#I saw some Howl refs and got ideas

[mescalitoart]

I just wanna draw more Lucanis

[frostbitebakery]

I'm so in love with all of your art. My favorites have to be Codywan, Cody and Obi-Wan separately, and your cursed series art.

May I ask how you came up with the idea for the cursed commanders and Boba Fett series?

Ahhhh this message was the best way to wake up! Thank youuuu 💜💜💜

The Unlucky Ones, my beloveds! That one started like all the others: I went “lmao wouldn’t it be cool” and then it grew into a monster of a concept and venus flytrapping @adiduck in the process.

TUO started because for Halloween I had already Eldritched Obi-Wan so it was Cody’s turn.

I love character design. I like to play around with the given themes or throw them into the ocean and do my own thing. So every time for character designs it really does start out like, “I want to draw that character in these clothes”. There’s no plan. That always happens along the way.

For TUO!Cody I wanted him scary but still being Cody. I thought about typical Halloween things and went with skeletons. Mainly because of the white armor and I thought how cool it would look if the armor was shaped like bones. But I didn’t want the armor to look scary, I wanted him to look scary (and badass) (and like a sexy bastard). While looking for bone refs, I saw enough skulls in different positions. Some of them looked like they were screaming, howling. And I thought, duuuuuuuuude. Duuuuuuude. A skeleton projection rising out of Cody and growing taller and lifting its arms and rushing forward with a scream while Cody stands there like 😎??? YES. LET’S DO THAT.

So the concept of the Curse was born.

It always starts as a visually appealing concept. I try to make sense of my decisions later.

For the other Commanders I thought about how to apply the Cody concept art on them. I didn’t want to copy paste the armor design. But I also wanted them to visually belong together in the same verse.

The designs should be distinct and representative of each character. Even if some details seem questionable at first glance, I always want them to make sense in context. So I add snippets to basically explain myself.

Wolffe’s armor in canon went from red to grey in grief and is rather neat with stenciled designs. For TUO!Wolffe I wanted to up that grief given what Wolffe goes through in TUO. The grey canon design turned into rotten fabric and veils. Which turned Wolffe into a banshee-inspired design. The armor design is reminiscent of those fluttering torn fabrics that indicate a tragedy happened here and the grief is ever present. Going with the banshee and with how I deformed Cody’s face, Wolffe got a deformed jaw (think The Mummy when the corpse screams) which he hides behind a bandana.

Adi suggested beauty in decay for Bly. So he’s got flowers growing out of him. And I desperately needed a reason for him to tell Aayla “General, hold my flower”.

Fox has a deformed back which is only known so far to Adi and me. He started with the little white tufts of hair bc I love that on him and wanted it for TUO!Fox. By then it was already established that their hair goes white with each death. So that meant if I wanted the Fox ears, Fox had to have died twice already. Things like that were the reasons the backstory avalanched into a monster. And suddenly you go from ���aww, the white hair looks like ears so cute!!” to “actually Cody killed his brother in training because how the Curse was genetically modified and added to the Commanders makes them go into a berserker state” to “the non-command class clones have instated containment protocols for when a command clone goes berserk”.

Now Ponds. Ponds had to survive. I’m not spoiling his whole story but his character design was inspired by “rising like a phoenix out of the ashes”. So his armor has bird bones and wing bone structures. And with how he looks, his backstory makes perfect sense and is heartbreaking.

Boba was a request by a dear friend. He’s not cursed in TUO canon but my friend loves the design so much she asked if I couldn’t do a Boba design. So I did.

[potions-princess]

Back at the ship Hiedi prepared for her fight with Archer. She looked at Nick for reassurance before she took the potion in her hand and looked at the audience around them. All around them there were rich white guys staring at them with a eerily hungry look in their eyes. “I don’t know about this Nicky, something just doesn’t feel right”

“Well it’s too late to back out now, we already gave them our word” Nick sighed as he grabbed a potion for himself “don’t worry, we’ll kill it, just like old times” he assured her before clinking their viles together.

Killian came strutting into the room “Where my money?” He asked looking from Hiedi to nick but elicited a response from Archer on the other side of the ship instead.

“You have to win it first” Archer said taking a potion off the tray

“Does everyone remember the rules?” Lucinda asked in place of the referee who shot her a sideways glance.

Killian rolled his eyes “yes, not all of us are old geezers Lucinda. I think we are capable of remembering some basic 3 way fighting rules”

Lucindas eyes sharpened as she turned to Archer “kill him” she sneered as she stepped back and prepared her wand.

Heidis eyes widened as she looked at Killian who took his place beside her with his wand

Killian looked at Hiedi and shrugged “what a little trash talk never hurt nobody”

Heidi shook her head and took the potion just as the ref called it. In an instant the top of the ship was filled with 4 different creatures: One black dragon which was Heidi, one White wolf which was nick, one yellow dragon which was Archer and one brown wolf which was Mr. Gonzalo. Killian and Lucinda stared coldly at each other and the bell rang to indicate the fight. Nick was the first to pounce, diving into the ground and digging up the turf to ground himself. Archer instantly flew up to the sky and conjured lighting from the clouds then shot a thunderbolt down plumpeting towards Heidi which with nicks dig move was completely ineffective. The black dragon smirked as it took off after him, now vulnerable to his attack but fast enough to dodge it. Down below Heidi could hear aflyns dragon, the motherly instinct in her stirred around nervously as she decided to go back to the ground again for safety just as the Brown wolf began his attack. Instinctively she whipped the wolf with her tail blocking him from attacking Nick but the wolf began to change color and Heidi realized what she had done. Gonzalo absorbed her power. She backed away and saw archer begin to spiral around the wolf, preforming one of their famous moves, hells surge. Heidi looked at Killian and Nick then in an instant picked them both up into her talons then flew them away them from the ground breaking attack as it quaked through the ship breaking it apart. Lucinda also anticipated the attack as she grabbed her broom and began blasting at heidis talons. Heidi dropped the pair the got tackled by archer began falling towards the sea.

In a flash nick pushed out his wings, a power he had absorbed from Hiedi a long time a long time ago just in time to catch Killian.

Killian grunted as he landed lopsidedly onto the white wolfs back then swiveled around him just in time to grab his wand. “Alright let’s hyper beam that dog” he said as nick flew towards the now black wolf who also grew wings. His take off was sloppy as he hopped from the remaince of the ship and Killian hit the wolf with a hyper beam spell radiating from his wand from nicks power. The wolf yelped and shifted back to its natural tan form as it landed harshly in the sand.

Archer threw Hiedi into the water and prepared the most wicked of lighting attacks in the sky but a hypnotic howl filled his ears and suddenly it was dark. He awoke from his own electricity hitting the water, he rose the surface to see the black dragon fly upwards to safety and out of annoyance archer followed behind her more lethal than ever now that he was wet.

Nick was unaffected by the howl, and recognized it as his son’s. “Why had he shifted?” He wondered, his gaze pointed towards the field, beginning to worry.

Killian, because of his current connection to Nick, also managed to stay awake. But the howl was mesmerizing, and he just had to have it. Pointing his wand in the direction of Nick’s gaze, he casted a spell to steal the voice of the wolf.

A bright white beam connected the top of the wand to the voice, drawing it out from the target. Nick shook Killian off of his back once he noticed, hoping that would break the connection. It failed, and Nick landed next to him threateningly, “What are you doing?” Yet only a growl came out.

The last of the white beam retracted into his wand, and Killian smirked, “Gettin’ my money!” He casted a spell to throw Nick away from him, and prepared to apparate. Nick landed perfectly with a snarl, and leaped at Killian, sending both of them toppling over the edge of the ship. Avoiding the water because of Archer, Nick landed on the pretty intact dock, waiting for Killian to come up for breath.

Heidi and Archer continued to fly around the ship, the evening growing dark. Heidi used a night cloak to make herself invisible, trying to come up with an idea to attack Archer. Where had Nick gone?

Archer began to taunt her, “You can’t hide forever, Heidi.”

She ignored him and took a moment to quickly circle the ship, but no one else was to be found except the unconscious tan wolf.

“Heidiii,” Archer drew out.

