at the NCAA tourney to unheralded Texas Western was exciting to the Wildcat nation, expecting no problems in raising a fifth championship banner. David Lattin squashed all that noise with the quickness. On the Miners' second possession, Big Daddy D rose up over Riley and powered the ball home over Pat's feebly outstretched arm, sending shockwaves all throughout the nation.

Seizing the spotlight, he then stared the Bluegrass State's cowering star in the eye and delivered this uplifting quote:

"Take that, you h*nky *&%^$@!"

Okay, wait. Maybe not such a GREAT MOMENT IN CIVIL RIGHTS HISTORY! What, you were expecting some sage discourse about justice, mountaintops, rainbows, and overcoming or something?

Lattin flatly denies saying it, suggesting his mother "would roll over in her grave if she thought I said anything like that." But both Riley (before the Glory Road publicity) and a photographer who was under the basket have corroborating accounts. Let's just suppose that part of the "true story" was left on Bruckheimer's cutting room floor.

Pat would have thought twice about jumping had he read that his opponent was the FIRST (no racial adjectives) high school All-American ever from Texas. On his way to 16 points and a stunning upset, Lattin would follow with three more rim-rattlers, slams on Kentucky so vicious that Ashley Judd could be heard crying from her momma's womb. But what made the posterization of Riley, and by extension, America's withering separate-but-equal mindset so remarkable is the reaction it produced.

There probably wouldn't be a forty-ounce brew chillin' in your fridge today had it not been for Prohibition. That dry era in history revealed to Americans exactly what it was missing out on, and when the draconian rules were kicked to the curb, demand for booze shot up with a vengeance, and now we'd never go back. Similar thing happened in hoops. Within five years after Lattin's dominating slam, every SEC school came equipped with a brutha. Yes, Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia. No National Guard required, thank you.

Texas Western was so unnerved by the confrontational images Lattin & Co. projected that they changed the school's name the next year. Meanwhile, the prospect of a sea change in college hoops resonated

with the powers in the ivory towers, who relished a return to the "glory days" of set shots, Tom Gola and Bill Sharman. They would've brought back peach baskets if the world had let them. Russell, Oscar and Wilt were allowed to play top-tier college ball merely because they were seen as freaks of nature and sold tickets. But in the emerging era of integration these schools just couldn't handle mediocre brothers coming in off the streets into their fine institutions and "taking over the game." So within a year the Dunk Nazis eliminated slam dunks from college hoops altogether. You know it as the Alcindor Rule, but Lew and all players knew it was really the Big Daddy Lattin Rule. No three-point shots, and no dunks. Sounds to me like a slightly nuanced game of contact darts. Yawn.

"After that one dunk I had on Pat Riley in the first half," Lattin says, "Rupp was so disgusted that he went to the NCAA rules committee and had the dunk banned from college basketball for ten years. That one dunk, can you believe that? He was such a powerful coach, a big figure, that he had the dunk taken out of college basketball for a decade."

Common sense would prevail by 1976, when players like Kent Benson and Jim Spanarkel were putting fans to sleep, and March Madness was more like March Malaise. But you'd have to wonder… if not for the NCAA ban on dunking, would we have had Phi Slamma Jamma? Or the Fab Five? Think how many dunkers would have lost interest in hoops before college. Imagine His Airness being recruited instead by UNC for baseball… or Vince for their band? Would that be a bronze statue of Kelly Tripucka outside Chicago's United Center, taking a ten-foot jumper over outstretched arms? Would Shaq have found himself the starting center… in the XFL? Would Freddy Weis be a starter for the Knicks? (shudders, chills)

So thank you, David Lattin, for saving us decades of unmitigated boredom. And Pat Riley, thank you for being such a willing participant in that GREAT MOMENT IN NASTY DUNKS HISTORY!

As for Big Daddy, he is doing quite nicely, and not just due to the publicity from Glory Road. After a less-than-stellar career with the NBA's Frisco Warriors, the expansion Phoenix Suns, then the Memphis Tams and Pittsburgh Pipers of the ABA, he went on to have successful ventures in the industries of "adult beverages" (as an ad exec for a national wine-and-spirits distributor. In yo face, Prohibition!), car rentals and real estate. More irony: his new autobiography, "Lattin's Slam Dunk to Glory," is appropriately foreworded by Phi Slamma Jamma's Clyde Drexler.

"Slam Dunk to Glory," sure to win a Pulitzer. In stores now! (Or not…)

Where have all the Miners gone?

Podcast of David Lattin at Georgia Perimeter College, April 2006.

(2008 UPDATE: Lattin, the recently-late Don Haskins and their 1966 Miner team was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame in 2007. Likely the first facial slam ever to be deliberately highlighted and celebrated in a Hoop Hall induction ceremony, part of the induction article highlights Haskins as the motivating force behind Big Daddy D’s poster-for-all-posterity…

“…Haskins, always looking for an edge, used the racial overtones of the game to his advantage. At the start of the game he instructed the muscular Lattin to make a violent early game dunk in an effort to intimidate Kentucky.

