ALEX LEN IS A PEEIIIIIMP!

   It was a rebel yell in enemy territory and it could be heard from two states away. Phoenix Suns center Alex Len, with the ball at center court, made a quick move to the right, shaking off a lumbering, swatting Tim Duncan. He dribbled the ball once, then cradled it with hepped up, childlike ambition, moving with intent and purpose.  The lane was his. It never mattered how many grey jerseys were in the way. 

   As Len slammed the ball, one-handed, with legs kicking outward in a perfect v-shape, he let out a warring cry and suddenly everyone in San Antonio knew what we in Phoenix have been lucky to witness this season: the expedited evolution of Alex "Steal My Sunshine" Len.

   The move, as Suns commentator Eddie Johnson pointed out, had "nasty intentions." Rolling past the Suns bench, Len pounded his chest and everyone overflowed with ecstasy.

   Allow me then to make a prediction: Alex Len, in three seasons' time (starting this year), will be on the shortlist of the game's best big men. It is only a matter of in-game experience before this Ukrainian Gumby is on the same level as the Gasols, Howards and Duncans of the league. And he will be a major factor in helping keep this young Suns team in the win column.

   In every game Len has improved his skills little by little. Early on, he seemed nervous, a kid amongst professionals. His rookie season last year was cut short by injuries, putting his much-touted potential on standby while Miles Plumlee came into his own.  

   After the first few games of this season, the fifth overall pick, began to find his rhythm. First his ball handing excelled; he wiped the butter from his fingers. Then, his defensive presence in the paint started to hobble opposing plays. At 7-1, it's not difficult. All he's got to do is put his long arms straight up and the blocks will come. But he's not just an immovable force; he looks for the shot, times it right and slaps away the potential point. We're only ten days into January and he's already averaging 3.6 blocks per game.

   Len's hard work hasn't been lost on Coach Jeff Hornacek. He's kept him in the starting lineup, making Plumlee a second thrust of defense off the bench. Between their four giant palms the Suns are on track to become a major defensive threat in the league.

   In a game against the Sacramento Kings, on December 26, Len and Plumlee each tallied five blocks--the first Suns duo to hit that mark since Amar'e Stoudemire and Shawn Marion did it in 2007. Anything that harkens back to the days of Nash will always bring a source of light to Suns fans.

   And Len's game just keeps expanding. In recent games he's found a jump shot and made a few quick passes to a cutting Goran Dragic. At this rate--even at his height--Len can't see the ceiling of his game.

Phoenix Suns Worst Team In The League?!!??!

Does anybody remember October?

     Standing here in mid-April with the lightning round of one NBA season settled, each month between then and now feels like one year in length. For Phoenix Suns fans the conclusion of year 2014 is nothing but bittersweet.

     I wish I were the one on top of the hill screaming, I told you so!, driving a forefinger into everyone's face, but I'm not. And nobody is. The Phoenix Suns, after a total combustion in the 2012-13 season, where they finished 25-57, were picked to remain dead last in the Western Conference this year. Lower even than the Sacramento Kings! Equal with the 76ers! With no one older than 25 playing! The disrespect!! 

     The Suns were a complete non-thought by every basketball pundit in the land, projected to win ten games less than the previous year. Destined, we all thought, to grind aimlessly in the doghouse another couple of years before working back into playoff form. 

     Instead we were given one of the most surprising, whirlwind Phoenix Suns seasons in history and missed the playoffs only by the hair on Z-Bo’s chinny chin chin. It played out better than most “best case scenario” descriptions in preseason magazine previews. The Dragic/Bledsoe era came rushing in and the eyes did not cease their widening. 

     It all starts with Suns Executive of the Year nominee, Ryan McDonough. Since his hire last May he has expertly culled together a group of guys too used to playing second and third fiddle, ready to play with a purpose. Eric Bledsoe, surely anxious to step away from the Chris Paul glare, showed the potential fuel he can bring to the rapid-fire, two-guard tandem. Early tepidness of having two explosive guards run the floor at once quickly dissolved. 