Heidi wondered if Nick grew worried about their kids and went towards the stadium, so she began to fly over there.

Nick wanted to dive in after Killian, especially since it was taking him a moment to resurface. But Archer was to close to risk it. He growled and walked closer to the edge, peering through the water to confirm that Killian was still there. Lucinda found Nick first, and swiftly flew up behind him and announced, “Petrificus Totalus!” Just as he turned around at her scent. His limbs stiffened and he feel to the side. She hopped off of her broom and walked over to him, placing her foot on his chest. Slowly, she began to push him off of the dock, “Archer, honey! Come here!”

With that, she shoved him into the water and Killian popped up, gasping for air, “Ha! Just for that Lucinda, you can keep your money.” He lifted his wand, and apparated.

Archer flew over at the sound of his name, Heidi doing the same, only she was farther away than him. Archer spotted Nick in the water, “I’m about to flame me a hot dog, want one Heidi?” He looked around one last time, then focused in on Nicks form, and the sky darkened around him, “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.” Gigantic bolts of lightening crashed down into the water, and In an instant, multiple fish floated to the surface. Archer smirked evilly, and flew away triumphantly. But he needed to find Heidi.

Lucinda kneeled down on the dock and cast a spell to lift Nick out of the water, undoing her former binding spell. Watching his chest rise and lift faintly, she held out her hand for her broomstick, and climbed on, following the yellow dragon. Heidi landed next to him on the dock as he shifted back to human. Nudging him softly with her nose, he groaned softly. She carefully lifted him up in her claws, and took him over to their boat they arrived in, setting him down gently. Hardly conscious, he produced, “Hei- Heidi...” She brushed his arm to confirm it was her, and a small smile appeared on his face before saying, “I’m fine...” His voice drifting off as he fell asleep, his body forcing him to rest. Guarding him for a moment, her attention was grabbed by a dragon’s mating call.

Flying above the stadium Archer found his answer to drawing out Hiedi, if he couldnt have her then Hali would work just fine. He was impressed whenever his son drew the blue dragon in even further with the mating call, which rang so clearly in his ears. Archer hid, knowing the depth of his sons call and how serious he was. If archer interfered, Alex may never forgive him, but it was too perfect of an opportunity to pass up. Archer positioned himself as a portal was created, preparing to launch towards Hali the second Alex went through but Hali went through the portal first and they didn’t come back for minutes. Suddenly a purple portal appeared in the sky and Alex and Hali flew out again, dancing around each other showcasingly, and that’s when archer snuck up behind Hali and struck her with a thunderbolt. She lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July and her dragon body crashed into the water so hard it created a mini typhoon. As antisipated Alexander’s most powerful attack began and Archer struck at him before he had the chance to let it come to fruition. Alex became a boy again and he crashed into the water near Hali. Panting angrily he looked around the night sky waiting for Heidi. He figured his son would heal himself, and not drown, maybe even attempt to save Hali so he stayed hovering over them waiting.

@chair-thrower @hali-blue @archermaxed

[flauntpage]

The Outlet Pass: Jim Boylen is a Legend

The Case for Jim Boylen

The Jim Boylen Show is one of those classic NBA subplots that began as a cracked carnival ride, but—not so much including Wednesday night’s need for introspection—may be maturing into a situation that’s slightly more intriguing than pitiful. Boylen is a retrograde disciplinarian who’s extremely stubborn and passionate to the point of exhaustion. As someone literally coaching for his job, who knows how long the odds of him ever getting another opportunity this high up the food chain are, each game is its own battle. (Long-term gains are nice, but mainly accessible as the byproduct of decisions made with that night’s result in mind.)

The aftermath of Boylen’s initial roar for knuckle push-ups and inane suicide sprints was a pseudo-mutiny and the birth of a leadership committee. It was embarrassing for everyone involved. (Boylen’s response? “I’m juiced, man. I’m jacked up about it.”) But there are still nights when the Bulls appear to be take hazy steps in the right direction.

What’s bad is extraordinarily bad—Chicago is dead last in offense by a wide margin, and the only team since Fred Hoiberg was fired to average fewer than one point per possession; they’re pigs rolling in mud—but what’s not bad deserves recognition. Since Boylen took over on December 3, the Bulls have the ninth-best defense in the NBA. Before, they were 22nd. Eliminate transition from the equation, and before Wednesday night’s loss, only the Indiana Pacers had been more stout in the half court, per Cleaning the Glass. B.B.B. (Before Boylen Ball) they ranked 21st in the half court.

These stats include Chicago’s historic 56-point loss against the Boston Celtics, and two games against the Oklahoma City Thunder in which they allowed 233 total points. That is kind of impressive! Even with a schedule that’s gifted them the Cleveland Cavaliers and Orlando Magic (three times!), Chicago’s effort, hair-on-fire aggression, and tight rotations are sustainable to a degree against teams that aren’t expecting it. One month in, it’s too early to call this fully sustainable. But given all their injuries and ill-equipped personnel, it’s also impressive. (They stifled the red-hot San Antonio Spurs and held the Toronto Raptors to a 40-point half, too.)

Boylen’s priorities are clear. Chicago’s pace has gone from average to a trickle. Jabari Parker is M.I.A. Defense is the universe. And even when he chooses to impersonate Byron Scott by punishing first and second-year players who, you know, make mistakes, in an otherwise lost season there’s serious value in thrusting important defensive principles onto impressionable prospects. They consistently execute a game-plan that will sometimes change from quarter to quarter, and is based on opposing personnel more than anything.

Depending on which of their bigs is involved, when up against a ball-handler who can shoot, Boylen wants the screener’s man to either stay level or show and recover, forcing a pass towards back-line defenders who’re ready to secure the paint. An example can be seen below: As Wendell Carter Jr. extends himself 35 feet from the rim, Chandler Hutchison has already introduced himself to a rolling Ian Mahinmi, who immediately whips the ball out of bounds.

It’s a beatable strategy against those that see it coming (like the Magic on Wednesday night), but by engaging all five guys on most possessions—forcing communication, quick rotations, and an understanding of where to be—it suits a young team nicely. Here’s Robin Lopez up to prevent Bradley Beal from getting a clean look. Before the pass even comes, Lauri Markkanen is already in the paint, positioned to swat Thomas Bryant’s shot.

One of the big picture takeaways in Boylen’s first month has been the effectiveness of Markkanen and Carter Jr. as a frontcourt duo. Offensively, it’s definitely fair to say he’s holding them back (these two are compatible and too talented not to eventually thrive on that end). But on defense, in a 275-minute sample size, Chicago has a top-five defense when they share the floor. Markkanen isn’t able to switch out onto guards, but he’s quick enough to contain the ball 25 feet from the rim, prevent a guard from turning the corner, and then scamper back to his man. Meanwhile, Carter Jr. (who Boylen benched on Wednesday night for no discernible reason) is good enough to suck the oxygen out of your lungs by momentarily transforming into prime Kevin Garnett.

Rookies are not supposed to do everything Carter Jr. does on that play. Like a 10-year vet, his brain is on auto-pilot, correctly analyzing then reacting to the offense. There’s no margin for hesitation and so Carter Jr. doesn’t hesitate. Since Boylen took over, opponents are shooting just 51.9 percent at the rim when he defends it. This type of effort illustrates why:

On the whole, Boylen’s coaching style is Full Metal Jacket as a one-man show. It’s maddening, comical, and, at times, deranged. In response to a random Lopez hook shot, he’ll violently pump his fist and howl towards the rafters. Boylen lives and dies on every possession with a level of enthusiasm that no cardiologist would recommend. It’s Tom Thibodeau clutching a megaphone, blowtorch, and empty bottle of adderall. (When Sam Dekker got away with a travel during a recent Bulls win over the Washington Wizards, Boylen turned to rookie ref Ashley Moyer-Gleich and shouted “Ashley! He took six steps!” The man is a legend.)

But, in some areas, the man is getting results. The Bulls rotate on a string and fly all over the court, deflecting over three more balls per 48 minutes under Boylen than they did with Hoiberg—a leap from average to fourth-best in the league. This team is rabid, physical, and following orders. They bump cutters, help the helper, know when to switch, and hold their own in spite of an offense (constructed by Boylen) that provides zero favors.

