Madge Outspur Spurs, Mix In Some Dunks Just For Kicks

Let's see you make a three with Tim riding you like a pony, you cocky shit.

(Photo by D. Clarke Evans/NBAE via Getty Images)

This might be a little too much information about me, but for various reasons, the girlfriend and I, had our first sexual tryst in about two weeks Sunday night. In the, uh, afterglow, I asked her, embarrassed, “That went bad, didn’t it?”

“Well, it wasn’t good,” she replied, brutally honest as always.

And that pretty much sums up the Spurs performance against the Madge. It wasn’t good.

Dammit, this always happens when I hype this team up. They immediately shit the bed their next game. Two weeks ago I told Manoli after the team won the game on Phoenix on Mason’s buzzer beater that they’d probably go on a ten game winning streak. Shortly thereafter, they lost to the lowly Bucks – at home. They can’t seem to string more than four or five wins together, and that, in and of itself, isn’t the worst thing in the world, but the frustrating part is that they can’t seem to beat anybody who’s actually any good.

What are their best wins so far? The Suns game on Christmas? The one at Dallas? It’s not a very long list. The game was so dispiriting, despite my obvious elation about the Eagles game earlier in the day, that I even took the time to re-read my last recap, just to evaluate if I was too effusive in my praise of the team to this point of the season. I mean, honestly, even though it might seem like integrity in a sports blogger is about as useful as an asshole on an elbow, I do kinda value my reputation as a Spurs commentator and I don't want anyone in the world to think of me as the Dave Spadaro of the Spurs.

Spadaro, you see, is this fellow who is, by far, my single least favorite thing about the Eagles organization. He is basically, a flak, a tool, a PR spin doctor employed by the team (to the point of them giving him an NFC Championship ring after the '04 season) masquerading as a "journalist" who always sees the silver cloud no matter how badly the team flubs a game, a draft pick, a free agent signing, whatever. He is to the Eagles what Scott McClellan was to the Bush administration. Every training camp, he talks up some schmoe like he's going to be some Pro-Bowler. This year it was running back Lorenzo Booker, whom Mr. Spadaro practically promised would be the second coming of Thurman Thomas in July. Booker, it turned out, could never catch or block; pretty important requirements of a running back in the Eagles' offense, and has thusly been on the inactive list for the majority of the season. He has about as much of a chance of making a contribution in our next playoff game as I do. It'd be one thing if Spuds was always optimistic and sunny about everyone and everything, but what really bothers me about him is how cold and dismissive he is about the same guys he gushed about once they leave the organization. No matter who gets cut, or traded, or leaves in free agency, Spadaro always acts like the guy wasn't a big loss, was on the decline, was overrated, etc. I hate that about him.

Anyway, I really don't want to be that guy. Yet, I find myself in a position of having to be a homer, or at least a strong advocate of the Spurs, just to counterbalance the pharmacist's overwhelming negativity. Seriously Matthew, at this point you're like an honorary Eagles fan. It's weird, the contrast between the attitudes on the two Spurs blogs I choose to rut with. I am, above and beyond, the most negative guy on Spursdynasty, yet I'm the cheeriest on PtR. Meanwhile, on Spurstalk.com, which I frequent often, I'm probably in the middle somewhere.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'll have to be more careful in what I write in the future so don't sound like a total dipshit. I obviously have my biases, but there have always been certain guys I've been critical of. Horry and Finley being the two that immediately come to mind. And Tony, of course, because let's face it, Tony Parker sucks and he's the sole reason Manu doesn't average 30 points and 10 assists a game. This year, I've seen the folly of my past ways and have decided to stop ripping Pop, thereby depriving me (and therefore, all of you) of 40% of my funniest material. Also, they finally got rid of Horry (there goes another 20%). Now all I have left to rip on is Fin and Bruce Bowen.