      McDonough flipped Luis Scola for Gerald Green and Miles Plumlee, garbage time collectors behind an impressive Indiana Pacers frontcourt and All-Stars Roy Hibbert and Paul George. Green, who earned 41 points one night against the Oklahoma City Thunder, it could be argued, had the most stunning turnaround season, adding layers to his flashy Slam Dunk skills. He was at times Phoenix’s number one three-point threat. And there was also the double-pump, triple-pump dunks. 360 windmill dunks. Two-handed from behind the head drunks. Selfie off-the-backboard bounce pass dunks. Green showcased the gauntlet. 

     When Bledsoe went out with a knee injury for two months midseason, Dragic showed the world he can carry a team, putting him on the scroll of valuable NBA point guards. “Plumdog” Plumlee put the numbers on the board. The brotherly Morris connection helped to sanctify team chemistry. Channing Frye made his successful return to action after losing last season to his big fat heart. PJ Tucker got even tougher. The Blur returned. Ish Smith zigged and zagged.

     When the mighty Phoenix sun beamed down on their faces, they recognized an opportunity to make something of their budding careers. Put Suns alumni Jeff Hornacek in the nice suit from The Clotherie to draw out plays and you’ve got one magical season. The top Coach of the Year candidate had a grab-bag of talent and he worked it into fine form.

     Each oncourt Suns lineup, no matter the point in the game, played hard. They fought back from games that seemed over with only minutes remaining, chopping down three 20-point deficits for comeback wins. They tuned out the negative preseason press and when it dawned on everyone they were too good to tank, and phrases like “Cinderella story” and “the surprising Suns” were bandied about, they adjusted their focus even more.

     The chemistry oncourt is so good you'd think they'd all grown up in the wilderness together, killing their food and protecting each other. The team collected eight wins with a margin of 15 points or more (including battles with the Spurs, Pacers and Clippers). They finished with the best win percentage for a non-playoff team since the 1983-84 season, which...is...sort of cool, I guess.

     Missing the playoffs is a deep hurt. It’s painful to see the purple and orange bursting basketball sun missing from the playoff bracket. The Suns, though, are in prime position going forward and can sit back in ninth place with a big bowl of oranges and watch the unfolding playoff drama.

With four potential draft picks this summer, a pocketful of cap space, plenty of valuable assets (and a GM proving himself a meticulous planner) the Phoenix Suns are sitting pretty atop Camelback Mountain waiting, preparing, for the summer to deflate into the fall.

Celtics still a force in the East

     The allure of history was an unmistakable force. No NBA team has ever hiked up the hill from a 3-0 deficit to win a seven-game playoff series. In general it's a rarity in sports. Fittingly, in 2004, the Boston Red Sox did it blasting back the New York Yankees for the upset.

     Last week the Boston Celtics looked poised to potentially overcome the New York Knicks when they Tarzaned back from the no-win hole to take Game 4 in Boston and Game 5 in New York. "We out here scrappin'," Kevin Garnett exhaled, spraying sweat onto the post-game reporter. "We out here scrappin'."

     Game 6 came and went. The sea of green in the TD Garden just wasn't enough to fuel the Celtics to another victory. It wasn't even really close and just like that the series was over, just another unturned page of history. Another offseason beginning for another team, this one, for the Celtics, just started a little early. Since the signing of KG and Benedict Allen in 2008 team green had always broke through the first round with ease.

     Now with post-game press conferences done and exit interviews complete, it befuddles me why talks of the modern Celtic greats disbanding are immediately thrown into the barking conversation. It makes no sense. I understand people talk and this season wasn't the greatest and trade rumors were bulbous near the deadline, but couldn't the same be said for a lot of teams? In a season that saw the loss of Rajon Rondo (ACL), Jared Sullinger (back), and Leandro Barbosa (ACL), all in quick succession of each other, it would seem the unfortunate circumstances are more of a temporary stopgap, rather than the unraveling of a cherished franchise. 