It’s unclear how much of Chicago’s defensive success will continue under a coach who micromanages every speck of each possession, with no sign of him abandoning roots that have already started to rot. Boylen’s attitude isn’t one to shepherd a very good team to the Finals, but he may be a logical exorcist for some of Chicago’s bad habits. Until the inevitable day comes when this young core is passed onto more delicate hands (think Mark Jackson to Steve Kerr), Boylen deserves some credit for what he’s done to a defense most expected to be epically horrendous all year.

Draymond Green’s Sort-of-Impossible Box Out Stats

One of the more subtle reasons Draymond Green is an irreplaceable defender comes after the opponent’s shot goes up, when he wheels his body in front of whoever’s nearby, dislodges them out of position, and dramatically increases the odds of a Golden State Warrior grabbing the rebound.

Last year he finished fifth with 6.6 defensive box outs per game. Right now, he’s fourth, with 8.0. This is impressive when you compare his role to that of others who box out as frequently as he does. Green is not a traditional drop big who can just spin around and throw his ass into whoever’s nearby. His defensive responsibilities run the gamut. He switches out on the perimeter and perpetually exists as a help-side safety net—flying around, putting out fires that are nowhere near his original assignment. For him to also place near the top of the league in a category like this is sort of amazing, especially when you consider the impact it’s had on Golden State’s defense when he’s at the five.

Not nothing: opponents are grabbing a measly 22 percent of their own missed shots when Green plays center, a truly impressive number that’s far lower than it’s ever been since the Warriors became the Warriors. (When Green played center last year that number was 30.5 percent. The year before that? 31.9 percent.) For all the worry about his disintegrating outside shot (he’ll probably make nine threes in Game 1 of the Finals, and eight of them will be assisted by DeMarcus Cousins), Green’s effort in this area is as commendable as ever.

Point Guard Don(cic)

It’s been a little over two weeks since Sacramento Kings head coach Dave Joerger had this to say about everyone’s favorite wunderkind, Luka Doncic: “Perhaps there was an idea that there was a ceiling on him. I don't see it, unfortunately for us.” The statement was received as a searing subtweet aimed towards Kings assistant general manager Brandon Williams. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But more important, to me, was what it summoned: an interesting and ever-relevant debate about fit and context pertaining to prospects and the teams that draft them. Generally speaking, it’s silly to pass over a generational talent because he’d be limited in your system or on your roster. If that’s how you feel, change your system and/or your roster.

Doncic is good enough to transcend any environment he occupies, but like every other player on Earth, he’s also influenced by what his teammates can/can’t do, and his hypothetical role in Sacramento, next to a blurry pick-and-roll roadrunner like De’Aaron Fox, is different than his actual reality in Dallas. That’s OK. But it’s also fair and natural to consider how Doncic’s game might be limited there. Based on everything we’ve seen, Doncic, Fox, and the Kings would be perfectly fine, but it’d also rob us (and Doncic?) of maximizing the most exciting and beneficial area of his skill-set.

Doncic doesn’t need the ball in his hands to positively impact a game, but like so many great playmakers before him, it makes sense to let him influence a majority of his team’s on-court decisions. Before Dennis Smith Jr.’s return, we witnessed a few lineups that let Doncic literally stand alone as his team’s point guard. No J.J. Barea, DSJ, Devin Harris, or Jalen Brunson. When Dallas is healthy those lineups won’t see the floor, and there’s been mixed results in the limited time we saw them play, but those minutes offered a glimpse towards how the Mavs may want to build around their franchise player.

(I absolutely love DSJ and am not one to give up on the compatibility of any two players as young and talented as him and Doncic, but—an uptick in three-point shooting aside—nobody should be surprised if/when Dallas makes a trade; the Mavericks score 110.9 points per 100 possessions when Doncic is on the floor without Smith Jr. and 100 points per 100 possessions when they both play.)

Even though Doncic’s usage rate and True Shooting percentage are actually higher with Smith Jr. on the court than without, just look at the cool stuff he can do when operating in space beside teammates who naturally complement his profound ability to make the defense feel like it’s hallucinating.

Everything falls into place when Doncic is surrounded by wings and bigs who provide enough space and defensive versatility. They unlock his best attributes and will eventually let Dallas discover its best self. There are parallels here to how Brett Brown decided to use Ben Simmons last year (a move that wasn’t obvious at the time). Doncic’s skill-set gives a much longer rope and no pressure to go all-in down one road, but there’s a future where his assist rate is consistently over 35 percent on a top-five offense. (Right now he’s one of six 19-year-old rookies in league history to assist at least 25 percent of his team’s baskets while logging over 1,000 total minutes.)

Related: The Mavericks shouldn’t be shy about throwing a lot of money at Malcolm Brogdon this summer. He’s a low-usage cog who can defend point guards while quietly posting 50/40/90 splits. The perfect partner for someone like Doncic once the Mavs start putting the ball in his hands way more than they already are.

Kevin Knox is Starting to Show What He Can Be

It’s still too early to make any firm declarations about Kevin Knox’s future. But for someone who won’t celebrate his 20th birthday until August, it’s impossible not to look at his production since David Fizdale made him a full-time starter on December 12th and not feel bullish.

Since, he’s averaging 37.6 minutes, 17.9 points, and 5.2 rebounds while making 38.1 percent of his threes (of which he launches many). The Knicks are bad and some of Knox’s overall inefficiency comes from being 19 with a flashing green light, but there are aspects of his game—particularly off the ball—that make it feel like whenever New York acquires a star (whoever it may be), Knox won’t have any problem finding ways to impact the game.

The quick-trigger three-ball is fun, as is enough size and length to eventually guard three positions with ease. But the most impressive part of Knox’s game so far might be how aggressively (and intelligently) he attacks closeouts. Watch below, where he doesn’t wait for the ball to hit his hands before he curves into the paint.

It’s an instruction smart teams (the Spurs and Jazz, most notably) give their wings in an effort to get a step past their defender. And here’s Knox showing enough confidence to take Paul Millsap off the bounce (something the four-time All-Star clearly didn’t expect) before an and-1 finish at the rim.

Knox still doesn’t know how to pass on the move and is only shooting 40 percent on drives since he entered the starting lineup. He ranks 471st out of 472 players in Real Plus-Minus. But the silhouette of a useful player is drawn. The Knicks needed to hit this pick and they didn’t screw it up! Good for them!

Jamal Crawford’s Late-Career Transformation

Jamal Crawford will always be known for his ability to get buckets off the bench. That’s his DNA and the first line of his basketball obituary. But this year has been different. It’s not an evolutionary change, per se, but Crawford, at 38, has spent almost all his minutes as Phoenix’s de facto backup point guard, setting teammates up, throwing lobs, and rewarding cutters. His assist rate is the highest it’s ever been—second only to Devin Booker on the team—and his shots per 100 possessions were only lower during his rookie season.

During the month of December, he averaged about five assists per game, including a career-high 14 at Madison Square Garden. Crawford goes out of his way to feed youngsters like Deandre Ayton and Mikal Bridges, incentivizing them to cut hard, sprint the floor, and dive into the paint.

Crawford was paid to be “selfish” earlier in his career. He took (and made) tough shots even when a more satisfying option presented itself. Now, he’ll swing it to an open man without hesitation. (More than once I’ve had to rewind and double-check to make sure it was him who threw the pass.) When a defender races out to run him off the three-point line, Crawford will forgo a one-dribble pull-up and circulate the ball around the perimeter.

In three fewer minutes per game compared to last season, when he was on the Minnesota Timberwolves, he’s averaging five more passes. On high pick-and-rolls, Crawford’s head is up, canvassing the baseline for teammates, trying to do more than settle for the jumper he can turn to whenever he wants.

The play below would never happen five years ago. If the screener’s man dropped that far, Crawford would use the sliver of space provided by Ayton’s screen to pull up. Instead, he lets him attack an off-balance DeAndre Jordan, who clearly wasn’t expecting a pass.

