windsurf17

In Which the Spurs got their Killer Instinct

2008-05-16T03:03:00.001-07:00

The Spurs may yet lose to the Hornets -- based on the three previous games in NO where they've been blown out I'd say the chances are excellent the World Will Get What They Want (no Spurs/Pistons) -- but I wanted to post this anyway. It's been on my mind since the Suns series. If you aren't a Spurs fan, you might not know when and how the Spurs got over the hump. And you might find it interesting who was a major architect. Suns fans, you can stop reading here.

Okay, so the Spurs won a championship in 1999. That was the asteriks year. The shortened season. The Lockout Year. Well, someone had to win it. Might as well be the Spurs. But, there was still a palpable feeling that the Spurs hadn't won one. Phil Jackson and Shaq made sure to drive home this point, BTW. And, during the stretch from 2000-2003 the Laker's owned the Spurs (and everyone, actually). So, there came a time (Spring 2003, to be specific) when the Spurs had to man up and take it from "pretty good, good enough to almost win-it-all every year" to winning. But they had this psychological thing. You know how Duncan is money in big games? Wasn't always like that. David Robinson was still pretty good, but he's also the guy who was destroyed in the playoffs just a few years before by Hakeem right after Robinson won his MVP. And in 2003, Tony Parker was just the guy that Pops abused. Probably made him cry. He was 18 and French. I was introduced to Manu that year, too, via an amazing pass he made against... I'm not sure. He got the rebound, in garbage time, and spun to dribble down court when he saw a teammate streaking, already leading the nearest defender. Manu had at least a couple of opponents between him and his teammate, but he skipped this low line-drive through them all, almost all the way down-court. I mean low, like knee-level. But he put a ton of English on it, and when it nicked the ground, at about the free-throw line, it kicked up about waist high and right into the fast-moving hands of a soon-to-be-dunker. Brought down the house. I was watching it on TV. Whoever was carrying the game foresaketh the rest of garbage time to show that replay repeatedly. I'd never seen such a pass. Manu had a lot of hair back then, kind of like Oberto now.

2003 was Year One of the core Spurs -- Bowen, Duncan, Ginobili & Parker in alphabetical order -- but also David Robinson, Stephen Jackson and others. Only Bowen and Duncan were playing at their current levels then. Parker & Ginobili weren't yet reliable. At the time, it seemed like they were the Suns, and always just a bad-turn away from folding. What they needed was that one guy who could just come in and give them that boost. Double his money if he can boost in a closeout game. So in this year, 2003, they made it into the Western Conference Finals. But in the first closeout game (game 5) they were outscored (by the Mavericks) 29-10 in the 4th quarter. Folded. It was hard to watch, and all it did was make you ready for the next time it was going to happen.

And, it began to happen again, right there in game 6. I didn't know it at the time, but apparently Tony Parker had room-service food poisoning (how many times does this have to happen before people will start bringing their own food on road games?). All I remember is Steve Kerr -- yes Suns fans, Steve Kerr is responsible for this Monster -- came in and in about two minutes just dropped in bomb after bomb. Apparently Stephen Jackson also had a big game, but I just remember Kerr because after that -- from then until right now -- the Spurs have never been the same. They've always had the confidence, the killer instinct and three more championships.

Read about it [watch it: Kung Fu Theater version]-- read the quote from Speedy -- that tells you everything about the Spurs mindset pre-Kerr. The Spurs were fumbling around in the dark and Kerr came in and just calmed everyone down. People were dribbling around the perimeter, passes were being broken up, people were dribbling off their feet or fumbling the rare good pass off their thigh. Kerr ripped off his warmups, tied the string on his shorts, cleaned the soles of his shoes on that little cleaner thingy by the scorer's table and proceeded to cut out the heart of the Mavericks (and... uh, Steve Nash) and hold it up like that creepy dude in Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom.

