“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 4

More Detroit beef

It’s funny how this Detroit versus MJ rift is getting dragged back into pop culture. To fans who lived during that era, this is nothing new. But it is interesting hearing from all sides a couple of decades later and seeing how much hate still festers. It’s dramatic sure, but after all this time it feels so petty. Detroit got theirs and then the Bulls figured out how to win. That’s history. I guess it shows you how intensely it stoked Jordan’s competitive spirit. It’s almost like he still seems himself as a victim of the Piston’s bullying. Even though he got the last laugh. And you’ve gotta love how Isaiah Thomas doesn’t give an inch. He just sits there smiling and saying “things were different then.”

It’s also funny how we learn that Jordan would get on his teammates for showing any signs that the Piston’s antics were getting to them. But here he is, going on and on about how much what they did bothered him. It seems like Mike could throw far more shade if he played the “Detroit who?” card. But that’s not how the melodrama of this series goes down. It fans the flames of a decades long feud. Horace Grant still seems particularly snippy about those battles with the Pistons. To be honest, it’s kind of off putting to hear the 6-time champion Bulls and undisputed owners of the 1990’s carrying on about the Pistons. Maybe it was a filmmaking call to crank the drama up this much. It’s just kind of like, we get it.

I do think Jordan has a fair point about sportsmanship. It was a low blow for the Pistons not to shake hands at the end of that series. But that’s who they were. They were like method actors. Living up to their Bad Boys moniker. But you know how much it had to hurt Jordan in the three years before, coming up to Thomas and the others, in the face of defeat and giving them a quick shout out. That would be enough to sway me, because you know how hard that must have been for Jordan. Year-after-year. A three-peat of failures at the hands of the same smug villains. But I do agree with Thomas, that it was a different era then. It’s not like today when all the players grow up playing traveling ball since they were 11. Back then, the money was less and the void was filled with pride and ego. Those were the table stakes. These days, even the 6th man might be making some sweet 8-figure deal. Who cares about an early exit when it also means early summer vacation. This wasn’t the case in the eighties or early nineties. You were playing for keeps. Playing to be remembered or forgotten. The money came later. Because these characters made the game so damn compelling.

1991 Finals: Magic versus Michael

Lifelong Blazermaniac here. This chapter of the story is hard to watch. It should have been Portland facing the Bulls in their first NBA Finals. Cue the avalanche of NBA conspiracy theories. But I remember the pain of watching the one-sided refereeing as the Blazers played the Showtime Los Angeles Lakers. It nearly went 7 games, but you could feel the whole country outside of Portland, and the world beyond, hoping for the marquee Magic versus Michael final. Michael versus Clyde Drexler would have to wait.

The Lakers weren’t even that great of a team at this stage in Magic’s twilight. Pippen easily found a way to shut him down by picking the legendary point guard up in full court coverage early in the game. Magic and his Lakers were knocked off balance and never really recovered. The league just needed the torch to be passed. Jordan was crowned king and a first time champion.

Original Jordan crying meme

The image of Jordan clutching the Larry O’Brien trophy, being consoled by his father, with tears streaming down his face—was an informative moment as a young sports fan. I’d gown more used to straight up meathead celebrations of NFL titans hoisting trophies and spraying Champagne with frat boy verve. Or baseball players shouting cliches about going to Disneyland. So, it was eerie and revealing as hell to have the postgame camera drift into the Bulls locker room and find the world’s most cutthroat competitor at his most vulnerable. Air Jordan had been reduced to a puddle after his achievement. 

I think this was one of my earliest indications that sport could mean something more. It could be something deeply personal and important. It wasn’t just playing a game. Or racking up wins and losses. There was something deeper going on here. And to see a hero like Jordan expressing this side of himself uncontrollably validated a single-minded pursuit of excellence in sports. There was something meaningful waiting at the end of the dark days and late nights of training. There was enlightenment or transcendence or something that my young mind couldn’t quite figure out. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of Jordan and what he was doing. His narrative locked in after that first championship. His quest for greatness became the defining narrative of the 90s. The whole world was along for the roller coaster.

“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 3

Dennis the Menace

Finally, we get the full on Rodman episode. Based on him getting a whole episode, you can tell that Jordan loves the guy. His colorful antics, and hair, easily distracted people from the immense talent he had. But watching Jordan, Pippen and Phil Jackson talk about what Rodman gave to those teams, you can see how valued his skills were.