     Sure, they had their problems beyond the inconvenient injuries. Jason Terry and Courtney Lee proved not quite the eligible replacement hoped for in the aftermath of that guy who left for beach side property. Paul Pierce started to show his age. Brandon Bass and Jeff Green gave some incredible performances but were spotty throughout, never falling into a groove. But, my God, they're still a great unit with the league's best coach in Doc Rivers. And they exist in a pretty weak conference.

     I get it. KG and Pierce will be older next year, but so will most of the Knick bench. Why would Danny Ainge shuffle these legendary pieces around? Garnett, who, up to this point, leads the playoffs in rebounds with 13.7, is under contract through 2015 and he won't leave unless he agrees to the destination. Pierce is on the books for next season (though with a player option), as is Avery Bradley. Every other major player is signed, at least, through 2015.

     Furthermore, and most importantly, all evidence points to a Rondo return by the start of training camp. Even with missing the last third of the season he still lead in assists with 11.1 (Chris Paul was two steps behind with 9.7). The wiliest point guard to grace the hardwood will be back setting up an ace supporting cast. There's no lessening of Celtic energy here. Who says you have to make a splash in the offseason every offseason? A summer to recharge and a fresh training camp can only create great cohesion and produce a stronger core for next season. KG and Pierce need to spend some time with their feet elevated, ankles iced, letting the blood flow, but there's no doubt this team will still compete, as is, like gruff wildebeests in a season of cold-hearted revenge and bounteous redemption.

DRONE CONTROL

Grappling with the Loss of Mother Nash

There were fireworks—yeah—they were going off.

“Lakers.” was all a text read sent from a friend in Arizona. In my absinthian July Fourth haze a few squabbles of information loosely gelled together. Free Agency had begun in the NBA and Steve Nash was at the top of everyone's wish list. A final tug of realization stitched them together as my computer turned on and flashed Espn.com showing Nash with purple and gold behind his grinning mug. Never in my young life have I felt such shock—a shock that diminished reality and turned everything one-dimensional. Nothing about the moment was real and it still haunts me when I see “Nash” and “L.A.” in the same piece. But writing is healing, God let it be so, writing is healing.

The two-time MVP put it succinctly: "Everybody knows there's no loyalty in sports." And if anybody in all of sports were to finally burn a period into the end of that sentence, it would be Mr. Loyalty himself after signing with one of Phoenix's longtime rivals. You're right, Mr. Nash, there really is no loyalty in sports, but as I watched Lebron James leave his hometown for Miami, then Carmelo Anthony demand a trade from Denver, then Deron Williams demand a trade from Utah, this year it’s Dwight Howard’s turn, I held out hope that MVSteve wouldn’t be the next domino to fall. Ray Allen skipped to Miami farting green the whole way, then Nash took the 10 West through scorched earth to his new residence. Oh, but it did happen. The air has left the lungs of amity leaving them deflated like two-week old party balloons. Yeah, nothing is cherished and who cares.

Get over it. I know. I’m trying. Undoubtedly, Nash will be a perfect fit in Los Angeles. He’ll never have to dribble over the three-point line if he doesn’t want to. Between Kobe, Pau, and Bynum he’ll have plenty of exit passes to take. They’ve easily wiggled into the top three of the West. It’s troubling, though, that I won’t be rooting for him, for to do that is to root for the enemy. Sorry, brother, but you’re not wearing my colors. Only in retrospect, maybe ten years after, will it be sensible to celebrate World Champion Steve Nash, because hoping for positive things in Lakerland just is not in the DNA of any Suns fan.

The post-Nash era in Phoenix has already had a few burps and snaps. Eric Gordon, for a moment, made everything feel okay. A decent consolation prize, but the New Orleans Hornets matched the Suns’ offer. We lassoed Goran Dragic back from Houston, stringing his teammate, Luis Scola, along in an amnesty victory and added Michael Beasley from Minnesota. A decent core is developing and Sarver’s got some money packed tightly into his back pocket. Let’s see what roster Phoenix ends up with and hope nobody comes in wearing number 13. We had Nash for eight straight years. By the rules of heartbreak, that means it’s going to take four years to get over this. To be continued…

NBA PLAYOFFS: Boston Celtics

          Now my biases will really spread to the surface. There has been no team more exciting to watch than the Boston Celtics in these playoffs, and no series more adrenalized than the Eastern Semi-Finals, which the Celtics took from the Philadelphia 76ers last night in Game 7. But let us not kid ourselves: it was always theirs for the taking. A hard-fought, panting battle with a team sure to implant themselves in the playoffs for years to come, it was Age & Experience vs. Youth & Excitement; but, in the end, it was a cherished victory written in green.

