Since this blog was last updated in April, I've been working three jobs and attending college. Sometimes I forget to eat lunch, let alone write a blog post. But one thing I never forget to do is punch "Stromile Swift" into ebay's search field each day. Recently, two game-worn jerseys appeared. Naturally, I made them disappear.
The white Grizzlies jersey is cool because it's from 2006-07. That was my senior year of high school and happens to be one of the seasons during which I was able to watch every Grizzlies game. That means I saw whatever game or games in which this jersey was worn (hopefully this one). It's also got the Stro Show stamp of approval on the back right shoulder.
As for the white Suns jersey, that one is my bank account's favorite--I was able to snag it for a hundred bucks, or precisely one eighth the cost of my college textbooks for this semester (and the books weren't even used by any notable scholars--just used).
My enthusiasm for blogging tends to increase in the winter months, so expect to hear more from me after the snow begins to fall.
No, I did not purchase this back issue of GQ Magazine for the cover feature on Kevin Spacey. Shit, I hadn't even known what a Kevin Spacey is (turns out he's appeared in some movies).
Rather, I purchased this magazine for the article and accompanying photo shoot featuring the infamous 2000 NBA Draft class. The article is decent, but the true gems are the photographs. Within, Chris Mihm wears expensive cashmere sweaters and alligator shoes, Mike Miller looks like a Backstreet Boy in leather and a Kangol, and Marcus Fizer dons a gaudy fur jacket. But most importantly Stromile Swift appears in a full-page photo, dressed in an outfit that might be described as Clyde Frazier-inspired.
I was a little disappointed the article doesn't make any mention of Swift; however, for $14.98 shipped I'm pleased to add the magazine to my Stro Show collection.
Ironically, I think the poor quality of my computer's built-in camera makes my highlighter doodles look better. So now I present to you three NBA champions--Birdman, DeShawn Stevenson, and LeBron James, none of them wearing the uniform in which they won the championship.
According to the statistics Google provides me this blog has virtually no readership. In fact, it receives so few pageviews that I sometimes wonder if I am writing for an audience of myself and spambots. But in case any actual human beings have followed me from the old blog, I'm bringing back Poster of the Day. It's kind of necessary in light of the ungodly manner in which Derrick Williams brutalized Bismak Biyombo.
This is just inhumane. Take a look at this Vine clip. Bismack gets either one or both hands on the ball, yet Williams comes through with so much force that it knocks Biyombo's arms away like bowling pins. Then Biyombo in his entirety gets knocked away like one giant bowling pin. Strike!
I have long considered myself something of a connoisseur of the slam dunk. I like to take a dunk, watch it several times from many angles, and then break it down. Most people, I think, don't do this. Consider how a dunk is generally described as a sudden, rapid, explosive event. We exclaim, OH MY GOD!, when we see a nasty dunk because a nasty dunk is shocking. A nasty dunk does not ring the doorbell and wait; it kicks in the door like SWAT. A nasty dunk interrupts, and interrupts quite rudely the flow of a basketball game. There's no buildup, and the viewer gets no time to prepare. A nasty dunk is a lot like a car wreck. This is why your initial emotional reaction to a nasty dunk is shock and disgust. Amazement only sets in upon subsequent reflection, upon realization that it was only an amazing feat of athleticism, not a car wreck.
A dunk, however, is not so swift (pun intended) that it can't be analyzed as a process. Take a nasty dunk and watch it a dozen times, each time focusing on some singular component of it. Examine the takeoff, the landing, and the finish itself. Watch the stanchion shake, the rim snap, and the ball bounce back up off the floor. In doing this the process of a slam dunk will begin to reveal itself.
Analyzing a dunk as a process allows one to identify the particular qualities that make an incredible dunk so goddamned mesmerizing, which in turn allows one to objectively compare and contrast the best dunks. Ever wonder why dunk countdowns are almost always completely screwed up? It's because the dunks haven't been analyzed and ranked in this regard; too few components of the process have been considered.
Looking at the process of Stromile Swift's dunk on Tyrus Thomas, I have reached the following conclusion about it: Changes in speed throughout the process is what makes the dunk look completely freaky. And it's one of the freakiest dunks of all-time.
Swift begins rather methodically as he steps out of a pick-and-pop and into a pump fake. He takes one casual dribble into the paint and plants his feet around the dotted semicircle. It takes about three and a half seconds for all this to develop, and it doesn't appear as though anything unusual is about to happen until the very moment that it does.
Swift suddenly explodes off the floor with reptilian quickness. In a fraction of a second he has elevated several feet off the floor. Momentarily he appears suspended in midair as he torques his body and cocks the ball so far behind his head it nearly contacts his shoulder blades. In just four seconds the process has gone from slow, to fast, to frozen. Then, like a catapult being activated, Swift's arms swing forward in a blur. Back to fast. The force of the finish snaps the rim like a tin can and jolts Tyrus Thomas off balance. The net becomes tangled around the rim and the shot clock quivers. The aftermath is as if the United Center had experienced a minor earthquake. Oh my goodness!, Stacey King exclaims in the background as play-by-play man Neil Funk's speech slows, presumably as a result of disbelief. "Monster," utters Red Kerr. Shock and disgust.