Oh that reminds me: Bruce Bowen is terrible. Like seriously, he is the second least valuable guy on our 14 man roster, after the JV. With Manu back and Udoka still on the roster, why Bowen isn't getting a steady stream of DNP-CDs is beyond me. Even Manu hinted in his column in the Argentina papers that Bruce has pretty much lost it, writing that Mason has taken most of his minutes because "Bruce cannot play forever." I'm sure that'll go over well in the locker room. I have to admit, that was kind of a dumb thing of Manu to do. He probably shouldn't be writing immediately after frustrating losses. It took me a couple years to figure that out.

Anyway, as far as the game goes, I liked very little of what I saw. We settled for way too many long two point jumpshots, too many contested shots in general. That's pretty rare for us. Usually the Spurs take more open shots than just about any team in the league. Orlando wasn't doing anything special or unusual defensively, outside of not double-teaming Tim, and even though that limited our three point opportunities, the team still didn't do a very good job of moving the ball, cutting, just looking for good shots in general. The team just played lazy basketball, basically, and there was no excuse for it. They had plenty of rest and they weren't playing against exactly the most capable or committed group of defensive players. The laziness extended to the defensive end as well as we gave Orlando way too many open looks at three, even on the shots they missed, and they really didn't have to work very hard for their open shots. By my count of the 14 threes they made, only two, maybe three, were the byproducts of good offensive execution and good ball movement by the Magic. The rest were all very preventable and just guys overplaying the drive, not fighting through screens, blowing assignments, what have you.

I kept track of the makes, and as you can see we can't really pinpoint the blame on one or two guys. Pretty much everybody screwed up once or twice (or thrice) and were victimized by Orlando's many shooters.

Nelson 1 – Parker

Lewis 1 – Bonner

Johnson 1 – Nobody

Reddick 1 – Mason

Turkoglu 1 – Bowen

Reddick 2 – Mason

Lee 1 – Ginobili

Nelson 2 – Ginobili

Turkoglu 2 - Finley

Reddick 3 - Hill

Bogans 2 – Parker

Lewis 2 – Ginobili

Reddick 4 – Mason

Nelson 3 – Parker

I'm gonna take a wild guess that three point defense will be the emphasis of Pop's video review before the Lakers game.

Individually, the only guys I liked were Thomas, Finley, Duncan and Hill, in that order. Thomas should've definitely played more, and with Tim, but Pop was too worried about Orlando's small lineup, I guess. Duncan started the game on fire and finished well, but was MIA during the middle two quarters. Manu, I could forgive if his only fault was crappy three point shooting or the four turnovers, but he had both, plus he was among the leading defensive culprits for all those Orlando threes, so I'd have to say he played a sub-par game. I still disagree with him that he's not being as daring or as explosive as he used to be. Four of his five baskets were layups and he either missed or had blocked another three attempts inside. Manu is conveniently forgetting that there were plenty of games last season where he made maybe one or two layups the whole game, but was still scoring 25 or 30 or whatever just because he was hitting so many threes. Sorry, but for my money Gino is going to the basket as often, if not more so, as he has the past few years. He's just not dunking.

Speaking of that, here's your stat of the day: The Spurs are dead last in the NBA in dunks, with 27. The next closest is Indiana. With 61. Tim is the team leader with 14, which is good for 94th. And before you think, "Well this is no big deal, it just probably means they get a lot of layups." Au contraire, mon frere. The team is also averaging only 25.2 inside points a game, also dead last. They rank, you guessed it, 30th and last in free throw attempts per game, and just to show that this is not a stat based on their slow pace of play, are also 30th and last in percentage of their shots where they're fouled, at 9%. They're second to last in And-1s. They're even 26th in team rebounding, an area they've usually dominated in the past.

In other words, "Live by the three, die by the three." We're like a very slow, unathletic version of the D'Antoni Suns, except without all those pesky Amare dunks. And we play better defense. Usually.

So how do we keep winning 2/3 of our games? Well, like I said, our offense does usually get a lot of open shots (another reason we don't get fouled much) and it helps to have three of the best 30 players in the world. Although to hear Manu tell it, he thinks he sucks right now. Someone asked him if he's eager to show the Lakers "the real Manu Ginobili" after being so limited in the playoffs last year, and he responded, "Well I haven't shown the other 28 teams much so far."

