Having made this 11th addition to my Stromile Swift jersey collection I got to thinking, how many styles am I missing? During his NBA career Swift wore 16 different styles including six home-and-away combinations, two alternates, and a Houston Rockets throwback style as well as a "Los Suns" jersey for Latin Nights in Phoenix. These 16 styles are as follows:
White Vancouver
Black Vancouver
White Memphis ('01-'03)
Black Memphis
Blue Memphis('04-present)
White Memphis ('04-present)
White Rockets
Red Rockets
Rockets Throwback
White Nets
Blue Nets
Red Nets
White Suns
Orange Suns
Purple Suns
Los Suns
I've got all the highlighted jerseys, meaning I'm 9/17 overall and 6/17 on game-worn jerseys. So the way I see it I'm shooting 53 percent from the floor and 35 percent from deep. That's way better than Kobe Bryant and everyone keeps comparing him to Michael Jordan. So I feel pretty good.
As heavy rains fall from the Nor'Easter that has set in over my home in coastal Maine, I'm not sure what excites me more: that it's warm enough to not be a blizzard outside, or that a package containing fifty-some-odd cards to add to my Stromile Swift collection arrived. Probably the lack of snow, honestly, but let's talk about the cards.
Many of these fifty or so cards were purchased as components of various lots, so a good portion represent doubles in my collection. But I was able to checkmark several fresh boxes on my checklist including a few 1/1s. The following cards are the highlights of the shipment.
Here we have Stromile's 2000/01 Upper Deck Slam rookie card. I like that the card features Swift in his draft day suit because he's always been such a stylish cat. Even fans on NBA.com, who never vote for any non-superstar for anything ever, acknowledged Stromile's swaggerishness by voting him best dressed for the week of November 22, 2005. I also like that the card is printed on clear plastic instead of cardboard. To hold it and look at it is pretty fun, sort of like when you're a kid and you press the flashlight against your palm to see the outline of your hand bones. I have several other clear cards in my NBA collection including the blog's namesake, DerMarr Johnson, but this is the ultimate. Numbered /25.
Here's a beautiful card that my scanner makes look totally average. Please observe this much nicer image from the EBay auction. It's Stromile's 2000/01 Fleer Showcase rookie card, the Masterpiece 1/1 version. Unfortunately it cost $92 plus shipping, and that makes it the third most expensive 2.5-inch-by-3.5-inch piece of cardstock that I own. But I suppose it's not so bad. Earlier this week an EBay auction for a Kobe Bryant 1/1 ended at nearly $5,000. I feel sorry for the winner of that auction. Sure, he's wealthy enough to blow five stacks on a basketball card and that's grand, but his hero is a humongous asshole with a butterfly tattoo, and this is what invariably becomes of people who worship humongous assholes with butterfly tattoos.
Moving along, we transition from third most expensive to second most expensive. So here (at left) is my $95 2006/07 Topps Chrome Superfractor, 1/1. I really, really wish it was his 2004/05 Topps Chrome Superfractor. For that card I would sell my soul to the devil, or possibly even take back what I just wrote about Kobe Bryant in the presence of the dingleberry from the Youtube video. Anyhow, this card only excites me because it's a 1/1, a Superfractor. But it's the first and only Superfractor in my collection so I'm glad I won the auction.
Next we have what appears to be an error card (top right). I think it's supposed to be Stromile's 2001/02 Flair base card (bottom right), but only the silver portion of the image got printed. The image on the backside is normal, but there appears to be another error as well: the card is a couple centimeters taller than it should be. So while it's obviously nothing to look at, this is a unique addition to my collection.
Finally, here are a couple of oddball cards. I think I recall these being given away by the Grizzlies several years ago. I guess they're pretty rare since I had never seen them up for sale, but the real reason I love these cards is the imagery.
The top card is from 2007/08 and features a classic media day pose. For the player to simply stand there holding the ball with a scowl on his face, it seems rather unimaginative, but I tend to favor cards with that sort of photo. To show the face up close allows the card to take on the personality of the player.
The bottom card is awesome because the photo is from the Tony Barone era. For those without a PHD in Memphis Grizzlies basketball, the Tony Barone era took place in 2006/07 after Mike Fratello got shitcanned. The youthful Grizzlies had become despondent under Fratello, a disciplinarian who implemented a very stringent system. By the time Fratello got fired he'd become so grouchy that headbands were banned.
So the struggling Grizzlies replaced the Czar with Tony Barone and his run-and-gun free-for-all of a system. For about two weeks the Grizz played extremely inspired and much improved basketball. Many members of the team, including Stromile, celebrated the end of the headband ban by accessorizing from head to toe. Eventually, of course, the sudden blast of enthusiasm fizzled and Stro and the Grizzlies got back to losing. But those first couple weeks were nothing less than epic. The back of this card actually points to the pinnacle of the Barone era, a game against Golden State that the Grizzlies won 144-135 in regulation. Mike Miller drained 9 threes, Matt Barnes made 7, and Stro came off the bench to post 26/9 with 4 blocks and 3 steals. If ever you stumble upon a TV channel dedicated to broadcasting this game 24/7 365 all that means is I'm a billionaire.
With these acquisitions I now count 360 of a possible 624 cards. Fifty-eight percent down, 42 percent to go.
My Thanksgiving was every bit as uneventful as I had hoped it would be. After sleeping in until noon or so, I spent the majority of the day and night browsing Youtube. I began by reviewing a few of my favorite Kenyon Martin clips, and later moved on to several of Amare Stoudemire's greatest scoring performances. Finally, I happened upon the following highlight reel featuring Quincy Acy. I'm not exactly sure why I clicked on it, but I'm glad I did.
Whoa. I LOVE how this guy dunks!
My brother is a frequent Youtube surfer and fellow slam dunking enthusiast (and a powerful dunker in his own right). So I asked him about Acy. "Yup, I've seen that video many times. With him, it's never a weak dunk."
Based on the highlight reel I'd say my brother hit the nail on the head. Regardless of what stands between him and the hoop, even if it's nothing, Acy attacks the tin with a combination of anger and enthusiasm somewhat reminiscent of the great Shawn Kemp. He attempts to tear down the stanchion at every opportunity. And like a great jump shooter, Acy is always sure to follow through. His tendency to scream, hang, and flex take his dunks to a higher level of excitement.
Just look at that titanic sledgehammer at 1:04. It's downright violent.
