Mike Brown's Future After LeBron

Prequel is here

Mike Brown, jauntily, paces the whole of the benches of both teams. The Q is empty now, save for Brown's practiced, dangerous stomping. His skin glows and his teeth, occasionally shown in smiles and vocalized chomps, shine with layers of shoe polish. Brown is, as he puts two steps on the court to practice a shout at Mo Williams to play some defense for once, a "propah fuck-hawse", beyond the power of the rest of the universe to add or detract. As he jumps up and down because he is practicing seeing an outrageous call against his team, Brown suddenly ponders.

"Oh LeBron, whatever will the rest of the team do without you?"

Brown knows that whatever the answer is for one player, the answer will be different for another. The same is true of fans, writers, and assistant coaches. But not to Mike Brown. His answer is the absence of an answer: He will be a basket-ball coach - for ever, independent of any players that done come and gone. LeBron has left this town, and, barring a little hop that hasn't taken for him anymore, Mike Brown's coaching repertoire and his unwritten "playbook" is exactly the same for him.

"Maybe I'll take out the play where our small forward dunks from the free throw line, or the play where our small forward out-thinks the entire Boston Celtics, or the play where our small forward is better at his position than Mo Williams, at the very fucking least."

Ilgauskas on the Cusp of Something Better

Now Ilguaskas worked in the front office and as such had a wonderfully moderate salary, a rather plush Cleveland apartment that did not stray too far from the Rustic Masses, and the reputation of a solid, if clumsy and unambitious businessman. GM Danny Ferry was finally stepping down as Cavaliers GM to seek some job in European basketball. And his assistant, a middle-aged man known mostly for his persistance, would be named his replacement, presumably in the next several hours. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and any minute over the course of the day, Big Z or Mr. Ilguaskas as he was known as now, or what have you, would be named General Manager of his former franchise, the Cleveland Cavaliers of the National Basketball Association. Not to say it was official - but Mr. Ilgauskas's promotion was set in stone except for a contract. Mr. Ferry had promised him this promotion yesterday and this contract would only be the "logical conclusion of an existing fact", Danny Ferry had said. Ilgauskas sighed and opened the drapes of his apartment. "What is the logical conclusion of an existing fact?" he asked himself? Ilgauskas saw that dim shade of blood that iron can turn in the distances of Cleveland. The clock, he now noted, was eight oh five.

Some two hours after this, Mr. Ilgauskas was called into his office after a short nap of manifold little pleasant images strung together by the light of the morning and the smell of the hot coffee pot neglected in the kitchen near his sofa. Checking his hygiene and dress briefly, Ilgauskas put on a blue-and-red Cavaliers sweater and a perfunctory Indians cap and then he went out the door into the mid-morning of Cleveland in Spring, its bleak hues redundant upon his sweater. He smiled and breathed in the cool air. "Finally", he thought, "My recognition will be total and legitimate." His first title with Cleveland had been marred by a surreal trade. His franchise record for games played had been marred by a surreal benching on the very night he'd brought his family. His Lithuanian Olympics, his childhood dream, had been cut short by Ferry. But now, it was his turn to lead this organization, and there could be no doubt of the respect this position would carry. "And not too much more responsibility," he thought, "Just enough to keep me busy."

Cavs SotU

"We are strong. But we are strong because we are fast. But we are fast because we are strong. Or not. The bottom line is, I am definitely the president. I don't think we have any argument there," as President James addresses the joint session to applause.

"And Shaq is certainly the Majority. The Big Fella, half the body weight of the entire team." More applause.

"And Mike Brown is certainly the Supreme Court. His husk could move continents of garment companies, deciding who lives and who dies - a sort of Solomon ruling with terrifying wisdom." More applause.

"And Mo Williams is a child. He is a child." Mo looks offended, and all eyes turn to him, no one saying anything. "No, I don't mean like immature. I mean he looks like a child. It's not a bad thing, Mo. You are a fine point guard. You are...just fine, Mo, the way you are. But you are a child." Less applause, still some enthusiasm. Mo is heard to mouth, "Not true" but the incident passes.

