Zeus, Gestalt, The Villain and The Hero

Pau Gasol lands in the Lakers purple and gold for two first round draft picks, a chocolate eclair, a mystery box, a dead guy, and an "other Gasol". Said Grizzlies owner Michael Heisley, "Remember to have your pets spade or neutered."

Somewhere forgotten sits Kwame Brown. Suspect. Emotionally fragile. Like a kicked dog. Puffy. Compromised.

Try to imagine being Kwame: handpicked by basketball's Zeus, who then deems you lame; you are invoked from Hades by the game's dark reflection of Zeus to play with him, under decree of the god who made Zeus — so you're playing for God's dad — and then they also cast you out; in Memphisto you are now basketball's Hephaestes, the lame blacksmith given the Universe's prize beauty only as a hoax. It's like finding out the woman you fell in love with on a first date was paid $250 an hour by your friends. Except it's your life.

Maybe Michael Jordan has an eye for talent after all. Letting Kwame go was a fantastic decision. When the Lakers battled the Pistons on the last day of January, Kwame played the kind of defense that lets Rodney Stuckey dunk from outside the circle. Then on the last play of the game, Pistons up one, Lamar Odom inexplicably — wait, Lamar Odom makes it completely explicable; so scratch that. Because Lamar smokes a shit-load of modo everyday, he passed it in to Kwame Brown with four seconds left. At the top of key, Kobe stands in disbelief, "I have 37! What?!" And the look on Kwame's face, as he nervously squeezed air out of the ball, is not what you want on the face of an an athlete — let alone an NBA player — at any time — let alone moments of conclusion.




And now that he is in Memphis, all I can think about is how much this hurts Mike Connelly. But the future remains potential, and Kwame is young. If he realizes the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, the hammer inside him can still swing through. Because deep within Kwame's psyche remains the fierceness of a grizzly. If Jerry West can keep him believing that, Kwame can be superb. That, and if he learns how to catch.



But the Lakers have no such issues. Whether Kwame becomes an ultimate success has no effect on today. Kobe, Lamar, Bynum, Gasol and a goat would practically be a lock-team for the Western Conference Finals. And the real supporting cast is way better than just a goat; they're like three goats, and some dogs, but they're all super-talented and work together with a weird goat/dog "I know you, you know me' chemistry" that stunningly gets a lot of shit done. It's some kind of onyx wizardry conjured by Kobe and Phil Jackson to keep feral beasts whirling poison shards at attackers.

And got Pau Gasol for the cost of a bad song? How?

I can just see Kobe — perhaps life's most deliberate and pre-calculated human — lifting PVC goggles to his brow, taking a metallic elixir off the Bunsen burner, exclaiming maniacally, "I have it! I have it! The Dead Foes Potion is comPLEEEETE. No one can stop me now." Tony Starks is playing in the background.

And a few hundred miles away in the desert: Steve Nash, pissed. This was his year. The Spurs are mis-oiled. NOOCH doesn't have the scars. Bay City still has too many inner-wolves. Denver is making mix-tapes. The Mavs will jail themselves. It is not LeBron's time. The Three C's are mighty, but can be felled. Same as the Pistons. This was to be Steve's last assault with the topography perfect.

Now the Last Good Man must look at the Western horizon with disgust. 'How many more times can we fight without feast?' As his club flexes for what may be their last real chance at a title, with the current nucleus, before the next wave gets too high to overcome, the cracks in his previously unflappable veneer are scaling from an empire not realized. With each season he looks less a Hero and more an also-sought. If he stares at near-glory again this year, in 2009 his skin will green.

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However, none of this will pass if Kwame unleashes the sleeping giant, and the Suns prevail. Then it will all be gravy under the bridge. Memphis will rejoice from the lust of getting a scoop. And Steve Nash will finally fulfill the protagonist's destiny, having vanquished the dragon that kept growing heads. Nash and Brown, invisibly bound, will be vindicated. Kobe and Phil, already crowned, will simply take Gasol and the demons back to the lab.

Yet today has all effect on ultimate success. Steve Nash and Kwame Brown are independently facing near identical tasks. Because of this trade, this swoop of the heavens, both have been thrust to confront finality. Both have zenith or nadir as the only option. With the way their careers have unfolded, there are no moral victories. There are goals. To have your soul's pure Work only be remembered as an ornate piece of entertainment candy, even if excellent, is the ultimate personal incest.



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