The Suns are extremely bad, but Crawford’s readiness to tilt his role towards that of a playmaker has made life (slightly) easier for a young core that would otherwise have no stability whatsoever at such a crucial position.

The Outlet Pass: Jim Boylen is a Legend published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[leehaws]

The Outlet Pass: Jim Boylen is a Legend

The Case for Jim Boylen

The Jim Boylen Show is one of those classic NBA subplots that began as a cracked carnival ride, but—not so much including Wednesday night’s need for introspection—may be maturing into a situation that’s slightly more intriguing than pitiful. Boylen is a retrograde disciplinarian who’s extremely stubborn and passionate to the point of exhaustion. As someone literally coaching for his job, who knows how long the odds of him ever getting another opportunity this high up the food chain are, each game is its own battle. (Long-term gains are nice, but mainly accessible as the byproduct of decisions made with that night’s result in mind.)

The aftermath of Boylen’s initial roar for knuckle push-ups and inane suicide sprints was a pseudo-mutiny and the birth of a leadership committee. It was embarrassing for everyone involved. (Boylen’s response? “I’m juiced, man. I’m jacked up about it.”) But there are still nights when the Bulls appear to be take hazy steps in the right direction.

What’s bad is extraordinarily bad—Chicago is dead last in offense by a wide margin, and the only team since Fred Hoiberg was fired to average fewer than one point per possession; they’re pigs rolling in mud—but what’s not bad deserves recognition. Since Boylen took over on December 3, the Bulls have the ninth-best defense in the NBA. Before, they were 22nd. Eliminate transition from the equation, and before Wednesday night’s loss, only the Indiana Pacers had been more stout in the half court, per Cleaning the Glass. B.B.B. (Before Boylen Ball) they ranked 21st in the half court.

These stats include Chicago’s historic 56-point loss against the Boston Celtics, and two games against the Oklahoma City Thunder in which they allowed 233 total points. That is kind of impressive! Even with a schedule that’s gifted them the Cleveland Cavaliers and Orlando Magic (three times!), Chicago’s effort, hair-on-fire aggression, and tight rotations are sustainable to a degree against teams that aren’t expecting it. One month in, it’s too early to call this fully sustainable. But given all their injuries and ill-equipped personnel, it’s also impressive. (They stifled the red-hot San Antonio Spurs and held the Toronto Raptors to a 40-point half, too.)

Boylen’s priorities are clear. Chicago’s pace has gone from average to a trickle. Jabari Parker is M.I.A. Defense is the universe. And even when he chooses to impersonate Byron Scott by punishing first and second-year players who, you know, make mistakes, in an otherwise lost season there’s serious value in thrusting important defensive principles onto impressionable prospects. They consistently execute a game-plan that will sometimes change from quarter to quarter, and is based on opposing personnel more than anything.

Depending on which of their bigs is involved, when up against a ball-handler who can shoot, Boylen wants the screener’s man to either stay level or show and recover, forcing a pass towards back-line defenders who’re ready to secure the paint. An example can be seen below: As Wendell Carter Jr. extends himself 35 feet from the rim, Chandler Hutchison has already introduced himself to a rolling Ian Mahinmi, who immediately whips the ball out of bounds.

It’s a beatable strategy against those that see it coming (like the Magic on Wednesday night), but by engaging all five guys on most possessions—forcing communication, quick rotations, and an understanding of where to be—it suits a young team nicely. Here’s Robin Lopez up to prevent Bradley Beal from getting a clean look. Before the pass even comes, Lauri Markkanen is already in the paint, positioned to swat Thomas Bryant’s shot.

One of the big picture takeaways in Boylen’s first month has been the effectiveness of Markkanen and Carter Jr. as a frontcourt duo. Offensively, it’s definitely fair to say he’s holding them back (these two are compatible and too talented not to eventually thrive on that end). But on defense, in a 275-minute sample size, Chicago has a top-five defense when they share the floor. Markkanen isn’t able to switch out onto guards, but he’s quick enough to contain the ball 25 feet from the rim, prevent a guard from turning the corner, and then scamper back to his man. Meanwhile, Carter Jr. (who Boylen benched on Wednesday night for no discernible reason) is good enough to suck the oxygen out of your lungs by momentarily transforming into prime Kevin Garnett.

Rookies are not supposed to do everything Carter Jr. does on that play. Like a 10-year vet, his brain is on auto-pilot, correctly analyzing then reacting to the offense. There’s no margin for hesitation and so Carter Jr. doesn’t hesitate. Since Boylen took over, opponents are shooting just 51.9 percent at the rim when he defends it. This type of effort illustrates why:

On the whole, Boylen’s coaching style is Full Metal Jacket as a one-man show. It’s maddening, comical, and, at times, deranged. In response to a random Lopez hook shot, he’ll violently pump his fist and howl towards the rafters. Boylen lives and dies on every possession with a level of enthusiasm that no cardiologist would recommend. It’s Tom Thibodeau clutching a megaphone, blowtorch, and empty bottle of adderall. (When Sam Dekker got away with a travel during a recent Bulls win over the Washington Wizards, Boylen turned to rookie ref Ashley Moyer-Gleich and shouted “Ashley! He took six steps!” The man is a legend.)

But, in some areas, the man is getting results. The Bulls rotate on a string and fly all over the court, deflecting over three more balls per 48 minutes under Boylen than they did with Hoiberg—a leap from average to fourth-best in the league. This team is rabid, physical, and following orders. They bump cutters, help the helper, know when to switch, and hold their own in spite of an offense (constructed by Boylen) that provides zero favors.

It’s unclear how much of Chicago’s defensive success will continue under a coach who micromanages every speck of each possession, with no sign of him abandoning roots that have already started to rot. Boylen’s attitude isn’t one to shepherd a very good team to the Finals, but he may be a logical exorcist for some of Chicago’s bad habits. Until the inevitable day comes when this young core is passed onto more delicate hands (think Mark Jackson to Steve Kerr), Boylen deserves some credit for what he’s done to a defense most expected to be epically horrendous all year.

Draymond Green’s Sort-of-Impossible Box Out Stats

One of the more subtle reasons Draymond Green is an irreplaceable defender comes after the opponent’s shot goes up, when he wheels his body in front of whoever’s nearby, dislodges them out of position, and dramatically increases the odds of a Golden State Warrior grabbing the rebound.

Last year he finished fifth with 6.6 defensive box outs per game. Right now, he’s fourth, with 8.0. This is impressive when you compare his role to that of others who box out as frequently as he does. Green is not a traditional drop big who can just spin around and throw his ass into whoever’s nearby. His defensive responsibilities run the gamut. He switches out on the perimeter and perpetually exists as a help-side safety net—flying around, putting out fires that are nowhere near his original assignment. For him to also place near the top of the league in a category like this is sort of amazing, especially when you consider the impact it’s had on Golden State’s defense when he’s at the five.

Not nothing: opponents are grabbing a measly 22 percent of their own missed shots when Green plays center, a truly impressive number that’s far lower than it’s ever been since the Warriors became the Warriors. (When Green played center last year that number was 30.5 percent. The year before that? 31.9 percent.) For all the worry about his disintegrating outside shot (he’ll probably make nine threes in Game 1 of the Finals, and eight of them will be assisted by DeMarcus Cousins), Green’s effort in this area is as commendable as ever.

Point Guard Don(cic)

It’s been a little over two weeks since Sacramento Kings head coach Dave Joerger had this to say about everyone’s favorite wunderkind, Luka Doncic: “Perhaps there was an idea that there was a ceiling on him. I don’t see it, unfortunately for us.” The statement was received as a searing subtweet aimed towards Kings assistant general manager Brandon Williams. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But more important, to me, was what it summoned: an interesting and ever-relevant debate about fit and context pertaining to prospects and the teams that draft them. Generally speaking, it’s silly to pass over a generational talent because he’d be limited in your system or on your roster. If that’s how you feel, change your system and/or your roster.

Doncic is good enough to transcend any environment he occupies, but like every other player on Earth, he’s also influenced by what his teammates can/can’t do, and his hypothetical role in Sacramento, next to a blurry pick-and-roll roadrunner like De’Aaron Fox, is different than his actual reality in Dallas. That’s OK. But it’s also fair and natural to consider how Doncic’s game might be limited there. Based on everything we’ve seen, Doncic, Fox, and the Kings would be perfectly fine, but it’d also rob us (and Doncic?) of maximizing the most exciting and beneficial area of his skill-set.

