The Sound of the Suburbs

Well, here we are in the middle of June. No hoop. No football. No jai alai. Just baseball.

And of course the NBA Draft. And what a weird, albeit enjoyable, spectacle THAT is.

This year we get Blake Griffin to the Clippers, who somehow won the ping-pong ball lottery. Nothing to do with them being the rotting banana in the second biggest market in the land. It was all luck.

Let's look at the Clippers' starting five next year:

Power Forward: Griffin
Small Forward: Thornton
Center: Camby
Point Guard: Davis
Shooting Guard: Gordon

Not a bad lineup. Kaman either comes off the bench or is more likely peddled to some dumb suitor (God, I hope Joe Dumars isn't that stupid but he did draft Darko so who knows). Kaman had one good year. Nice personal story, ADD etc., but that doesn't mean crap under the boards. He may prove a positive reclamation project, but the fact is he never should have been given a fat contract (again, ADD), may be ambidextrous but on his best day can match up with The Birdman for 18 minutes. My gut is he's already peaked.

So back to The Draft. I start watching college ball during March Madness so I'm no Dick Vitale (thank God; shilling for Hooters? Shame, shame, shame). Nonetheless it is such a state of the nation that Thabeet Eyechart at 7-3 will go in the top three.

Here is a guy who, on his best night, reminds me of Artis Gilmore -- in seventh grade. This is what The Draft is about: upside. DeMar Rozan, a freshman punk outta pay-to-play USC, will go higher and get guaranteed millions more than Tyler Hansborough, the Shane Battier of the draft. And Shane Battier has done pretty darn well, fyi. Tyler displayed warrior skills for four years while Rozen had a few good minutes on national TV and that's the way it goes in our immediate gratification society.

But back to Hasheem Thabeet. He's big, he's foul prone, he can finish from two feet. And yet he is A Prize. And what do I know, perhaps he does develop into the next Artis Gilmore, but I see Chris Kaman all over again.

The most intriguing play is the Spaniard Ricky Rubio, already hailed as the next Pistol Pete. At the expense of sounding like an old fart, there was and always will be, only one Pete Maravich. And if you haven't read the extraordinary bio of PP, get thee to a bookstore.

Pete Maravich could do more things with a basketball than Bob Cousy and Earvin Johnson combined, and they'd be the first to second that emotion. Check out Red on Roundball with The Pistol on You Tube and become A Believer.

He was one of a kind.

He will never walk this Earth's hardwood again.

When he was five years old his father, Press Maravich, stuck him in the passenger seat and had him open the door and dribble the ball outside the car while Press drove down the street. No urban legend: fact.

Rafer Skip To My Lou Alston is a mere disciple at The Temple of The Pistol, and I love Rafer Alston.

With Father's Day still on our minds, we must always remember a son is created in his father's image. Some times to Frankensteinian effect, as in the house of Maravich.

So back to the draft ... it is indeed a fun spectacle to watch. David Stern at the podium, vertical giants donning team baseball caps before negotiations (thank God, Scott Boras only traffics in baseball) commence, Stuart Scott and company breaking it down as only they can.

Which is to say Ernie, Kenny and The Chuckmeister would be SO much more entertaining. And btw, how did Greg Anthony rise to broadcast prowess? That little runt who came off the Knick bench to take cheap shots at the Bulls during those playoff wars -- he is a miscreant. Jesus, give me Gerald Henderson, Michael Cooper or Vinnie Johnson at the mic, anybody but UNLV thug Anthony, a cheapshot artist all the way.

Anyway, Ricky Rubio ... I haven't seen him. Brandon Jennings -- whoever HE is -- has already pissed on him so he's got some in-your-face incentive; sounds like another Jason Williams so imagine he's Sacramento-bound to fill the seats at a withering franchise.

Which, come to think of it, reminds me of this whole one-and-done thing. I like the principle, but the execution is flawed. More bad than good has come of it (Exhibit A: O.J. Mayo). And, while I wish these guys had to go to college and GO TO CLASS, which they don't -- and that ain't racist, it's foresight: a college degree sets you up for Life and that's what matters in, uh, Life -- the rule is ultimately UnAmerican.

I mean, Jesus, now we have high school juniors fleeing to Europe to play ball for two years. The system is broke.

Let them play.

If they don't see the benefit of a college education, that's their problem.

And as a Piston fan, I have two words for all you young men: Amir Johnson. Joe Dumars and Co. had such high hopes for him, as did I. The very last high school senior drafted, he has shown flashes of brilliance but failed miserably this season when given the opportunity to start at the one for Detroit. And while he seems like a good kid and I root for him, I see failure in his future. Because the NBA is like Hollywood. To analogize Pete Townsend and Adam Ant, Stand and Deliver or Die Before You Get Old.

And that's the way it is. Let's all say a prayer for the most avuncular figure of the 20th Century, Walter Cronkite. He believed in education.