The entire ordeal, from the pick-and-pop to the moment the camera pans away from the shaking stanchion, takes roughly eight seconds. The brevity in which it all unfolds is remarkable. Swift probes into the paint, erupts toward the rim, appears to freeze in midair, and damn near tears the basket down in a matter of mere seconds. Such abrupt shifts in speed over such a short duration; it is this sort of fast-twitch athletic ability that allowed Swift to dazzle us with dunks like this.
One need not go to such depth to comprehend the power and ferocity of Stromile Swift on Tyrus Thomas. But an analysis of the process does reveal the unique nuances that distinguish it from other remarkable power jams. Where many awe-inspiring dunks are beautifully fluid, this one is irresistibly wicked, jagged and raw. Simply put, Swift exhibits explosive, violent athleticism on a higher plane.
That there are only three existent angles from which to view this dunk is an absolute travesty.
One frustrating reality that we superfans must learn to live with is the fact that it is impossible to see, to know, to own every bit of tape, information, memorabilia relating to our subjects. Unless that subject happens to be Stromile Swift.
Being Stromile Swift's #1 fan is not like being Kobe Bryant's #1 fan. For one, my claim to #1 has never been and will never be disputed, whereas surely those who claim to be Kobe's biggest fan number in the hundreds if not the thousands. Furthermore, materially pursuing my fanhood doesn't require an especially fat bankroll. So in some ways I've got it good.
In other respects it's a challenge. Stromile Swift's NBA career wasn't chronicled to the extent that a superstar's is, so the number of Stromile Swift photos, articles, and video clips surviving on the 'net is relatively limited. It is basically realistic for me to believe that I have stockpiled every picture, read every article, and watched every video. To find something I haven't seen before is very, very unusual, and it becomes all the more unusual with every passing year. It sucks because the best season of Swift's career, his sophomore year at LSU, is essentially lost; I can think of only two or three clips hidden within Youtube dunk mixes that are presently available to be viewed--oh, and one complete game: the one where Stro and the Tigers were completely dismantled and eliminated from the NCAA Tournament by Wisconsin. Figures.
So being a superfan of a dude who is, on mainstream standards, an obscure figure, it comes with its pros and cons. The pros do outweigh the cons, I think. I've been able to meet Stromile twice simply by wearing his jersey to NBA games, and I've purchased game-worn articles of his for under $50. I can even mail stuff from my collection to Stro and get it sent back autographed. Superfan daydream type stuff. But still, it'd be really awesome to punch "Stromile Swift" into Youtube and find as many results as "Kobe Bryant" generates, or even find one new clip uploaded in the past year, for that matter.
Several days ago some dude from LSU punched a between-the-legs dunk in a game versus Florida. The dunk sparked LSU in an important victory and inspired discussion amongst LSU diehards about the greatest dunk in school history. One such discussion yielded the photo at the outset of this post, a glorious photo that, somehow, I had never seen before. In a large number of fully-colored pixels, Stro bumps his head on the backboard foam as he reaches well above the square in what looks to be the beginning of the end for a rim that appears much too flimsy to endure its impending punishment.
There's an old SLAM feature from around the time Vancouver drafted Stro. In it, the author describes being stuck in traffic with Stro in the freshly minted millionaire's Cadillac Escalade. The vehicle has been equipped with several TVs and a VCR, so the author views a VHS tape of Stro's LSU highlights. This VHS tape is the Holy Grail. That I found the photo above when I wasn't even looking gives me hope that the Holy Grail might be out there somewhere.
Since his release from the New York Knickerbockers in April 2012 Bill Walker has played overseas in Venezuela and the Philippines as well as domestically for three different Development League squads. He has also changed his first name to Henry, apparently because he got tired of being called Billy. Tonight Henry returned to the NBA as a ten-day contract signee with the Miami Heat. He rocked elaborate cornrows and played well, scoring 11 points including one monstrous jam.
Of course, Henry's athleticism goes unquestioned and has been known to inspire dance. What has kept him from becoming an NBA mainstay is his limited skillset, in particular his inability to consistently knock down the outside shot. But tonight he tossed in three of four from distance, so maybe there's hope yet for Henry. If ever he is able to carve out a niche with Miami, or some other NBA team, it will be on account of his jumper, not his jumping.
Henry's professional career began as a second-round draft choice in 2008. He spent his rookie and sophomore seasons with the Boston Celtics and in 2009 became an assignee to the D-League expansion team the Maine Red Claws. The Maine Red Claws are located in Portland, Maine, the city where I was born. I grew up nearby and have spent the majority of my 27 years in Maine. Naturally, I acquired a Henry Walker Maine Red Claws jersey.
