Cam Newton is smart/dumb as a __________ ?

Possible moron Cam Newton with Commish

“You make the mistake to judge a man by his race, you go through life with egg on your face.” ~ three enlightened white guys

OH SNAP!

Yes, this post is about the intelligence of presumptive overall No. 1 NFL Draft pick Cameron Newton, the reigning Heisman Trophy winner and speaker of sentences as: “Our method is ‘simplistic equals fast.’”

Uh oh.

On Tuesday night I threw out a little tester on Twitter, something to the effect of: Saying Cam Newton is dumb as a rock doesn’t make you a racist, it makes you right.

Granted, this wasn’t the most prudent thing to toss off in a permanent log of Congressionally archived record. And, in fact, I really have no idea how intelligent Newton is or what exactly constitutes an intelligent person to begin. My friend Nancy once defined genius, a few drinks in, as the ability to make connections between seemingly disparate thought patterns. Or something to that effect. I don’t really remember.

ANYWAYS, somebody called me out for my tester tweet. He was pissed. And he was – predictably – black. He said the IQ debate surrounding Cam Cam is “classically racist.” Maybe it is. I don’t know.

I do know that if I was basing the long-term trajectory of my franchise (ahem, Carolina Panthers) on a series of interviews and media clips, I’d be scared shitless at the prospect of drafting a guy who cannot describe – as Jon Gruden prompted him to in a feature for ESPN – a single play in basic NFL terminology.

This was not an isolated incident, but does it prove Newton a moron? No. Maybe he’s just not comfortable with the media. Maybe facing a barrage of mics every time he steps out the front door makes him uneasy. As it would make me uneasy. As it would make you uneasy. Maybe Newton has been coached up by all the wrong people, or maybe the media coaching just makes him sound media coached – like a football fan who came to football after the fact, and doesn’t have that innate “I grew up in this” edge.

Maybe Cam conducts quantum physics experiments in a homemade lab behind his house in his spare time. I don’t know. That’s not the point.

The point is this: the question does not seem to be over whether or not Newton is intelligent in the same way Troy Aikman or Tom Brady or Donovan McNabb or Peyton Manning are intelligent. In the end, the only thing that matters is his on-field success.

The relevant question, instead, seems to be whether it’s socially acceptable to question Cam’s intelligence in the first place. So here’s my I-hope-rhetorical retort: would it be better to make said query totally off limits because he’s not white?

Hell no! That strikes me as just as overtly patronizing and downright r-word as the pre-Doug Williams idiocy of “he can’t lead a team. he’s black.”

I’m not going to name a bunch of African American geniuses for you… because that’d be condescending and disparaging. (Note to reader: if anybody ever accuses you of bigotry, rattling off a list of your black friends is not a solid line of defense). Skin plays no part in intelligence. Obviously. Education, money, background, lineage, etc. – these things ultimately influence how you’ll hold up to the incessant grilling of Camp Chucky. Any suggestion to the contrary is terribly ignorant.

So I wouldn’t hire Cam Newton. Not as the face of my franchise. Not to paint my house. But I think a lot of people are dipshits – Cliff Stearns, Andrew Clay, Gary Busey, white guys, black guys, blue guys. The problem is not the measuring of intelligence – it’s the pulling of punches.

Because the punches pulled hurt the most.

Life Lessons From Ozzie Guillen

Communication Specialist Ozzie Guillen

I think I’ve made my disdain for professional baseball pretty clear. I’m over it. These staunch sentiments do not, however, apply to Ozzie Guillen, who I’m convinced is the David Dunn to my Mr. Glass.

The ChiSox manager is vulgar. He is unfiltered. He is abrasive. You could not take him to a family gathering without permanently ostracizing your poor Aunt Edna.

But Ozzie Guillen says what he means, dammit. And he says exactly what he means. There’s no guesswork. There’s no pussyfooting. There’s no sidestepping the truth or anxiety over where you rank. Ozzie Guillen is a British foofighter and bullshit is his natzees.