          Not only was the game streaming to me live online, but so was the suffocating fatigue of the Celtics. I could smell the old. But in the face of it, it’s the old, the experience, the cohesion that has kept this team pummeling through the post-season. I’ve got love for the 76ers, but this is not a changing of the guards. This is a lasting blast of grit in the eye of competition. KG was looking tired, almost dropping and sinking through the earth, bringing planks of TD Garden hardwood with him. Ray Allen’s ankles were smoldering, keeping him gated. With about five minutes left in the game Paul Pierce fouled out in a play that could’ve fully switched momentum towards the 76ers, but, as he begrudgingly took a seat on the bench, it was Rajon Rondo, the real star, who put Gang Green on his back.

          When the 76ers backed off him to clog the paint, Rondo held on to the ball and put two clean three-pointers in the hoop with the shot clock running down. He saw the KG screens setting Allen free and set him up for two three-pointers, causing a rumbling sigh of relief to blanket the city. Allen had been cold the whole series, battling injury and regaining his starting status only because Avery Bradley went down with a busted shoulder. Rondo was the magic man, the deliverer, the gift-giver, the shaman. He injects his team with an energy serum when they need it most. Oh and by the way, last night he fell into a category previously occupied by only Larry Bird: Celtics players with triple-doubles in Game 7. History reforms.

          Now we get what we’ve wanted this whole time: The Miami Heat. In just about every game during the season, the Celtics ran through the Heat like hot sauce and ice cream runs through your grandfather. The Heat have a Bosh-sized hole they’ve been trying to cram with wads of Turiafs and Anthonys and I don’t see it working. I’ll take your two superstars and raise you another two. Let’s battle.

NBA PLAYOFFS: Kobe Bryant

"I'm not fading back into the shadows," L.A. Lakers’ guard Kobe Bryant said to the post-game media after falling to the Oklahoma City Thunder in the Western Semi-Finals. No smile. No hesitation. Stone faced, dead-eyed. A loss for Bryant is never the end; it’s only the next step to winning.

I am forever a die-hard, by-the-gravestone Phoenix Suns fan. Therefore, a large chunk of my competitive hatred is saved for the Lakers and always will be. It warms my belly to watch them stutter and fail in those big Hollywood lights. The Suns and Lakers have historically been a playoff match-up almost as much as the storied Celtics/Lakers or Celtics/76ers rivalries. Bryant publicly decried his personal vendetta against Phoenix for reasons he couldn’t explain. The Lakers are pure enemies in Phoenix, falling in stature behind only the San Antonio Spurs (of course). You don’t talk to the guy strolling in purple and gold wearing number 24 because you’d have nothing nice to say to him.

I cannot, however, for the pure devotion to basketball, disrespect Bryant's will. There is no other player like him in today's high-fiving, re-tweeting circus, who plays every minute only to win, and who will do whatever it takes (see: German blood exchange; playing with broken finger; dealing with Metta World Peace) to win. Only Kevin Garnett matches (and rises above) him in intensity, but Garnett's a different animal entirely. Bryant is a true basketball player who lives life without distraction and remains focused on the goal. He’s not opening his thoughts to the public and making decisions on the fly so the press can have their field day. He’s stealth. He works hard and gets results and those five rings stand unquestioned. This league rarely puts out a player with that strong insane sense of determination that can put a shiver in your spine. The locker room must’ve been a cold, hard place after that game. They lost to a young team exploding with confidence and diligence, but the Lakers will still linger next year and, so long as Bryant’s still around, they’ll continue to be a viable threat. Ahem. But, next year, that Chump gon' be blinded by purple and orange in the playoffs.

