This past Tuesday, I completed my third year of college. My favorite show from pre-teen adolescence, Rugrats, aired its final episode nine years ago. (We're pretending this never happened.) I can now grow a beard so feral, untamed and red that it renders my countenance that of some less impressive, inter-temporal lovechild of Chuck Norris and Rutherford B. Hayes. But nothing this week has forced me to grasp both my advancing age and the indomitable ephemeral quality of time as has the recent announcement of Jesuit English teacher Charlie McGannon's retirement.
Calling Chuck McGannon an institution of Jesuit High School is more facile and superfluous than deeming hair product an important element of Mel Kiper Jr.'s repertoire. In 2008-9, the one of his 43 years of service I spent as his English IV pupil, he emanated a sense of transcendence that belied his eldery appearance; against all conventional wisdom, it just seemed like the Dragon Slayer would forever be gesticulating and writing inanities on his treasured chalkboard, exasperating and entertaining us with equal vigor. In a mercurial year for my beloved high school, one still reeling from the tragic early death of English teacher/class act Jeff Wilson, his departure represents another bodyblow. Imagining Jesuit without him is a hollowing thought.
Thus, in honor of the man responsible for my PSAT performance and my tendency to employ an esoteric vocabulary which few people, including I, truly comprehend, we're giving you the seven 2,961 vocab words which define the other event currently consuming my thoughts: that's right, the NBA playoffs! (Note: I'm not sure if all of these words are actually on the infamous list of 2,961 PSAT vocab words, but they sure sound like they should be).
Without further ado:
Confounding: For a playoff season that began with an air of inevitability about the eventual outcome, these past three weeks have proven yet again that, for all we presume to know, nothing is certain in life except death, taxes and irrelevant commentary from Shaquille O'Neal. In trouncing sexy Western champion-pick Denver in 6 without their lone All-Star, becoming the darlings of the NBA and winning a game in San Antonio for the first time since the heyday of the Spice Girls , the Warriors are just the tip of the iceberg. We've also seen the Spurs, archetypes for selfless basketball for my conscious lifetime, pass less than Tim Tebow did for the Jets last season; the Clippers instantly morph from world-beaters into such a disjointed, poorly-directed disaster it's amazing they're not an NBC sitcom; the Knicks hover between title contenders and a symbol for everything wrong with today's NBA, with no real in-between; and Derek Fisher providing more of an impact for a top-seed than Dwayne Wade. Additionally, many of our matchups--from the current Thunder-Grizzlies smallball/front court chess match to this wacky Warriors-Spurs series--feature such drastic contrasts in style that I often feel like I'm watching the basketball equivalent of a "Jersey Shore" episode on C-Span. All of those conundrums, of course, pale in comparison to the mysterious success of the Bulls, who ousted the Nets and stole home-court advantage from the juggernaut Heat despite ailing from a slew of injuries and taking their offensive cue from this guy. Not to say anything of the coaching decisions of Vinny Del Negro and the ramblings of Reggie Miller, which would befuddle the executive board of Mensa.
The unpredictability is not what truly confounds me; I've watched sports long enough to understand that the contingency of reality tends to disrupt the narratives we complacently assign to these things. Rather, I'm baffled that in spite of the many apparent threats to its entertainment value, the NBA is more riveting than ever. After the regular season ended, I reckoned we were barreling toward a predictable but satisfying eventual outcome, with a Heat victory against the Thunder in the Finals punctuating two months of buzzer-beaters and compelling drama and confirming the Heat as the Heatles to the Thunder's Rolling Stones. Instead, these playoffs have featured the devastating Westbrook injury (more on this later), the triumph of the most boringly effective team in the league (Memphis) and a Heat team, to this point, more methodical than mesmerizing. That the playoffs have overcome such "deficiencies" to remain as intriguing ever rebuffs the common criticisms of the NBA as predictable, contrived an inhuman. Instead of the classically NBA-esque star spectacle we expected, we've experienced gritty, thoughful team basketball marked by occasional fits of unexplainable individual brilliance. In other words, the NBA is currently channeling the best qualities of March Madness without sacrificing the theatrics or quality that distinguish the pro game from its college counterpart. I feel like I'm watching Inception all over again: this isn't what I expected and I'm not sure precisely what's going on, but I'm sure as heck enjoying the ride.