The second three-peat Bulls were so beautiful to watch. They all knew the triangle offense and the ball zipped freely around court until it ended up in the hands of whoever had the open shot. It was an offense full of savvy, high IQ ball players, and it literally ran like clockwork. But, sometimes, the shots just weren’t falling. Sometimes MJ or Pippen were spent. 

That’s when Dennis would step in.

You could feel Rodman turn it on when his team needed it. When the energy just wasn’t there. He would find a way to get under the opponents skin, in a way that sparked the whole game. His elbows or flops or theatrics of the night would really fire up what ever pour soul he was guarding. Suddenly a humdrum game transformed into something electric. Sometimes it was as simple as Rodman jumping over the scorer’s table to track down a loose ball. Whatever his tactic was, the team responded. The fuel tanks got refilled. The crowd level raised. Suddenly Michael and Scottie would enter stage right and go back into being Superman and Batman or whatever dynamic duo you want to call them. But Rodman was always right there in the mix when it counted.

I liked the little subtext of Pippen returning to the Bulls after Jordan had formed a bond with Rodman. It’s almost like Scottie didn’t want to be left out. When he came back, the team gelled. Weird Dennis had been tamed enough, and repented enough from his Bad Boy Piston days. It seemed like it would be an obviously dysfunctional relationship, but it ended up being a highly functioning one.

I don’t think the Bulls are guaranteed to win three titles in a row without Rodman. He had to guard the biggest and best scorers on the other side. He waged mortal battle with Shawn Kemp, who was at the height of his powers, to get that first title in 96. Then he fought Karl Malone, twice. Look up the highlights on YouTube—Rodman played a pivotal role in how he shut down those guys. They got their numbers, but you could tell his psychological relentlessness grated on them. He created an edge and filed it down over the course of a series into a razor’s point.

I think this documentary is going to help secure Rodman into the Bulls legacy. Right where he should be.

The Bad Boys

In Rodman’s first act, he was a part of the notorious Detroit Pistons. They dispatched my beloved Portland Trailblazers in 1990, so I had a strong rooting interest for Jordan to bring their dynasty to an end in 1991. For Jordan, it was the culmination of three years of futile agony. He finally slayed his dragon, and in the process, Detroit create an absolute monster of the ages.

Without the Pistons thuggery, I don’t know what becomes of Michael Jordan. He probably wins a title or two—but without those disturbing runs through the depths of basketball hell, I don’t think Jordan ends up with the massive psychological chip on his shoulder. I mean look at the guy talking about the Pistons 30 years later. He’s that affected by what those guys did to him! 

Jordan needed revenge. And in the process, vengeance became the defining trait of his competitive drive. It wasn’t enough to win. There had to be stakes. There had to be humiliation on the line. And as Jordan says, he wanted to “administer pain.” His wounded psyche from failing against the Pistons in the late 80s, left an imprint that would go on to haunt the basketball world in the 90s.

I respect the Pistons. I don’t condone what they did, but it’s impressive how they were able to carve a unique and feared identity. They didn’t try to compete with the Hollywood slickness of Magic Johnson and the Lakers. They didn’t try to play old school ball like the Boston Celtics. They acted like a street gang. They played like thugs. And they had enough talent and charisma and shamelessness to play that way long enough to carve out their own dynasty. In the theater of basketball, Jordan fans everywhere owe a debt of gratitude to those Bad Boys for making Jordan’s trials as compelling as they did. It was good versus evil. It was air versus crowbars. 

When the Bulls finally vanquished the Pistons, who else could possibly stand in their way? The Knicks and various Finals challengers from the west would make their token efforts. But no one ever owned the Bulls, and Jordan’s ego, like the Pistons. When Jordan slayed his dragon, he was gifted a decade of dominance. Well earned. Hard fought. And apparently still a set of demons he is still wrestling with to this very day.

“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 2

That Celtics’ series

It’s crazy how many short and mid-range jumpers Jordan hit in this early phase of his career. His jump shot for still looks the same as it did in his college days. It’s still a bit raw and not as refined as it would get later in his career. Also, the guy is hitting no three pointers. It’s all dunks and jump shots. It’s awesome seeing the Celtic legends Larry Bird and Danny Ainge talking about that playoff series. Nothing but praise. They realize that Michael was turning the game into something different. It was a special performance, peak young Jordan. As Bird said, he’s never seen anything like it before or after that series.