"Big Z is surely our working class. He gets angry and populist, and falls down sometimes and we laugh at him, but we all know, without the working class we are nothing, or would want to be after losing him. Let's hear it for Big Z." Reluctant applause as Z stands up clumsily.

David Robinson's Spectacular Vacation

I first met Tim well before he entered the league. I met him when Wake Forest was still a nightmare of responsibility ahead of him. Haha. The year was 1991, and I had planned a summer trip to Cancun, but the plane decided we would go to the U.S. Virgin Islands instead. I decided this is where I would stay for the duration. But when I called to cancel my reservations in Cancun, the hotel would not hear of it. You see, the owners of my favorite Cancun hotel knew and respected me, so before long a room was flown into my new vacation spot.

So I went to the mini-bar and poured myself a moderate amount of Disney Gin and placed the rest of the bottle in the cupboard. It had a moderate amount of alcohol, but I am large and I was barely intoxicated. Also it was Disney Gin. I looked for a court so that I could play a pick-up game against some locals. The rules would be: 2v1 and I had to shoot outside shots. I walked along the beach in Christiantown, the most wholesome town in the world.

Anyway, after awhile I found a court, but it was empty. I smiled with opportunity. I love getting young people involved in basketball. I knocked on every door for a mile with a smile. Finally I gave up. Then I saw this scrappy kid on the court a mile away. I ran to catch up with him to teach him some fundamentals. I ran so fast. At that time I ran a five-minute mile, but at the three-minute mark I hit a street light, and, jogging in place, I waited for the lights to change. While I was waiting, I saw a child taller than the first child enter the arena. That child had no follow-through. I was like that screaming painting, you know the one, while watching him try to hit a futile outside shot. Then a third child entered and had terrible post moves. He was posting up on the others but they were able to take the ball from him before he could move. And they didn't even have any defensive skills. No, kids!

The Death of Sean Elliott

At his mansion in San Antonio, Elliott was practicing with his All-Star Barbershop Quartet - consisting of, from chirping soprano down to heavy bass, Elliott himself, Stephon Marbury, Shaq, and Dikembe Mutumbo. Right when we were dropping in on them, the quartet was practicing an arranged version of a gospel standard - "The Green Leaves of Summer" from the 1960 film "The Alamo". Its melody was a plaintive aria and Elliott went an octave above the others in order to explore the standard's expressive lyrics:

'Twas so good to be young then, to be close to the earth,
Now the green leaves of Summer are callin' me home.


Their version was haunting and somber. After it was finished, Elliott taught the others how to sound like an ambulance siren. For six hours in a row they all learned how to sound like ambulance sirens. After these six hours there was still, to be charitable, quite a lot of progress to be made on all three fronts. With Dikembe, probably the best image to take is of the Jaws theme being sung by the shark itself. Marbury's alarm, strangely, sounded rather like a wounded lark singing the aforementioned standard. Shaq's alarm, to the amusement of all, sounded exactly like the atrocious blend of happy hardcore and double barbershop that passed for modern music these days. Truly a man of his times, whatever those times may be.

Three Dreams of Sean Elliott

Sean Elliott awoke in his house in the middle of the night. He had dreamt of his funeral.

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As per his will, Elliott was to be buried in seemingly random coordinates. The grave was to have latitude exactly halfway between the longitudes of Elliott's mother and wife's graves, and also to have longitude exactly halfway between the longitudes of David Robinson and Avery Johnson's graves.

This "grave-site" ended up being right in the middle of the Great Salt Lake in Utah, and of course he could not be buried there. So Sean Elliott was cremated - the thought among the mourners being that his ashes would be spread exactly on the desired point, carried by a boat. But enduring the harsh January in a boat would be somewhat rough, even over saltwater, So the mourners again compromised a bit, and instead of mixing Elliott's ashes with the lake at the coordinates from his will, the mourners baked Sean Elliott's ashes in a (my sources tell me) very tasty rye bread and served it to various birds that passed by on the San Antonio sidewalk where they were gathered. At these birds the mourners laughed and laughed, for the birds' various chirpings reminded them of the deceased. An aging Tim Duncan even gave a particularly chirpy bird a friendly shove - the call-back was at once virtuous and ridiculous, not to mention fitting. The joke was well-received by the mourners.

