Bill Don’t Lie

When the news broke about Bill Simmons’ leaving ESPN, I was sad, and I was mad—but I wasn’t surprised. I was sad in the way we’re sad when someone we vaguely know passes away of old age. I was mad in the way we’re mad when a teacher badly stifles a student’s creativity. But I wasn’t shocked. This was inevitable—which makes me even madder.

This might read like an obituary, and in some ways it should: Simmons’ volatile departure marks the death of a brilliant career at ESPN. But he is not dead, nor is his writing—past or future. What appears dead, though, is ESPN. Its handling of Simmons over the past few years accentuates its transition from edgy, thoughtful sports source to political, corporate, balls-less enterprise. Simmons will soon be gone and so will the rest of ESPN’s remaining integrity and sincerity.

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Bill Simmons—to much of the country’s dismay—has captured the heart and soul of every sports-crazed Bostonian for the past 15 years. You couldn’t manufacture a more authentic, eloquent, perennially 16-year-old fan. Simmons grew up in Chestnut Hill and was a little kid going to the Garden in the ‘70s to see Havlicek and Cowens. He was at Holy Cross in one of the lowest stretches for Boston Sports: the early ‘90s with Reggie Lewis, the end of Bird, and every other team sucking. He was a bartender in Charlestown in the late ‘90s when Pierce, Pedro, and Nomar came along. It’s in Charlestown where he started blogging the hell out of the world and found his voice as a writer. He was ruthless, immensely knowledgeable, and incredibly accessible.

He’s been a bridge from the era of Larry and Clemens to that of Brady and Mookie. I grew up in Section 23 at Fenway just as Simmons grew up in the Garden. As a kid, he read Peter Gammons and Bob Ryan in the Globe; I read Downer Dan Shaugnessy and Bob Ryan. Around that time, I also began reading Simmons, and, by the mid 2000s, the two biggest Bills in my life were Belichick and Simmons. Simmons was innately and profoundly appealing to the Boston fan, to the aspiring writer, to the obsessed movie-watcher, and to the craver of truth in a world full of quite a bit of bullshit.

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In the ‘90s, ESPN had Rich Eisen, Stu Scott (rest in peace), and Dan Patrick. Part of their charm was being lighthearted and saying things like BOOYAH on the air. They were real, funny, and really funny. That was a long time ago, and ESPN is an entirely different beast now.

Now at ESPN, guys like Stephen A. Smith are employed and make a career out of misogyny, racism, and unrivaled incompetence. They argue over dumb things, make dumb arguments, and do so with no grace or appeal. I’m sure if you replaced a current ESPN segment with a TMZ clip, many people would find them indecipherable.

This is why Simmons matters so much—and why his leaving seems only right. He was on Patrick’s radio show the other day and (rightfully) claimed Roger Goodell lacked “testicular fortitude.” It was a fair, if bold, statement that reinforces why ESPN employs him: for his perfectly brash thoughtfulness. He’s an educated fan with a way with words. As fans, we need that. ESPN doesn’t think they do.

Simmons will find a new home soon. He’ll launch a new Grantland or produce documentaries or just become the full-time Jack Nicholson of Celtics’ and Clippers’ games. Heck, if he wrote a weekly piece about his dog I’d read it.

It only feels right to end this with a quote from the inexhaustible source of Simmons metaphor, The Shawshank Redemption:

“Sometimes it makes me sad, though… Andy [Bill] being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”

Fly away, Bill.

From to Sea to Shining Sea: The USA’s FIBA World Cup Squad Cast as Ocean’s 11 (September, 2014)

Forget about the Summer of [Kevin] Love and the poetic nature of LeBron returning home for a second. The way the Cleveland Cavaliers assembled the New Big Three was right out of a movie. Or rather, it was right out of the casting of a movie.
You have your young star who, say, may have nabbed an Oscar nomination at the tender age of twenty-two (Kyrie Irving, winning the All-Star Game MVP in perhaps the most loaded game—and league—in two decades. Just go along with it). But you need some more punch. You toy with bringing in a perennial lead in bad movies (Kevin Love, Head Honcho in cellar-dweller Minny for six years), hoping he’ll complement the young star and that he wasn’t great just because his supporting cast and director were lousy in comparison (Ricky Rubio, Jonny Flynn, et all; Kevin McHale, Flip Saunders, David Kahn, et all). You don’t land the mid-career lead right away, but you DO bring in the MegaStar of MegaStars (Mr. James) to realign with the first production crew he knew as a professional (Dan Gilbert and Co.). With the MegaStar onboard, the Bad Movie Lead signs on.