Pippen stews

I remember the narrative about Pippen being underpaid and asking for a trade. It was such a transition period for the NBA. In the 1980s you had players who had to have second jobs to support themselves in the off-season. Then the Bulls game through, turned the sport into a pop culture phenomenon, and suddenly the TV and marketing deals just swell up. Everyone wants a piece of what Jordan, Pippen and the Bulls created. But Pippen’s contract was locked in, long-term before the money really started pouring in. He was caught in the middle. He surely deserved to get some more coin for the popularity he was responsible for bringing to the game. Yet, as the documentary shows, the Bulls management weren’t willing to renegotiate. An unfortunate sour note in an otherwise soaring narrative of team dominance.

Late night WGN rebroadcasts

Way back in time, before streaming services, before Instagram, before Facebook even, there were a limited number of television channels. One of the national channels you could get anywhere in the US was the local Chicago station, WGN. So back before League Pass, if you wanted to, you could watch every Bulls game live if you wanted. 

Looking back now, there was something magical about tuning into WGN on a random weekday evening in January. There were no stakes. The playoffs lay waiting far on the other side of winter and spring. But there was basketball, and there was Michael Jordan. It’s funny thinking of this now, in this era of insanely hyped up YouTube mixtapes. On WGN, watching the Bulls was almost casual viewing. The crowds wouldn’t be that hyped in Milwaukee or Charlotte or wherever the Bulls happened to be playing. You would just dive through the worm hole and get to be a fly on the wall in stadiums across the US as Jordan and the Bulls would come to town. There was no fanfare, aside from the local Chicago announcers pulling out their best hyperbole to describe MJ’s latest aerial feat. 

But a lot of the time, the game just kind of dragged. And it was beautiful. You’d see Michael Jordan just moving around the court, sometimes not even touching the ball. But when he did, it was electric. The crowds he was visiting wouldn’t make much noise as he beat up on their home team, but he kept on at a constant clip. Racking up dunks and stats. Slowly building, almost behind the scenes, to something that would add up to be seen by all. These little nightcaps became a comfort food. Something to unwind to after a day of school and an evening of practice. A little competitive snack. Somewhere, in middle America, the Bulls were silently marching.

“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 1

OK here we go. I’m just going to be dropping thoughts and associations that hit me as I watch this thing. I grew up watching Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen and the 1990’s Chicago Bulls. Like so many in that era, their story became a part of my DNA. It shaped my mentality as an athlete. It gave me a framework to approach challenges. It gave me an attitude that carried me through high school and college. They were my Beatles. It’s the documentary we’ve been waiting to be released for over 20 years. As Michael Jordan has become a kind of generalized global meme for dominance, I think it’s good to look back at the details. I have distinct memories of watching Jordan throughout his career, and this is gonna be a treasured walk down memory lane.

No one had shown this kind of creativity and flair in basketball before. Young Jordan was a freak of athleticism that looked like nothing else in sport.

“Mike”

As a long time Jordan fan, I remember an MJ that was simply called Mike. Before the statues. Before the weighty legacy. Before the championships. Just from an aesthetic standpoint, he was a guy who jumped off the screen and into your living room. A guy who froze time and demanded to be put up on your bedroom wall. He didn’t look like anyone else. And he sure didn’t move like anyone else. Sure, basketball is a fun game. But culturally, it felt on par or maybe even behind other major sports, until Jordan came along and did his thing. Sure he had influences and peers, but the combination of his swagger, tongue wave, killer shoes, baggy shorts and game high above the rim, transcended anything we had ever seen before. He was different. He was new. He was important. He reached into a rarefied level of our collective imaginations. It wasn’t just basketball. It wasn’t just a sport. It was somehow bigger. And we all bought into it.

Who was this rookie that came out oozing with swagger? Who did this Mike kid think he was?!

Carolina Air

This is a nice refresher seeing all of the North Carolina footage. His championship winning shot over Georgetown gets reposted so much, that you kind of forget just how damn springy he was back then. Soaring into the air to block centers out of nowhere. Finishing two handed alley-oops. His game is rawer and more based on instinct, but you can see all the athletic building blocks that he will just keep accumulating talent onto as we move forward.