Today, November 21st, is Stromile Swift's birthday (35). Today I received 21 Stromile Swift cards in the mail. Proof of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe? Maybe not, but a fun coincidence nonetheless.
Pictured above are 5 of the 21 cards from today's haul. The printing plate at the bottom left is my sixth 1/1 and the champion of the lot. The others are serial numbered /10, /10, /25, and... well, actually, the one at the top right isn't serial numbered at all, but I like the way it looks.
This delivery boosts my card count to 333, or roughly 53 percent of the checklist.
I've neglected recently to post updates on the riveting tale that is my quest to own every piece of Stromile Swift memorabilia in the known universe. Tonight I felt like writing something and even felt motivated enough to clean out my scanner (although, as you might have noticed, some gunk remains; I did a half-assed job). So here I am with an update!
Since I last posted about the collection I've acquired over fifty cards. The majority have come courtesy of the seller I've mentioned in past posts who used to rival me in Stromile Swift card collecting but gave up because I am unrivalable. Pictured above are six of the most notable cards of the bunch.
The top row is all printing plates, 1/1. The printing plate in the upper left was used in production of Stromile's '05/06 Topps card, which by default is an all-time favorite of mine because it features the pinnacle of the Stro Show, the epic two-handed nuclear blast on top of Yao Ming. I also like how they attached a normal card back to the metal plate to dress it up a little bit.
In the second row, the card to the left is numbered /192 and also features former DPOY and GOAT backhand high-fiver, Marcus Camby (and Kurt Thomas!). Again, the card is numbered /192, but I've been collecting Stromile Swift cards for 10 years and I'd never seen the thing, so it seems rarer than that.
In the bottom row center is a relatively rare version (/99) of Stro's '04/05 Topps Chrome card. With the acquisition of this card I completed that particular "set" (gold border, x-fractor, black border, refractor, base) with the exception of 1/1s, which I have never actually seen for sale. The '04/05 Topps Chrome is one of the prettiest Stro cards in terms of finished appearance. The angular design and trademark media day "don't fuck with me" pose give it a menacing look that I enjoy.
In the bottom right is a card with Kwame Brown on it, which probably makes you laugh. But you should stop laughing because it's a 1/1 and Kwame Brown is an underrated post defender who once threw Boris Diaw on the floor (if you watched the video, it's okay to laugh now; the video is quite funny). I don't like Boris Diaw, and you shouldn't either, so this is a nice basketball card.
Recent acquisitions put my total Stro Show card count at roughly 325, which is a little over 50% of the checklist. So I'm halfway there, except I'm really not, because some douchewad outbid me on a 1/1. If you're reading this, douchewad, you're a douchewad. Like, you know how people speak rhetorically about taking candy from babies? Well you probably actually take candy from babies just like you took that card from me, because you are that huge of a douchewad, douchewad.
I often wonder why I remember what I remember. Many events I remember so vividly and recall so frequently seem so arbitrary. This mystery applies to all aspects of my existence, but it might be most common that I consider it in terms of basketball. Why do I remember this play and not that play?Why do I remember this game and not that game?
Several weeks ago, I sat on my stool at my job renting motel units. It's the sort of job that allows the mind to wander, as long periods of time sometimes pass with little activity (then, following an hour of nothingness, at precisely the same moment, five parties arrive to check in, the phone rings, the WIFI stops working, and a television loses half its channels. But I digress...). As my mind proceeded to wander, a visual of the following slam dunk appeared in my head.
Why?
Of all the events in my lifetime, why is this one of the relative few that I can remember with such lucid specificity? Why can I remember where I was and at what time of day Tyrus Thomas dunked a basketball over Josh Smith on April 1st, 2007? Why can't I remember anything else about April 1st, 2007? Surely something of more significance than a Tyrus Thomas slam dunk must have happened either to or around me that day.
And yet, all I can recall is as follows: Tyrus sticking the landing. Dick Bavetta catching feelings. Pac Man unis. Johnny "Red" Kerr. The way it felt to be struck by the warm afternoon sunlight shining through a basement window in Massachusetts as I stared at a monitor broadcasting visuals from Georgia. To be immersed in these visuals yet cognizant of immediate sensations. To feel the effects of several unrelated stimuli combining to form one unique experience. To be aware of all that is coming together to produce this pleasant moment in my lifetime.
So I think I just figured out why I remember the occasion on which Tyrus Thomas dunked on Josh Smith. I think I remember it as one contributory element to a larger memory, which is also comprised of many additional elements with no direct relation to any slam dunk. According to theoretical physicist Michio Kaku, author of the fascinating text The Future of the Mind, this is basically the way that long-term memory works: different components of a complete recollection are stored in different cortices of the brain. For example, emotional memories are stored in the amygdala, whereas visual information is kept in the occipital lobe. Therefore, when a recollection is made, information must be drawn from all over the brain. The hippocampus sorts it all out.
But if Tyrus Thomas hadn't dunked on Josh Smith, would I continue to have access to this particular recollection of April 1st, 2007? How big a role does Thomas's dunk play in my ability to recall the feeling I felt that day? (For that matter, had there been no spectacular dunk, would I have even felt the same feeling at all?) How crucial is my ability to access this particular visual information stored in the occipital lobe to my ability to access accompanying emotional information stored in the amygdala?
Just how substantial is this dunk for me in terms of the role it plays in my ability to comprehend a certain emotional state of mind I associate with this particular recollection?
I am determined to uncover the answer, and I will share with you my attempt to do so. The following are my findings, stemming from online research which began with a Google search for "emotional memory" (refined search term: "autobiographical memory").
Autobiographical memory consists of episodes recollected from an individual's life. It is a combination of episodic and semantic memory, which means, essentially, that one's knowledge of self is rooted in his or her retained experiences and general knowledge of the world.
"Autobiographical memory is of fundamental significance for the self, for emotions, and for the experience of personhood, that is, for the experience of enduring as an individual, in a culture, over time," says Martin A. Conway of the University of Bristol. "Nearly all researchers in this area consider there to be an important
and strong relation between the self and autobiographical memory...Robinson proposed that autobiographical memories were a 'resource' of the self that could be used to sustain or change aspects
of the self. Indeed, memories have been found to be closely related to
aspects of personality....In short, there appears to be a consensus that
autobiographical memory and the self are very closely related, even,
according to some theorists, intrinsically related so that
autobiographical memory is a part the self."