Doncic doesn’t need the ball in his hands to positively impact a game, but like so many great playmakers before him, it makes sense to let him influence a majority of his team’s on-court decisions. Before Dennis Smith Jr.’s return, we witnessed a few lineups that let Doncic literally stand alone as his team’s point guard. No J.J. Barea, DSJ, Devin Harris, or Jalen Brunson. When Dallas is healthy those lineups won’t see the floor, and there’s been mixed results in the limited time we saw them play, but those minutes offered a glimpse towards how the Mavs may want to build around their franchise player.

(I absolutely love DSJ and am not one to give up on the compatibility of any two players as young and talented as him and Doncic, but—an uptick in three-point shooting aside—nobody should be surprised if/when Dallas makes a trade; the Mavericks score 110.9 points per 100 possessions when Doncic is on the floor without Smith Jr. and 100 points per 100 possessions when they both play.)

Even though Doncic’s usage rate and True Shooting percentage are actually higher with Smith Jr. on the court than without, just look at the cool stuff he can do when operating in space beside teammates who naturally complement his profound ability to make the defense feel like it’s hallucinating.

Everything falls into place when Doncic is surrounded by wings and bigs who provide enough space and defensive versatility. They unlock his best attributes and will eventually let Dallas discover its best self. There are parallels here to how Brett Brown decided to use Ben Simmons last year (a move that wasn’t obvious at the time). Doncic’s skill-set gives a much longer rope and no pressure to go all-in down one road, but there’s a future where his assist rate is consistently over 35 percent on a top-five offense. (Right now he’s one of six 19-year-old rookies in league history to assist at least 25 percent of his team’s baskets while logging over 1,000 total minutes.)

Related: The Mavericks shouldn’t be shy about throwing a lot of money at Malcolm Brogdon this summer. He’s a low-usage cog who can defend point guards while quietly posting 50/40/90 splits. The perfect partner for someone like Doncic once the Mavs start putting the ball in his hands way more than they already are.

Kevin Knox is Starting to Show What He Can Be

It’s still too early to make any firm declarations about Kevin Knox’s future. But for someone who won’t celebrate his 20th birthday until August, it’s impossible not to look at his production since David Fizdale made him a full-time starter on December 12th and not feel bullish.

Since, he’s averaging 37.6 minutes, 17.9 points, and 5.2 rebounds while making 38.1 percent of his threes (of which he launches many). The Knicks are bad and some of Knox’s overall inefficiency comes from being 19 with a flashing green light, but there are aspects of his game—particularly off the ball—that make it feel like whenever New York acquires a star (whoever it may be), Knox won’t have any problem finding ways to impact the game.

The quick-trigger three-ball is fun, as is enough size and length to eventually guard three positions with ease. But the most impressive part of Knox’s game so far might be how aggressively (and intelligently) he attacks closeouts. Watch below, where he doesn’t wait for the ball to hit his hands before he curves into the paint.

It’s an instruction smart teams (the Spurs and Jazz, most notably) give their wings in an effort to get a step past their defender. And here’s Knox showing enough confidence to take Paul Millsap off the bounce (something the four-time All-Star clearly didn’t expect) before an and-1 finish at the rim.

Knox still doesn’t know how to pass on the move and is only shooting 40 percent on drives since he entered the starting lineup. He ranks 471st out of 472 players in Real Plus-Minus. But the silhouette of a useful player is drawn. The Knicks needed to hit this pick and they didn’t screw it up! Good for them!

Jamal Crawford’s Late-Career Transformation

Jamal Crawford will always be known for his ability to get buckets off the bench. That’s his DNA and the first line of his basketball obituary. But this year has been different. It’s not an evolutionary change, per se, but Crawford, at 38, has spent almost all his minutes as Phoenix’s de facto backup point guard, setting teammates up, throwing lobs, and rewarding cutters. His assist rate is the highest it’s ever been—second only to Devin Booker on the team—and his shots per 100 possessions were only lower during his rookie season.

During the month of December, he averaged about five assists per game, including a career-high 14 at Madison Square Garden. Crawford goes out of his way to feed youngsters like Deandre Ayton and Mikal Bridges, incentivizing them to cut hard, sprint the floor, and dive into the paint.

Crawford was paid to be “selfish” earlier in his career. He took (and made) tough shots even when a more satisfying option presented itself. Now, he’ll swing it to an open man without hesitation. (More than once I’ve had to rewind and double-check to make sure it was him who threw the pass.) When a defender races out to run him off the three-point line, Crawford will forgo a one-dribble pull-up and circulate the ball around the perimeter.

In three fewer minutes per game compared to last season, when he was on the Minnesota Timberwolves, he’s averaging five more passes. On high pick-and-rolls, Crawford’s head is up, canvassing the baseline for teammates, trying to do more than settle for the jumper he can turn to whenever he wants.

The play below would never happen five years ago. If the screener’s man dropped that far, Crawford would use the sliver of space provided by Ayton’s screen to pull up. Instead, he lets him attack an off-balance DeAndre Jordan, who clearly wasn’t expecting a pass.

The Suns are extremely bad, but Crawford’s readiness to tilt his role towards that of a playmaker has made life (slightly) easier for a young core that would otherwise have no stability whatsoever at such a crucial position.

The Outlet Pass: Jim Boylen is a Legend syndicated from https://justinbetreviews.wordpress.com/

[iamnotthedog]

MORRISON: WINTER 1995

When Jeni finally returned from Africa, she was no longer the innocent, naïve, pudgy-faced college student that she had once been. Mom and Don and Adam and I all drove to snowy Chicago to pick her up at the airport. Her flight came in rather late in the evening, and I don’t really remember the night very well, but there is a photograph of the three siblings that helps things: Adam and Jeni and I are all in front of a large, floor-to-ceiling window in the airport, a waist-high railing running along the window’s length behind us. No planes or vehicles are visible outside; everything beyond the glass is blackened by the night sky. Adam is squinting in the flash of the camera over on the far right side of the shot; he is definitely much too far in the foreground to have been caught there purposely by the photographer, who was more than likely our mother.1 Adam looks young with his shaggy brown bowl-cut and baggy windbreaker—or I should say that he looks his age, as he was only seven—but the thinness of his face and his long arms and bony knees seems to suggest that he is or will soon be entering the first of many awkward life stages leading up to puberty. His already pale forehead and face are whitened even more so by the close flash of the camera, and distract from the actual subject of the photo, who was obviously supposed to be Jeni. I am in the center of the photograph, also distracting from Jeni but back behind her a bit, and unlike Adam, I am definitely locked firmly in the strong jaws of Father Puberty. My arms and legs don’t seem to fit my body, and my long pale face and tall forehead are spattered with red pimples. My shoulder-length blonde hair is tilted to the left, suggesting head movement, and my lips are twisting, contorting, coming out of a smile but not quite there yet. Jeni stands between Adam and I in a beautiful, hand-knit, African-looking hooded sweater, her face far more tan than Adam’s or mine, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Both Jeni and I have our arms held out awkwardly, away from our torsos and pointed towards each other, but flaccid—we aren’t reaching for each other, but have just finished a hug and are pulling away. Everything about the photo says, “a bit too late on this one.” A classic mistake in many of Mom’s photographs.

I was taken aback at how skinny and tan Jeni was when we first saw her emerge from the tunnel that night. Her hair was bleached out from the sun, and her eyes were a light and stunningly radiant blue. She smelled of exotic oils, and hugged us all and told us repeatedly how glad she was to be home, then Adam and I mentioned that she probably wanted to eat some good ol’ American fast food, having eaten mostly Ugali for the past two years.2 Whether Jeni actually wanted fast food or not, she went along with the whole thing. We went to McDonald’s or Burger King or Arby’s or Wendy’s. Or maybe it was Taco Bell, though it’s questionable how American Taco Bell is. Taco Bell isn’t Mexican or American. It isn’t anything. 