Ouch.

The guy I was most unhappy with though, and I swear I'm not joking, was Tony. His numbers were good the first three quarters, but even then, he wasn't really playing as well as it seemed, settling for way too many long twos. I fear Parker will never understand, nor will his adoring fans at Spurstalk, that even when the shots are made, long twos are a "win" for the defense. Outside of a turnover, a long two is really the best shot the defense can force. As far as his point guard skills went, it got progressively worse. He started well, with four assists in the first quarter, then had two more in the second, and then... none in the second half.

And let's not beat around the bush here. Tony was absolute crap in the fourth quarter, which is strange, because as much shit as I've given him for not being clutch in the past, he has admittedly been our best player so far this season in fourth quarters. He was awful in the fourth against Orlando, and the lowlight wasn't the missed baseline runner or the missed layup late. No, the real beauty was when he stepped in front of Manu just when Mason was set to pass him the ball, waved Ginobili off into the corner, caught the ball and fired up an awkward jumper for an airball. Plainview was noticeably unamused, and my reaction was somewhat stronger.

Eh whatever. This will end one of three ways, as it always has. Manu might struggle from outside all season, thereby not giving Tony any incentive to pass him the ball or Pop any incentive to tell Tony to pass him the ball. Or, more likely, Manu will eventually get hot and get more shots run for him. Or maybe he'll just snap one day and beat the hell out of Frenchy McWonderbutt in front of 18,000 people. Just so we're official, I'm on the record as stating that the second thing is what I'm hoping for, but the third would be kinda morbidly interesting, in an "witnessing Armageddon" sort of thing. At least we'd lead off SportsCenter for a night.

As badly as the Spurs played against Orlando, they can take comfort in the fact that there are many more games to play and improve. One such opportunity comes tonight against the Lakers, who struggled to beat Houston yesterday. Me and Amanda tried it again Monday morning, with much better results, and if we can satisfy each other on the second try, then really there is no chance why the Spurs can't satisfy their fans this go around.

P.S. Notice how I didn't mention the officiating? That's because I'm classy and shit. Rest assured, if that debacle happened in May instead of January, this here blog entry would've had a different tone.

The Funkiness Has Overwhelmed Me

I just got back after a rollicking four day vacation in Vegas, as is our tradition for the NFL’s wildcard weekend. Manoli is all about the journey, so we drove. In an unrelated note, Manolis is insane. Here are the highlights:

Thursday – We drove southeast. Our first stop, a bit past Gilroy, was Casa de Fruta, where I came up with the brilliant idea of buying all kinds of different fresh nuts so I could make my dream mixed nuts bag. Why did I do this? Because I hate pralines, that’s why. I bought super large cashews, roasted-salted almonds, large macadamia nuts and Virginia peanuts. Cost: $23. What a frugal start! Also, we ate lunch at the café there and while the teenage busboy looked like a serial killer, I was much more concerned about the waiter, who had one of those overly quiet, overly polite voices that you know is overcompensating for a dark, troubled past.

After that, we pulled into Fresno, just to see what it’s like. I was a bit apprehensive, because Fresno is like the Armenian capital of California (true story, I once beat a speeding ticket driving through Fresno County by telling a police officer that I’m Turkish and I really wanted to get out of there in a hurry) but Manoli wanted to stop for a soda or something. So in our drive downtown we saw: A prison on Main Street, a Mexican guy pissing into a bush, a homeless guy with a sign saying he wants to buy bullets to rob a bank, lots of sex shops, and scores of ugly people. I’ve never seen Manoli so depressed in my life. We high-tailed it out of there.

In the afternoon we stopped in Selma, the raisin capital of California, because Manoli promised me we could go to my beloved Cattleman’s Steakhouse for dinner. The meal was sensational, if pricy, and our waiter looked like part Dungeons & Dragons nerd and part cowboy. Manoli, who’s a vegetarian now, ordered broccoli and a potato. O how I despise him. We lodged for the night in the town of Tehachapi, named after you know, the Woohoo kind of Indians, and ironically, our motel manager was a Red dot Indian.