‘I told David, 'I want you to take it to the rim and dunk it like they've never see it dunked. I don't care if you get called for a charge, traveling or anything. Just dunk it.’

Lattin gladly obliged and as he threw down a vicious slam, Kentucky's Pat Riley tried to get out of the way only to be called for a foul. For all intents and purposes, the game was over there. Kentucky, indeed, had never seen anything like Big Daddy D. Using their trademark stingy defense and extreme discipline - characteristics that ran against the stereotype - Texas Western cruised to a 72-66 victory and the national championship.

The fallout was both beautiful and bitter. These were still the 1960s and college athletics were run exclusively by white men. The team was hardly hailed as heroes - no one even brought out a ladder so they could clip the nets, Shed having to prop Worsley up on his shoulders to do the honors. The NCAA did, however, immediately dispatch an investigator to El Paso in search of violations (he found no wrong doing). Hate mail came by the bag load and death threats were real enough to require FBI intervention.

Some in the media, particularly Sports Illustrated, wrote scathing articles about the program and coaches spread wholly inaccurate rumors about the team's lack of academic success (in truth nearly the entire team graduated and all went on to successful lives). Haskins, for his part, was offered few coaching opportunities at bigger schools despite having won a national title at a mid-major program at such a young age.

‘I said for a long time winning the national championship was the worst thing to ever happen to me,’ Haskins said. ‘We were the villains. We were pariahs.’

It took decades for America to fully appreciate what this team had done. And then it came in a wave -- a book, a movie, a Wheaties box, NCAA recognition and now this, the ultimate recognition, enshrinement in the Hall of Fame.”)

-------------------------------------

Victim #10 – Von Wafer

I came across Von's face as I was preparing my cereal this morning. Sadly, he was not on the box of Wheaties, but on the milk carton. Under the words, "Have You Seen Me?"

Von is last season's winner of the unofficial Junior Harrington award, given to the up-and-coming young player who gets dunked over in royal fashion (no pun intended, Mr. Ivey), and suddenly goes "poof!" Like an AND1 game where fans direct you to the exits after you've been punked under the rim. Gotta go, gotta go!

Since coming up short (getting robbed Iguodala-style) in the high school slam dunk contest to LeBron in 2002-2003, Von has carried a history of baggage, from his troubles staying in class at Florida State, to his nose-busting pre-draft 2005 workout with Jan Jagla that almost ended his NBA career before it got started. Didn't help that he ended Miami's Dorell Wright's summer ball with a shot to the chops, either. The Lakers gave him a shot with some second-round money, though, and for a thin backcourt behind Kobe, it looked like things were shaping up for awhile… UNTIL, after missing an ill-advised three, he made one final ill-advised move…

Kirk Snyder will never go hungry thanks to that dunk, and would eventually move on to a free agent deal with the Rockets. Meanwhile, Von hardly had a chance to unpack from that road trip when the Lake Show put him on a saddle to the Fort Worth Flyers. D-League time. He'd come back briefly in March but was left off the playoff roster. You'd think he'd want to come back and show some fire this summer. But Von was so listless in scrimmages, as DraftExpress.com's Richard Walker accurately put it, "Sometimes I wonder if Von knows he doesn't have a guaranteed contract."

He knows now. After hardly getting any preseason run, the Lakers waived him in October. But fear not, for Von is getting yet another chance, in the D-League with the Colorado 14ers, ballin' outta control with the likes of Julius Hodge, Pooh Jeter and Rick Rickert. Just days ago he lit up the Idaho Stampede for 31 points. Looks like Von has found his place to shine, in Broomfield, Colorado. And the next time he gets crammed on, lucky for him, no one will be there to witness it.

(YouTube BONUS: Somebody Stop Me!)

(2008 UPDATE: NEVER doubt a man named Vakeaton Quamar. Really, that’s Von’s first and middle name. He’s back in the NBA after honing his skills mostly in the minors for the past few years. Since departing from Kobe & Company, he’s made cameo appearances the last two seasons with the Clip Joint, the Nuggets, and the Trail Blazers. So far he’s survived the cut with the Houston Rockets. Just this week Chris “The Birdman” Andersen couldn’t get ‘high’ enough (sorry) to keep up with Wafer, and wound up with a new middle name… “Mud”. And oh, how the worm turns! Snyder, rumored to be a perennial locker-room malcontent, got traded from the Rockets to the Wolves last season... and now all his filthy "Kung Pow!" dunks are literally Made in China. He dropped 43 points in 45 minutes in his November debut for the Zheijhang Wanma Cyclones.)

~iyf

Crammed-On Chronicles VII: Kobe Bryant ON Dwight Howard - THIS is a PUBIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

2008-11-14T08:54:00.018-05:00

(Also see the Fakin' the Funk fictional story: BAPTIZED!)

Kobe Bryant reminds you, “Don’t hate. Appreciate!”

November 12, 2004

The haters simply don’t get it, do they?

Look, if you’d rather not see Kobe Bryant light up your favorite squad, applaud him, politely. That’s right. In fact, shower him with praise, flower him with niceties. Compliment his improved shooting stroke… in Italian. Tell him how dope his rap album was, that you bought his sneakers the minute they hit the shelves. Build up his self-esteem and give him time to get all nonchalant and complacent.