Sure, he’s not the most tactful human being on earth – a rusty steel pipe thinks this dude’s blunt – but he’s a direct communicator, and you will never in a million in years have to worry about your standing in his personal doghouse. He throws his players under the bus, but not for errors – for lack of hustle. He chaps his owners’ asses and keeps White Sox GM Ken Williams up at night waiting for that pending “Ozzie just told the Trib that Star Player X is a bleeping mother bleeper who should stick his bleep up his sister’s bleep.”

But this is better than the alternative: PC jitterbugging and muted ambiguity.

In a recent ESPN E:60 piece, Jeremy Schapp asked Guillen in front of his wife – in the family kitchen – if his spouse had changed in the three decades they’d been married.

Boobs, hair, he responds.

I love this man. Obviously. And I love him because A) he doesn’t fit and B) he doesn’t care about A. Guillen once fired his own son from the White Sox organization. He called former ESPN personality Jay Mariotti the “F” word in a heated exchange, then proceeded to explain to Schapp it was “the best thing he said about him all night. I wish I could’ve said how I really felt.”

For the slur, Major League Baseball sent Guillen to probably-deserved anger management courses where he promptly turned to counseling the anger manager. This is, of course, great stuff, but what gives it all backbone – instead of making the man out a hotheaded egomaniac – is that he backs it up with wins.

Ozzie Guillen, as evidenced by the World Series ring on his left hand, is really freakin good at what he does. He talks the talk (with a megaphone and three Fender amps). But he sure as hell walks the walk.

So I want to be more like this guy. I don’t want to guess. I don’t want to make others guess. I don’t want to dodge people’s fragile toes or have them worry about stepping on mine. I’m so over it – all this BS, tepid tinkerbell talk, game playing, politics and on and on. I feel like we’re all just living a Zep song – communication breakdown, it’s always the same.

So bring it. Whatever you got, bring it. Whatever’s on your mind. Whatever’s on your heart. Whatever’s in your soul. This will be good for us. From now on, I’m a disciple of Ozzie Guillen.

So This Is The Definition of Greatness

Brandon Roy, Portland Trailblazers

Yes and you don’t even have to ask. I am taking FULL credit for Saturday’s transcendent resurrection of Brandon Roy and Sunday’s I-don’t-need-two-healthy-knees-to-be-the-best-player-on-the-floor-I’m-Chris-F*cking-Paul 27/13/15 evisceration of the defending champs.

Greatest. Reverse jinx. Ever.

I stand by every word I wrote – Chris Paul will never possess the pure talent he did as a 23-year-old. You can see it in the way he comes off of screens, like a Hall of Fame running back fresh off a torn ACL. He cuts gingerly – or, at least, more gingerly than before – never planting with the full force of either side. Even in Paul’s best moment Sunday, a gritty bumrush of the lane with 10 seconds left in a tie game, he could not shake a hobbled Kobe, instead hanging in the air the extra millisecond needed to find a cutting Jarret Jack for a shot clock-beating 10-foot fadeaway.

It should be clear to you as it’s clear to me New Orleans has no business tying this series. A cursory glance at their roster says as much – as much being, “this team, minus David West, should not have made the playoffs in the first place.” There is no amount of Carl Landry that can compete with half of Pau Gasol. There are not enough Js in Jarrett Jack to justify Jarrett Jack jacking Js.

And yet, there is Paul, making this lopsided-on-paper series into an Apocalypse Now-worthy ambush of the presumptive Western Conference champions. Somewhere, there’s a rolodex of cliches describing such phenomena: Paul “wanting it more”/Paul “getting by on guts”/ Paul as “the crafty veteran”/ Paul “willing his team to victory.”