I remember sitting in that McDonald’s or Arby’s or Burger King or Taco Bell or Wendy’s, watching Jeni as she told us stories of disabling sickness and schoolhouse drama and wildlife safaris and fighting with local tribes over the building of her schoolhouse. She seemed a lot different to me: more independent, more confident, and definitely more boastful. Boastful in a good way, though. She wasn’t trying to impress as she always had when she was a teenager. She was self-assured, and it fit her well.

There are a couple particular stories Jeni told that first week that she was home that I either exaggerated to my friends as a child and lied about enough to actually believe them, or that actually happened and have stuck with me because of just how strange and alien to my sheltered and conservative American existence they had been up to that point. Whether I have been lying about them for all of these years or not, they have most definitely become so ingrained in my second hand memories of Jeni in Africa that they have become true to me, and I’ll even find myself telling them now that I am an adult, even though I have never actually confirmed whether they actually happened or not since reaching an age when I have learned that one doesn’t need to make things up in order to tell a good story.

The first story involved a cheetah and a local tribesman on a rainy July evening. Jeni was living in a very small, rural village at the time. The sun had set, and she was asleep in her windowless hut—the wind howling through the fields outside, rustling the eucalyptus trees—the rain pattering on her tin roof. She was awakened to a young tribesman peeking through her window, hissing at her.

“Psst!” he hissed. “Psst!”

“What?” she whispered, rolling over on her cot and pulling her blanket up to her chin. One can only imagine the thoughts rolling through her head—thoughts of murder, robbery, rape. “What do you want?”

“There is a cheetah on your roof,” the young man whispered back, straining his hoarse voice to be heard over the relentless rain. “Do not leave until I tell you it is okay.”

And that was that. A humid African night, Jeni lying awake on her cot, a young tribesman standing in her window, and a member of the fastest species of mammal in the world crouching on her roof in the rain, hoping one of them would run from the hut so it could give chase and have itself a hot meal. Jeni lay there for hours, her breaths short and quick, her muscles tense, but eventually she did fall asleep. She awoke in the morning to find the cheetah and the tribesman gone.

The second story involved Jeni’s first safari—an amazing journey that brought us pictures of baboons, elephants, giraffes and hippopotami, rhinoceros and zebras, wildebeests, hyenas, and gazelles, crocodiles, bison, and aardvarks. Jeni was in a bus with a dozen other people—mostly English tourists, but a few locals—and a short distance away, just across a wide open field, there were a few elephants walking across the horizon. The group was ogling the elephants and snapping pictures, when the safari guide turned and made a little yelping noise that was obviously an expression of concern. They all turned to find that behind them, on the other side of the bus, was another slightly smaller elephant—a “juvenile male,” the guide said—and he was obviously separated from his herd and not very happy about it. He was flapping his ears and shaking his head, grunting and stomping his front feet and making a whole bunch of racket.

The tour guide told the bus driver to stop creeping forward, and he told everyone else to sit down and stay still as he sat and reached down to the floor under his seat to grab a very, very large gun and a box of shells. “Just in case,” he said, smiling nervously. Then, before anyone could even register what was happening, the elephant trumpeted loudly and charged at the bus with its head held high and its ears sticking straight out to the sides, and the guide dropped his box of shells and everyone on the bus screamed and dove to the side of the bus that was furthest from the elephant, where they buried their heads in each others’ armpits and laps and some of them said short, quick prayers (like “Fuck, Jesus,” and “Oh, God.”)

Miraculously, though, the elephant pulled up just before smashing his head into the bus, then turned abruptly to the side with a heaving huff. He walked around the bus, so slowly, and he was close enough that they could all hear him breathing and look into his one beady eye and smell the strong, musty smell emanating from his skin. And as he walked away toward the rest of his herd some of the tourists noticed a heavy secretion coming from his penis and a couple of them got a nervous chuckle out of that.

The best thing that happened to Jeni in Kenya, though, was that she found love, or at least a few years’ worth. Not two weeks after Jeni had returned from the wild and unpredictable Kenyan countryside, Don and I were again in the car, this time going to pick up Jeni’s new boyfriend from the train station in Rockford, Illinois. His name was Jez, and all Don or I knew about him was that he was an Englishman—born and raised in Manchester—and that he was “really very nice” and had a lot of tattoos.

Jeni and Jez’s meeting is quite the romantic story, actually: Jez worked construction for the Peace Corps, and had been building the schoolhouse that Jeni was teaching in the whole time she lived in that rural little village in Kenya. At 35, Jez was roughly ten years Jeni’s senior, and he was a man’s man—a big dude with shaggy blonde hair and a round beer belly, his sunburnt arms covered in tattoos, and he had a satellite radio in his hut so he could listen to his Manchester United football games, and he kept track of all the stats in all the games and had built himself a little board in his hut that had all the players and the teams on it represented by little multi-colored, laminated paper squares, so he could move them all around to show not only what the teams’ standing were, but also what players had the most goals and assists and shots on goal, etc.

Jeni and Jez had really hit it off, making all their meals together and drinking wine together and Jeni had probably even pretended to care about football, and had maybe tried to tell Jez about her love for American football and the Green Bay Packers, and Jez had probably raised his eyebrows and pretended to feign interest, but had scoffed at the idea of “American football” when Jeni wasn’t looking. I’m sure they had also done all sorts of things that I don’t want to think about because Jeni is my sister. Then, one day after Jeni had been there for about a year or so, Jeni’s old boyfriend from Illinois State University—that poor sucker—had come all the way out to Kenya to see her. I don’t even remember the guy’s name, but he was pretty much the definition of a stereotypical liberal college kid with his ponytail and his necklace and upper-middle-class parents and his open-collared shirts and perpetual Howard Zinn book tucked under his arm. The poor dude had literally spent thousands of hard-earned dollars that he had saved up working in the school library or Applebee’s or Starbucks or wherever the fuck college kids worked in the early ‘90s to take planes and a train and a bus or two out to the middle of nowhere to spend just a few days with Jeni, and Jeni had put up with him for a while, but then had pretty much told him to fuck off so she could be with Jez. Then, before Jeni had left Kenya forever, she had told Jez that he was welcome to come stay with her in the U.S. And now Jez was done with his stint in the Peace Corps as well, and was coming to live in Morrison with Jeni for a while, and Don and I were picking him up and feeling a bit nervous about the whole thing.

Jez wasn’t hard to spot at the train station, as he was the only guy standing around on the sidewalk who looked like he had absolutely no idea where he was or what he was doing there. The first thing I noticed about him was that he looked a lot dorkier and less tough than Jeni’s stories had made him seem. And he was wearing long sleeves to cover his tattoos, more than likely out of respect for our parents, I suppose. He shook Don’s hand very firmly and politely with an awkward look on his face, like he had just been caught taking a shit on the lawn or something. Then he shook my hand and smiled. He seemed really quite happy that I was there, as if he hadn’t wanted to face Don alone, which made sense, I guess. He was meeting Don for the first time, and was probably nervous as hell. He was, after all, not only coming to visit Jeni, but to live with her. That was no small business.

After that initial meet and greet, Jez didn’t say much in the car for the rest of the duration of our ride from Rockford to Morrison. He was a quiet guy in general. A shy type. But it didn’t take him long to adjust to our family, and before long he was helping Don with all of his projects around the house and at the hardware store, and he’d drink some beers at night and open up to Adam and I when we were alone. Over the course of the following few months, I got quite a few stories out of him—stories that influenced me more than anyone could have possibly known at the time, if only because they made me want to leave even more so than Jeni’s stories had—to just plain go and keep going.

Jez’s parents had been really awful, mean-spirited people, and he had dropped out of school and left his home in Manchester when he was only fourteen years old to travel around the world, looking for work. He did an absolutely stunning amount of things to make a buck throughout his teens and early twenties, but the only things I can remember—the things I will, in fact, never forget—are the completely outrageous ones, of which there were two.