Friday – We ate lunch at the Mad Greek Diner in Baker, a town fifty miles or so outside of Vegas. Baker was depicted in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” as a hellishly hot, desolate town with nothing to do, and maybe in the summertime it is, during the winter it’s a tourist spot with plenty of dining options and gift shops. The Mad Greek advertised their gyros and (this doesn’t sound very Greek) strawberry shakes in billboards a hundred miles away and I must say, both lived up to the hype. Unfortunately, we sat next to some bovine family that may or not have been the inspiration for either Mike Judge’s “Idiocracy” or the society of “Wall-E.” The Vegetarian had some pita bread with Zaziki sauce.

We took the wrong exit into Vegas so we were stuck in strip traffic for two hours, so I missed most of the Spurs game at Memphis (I bet it was amazing!). We got pulled over by bike cops because he didn’t have his registration, proof of insurance or even a valid driver’s license. He was a gun in the glove compartment away from being Plaxico Burress, basically. The cops actually made me drive the rest of the way to our hotel. Manoli wasn’t pleased and proceeded to take it out on me by being a miserable passenger-seat driver. Apparently I did 47 things wrong during the half mile between where we got pulled over and the Tropicana Hotel’s valet parking station.
Upon checking in, it was more Keystone Kops for us, and this time it was all my fault. First I dropped my driver’s license between the front desk and the trek to our room, then after gratefully hearing my name on the intercom and retrieving the card from the security desk, we took the elevator again, only to realize that in all the panic I completely forgot to ask what our room number was. Another twenty minutes wasted. Finally in the room we unpacked and took a tram over to Mandalay Bay, where we saw the final third of the Spurs game.

After the deliria of that wore off, I spotted a bar called “Eye Candy” that promised titillation and buxom cocktail waitresses in skimpy short skirts. What we got was fifteen minutes of total shunning by all the ladies (who upon closer inspection weren’t all that attractive to begin with). Since we weren’t being served, I went to the bar to get my Bloody Mary and Manoli’s long island. Total cost, with tip: $29. Gotta love Vegas. These same two drinks, with way bigger glasses and way more booze, would’ve cost $13 at my bar, so with tip, like $13.25.

Our watery drinks downed and the Alabama-Utah college game boring us to tears, we walked down Tropicana Avenue to the Hooters casino for dinner. I had some mighty fine wings and some good ogling. Manoli had onion rings. The waitstaff was considerably more appealing than what we saw at Eye Candy, although the outfits can make practically anyone look good, I suppose. I think they make the ladies tape their boobs together really tight and then lift them two feet so they’re at chin level. I think the inventor of the Wonderbra was just some guy who had a hankering for some diarrhea-causing wings one afternoon.

Dinner consumed, it was off to the MGM for poker (they have by far the best setup of all the major hotels on the strip, I think). It was going swimmingly for Aaron at 3-6 Limit. I played very few hands and seemingly every big pot I entered I won. I had one ace high flush and one Broadway (ace high straight) but I won a couple with two pair as well. I was up $170 or so when “the incident” happened.

Manoli violated protocol, simple as that. We’ve always had an agreement that if it’s just the two of us left in a pot in a casino that we would just check all the way. That situation came up Friday night after I raised after the flop to drive the last guy out and Manoli called. Fully expecting him to honor our agreement, he bet and I gave him a look like, “What the hell are you doing?”
I grumpily called, he bet again, I called, and he showed me the winning hand and I promptly told the dealer that I was done and started stacking my chips. Manoli tried to stop me and asked me to talk to him privately, but I wasn’t having it, so he stormed off. We finally talked it over and he explained that he was going to give me the money for the turn and river bets back all along, he just didn’t want it to appear suspicious for us to start checking each other after all that initial betting and raising.

“But you wanting to have a private conversation with me in front of the table after I ask to leave doesn’t look suspicious?” I asked.

Tempers cooled and he admitted he was wrong. Eventually. You don’t just change protocol without discussing it first, kids. The evening ended with me losing a hundred in blackjack. Fabulous.