In other words, autobiographical memory is extremely important. The very basis for how we perceive our own existence, even. The aforementioned Michio Kaku maintains a comparable position but puts it in terms of consciousness. "Human consciousness is a specific form of consciousness that creates a model of the world and then simulates it in time, by evaluating the past to simulate the future," writes Kaku.
Our long-term, autobiographical memory may very well be what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. But what exactly is autobiographical memory, beyond a collection of episodes recollected from one's life?
According to Conway, the knowledge store that generates autobiographical memory may be differentiated into three levels: lifetime periods, general events, and event-specific knowledge. Aha! Now I feel like I'm getting somewhere. In order to determine what sort of role Tyrus Thomas's dunk on Josh Smith plays in my autobiographical memory, I must first determine which of the three levels the memory fits into.
A lifetime period is exactly what it seems: a lifetime period. Lifetime periods are a kind of composite memory comprised of general feelings experienced during a distinguishable stage of one's lifetime. Lifetime periods typically span months or years and can be defined by a theme. For example, "when I was a freshman in college."
General events can be effectively described as abbreviated lifetime periods. A general event might take place over hours, days, or weeks, and can be categorized under its overriding lifetime period. For example, "finals week during my freshman year of college."
Finally, event-specific knowledge normally consists of memories which contain a substantial amount of information and can be put into context, but with time intervals of just seconds or minutes. In event-specific knowledge, a feeling may be linked to a single event.
I believe my recollection of Tyrus Thomas's dunk on Josh Smith is, first and foremost, an example of event-specific knowledge. It is a memory which contains a substantial amount of information, and I am easily able to put it into context. Its time interval is a matter of seconds, and it is a single event to which I link a feeling.
But the memory as a whole goes beyond the details. The general event would be the basketball game between the Chicago Bulls and the Atlanta Hawks, from which I can recall additional details. For example, I remember the style of sneakers Tyrus wore in the game, and that he had at least two other dunks. I remember that the Hawks wore their throwback uniforms and that I recorded pieces of the game with my digital video recorder.
The dunk fits into a lifetime period, too: my senior year of high school, during which I spent the majority of my time studying NBA basketball. I generally associate this lifetime period with feelings of contentment, satisfaction, and even enchantment. NBA basketball was at that point an utterly fascinating source of a delightful feeling which I have been unable to achieve since. It has become quite obvious to me that this is why I'm so drawn to discussing events and collecting items from that time period.
Of a memory very similar in structure to mine described here, Conway said, "this pattern of interlinked autobiographical knowledge constructed into a memory is highly characteristic (if not defining) of the recall of specific autobiographical memories that never seem to be solely of only one type of knowledge. Instead, ESK details are contextualized within a general event that in turn is associated with one or more lifetime periods that locate the more specific knowledge within an individual's autobiographical memory as a whole."
Okay, so I remember Tyrus Thomas's dunk on Josh Smith because:
It's a component of a greater recollection which I am able to access from several starting points.
I am readily able to contextualize it into a general event and a lifetime period.
But have I answered my primary question? Do I have any further understanding of what role this dunk plays in my autobiographical memory? Is it as important as it feels?
Well, it's pretty clear that this dunk represents some of the most enduring event-specific knowledge that ties into arguably my most fascinating lifetime period (fascinating to myself, at least), and the lifetime period I most often revisit via recollection. I have other event-specific knowledge from the period, but most things get pretty fuzzy upon trying to break them down beyond the general event. For example, I remember Kobe Bryant's streak of four consecutive 50+ point games from the same season as the slam dunk in question. But I can't really place any specific bucket of Kobe's into one of the games from the streak. I have no event-specific knowledge from the streak.
So now I am led to wonder, how important is the role of event-specific knowledge in autobiographical memory? Herein lies the answer to my ultimate question.
Conway proposes that access to event-specific knowledge is crucial in the process of retrieval.
"Activation spreading from an item of ESK activates a single general event that in turn activates a single lifetime period forming a focused and stable representation, and all that is then required is a linking of this pattern to the goal structure of the working self and a memory will be formed," he writes.
Activation can begin at the levels of lifetime periods and general events, too. But the trouble with activation at these levels is that knowledge held at these levels tends to be intertwined; in other words (Conway's words), "the spread of activation at these levels is diffuse. Knowledge held at
the level of lifetime periods can access many different general events,
and knowledge held in general events can access many associated general
events, a lifetime period, and many records of ESK. In this case then,
without the coordinating influence of a retrieval model in generative
retrieval mode, a focused and stable pattern of activation will not
coalesce within autobiographical knowledge structures, and there is no
potential for very rapid memory formation without additional processing."
Without event-specific knowledge, memories are not focused. I believe this lack of focus can be demonstrated by my aforementioned memory of Kobe Bryant's streak of 50-point games, from which I have no event-specific knowledge. When I think of Kobe's streak, I can't place it in a specific season or time of year. I can't recall where I sat as I watched it unfold or at what time of day any of the games were played. I can't recall what the weather was like, or what sneakers he wore, or any of the games' venues, or how the whole ordeal made me feel (beyond that, obviously, it was amazing; but amazing is an extremely vague term with broad applications).
As a matter of fact, the only shred of event-specific knowledge I thought I might have had from Kobe's streak does not align with the facts. I thought that during the streak, in the game at Memphis, Kobe had smashed a thunderous dunk on Eddie Jones. But Eddie Jones had been traded from Memphis to Miami by then, so that's impossible. Furthermore, I had thought this dunk on Eddie Jones had followed a monstrous Stromile Swift rejection. But Stromile Swift didn't even record a block in that game. Clearly, a lack of event-specific knowledge has caused my memory of Kobe's streak to overlap with other Kobe memories, effectively destroying my ability to accurately recall the streak and how it made me feel.
In the absence of event-specific knowledge, different lifetime periods and general events overlap, generating muddled recollections produced by the wrong mixture of information. Memories activated from levels above event-specific knowledge are simply not as accurate. Therefore, for the accurate understanding of one's own being -- this understanding being so tightly linked to autobiographical memory -- event-specific knowledge is crucial.
I have reached my conclusion: Tyrus Thomas's dunk on Josh Smith is critical to my understanding of my own being because it represents event-specific knowledge that allows me to accurately access and assess a multitude of general events, all the way up to one important lifetime period. Tyrus Thomas's dunk on Josh Smith, as event-specific knowledge, is literally a constituent of my being, as understood by both myself and others. This is true because, beyond what goes on within the self, autobiographical knowledge is tied to present emotions, goals, and working memory -- all factors which influence our actions. As Conway puts it, "the goals of the working self are constrained or grounded in autobiographical memory. The autobiographical knowledge base limits the range and types of goals that a healthy individual can realistically hold."