In order to acquire a Henry Walker Maine Red Claws jersey I drove to the team's headquarters in downtown Portland. I explained to a team official I am a rabid basketball fan and avid jersey collector, and I sought the jersey of the most notable player from the most notable professional team ever from the Pine Tree State, where very little basketball of any consequence happens. The team had a #14 Henry Walker jersey on hand but at a different location, so I waited an hour or two for them to track it down. They gave me the letters W-A-L-K-E-R in an envelope. I never did get around to having the letters sewn on. I never did acquire a Maine Red Claws Ricky Davis jersey, either, and my failure to do so remains one of my foremost shortcomings as a collector of basketball things.
Miami ought to trade Dwyane Wade to the Shanghai Sharks in exchange for Mike Beasley and make it a K-State reunion.
Men of Earth, please take a moment to contemplate this photo of JR Smith. Just look at it. Absorb the feeling it evokes. Enter your perception of JR Smith's state of mind.
This is a photo of a man whose confidence renders him entirely unstoppable. A man who possesses an awareness of his own power and invincibility, which is that of a mythical god. A man who knows he personifies excellence. A man with a comprehensive understanding of the Universe and his distinguished position within it. A man whose greatness is second only to the greater greatness he himself is destined to achieve.
This photo is a visual representation of what every man should aspire to see when he looks deep inside himself, an outward demonstration of the flawless ego. Study it until it becomes instilled in yourself. Become this photo of JR Smith and conquer life.
What you're looking at are six gold teeth crafted from 14 karat yellow gold and VS diamonds by Icebox Jewelry in Atlanta, Georgia. They adorn my bottom jaw. I bought them last summer, actually, so they aren't exactly new, but I haven't ever written about why I have them. Given that this blog is primarily about why I buy stuff, and gold teeth are a pretty unusual thing to buy, I figure there's a story to be shared, here.
The first time I can recall wanting gold teeth was in 1999, when the skateboarding publication Transworld released "The Reason," a video starring the likes of Stevie Williams. I was 11 years old then and had recently become fascinated by skateboarding and rap music almost simultaneously. Several times in "The Reason" Williams flashed his golden scowl, and my desire for dental jewelry was born.
Back then, several obstacles stood between me and gilded teeth. First and foremost was money. I didn't have any. Second was parents. Gold teeth aren't exactly a mother's idea of what makes a great birthday gift for a preteen. Third was the crookedness of my teeth, which would soon result in my mouth being outfitted with a different type of metal apparatus.
In 2004, when I was 15, Mike Jones released his first hit single, "Still Tippin'" featuring Slim Thug and Paul Wall. Shortly thereafter I can recall seeing the music video on MTV Jams. It was the first time I'd ever heard that vintage Texas sound, and I was completely mesmerized by it. To this day I can't say I've ever been more stupefied by a song than I was by "Still Tippin'". It was getting so many spins in my Walkman that I could recite the entire song from memory. And with each spin it was another three references to gold teeth. I very nearly pulled the trigger in 2007.
In 2011, a little known basketball vagabond named Ivan Johnson was signed by the Atlanta Hawks. Johnson, following a breakout game on TNT, became popular amongst basketball nerds for his fierce demeanor, competitive fire, and frightening appearance--an appearance made complete by a set of gold teeth. The seed had been planted in my mind once again.
I like gold jewelry. I like how it looks. Chains, watches, bracelets, rings... I want all of it. But I chose teeth because they are the most unique to the hip hop culture I have studied for so many years. Gold teeth, I think, are the single accessory that most effectively expresses what it is that I am about, that I am a passionate participant in the promotion of a certain art form and lifestyle (key word, participant: observing and admiring have never been enough for me; I need to participate). I don't know what my gold teeth say to someone else, but what I intend for them to say is "I'm a student of urban culture who most enjoys spending warm summer days in a slowly moving vehicle with some quality rap music booming from the speakers."
Growing up in a place that's 99 percent white I was bullied rather mercilessly over my interest in this stuff. I was told I was trying to be someone I'm not. I couldn't realize that certain forms of entertainment were not made for my enjoyment and for that I deserved ridicule, they said. Peers and elders alike tried to "whiten" my interests. They couldn't understand how I could possibly have any legitimate passion for urban music, sports, and culture. I had to be a fraud.
A decade has passed, and so too has this fear-driven nonsense. But my passions haven't changed much. So I'm proud it never broke me. I knew who I was then and I know who I am now. I refused, and I continue to refuse, to be anyone else. My gold teeth are an expression of that.
I elected to do the bottom row first, but I don't think it'll be long before I do the top six. It'll be yellow gold with fangs, just like what I wanted in '99.
The white Grizzlies jersey is cool because it's from 2006-07. That was my senior year of high school and happens to be one of the seasons during which I was able to watch every Grizzlies game. That means I saw whatever game or games in which this jersey was worn (hopefully this one). It's also got the Stro Show stamp of approval on the back right shoulder.
