Travel Blog - Day 12: An American in Paros

In one of the more blasphemous tracts extracted from the post-Pentagon papers of 2018, the time-traveler Oscar "Mercury" Robertson slipped this line into an analysis of the great lockout of 2011:

There is no rebirth. There is no lockout. There is no God.

Whether it's right or wrong (following Thucydides), the owners and players have more bargaining power than the fans, and so they will do what they can, as the fans suffer what we must. But I think this can give us a lens for appreciating the lockout just as we might appreciate a playoff series, as I'll try to explain.

You see...back in 2010, when the Lakers played the Celtics in the Finals, for most fans, the season was over. Either of the most banal, sketchiest contenders would prevail. And it was, as it had to be, the most cynical series that I have ever witnessed. To describe it is to encapsulate it: Kobe took over for a third quarter and left his teammates to wither and rot in the fourth quarter. Ray Allen shot seven threes in a half, but (seemingly psychologically) struggled the rest of the series and ended up right around average. Rajon Rondo probably got an obscene statline in a couple games because of a tremendous third quarter in which he was ubiquitous. The home team got a free throw disparity and won by a margin comfortably fitting this free throw disparity. Pau Gasol was and is less talented than Kobe but because he rebounded and had better percentages he probably played more effectively. When Kobe rebounded and forced his way into the lane all of this became more forgivable and his team won Game 7. Phil Jackson and Doc Rivers were calm and balanced. Kevin Garnett got beaten by Pau Gasol. Etc. Etc.

RJ Imagination Prayer

So, after that last post on RJ I only have one thing to say:

No, I don't want to be RJ. I want to be more like Tim.

Oh, imagine clever Tim making quip after keen quip as eternal as the truth, while clumsy RJ babbles the words out of bounds, ephemeral and forgotten.

Oh, imagine thoughtful Tim receiving (without asking) the best seats in the opera house for coolly expressing his opinion to an aristocrat, while dispirited RJ, obscured, sits in front of the orchestra with the rabble for his embarrassing ignorance of Puccini.

Oh, imagine workmanlike Tim running miles before dawn in the sand, while lazy RJ waits for the late alarm to engage in futile calisthenics and check out from his hotel just in time.

And imagine, finally, an exhausted RJ going home from Venice early (in defeat, upon a private jet), a baseball cap not nobly crowning but merely covering his bald, well-intentioned head with a slight sideways slant, the better to reject perfection, while persistent Tim flies the very jet, his first solo flight across the Atlantic, having recently received his pilot's license after months of diligence.

I bought in. I'm staying in Venice for as long as the itinerary says to. I'm proving through revealed preference that I want to be more like Tim, as opposed to (and specifically for the purpose of opposing) being like Rj. It's so exhilirating to buy in and--actually the itinerary says we're leaving tomorrow morning anyway never mind.

RJ Character Sketch

Day I - Venice

On the flight: Not enough legroom, overpriced airport food, mediocre airline food, not enough sleep, slept a long time when I arrived, baggage-check problems, altering my behavior under the assumption that the TSA cannot distinguish an orange from an organ. It's bad sitcom or stand-up material or Kafka. There's really not much to say. It was uncomfortable, but well within most people's tolerance for discomfort. I don't even find it entertaining but I've called this a travel blog and therefore I must share banalities. It's why the camera obscura principle was discovered, it's why Twitter exists, and it's why I'm typing these words at 0055 on a screen instead of preparing my body for another walking trek through the canal city.

After so many pieces on here in which RJ and his personality were the feature, or at least the backdrop, I think I've distilled the essence of Richard Jefferson, most derided member of the once-legendary Spurs of San Antonio. You see, I barely know a word of Italian and here I am on vacation in Italy, stumbling: stumbling even in my effusive politesse, stumbling especially in wit, without music to create or social situations to control. My strengths are not many in this country yet, like a community organizer at a rough dive or a pick-up artist at a political convention. There's upside there (a gift for language, some study tools), but the upside would come from habits I don't know that I could deliver on. Sure, there are things I can do to mitigate this stumbling in the short term, but most of them boil down to saying less, doing less, and staying along a narrow path constructed by my wisers and superiors. Similarly, being a short trip, there is no obvious benefit to a long-term plan for learning languages.

Turning this into a Travel blog.

I'm going on vacation today, and so now this will be a travel blog of my trip to Italy and Greece over the next few weeks. I will post...well, not pictures, nor journals. In fact, I think what I'll post are fictionalized basketball vignettes that name check recent events in basketball to which I will add local flavor that really will amount to setting, while seeming to have a different style than normal which will mostly be a product of learning two new languages in a touch-and-go way and internalizing authors that I normally wouldn't set aside much time for. So basically what I'm saying is that I will post more often because I will be on the road a lot and having a lot of new experiences, but what I will post will only tangentially relate to those experiences and have mostly to do with the change in habits associated with long travel periods. I will post inconsistently in time and general quality, not more so than I have in the past, but I will have the excuse of a busy itinerary in case anyone calls me out, and since you don't have my itinerary, any excuse I make will seem at least plausible and even if it seems implausible it will be functionally impossible to doubt.

--Alex

P.S. Posts I've planned:

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.