When Jez was eighteen, he came to the United States for the first time. He had no money when he arrived, and hadn’t even left J.F.K. before he started looking for work, which he found immediately. A fat, balding man in a bad polyester suit had himself a little crew that was running this pretty smooth operation straight out of the airport. They would drive people’s cars across the country for them so the people didn’t have to pay to have them trucked or flown or taken by boat or whatever. The people would arrive by plane at their destinations, and a day or two later their car would arrive. They’d pay the driver a couple hundred bucks and reimburse him for gas, and that was it. Transaction completed. The driver would then decide whether to fly back to his original place of departure, or to find another car to drive to another destination. Apparently the polyester suit guy had connections at all the major airports. So the day Jez arrived at J.F.K. he had simply walked up to the guy, showed him his papers, and told him he was looking for work, and later on that very same afternoon he had a pocketful of cash and he was driving a Buick Skylark to Los Angeles. He drove all over the United States for the next couple years, saw most of the major cities and took in the scenery in several of our National Parks, and made some relatively decent money in the process.

Right before Jez joined the Peace Corps, he was working as a contractor for a construction company and moonlighting as a bartender, but he had found himself in a tough spot due to some outstanding gambling debts that were a holdover from his pool sharking days—the days that came shortly after his car transporting days, but before his manual labor days. In order to pay off his debts, Jez started to do weirder and weirder things for cash. The strangest thing he ever did—according to him, at least—was to offer himself up as a guinea pig for a drug company.

The way Jez told it, he lived for three months at this little clinic that resembled a nut house—white walls, white floors, barred windows, everyone either wearing lab coats and carrying clipboards or wearing white paper hospital gowns with a light floral pattern on them and looking nervous and/or genuinely insane. There were a few recreation rooms in the clinic that were furnished with couches, televisions, pool tables, dart boards, and the like, and each of those rec rooms had one wall lined with one-way mirrors, so the men and women in the room could be watched by the men and women with clipboards.

The whole point of this clinic was to test the side effects of certain drugs that were to be put out on the market the following year. Each morning, afternoon, and night, Jez and his fellow paper-gown-wearers were fed pills. Most of them would get a placebo, of course, but one person would get the real thing. Jez wasn’t sure what the drugs were, necessarily, but he said some of them were definitely some heavy shit.

“It was a dreadful bore most of the time,” he told me as we sat on the hot tar roof just outside my bedroom one day, smoking cigarettes. “We’d all wake up, eat this disgusting cafeteria breakfast, take a pill, then read the paper or watch the tellie or whatever and hope that we either got a placebo or something good—something that made us high—and not something that made us sick.” He laughed. “Sometimes, though, somebody would get a really wacky drug—really crazy shit—and they’d go mental. I was shooting pool with this bloke one night who was lining up a shot on the eight ball when he just dropped his stick, stood up straight, and then just wandered off. He had this blank look in his eyes—he was totally stoned.”

“Damn,” I said, laughing. “How much money were they paying you, anyway? Was it worth it even on the off chance that you might get brain damage or something?”

“I mean, it wasn’t THAT much. I don’t remember the exact amount. But it was a good amount. Enough for me to pay the bills, so I could use my money from building houses to pay off my debts before I went to Africa.”

So Jez went from driving cars to being a pool shark to working construction and bartending and acting as a guinea pig for drug companies in his free time, and he had several other odd jobs in there, as well—jobs that that he referred to as “too boring to mention.” Then he finally decided one day to do something productive—something for the good of humanity—and he joined the Peace Corps, where he met Jeni. And now this intrepid world traveler was moving to tiny little Morrison, Illinois.

Jeni and Jez moved into Don’s old apartment above True Value Hardware—the same apartment I had visited Don in with my mother as a little boy—and Jeni started substitute teaching around town. The plan was for them to both save money, and then move somewhere together. Pretty soon, though, they just decided to go ahead and get married so Jez could get his Visa.

The wedding was in our living room, and was very small and nice. Since I’m apparently on a photograph kick all of a sudden, I happen to still have a couple of pictures from the thing: one is of me standing between the two grandmas with my hands folded and a smart ass look on my face. I’m wearing a shirt and tie, some seriously baggy brown corduroys—the bigger the better was the trend among teenage skateboarder types at the time—and I have a belt with an alien head on the buckle. The other is of Jeni and Jez at the post-wedding dinner table, Jeni with her mouth wide open and a maraschino cherry on her tongue, and Jez looking genuinely horrified. The great thing about that shot in the context of this whole story is that Jez is on the far left of the picture, so far left that half his body is cut out of the shot, and—just like Adam in the airport picture I described earlier—he is much too far in the foreground. His glasses are nothing but a reflection of the flash—you can’t even see his eyes.

Another of Mom’s finest photographic efforts of a key family event.

After Jeni and Jez got married they moved up to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where Jez got a job as a bartender and Jeni got a job teaching at a junior high school and began slowly working her way back to being a good ol’ hard-working American.

 Mom has always been a dedicated but hilariously inept photographer of family comings and goings. ↩︎

 Ugali is a cornmeal porridge, a staple starch eaten with almost everything in eastern and southern Africa. It is traditionally cooked to a doughy consistency so it can be picked up with the hands, rolled into a ball, and dipped into sauce or stew, or used to pick up meat. Adam and I had heard about ugali in Jeni’s letters, and we both definitely brought it up to show our big sister that we had been paying attention. ↩︎

[flauntpage]

The Outlet Pass: Jim Boylen is a Legend

The Case for Jim Boylen

The Jim Boylen Show is one of those classic NBA subplots that began as a cracked carnival ride, but—not so much including Wednesday night’s need for introspection—may be maturing into a situation that’s slightly more intriguing than pitiful. Boylen is a retrograde disciplinarian who’s extremely stubborn and passionate to the point of exhaustion. As someone literally coaching for his job, who knows how long the odds of him ever getting another opportunity this high up the food chain are, each game is its own battle. (Long-term gains are nice, but mainly accessible as the byproduct of decisions made with that night’s result in mind.)

The aftermath of Boylen’s initial roar for knuckle push-ups and inane suicide sprints was a pseudo-mutiny and the birth of a leadership committee. It was embarrassing for everyone involved. (Boylen’s response? “I’m juiced, man. I’m jacked up about it.”) But there are still nights when the Bulls appear to be take hazy steps in the right direction.

What’s bad is extraordinarily bad—Chicago is dead last in offense by a wide margin, and the only team since Fred Hoiberg was fired to average fewer than one point per possession; they’re pigs rolling in mud—but what’s not bad deserves recognition. Since Boylen took over on December 3, the Bulls have the ninth-best defense in the NBA. Before, they were 22nd. Eliminate transition from the equation, and before Wednesday night’s loss, only the Indiana Pacers had been more stout in the half court, per Cleaning the Glass. B.B.B. (Before Boylen Ball) they ranked 21st in the half court.

These stats include Chicago’s historic 56-point loss against the Boston Celtics, and two games against the Oklahoma City Thunder in which they allowed 233 total points. That is kind of impressive! Even with a schedule that’s gifted them the Cleveland Cavaliers and Orlando Magic (three times!), Chicago’s effort, hair-on-fire aggression, and tight rotations are sustainable to a degree against teams that aren’t expecting it. One month in, it’s too early to call this fully sustainable. But given all their injuries and ill-equipped personnel, it’s also impressive. (They stifled the red-hot San Antonio Spurs and held the Toronto Raptors to a 40-point half, too.)

Boylen’s priorities are clear. Chicago’s pace has gone from average to a trickle. Jabari Parker is M.I.A. Defense is the universe. And even when he chooses to impersonate Byron Scott by punishing first and second-year players who, you know, make mistakes, in an otherwise lost season there’s serious value in thrusting important defensive principles onto impressionable prospects. They consistently execute a game-plan that will sometimes change from quarter to quarter, and is based on opposing personnel more than anything.

Depending on which of their bigs is involved, when up against a ball-handler who can shoot, Boylen wants the screener’s man to either stay level or show and recover, forcing a pass towards back-line defenders who’re ready to secure the paint. An example can be seen below: As Wendell Carter Jr. extends himself 35 feet from the rim, Chandler Hutchison has already introduced himself to a rolling Ian Mahinmi, who immediately whips the ball out of bounds.