The dynamic duo

I know this whole series is about the 97-98 Bulls, but I just have to recount how I remembered them. I watched most of their games. I saw them play in person. And I watched every single playoff game. This is what I remember thinking. Jordan AND Scottie Pippen are unstoppable. Within the triangle offense, they had the two-man game on lockdown. On both ends. They toyed with opponents. It was the most fearsome full-court double team press I’ve ever seen. I mean, that’s not even a thing in today’s NBA. The Bulls pulled out a trap whenever they needed to make a comeback. They made their opponents so jittery. Especially the young teams, who couldn’t stand up to the aura of the mighty Chicago Bulls. But it never, ever, ever felt like a one-man team. Jordan was the global icon and transcended the sport into being a cultural icon, but in basketball terms, Scottie Pippen was a legit, MVP, all-world talent on his own. Hell, he was the second best player on the vaunted 1992 Dream Team. Pippen alone nearly took the Bulls to the championship when Jordan bowed out to play baseball for a season. I think that’s partly what spurred Jordan back to the Bulls. The realization that, damn, they almost won without me. Scottie Pippen was scary good. And I think Jordan himself feared what would happen to his legacy if Pippen were to win a championship or two on his own. So, back to basketball Jordan came. 

You don’t want to face this double team.

Jordan and Pippen as interchangeable parts. Bringing out the best in each other.

Superman, Batman and Rodman

This time, after the dust of the first three championships had settled, the world sensed what they were missing, and the final three championships became a farewell tour for this legendary team.  The media savored everyone moment of it. Sure the Bulls were iconic before. But from 1996 to 1998 they were legit gods, live on tour. Throw in Rodman, for some insane rebounding skill, the dated Madonna backstory and a healthy dose of what the hell is that guy doing here. And the Bulls were off and running once again. This time with a fully expectant, global audience. The Beatles of basketball. There has been nothing as culturally magnetic in sports for that prolonged period of time ever since. Sure teams have piled up great records and won fistfuls of championships. But they haven’t had that intangible, mesmerizing factor that those late 90s Bulls teams did. Everyone else is playing a sport, and maybe at an elite level. But the Bulls were engaging with destiny and legend. Modern myths using 90 feet of hardwood as their stage. This was not X’s and O’s. This was cosmic stuff.

Rodman demanded all the attention along with all the rebounds. His addition to the Bulls added toughness and a healthy dose of tabloid entertainment. The latter era Bulls had it all!

Oh boy, this series is gonna ruin me…

Meet Yojimbo

Yojimbo’s been hurling the rock since before they started keeping official records. According to rumor, he adds a new pitch to his repertoire every spring. Hitters should watch out for his unpredictable split-clawed slurve, unless they want to end up a new strike out meme. #yoyogicrows #baseball #japan

Annnnnnnddd Now.... Your Yoyogi Crows!

Sport may have paused around the world, but that hasn’t stopped the Yoyogi Crows from continuing their hardball dominance. Because the Crows are rebels—and they’re also a highly fictional motley crew of sandlotters. They’ll play nine innings against anyone foolish enough to cross over their chalk lines. For the Yoyogi Nine, hope never went anywhere. Play Ball!

Whether he’s moving up the middle to rob a base hit, or moving his hips to excite the tourists gathered outside of Yoyogi Park, Rockabilly always gives the people what they paid for—rock solid results.

The reliable veteran uses its triangular presence to anchor the diamond and provide leadership that results in constant digs and double plays.

Nothing cleans up the bases like this fully stocked Vending Machine loaded with energy drinks and Japanese performance enhancing elixirs.

Dame D.O.L.L.A.

Mamba Up

Kobe rose into our consciousness as I was in the middle of chasing my own athletic potential. And while I played basketball through high school, Kobe’s mentality and work ethic really touched my psyche as a baseball player. From high school to college to having a professional tryout as a pitcher, Kobe's mentality became a template for how I pursued and pushed my craft.  Being a Portland Trailblazer fan, it was a bit of an identity crisis to find myself respecting a Laker so highly—but his passion for training and pursuit of excellence was impossible not to respect. Kobe became my mental standard in how I looked at my preparations as a baseball player.