Technically, the Lakers, finally dispatched in the 2nd round that year, were the Spurs foil, like Boston was for the Bad Boys, and the Bad Boys were for Michael Jordan, and how the Spurs are now for the Suns, but it was a game against the Mavericks authored by a kingmaker associated with the Bulls and now Suns that did it. The Monster was born.

Maybe in a weird way that should make it easier for the Suns. It might not be a star player; maybe it's a rarely used vet like Kerr. Maybe it's not even so much a person -- maybe it's just a 5 minute stretch in a big game. Maybe that's all it takes for the cement to set. Worked for the Spurs.

Am I Evil?

2008-05-16T02:25:00.000-07:00

I'm a Spurs fan. Does that make me evil? I know most people outside of south Texas can't stand them. And for good reason. They win a lot. They have been deep in the playoffs for the last 9 years. It's getting pretty old, isn't it? You think it's because they are a bunch of bug-eyed whiny floppers but that's not it. It's the winning. The Suns (and, unbelievably, the 2008 Hornets) are bug-eyed clawing floppers, too, but you still like them because they keep getting beat early in the playoffs and thus haven't outworn their welcome.

So, game Seven of the Spurs/Hornets is Monday. Robert Horry just body-checked David West into the infirmary and himself into the "people other people hate the most" Hall-of-Fame. I used to despise Horry. He was just the gunner, Big Shot [BR]ob. Then he joined the Spurs and he's become such a teddy bear. But, yeah, I get why people might not find him likeable. He really is, though, trust me. You wish he was on your team.

And his unapologetic playing style is one of my favorite things. While Shaq whines and complains his way through the playoffs each year (Note to Shaq: the reason people are flopping around like fish out of water is because you weigh 400 lbs and you just ran them over! Oh, and the second time, when you merely brushed them and they went flying, that's because you weigh 400 lbs and you ran them over last time. What stupid idiot would be run over twice if once will do?), the Spurs man up and tough it out. Everyone is gunning for them, no one likes them (I'm thinking David West might be the most charmingly frustrated star ever. Good thing he didn't have to play against Dennis Rodman. I mean, Fabricio Oberto's renting out a townhouse in your head? Fabs? Wow.) and you couldn't tell if they care or not.

That's what I love about them. I care too much what people think about me. Sometimes I don't try as hard as I should because of it. Like, say you, me and 5 other guys I just kind-of-know sit down for lunch. There is a decent chance I won't pray out loud before I eat because I care what y'all think about me. What a Jesus-freak. Dork. See how the Spurs can be inspiring? They don't care what you think. It probably helps when you are the Man of the Year in Argentina or married to a Famous Actress Who Even More Famously Attends Every Single Freaking Game and They Always Must Show You.

And while I've been a fan since before I even moved to south Texas (I didn't move here for them, though, it was the windsurfing), and I've been happy for each one of their 27 championships over the last 9 years, this is the year I want one for them more than any other. They are old. They are targets. The West is TOUGH this year. The Spurs were 1st in the conference in March, then lost 4 in row and dropped all the way to 6th. It was brutal. But through all of that, through all of that if the Spurs can win it this year, then they just metal-stamped their award for Top 5 Greatest Teams. They are up there anyway. Shaq and Kobe? Come on, they should have won 10 in a row. You can't call Shaq the greatest at anything. So many have done so much more with so much less than Shaq has. How hard did Bowen have to clutch and claw his way to where he is? If Shaq had that hunger his whole career we'd be feeling sorry for the Tim Duncans in this world, like we do for all those golfers too unfortunate to be born around the same time as Tiger.

So, what will it be? Am I evil for loving the Spurs and their killer instinct? Do I love them because I live vicariously through them? Do I care what you think?

Finally, I'm learning from the Spurs.

Peyton's Tells

2007-09-07T06:05:00.000-07:00

Peyton knew that Jason David knew him. Peyton knew David knew all his tells. Everyone has tells, how they unintentionally tip off a play. The way he looks at a the hot receiver; the receiver knows the look. They practice together every day. The opposing corner never knows the look, not until the end of the season. But Peyton knows this. He's always changing his tells.