I think all apply. I think these things define greatness. I think they are intangible, but they are real. I think Chris Paul does in fact want it more, just as Brandon Roy’s Willis-Reed-Ain’t-Got-Nothing-On-Me 8-of-10 shooting performance in the fourth quarter of Saturday’s shoulda-been blowout was the culmination of a host of conspiratorial emotional sequences preparing Roy for this singular moment of perfection.

As you long know by now, he scored 18 of 24 points in the final 12 minutes, igniting one of the greatest playoff comebacks of all-time and lighting Twitter afire in the process. This is significant because A) a performance of the sort could’ve presumably only been accomplished by the Brandon Roy of 13 months ago and B) Roy’s 8-minute botchjob (zeroes across the box score) less than a week ago nearly reduced him to tears.

You’ve seen Disney movies with fewer goosebumps moments. You’ve seen miracles that felt less like destiny. Roy, degenerative knee injury and all, took a season’s worth of swirling negativity, the barbs of an entire basketball-watching nation, and his own paper-thin psyche and funneled them into this:

“I am going to do something special tonight. No one – no one - will f*cking stop me.”

This heart of a champion thing? It’s real. And to deny it would be like denying the wind or the ozone layer or other things you can’t see but know for damn sure exist. No amount of fast-twitch muscle and hard work could’ve hatched game 4′s final dizzyingly electric 12 minutes.

Eight of 10 is not luck. It is pride.

So Brandon Roy, like Chris Paul, might still be good. He might not. But he will always, forever, be great. Greatness is being able to go above and beyond what the constraints of athletic prowess allow. Chris Paul is great. Tiger Woods is great. Kerri Strug is great. Brandon Roy is great.

After moving the Oregonian earth with jump shots, the Portland guard told reporters, “I’ve been in some pretty good zones before, but nothing like tonight.” Couldn’t have said it better, Mr. Roy. Nothing ever again like tonight.

Alt Superheroes? WTF?

Screen capture courtesy of Altsuperheroes.tumblr.com

So I talked to the writer who does Alt Superheroes today. Wasn’t what I was expecting, really. I mean… I guess you just have this preconception of bloggers as thirtysomething business school dropouts who “never got to explore their creative sides.” But this kid seemed pretty put together. Good looking guy, too. Solid tan. Good hair – he thinks thinning a little bit, but good.

Seemed pretty well rounded to me – likes sports a little, Pearl Jam a little, Alexis Krauss a lot. But for now, he’s pretty focused on this “alternative superheroes” meme, and by “pretty focused,” I mean, “goofing around on the weekends”. It’s a pretty neat little blog – not particularly original (this ‘alt’ ship has sailed, you know?), but pretty neat. From what I gather, it’s more of just a straight entertainment site, and I think it’s a safe bet he’s getting more entertainment out of it than the actual readers.

It’s not for everyone, that’s for sure. I’ve kinda dabbled in the whole Hipsterrunoff-lite pseudo poetry stuff here, but I know that probably turns off a lot of readers who’re just here for smartass analysis of Hawks-Magic, or something of the sort. Alt Superheroes makes me laugh, but what do I know, you know? I mean, I f*cking loved the third Keane record! The third Keane record! That thing got crushed!

ANYWAYS, short description for those of you inclined to juvenile sensibilities, talk of indie rock, and funny (and stolen) pictures of superheroes spanning the ages: … ha! I guess that’s kind of the description. But whatever. You might like it. You might not. You might think the only two sites worth your while are Sports Casualties and Kylerancourt.com. And to that I say, good on ya mate!

So yeah, this Alt Superheroes thing could last for a day, or a week, a year, a lifetime. It could be huge. It could be a disaster. The author – I mean, if you can call him an “author” – really didn’t seem to have a good bearing on the whole Tumblr phenomenon or, for that matter, a sense of where he thought this nascent little site would go. It sounds to me like he got the idea in a bar on Saturday night, went live on Sunday morning, and then basically thought up all the current material laying poolside that day. Like I said, kid’s got a tan on him, but this thing could literally cease to exist come Wednesday. Wouldn’t surprise me at all.

