The Sound of the Suburbs

Do you wanna marry ... a lumberjack?

I didn't think so. Kinda like watching the Winter Olympics. Pass.

Bad enough the Games start with a horrible death in the most exciting event offered -- and not to belittle in the least the poor man and his loving family because my heart goes out to them -- but it just puts a damper on the whole event. And yes, what a horrible bastard I am demeaning the efforts of all the global athletes who have given their hearts and souls for years in search of gold.

More power to them.

I'll take the jingoistic tactic and stick to our dumbass American wheelhouse: hoop, football and baseball. Isn't it about time for pitchers and catchers to report?!

Makes me wonder if Gaylord Perry always got to camp on time, getting that spitter in gear in the crackling Florida February air, and Satchel Paige too ... I don't think so.

So Marcus Camby gets moved by the Clippers for a couple of journeyman and 3M bucks. Donald Sterling, true to form, dumps the third leading rebounder in the NBA for next to nothing, meaning if Brandon Roy gets healthy, Portland makes a run in the West and might even make it to the WCF depending on the draw. Go Blazers!

What is it with MC anyway? Among the most traded players in league history yet by all outward appearances a good citizen, good teammate and hard-working baller who does what it takes to win and then some; best of luck to him in the cozy confines of The Rose Garden. Camby is the perfect guy for Portland; an expert rebounder who knows how to play the glass, which will come in handy when Rudy Fernandez starts heaving 3s. Rudy is a budding star, a deadeye legend in his own mind, and MC will only make him better because there's no better longshot bet than a gunner who misses a heave then gets it back in the same spot for a deuce. For that to happen, of course, it takes a village ... and a rebounder.

I love this game.

Most interesting note about the Dallas All-Star game was three studs clearly telling their coach they needed a blow: KG, Paul Pierce and Tim Duncan. Minimal minutes played. Holding it for the playoffs. Prudent move, gents.

As noted previously in this space, Boston is saving it all for spring, as well they should. They're likely headed for a No. 3 seed and a first-round test v. Larry Brown's Bobcats, who will be a tough out. Boston can only be glad it won't draw Atlanta, who owns the Celtics, in the first round. Stephen Jackson, Gerald Wallace, the rejuvenated and underrated Nazr Mohammed (another doofus Dumars deal) will prove an obstacle in round one, particularly for Boston. If Orlando and Cleveland finish two-one, they will wipe the mat with Miami and Chicago/Milwaukee whomever in the first round while Boston expends so much energy beating Charlotte by the time it gets to Orlando, the Celtics could be chump bait.

Of course, the theory is Boston got Sheed to clamp down Superman but good luck with that. I still won't count Boston out but, barring injury or a major deal tomorrow, the Celtic get flattened by Orlando who then give LBJ and the Cavs all they can handle, with or without Stoudmire, Jamison or Troy Murphy.

Still, Cleveland will win the East because it is their time and, spare me the West deets, LA will be there at the end.

But I repeat myself.

The 82-game NBA slog takes forever, somehow seeming longer than the 162 MLB year, because baseball has its slow, inexorable axis turning season unlike basketball, which is such a speed-freak game due in no small part to the fact our nightly highlight diet consists of high-flying threes and slamaroonies.

Baseball moves at its own speed while hoop fans are poised for the post from day one. But you gotta pay the rent if you're an NBA owner, so there.

Frankly, I can't wait for baseball because the opening season Yankees-Red Sox series will offer more cumulative drama than every NBA game in March combined. But when the playoffs start, ah, suddenly every possession will be War.

I can't wait for any number of reasons:

Chauncey Billups and Denver, the tattooed love boys of Colorado, who will push every opponent to the limit; San Antonio making one last Alamo stand, McDyess, Jefferson and Blair rising up alongside the aging but still killer in a short series nucleus of Duncan/Parker/Ginobili; eighth seed Houston-Portland-New Orleans or Memphis throwing a scare into LA while everyone bitches that all aforementioned above .500 squads should make it in while the pathetic Eastern back-of-the-bus teams make it in with lousy records; Rondo putting Boston on his Kentucky back and taking those old legs as far as they can go; Vince Carter on the spot with his career on the line, knowing he'll be tabbed as nothing less than a perennial failure if Orlando doesn't make it back to the Finals; and Cleveland, the current pick to Go All The Way, with the incumbent pressure to satiate their leader LeBron into staying with only a title fitting the bill...bring it on already.

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.