This, my friends, is utterly fascinating. Something that happened in an NBA basketball game has, very extensively and over a relatively long period of time, contributed to my becoming of the person I am today. Assuming you're a hardcore basketball enthusiast, a comparable NBA event has likely impacted you in a similar way. I encourage you to ponder what event that might be.
For years I have emphasized the formative role NBA basketball has played in my life. I've long considered it a crucial factor in my development. But this discovery that a single play, one slam dunk from 2007, has been so important... to me, it's mind-blowing. But apparently my subconscious was able to process all this a long time ago, considering I purchased the following in 2009:
Every offseason the NBA makes changes, and every offseason I expect to feel a greater emotional detachment from the league as it becomes less and less my ideal NBA, which is basically just the NBA of my youth.
This offseason, for example, the league moved Jerry West to the back of the uniform. Presumably, this adjustment was made in order to clear real estate for advertisement patches in future seasons. Of course, the decision to relocate Jerry will ultimately have no effect whatsoever on the game itself. Not even the dreaded advertisements will. But when it comes to the basketball jersey, I'm a traditionalist. I want to see mesh, scoop-neck collars, multicolored piping, and Jerry on the left-hand shoulder. Anything else is like wearing a Hawaiian shirt to the board meeting; it's just not appropriate.
So this is the type of incremental change that, piled on top of countless similar changes that have been made over time, leaves me expecting that, at some point, the NBA will be like that long lost friend I'll fail to even recognize when I bump into him at the gas station in twenty-five years. I picture a future in which all jerseys have sleeves covered with corporate sponsorships, every player is a dweeb who arrives to the game dressed as a baked potato, and the season is not the same arbitrary number of games long as it always has been. I feel nauseated, and I imagine I'll just stop watching.
But then the new season begins, and I watch a game. At first, I think about the changes. I see Jerry West on Paul Pierce's back, and Paul Pierce is on the Wizards, and the Wizards are dressed like the Bullets. I flip over to Memphis and Vince Carter is on the Grizzlies, and he's getting his shot attempt squashed at the rim by someone who should not be able to squash the Vince Carter that I know and love's shot at the rim. Things just aren't the same, I think to myself, and I wonder how I will ever adjust.
But then I flip over to Charlotte. There, I see the greatest mascot in the history of major American sports, Hugo the Hornet, jogging across a honeycomb floor. Then I see Lance Stephenson, outfitted in teal, posterize Larry Sanders. Suddenly, I feel a vicarious adrenaline rush, and I realize... it's the same feeling from years past, and oh, how I missed that feeling.
In the acquisition post for my Ben Coates jersey, I explained my fondness for the New England Patriots. I don't consider myself a Patriots fan, but my mom certainly is, and some of my warmest childhood memories stem from watching Patriots games with her. For this reason, nostalgia often strikes me in conjunction with the Patriots. Similarly, I maintain a sentimental interest in the Green Bay Packers, because the Packers are my dad's favorite sports team.
Sterling Sharpe played seven NFL seasons, all for the Packers. Twice, he led the league in receiving touchdowns; thrice, in receptions. Unfortunately, his career came to its premature conclusion in 1994 as the result of a neck injury. He was just 29 years old, and it is for this reason that he was not a member of the Packers' 1996 Super Bowl squad.
This jersey is vintage '90s -- heat pressed numbers and letters, made by Starter, complete with the 75th Anniversary patch. A wonderful addition to my modest NFL collection.
From the same seller off of whom I purchased the previous lot, this assortment of Stro Show cardboard arrived in the mail yesterday.
Noteworthy about this lot is that it contains the first and only 1/1 in my Swift collection. The 1/1 is the metallic-y looking one, a printing plate used in the production of Stro's '04/05 Bazooka card. I prefer regular, serial numbered 1/1 cards to printing plates, but to finally knock a 1/1 off the checklist is exciting. Plus, I suppose, printing plates are actually one-of-a-kind, whereas 1/1 cards are just an alternate version of a base card with a serial number on it.
Additionally, this lot contains a card numbered /5 (silver autograph), one numbered /15 (exquisite jersey/auto), and another numbered /35 ("significant numbers"). This particular exquisite card has always been a favorite design of mine, and I believe /15 is the rarest and the prettiest version.
Turns out there's another Stromile Swift card collector on this planet. Well, actually, I should say there was another. He's in the process of selling his collection, so it's just me now. Pictured above are the first five auctions' worth of cards I've obtained from this former collector.
My favorite from these 12 cards is the one on which Stromile shares real estate with Tarence Kinsey, especially the one with the gold trim and lettering. That one is rare -- serial numbered out of 50 -- and it has also got a zigzaggy, multicolor, multilayer piece of Stromile's jersey on it. I'm a total nerd, so such things excite me. But the real reason I made this post is to speak briefly on Tarence Kinsey.
Kinsey's NBA career was basically a 59-game cup of coffee with the Memphis Grizzlies around 2007, which means I witnessed almost every minute of it. From time to time, I still consider how impressive he was. He was skinny but athletic and assertive, and an asset on defense. He could be described as everyone's favorite basketball player adjective, long, and he had a stoic composure about him that exuded confidence. He also had a cool chin beard and just generally seemed like a likeable fellow. The Grizzlies' redneck commentators loved him. Especially the time he hammered a real banger on Andrei Kirilenko.
Actually those are Utah's commentators. See, they were impressed, too.
Kinsey, in 20 MPG over 49 games, averaged a respectable 7.7 PPG on 46% from the floor in '06/07. Then he appeared in just 11 games the next season, rode the bench in Cleveland for a minute, and was off to Europe. I'm not sure whether he chose for monetary reasons to leave for Europe or was simply unable to catch on with another NBA squad, but I felt he was plenty good enough to make it in the league. Kinsey's '06/07 PER (I never cite PER because I think it's pretty stupid, but for the sake of comparison, I'm kind of stuck with it) was 13, which is better than many of his peers who have played around a decade in the NBA, such as JJ Redick, Mickael Pietrus, Carlos Delfino, John Salmons, and Marvin Williams.
Kinsey could ball, man, and I'm glad they put him on a Stromile Swift basketball card.