For now, it might be something to check out. In its current form, you can knock out the entire site in about three minutes, give or take three minutes if you’re high and/or drunk. And again, the guy running it seemed like a pretty cool cat. A little quirky – like he’s constantly wired on caffeine or something – but clever, too, when he’s not prattling on about his favorite bands and whatnot.

I’m gonna link this thing in the blogroll for the time being. If you see it listed, it means this guy’s still updating the site. I’ll yank the URL as soon as he flakes out. Should be in short order. But for now it’s up, and approved for consumption. I think it’s funny, but it’s a certain kind of funny. Give it a try if you’d like, but be forewarned. Not for everyone. Not safe for work. And not particularly world changing. But then, I like Keane. I mean, freakin’ Keane! So what do I know?

Why You Should Feel For Chris Paul

The slow beginnings of a long end.

Through a series of mitigating circumstances (okay, fine: “open clubs”), I was not able to watch Friday night’s game between the Los Angeles Lakers and the New Orleans Hornets. I typically try to avoid SportsCenter as I know it’s been eating away at my brain cells in the same way sucking nitrous would, which is to say, SportsCenter is good clean fun… making me dumber.

But since NBATV’s pumping reruns of “The Association” – or, as its more commonly known “Close Up of Ray Allen’s Abs” – I have no other option but to go to ESPN.com and knock out one of those 90-second Jalen Rose-assisted SportsCenter packages for actual live-game action.

This strategy turned out to be the highlight of my morning. Obviously. I mean, don’t get me wrong – ESPN “analysis” might as well be Black Death as far as I’m concerned, but the combination of back-slapping male camaraderie, fast-paced Hi-Def edits, and inadvertent hilarity feels like a drunken night on the town less the tab and the hangover.

I start laughing when Jalen uncorks his first punchline of the night: “Michael Jordan was the original… But Kobe Bryant is the (*gears up for best auto-tune miming delivery*) re-REMIX!” Queue Kobe dunk.

You need to know this: I have a mancrush on Jalen – he makes me laugh, he hates Duke, he likes to drink, he’s black. I’m sure we’d get along in real life. At one point – again, this is a 90-second clip, so the “hard-hitting” “journalism’s” coming fast and furious – Jalen narrates a shot of a crumbling Andrew Bynum with, “If you’re a Lakers fan, that’s the last thing you want to see.”

Now I’m rolling on the floor thinking of all the things I’d like less to see if I was indeed a Laker fan. The obvious: Kobe sustaining the same injury. The not so obvious: Lamar Odom metamorphosing into the guitarist from Extreme. Phil Jackson shooting Derek Fisher in the kneecap, then flashing a Crips sign to the camera. Poisonous toads falling from the sky a la Magnolia. Mexican terrorists igniting a giant vat of purple and gold slime courtside. Chris Angel. All these things would be worse than Andrew Bynum’s twisted knee.

Bff Jalen

So I’m dying. But a glimpse of CP3 always sobers me up. Last night he scored 22 points on 9 of 13 shooting in a third consecutive “vintage” Chris Paul performance. Per usual, he was methodical and efficient, if not explosive (though Fisher’s “uncle”-saying ankles might convince you otherwise). And when his team didn’t have much of a chance on Friday – let’s be real, this series is over – the ultimate failings of New Orleans are certainly no part of Chris Paul’s.

Anyways, to reign in a spiel that’s already been long hijacked by the comedic stylings of Mr. Rose, I’m going to give you this point of opinionated fact: Chris Paul cannot live with himself right now, but it’s not the losing or supreme mediocrity of his supporting cast that’s ripping away at his soul.

That would be last February’s knee injury.

I’ve thought about this a lot because I feel like the two of us have had a similar life trajectory, and by “have had a similar life trajectory”, I of course mean “we’re both males in our mid-20s.” And… that’s all.

