The Dirktatorship

At Wouter's request, a symphony on basketball, in the key of a minor whine.

High comedy will ensue soon, when Dirk Nowitzski is in all likelihood awarded his first NBA MVP. Which is great; he was the best player on the best team this season, and for a stretch last season between Game 7 of the San Antonio series and the end of the 3rd quarter in Game 2 of the finals, he was playing at as high a level as we've seen from a small forward since Larry Bird. Yes, I know he's 7' tall, but the guy is a perimeter player, spot-up shooter, and could only guard Tim Duncan down low if Duncan had been dead for at least long enough for rigor mortis to have fully set in.

Of course, the only problem with him winning the MVP is that he will be accepting it with his team already having been eliminated, in the first 8-over-1 upset since the NBA went to 7 games in the first round. Whoops.

Dirk is great; I love watching him play. Except for all the pretend emotion as he tries to act fired up in some misguided attempt to Show Leadership whenever the game gets tight. Let's just say that my 8-year-old niece is more believable as a Teutonic terror than Dirk is. I say, if you're not naturally emotional, don't force it. It's cool to be the Iceman. Val Kilmer got to be the Iceman, then he got to be Batman. I mean, how fucking cool is that? I'd be intmidated if Dirk wore a big black rubber suit with fake batnipples to a game sometime.

So, in summary:
Dirk Nowitzski, cool.
Fake emotion, not cool.
Fake nipples, extremely cool.

Also, regarding the NBA playoffs, Slate says:

Show that you're conversant in all forms of basketball by arguing that the Jazz are the NBA's closest thing to a WNBA team: They're composed of an unheralded group of players who always play hard and completely buy in to the "team basketball" concept. Also, Matt Harpring runs like a girl.