Watching Kobe and reading articles about his single-mindedness spurred me to compete at every phase of the game. Even in practice. Even in a “walk-through.” Even throwing into a net during an after practice session with no one looking on, I’d find myself thinking, how would Kobe approach this? It drove me to focus and compete for every moment. Every drill. To chase after every morsel of success. To stay hungry about proving myself. I also learned to never be satisfied. Even when the coach says “great job” or your teammates cheer your efforts, Kobe taught me to look inward and ask “was that really your best man?” Because of looking to how Kobe and Michael Jordan competed, I took a daily look at what I was doing.

In recent years, now that my on field days are through, I found myself connecting with Kobe again as a father of daughters. I respected and admired how he was passionate about his girls. How he shared his love of the game with them. And I was just inspired of that immense pride that came through when he would talk about them. Today I mourn the loss of Kobe, Gianna and the others lost. But I celebrate the inspiration, dedication and love that Kobe expressed and so freely shared with the world. The impact and lessons from his life and game will resonate forever.

Saturday with the National Pastime in Japan

Time was when baseball was the American pastime. It may still be in name, but recently football and basketball have broken away to the top of the American psyche. Baseball is still a major sport, but it no longer holds the urgent, most relevant place in the nation’s heart.

Hop the Pacific Ocean to Japan. Here, baseball has deep roots and a culture unto its own. The major leagues see the fruits of Japan’s baseball culture with the yearly all-world exports that come to America. The culture that is spawning these talented ballplayers runs deep. It’s baseball, but it’s also not an exact copy of the American version. It’s not even called baseball for starters. It’s YAKYU. It has its own rhythm, tradition and strict belief system born out of the Japanese spirit.

Japan has made the game of baseball their own. Transforming it into its national sport on its terms.

Baseball is everywhere. Walk down the streets any day of the week and you’ll notice packs of young ballplayers, in full uniform and helmets traveling around like rabid baseball gangs. With bat bags and gear in tow, they travel in full team packs. They head to and from practice. They stop and take shadow cuts in the alleys. They worship the game. A visual reminder of how pervasive the game is.

On the subways, people of all ages wear the hats of their favorite Japanese league teams. Young school kids hang stuffed team mascots from their backpacks. On game day, people will fully gear up in uniform, hat, holding tenants or plastic team bats. More baseball worship throughout the city.

On Saturdays, working men and women turn out to the local ballparks, in full uniform, to play the game. Here they use a rubber ball and sometimes play double or triple headers. These fully uniformed men and women, looking like pros, glide by on their bikes or scooters, racing to assemble at the fields. Many of them play for corporate, company sponsored teams. They play other companies. Coming together over baseball.

Locals stand and populate the bleachers, watching the hyper local leagues play their games. The talent level is amateur, but it’s full on baseball. Minus the hardball. But they keep at it, weekend after weekend. Holding onto the game in their way. Going through the routines. Swinging bats and limbering up before the game. Watching the previous game finish up. Communing with the gods of baseball. Or Yakyu rather.

In summer, the nation turns its psyche towards Koshien—the all Japan high school baseball tournament that dominates all media. Stars here become legends that endure for decades. Baseball in Japan rewards its followers with immortality.

As I pass by these Saturday games and observe them from the outside of the fence, I tip my cap to their diligent diamond worship. In a country where sport doesn’t hold the same cultural significance as it does in the west, there is something deeply significant with Japan’s connection to baseball. The inspiration and nostalgia moves me. All hail the national pastime. To Yakyu, the vehicle which transports the Japanese spirit. And every weekend, it gains a head of steam, rounds third and heads for home.

Here Comes Rui Hachimura...

With everyone in NBA circles focused on the hype around Zion Williamson, I think people might be sleeping on Rui Hachimura. While he was a very much heralded lottery draft pick (the first player from Japan to ever go that high) he wasn’t necessarily viewed as a slam dunk. He was seen as athletic, unselfish and pretty much viewed as a defensive specialist. However, this is a guy who has shockingly only been playing basketball for about seven years. And given the leaps he took at Gonzaga in his second and third years, it’s not ridiculous to imagine another leap or two from what we’ve already seen. With his play in the recent FIBA world basketball championships, he showed that he could carry the offensive load, and at times even dominate. This was something he didn’t need to show on a more balanced Gonzaga offense. But now that he has shown the ability to dominate on both ends of the court, I expect his stock to rise even more. There will always be an adjustment period for rookies as their bodies get used to going against much larger and more athletic players. But the flashes Rui has shown could turn into something truly special once he hits his NBA stride.

And Now... Your Yoyogi Crows!