Bedazzling: Of course, "entertainment" and "2013 NBA Playoffs" should conjure up warm sentiments for the precocious gun-slingers in Golden State for NBA fans awake for the last few weeks. Due to the pesky late semester intervention of exams, papers and Game of Thrones episodes, I have encountered this Warrior phenomenon largely the old fashioned way, through highlights and stupefied Steph Curry-related Tweets and GIFs. Last night marked my first exposure to extended Warriors game action, in which Klay Thompson (34 points, 14 rebounds, 8-of-9 from 3) enjoyed the best playoff game ever by someone with a weirdly spelled common first name. Certainly, Curry's growing legend accounts for the lion's share of the Dubs' appeal: he's approximating a more likable, more versatile Reggie Miller, a competent point guard nevertheless capable of scoring in Kobe-like spurts. Still, the team's overall style has played an instrumental role in endearing them to fans these past few weeks; they've seized the torch from the Thunder, the Rockets and the Nuggets as the league's most quintessentially "young" team. Without the steady post presence of David Lee, the Warriors have relied on speed, outside shooting, and more outside shooting to enervate their opponents into submission (especially in the third quarter, when Curry has burned teams to the tune of 60.7 percent 3-point shooting and the Warriors have averaged a sizzling 29.4 points per game). Defensively they rely on blocks, clogging passing lanes and converting missed shots into transition opportunities to mold the game to their style and pace.
Will this strategy propel the Warriors to a Finals berth? Nope; even if they survive the Spurs, the interior girth of the Grizzlies/ability of the Thunder to beat them at their own game will doom the Dubs. Was it smart for Marc Jackson play Curry, a player with ankles more fragile than Amanda Bynes' current emotional state, 42.5 minutes a game? We'll let Will cover that one. But the Warriors, for all their sporadic defensive breakdowns and late-game mental lapses, are demonstrating such obvious verve and camaraderie that we're helpless to do anything but sit back and enjoy the spectacle. In a league that too often engenders cynicism, the Warriors have dared to do something truly revolutionary for a professional sports team these days: they're having fun.. Gilded as they are in terms of championship contention, the pure exuberance with which they approach the game--and a hefty helping of talent--have provided us fans with pure gold.
Irascible: While cantankerous relationships have always emerged between playoff opponents, this season has featured a few particularly savory instances of player, coach and even referee tempers simmering to a boiling point. One notable instance include the waning moments of Game 6, when Joey Crawford--after whistling both teams for what felt like 2,961 personal fouls--snapped like Rocco in the bar scene in Boondock Saints and tossed Chris Paul and Zack Randolph presumably for looking at him funny. We also had the infamous "dirty" comments from Marc Jackson after Game 5 of the Nuggets-Dubs series, when Marc Jackson criticized the Nuggets for targeting his players with malicious intent following a game in which his team recorded both flagrant fouls--and was somewhat justified.
As always happens, however, the real intrigue has arrived in this second round. While the Grizzlies batter their opponents with sheer size and tenacity--that the Clippers and Thunder, their opponents, lead playoff teams in personal fouls provides the empirical evidence--a true slugfest has emerged between the Heat and the Bulls, with the Bulls seemingly realizing that someone has to harass the Heatles now that the Celtics are over the hill. More fascinatingly, the Heat are taking the bait: though Miami seems too experienced and and adept a 3-point shooting team to succumb to the Bulls paint-packing pugnacity on defense, the lovable Rocky's from the Windy City have bruised, battered and rattled LeBron co--even when getting demolished as they did last night. The most remarkable thing about the Heat's 27-game season was the cold-blooded precision with which they played the most enthralling brand of basketball arguably witnessed since the Showtime Lakers: even when down big, the Heat could flip a switch, start having fun and kick it into overdrive with an almost nonchalant ease. Only the Bulls, whether by Tom Thibodeau's design or the natural enmity that organically festers between two teams that play as hard and loathe each other as much as these two do, have jolted the Heat out of cruise control since February. I hardly think the Heat's Game 1 loss and general peevishness this series will impede their march to the title; that'd be more outlandish than an administration distorting the details of a terrorist attack for political expediency. Regardless, their capitulation to the chippiness, along with the Grizzlies' ascendancy to de facto favorite status via deliberate physicality, highlights what a study in psychological composure the NBA playoffs provide. And yes, that sentence does make me yearn for the days when Metta World Peace was a playoff fixture.
Frowsy: I know for a fact this is a 2,961 word meaning "stale or sloppy." I honestly just threw it in here because it sounds cool and I needed a break, but it does accurately depict both the Knicks' shot selection and this guy.
Beowulf: Fine, you won't find Beowulf on the vocab section of the PSAT. But it would feel wrong if I left off Mr. McGannon's favorite Middle Ages Scandinavian hero. Obtuse and tedious, Beowulf nevertheless sharpened my perspective on the meaning of heroism; for all his brawn and valor, Beowulf's capacity to devote those prodigious skills entirely to others distinguish him from the Homeric epic heroes. He was a characteristically Jesuit hero, a king who nobly chose to be a servant.
Throughout his career, Kevin Durant has embodied a similar balance between selflessness and sublimity. Even as he has evolved into the league's most dependable scorer during the past six seasons, he has become the most efficient--opting for higher-percentage shots and boosting his field goal percentage over 50 percent to maintain his scoring output while affording teammates more opportunities--and raised his assist averages every year. During the past three seasons, as the Thunder have progressed deeper and deeper into the playoffs, this has proven both a virtue and a vulnerability. Often unguardable, Durant too often meandered around the perimeter waiting for pindown screens the past few years while Westbrook steered the team in (and out) of crucial games. That he scored 18 more points on 16 less shots than Westbrook in last year's Finals underline both the foundation of Durant's value and one of his few flaws.