You now have three, huge pieces. One was the lead on this very set four years ago (LeBron). One has been the lead on this very set for the last three years (Kyrie). And one was the lead on a different set so putrid and toxic that his specific worth hasn’t been properly rated in the context of established stars (Love). Regardless of where they’ve been, they’re now together for atleast one movie, with the responsibility of making a blockbuster. Should the blockbuster become a hit, rake it in at the box office, get nominated for a Best Actor, maybe a Best Supporting, and maybe even a best Directorial Debut (Coach David Blatt), the trio might return for a sequel. Or even a threequel.

But before David Blatt can say Lights! Camera! Action!, before the trio can mingle in their trailers on set, before we—the viewer—can watch anything resembling a trailer or even a sneak peak, the young star bolts for a hastily-produced, side project (FIBA World Cup), a low-budget flick that countless stars—including the young star’s new star teammates—turn down.

The young star finds himself on a cast (Team USA) that’s likely temporary, a slew of like-minded, fresh-faced, wide-eyed, Hollywood babies who are grateful for the exposure, the breakout role, and the mutual support but aware that, once it’s time to shoot the sequel (Rio, 2016), many of them will be replaced. For nearly everyone, it’s an audition. Most will get callbacks in two years. A handful might even make the cast, but few will be the leads like they are now.

In the spirit of extended Hollywood metaphors, Kyrie and his eleven, short-term teammates constitute basketball’s Ocean’s ’11. Collectively, they’re stealing our attention, enacting an endearing heist of basketball viewership away from the conventional leads of LeBron, Durant, and Blake. Just as Messrs Clooney, Pitt, and Damon helped orchestrate a swift, Las Vegas robbery, Messrs Irving, Curry, Davis and Co. are quietly stealing fans away from the old guard, feasting on basketball’s biggest—and only—stage this time of year.
So, if you’re still reading, here’s a character-by-character breakdown of the Ocean’s 11’s parallels. And who knows? Maybe come Rio, the young guys will star in the sequel.

THE AMAZING YEN: DEREK ROSE

Known as the Grease Man, Yen is a nimble acrobat. What he lacks in height, he makes up for in his ability to close (RE: Nailing the somersault vault flip). His presence is quiet but spastic. He doesn’t speak the common language, nor does he talk much in own language. When he does speak, though, it’s only a pained yelp from getting his hand slammed in the door courtesy of Linus Caldwell or a pissed, “Where the fuck you been?” when he’s alone for too long.

Rose is a notorious introvert whose play is notoriously shifty. Every sharp pivot he makes, after yet another ACL injury, makes us cringe. We hold our breath and wonder if it’s worth it. We wonder if he’s as springy as he used to be, if he’ll land awkwardly on a hard take to the rim. We wonder how he’ll respond to a lesser role, when he comes off the bench and isn’t the 2011 MVP from the Chicago Bulls (or the main attraction of the San Diego Circus). We wonder how he’ll fit in. And, like with Yen’s support system, we wonder “Where the fuck you been,” Derek, and where you’re going in your career.

LIVINGSTON DELL: MASON PLUMLEE
Like Livingston, the nerdy, easily frazzled, sweaty, surveillance specialist, Mason Plumlee—on paper—doesn’t seem to be an obvious choice for the squad. He’s the last guy off the bench and the fourth center on the roster. But Livingston and Plumlee both fill a surprisingly integral role: they both know the ins and outs of the system. For Plumlee, as a former Dukie, that means the Coach K system; for Livingston, it means the security system of the Bellagio Hotel. Livingston infamously sweats off the instructions on his hand to get access to the Bellgaio security cameras but ultimately gets his shit together. I imagine Coach K gives Plumlee similar directions. I’m letting you do this ‘cause I coached you in college. Here’s where the Gasol brothers are staying. That’s all you need to know. Now don’t fuck this up.

 

They’re forgettable on their own. They both have about five minutes of face time. But, within the comfort of their specific system, they work.

REUBEN TISHKOFF: BOOGIE COUSINS
Ruben is played by a loud, hairy, and bathrobe-clad Elliot Gould and good for one of the best lines of the movie:
Reuben: You’re Bobby Caldwell’s kid. From Chicago. It’s nice there. Do you like it?

Linus: Yeah.

Reuben: That’s wonderful. Get in the goddamn house.

Reuben is the only Vegas local and is just as much a scout as a player. He’s loud. He knows the game. He provides the lay of the land, the who’s who, the gossipy, inside scoop of the Vegas strip and all its hotels. He’s the scout in Moneyball more concerned with how attractive a player’s girlfriend is than his on-base percentage. This has to be Boogie. The Bellagio of the FIBA World Cup isn’t Spain. It’s the Gasol brothers. And no one knows Pau and Marc better than their fellow Western Conference bruiser down low who goes by the name, DeMarcus.