#10: Gucci Mane La Flare, I'm the fucking boss. I pull my pistol out to get my point across.
No trap rap tune/compilation of trap rap tunes has truly begun until a declarative statement of boss status has been made and a pistol has been pulled out. This list will be no different. #9: No shirt in Miami ridin' on a scooter, I'm wrastlin' with the work you can call me Lex Luger.
Gucci Mane eatin', and he ain't ashamed. And when it comes to that work, he's got his competition against the ropes.
#8: Haters keep on mumblin' but Gucci I'm not fumblin', fell back down got up again, I excel 'cause I'm excellent.
Excellence in some things is simply inherent. Gucci Mane knows this, along with the fact that he's that dude, so he keeps his rhyme simple, stupid.
#7: So much cash pants like Hammer Pants.
Big Gucci has guap, and there ain't no gotdam't way it's fitting into some skinny jeans.
#6: Make a lot of money that's the way that I maneuver, Gucci Mane the shit bitch, yeah, I'm the manure.
Take notes, Lil Wayne.
#5: And I know two Jews, eat a case like it's fast food.
Gucci treats the courtroom like he treats a number three with a coke.
#4: Bitches say that I'm just [inaudible], I told her her trash another bitch treasure.
I can't entirely make out what Gucci professes here, but the point is that he knows how to keep them bitches moving.
#3: You know I sell dope in my sleep but I don't sleep.
Gucci don't fuck with the cousin of death, but if he did, he'd sell him some dope.
#2: Too many Lambos in the parking lot they threw me out the subdivision.
Gucci Mane got stupid cake, and, apparently, the absolute most extreme white people problem.
#1: Gucci pull up paddle shiftin' on 'em Pole Position.
The order to create Legomile Swift was placed months and months and months ago. I had completely forgotten about him. Apparently the EBay seller had some difficulties with his account at the time, and he lost a lot of information relating to certain orders. That's why Legomile Swift just arrived today. For the inconvenience, the seller also included Legobe Bryant, who can be seen in the background.
I'm glad the EBay seller went through with the order despite whatever difficulties had taken place and all the time that had passed. It's nice to know that there are still some people out there who actually care about doing what they say they'll do. That's not to mention that it was simply a pleasant surprise to receive Legomile Swift on this Friday. When I saw the package, I thought he was a textbook. So that was awesome.
Legomile Swift looks much, much cooler in person. He sports his signature headband, elbow sleeve, and he even has tattoos. Even the box is highly detailed. Probably the only way this could get any cooler would be if Legomile Swift's arms and hands could be configured into a "Stro Show" signal.
On a semi-related note, I think it might be time I invest in a half decent camera. It's making me super frustrated that I can't share with all three of my readers Legomile Swift in all his glory.
For the same reason I wanted to buy this, my coworker wanted to sell it.
I like Bill Walton -- who doesn't -- but I'm not so big a fan of his that I would normally purchase his autograph. His playing career was long before my time, and as much as I've enjoyed his distinctive broadcasting work, I don't really collect commentators' signatures. Plus, Walton is a Hall of Famer, an all-time great; my collection tends to celebrate those players of lesser accomplishment, maybe like Bill's son, Luke (except Luke never could run, or jump, or dribble, or do anything else remotely interesting, so no).
Rick Pitino became head coach of the Celtics when I was about nine years old. He was the first in a short string of coaches who looked peculiarly similar the team's mascot, and he led the likes of Antoine Walker, Mark Blount, Walter McCarty, Kenny Anderson, and a young Paul Pierce to three and a half losing seasons. Tough times for Celtics diehards.
Although I grew up in the greater Boston area, I am certainly not a Celtics diehard. If I had a favorite team when I was young it was the Blazers or the 76ers, but that's only because I was so fond of 'Sheed and AI. So I suppose that's why I have warm and fuzzy memories of the Pitino era in Boston. I didn't give a crap that they were losing, I just enjoyed the team for what it was.
The team, for what it was, was totally dysfunctional and kind of hilarious. Antoine Walker and his tippy-toe threes were the focal point of the offense (and All-Star Weekend). Walter McCarty and his threes were the focal point of Tommy Heinsohn. Mark Blount and his remarkable laziness were the focal point of my father's curse words. Through the eyes of an indifferent 10-year-old, it was a great deal of fun.
Bill Walton's signature came to be on Rick Pitino's face roughly 15 years ago, when my coworker ventured to Boston to get a firsthand look at the future, a rookie by the name of Pierce. But neither Walton nor Pierce would be the most iconic Celtic in the building that night, as Larry Bird was on hand to coach the opposing Indiana Pacers. For the sake of making this story as awesome as possible, I'm going to say the game in question is the one in which Pierce and the great Vitaly Potapenko combined for 56 points... although, admittedly, it just as easily could've been the one in which they combined for less than half that many.
But this program, I feel, encapsulates Celtics history in a way that is not often presented... in a more complete way, I would say.
Bill Walton's signature represents the most successful of times past, the aura of legend and historical greatness that surrounds the franchise. Simultaneously, Rick Pitino's likeness reminds us that the Celtic timeline consists of more than just Bill Russell, Larry Bird, victory cigars, and O'Brien Trophies. It reminds us that, for the better part of the past three decades, it has been forgotten periods of strife, swept aside by a brief renaissance, that have dominated the record.
So I enjoy this item because it has, and also tells, an entire story. I can look at Bill Walton's signature and appreciate the greatness of Boston basketball, and I can look through the signature to Rick Pitino's face and cherish the memories of my youth -- my precious youth, which, unfortunately, like Bird and McHale and Parrish, is not walking through that door.
Greetings, internet! As you might've noticed, I haven't done much writing lately. Actually, that's not true at all... I've scribbled enough characters this summer to compose three or four novels. I just haven't done much blogging. To the readers who enjoy this blog, I apologize for that.
I've had an eventful summer. Over the past three months, I've literally done more socializing than I had in the five, maybe even ten years prior. People who know me would be shocked to learn that I recently drank my first beer, and have since had a handful more (note that this handful has been consumed one at a time, spaced out by at least 24 hours). I've got a full-time job and a part-time job. I was enrolled in two summer courses, and I'm taking six more this fall. I still play pickup basketball from time to time. People contact me and ask me to do stuff; sometimes multiple people at the same time, even. Shockingly (to me, at least), such frequent exposure to idle chitchat, loud noises, terrible music, and relatively large crowds has not destroyed me.
