Philin’ In – Act Two

The saga of James Dolan, Phil Jackson and Isiah Thomas will bring new meaning to the phrase Triangle Offense.

Dolan burst into Jackson’s office, his $500 loafers sliding across the carpet.

“Phil, I have an idea.”

Jackson, who had been lounging on the office sofa in his boxers, sat upright and grabbed his pants that were draped over the sofa arm. Pulling them up and tucking in his shirt, he rolled his eyes as he asked, “What is it now Jim?”

“I think you should coach the team,” Dolan announced.

“No can do James. No coach of my preeminence would manage this group. I’m waiting until we get Lebron, Durant, Hardin and Curry. I have a legacy to maintain.” Jackson walked over to the conference table in the corner of his office, rolled out one of the leather armchairs, and careful lowered himself into the seat. Empty food containers, left over from lunch, littered the table. Glancing over at Dolan, he folded his hands and waited for his reaction.

Dolan was agitated by Jackson’s dismissive attitude. “What makes you think you can sign all of those guys?”

“Because of these, baby!” Jackson held out his hands, splaying his fingers to proudly display his championship rings.

“Yeah, that’s great Phil, but…huh, what is that green stuff?”

Jackson sucked the mystery substance from the top of one of the golden rings. “That would be wasabi,” an amused Jackson grinned.

As Jackson chuckled at his back, the disgusted owner stormed out of the office grumbling under his breath, “Why can’t you be more like Isiah?”

Philin’ In – Act One

The saga of James Dolan, Phil Jackson and Isiah Thomas will bring new meaning to the phrase Triangle Offense.

“Phil…PHIL! Wake up!” Jim Dolan yanked his GM’s shoulders back to lift his head from the desk. A rivulet of drool escaped from the corner of his mouth. Dolan shook Jackson as he slapped his cheek.

“PHIL!…C’mon man, wake up now. It’s three in the afternoon for crissake!”

“Wha’, what’s wrong? What do want?” Jackson asked groggily. He slowly opened his eyes and straightened in his seat. “Did my package from Amazon come? I’m waiting for a trimmer for my soul patch.” He stroked the grey chin hairs between his thumb and forefinger.

“No, I don’t care about that. What are we gonna do about Melo?”

“What do you mean?” The Zen Master squinted at his boss.

“He’s telling the press he’s fed up with losing, that he wants to get traded to a contender.” Dolan was frantic.

“Fuck him,” Jackson spoke calmly. “Let him go.”

“What are you talking about? You know I can’t do that. I gave up half the team and put us back in salary cap hell to get him. It’s what Isiah wanted.” Dolan gazed wistfully skyward as he thought about his former team president. “You need to apologize to him and get him to re-sign. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Apologize? To who, Isiah?”

“Yea, no wait…you know what I mean.”

“Alright, I’ll pay him what he wants and tell him we’re negotiating with Lebron.”

“That’s better,” Dolan exhaled as he brightened slightly.

“Are we done now?” Jackson grunted.

“I guess so,” Dolan paused as the short-lived smile left his face. “Why can’t you be more like Isiah?” he asked.

Jackson answered as his head sank back into his long arms folded on the desktop, “I’ll see what I can do about that…”

Jimmy’s thoughts drifted back to memories of a simpler and happier time when he and the love of his life, Isiah, roamed the halls, offices and courts of Madison Square Garden. It was a magical place where they shared inside jokes and ruled like kings.

“Isiah, does this suit make me look fat?” Jimmy looked to Isiah for approval.

“Of course not. You’re perfect!” Isiah beamed.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“As pretty as you want to be.”

Jimmy was pleased. “Isiah, I wrote a song for you. Would you like to hear it?” Jimmy reached behind a cabinet for his guitar.

“Of course,” Isiah replied as he sat in the corner and looked up attentively.

“There once was a man, a giant among men, his achievements were the stuff of legend…”

“Mr. Dolan, please call One-Nine-Seven-Three…Mr. Dolan, One-Nine-Seven Three please,” the page blared over the loudspeakers. Dolan sighed and headed back to his office.

 

Aaron Hicks 105 mph double-play throw

I wasn’t sure if I should post this under the Sports section or enter as a Religious experience, because the reaction to Hicks’ throw in losing effort against the A’s on Wednesday night was nothing short of the second coming of Jesus; typical ESPN generation over-hyped bullshit. “Fastest outfield throw ever recorded!” Last time I checked, I don’t think anybody had radar guns trained on the outfielders during Roberto Clemente’s time, or even more recently on Bo Jackson. If you’ve never watched the clip of Bo throwing out speedy Harold Reynolds in the bottom of the 10^th inning of a tie game in 1989, do it now. He bare hands it off the wall, 316 feet from home plate and throws a bullet that never touches the ground. Bo Knows Throw!

In contrast, you have Hick’s circling under a ball hit to medium left field so he can get a little chicken hop into his throw. Still, the throw comes into the plate on one bounce and slightly off line toward the mound. The catcher needs to grab it and reach back for the tag. We have become so accustomed to seeing shallow fly balls easily plate even slow-footed runners that a good throw is elevated to a play for the ages.

While you’re looking up Bo’s highlights, don’t forget about the greatest defensive outfielder of all time, Clemente.  Runners were intimidated by Clemente’s arm strength and accuracy and rarely tested him, but when they did, they got burned.

Roberto’s lifetime mark of 260 assists is nearly 80 more than his closest competitor. Here is the list:  Most assists from right field, MLB history

1. Clemente, 260
   2. Hank Aaron, 186
   3. Johnny Callison, 159
   4. Dwight Evans, 155
   5. Jesse Barfield, 154
   6. Tony Gwynn, 149
   7. Dave Parker, 137
   8. Bobby Abreu, 129
   9. Vladimir Guerrero, 128
   10. Dave Winfield, 128

Bottom line, I wasn’t much impressed by Hick’s throw, in case you couldn’t figure that out.