In 2002 it was where put his right foot when he was planning to toss a screen to a back waiting in the flat, or to a receiver on a quick out. If his right foot was a foot further back than usual, it was one of those two.

At first, corners were covering it tight and Peyton would have to hit his second read. Most of the time these guys were open. If not, there was always the third, or even James waiting for a dump off. Then, the smart corners saw the film, they saw the foot. Corners hang with corners, and sometimes they talk. Word got around. Film confirmed it. The smart corners began to leave the out route open. Or, they'd appear to, back pedalling frantically as Harrison broke from the line, untouched. But once Peyton was winding up, they'd jump it and try for the spectacular pick and six. Sometimes they were late, even though they knew the tell. Sometimes they knocked it down. Three of them intercepted it, one taking it to the house.

That summer, Peyton found his tell. A retiring corner mentioned it to him at a celebrity golf tournament. The following week, at home Peyton shut himself in the Bat Cave and pulled out the DVD of every presnap of every game for the entire season. Yup, there it was.

Most quarterbacks would have eliminated the tell. Not Peyton. He used it.

Well, he actually did eliminate it; he practiced it both ways. He also watched the tape for other tells, and found three. When audibling, he always yelled the audible to the direction of the play first, and only if it was a run. Not only did this tell everyone the play was going right, they all knew it was a run, not a pass. No wonder they limped to three straight midseason losses and a humiliating 41-0 Wild Card loss to the Jets. The Jets, he was sure, knew all his tells.

So, spring of 2003 Peyton Manning created three new tells and paid his famous dad Archie and a Colts intern named Marty to watch for other tells he might have created without knowing.

One of the three new tells were in his cadence, which you can't tell by film alone, you need to be listening, too. Players don't always listen to the soundtrack when studying film. He hoped that the upcoming season would tell him who the astute film watchers were; what teams were going the extra mile. They'd be his first suckers.

He introduced another tell in his shoulder and yet another in his play-action. He was always the best at selling play-action, and from studying film, he, his Dad and Marty all agreed he was selling it as well as he could. Marty's father was a Div II college coach and Marty had been studying film since he was 13. He knew what he was doing, even if he was only 22.

So there was Peyton, in 2003, deliberately implementing fake tells, desperately hiding real ones, and using every ounce to pounce the competition on his way to a 12-4 record and an eventual loss to eventual champion New England in the AFC Championship Game.

In the preseason, his personal career-worst, he used all the same tells as before. Audibling in the direction of the play, placing the right foot in the wrong spot for screens and quick out passes. It was easy to sell, and he made sure it was part of his pre-snap routine. The arm waving, the yelling and pointing, the theatrics, the tells. Nothing by accident.

In week 1, a low scoring slugfest in Cleveland, he showed just enough to win, but made sure his old tells and new ones were on display. No one would discern the new tells until well into the season, not until after enough film had been compiled to make it obvious. But when they were fighting for the top seed in the playoffs and home field throughout, or at least a division title and second-best record, those tells would be important.

In week 2, at home against Tennessee, he knew he couldn't hide anymore. Twice, on crucial third downs where a quick out would have been perfect, he flashed his right foot tell and confirmed to the well-coached Titan secondary that yes, it was in fact an out. The corner sat back, waited to bait Peyton, then bit on the pump fake while once Marvin Harrison and once Hunter Smith stutter-stepped, head faked and then burst up field and out of bounds for 23 and 21 yard gains, both huge considering the three-step drop and pump fakes.

But after the game was in hand, which was early, Peyton broke out all the tells again, twice he audibled off easy gains in order to show and confirm his tells. Up several touchdowns in the second half, he audibled off an uncovered Hunter Smith in the slot to go to his audible-in-the-direction of the run tell. It was stuffed for no gain and Smith came back to the huddle pleading his wide-openness.