Saturday – The day started way more peacefully, as we once again rode on over to Mandalay Bay around 11 a.m. or so to visit the shark aquarium they got over there. I don’t know if it sounds unmanly or whatever, but I’m a sucker for a good aquarium. It’s the one rich douche thing I would splurge on if I was wealthy. Well, that and the endless conveyor belt of ass, of course. I castigated Manoli for forgetting his camera, because he’s got one of those really fancy digital ones, and spent the next hour and a half lamely trying to take pictures of unpredictably moving fishies with my cellphone camera.

No, not my picture.

So on it was to the sportsbook to bet on the weekend’s first wildcard game, Falcons vs. Cardinals. I made a bunch of parlays, plus one bet for the Cardinals in the first half (-.5) and one on Anquan Boldin to score the first touchdown of the game for ten bucks at 7/1. Naturally Larry Fitzgerald got the first one. And even though the Cards were up 14-3 midway through the second quarter, a boneheaded Kurt Warner interception late led to Atlanta’s second touchdown and they went to half with a 17-14 lead. D’oh.

The Falcons were dominating the game and the time of the position, so I did what any smart fellow would and bet on Atlanta to win the second half. The first play, the Falcons fumbled, Arizona scooped up the ball and ran it in for a score and I figured it was going to be one of those days. At least the team I was rooting for all along won in the end.

For the second game, it was Chargers vs. Colts. I made a parlay of Indy (-2.5) plus the under. It was secure for, oh, probably the first 58 minutes of the game. But the Chargers punter had the game of his life and the stupid Colts couldn’t convert a measly third-and-two when it mattered and then in overtime San Diego won the coin toss and got like four straight calls from the zebras to get in position for the easy game winner field goal. Oh but losing just this bet would’ve been too easy to deal with my friends. No, the gods truly smiled upon me when the Chargers won in overtime not with the usual field goal but with a rare touchdown, therefore killing all my parlays as well. Well done. I managed to tread water in blackjack, despite some harrowing moments, but lost a hundred in poker.

Oh, and I lost a NBA-Hockey parlay when the Spurs decided to score 893 points in the first quarter and I lost the under (187.5) with them and the Sixers. Silly me, I thought they would be tired in a segababa. We at least ended the night on a good note, having a solid meal at Mon Abi Gabi at the Paris Hotel (who says I hate the French?) where on the way there I totally embarrassed Manoli by joyously accepting all the hooker cards the guys hand out on the street. I cannot emphasize enough how much I enjoy the hooker cards. I can’t even explain it. It’s not like I’d ever in a million years actually call one of the numbers. But I love collecting them. They are literally my favorite thing about Vegas.

Also, in other gambling news, I managed to tread water in blackjack, despite some harrowing moments, but lost a hundred in poker. I tried to win it back in blackjack, late at night, and at my table some Polish bald guy who went on a run like I’ve never seen in all my years. He lost like ten hands in a row, in every way conceivable, and every next hand he’d bet more. He must have dropped at least three grand in the time I was watching. The one hand he would’ve won, I hit on 12 with the dealer showing a four or something and took the bust card. He called me an idiot or something and I guess I deserved it. I cost the guy $500 and if he did it to me for $50, I’d have been incredibly pissed. I gladly left the table even money and went back to the room, hating the vibes of the Tropicana.

Sunday – We slept in and stayed in the room for Dolphins-Ravens. Neither of us had the energy to even pretend that the game would be exciting. We still made it with time to spare for Eagles-Vikings and I even confidently put a bet down on it. While my Iggles typically did almost everything they could to give the game away, they finally called the screen pass that I was begging of them for two and a half hours to pull away and won 26-14. Yay. Plus somewhere along the line I won like $200 in blackjack. Double yay. Also, pretty much the whole afternoon Manoli was trying to talk me into attending a, get this, a George Clinton and the P-Funk All-Stars concert, while I was trying to talk him into a No Limit Poker Tournament.