===

Now Sean Elliott was awake and immediately said aloud, "What an absurd dream that was," speaking in a voice perfectly fitting the sentence. "Bill will love this." Elliott was not concerned about the image of his corpse and ashes - he knew that dreams were not representative of reality. Their only function, really, was to serve as a conversation piece, he supposed.

Mike Brown and Mike Woodson Talk Shop

I was reading SLAM tonight, and I came across the following passage, in which Hawks coach Mike Woodson addresses his team before an important Mavs road game:

“...I don’t give a shit about the offense; you guys can score more than enough points to win games. The offense isn’t the problem. But you have to get stops on defense, and if you’ll listen to what we’re telling you, I promise you’ll get stops. The shit works, okay? The shit works, but you guys just have to have the pride and the heart to buy into it and do what we’re asking you to do every time down the court.”

Reading this reminded me of a little-known incident a few years back. Almost immediately after the 2009 Finals, Milwaukee small forward Richard Jefferson was being scouted for a possible trade to either the Cavs or the Hawks. Jefferson therefore had to make two private appointments with the head coaches of those teams, Mike Brown and Mike Woodson.

Concerns for the complex and heavy schedules of all three men led Jefferson to suggest instead that he meet with both coaches simultaneously. Jefferson supposed that they could meet up in a practice facility for his demonstration, after which they would all get some dinner and discuss where he could fit into their respective teams. This suggestion was well-received by both Woodson and Brown, and so the only remaining unknown was the location. Jefferson said it would be a little questionable to meet up in a Bucks' facility for a demonstration that could very well send him packing, so he suggested they all meet instead in San Antonio at the Spurs' practice facility. After all, Brown had served under Spurs coach Gregg Popovich there, and Woodson had served under the legendary Larry Brown, Popovich's mentor. This seemed reasonable enough for all parties, and it was settled. The plane tickets were bought.

Richard Jefferson Handles a Midseason Interview

Interviewer: Hello Richard, how are you today?

Richard Jefferson: I'm feeling pretty good. The team is doing great, too, and, you know, that always helps!

I: Richard, how about a firsthand perspective. Could you talk about Manu's recent surge?

RJ: Manu's been, you know, really great these last few games. Tim Duncan sort of looks more like an anchor, physically, but Manu is just as much of an anchor. A light, fast anchor that moves violently under the ship, even hitting the ship and smashing the hull sometimes. But he boosts our morale in a big way. Manu is just an incredible morale-booster.

I: Yeah, I can see what you mean. He really turns those disappointing quarters into stellar ones.

RJ: Heh, just like Tim Duncan with our whole franchise here.

Four-Children

Were some of you there when the four-children began to be born in 2100? Do you know what I mean? Those four-of-a-kind babes, born simultaneously from the same mother, fused together in body, and inseparable even in mind? Do you remember their post-natal wails as they tried to adjust to their personal society? Oh my God! Do you remember? Does any among you remember? Because no one else seems to remember and I don't know why - it's like the twelve-hour dreams of endless sterile beaches that appear to me, those days when the water can only ebb from me. Oh well, I'll try to tell you if only for my sake.

You know, we didn't really have the words to describe their physiology then and I don't think we do today. Where to start: Neither technically human nor a collective of humans? Both and neither? Either and or? E tetribus unum? E uno tetres? Anyway, whatever you thought of them, those children definitely had four emergent, interdependent minds and never quite spoke in a single voice. The two brain "hemispheres" of the four-children would beat to four different drums, so to speak, and four distinct sections could be isolated as containing one of them. The sections could be separated without *any* physical harm to any of the four sides - though of course something was lost with the disconnection, as it always is, and it turns out that any such separation (unlike with your standard human) utterly and permanently destroys the psychologies of all four identities. Those were sick experiments, but we just had to know what was going on, and that gave us a little better picture.