But I imagine Chris Paul is also a perfectionist and one, at that, who makes a living from skill (as opposed to service, for instance). My number one greatest fear in life is the onset of permanent writers’ block. True story. Even more than death, the prospect of losing the ability to fully pursue that which gives you pride and, to a lesser extent, value keeps me up at night, usually with a notepad bedside.

Hell, I’m not even particularly good at what I do – not compared to Chris Paul – and, still, I can’t imagine having to wake up every morning with full knowledge whatever I do going forward will not be quite up to the standards of what I’ve done in the past.

This is the plight of every great athlete. Eventually. At some point. Chris Paul, days short of 26 and irrespective of what lying stats may suggest, is painfully past his prime. Barring some kind of semi-miraculous recovery of that bum left knee, he will never again perform to the level of his nascent, 23-year-old self. Not athletically, anyway. Perhaps with brains and guile, but not with body.

Now this isn’t to say Chris Paul derives all of his personal worth from basketball, though I assume – since he’s one of the 20 most talented humans on earth at such things  - this is a reasonable approximation of the case. So he’s going to have to deal with decline – every single morning when he looks in the mirror or turns on SportsCenter, he’s going to see decline.

You can be reasonably assured that Chris Paul, for all the fame, money and legacy, lives, at twenty-five, a haunted existed. So, too, does Brandon Roy, who multiple knee surgeries ago, seemed destined for similar NBA glories. After Portland’s game 2 loss to Dallas in which the former star spent eight pointless minutes withering away before your eyes, Roy admitted to fighting back tears on the bench when his coach sat him for the ho-hum likes of Rudy Fernandez and Patty Mills.

“There was a point in the first half when I was thinking, ‘You better not cry,’” Roy said after the game. “I mean, there was a moment when I felt really sorry for myself.” To this, some will call him a baby, or another spoiled athlete, or go to great lengths to embarrass a twentysomething, 4-year college graduate whilst pointing uppishly to the world’s greater ills. But I really feel for Brandon Roy. Crying, to me, seems like a perfectly reasonable response.

- Robbie

Chillin in the laundromat, yall.

U know u’ve had a good week when yr doin laundry on a Thursday.

Means u need to wash yr clothes because you’ve

‘killed it’

‘crushed it’

‘hit it hard’

‘did that shit good’

4 so many consecutive days.

When yr in the laundromat on a Thursday,

its not a sign that u ‘have a limited wardrobe’

but that u live an ‘epic lifestyle’,

so epic that u have 2 wash yr clothes every week

even though u have between 7-10 pairs of ‘go 2′ jeans

and another 3 to 4 pairs that ‘make yr ass look big’

but u wear them anyway because ‘nobody will notice’

That’s a lot of clothes for 1 week, yall.

But it’s a sign yr ‘doing well 4 yrself’ -

a symbol that u are

‘uncontainable’

‘uncontrollable’

‘unstoppable’

at this nightlife thing.

2 pairs of jeans per night?

that’s a sick ratio, yall.

means u do the party ‘after the party’

after the party.

‘curfew’ is a word that has no meaning.

‘sunlight’ is just a metaphor 2 u.

‘darkness’ is 4eva.

u ‘go hard’ all. the. time.

guys ‘want 2 b u’.

girls want 2 ‘have yr lil alt baby’

everywhere u r is

where the ‘action’ is.

u r a human buzzmaker.

u r buzz personified.

if buzz was blood/skin/bones/denim

that shit would look like u -

rocking sunglasses after dark,

in da club, in da VIP section,

roped off 4 u and yr entourage.

Money is no object 2 u.

Credit card debt is a ‘figure of speech’.

u’ll ‘check yr statement’ when yr dead.

U make it rain with ‘cold hard cash’.

Droppin jacksons.

Buyin goose.

takin shots

takin names

takin numbers.

taking more shots.

throwin’ up in yr mouth a little

but ‘sucking it down’

like a real man.

u sleep during the day,

yr wave is ‘nocturnawave’

they call u the ‘human owl’.

u live 4 2night

and ’2night’ is everynight.

lookout, yall.

coming thru.

make way.

yr at the doorstep.

at the bar.

rollin in2 town.