If you truly wish nothing but the very worst for Kobe, please, don’t boo him. And for godsakes, if you’d rather not have your favorite prized young star brutally exposed before the world, by all means, do NOT heckle Kobe Bryant.

Haters are Kobe’s fuel, you see. It’s been that way ever since his 2002 All-Star homecoming in Philly. Striving desperately to win back the hearts and minds of people who once cheered him on as a suburban high school phenom, Kobe scored, scored and scored some more on his way to winning the game MVP honors. For his efforts, through the entire game, true-to-form Philly fans booed him worse than they’d boo Roseanne Barr singing the national anthem in a Santa Claus outfit. Trophy in hand, Kobe left holding back tears while getting run out of town on a rail. “My rookie year, I came out of high school, my first game here, they booed me a little bit, too,” he told reporters. “And that really, really hurt, because it was like my homecoming... That was very, very hurtful.” From that moment forward, he consciously stopped waiting for the kind words of others to inspire him to greatness. It’s much easier to feed off the hate, bitter as it tastes. “I'll use it as motivation, definitely,” he said. “I'm the type of person where if something occurs in my life that's hurtful, I'm going to turn it around and use it as some type of motivation.”

Still reeling from The Infamous Snow Bunny Incident in Colorado, and after successfully urging his GM to run the Lakers’ other marquee players and coach out of town, in 2004 Kobe entered the regular season knowing full well he’d starve waiting to be fed praise. He knew he’d spend the full season getting booed everywhere outside of Tinseltown.

While he was prepared to accept the booing, the hecklers were a different story. These cats pay top dollar to sit real close to the road club’s bench, and they come armed with every weakness and imperfection a baller carries, or is gossiped to carry, both on and off the court. Whether it’s his inability to take the ball to his left, defend their best dribbler, handle his liquor, or get it up with his girlfriend, they’re ready to remind him all about it, in the most distasteful terms imaginable. Anything goes, to get the player off his game just enough that the heckler’s team gets the advantage.

Some players simply cannot handle the persistent needling. Occasionally they’ll snap and give the Maxwell-like punch, Rodman-ish kick, Iverson-ian slur or Barkley-esque spit that, properly aimed, could guarantee the heckler big-time money and great courtside seats for years. After the way the previous year’s tumultuous season started, Kobe certainly couldn’t afford any more court settlements. He needed to find other ways to silence his growing legion of detractors.

Jump to the end of the second quarter at the O-Rena, where the Magic was chewing up all of the Lakers’ 18-point lead. When Kobe wasn’t getting hounded by a surprisingly spry Grant Hill and nursing a throbbing left foot, he was spending the better part of the quarter on the pine jawing back and forth with a Magic fan at courtside who brought his full bag of heckler tricks that evening. Kobe was fine with the booing, even the cussing. But this particular heckler managed to get under his skin with some sincerely vulgar words. Obscenities between the two escalated the repartee. It is unclear, to this day, what exactly was uttered, or whether the heckler was ushered out after things got heated. But it was quite clear to newswriters when he approached the fan at the end of the half, and stated these prophetic words:

“You Woke Me Up Now.”

No one in Central Florida could have foretold what Kobe meant by that plain proclamation. If they could, they might have called down to the Magic locker room to warn #1 draft pick Dwight Howard, fresh outta high school like Kobe, not to lace up his shoes for the second half.

Third quarter. Kobe was biding his time, waiting for the offensive play to open up. Ordering a screen from his new second-fiddle Lamar Odom, he blew around DeShawn Stevenson and past a flat-footed Pat Garrity and barreled straight to the hoop toward a wide-eyed franchise rookie, arms raised in a gesture of complete futility, as if to say, “Touchdown!” Newly awakened, Kobethought as he launched of his sore foot, now it’s time to revive the rest of the basketball universe. Starting with the air traffic controller beneath the boards, Mister Howard. Welcome to the NBA, young fella.

A game-long chorus of “boos” from the stands suddenly turned to even louder “ooohs,” and Orlando’s heckler was never heard from again. Kobe certainly would be heard from, as the play kick-started his drive, not only in this game (ending with a 41-point performance) but also his season. On a moribund Laker squad that would fall short of the playoffs for the first time in a decade, he would become the season’s second-leading scorer while reaching all-time highs in assists.

“Well, let me tell you something…” was about all longtime Lakers commentator Stu Lantz could tell you, before bursting into bewildered laughter. What in the world was THAT about? Some of Kobe’s own teammates stood up and glared, astonished. Where did THAT come from? Anyone within earshot of Kobe’s comment to the instigator, including a few photographers, understood completely. A teammate on that fateful 2002 All-Star squad who remembers the jeers and soothed Kobe’s ego, Magic guard Steve Francis recognized his poster dunk for what it meant instantly. The first to greet Kobe coming down for a landing (the dazed Dwight had stumbled away), Francis greeted him with a semi-serious shove, as if to say, “OK, you proved your point… now cut it out.”