Basically, I don't think I've ever been so busy with non-independent/basketball endeavors in all my life. Whether or not that's a good thing, I've yet to decide.
Despite that I've been so busy, I have not ceased to kill time, wherever I can find time to kill. At my office job, I've spent hours upon hours doodling -- mostly little pictures for my coworkers, but more recently, NBA subject matter.
Here are a couple samples.
YAOCH!
K-MART
I loved to draw when I was a young. I used to draw skateboarders, mostly. It's been fun doing something similar at this stage in my life. I never thought I'd start drawing again in any capacity, and, although I realize these doodles aren't exactly masterpieces, I've been pleased with the results. Not that the results matter -- I'm just having fun with it.
Before I loved basketball, I loved football. I'm not sure whether it was my mom (lifelong Patriots fan), dad (lifelong Packers fan), or NFL Quarterback Club for Nintendo 64 that turned me on to the sport, but I was enthralled, particularly by dazzling athletes and showmen like Deion Sanders and Randy Moss. More of a spectator than a participant, I was never fit to take part in any youth leagues; I was so small in comparison to my peers that my parents didn't dare let me try. I loved to play two-hand touch in the schoolyard, though, and my dad and I were always tossing a ball.
The first time I ever played touch football was during recess in the first grade. I was new to the school, and I can't recall how I became involved in the game. I do recall that, over the course of that recess, I caught three touchdown passes from a third-grade 49ers fan named Ricky. Ricky always played quarterback and essentially ran the schoolyard; he didn't know my name, but after I sprinted down the sideline for my third touchdown, he congratulated me and exclaimed, "this kid knows how to play football!" This happened roughly twenty years ago, yet it remains one of the most vivid memories of all my life, and probably the first time I can recall experiencing pride.
Indeed, football is a prominent theme throughout my memories of early life. In one of my fondest recollections, I enjoyed a grilled cheese sandwich and cucumber slices as I sat with my mom in her rocking chair and watched the Patriots defeat a foe. The simplest happiness still emanates from my memory of this tender experience, and for this reason I will always associate a certain warmth with the New England Patriots. The jersey of Ben Coates, one of the greatest Patriots of my childhood, is an item which takes me back. Recently, I was able to pick one up for the reasonable price of $46.
I presume that most would agree with the common sentiment that money can't buy happiness. However, when I take time to contemplate the impact of certain material things on my state of mind, I begin to view this matter in a different light. Take my purchase of this Ben Coates jersey, for example. The process of bidding on, paying for, and receiving, in addition to wearing it has naturally inspired my mind to consider one of the happiest memories of my life. The recollection of this memory proceeds to bring on some varying degree of the pleasant emotion I felt way back when I was five, contributing a dose of enthusiasm to my general state of mind.
Money, of course, did not buy the memory that produces the pleasant emotion that makes me feel more content; but money most certainly did buy the jersey, which serves to stimulate the memory that produces the pleasant feeling that makes me feel more content. Thus, in a sense, the $46 I spent on my Ben Coates jersey bought me additional arbitrary access to a little piece of renewable happiness. I believe the arbitrary aspect is important because, sure, I could spend all day every day deliberately reminiscing about this memory, but I find that doing so doesn't produce the same sensation as randomly looking down at my shirt while I'm eating dinner and suddenly becoming immersed in sentimental feelings.
I've always been the type to spend my spare change on tangible goods rather than experiences; note that this blog is all about my collection of things. Yet I don't feel I'm a stereotypical materialistic individual, nor do I feel this tendency of mine to want things is detrimental. This is because the things I want tend to be those which I feel will, usually by association with some aspect of memory or culture, help me achieve a more desired state of mind or expression, which in turn contributes to my contentment throughout the everyday experiences that constitute my existence. I don't desire to travel to exotic locations or attend live events; rather, I find the most enjoyment in simple experiences, so I seek that which might add to these simple experiences.
When it comes to waiting for packages, I'm usually pretty laid back... but I must've checked the tracking on this one seventy-five times. I was super excited about it because a game-used warmup represents something entirely new in my Stromile Swift collection. It's a size 3XL length +2, which basically makes it a Nets Snuggie for any normal sized person. I'm 5'8" and it falls a little past my knees.
The New Jersey Nets grey and red alternates are two of my favorite jerseys from my favorite decade. Although I still don't own a grey one, I am pleased to add this red Stro Show gamer to my collection. I bought it for a really good price from a former Nets season ticket holder who got it directly from the Nets. A year or so ago I purchased a blank version of this jersey with the intent to customize it, but I never got around to it. Therefore, this pickup represents an entirely new style being added to my Swift repertoire. It is my tenth Swift authentic and fifth Swift gamer.
Craig Sager, Walt Frazier, and The Dos Equis Man have all contacted Michael Beasley to find out where he got this camo suit. Me? I'm just waiting it out, keeping my eyes on the prize until the next Michael Beasley estate sale. I'll show up a week early with a tent and some pop tarts like it's a camp out for some Air Jordans.
In the wake of the San Antonio Spurs game-one defeat of the Miami Heat -- a spirited contest in which three-pointers were drained at a 46-percent clip, the third oldest active NBA player did this, and all-time great Tim Duncan performed legendarily -- the leading story in sports is a faulty air conditioner.
Athletes, for the most part, are coming to the defense of LeBron James. Isiah Thomas, who famously played on a severely sprained ankle in the Finals, stated that not he, Michael Jordan, nor any other athlete could've completed the game. This is not to mention the unfortunate fact of science that LeBron's build, with all his lean muscle mass, on top of the added heat from an AC malfunction, leaves him prone to severe cramping.
However, despite such expert testimony and medical logic, Lebron is taking yet another internet beating. That fans (of the 29 non-Heat NBA teams especially) are behaving like the idiots they are is no surprise to anyone, and I'm not going to waste your or my valuable time explaining why it is stupid to compare a leg cramp to the stomach flu. But I would like to take a moment to express my disappointment in various professionals, including journalists and corporate publicists charged with a higher level of integrity.