‘goin all out’.

just as soon as these clothes dry.

A Thursday At The ATL

Well this sure came a lot faster than I’d anticipated.

On Thursday, my 10-year-old golden retriever Allie died.

Nah, not really. I’m talking about my last Gainesville-stationed night at The Atlantic, that bulwark of hipster chic, glittery bros, Alexis Krauss lookalikes and humans after all.

Unlike The Top, which I’ve frequented – occasionally against my will – roughly 37 straight Thursdays in a row (and have grown to hate or love/hate – but always partially hate – depending on my mood), The ATL’s been something of a white unicorntard this semester both because of its line-induced elusiveness and its penchant for, um, single-pieced bodysuits.

So I don’t make it across the street as often as I’d like to in these waning days of youth, but just the prospect of a Doowhatchyalike jam adds a little jolt of awesome to the rest of the evening’s oft-inebriated festivities. The Atlantic is the ace of spades (to drop a song that would never, ever get requested… unless it was remixed by Robyn) up the night’s sleeve: the wildcard, the afterburner, the hole of sweaty groove, bump ‘n grind, dancing yrself clean.

I’m gonna miss this place a lot, just as I’ll kinda sorta miss the rest of Gainesville – home for four shitty years and two pretty great ones. There will be other “nightspots” in my future (South Beach FTW), but none with more likable DJs, or a better hipster-to-human ratio, or dankier bathrooms, or free-er beer.

On a Thursday night, every girl is Karen O, every song is “Reptilia”, every cigarette is Virginia Slim, every mustache is ironic, and all the Ammy Appy (RIP) is tight as shit.

This is how it should be, ya know? No school, no jobs, no homework – unless it’s Daft Punk.

Daft Punk – Da Funk

Title or Tease: A Tale of Two Teams

"Maybe next year, sprout"

I’d like to start by telling Philip Kates to stuff it. I don’t want to hear your non-stop stream of grating chatter. I will not answer your heckling phone calls at 12:53 in the morning. You are insufferable: in your John-Starks-except-white line of steady trash talk, your denial of common sense, and somehow – against all logic – your unfailing accuracy.

Philip Kates, my best friend and basketball nemesis, is always right.

I speak, of course, of the series of annual, NBA-related bets we make in late October – the same ones that inevitably come back to bite me in the ass in the form of A) Manu Ginobili’s fractured extremities B) Gloria James’ appetite for Delonte West C) a total failure of world order or D) a combination of A, B and C.

Last year, I picked the Cavs to win the title. As I did the year before. And the year before that. PK picks the team that wins. His formula seems to be “watch Heat all year + scream at TV + talk shit + ignore rest of league + bet on contender whose pending title would infuriate me the most”.

Said equation is full-proof, as it’s prevailed over the likes of analysis/reason/common knowledge for five years running. I pay out the ass every June. This is our tradition.

Anyway, to make a long story shorter than it’d be if I kept bitterly bitching, I picked the Celtics and Lakers preseason to play for the title. I added the Bulls a week ago. PK, a self-admitted homer whose teams prevail whenever my disdain for them reaches an irrational threshold for hatred, tapped the Heat – just the Heat – in October, and then smartly picked up the Thunder and, just to spite me, the Spurs pre-playoffs.

Needless to say, I’m off to a start that would make envious only a one-legged marathoner. And Kobe Bryant. And Tim Duncan.

Still, I’m not here to launch a reverse jinx, but instead to compare the starts of two teams seemingly on a collision course for the Eastern Conference Finals. One will presumably deal the final blow to a reeling Celtics squad. The other will cost me 50 dollars cash and my dignity.