Reminiscent of The Empire Strikes Back, Kobe essentially invited the idealistic young Dwight to come on over to The Dark Side. That really isn’t the worst thing in the world for Dwight when you think about it. Dwight should just ask Ben Wallace, just another marginal, undrafted player going through the motions with the Wizards when Kobe chose to crown him Fool of the Year in an otherwise meaningless 1998 preseason game.

Consider, at barely more than three points and one measly block per game, would Big Ben even be in the League today were it not for the instant notoriety Kobe provided him? With one play, Kobe showed the would-be perennial D-Leaguer that his 6-foot-9 body was not built to take charges from guards, and as a result Ben developed the surliness and aggressiveness that morphed him into shot-block master, DPOY, and NBA champion.

In the span of just five seconds, the heckler got his message: don’t make Kobe angry… you won’t like Kobe when he’s angry.

All signs suggest Dwight is getting his message: Nice Guys Finish Last, and some will finish with a face full of an opponent’s shorts. Trying to be Mr. Nice Guy will only get your feelings hurt when the fans turn on you. You’ve got to be cold-hearted from the start, and make sure everyone knows it, if you want to succeed in this business.

And the basketball world got the message: when Kobe Bryant wants to send a message, he will authoritatively end all Play of the Year debates before the season gets a chance to warm up.

(2008 UPDATE: Almost 4 years to the day. Dwight Howard has meta-morphed his in-game composure, from one of a Clark-Kent-nice rookie to that of a Man-of-Steel-nasty All-Star. He may lead the league in dunks every season for the next decade. He’s dedicated to leading the pack this year as DPOY, maybe even MVP. And he knows exactly who to thank for steering him onto the Ben Wallace track from infamy to mega-millionaire superstardom. Kobe knows, too. “I baptized Dwight,” he’d declare with glee to reporters eager to remind him of his filthy feat anytime the Magic and Lakers face off. “I turned him into a defensive force!”)

~iyf

Fright Night Part I: Look Out… Behind You!

2008-11-07T18:59:00.045-05:00

It’s fitting that hoops season kicks off around the week of Halloween. At the same time ballers are getting back in peak condition to routinely soar above the rim, the rest of the free world is making their best efforts to get a good hearty scare out of people. All the blood-bath, hardware-power-tool date flicks come out. Fake blood and spider webs and green goo are everywhere.And parents dress up their kids to look like some washed-up-president or a werewolf or a space alien. Over the years the NBA missed out on an opportunity to capitalize on some of the hardest-on-the-eyes players’ faces by making Halloween masks that would scare the flower pattern right off Granmama’s mou-mou. They could’ve made a killing off of costumes featuring the ghoulish muggs of Sam Cassell, Paul Mokeski, and Tyrone Hill.

Now come Halloween time, Richard Jefferson needs nobody’s help when it comes to dressing up to look like an extra-terrestrial. The bulby forehead and extended ears create a brutha who looks like he desperately needs to Phone Home. That “oww-you’re-pinching-my-nose” voice doesn’t help his cause either. But you’d best not be fooled by his otherworldly countenance and persona. Just ‘cause RJ channels “The Great Gazoo” from the Flintstones doesn’t mean he won’t make you take him to your leader once he gets on the hardwood. He’s made a career out of making opponents in the paint look foolish, even downright frightened, when he catches dunks on ‘em. Here’s a couple where Jefferson produces some Close Encounters of the Filthy Kind (hey, why does a brutha always get victimized first in these things? It's a conspiracy, I swear)…

Tyrus Thomas would eventually slay the posterizing beast when he spiked one over RJ… OR DID HE????

Little did he know he created a Headless Horseman. Or is it the Great Pumpkin?

Tyrus couldn’t get to the League in time to save one Kevin “Whachootalkinbout??” Willis. RJ’s windmill dunk over Willis’ shoulder in the 2003 Finals generated a lasting image of this past-his-prime-time player that’s perfectly suited for Depends undergarments ads. As the tomahawk-wielding Jefferson springs out of seemingly nowhere , just witness the abject terror on Kevin’s face the moment he KNOWS what’s about to transpire over his head. “It’s an Alien Invasion! AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Willis’ classic reaction to RJ’s monster mash was the inspiration for a series of dunks-on-defenders that focus on the reactions that make poster-worthy dunk victims, well, victims. A “Night Gallery,” if you will (anybody remember that show? Dang, I feel old!)

This first installment of Nasteedunx Fright Night focuses on the situation when some unfortunate crab gets dunked on from behind. These in particular create the oddest variety of momentary crap-inducing reactions from unsuspecting defenders, perfectly captured on camera for our collective humor. You get the full gamut, from wide-eyed gasps, to cowering cringes, to spooked-out dudes scrambling desperately to just get outta the picture.

So, in honor of Halloween, here are some of the best examples of tricks gettin’ rudely treated…

You’d think teammates could be a little more helpful in communicating, especially when they get beat badly off the dribble and their dude they were fronting zips past them to the rack. Their freed opponent is either bringing the ball with him or flying in for the tip slam… heading right for another would-be defender with his back turned and eye off the play. Instead, you get dialogue probably resembling a bad John Carpenter script:

BROKEN-ANKLED DEFENDER: Jethro! Look out, behind you!