Let us begin with Michelle Beadle, an ESPN personality whose name you might recognize from the television program Sports Nation. Beadle this morning cracked a Midol joke on Twitter, then proceeded ironically to lament misogyny. Certainly I'm not too rigid to absorb a little humor -- everything funny must come at someone's expense -- but one would expect Beadle, in her role of professional female reporter, to refrain from using sexism to diminish an athlete's toughness. And if Beadle wants to take it there, one might diminish her own accomplishments in a similar manner -- for example, one might say she's merely an attractive female whose enthusiasm for sports happens to be more than that of the stereotypical attractive female. Not exactly a special talent; just a person extraordinarily expressing a stereotypical quality of the opposite sex. Presumably, Beadle feels as though her career boils down to more than her physical appearance, and she would not appreciate my assertion that her success amounts to little more than a byproduct of sexist attitudes. Yet I have just made this exact argument from her own expressed perspective.
Gatorade, the NBA's official purveyor of sugar water, is also taking
part in the tweeting circus. When fans mockingly tweeted Gatorade asking why
their beverage hadn't prevented LeBron's cramps, Gatorade seized the opportunity to take multiple shots at LeBron and Powerade, who presently
enjoy a business partnership. In reality, of course, Gatorade and
Powerade are basically the same thing, and replacing LeBron's Powerade
with Gatorade would not have prevented his cramp. In fact, there is often little advantage in consuming any type of sports drink; water
works just about as well, and without all the sugar. In fairness, some
amount of sugar can help a distressed body hydrate somewhat faster.
According to this page from Washington.edu, that amount is between four percent and eight percent. Not surprisingly, both Gatorade and Powerade contain between four and eight percent sugar.
Moving on from Twitter, the front page of Yahoo.com earlier today read as follows: "[LeBron]'s legacy seemed secure — at least until he couldn't finish a Game 1 that every other star did." Not only is this headline obnoxiously melodramatic, but it is irresponsibly worded in that it suggests there is something LeBron could've done to prevent his leg from ceasing to function. Obviously, the person responsible for this headline aims to attract attention by reviving the old, dead storyline in which LeBron just doesn't have "it," as if LeBron subbed himself out under pressure. While I understand it's been a frustrating couple of years for LeBron's detractors, the notion that LeBron could've played but didn't want to play is utterly ridiculous. And somehow, the assertion that he should've toughed it out may be even more ridiculous. As admirable as it is to compete whilst sick or hobbled, an athlete entirely unable to walk cannot help his team and should not be involved in a basketball game. This much is simply common sense, yet the inevitable and nonsensical flu comparisons abound. It's as if Michael Jordan's influenza rendered him paralyzed from the waist down.
In summation, we watched last night what ought to be the beginning of another incredible NBA Finals. It's a shame LeBron wasn't able to go the duration, but it's equally fortunate that he is not likely to be hampered throughout the series. As much as his leg failed him in that brief moment, structurally it has held strong over a decade-plus of pounding the hardwood. I expect this series to go seven, and today the discussion should be not about an air conditioner or a leg cramp, but about the Spurs and how they won by drilling a barrage of critical three-pointers. That fans and professionals alike are more intent on tearing the loser down than building the winner up -- or simply appreciating the game of basketball as it is played on its highest level -- exposes an unfortunate flaw in the common human mentality.
People often ask me, "what is the weirdest thing in your NBA collection?" In the past, I've given such answers as a Carmelo Anthony snow globe, Tim Thomas's left shoe, and Walter McCarty's autograph on a napkin. I guess I've never been able to decide which of these things, among plenty of other weird things, is the absolute weirdest. Going forward, however, I expect to provide only one answer to the "weirdest thing" question: Sebastian Telfair's jacket.
What you are looking at is the top half of the suit Sebastian Telfair wore to the premier of Through the Fire, a 2005 documentary focusing on Telfair's senior season at Coney Island's Lincoln High School. It is hanging from my bedroom door. I scooped it off the 'bay at a cost of $4.99, and I am not a smidgeon less than one hundred percent sure it's really the suit Sebastian wore to the 2005 Tribeca Film Festival. The evidence is as follows:
Sebastian Telfair explained to Boston.com that his custom suits have his name on the inside. Stitched into the inside of my Sebastian Telfair jacket is, "personally styled for S. Telfair."
It's a perfect photo match with the jacket Sebastian was photographed in at the premier of his movie. To determine this, I carefully examined the stripes, in particular where they are interrupted by seams. The unique way in which some stripes align and others don't is consistent with the photo.
I bought it from a seller in Brooklyn, New York. Makes sense.
It was $4.99. Scammers have bigger fish to fry.
Even for $4.99, I might not have purchased Bassy's suit if Bassy wasn't basically the same size as me. Listed at six feet, I'd say he's really about five-feet-ten. I met him once (super cool dude, I might add; before a game, he randomly introduced himself to me), and I recall thinking, damn, he's my height! For the record, I'm five-feet-eight.
When I happened upon the auction for this jacket (one of the all-time highlights of my Ebay experience), I had hoped to find that it had been part of Telfair's NBA Draft ensemble. As it turns out, he wasn't in attendance, so there is no Sebstian Telfair Draft Day suit; this being the case, that he wore this jacket to the premier of his film makes it probably the most notable Sebastian Telfair jacket.
Naturally, I was super excited to try this thing on. It's a little big, especially in the shoulders, but I could definitely wear it without anyone suspecting that it had once belonged to a professional basketball player. I really, really wish I had the pants. I suppose I can have a matching pair made. Then I can go to work wearing former NBA lottery selection Sebastian Telfair's suit. Certainly this will make going to work exponentially more enjoyable.
When it comes to the 2014 Eastern Conference Finals, I have a horse in the race. I want the Miami Heat to win, and ultimately to prevail in their quest to win a third consecutive title. It's no secret that I admire the way LeBron James plays the game. But one player I might like as much as I like LeBron James happens to play for the Pacers. That player is Rasual Butler, and when he checked into game two and knocked down a pair of triples, I couldn't help but smile. Truthfully, I'm not sure I wouldn't have smiled had he drilled a game-winner, despite that such a dagger would've put my horse in dire straits. To see Rasual connect on those two significant shots, it was special, because it took me back to a time when NBA basketball basically flowed through my veins. Despite that Butler's Pacers failed to close out tonight, I wanted to share the following.
