On his left cheek bone is inked the Pittsburgh Pirate's "P", "for the Pittsburgh, that's my favorite team. Barry Bonds, when he first started." The thing about the P is, however, that it's backwards and looks more like a 9. DeShawn tried to explain, "No, if you're standing where Dom’s standing and looking at me, it looks like a P." Dominic McGuire was standing directly in front of him about 10 yards away, but it still looked like a 9. I think DeShawn meant to say, "when I look in the mirror it looks like a P." The final new tat is a crack on the left side of Stevenson's forehead. He said it's because "I don’t crack. I feel like people always try to break me, but I don't crack. So, I put that there."Many thanks to DeShawn for reminding me (once again) why I started this blog. More pics at Truth About It.
Question: "Do you envision yourself playing together in the backcourt?"Good thing the Warriors only have five more years left on that contract extension...
Ellis: "I can't. I can't answer that. Us together? No."
Q: "Why not?
Q: "Why not?"
Ellis: "Just can't."
Q: "Too small? Too similar?"
Ellis: "Just can't."
Q: (Do) you understand they say you can?
Ellis: "They say we can, but we can't."
Q: You wouldn't want to give it a shot?
Ellis: "I just want to win. That's not going to win that way. You can't put two small guys out there and try to play (point guard) and (shooting guard) when you've got big (shooting) guards in the league. You just can't do it. OK, yes, we're going to move up and down fast, but eventually the game is going to slow down. You can't do it."
O'Neal underwent two rigorous off-season workout programs -- a seven-week session with the Heat's trainers followed by an eight-week session with noted fitness guru Tim Grover, the Chicago-based expert who helped Heat guard Dwyane Wade regain his health last summer.Wow. Impressive that, after all these years, Jermaine would get super-serious about his physical conditioning. I wonder...what could have changed? Oh, by the way, did I mention that this is a contract year for The Drain? Dismissed as coincidence...
"What he's done this summer," coach Erik Spoelstra said, "is akin to what Dwyane did last year."
Greg Ostertag is looking to make a return to the NBA.But wait, there's more.
The former Jazz center, who retired from the game three years ago, was invited to work out for the Trail Blazers last week.
"I just miss it," Ostertag told the Journal-World.
"Watching the playoffs last year got me excited. My wife said, 'Why not go try it again?' One day I said, 'What the heck. I'll get in shape and get back on the court and give it a try.'
"I've got nothing to lose."
Portland is the only team that has entertained the idea of giving Ostertag a shot.
"I did all right. I'm rusty. I'd not picked up a ball seriously in three years," added Ostertag. "I have some cobwebs. The more I play, the quicker I'll get it back. Now I'm trying to get in good shape and get stronger. The basketball will come."
"Size, blocking shots and putbacks, setting screens, not letting anybody get easy layups," Ostertag said of what he can bring to the table. "Nobody ever put the ball in my hand and said, 'Go to work,'" Ostertag said of scoring.My gut instinct is to say it's never gonna happen. But as someone recently said: limits, like fears, are often an illusion. So, personally speaking, my fingers are crossed. And now Greg Oden has to worry about a second white stiff stealing his PT.
Ostertag, who made $48,251,390 during his days in the NBA, isn't money-motivated right now. He's been frugal with his earnings and is set for life financially.
"The more I get into it, the more I want to play," Ostertag said. "I've been working hard since June to get weight off to where I can be productive. I'm in the mode I don't want to work this hard for nothing. I want to get my feet planted somewhere, get in veterans camp, and in the preseason maybe somebody will like what they see."
Chris Emens, senior director of Octagon Basketball, an agency that represents Ostertag, believes his client can be an asset to the Blazers or any other NBA team.
"Greg brings interior defense, rebounding, shot-blocking, playoff and championship-game experience and most importantly for teams in contention, he knows how to win," Emens said.
Most NBA teams are expected to carry just 13 or 14 players this season because of budgetary concerns, instead of the maximum-allotted number of 15.
"It depends if somebody has room," Ostertag said. "I'm not asking for 30 minutes, but give me a chance to compete for playing time, that's all.
"If I don't make an NBA roster, I'll go back to what I was doing -- hunting, golfing, fishing," added Ostertag, who isn't interested in playing in Europe or the NBA Developmental League.