From the Land of the Rising Heat

Roki Sasaki.

The next monster of one hundred years.

A spindly 16-year old who was born to hurl a baseball. To throw at blinding speeds. All of his long-limbed body folding and unfolding in proper timing and efficiency, to unleash a sonic boom with the snap of his right wrist. Eliciting oohs-and-ahhs with every blaze of glory. Poor high school hitters, trying to make sense of phenomenal warp speeds—fanning blindly at the gust of baseball wind rushing past them. Failing with the futility of trying to drink soup with a single chopstick. No chance in this world or any other.

It is the stuff of anime or manga lore. A Chosen Boy, rising to national prominence. The Japanese Dream. Gracing the nation’s newspapers. Dominating long segments of airtime on nightly primetime. Triggering the tweets of celebrities. A whole country in rapt attention of Sasaki’s mound exploits. If you’ve been following Japanese baseball for any amount of time, you know the cadence and intensity the country’s mainstream fervor burns with. You’ve experienced the hallowed tones used to speak of these myths who emerge from the depths of Japan. Splashing to the surface fully realized, heaven sent from the mountain top, into the spotlight of Japanese media hysteria. First there was Dice-K, then Darvish, then Ma-kun. All moving along the celestial baseball timeline. Now, here stands Roki Sasaki. Number one in your program. Number one trending topic.

There is an obvious innocence when you see Roki standing on the mound. He’s just doing what he’s done every day of his life. It’s impossible for him to know that the very axis of baseball power now spins around him like a tightly wound slider.

It’s impossible for him to know that a single speeding fastball from his fingertips, topping 100 mph cracks the earth to its very core. That it sends a tremor over land and cyber space. A single Sasaki pitch, in less than a second, travels the world. The smack of the catcher’s glove, mass broadcasting a clear message. Announcing a presence. A baseball Spector. A new man-child has awakened in Japan.

Ready your scouts.

Prepare your fanbases.

Notify your coaches. Ping the redditors. The hype is resonating. Empty your pockets and prepare your best offers. Work on your Japanese etiquette. For soon, baseball innocence will be ready for market. This innate ability is available to be bought and sold. This lively arm is ready to join the arms race immemorial between Yankees and would-be-Yankee-killers. Always just one mystical pitching arm away from tipping the balance of power in the baseball universe.

Roki knows not which chalk line he is drawing nearer every day. His moment of crossing is coming. The final inning change. Until then, the redditors are worm-holing deep into a wikipedia frenzy. The American sportswriters are firing up their mobile word processors. We’ve got a live one here boys. Hear that? That’s the sound of a thousand bloggers cueing up lofty think pieces lauding the modernity of American baseball’s reliance on science, and bashing the archaic ways of Japanese ball that would put young pitcher’s arm in danger through stoic, traditional overwork. For in Japan, pitchers throw everyday without mercy. Without rest. (And in the darkest parts of Japanese baseball, without water.) For here, pitch limits don’t exist and taking a starter out of a game is viewed as a sign of weakness.

Young Roki is sparkling culture shock in the sporting world. The presumptuous and stubborn East versus West debate. Old school versus new school. Wrong versus right. Crystalized through the lens of sport. One of the most rooted in tradition sports. Which has yielded vastly different mentalities and ballplayers on two sides of the world.

Young Roki? He’s just trying to climb to the top of Japanese baseball Mt. Everest. He stands now on a Mt. Fuji peak, ruling Japan, and looking to claim legitimate baseball immortality by powering his team all the way to the Koshien title. To win the national high school baseball tournament. For in Japan, this conquest carries a perpetual cultural royalty. It’s a deep sporting honor on par with rising to national fame during March Madness. Even millionaire Japanese MLB stars, like Dice-K and Darvish still speak in reverent tones about their time at Koshien. Considering it the crowning jewel of their careers. For better or worse, it’s all down hill from the cultural highs of Koshien.

Hence the intense burn. Hence the meteoric pitch counts. Hence the literal embrace of giving everything for the good of your team. It’s an iconic sacrifice that echoes the Japanese love of the collective. The country rallies around, imbuing itself with a self-confirmation of their national identity, holding a mirror up top who they really are, all by living vicariously through young sports stars in the national spotlight. Young icons who leave fleeting but indelible impressions on the psyche of a nation.

