No matter where the shot comes from or who takes it, there is always the face. As one set of players celebrate and the others slowly walk off the court, the face is always there, despairing and wishing the futile thoughts.
It can't have happened. It was too late. There's still time.
But it did happen, there was time, and now there isn't.
The face always tells the story.
The face was in Gund Arena on May 7, 1989, as a young man leaped into the air while his counterpart slumped to the wood, hands over his eyes.
Craig Ehlo.
It was there on the Spurs' bench on May 13, 2004, as a disbelieving Fish raced into the locker room.
Bruce Bowen.
Now, it's forever frozen on the face of a man in the Bradley Center last Wednesday night, as he looked skyward at the giant screen in bitter amazement.
Some random dude.
The face is never quite horrified or stunned. It's a mix of both, combined with that moment before anguish really hits home.
It is the face of defeat.
A killer inside
Almost exactly a year ago, an article was published in Sports Illustrated (click the jump to read), detailing exactly how Derrick Rose had risen to the top of the NBA's elite. The piece talked about Rose playing cutthroat after dark with his roommates in a north suburban gym and how he took his competitive edge from that gym to the courts of the Association. It was an engrossing read on its own, but the article was punctuated by a quote from (who else), the White Mamba:
There are the guys who get you the need baskets," says Bulls reserve forward Brian Scalabrine, referring to the vital hoops that stop runs and close out games. "I have a different word for killers. I call them mother-------. And right now, Derrick Rose is the baddest mother------ in the league by far. He is the reason we win.
Regular beat writers, sabremetricians, and Dan LeBatard would argue that this statement from Scal wasn't true a year ago, much less today. I would agree with them two weeks ago; Kevin Durant and LeBron James were clear front-runners for the MVP award. Even Rajon Rondo was doing more to carry his team than Rose, who had sat out with various maladies for some time this year.
Then Rose sank an impossible, hang-in-the-air, rainbow floater from behind the backboard over the outstretched arm of Andre Iguodala to lift the Bulls in Philadelphia. He and Luol Deng combined to payback the Pacers, and last week, Rose sank Milwaukee at the buzzer.
Last year, Rose wrested control of the game from the Bucks in the fourth quarter as easily as pulling a ripe apple from a tree. This year, with the threat of overtime on the road looming, Rose calmly dribbled between his legs, crossed over Brandon Jennings, took a hop-step backward and drained a 24-footer over Jennings' outstretched hand.
It was, as Bucks color commentator Jon McGlocklin noted, the first jump shot Rose had taken that night.
The NBA: where evil reigns supreme
In Conan the Barbarian, the Mongolian general asks Conan, "What is best in life?" and he delivers the famous line (borrowed from Genghis Khan): "To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you and to hear the lamentations of their women." So it is in the gladiator arena known as American professional sports. We wish to see our side thoroughly defeat the others so as they'll never be able to return from it. We lustily scream when fights and fisticuffs break out and boo the referees who come between them. We cheer when an opposing player or coach is ejected, and only go home happy if the other side can taste utter defeat while our guys relish in the day's victory.
American professional athletes have to straddle a fine line between mannered and grotesque. We want our players to "play nice" until crunch time comes. Then, we foam at the mouth for the earth-shattering dunks, long jumpers and blocks that will completely demoralize the other team. We, the screaming denizens of the cheap seats, want complete and final victory.
There are men who've realized that, and were elevated to hero status for it. Pete Rose played baseball with a motor constantly at 8,000 revolutions-per-minute, damn Ray Fosse's shoulder. Lawrence Taylor ended a man's career...and went on to star in movies. Michael Jordan talked about Bryon Russell in his Hall of Fame speech as if Russell had just challenged him to one-on-one in the parking lot.
All these men were reasonable men who turned into monsters when they stepped between the lines. And that's just what we wanted. As I said in the "The Kevin Durant Problem", we especially thirst for these cold-blooded ballers in the NBA. Men like Iverson, Shaq, Kobe, Magic and Bird who delighted in crushing their enemies on a daily basis further served to satisfy our visceral urges.
Bad mother-----s, as Brian Scalabrine would say. Now Derrick Rose is among them.
Linsanity arrives
Jeremy Lin showed a glimpse of the killer instinct fans crave when he dropped in a spot-up three over Jose Calderon and the Raptors a month ago, and when he turned Lakerland on its head by outdueling Kobe at Madison Square Garden. Still, the young man from Palo Alto has undergone some growing pains recently and the Knicks can't seem to get around being a break-even team.
Still, I defended Lin in this space, and will continue to do so. He is what purists such as Shaquille O'Neal and Zachary Casson Berg have been wishing for in the era of Rose and Westbrook: a traditional point guard. He can shoot the jumper, drive and score, pass well and hit free throws when fouled. But in this matchup with Derrick Rose, I will surprised if he comes out alive.
After all, Rose has proven himself to be an assassin in his young career. Every good assassin saves a bullet for the tougher targets.
And when Lin goes down, somewhere in New York, there will be the face.
The face is always there at the end.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