POSTER-BOY-IN-THE-MAKING: What? I can’t hear you, Elroy! Can’t you see I’m busy staring up at the rim waiting for the cherry-pick rebound? Gee, I wonder why I’m isolated down here by myself?

BUSTED-ANKLE DEFENDER: Turn around!

VICTIM-IN-WAITING: Every now and then I get a little bit tired…

B.A.D.: No! Turn your dumb a$ around! He’s coming right at you! Above you!

ABOUT-TO-GET-PUNKED: What? Who? Where?

((BOOM!!))

HUMILIATION-PERSONIFIED (eyes big as saucers, then squints, squirms, screams): Oh … AHHHHHHHHH!

B.A.D. (shakes his head in shame)

POSTER-BOY (rubs the back of his dome): Oww, man… Dawg, why ain’t you warn me?

B.A.D.: Oh, never mind. My B.A.D. Check ball.

Here are some Dishonorable-Mention snapshots. Just when you thought it was safe not to box out…

~iyf

Where Are They Now? IX (2006, Updated 2008)

2008-10-16T22:03:00.004-04:00

Victim # 9 – Jim McIlvaine

If you were significant enough to warrant your own Wikipedia page, you'd want a picture that represented the way you'd want to be best remembered. Smiling in a suit, maybe leaping for a picturesque dunk, at the White House with the President issuing a medal, somethin' like that. Jim McIlvaine could really use a publicist right now, at the very least a buddy who knows how to edit a Wiki page. After all, is a picture of yourself getting dunked on by Shaq as you wave your arms in complete futility the image you want to ingrain in people's memory? I suspect one of you Nasteedunx members is the culprit for this…

Jimmy Mac started and ended his career the same way, as a backup to "My Giant" and cologne supermodel Gheorghe Muresan (Where Are They Now Victim #6). The pride of Racine, Wisconsin and Marquette's all-time lading blockmeister, the 7-foot-1-incher stood out just enough during the second half of his second season with the Bullets to command a payday in a weak '96 free agent market. The talented but size-starved Sonics offered a Koncak-esque $34 mill over seven years to reap his potential, and that's exactly what they got: Potential.

Mere inches away from the rim, he would never score more than 12 points in a single NBA game. The 3.8 points, four rebounds and two blocks per game were the best Jim could muster, and it was his bloated contract that deflated the franchise's hopes when a soon-to-be-bloated Shawn Kemp (6 degrees of separation! Where Are They Now Facializer #6) decided to bail for Cleveland.

Some quotes from the 34 Million Dollar Man:

"It blows me away, I've been so fortunate. Charles Barkley is the guy who comes to mind when I think about what's happened to me. He said he was going to fire his mom, she was off the payroll, because he was born too early. I just really got lucky… A lot of people said negative things about my contract, but I don't know if it was jealousy, I think it was people looking at the numbers and saying, 'Look at how much this guy is getting paid and look at the numbers he's putting up.' I can totally understand that. But at the same time, if somebody is offering you a boatload of money, it's tough to turn down."

Color me a playa hater. ESPN, too, as they ranked it the second worst free agent deal ever (ESPN Page 2: "Fans say you're #8, but to us, you always played like Number Two.")

Jim was cut twice: once before retirement in 2001 by the Nets, then after retirement when his dramatic exploits in the movie “Shallow Hal” were left on the Farrelly Brothers' cutting room floor. His Hollywood career was cut short even faster than his mentor's (Muresan). But Mac Daddy has landed on his feet back in Wisconsin, and even became a hero, not for his sparse hoops skills, but for "giving back" to the community. Smartly avoiding a role as a dunk dummy for Dwyane Wade's practices, he waited `til the next season to surface on Marquette's campus and accepted a gig as a radio color commentator. Then he helped form a group trying to raise money to save the property of the State of Wisconsin's largest summer camp. In 2005, on Camp Anokijig he said:

"We've been told that if we can come up with $8 million, we will be able to get the place, but that's a very high amount for us," he said. "We don't have anyone who is able to pull out their checkbooks and come up with an amount like that."

Upon hearing that, apparently, somebody handed him a mirror. Brother, can you spare $34 million?

(2008 Update: He may never have had a high-performing engine, no, but he sure can take pictures of some. He picked up a hobby of automotive photography and contributes to magazines like GM High-Tech Performance, Popular Hotrodding, Kit Car, Super Chevy, and WaterSki. In ’07 he was handed Marquette’s Communications School’s Young Alumnus of the Year Award – coming soon to a pawn shop near you.

One other thing you can say about McIlvaine is he manages to wind up at the right place at exactly the right time. That goes for either showing up at the perfect time to be a tall free agent, or finding the equally tall girl of your dreams, a 6-foot-7 college hoops star and Hurricane Katrina evacuee, while surfing the web in Anchorage, Alaska.)