This happened a lot, and some of his teammates have wondered if he was slipping. In this day of free agency of players and coaches, Peyton could tell no one of what he was doing. His Dad would not tell, not even his son, Peyton's little brother; not until Peyton retired. Little brother Eli wasn't a sure thing in the NFL yet, and Peyton wasn't giving him this nugget. Not yet. Peyton had some dirt on Marty's dad and some recruiting violations. Marty wasn't going to tell. No one could know, or else he couldn't use his tells to fool them. Even his long-time coach Tom Moore didn't know Peyton was doing this intentionally.

Week 2 in hand, old tells being confirmed, new tells being introduced, Peyton was on his way to a big year. Each week he's reveal enough to make people wonder if those were really tells anymore. Was he really tipping a play, or was it a coincidence? Then the retired cornerback who originally told him of his right-foot tell went on the Fox pregame show and told everyone what he told Peyton. So, Peyton weened himself of the old tells, even providing several colorful quotes for the writers that week. It was Week 7, the Colts bye, and Peyton knew smart coaches around the league were outsmarting themselves already. They'd surely know of his new tells by now.

The Colts rattled off seven wins versus three losses the rest of the way; the tells were just an ace-up-the-sleeve. All by themselves they weren't going to win games. The Colts still had to execute, play tough, and play defense and special teams which they didn't often do well.

It may be the tells never won Peyton a game the Colts weren't going to win anyway. It may be they lost a couple because he leaned too heavily on them. But for Peyton, the tells brought the joy of outsmarting his opponents. Maybe his lineman were frosty with him, maybe his receivers didn't get it -- 'I was OPEN, man!' But if it weren't for chess matches like this, Peyton would have long since lost interest in football.

But Peyton kept on it. In the coming three seasons, whenever the game was lost, he would not come out. His backup almost never gets to play, even in blowouts. These are Peyton's practice times. Times for putting in stuff to fool coaches, his own in case they left for another team next year, other teams for all those other reasons. His tells weren't the only reasons he won games, but they gave him the needed edge.

Of course, Bill The Genius Belichick wasn't going for the tells. He never bought them, even after assistant after assistant tried to convince him. Twice in a row Peyton tried to use them, twice in a row his season ended in frustrating losses to the Pats. Peyton gave them up in the second half of the Colts win against the Patriots in January 2007. B.T.G.B. and the Pats gave up more points that half than they had in any whole game all year.

The coming out party for Peyton's tells was the 2007 season opener at home against the Saints. Cornerback Jason David had played for the Colts in their Superbowl run in 2006 then left for the Saints via free agency. He practiced against Peyton all year, he knew him, he knew Harrison. He knew Reggie Wayne. Peyton knew, too.

After the game, a reporter asked Manning, "Did you target David?" Peyton replied, "We don't do that." He said they target the open receiver, that's it. But that wasn't the truth. Peyton knew David was used to playing the Tampa 2 and by habit would be watching the backfield. Using tells he created during the 2006 season -- he even flashed them during the Superbowl, just for fun -- Peyton crushed David on three bombs, throwing his way repeatedly. The numbers against David were embarrassing. Thrown at: 9 times. Caught: 7 against. Three touchdowns and 147 yards given up on just those 7 receptions. Toasted, burned on both sides.

The tells, actually the one tell he used, was the way he set his feet on the 5 step drop. Buttons, crossing routes and outs were one set, posts and fades where another. David knew them, he was watching like a safety. The safety, whose ear David bent all week, was watching. Five steps, set feet closer together for the close routes, safety and corner bite. Put those hands in the air. Smile. Walk to sidelines. Take off helmet.

So, watch this year. Watch for his tells. He won't be using the 5-step-drop tell anymore, but go back to the Superbowl and see if you can see the others, and if you can, see if he uses them this year. And if he does, see if the defense bites. And if they do... watch out.