Thus,Westbrook's injury thrust KD into an unprecedented position for a superstar of his caliber: in order to truly sacrifice for his team, Durant would have to play selfishly. It's like asking Morgan Freeman to play the lead role in the movie; he may be a legend and fully capable, but he much prefers to thrive as the supporting actor that steals the show, the narrator of marching penguins rather than the marching penguin himself A statistical tour-de-force has ensued, with Durant averaging 35.5 points and an absurdly burdensome 34.1 percent usage rate (meaning he has been involved in more than 34 percent of EVERYTHING the Thunder have done) in the six games since Westbrook's injury. And those numbers don't even begin to watch how Herculean his offensive effort has become, from his new ball-handling duties as a point forward to dealing with constant traps to taking seemingly every big shot down the stretch. Even during Tuesday's loss to Grizzlies, most offensive possessions for the Thunder in the fourth quarter involved four petrified OKC players standing transfixed as they looked to Durant to bail them out. Until the Grizzlies clamped down in the last two minutes, he did. The absence of Westbrook may have scuppered the Thunder's chances at a title and cast a pallor over these Western Conference playoffs, but it has also allowed us to enjoy for the first time a fully unbridled Durantula. And even as he plays the best statistical basketball of his career, you can tell he'd rather be letting his buddy Russ shoot 25 times a game while he gets his stealthy 28 and 8.
Most NBA-related analysis during the past year has touted the league's physical and schematic evolution, with the players bigger, better and smarter than ever before. In such a climate, the ability to adapt has surpassed all others in importance; that's why LeBron is far better player now, as a 56 percent shooter and lockdown four-position defender who vacillates between scorer and distributor depending on the circumstance, than he was five years ago when he averaged three more points per game. Adaptability defines players such as Tim Duncan, Marc Gasol and Chris Paul, and the lack of it barring Carmelo Anthony from making the leap from superstardom to transcendence. And however this all plays out, I'll remember these playoffs in large part for Kevin Durant's ability to adapt these past two weeks, to choose the hard, uncomfortable route over surrounder. Durant, in the word's purest sense, has played hero-ball.
Ennobling: Charlie McGannon may be leaving Jesuit as one of its most famous and important teachers ever, but he was far from perfect. For one thing, he certainly played favorites, to the chagrin of anyone without a strong pedigree in varsity athletics. He also, to the chagrin of everyone in English IV, routinely peppered his students with tangents about dragons and the PSAT and gauntlets less comprehensible than the average Bon Iver lyric. Most disturbingly of all, many of us feared that we were spending our time inefficiently in Charlie's class; that only the hours poured into practice tests, vocabulary review and Middle Ages lore rivaled our long research paper--on which nearly all students received an A--in terms of futility. McGannon, we snickered, offered us nothing more than a mildly annoying diversion from our otherwise dreary junior schedules.
The last four years have slowly but surely demonstrated the arrogance and foolishness of such sentiments. I have utilized the experience McGannon's class throughout college, from his test-taking advice to the research paper experience, and now regard the skills I learned in that musty first-floor classroom as some of my most valuable as a student. You see, now that I'm older and wiser, I realize that the theatrics served a deliberate purpose: without our even realizing it, McGannon prepared us for the mundane, tedious rigors of real world work. He was, in a sense, the teaching iteration of his idol Beowulf, fighting the good fight for a cause outside himself.
There are many things about these playoffs, as with English IV, that rankle me. I hate that we lost Westbrook, an unappreciated paragon of hard work and team play, and the opportunity to watch a fully-loaded Thunder team. I hate that Derrick Rose can't play, and that the saga surrounding him is clouding our appreciation of this gritty Bulls team. I hate that the Celtics and Lakers are kaput, that we can't help but resent slow-paced but commendable teams such as the Grizzlies and Pacers a little. And it absolutely needles me that these playoffs, as Zack Lowe wrote a few weeks ago, feel more like a Heat coronation than an open competition.
Yet in five years time, something tells me I'll be as glad for paying such close attention to these playoffs as I am now that I had Charlie McGannon. When I remember just these first few weeks and recall the Warriors, the buzzer beaters, the fascinating matchups, the intrigue, and the opportunity to watch LeBron and KD and Paul and Melo, I know I'll be a happier and better man for it. As hard as many of us try to live well, we too often forget the qualities that can inspire us to conquer 2,961 words worth of vocab. These playoffs, like McGannon's class, revolve around those qualities. And what's more, I'm simply having a hell of a lot of fun watching them.
Thanks for your service, Mr. McGannon. Best of luck slaying whatever dragon awaits you.