My fanhood of Rasual Butler first developed as a byproduct of my fanhood of his Hornets teammates. When I got League Pass in fall 2005, I watched the Hornets often, especially during one mid-season stretch when the Rockets' Stromile Swift was sidelined by injuries. 2005 happened to be Chris Paul's rookie campaign, and the season the team had been displaced by Hurricane Katrina. Wearing New Orleans across their chests and with the support of some zealous Oklahomans, the Hornets ran the Ford Center floor with an appropriate degree of passion. Desmond Mason had been one of my original childhood favorites, and it was his spectacular slams that initially drew me to the team. I also enjoyed the lightning-quick point guard combo of the aforementioned Paul and Speedy Claxton. A young JR Smith added some spice to the recipe, and Chris "Birdman" Andersen quickly became a hero of mine. Later, when Andersen was banned from the league for a positive drug test, I was devastated. I watched the Hornets a little less after that, but I continued to keep an eye on them. Looking back on it, I recall the team as having adopted Chris Paul's fiery, competitive personality.
Rasual Butler appealed to me because he was smooth. Though he didn't play above the rim like Mason, or flashy like Paul, or explosively like Smith, I liked him instantly. His stroke was butter. His moves were fluid. His demeanor was cool and constant. It was Butler's fourth NBA season, his first with the Hornets after spending three with the Heat. Though Butler's steady-going style contrasted with that of his teammates, he adjusted well under coach Byron Scott, setting new career highs in minutes and points per game. Butler started occasionally, but his primary role was to provide a spark off the bench. For a team that relied so heavily on a bunch of young players --- leading scorers David West and Chris Paul had virtually no NBA experience between them --- the Hornets performed well, finishing with a record of 38-44 despite playing in the association's unforgiving Southwestern Division.
Rasual played another couple seasons with the Hornets, whom he helped to the Playoffs with his 11 PPG in 2009. Next, he signed on with the Clippers, who would rely on him to play 33 minutes a night. The burden weighed on him, and it showed in his 40 percent shooting from the floor. Despite the Clippers' flaws, Butler had some excellent games, including a 33-point explosion against LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers. But none was as explosive as a second half he posted for one of my customized teams in NBA Live.
Every couple weeks, my step brother would visit and we would break out the XBox and go the full 48 minutes. We always drafted our own teams. My typical starting lineup was Rafer Alston, Jamal Crawford, Carmelo Anthony, Stromile Swift, and Kenyon Martin, while his squad never took the floor without Chris Kaman. Clearly, rather than picking the best players, we chose our favorites. Rasual Butler was a fixture on my bench.
I was getting obliterated at halftime, which was not the norm. My step brother and I were very competitive at NBA Live; I might even have had an edge because it was literally the only game I ever played. This time, though, I was down twenty, and frustrated. Normally, I seldom substituted, but my frustration led me to bench a couple of my starters for the opening of the third quarter. I inserted Rasual Butler and looked to run-and-gun. Video game Rasual had a bit of a hitch in his jumper, and I hadn't ever used him much before. It took me a minute to adjust my button pushing to his release, but I stuck with it. I knocked a couple down, and I fed the hot hand.
Rasual Butler finished the game with, if I remember correctly, 76 points, all of which he scored in the second half. He was totally en fuego, and thanks to his marksmanship I had stormed back to take a two-point lead with only a fraction of a second to go. I had already begun to bask in the thrill of victory, which Rasual Butler and I had stolen from the jaws of defeat. Except we hadn't stolen it just yet. Somehow, my step brother found, off the inbound, an open Peja Stojakovic in the near corner. A three-pointer left Peja's fingertips, and the buzzer blared. The ball arced across the television screen as I watched, helpless, frozen in mortal fear. Peja's shot ripped the cord. My step brother went nuts. But then, Marv Albert explained that the officials would need to go to the replay to confirm that the shot was good. Neither my step brother nor I had known this was a possibility. Shocked by yet another unforeseen development, we waited for the call.
No good. The shot was too late. Rasual Butler and I had won the game.
On March 31st, 2014, the Boston Celtics' D-League affiliate, the Maine Red Claws, gave Shelvin Mack bobbleheads to the first 1,000 fans in attendance. Had I been aware of this promotion before it took place, it is more than a certainty that I'd have made arrangements to attend. I am not ashamed to admit that this is the sort of thing that excites me --- I've always wanted a free SGA bobblehead to add to my collection --- and I live just a couple of hours from Portland, Maine, where the Red Claws play their home games. But by the time I learned of the Shelvin Mack bobblehead giveaway, it was too late; the event had come and gone.
Turns out I'm not the only one who missed Shelvin Mack bobblehead night. Shelvin himself couldn't make it because he was busy making his only shot attempt in 14 big league minutes, helping the Atlanta Hawks defeat the Philadelphia 76ers. No one, I surmise, has ever been happier to miss his own bobblehead night, because not only are Hawks paychecks substantially larger than Red Claws paychecks, but the Red Claws almost certainly faced stiffer competition than the Hawks did that night.
I'm no Shelvin Mack superfan, nor was I following college basketball when he, Gordon Hayward, and the Butler Bulldogs contended for the national title. I've seen Shelvin play only the role of NBA backup, and he isn't the type to wow an unwitting spectator such as myself with trampoline ups or Rucker Park handles. Understand, however, how extremely rare it is that a ball player of any consequence sets foot in my native state. Thus, a ceramic version of Shelvin Mack --- former Washington Wizard, current Atlanta Hawk, a rotation player on a playoff team --- donning a Maine jersey is a must (the first time the Red Claws latched onto an NBAer, former high school phenomenon/K-State standout/Celtic/Knickerbocker Bill Walker, I drove to the team office and demanded to purchase his authentic jersey. The team office obliged).
Upon learning of the Shelvin Mack bobblehead, I added Mack's name to my mental list of EBay search terms. The first few weeks of my online pursuit turned up nothing, and I wondered if anyone would even bother trying to sell such an item. I probably would've given up had one not popped up in a listing that closed on Mothers Day. Not surprisingly, I was the lone bidder. Days later, from New Hampshire, buried in a box full with packing peanuts, arrived Shelvin Mack. I dug him out and cleared him a space next to Keon Clark, which actually isn't a bad thing, as bobblehead Keon Clark is neither an alcoholic nor a convict; rather, he is a smiling Sacramento King who occupies one end of the front row of bobbleheads atop my stereo. The front row is, of course, prime real estate, and is otherwise reserved for the likes of Ricky Davis and Stromile Swift.
Riveting tale, I know. I had hoped Shelvin's 20-point explosion in Atlanta's recent game five victory over the Pacers would lead to an 8-1 upset, but the Pacers took the series in seven, even as Mack managed to put together another double-figure outing in the deciding game. A Hawks triumph would've given the bobblehead a lot of added intrigue.
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