YOUTUBE BONUS: For all you busters who thought Jimmy Mac had NO skills whatsoever, this here’s for you. Jim McIlvaine, DANCE CONTEST CHAMPION! Looks like the “competition” in Puerto Rico was pretty light that night.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Facializer #9 – Keon Clark

There are a small but sizable handful of basketball purists who count Keon Clark's windmill over Shawn Bradley as the best NBA dunk ever, at least the best ever on the Stormin' Mormon, which says an awful lot by itself . From a strictly degree-of-difficulty standpoint it's hard to argue against that, although admittedly I'm in the camp that says it doesn't count as a dunk since his hand never got to the rim. I'd say he made better victims out of Greg Postertag, Felton Spencer, Big Country Reeves, Pat Garrity and Scot Pollard (note to self: future Where Are They Now candidates!) and this YouTube video (thanks again Yinka!) helps make the case.

Keon's skill was he was a swift jumper, especially compared to the usual stiffs we see at 6-foot-11. With his long arms, Keon could get up-and-down at the rim as quick as anybody in the L. What's funny is, watch the Mavericks' "Home" crowd reaction above, as Keon flushes it over Shizzle Bradlizzle. Did half of Toronto move down to Dallas, or was this a residual effect of Vinsanity? Either way, it's never good when you get crowned with a Spalding on your home court and your own team’s fans go buckwild.

But with his NBA career cut short due to a bum ankle, Keon informally retired and returned to his hometown of Danville, Illinois. Not to be outdone by Jim McIlvaine, Keon also found a way to give back to his community. That is, if you consider your $66,000 Mercedes getting SEIZED only to become the property of the city's police chief as "giving back." What happened?

You see, the good news was Keon could get really high. The bad news was too often those highs had nothing to do with his leaping ability. As Chris Andersen could attest, "Marijuana is a helluva drug," and the same substance that cut short Keon's senior year at Nevada-Las Vegas (pretty bad when UNLV says they're too pious for you!) contributed to his most recent run-in with the long arm of the law. Oh, that, and cocaine, too. Oh, and alcohol, an unlicensed handgun, and driving the Benz without a license or insurance. For arrest-happy cops, this is the equivalent of holding a "full house" at the poker table. All this was discovered in a single traffic stop in September 2005. His pending DUI and drug trial on October 30 has the former NBA slammer facing up to 10 years in whole other kind of slammer. Keon's son couldn't visit him there, since Keon's legally barred from seeing him after deliberately missing child support payments. Keon's pop could come visit him in the pokey… except they would now be on the same side of the glass. Daddie Dearest killed a friend over a bicycle (wtf?) a few years ago and is doing 65 years in the cell. Hard Times!

Keon's career started out meteoric, but sadly ended up mercurial due to injuries and apathy compounded by drug issues. Just Say No, kids!

And Keon… the City of Danville thanks you!

Keon to the Toronto Star in November 2005: "You know, I really wasn't a big NBA guy. I just did it because I was good at it. I don't understand how these people can literally beat their bodies to death, for money. Why kill yourself? You won't even be able to play basketball with your kids. I'm feeling much better now that I'm not running."

(2008 Update: Sing it with me… “Maaaan On the Run! Maaaan On the Run!”

Keon straight-up ran for the border! This 6-foot-11 pogo stick of a man tried going incognito in ’07, alluding the law on that same “royal flush” set of charges. Thanks to the U.S. Marshals and probably Chuck Norris, the long arm of the law finally reached down to Texas and snagged him from a Greyhound bus. I can imagine the convo on the bus among the passengers… “Psst! Ain’t that the dude who dunked on Shawn Bradley?” “Which dude?” “Good question!”

Later in court, he explained why he always seemed full of spirit on the court. It was because he was literally full of SPIRITS on the court, throwing back fifths every halftime, and he claimed he went to Texas to hide out at a rehab center. “I never played a game sober, unfortunately,” he declared. Ya heard it right: Bradley even let a DRUNK guy throw down on him.

Good news, though. He just got out of prison, and is on parole through next summer.)

~iyf

Crammed-On Chronicles VI: LeBron James ON Tim Duncan (Don't Just Cross 'em Over. Cross 'em off Your Checklist.)

2008-10-13T19:40:00.009-04:00

November 3, 2006

Every player has a “To-Do” list going into the season. LeBron James certainly has his.

In his first year, he was able to cross out the line that read, “Prove yourself to all haters,” all the people who thought he’d be intimidated by the big stage, those who insisted (hoped?) that the teenager would never amount to more than a mediocre role player.

The next year, the list included, “Lead a team that hadn’t sniffed the playoffs since you were snapping ankles in middle school.” LeBron scratched that off the list, too, even winning a first-round battle while attracting more Witnesses than Jehovah.

This year’s list is a little tougher:

“Make your free throws.”

“Cut down on the turnovers.”

“Drag this squad into the Finals.”

LeBron saw an opportunity to knock off another task in just his second game of the season:

“Get the Cavs a win in San An for the first time since you were drooling applesauce on your bib.”