NBA PLAYOFFS: Miami Heat

There is no “team” in Heat, though it's close. Rather, all you get is “he at,” as in, “Where the fuck he at?”

The “he” on any given night could be LeBron James, it could be Dwayne Wade, or it could represent the entire Miami Heat bench. Who are they and what are their roles? The bench (Chris Bosh's cawing ass included) are there only to beef up the two-headed, swamp-soaked egos of their two "perennial All-Stars." Well, here is it: Fuck the Miami Heat.

Nobody outside of Miami, Florida is rooting for this team. They had the privilege of letting loose on an even more disgruntled team in the New York Knicks for the opening round and now find themselves down 2-1 against the fresh Indiana Pacers in the Eastern Semi-Finals. When you get past the glitz and drama, the Heat are really not very threatening. They're nothing but a bunch of scallywags lumped together to give their two too-cool-for-you leaders a strong whiff of self-importance. Everybody is just trying so hard to please Lebron & Wade; you can see it all over their concerned faces as they tilt toward them in huddles. It’s like they’re watching their best friend go through a mental breakdown and they’re not sure how to comfort them. It makes one sick.

I can just picture each of their sorry asses in the locker-room. Joel Anthony contemplating shaving his head but stubbornly seeking Leron's approval first; Mario Chalmers has Dwayne Wade's words of wisdom echoing in his head, "OK Mario, be like 3D"; crusty Mike Miller just licks his lips stammering in the background; Juan Howard doesn't want to stand; Ronnie Turiaf constantly tries to make Lebron and Wade laugh with unfunny dead-end jokes; Haslem wishes he could kill them both; Mike Bibby (Oh whoops, forgot he went to the Knicks) and Chris Bosh is injured (so who cares). What a team, right?  It's Lebron & Wade and their band of undistinguishable cast-off lackeys and they're looking like cattle in mourning right now. “Aw, what do we do? We’re supposed to be the best.” I mean c’mon, they brought in Ronnie Turiaf to help fill the center void. That’s like calling on the guy who brings the shopping carts in to conduct a meeting with the chain’s top advisers. Watching the Heat’s lopsided, ego-driven, flat-lining rhythm collapse makes it all the more pleasing to see them get beat by a very well-rounded team in the Pacers. Either way; IT’S GON' BE A GRINDHOUSE.

DRONE CONTROL

NASH APPRECIATION

One of the dirtiest, most filthiest, things just happened to me. In discussing the impact of Amar'e Stoudemire fitting back into the New York Knicks' newfound rotation, with sudden superstar Jeremy Lin effectively working the point, ESPN showed old clips from the Steve Nash/Stoudemire era from 2002—10 in Phoenix. The real disgusting and most offensive part, though, was not the steepening sense of disappointment, but, when the clips ended it was Bruce “Bowtie” Bowen, the ex-Spur, doing the analyzing with his dumb face. I had to take a shower to let all the aggression slide away.

Bowen was on the San Antonio team that beat the Suns in the Western Conference Finals in 2007 winning the championship that year, and it was Bowen’s multiple cheap-shots to Nash’s groin, and Stoudemire’s ankle the following year, that created a hostility between the two teams that will never die (Horry, Duncan, Ginobli: you are not forgotten). But this is not about holding a grudge the size of Texas, but rather paying tribute to the best point guard to ever play the game of basketball. A point guard who makes everyone he plays with (even Lopez) better. Stoudemire flourished with Mr. Assist and is now considered one of the top power forwards in the league. No one threads the needle with such grace or has the cool and calm to dribble in and out of human trees and wait patiently for the perfect pick-and-roll to present itself. And if none of that pans out, he’ll just do a quick hop and drain a three. That’s Nash 101 and we in Phoenix hold onto it with our collective grip like it’s a dying baby slipping from life’s grasp on a hospital bed. Steve Nash, 38, heads to his eighth All-Star game Feb. 26 as a reserve and he’ll be there representing the team that gave him the platform to be a star.