And so now, in this moment, the world turns to Roki Sasaki. It turns for Roki. For now he unwittingly shoulders the weight and soul of this island nation. Shoulders that are still developing, that are already capable of unusual feats of diamond magic and of turning the world’s head with the snap of a lethal, embarassment-wreaking breaking ball.

Enter Roki Sasaki.

The Ghosts of Baseball Past on an Unnamed Tokyo Alley

NBA Finals Game 2: Revenge of Kevin McCallister

Call it the curse of Home Alone. As Drake looked to replicate his Game 1 dominance, he made a critical error by sampling a piece of 90s pop culture. On the back of his hoodie, one of his minions had iron transferred the image of Kevin McCallister from the seminal, feel good Macauley Culkin slash Joe Pesci vehicle, Home Alone. With only the word “Kevin??!?!” appearing beneath the image—in a callout to injured MVP Kevin Durant. It appears Drake must secretly be a Warriors fan since Golden State exerted their hardcourt will, pulling off the Game 2 victory in the 6. Post game, sad Drake memes flooded the interwebs. Durant and Play Thompson roamed the hallways afterwards, shrieking echoing taunts through the foundation of the stadium directed at “Aubrey” himself. Durant, hooded and spindle legged, limped through the halls—visualizing the threat of his return haunting the Raptors like the Grim Reaper waiting in the wings. Your time is up Toronto. And Drake, er um Aubrey, there is a tombstone being etched with your visage on it as we speak. How will Drake respond to this trolling backfire? Time will tell which pop cultural reference he will try and twist to his own advantage next. With Durant set for a mid series return, Aubrey better speed things up.

NBA Finals Game 1 MVP Troll

Drake took control of the NBA Finals. Exerting his presence from the sidelines and executing God’s Plan. Transmitting his aura into the prehistoric spirit of the Raptors. While some refer to Drake’s actions as “antics,” the final score left no doubt as to who controls the Finals. It’s Drake. Drake controls these Finals. Not since Spike Lee has their been an uber fan willing to put a franchise on their back and carry it to Larry O’Brien glory. Drake is unstoppable. The lint picking was the shoulder shrug of these Finals. While Drake has yet to insert himself into the lineup, he has inserted himself into the storyline and central intrigue of these Finals. How will Klay Thompson respond? Will Steph’s father or mother step up? With Curry and company busy and tied up with the Raptors on the floor, Drake is free to roam like the spirit animal and “Clever Girl” Velociraptor mascot that he is. It’s like that scene in Jurassic Park where Timmy and Lex are scrambling around a kitchen trying to evade a hungry pack of velociraptors. Only in this version, the raptor picks lint from Timmy’s head and then eats whoever he damn well pleases. Perhaps Draymond Green is the Tyrannosaur in this amber encased metaphor? Only in this version, there is no stopping Drake from ruling Isla Nublar and putting Hotline Bling on blast over the park PA system. Sparing no expense. It’s gonna be electric fence wire bling if the Warriors think they have the pop cultural muscle to step to Drake’s neck-bearded swag. They’re already fenced in.

Western Conference Finals!!

As a lifelong Portland Trailblazers fan, playoff success is usually a once a decade luxury. 1992 saw us battling Michael Jordan and the Bulls on their path toward eventual immortality. 2000 saw us on the cusp of returning to the Finals, only to experience one of the most brutal collapses in sport history in the final 12 minutes--rolling out the red carpet for Shaq and Kobe's Lakers to startup their dynasty. The next decade was filled with scandal, catastrophic injury and unending heartbreak.

Phew.

I'm just going to enjoy this moment. Who knows what happens from here. But the Portland Trailblazers are heading back to the Western Conference Finals for the first time in 19 years. Being a sports fan is a relative experience--and as a Blazermaniac, this moment means something. Because in those moment, the dream is alive in Rip City. 

The city of Portland has a long memory. Our basketball heroes (and villains) become local folk heroes that stay engrained in our consciousness. Each season brings another ring around the shared tree trunk of Portlandia. We mark time with the ups and downs of the Blazers. In this moment, we will wax poetic. We'll focus on the rainbow and not the rain. Because in this moment, we are one of four teams left with a chance for glory.

So here's to Dame Lillard, CJ McCollum and our entire band of merry Blazers. It sure has been a long strange trip. Next stop, the Bay to face the seemingly invincible Golden State Warriors to see who rules the West.

Go Blazers!