Chicago, I fear, is the latter: a should-be juggernaut undercutting its potential with careless mistakes, sloppy ball-handling and, most startlingly, an unwillingness to respond to a swift kick in the ass (see: Game 2 vs. Indiana). After exploding out of the gate (like a gimpy gelding with a 300-pound jockey) in an amped United Center, the Bulls followed game 1′s tepid groping with an equally flat, come-from-behind victory very much in need of future MVP Derrick Rose’s 36-point performance.

The Bulls committed 22 turnovers, managed a combined 5 of 23 shooting between Luol Deng and Joakim Noah and, in general, played to the level of their relatively inept opponent. They also won, no small feat for a team with a playoff series victory since the departure of one Air Jordan.

Because I’m a self-loathing optimist, I’ll present the alternative viewpoint to the random Chicagoan’s “we’re seriously f*cked” stance, which is this: the Bulls haven’t played sloppily because they’re overly hyped or nervous – as young teams with expectations are wont to do. Instead, they’ve sucked because they’re bored. Like a loaded defending champion might against a 37-win team with limited offensive potential.

This is a dangerous kind of arrogance – ’cause you can get burned – but it is an arrogance nonetheless. Chicago, now the hunted, has shown another gear (that of The Rose), stepping on the pedal at will when need be.

Which brings me to the Miami Heat and LeBron James’ personal crusade on my heathen soul. The James Gang has pounded the most overachieving team in the league not with a compensatory three-on-five offensive barrage, but with clampdown D and a this-is-what-I-do display of nonchalant brilliance from the best player in the universe.

Mario Chalmers.

Nah, just kidding. D-Wade’s the one with the ring, but it’s his superior teammate who’s so far set the no-nonsense tone in Miami’s first two games. Sure, the Heat sauntered to a leisurely Saturday afternoon start, but unlike their Eastern Conference foes, they responded to a game one scare by jacking up the intensity and ending Monday’s contest early despite a sickly Wade.

Said Sixers coach Doug Collins of an opponent that’s now won 17 of 20, “If they are playing on top of their game, they are a better team.”

Thanks, Doug.

I’m heartened by the fact Collins’ group of hapless hustlers is amongst the most nondescript, offensively anemic playoff teams of all-time. I’m also holding tight to the time-tested theory three guys alone does not a champion make. Then again, I’ve long been of the opinion Joel “I Give White Players Hope” Anthony, the Heat’s block-handed center, is the worst big man in basketball.

To this, Chris Bosh, perhaps feeling the high of four straight double-doubles, countered: “He’s awesome.”

Awesome? Well shit.

Goodbye, UF

goodbye, pretty lil’ part of campus

goodbye, j-school nudes

goodbye, turlington phallus

goodbye, french fries

goodbye, Westie

goodbye, Weezy

goodbye, invasive species

goodbye, scandal

goodbye, ‘highbrow street art’

goodbye, ‘lowbrow street art’

goodbye, poster people

goodbye, heat exhaustion

goodbye, free cookies/testing

goodbye, slovenly bro i’m ‘stalking’

goodbye, sustainability

goodbye, Bryan Holt monument

goodbye, murphree with two ‘e’s/fact error

goodbye, Twitter collection

goodbye, satan <3

goodbye, Library East

goodbye, perf spring wardrobe

goodbye, canoodling Vespas

goodbye, homosexual truck

goodbye, non-denominational, non-affiliated, totes agnostic, we’re-not-trying-to-force-this-on-you place of worship

goodbye, breakfast/lunch

goodbye, puns

goodybe, constipated books

goodbye, fountain we turn on once a year to impress parents

goodbye, money well spent

goodbye, ‘lil krishna hiding in the bushies

goodbye, u tease

goodbye, future

goodbye, large black man

goodbye, ‘tmi’

goodbye, ‘lil gay broskee

goodbye, lowering standards

goodbye, red flag to architecture students

goodbye, bike-on-bike violence

goodbye, steady stream of 18-year-olds

goodbye, healthy alternatives

goodbye, bold fashion statements

goodbye, liberals

i will miss u all. <3 u guys.

luvs 4 eva

Rose Above

Bull Run

Derrick Rose is not perfect, I don’t think. He can’t shoot from outside particularly well, as evidenced by Saturday’s 0 for 7 on non-desperation three point attempts. He occasionally turns the ball over as product of seeing plays develop more quickly than his lesser-reflexed teammates. He does not take the ball to the basket on every possession, which – if I was directing Chicago’s late-game offense (i.e. The Clear Out For Rose) – I’d force under threat of benching.