* Believe their value is defined by the results they achieve.Sound familiar? If you've played pickup ball for any length of time, you've probably run across several bums and knuckleheads who suffer from Alpha Baller Syndrome. In my experience, these so-called alpha ballers typically coach people on the finer points of defense while playing none themselves, implore their teammates to crash the boards while they stand around on the perimeter, and call for the ball on every play...because they expect to be the first, second and third option on every offensive possession. A little part of their soul dies every time someone else on their team shoots the ball. Unless, of course, the teammate scored off one of their brilliant assists.
* Don't care about hurting feelings as long as they acheive their goals.
* Treat any disagreements as a challenge to their authority.
* Tend to think that other people are "the problem."
* Get annoyed when people suggest new ideas or behavior changes.
* Have strong opinions on most subjects, even those they don't know much about.
* Lose their temper when confronted.
My first semester was a completely different (and mostly less dramatic) time than Bawful's. For starters, while he was looking forward to college, I was looking forward to leaving the miserable vomitous mass that was my hometown. Literally, the only thing that made me even slightly bummed was leaving my cat behind, and that certainly didn't keep me up during classes. So I showed up on campus with long hair and no expectations. I guess I was supposed to go to class, but all I knew is that I was free. I was even so desperate to be at college that I signed up for marching band. Band members could be there a week early. I quit marching band my sophomore year of high school because it just wasn't for me. But if it got me to college quicker, then what the hell."Well, I really don't want to live with Garrison," I said.
Of course, it's never that easy. After being there for 4 or 5 days (during which time I had met Nathan -- what an odd bird) and some other folks, other dudes on the floor started arriving. They were cool enough. But when they asked me who my roommate was, I would tell them. The response was always the same. "The Garrison? Maaaaaann." It was one of those awkward things -- I knew it was bad, but I didn't know what kind of bad. Would he make evil plans and then make me solve riddles to stop him? Was he a chronic masturbator? (Trick question: all college males are chronic masturbators.)
Nobody would answer when I asked, I just got an odd smirk and awful silence. Somewhere in those days, I also got the nickname of "Duuuuuude." Partly because I said it, and partly for the long hair. Because in the midwest, long hair equals hippy surfer dude. Whatever; at least I wasn't "Biscuit" or something. So my roommate showed up one Saturday while I was gone. Now, you youngun's need to remember: we got notified of our roommates, but my only options were to call or write to him. No e-mail. No Facebook stalking. I think I called once and left a message, but we never spoke before seeing each other. So I entered the room, and the horror.
He was a country boy. He had a country two-by-four and plaid chair that had molded to him over years of sloth. He had tight jeans. He was a big guy -- probably 6'1" or so, but he carried himself like he was 5'5". He wasn't in shape, but neither was I. He had thick horn-rimmed glasses, and greased, short black hair laid flat towards his face in the style that George Clooney would later make look good and popular. No, the horror stemmed from two things. First: country music was playing. Second: he was just sitting there. Without a shirt. With lots of hair. On his back. Greasy, stringy, black strands that clung wetly to his pallid, lumpy skin. He was sweating. Into the chair. Into the room.
Seriously, within hours the room smelled like The Garrison. He never spoke -- he was incredibly nervous. He was always in the room. Unless he was eating or in class. He was this ball of anxiety that was always waiting for me in the room. Now, mind you, I was not a good roommate either. I left my laundry in a huge pile by my desk. I was a slob. After a few half-hearted efforts to know him, I gave up. I was no Bawful. There was no sympathy. No pity. I just made sure I was never in the room except to sleep, and occasionally change into new sweats.
One thing about band I loathed was Saturday mornings of game days -- we had to be up and dressed in our spiffy digs by 8 a.m. So I would stir from my hangover at 7:30, and The Garrison would already be up watching WWF on mute. What. The. Eff. I spent my nights with friends, playing nerd games, drinking, video gaming (SNES was new, and I dominated in Street Fighter 2), and god knows what else. Sometime in October I got a girlfriend (whom I actually am still with; what went wrong there?). I actually was less wild than I was in high school, but I still never was in the room or in class. Except for about two weeks after that girl and I got together, The Garrison walked in on us. I thought he was gone for the day. He walked in the room and without missing a beat, spun on one heel, shrunk to half his size, and walked out. So -- okay. I was a jerk roommate, and frankly, I kind of wanted a room I could spend some time in. So I put in a transfer to another hall at semester break, and got it.
Labels: Steve Nash