‘Cause can’t you picture Boogie saying this?

“He’ll kill you. Then he’ll get to work on you.”

BASHER TARR: ANDRE DRUMMOND

This is flattering for Drummond. The dude barely plays. When he does play, though, he’s the most likely guy to shatter the glass. All he does in dunk—with a vengeance—which is analogous to being the resident bomb technician. You don’t need him much, but he’ll provide the perfect, short-lived explosives when the time is right.

TURK MALLOY and VIRGIL MALLOY: DEMAR DEROZAN and RUDY GAY

Because nothing says Hooligan Morman Twins From Utah quite like a couple of former teammates in Toronto..?

SAUL BLOOM: JAMES HARDEN

When Saul disguises himself as his gambling alter ego, Lyman Zerga, a fellow Floridian spots him in the Ballagio. Saul—rather, Zerga—pretends not to know the man to maintain secrecy and carry out the heist. Andy Benedict, then, is overwhelmingly suspicious of this Zerga fella.

The same narrative can be applied to James Harden: he’s a prodigious flopper, an actor not fooling anyone.

LINUS CALDWELL: KENNETH FARIED

If any player’s stock has risen this tournament, it’s been Faried’s. He was one of the last guys on the roster and has solidified himself as not only a starter but also a swarming, offensive-rebounding hulk that runs the floor like a guard. He’s even led the team in scoring once.

Like Matt Damon, his role grows through the process. At first, Damon’s a pickpocketing, Chicago subway-riding, awkward businessman, and Faried’s almost an afterthought on the team. Eventually, Damon becomes Ocean’s most coveted, PHYSICAL sidekick. Faried, also known as The MANIMAL, is just that. They both would struggle as the lead but thrive as energy assistants. Few are better in that role. It’s unlikely, though, Linus could carry his own crew or if Faried could be the best guy on a championship team.

FRANK CATTON: ANTHONY DAVIS

There’s one clear distinction about the late, great Bernie Mac’s character that sets him apart: he was deliberately the first piece Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan brought in. Without Frank Catton, there’s no heist. You have to have someone deal the cards to pull off a casino raid.

After LeBron, Durant, Chris Paul, Blake Griffin, Dwight Howard, Kevin Love, and Paul George snapped and decided not to play (Snapped? Too soon??), Davis became the hottest commodity available for Team USA. And isn’t Catton, like Davis, a defensive juggernaut turned two-way monster? He went from being a blackjack dealer, having gamblers play ON him, to being on the attack with a car salesman, having the price of the car dictated BY him. We only see small glimpses into what makes Frank Catton Frank Catton. He doesn’t strain if he doesn’t need to. Either does The Brow against the Dominican Republics of the world.
RUSTY RYAN: KYRIE IRVING
The ever-suave Brad Pitt disguises himself as a doctor to tend to the also-acting Zerga, whose fake heart attack distracts the Bellagio camera crew. Kyrie, suave in his own right, disguises himself as an old man in the infamous Uncle Drew Pepsi commercials. Cause why not?

It makes sense in their respective contexts that they’re both second in command, but it’s only a matter of time that Rusty overtakes Danny, and Kyrie is the go-to guy on a title contedner.
DANNY OCEAN: STEPH CURRY
Other than Harden, Curry’s the only All-NBA team representative (second team). Say what you want, but it’s Steph’s team. He was the spokesman in Team USA’s all-important, ALS Ice Bucket Challenge video. He’s been the quiet, poignant veteran in team huddles. He leads by example. He splashes threes in bunches. He’s a composed ambassador of USA basketball—with his own history of leading “heists” in his days at Davidson and last year in the playoffs. And speaking of soft-spoken, long range assassins…

JULIA ROBERTS: KLAY THOMPSON

…Klay Thompson fills out our Ocean’s 11 roster as none other than Ocean’s former and current wife. Despite all the Kevin Love-to-Golden State rumors, Klay and Steph remain together. It’s open to speculation whether Curry would be better with Love or not, but it’s clear Ocean is better with it. Boom.

Boston Marathon (April, 2014)

It was one of those You Remember Where You Were moments.

A year ago today, I was walking back from the last Monday track practice of my college career. (Now, I’d consider myself more of a “ranner,” but there was once a time when I could keep up with some speedy folks.) My phone kept buzzing. And buzzing. And buzzing. I assumed it was my mom, frustrated by autocorrect blunders, or my teammates wondering which dining hall had the best dinner that night.

A year earlier, in January 2012, my main New Year’s Resolution was to look at my phone less. To be more present with my company instead of on Facebook or Kwazy Cupcakes. To better appreciate where I was. Keeping that in mind that day a year ago, I didn’t check my phone until I was by myself in my room. I’d walked nearly a mile from the athletic center back to my dorm building on the far side of campus—much of it with three other teammates– and the conversation was entirely rooted in a single scene of Family Guy. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yan7ybub0v0). We were laughing and oblivious.