-- Marty

The preceding perhaps occurred solely in the mind of windsurf17.

Second Pick: Durant

2007-07-04T13:19:00.001-07:00

"With the second pick of the 2007 NBA Draft, the Seattle Supersonics select Kevin Durant."

Down on the Green Room floor, right below the stage, Durant paused a moment. There it was. He got slowly to his feet, the pace of a man who has known for months this was coming, this exact moment. To his right, his Mom. He leaned over and kissed her. He said something no one but Mom heard.

He shook some hands and turned and walked slowly to the stage, in no hurry, soaking up his moment. Under the bright lights of the Draft Stage shaking the Commissioner's hand, his shirt and tie showed brightly their colors reminscent of Longhorn Orange; intentional, he left no doubt the debt he owed his year of college. He looked boyish but you got the feeling he's tough enough to be the 2013 NBA Finals MVP. Over at a crescent desk, Steven A. Smith went nuts on ESPN. Durant can hear him over the auditorium speakers. Several drafts ago, Charlie Villanueva was skewered over the loudspeakers as he walked to the stage to get his cap and handshake. Durant isn't being skewered. Not yet.

The walk is short from the stage, behind the podium, down the steps, up another set of steps and to the seat next to ESPN's Stuart Scott. He's there. Jay Bilas is done dissecting the Sonic's choice. It's not much of a dissection. Everyone knows all there is to know about him at this point. It's more of a recap. No one is surprised. Mike Tirico mentions that now the draft really gets interesting. Who will Atlanta take with pick three now that Portland and Seattle have taken the obvious can't miss stars?

Durant sits down with Stuart Scott. Stu leans in and starts to say something reassuring, but cuts off as someone blares into his earpiece. It's so loud that even Durant can hear it. Up close, this close, he can see Stu's purple eye makeup and weird eyebrow plucking thing. Stuart Scott has interviewed Kevin Durant before, but never under this many lights. He looks like a debating Al Gore; almost clownish with all that makeup. Shadow so the eyes stand out, eyebrows shaped to fit with his $5,000 glasses, darkened cheekbones to mask those most recent five pounds.

Then, Tirico passes ESPN's coverage to Scott, for a few questions with the new draftee. This is the same drill for Durant as it was for the number one pick, and will be for the number three pick. And number four, and five. A lot of men who were boys a moment before will end up in this chair, perhaps in the biggest moment of the biggest day of their lives. Some will have just heard the loudspeakers say, as Villanueva heard, that they are a surprise, and really are being picked too high. They aren't this good. Some will have Jay Bilas or Marc Jackson list their faults, but mention upside. Upside. Steven A. Smith will light into someone. On such a big day, they always gotta bring you down a notch.

Says Scott, congratulations. Says Scott, what do you say to the people who don't think you are strong enough because you couldn't bench 185 even once. Says Scott, what of the people that are questioning your manhood. Says Durant, "You mean, people like you?"

Scott, caught of guard, says nothing. Durant continues, "I'm strong enough to lift a basketball, pass a basketball, shoot a basketball. What more strength do I need? I'm not going to rip a rebound from Shaquille O'Neal anyway."

"What about Steve Nash?" asked Scott.

"What about Steve Nash?" replied Durant.

"Could you rip a rebound away from him?"

"Look, Mr. Scott," said Durant, his small respectful voice made larger by the loudspeakers and bouncing around the theater, "why don't you just chop off my nuts right here and pass them around to the audience?"

"Kevin, I -- "

"Look, do me a favor," said Durant, his voice echoing louder as a hush falls over the theater, "if you spare the rest of these terrified kids double-barrelled questions on the biggest and scariest day of their lives, I'll not mention your sculpted eyebrows and purple eye shadow. Deal?"

"Kevin!" Scott's voice was almost pleading. Scott didn't really mean any disrespect. This is what tough interviewers do, right? They ask tough questions. Right?