He is only 6-foot-3 and he is only, in his third year, the second best player in league. So Derrick Rose is not perfect.

But when God said, I will make a point guard in my likeness, he was thinking of Bull #1. If you’ve not seen him in action, you are A) probably among those who’ve written off Chicago as an inexperienced pretender and B) dumb.

At the risk of sounding like ESPN’s over-caffeinated, under-IQed color man Jon Barry (who, bless his bald dome, could keep neither his overreaching cliches in check nor describe, as he’s paid to do, what he was seeing with his own eyes), Rose looked in game 1 against Indiana not unlike an evolutionary prototype of every great small guard who’d immediately preceded him.

He is Allen Iverson (but taller), Dwyane Wade (except tougher) and Chris Paul (though he can jump through the roof). Perhaps the most obvious – and accurate – comparison is Wade, who, five years ago against Dallas, did to a woulda-been champion what Rose did on Saturday to Indiana. Granted, these are the 37-win Pacers, but the opponent’s record makes Rose’s display of acrobatic reimagination no less impressive.

Basketball players are basketball players. Among them, Rose was something else.

It is fair to take the Bulls to task for allowing a one/eight so much suspense in the first place – the Pacers, despite their rare brush with competence, had little business sneaking up on an opponent 25 wins their superior. With due respect to Tyler Hansbrough’s 22-point assertion that white men can jump, thank you very much… this shouldn’t have been a game.

Do, however, consider the terms of Rose’s 39-point performance. For the first time since the passing of a six-time champion, his franchise carries the weight of postseason expectations. He is the presumptive league MVP in a city with one playoff series victory in 13 years. Scottie Pippen sits courtside calling color. The specter of the greatest of all-time hangs over 23,000 as both proud legacy and constricting benchmark.

United they stand

In this atmosphere, Rose did not flinch, compensating for the woes of Plan B, Carlos Boozer (4 of 11 FG), with an array of spectacular one-on-two challenges of the painted area, ‘Nique-like leaping and a series of split-second, ballet-worthy spin moves that play-by-play man Dan Schulman described accurately as in need of slow motion replay to full understand.

Rose plays like a lit fuse – ready to explode at a moment’s notice with a bafflingly fluid show of footwork, an ankle-crippling dribble or, most emphatically, a two-footed launch skyward. The man-child has springs in his legs. He’s a lockdown defender when he so chooses. He runs a fastbreak like lubed lighting. He owns the demeanor of a comatose Ben Stein until challenged. He is, in a word, unflappable.

Rose led Chicago on a 16-1 run down the stretch, erasing a 10-point deficit with 3:28 left and taking the foul line frequently to hardly-premature chants of “M-V-P”. He finished with 19 made free throws, the most in a playoff game in 8 years, and – drawing a double team – found Kyle Korver for a game-sealing three with 48 seconds left.

Rose is young but he is not too young. And while the likes of Miami and – well – Miami waits patiently for its pieces to congeal and its ranks to form, the Chicago Bulls sit poised with a single transcendent talent to topple a dynasty before the crown even reaches South Beach.

He said after the game his team, inexperienced, wasn’t prepared for the Indiana onslaught. To this, some will say “next year.” But spend a full 48 minutes with Rose – watch the things he alone can do – and it’s hard to deny this particular 22-year-old is right now, as Jon Barry might say, in full bloom.

- Robbie