Reticent, but rewarded

SWTFG, this is the best thing I've seen out of the Cavs trade yet. Since becoming somewhat national with St. Joe's, I always liked Delonte West's sideways game. Ghostish, out of place, but deadly in areas I tend to appreciate: creativity, being out of place, floaters, DE-fense!, a preter-awareness of self that lends to becoming oblivious.

Highlighting all of that is this (def pay attention around 3:20):



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So this is how it is. With the Cavs. To me:

• Ben Wallace is a liar. Walleye is a pessimist. Joe Smith is a successful and kind-hearted drug dealer shadow man. Delonte West is sinister.
• Drew Gooden is BooBoo Dooden, fully equipped with one of worst sets of decision making machinery God had ever wrought. Larry Hughes is the original sad clown— fragile psyche, teardrop tattoos and all. Ira Newble slept with Danny Ferry's second girlfriend. Shannon Brown filmed it.

Those are the good things.

Whereas Steve Nash was behest by the heavens after Lucifer recalculated. I mean, the Lakers getting a gift and the Suns buying theirs, that was organic. Memphis wants to die. All totally natural. Bibby out of Sacramento: Time for the Hawks, time for Bibby. Makes sense. Kidd out of NJ. Fine.

But this Cavs move was like CWebb to the Warriors. Or Damon Stoudamire to the Spurs. Square peg, round hole. It's like, "Why?" I saw how Shaq's counter-force could Bring the Suns out of the West where their past contra-Shaq style had not. It was centrifugal. But Webber is so not what the Warrios needed. It is alien.

Here are my fears about the Cavs' yahtzee:

• Larry Hughes can ball, deep down inside. He recently seems to've woken up. And Mark Price was working with him on his shot. I'm concerned we traded Larry "Howard" Hughes right as he was about to payoff, a la the Bulls trading Tyson Chandler as the thermometer popped. Plus, even if Mr. Sensitive was a painful liability on offense (until recently), he covered tough. He always was there to play tough D.
• Delonte's game is a dangled carrot. It's a mirage. You think there's something special there. There is. And it's always looking at you in street clothes.
• Ben Wallace paints his self as a hard working, lunch pail kind of guy. But he really acts like a fucking princess who always thinks she deserves more... like a shooting guard. Except, as we all know, Ben can't score at all. So, he whines, doesn't produce, and complains how to do his hair. His low post game is the Matthew Lesko of the NBA. His nickname is Big Ben. He literally has hands like a clock.
• Ira Newble = lockdown D.
• Walley Scerbceees = front-iron jump shot, jog up the court, tussle hair, smooth hair, get scored on, jog back down the court, wait for it, wait for it, front-iron jumper... [repeat].
• Donyel Marshall is eating ribs. His career is over. Cool. Whatever. Happy trails. Burn free, brother.
• Shannon Brown refines his purely athletic game and becomes a Plasma-Donation-Line version Dr. J.
• Joe Smith hangs out with Damon Jones at a strip club. Oh, wait, already happened. In a month they'll be smoking crack with each other. In two months Anderson Varejo will be hooked on crystal meth. Sasha Pavlovic is missing. Boobie replaces meals with pills.
  
• DooDoo Booden can hit the open jumper consistently. And weird shit motivates him.

All these fears will be moot when the players who left are revealed as StarScreens, coupled with Lebron transforming all the arriving players into motherfucking Megatrons.

REJUVENATE