Not even ten minutes into the game, LeBron blows by two Spurs defenders who get suckered on a pick. Curling off the Drew Gooden screen around Fabricio Oberto (which translates roughly to “slow-footed” in Argentina), King James finds himself driving to the rim with the imposing, perennial all-Defensive Team member Tim Duncan standing below, waiting to absorb a charge call. One would think Duncan would have learned from Marcus Camby in the ’99 Finals that this was not a great place to be, and if he was going to take the contact he should at least step completely outside the “no-charge” circle.

LeBron takes just one step in the lane before rising, when he realizes he can kill two birds with one powerful stone. One task in his Franklin Covey checklist involves that ‘applesauce’ thing. The other was one he has certainly heard from the few critics he has left on Earth:

“Enough with the weenies like Damon Jones and Delonte West. For once, POSTERIZE A BIG MAN! And make it memorable!”

A split second later, as the ball ricochets off Duncan’s dome, as the stone-faced former MVP tumbles out of bounds, as Spurs fans cough up their tamales, as commentator Hubie Brown literally soils his undergarments, and as Cavs teammates go ape-sh*t on the sideline, LeBron could faintly be heard whispering to himself:

"Check."

~iyf

VOTE OR GET DUNKED ON!

2008-10-09T09:18:00.005-04:00

A SPECIAL PUBLIC MESSAGE to "The American People," from your dear friends at Nasteedunx...

Remember, Your Vote Counts on Election Day, "My Friends!"

So get out there on November 4 and rock the vote... OR ELSE THE OLD CREEPY DUDE GETS IT!

(T-Bag T-Shirts available at Philly's Undrcrwn.com)

Vote Early! Vote Often! (just kidding on that last comment!)

~iyf

You Just Got YouTubed! Part II - Bride of Dunkula

2008-09-19T19:18:00.005-04:00

Well... it's great to see Henry Bekkering got hitched (I didn't get invited, but I ain't mad atcha, bruh!)

No, really the Caucasian Air Canada didn't really tie the knot, but I'd imagine when he did the ceremony would go a lil' sumthin' like this...

Dearly beloved... into this holy union Mr. Davis and Ms. Kirilenko now come to be joined under the hoop.

IF ANY PERSON KNOWS OF ANY REASON WHY THIS MAN IN HIS TUXEDO SHOULD NOT TAKE THE BALL TO THE HOLE AND TOMAHAWK JAM ON TOP OF THIS WOMAN IN HER FULL WEDDING GOWN, SPEAK NOW OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE...

With the power invested in me, I NOW PRONOUNCE THEE... DUNKER AND DUNKEDON.

~iyf

School Daze

2008-09-17T08:36:00.003-04:00

Mad props to YouTube's mixstealer300. He's been cataloguing the hypest rim-rockers in NCAA Division I, and his latest mix, "Taken to School," features players of all sizes with uncanny springs... and deftly illustrates why some defenders wish they had NEVER aced that SAT.

Here's a similar one mixstealer300 put together back in December 2007.

~iyf

Crammed-On Chronicles V: Bostjan Nachbar ON THE WORLD

2008-09-15T19:48:00.013-04:00

(2008 Update: This cat managed to remain persona non grata while making beaucoup highlights... for other NBA ballers. After several seasons with no pub and little cash, in 2006-2007 he decided it was time to make a few of his own. Now he makes mad rubles to the tune of $14.3 mill over the next three years in Russia. The hoops world knows who he is, now.)

Say My Name, Say My Name

March 2007

You are Bostjan Nachbar. And since October 14, 2003, it has sucked to be you.

Getting vaulted and assaulted by a player nowhere near his prime in some preseason contest is bad enough. Having some dunk aficionados refer to it as the most athletic jump-over jam in basketball history is even worse enough. But the ultimate shame comes because no one bothers to remember you, the victim. And the few that do can barely pronounce your name. That’s when you get relegated to the unfortunate title of “That Guy.”

“How ‘bout the other night when that Gerald Wallace kid hurled over That Guy on the Rockets?” the typical water-cooler convo would go. “He almost cleared that big Croatian dude!” (You’re from Slovenia.) “For real, when Wallace’s hips got above that Serbian stiff’s ears I damn near coughed up my malt liquor!”

Patrick Ewing. Bob Sura. Dikembe. Kelly Tripucka. Tree friggin’ Rollins. Each and every time Jordan dunked over somebody, those left to tell the tale recall both the moments of sheer will AND MJ’s unwilling bystanders. So what’s the deal with you? Yeah, one might use the excuse that your best years were in Euroleague instead of the high-profile NCAA colleges, so you had no rep worthy of defiling. But mention Frederic Weis and what image immediately comes to mind? Or maybe they’ll argue that the dunk was a case of marginal talent over even less marginal talent, so your actual name isn’t relevant. But that assertion is flawed, too. Everybody that meets Kirk Snyder for the first time asks him about Von Wafer.

So in the collective consciousness of hoop fans known as the Posterized Hall of Shame, essentially, you were Kornel David. Except Korny didn’t have a name that looks like some Wheel of Fortune contestant’s nightmare. You were doomed to become that locker-room trivia question no one could answer.