We ate dinner at the House of Blues, a southern-style BBQ joint, so of course, Manoli ordered grits. Manly. They do have kickass cornbread there though, so I’d recommend that. It comes with maple butter so you don’t have to use any of that sticky syrup. Screw you Vermont, I hate that shit. Anyway, we agreed to go our separate ways and I thought that would be that.
So I busted out like 30 minutes into the tournament and he found me making my buy in back at blackjack. He convinced me to just go to the dumb concert and said I’d buy my ticket if I buy him a drink. God, we’re gay.

I still had my bag of nuts with me this whole time (no matter how much I ate them, it wouldn’t empty – I guess $23 worth is a lot of nuts) so I had to check my nuts at the concert for $5. I hate this town. The first hour was okay, the opening band was Bob Marley’s old squad, The Wailers, and while reggae isn’t my thing, at least it was nice and mellow and I could make fun of the dancing.

But then came out George Clinton and his crew. Good god. I swear I thought I’d be at a gangster rap concert before something like this. Or the opera. Or just about anything else. If you don’t know, George is like this old, fat guy with colorful hair and he and his band specialize in “funk” music. I don’t know what that means, but it’s basically a lot of black people with loud guitars. Like ten of them. Simultaneously. And the entire crowd is baked. I think I got a contact high. The only person in the band who I knew about was Bootsie Collins, and he wasn’t even there, so that was disappointing, but everyone went apeshit when Sly from “Sly and the Family Stone” made a cameo. He brought literally nothing to the table. Some woman started rapping about needing to be with a man with a big periwinkle. Another woman was trying to act like a young Tina Turner. It went on, and on, and on.

The P-Funk all-stars played for, by my count, five hours, and they averaged about 40 minutes per song, which were all about either getting high, screwing, or both. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve heard an old man yell “Skeet skeet skeet.” They played that “Bow wow wow yippee yay yippee yo” song that Snoop Dog used to do, as well as “Flashlight” and “We’ve got the funk.” George Clinton himself didn’t come on until the third song. There is like fifty people in the band, including his son (who’s a complete dope) and his grandkids. About twenty were on stage at any one time, including a guitarist who was doing a bad Prince imitation. They had one acrobatic pimp guy who danced all sexy with some woman and another guy whose specialty was standing perfectly still. That was literally his role. He would point to some person in the audience, get their attention, then not move for five minutes. I’m not entirely convinced these two gentlemen weren’t the same guy. They kind of looked alike and were never on stage simultaneously. Rapid costume changes could’ve been made. Is anyone out there an expert on this band that can help me here?

I spent most of my time ogling and taking pictures of Kim, this one fine little soul-sister (translation: she was white) in the band that was a backup singer-dancer-roller skater. As far as I was concerned she was the most talented person in the band. I think she was coked out of her mind and while she had an amazing body, she was cuter when she had a mask on. Manoli had the time of his life and was drunk and dancing like an idiot. He swears I had a good time, but I was wiped like halfway through. I made it to the front row rail just to have an excuse to not dance. I don’t know much about funk music but I know that George does less shit than anyone in that whole band, even the standing still guy. He literally sings the first three lines of every song and then quits and lets the other people take over. What a life.

Editor's Note: Hotter in real life.

At least I wasn’t the least appropriately dressed person there, even in my green Brian Dawkins jersey. Some chick in a white David Akers jersey (the kicker!) hugged me out of the blue and briefly I considered the prospect of trying to sneak one between her uprights. But I she came over again later and I found out that she looked like a female Garth from “Wayne’s World” and that she was, uh, taken. So there was that.

And some guy had a Steelers jersey that just said “P-Funk” on the back. I hate concerts.

Monday – Went back to Baker and stopped at some place called “Alien Fresh Jerky.” I bought the “Colon Cleanser” spicy kind and immediately got ill. I can’t handle the hot stuff anymore at my old age. With the alien theme they might as well have just made an anal probe reference here. I paid for this mistake until three days later, believe it or not. We got home late Monday night. All I had to spend was hotel and food money. So roughly a billion dollars. I think only Simmons can afford Vegas anymore.

P.S. Spurs-Clips recap. And more!