When I did check my phone (and Facebook and my email and every website under the sun), I felt confused. I felt like it wasn’t real. I felt horrified.

I checked the maps of where the bombs went off: the first was across the street and a block from where my dad and I used to watch the race; the second was directly across the street. I didn’t know how to process it all. I wanted to be back home, close enough to hug people I knew but far enough from the madness on Boylston Street.

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Like most Bostonians, I tell them I’m “From Boston” when I’m really from a Soccer Mom Suburb thirty minutes west of the city. I only make it into the city every couple weeks, and it’s often on the Cambridge side of the river. I’m hardly a true local.

But I love Boston. I love its irrational arrogance. I love its pesky charm. I love its Napoleon complex against the New Yorks and Chicagos. I love how—when we’re lucky—its teams embody its spirit.

So next Monday, I’ll immerse myself in that charm. It’ll remind me why Boston is your endearing, punk younger cousin, the one who keeps trying to beat you in every board game at Thanksgiving, and, when he finally does, he’ll never let you live it down. It’s the city of Dustin Pedroia and Brad Marchand and Rob Ninkovich.

It’s the city where I was born and the city where I like to turn my phone off and walk and walk and walk without any buzzing interruptions.

ExPat (August, 2014)

I recently moved to Denver—a mile and a half from The House That John Elway Built, to be exact. Every day, I run by Sports Authority Field (at Mile High Stadium) and think about last year’s AFC Championship meltdown. In the words of my good friend, Pam Beasley of Dunder Mifflin Scranton, “The Dundies are like a car wreck that you want to look away from, but you can’t because your boss is making you.” Replace “Dundies” with “Sports Authority Field” and “boss” with my “Cultish Adherence to The Church of Tom and Bill,” and that’s my state of mind: eyes glued, mind engrossed to the death scene of the 2013 Patriots.

When I run by the stadium, it’s out of necessity—to adjust to the thin air, to explore a new place, to meditate through exercise. I learn best on foot. When I drive in a new place, I usually get lost and flustered, and my inner Bostonian impatience comes out. Luckily, Denver functions in a grid system and not a spidery web of one-way, unpaved, un-parkable roads. My sense of direction is contingent on me actually feeling the ground. It’s best for me and anyone else on the road.

So, I run. And, by choice, I almost always head south along Cherry Creek to get a nice, up-close view of the stadium. Unlike Gilette, Sports Authority is right in the heart of things. It’s minutes from downtown, alongside a trolley car route, across from maybe the coolest graffiti outside of Banksy I’ve ever seen, and adjacent to the city’s Children’s Museum and aquarium. It’s impossible be in a bad mood in the area. I’m supposed to feel shitty and vengeful and anxious when I see Peyton’s Laboratory that close, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the sound of old ladies ooh-ing and aah-ing on the crawling trolley or the sound of kids stoked on life after seeing a REAL LIFE SHARK. Maybe it’s the unbeatable sun and lack of humidity that’s made me less testy in enemy territory. Maybe it’s me slowing turning into a fan of the Broncos? I kid.

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I still feel the loss from last year. The Pats were clearly outmatched and offensively depleted that game (and that season). At the time, it stung cause it was Peyton Manning and one game from the Big Game. The Pats weren’t robbed with a flukey Helmet Snag or Asante Samuel Botch or Welker Drop; they were simply fried. They milked every possible asset as best they could.

After the season, I did my standard, stubborn, Not-Checking-ESPN-For-A-Few-Weeks-After-My-Team-Hits-The-Dust routine. Like always, it helped the pain—as did the Seahawks’ ability to make Peyton look like Eli.

By late-February, I was excited about the potential of a Healthy Gronk.

By mid-March, I was more than a little excited about Darrelle Revis.
By late-April, I was entertained by this Jimmy Garropolo fella.

By mid-May, I decided to take my talents to the Mile High City.

By late-July, I found myself running right around where Wes Welker lay that nasty hit on his now teammate, Aquib Talib.

By early-August, I found myself in a bar with a whole lot of orange and blue after the Broncos’ pre-season win at home against the Seahawks. A dude wearing a Demaryius Thomas jersey approached me with a fake smile and pointed at my shirt.

“You must drink the Belichick Kool Aid, too, huh? People talk about Brady versus Manning, you know? The only real debate is Manning versus Elway.”

I forgot I was wearing a Red Sox shirt. That explained the assumed Boston allegiance.

Week 9 Broncos-Pats has the makings of another classic. I just wish the game were within running distance (it’s in New England).

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