“Yo, remember when Gerald Wallace was with the Kings and took off from one step in the lane, went all Statue of Liberty on That Turkish Dude and 360’d while clinging to the rim?” “Man, Gerald went at that Hungarian homeboy like a triple jumper at the Olympics.” “What the hell was that mofo’s name that got shat on?”… “Boston Nutbag?”… “Bozo Snackbar?”…“Bustin Noshbagel?”

You are Bostjan Nachbar. Reppin’ the hardscrabble streets of Slovenj Gradec. Your friends, both of them, and your mama call you Boki. It is now three seasons later and, frankly, you’ve had enough.

You didn’t come halfway around the globe to get shown the exits like some misguided AND1 Open Run contestant. You were not just another Eurotrash shooter with no defensive skill doomed to a short and unremarkable NBA shelf-life. Unbeknownst to all, you had patience, perseverance, heart. After a run with the Rockets and Hornets, now you’re with the Nets and have Jason Kidd droppin’ crazy dimes. And you had something no one before had ever bothered to wonder about. Mad Boosties.

It all started innocuously enough, up in Toronto in preseason. You ran a curl around rookie Garbajosa, then rose up and over the vertically-challenged Kris Humphries for the one-handed smackdown. “Are you kidding me? Bostjan Nachbar?” blurted the Raptors’ stunned announcer.

Raps fans were left scratching their domes: “Where did that come from, eh? Better yet, WHO did that come from?”

Next month, you upped the ante, losing Danny Granger on a give-and-go, grabbing a J-Kidd bounce pass, and clearing Jermaine O’Neal along the baseline on the way to the tin for the tomahawk slam.

Rookie Marcus Williams sprung from the bench. He’s seen you in practice. He heard all about your scrimmage dunks on Yao Ming back in your Houston days. He knew what was coming.

By then, Jersey fans not only started pronouncing your name right, they knew you were no fluke. But you weren’t done, by no means.

Over the next five months you would swoop in to challenge some of the most fearsome (and least suspecting) shotblockers in the game. After the All-Star break, you advanced the degree of difficulty, going from the likes of Jared Jeffries and Calvin Booth, to Tyson Chandler, Tim Duncan and Elton Brand.

You saved your Ultimate Highlight, though, for Samuel Dalembert. Apparently your posterizing exploits hadn’t made the press yet in Port-au-Prince, much less Philly. With just 5 minutes left in the game, you drive around a cement-shoed Kyle Korver on yet ANOTHER curl, and raise up like a helicopter over a stunned Dalembert, who didn’t even have time to leave his feet to challenge you.

You punch the ball through the hoop hard enough for the whole arena to hear it, then literally breakdance on Dalembert’s shoulders, pointing to teammates from the rim. Gerald Wallace-style. Eddie House celebrates before you even bring the ball down on Dalembert. He knew what was coming.

Now it’s Daly, not you, who gets his name butchered. Marv Albert exults as he unintentionally hates on the Haitian: “Oh! Soaring over Dal-umm-barr! And lands on him! Wow!”

Now you get mad love – and ink – from both sides of the Atlantic. Not only are people getting your name right, you can get rid of that ‘Boki” moniker your mama gave you, because now you’ve got fans dubbing you “The Boss,” and “The Slovenian Slammer.” The TV network regularly interrupts “Slovenian Idol” to show off your Dunk of the Night from the States. Your cellie’s blowin up these days from well-wishers, bold enough to make personal requests, especially from back home. “Yo, Boss, good luck in the playoffs, but do me a favor and throw one down over Big Z for me, will ya? I bet my buddy from Ljubljana 20 Euros you’d blast one on that lame Lithuanian.”

"People are getting spoiled," you told the local paper. "It's hard to keep everybody satisfied now that I've dunked over a couple of guys. Now before the game I'm getting calls and text messages like, 'We'll be watching you dunk on that guy.' I'm like, 'Look, take it easy!'" Sounds like a good problem to have.

You are Bostjan Nachbar. In just one unreal season, fans went from asking “Who?” to “Who’s Next?” All that’s really left to ask is, “Who’s Left?”

~iyf

Happy Trails! Pat Garrity

2008-09-13T12:10:00.003-04:00

There are two guys in particular who the Sixers' Samuel Dalembert will be happy to know have elected to depart from The League this off-season. One is to be featured in our next Crammed-On Chronicle archive from 2007, as he heads back overseas (to Moscow) to get some of that strong Euro cash.

The other is the Orlando Magic's Pat Garrity, who sat in quite a catbird seat as the treasurer for the NBA Players' Union. He retired from the NBA this week, to the amazement of many teammates who thought he stopped playing quality basketball long ago. In The League for ten uneventful seasons, including nine with the Magic, Garrity's legacy on YouTube consists of a single 30-second dunk mixtape... basically three replays of the same jam, but a good one from 2006. Opening himself up on the weakside after making a screen for the double-teamed Steve Francis, he barrels into the lane and knocks Sammy to the floor, folding him up like some cheap patio furniture as he windmills in a right-hander. Garrity's dunk elicited gasps from fans and teammates alike and was the "WTF moment" of the season. Outside of the 53 starts at small forward he had for the injury-riddled Magic in 2003, the dunk had to be the WTF moment of his career as well.

~iyf