In today's hypercharged market, basketball stars are constantly chasing the next best scenario. Lebron James, Carmelo Anthony, Chris Paul, Deron Williams have all suffered from inflated ego and visions of gold and confetti, but still have had trouble controlling their destinies. Their anxieties have created an atmosphere of constant discontent in this league. If your name isn’t in lights and you’re not immediately deemed Larry O’Brien-bound by a bunch of ex-basketball star hacks, then you’ve failed by many. Forget chemistry, loyalty and honor, it’s nothing but a crab factory on this beach.

By all accounts, Nash could’ve asked to be traded from the organization in these last few seasons and no one would’ve blamed him. But that’s not his style. He stuck around when Coach D'antoni left; looked for the beauty in adding Shaq—the biggest, clunkiest player ever—into a “run-and-gun” offense; was patient after two early playoff exits and two years under .500; and still remains mired in the post-Richardson, post-Dragic, post-Carter era we now find ourselves in today.

“Maybe I’m old school,” Nash says, on honoring his contract amid all the terrible moves the front office has made. (It was only two years ago that we lost the Western Conference Finals at the hands of Ron Artest only to trade half the team away!) He could be shipped to New York or Orlando and get his ring by this June, but he’s hung around. That loyalty is next-to-impossible to find on any other team and before the unfortunate, damning event that he actually is traded, let’s pause and shout hallelujah for such an icon and one that may be the last of his kind. Steve Nash, you’re my hero (Monta Ellis ain’t nothin’ but a bitch to me).

DRONE CONTROL

NATIONAL BALLSUCKERS ASSOCIATION

     Okay. Enough is enough. It's time to feed fatbody David Stern to the lions. The NBA commissioner and his band of super-rich owners have turned a prickly, uncomfortable situation into an ugly funeral march. After three straight days of negotiations, including one 16-hour day, the talks between owners and players on how to divvy up finances in a flopping economy have been halted. Any morsel of positivity that was dangling above the marathon meetings has been gulped down into the blackness of uncertainty.

     As the players come down percentage point by percentage point on revenue sharing the owners continue to stand undeterred and unwilling to compromise. It is their way or the highway. And that highway leads to a fractured, if not totally destroyed season, loss of fan interest and the end of some critical hall of fame careers.

     Earlier in the month there was verbal agreement from both sides on a 47/53 split siding with the players, but before that had time to fester, Stern and company tip-toed back shamelessly asking if the players would consider 50/50. The players balked and walked away.

     It's appalling why the owners would keep up such a hard stance in these negotiations. Last time I checked owning a major sports team cost quite a bit of cash. These owners' bank accounts were overflowing well before they purchased their teams, and wasn't it the sheer love of basketball that urged them to buy? As true lovers of the game it's hard to understand why someone of wealth would put dollars before actual action. Sure you may not be making as much as you could, but at least THERE WOULD BE GAMES.

     To ask the players to make as much as the owners do is totally ludicrous. They've already come down huge, from 57% of revenue, which does stand to be a bogus-load of income. But let’s face the facts: the league would not have two legs to stand on if it weren't for the players. Last season had the highest ratings ever. Why? Because people were interested to see what the Miami Heat could do. They were interested to see what Lebron James, Dwayne Wade and that other guy, could do. When the Heat came to Sacramento to play against the lowly Kings, fans bought tickets just to watch those guys play and if you weren't rooting for them, you were vehemently hoping to see them fail. It's the players who drive competition and spark fan excitement. Without that kind of personality attached to the game, it'd just be a couple dudes sweating in a gym. Nobody wants to watch that.

     After the Dallas Mavericks pounced on the Heat in the Finals and the labor talk rumblings began, it seemed it wouldn’t be too big a burden. Now it’s become a nightmare. There goes training camp. There goes the preseason. There go the first two weeks. There goes November. Once Christmas games are officially canceled the nightmare will become fully realized and the asterisks will abound.

     When I shut my eyes at night I have visions of basketballs spinning in my head. I imagine alley-oops, no-look passes and pick-and-rolls perfected. When I wake the only news is Stern’s melting Jabba the Hutt face. Go Bruins?