Durant got up, surveyed the room of very young men grouped on the floor, the "Green Room" of this year's draft. Up in the theater seats were another dozen draft hopefuls, who flew in on their own dime, and who are not allowed on the floor. Durant was already being pulled by handlers, pulled to the interview room where the press would pepper him with questions almost the same as he'd heard for the last six months, but seasoned with a "what the heck was that tirade?" thread that wasn't there yesterday. The Seattle press, now that he was a Sonic for sure, wanted to get him first. But he wasn't done here yet.

He could hear Steven A. going off about kids and disrepect, though Durant meant none toward Scott. Quite the opposite, he only wanted Scott to skip the questions designed to make them look stupid on this night. It's like asking the bride on her wedding night, maybe the biggest moment of her life, how many guys she's been with before she met the groom. The tough questions can come later, during the season. Tonight is their night, not Scott's. And none of these other kids were as tough as him. Durant could take it. But being able to take it doesn't mean you just do.

Durant shook off the handlers pulling him to the interview room. He cut down to the Green Room Floor, slapping fives with the players destined to be 1st round picks; nearly sure-things though in most years at least one sweats it out to the late first round or early second round, setting in stone their desire to prove all those teams that passed on them wrong. High five here, pick 7, high five there, pick 11.

He crossed through the floor and up the steps to where some of the other picks would be, sitting in stadium seats with regular people. These guys weren't sure things, at least not first round sure things, so they didn't warrant Green Room floor treatment. Maybe it's better hiding in the anonymity of the stands instead of sweating it out on the floor anyway. But this was the biggest day of their lives. Durant was gonna make their day. He called out. "Who wants my table?" No one answered. "Who wants my table, I don't need it. If you want it, come with me." No one stood. "Guys, this is a big day. If you know you're gonna be picked, stand up, get down on the floor where you belong. If you aren't sure, stay here, it's cool."

With that, simultaneously, seven tall boys stood. Three white guys, probably European, four black guys. "Whoa," breathed Durant. His table seated six.

"Okay," said Durant, "we'll figure it out. Come on."

"Hey Kevin, what about my Mom?" asked one.

"Bring her. Everyone, bring your family, they deserve it, too."

What followed him out of the stands ended up numbering 27 draft picks and family. The first "usher" stopped them. Sorry. Can't do it. Can't let them on the floor unless they are picked.

Says Durant, "what's your name?" Tyrone the usher says his name's Tyrone. Kevin Durant put his big left hand on Tyrone's shoulder, in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. Then he leaned in to Tyrone's ear and said, "Tyrone, write down your name and cell, write down IOU, Big Ass Favor. Give that to me later and I'll take care of you like you ain't ever dreamed of. Now let us on the floor."

Tyrone looked around for a boss, someone in charge. No one. No one to tell him yes or no. So he stood back and 27 people walked by him. ESPN's cameras were on Tyrone. Tyrone would show his kids this clip over and over. "There, that's me," he'd tell his kids, "I weighed less then, I had hair." His kids would say, "wow!" The footage that would be shown in the Hall of Fame in 20 years was saved onto the massive ESPN-in-HD hard drives in a semi truck parked in the alley behind the theater. The footage was beamed live to over 200 countries. Tyrone would spend a couple of days fielding questions about Durant and their short conversation.

On the floor now, Durant in charge. Hey, can we fit a couple more at your table? Hey, do you mind if these guys sit here? You, you're getting picked soon, sure thing; when you do, leave your seats for these folks, huh? With nods and shuffling chairs, slaps on the back and big, big smiles behind him, Durant scans the floor for his Mom. She's standing with the guys trying to get him to the interview room. He trots over, grabs her arm under his and apologizes to the two small men who had been desperately trying to get him off the floor.

Kevin Durant gives Stuart Scott a final look and walks out the door. No questions about his strength now.

Note: this event may have happened only in windsurf17's imagination