It’s a beatable strategy against those that see it coming (like the Magic on Wednesday night), but by engaging all five guys on most possessions—forcing communication, quick rotations, and an understanding of where to be—it suits a young team nicely. Here’s Robin Lopez up to prevent Bradley Beal from getting a clean look. Before the pass even comes, Lauri Markkanen is already in the paint, positioned to swat Thomas Bryant’s shot.

One of the big picture takeaways in Boylen’s first month has been the effectiveness of Markkanen and Carter Jr. as a frontcourt duo. Offensively, it’s definitely fair to say he’s holding them back (these two are compatible and too talented not to eventually thrive on that end). But on defense, in a 275-minute sample size, Chicago has a top-five defense when they share the floor. Markkanen isn’t able to switch out onto guards, but he’s quick enough to contain the ball 25 feet from the rim, prevent a guard from turning the corner, and then scamper back to his man. Meanwhile, Carter Jr. (who Boylen benched on Wednesday night for no discernible reason) is good enough to suck the oxygen out of your lungs by momentarily transforming into prime Kevin Garnett.

Rookies are not supposed to do everything Carter Jr. does on that play. Like a 10-year vet, his brain is on auto-pilot, correctly analyzing then reacting to the offense. There’s no margin for hesitation and so Carter Jr. doesn’t hesitate. Since Boylen took over, opponents are shooting just 51.9 percent at the rim when he defends it. This type of effort illustrates why:

On the whole, Boylen’s coaching style is Full Metal Jacket as a one-man show. It’s maddening, comical, and, at times, deranged. In response to a random Lopez hook shot, he’ll violently pump his fist and howl towards the rafters. Boylen lives and dies on every possession with a level of enthusiasm that no cardiologist would recommend. It’s Tom Thibodeau clutching a megaphone, blowtorch, and empty bottle of adderall. (When Sam Dekker got away with a travel during a recent Bulls win over the Washington Wizards, Boylen turned to rookie ref Ashley Moyer-Gleich and shouted “Ashley! He took six steps!” The man is a legend.)

But, in some areas, the man is getting results. The Bulls rotate on a string and fly all over the court, deflecting over three more balls per 48 minutes under Boylen than they did with Hoiberg—a leap from average to fourth-best in the league. This team is rabid, physical, and following orders. They bump cutters, help the helper, know when to switch, and hold their own in spite of an offense (constructed by Boylen) that provides zero favors.

It’s unclear how much of Chicago’s defensive success will continue under a coach who micromanages every speck of each possession, with no sign of him abandoning roots that have already started to rot. Boylen’s attitude isn’t one to shepherd a very good team to the Finals, but he may be a logical exorcist for some of Chicago’s bad habits. Until the inevitable day comes when this young core is passed onto more delicate hands (think Mark Jackson to Steve Kerr), Boylen deserves some credit for what he’s done to a defense most expected to be epically horrendous all year.

Draymond Green’s Sort-of-Impossible Box Out Stats

One of the more subtle reasons Draymond Green is an irreplaceable defender comes after the opponent’s shot goes up, when he wheels his body in front of whoever’s nearby, dislodges them out of position, and dramatically increases the odds of a Golden State Warrior grabbing the rebound.

Last year he finished fifth with 6.6 defensive box outs per game. Right now, he’s fourth, with 8.0. This is impressive when you compare his role to that of others who box out as frequently as he does. Green is not a traditional drop big who can just spin around and throw his ass into whoever’s nearby. His defensive responsibilities run the gamut. He switches out on the perimeter and perpetually exists as a help-side safety net—flying around, putting out fires that are nowhere near his original assignment. For him to also place near the top of the league in a category like this is sort of amazing, especially when you consider the impact it’s had on Golden State’s defense when he’s at the five.

Not nothing: opponents are grabbing a measly 22 percent of their own missed shots when Green plays center, a truly impressive number that’s far lower than it’s ever been since the Warriors became the Warriors. (When Green played center last year that number was 30.5 percent. The year before that? 31.9 percent.) For all the worry about his disintegrating outside shot (he’ll probably make nine threes in Game 1 of the Finals, and eight of them will be assisted by DeMarcus Cousins), Green’s effort in this area is as commendable as ever.

Point Guard Don(cic)

It’s been a little over two weeks since Sacramento Kings head coach Dave Joerger had this to say about everyone’s favorite wunderkind, Luka Doncic: “Perhaps there was an idea that there was a ceiling on him. I don't see it, unfortunately for us.” The statement was received as a searing subtweet aimed towards Kings assistant general manager Brandon Williams. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But more important, to me, was what it summoned: an interesting and ever-relevant debate about fit and context pertaining to prospects and the teams that draft them. Generally speaking, it’s silly to pass over a generational talent because he’d be limited in your system or on your roster. If that’s how you feel, change your system and/or your roster.

Doncic is good enough to transcend any environment he occupies, but like every other player on Earth, he’s also influenced by what his teammates can/can’t do, and his hypothetical role in Sacramento, next to a blurry pick-and-roll roadrunner like De’Aaron Fox, is different than his actual reality in Dallas. That’s OK. But it’s also fair and natural to consider how Doncic’s game might be limited there. Based on everything we’ve seen, Doncic, Fox, and the Kings would be perfectly fine, but it’d also rob us (and Doncic?) of maximizing the most exciting and beneficial area of his skill-set.

Doncic doesn’t need the ball in his hands to positively impact a game, but like so many great playmakers before him, it makes sense to let him influence a majority of his team’s on-court decisions. Before Dennis Smith Jr.’s return, we witnessed a few lineups that let Doncic literally stand alone as his team’s point guard. No J.J. Barea, DSJ, Devin Harris, or Jalen Brunson. When Dallas is healthy those lineups won’t see the floor, and there’s been mixed results in the limited time we saw them play, but those minutes offered a glimpse towards how the Mavs may want to build around their franchise player.

(I absolutely love DSJ and am not one to give up on the compatibility of any two players as young and talented as him and Doncic, but—an uptick in three-point shooting aside—nobody should be surprised if/when Dallas makes a trade; the Mavericks score 110.9 points per 100 possessions when Doncic is on the floor without Smith Jr. and 100 points per 100 possessions when they both play.)

Even though Doncic’s usage rate and True Shooting percentage are actually higher with Smith Jr. on the court than without, just look at the cool stuff he can do when operating in space beside teammates who naturally complement his profound ability to make the defense feel like it’s hallucinating.

Everything falls into place when Doncic is surrounded by wings and bigs who provide enough space and defensive versatility. They unlock his best attributes and will eventually let Dallas discover its best self. There are parallels here to how Brett Brown decided to use Ben Simmons last year (a move that wasn’t obvious at the time). Doncic’s skill-set gives a much longer rope and no pressure to go all-in down one road, but there’s a future where his assist rate is consistently over 35 percent on a top-five offense. (Right now he’s one of six 19-year-old rookies in league history to assist at least 25 percent of his team’s baskets while logging over 1,000 total minutes.)

Related: The Mavericks shouldn’t be shy about throwing a lot of money at Malcolm Brogdon this summer. He’s a low-usage cog who can defend point guards while quietly posting 50/40/90 splits. The perfect partner for someone like Doncic once the Mavs start putting the ball in his hands way more than they already are.

Kevin Knox is Starting to Show What He Can Be

It’s still too early to make any firm declarations about Kevin Knox’s future. But for someone who won’t celebrate his 20th birthday until August, it’s impossible not to look at his production since David Fizdale made him a full-time starter on December 12th and not feel bullish.

Since, he’s averaging 37.6 minutes, 17.9 points, and 5.2 rebounds while making 38.1 percent of his threes (of which he launches many). The Knicks are bad and some of Knox’s overall inefficiency comes from being 19 with a flashing green light, but there are aspects of his game—particularly off the ball—that make it feel like whenever New York acquires a star (whoever it may be), Knox won’t have any problem finding ways to impact the game.

The quick-trigger three-ball is fun, as is enough size and length to eventually guard three positions with ease. But the most impressive part of Knox’s game so far might be how aggressively (and intelligently) he attacks closeouts. Watch below, where he doesn’t wait for the ball to hit his hands before he curves into the paint.

It’s an instruction smart teams (the Spurs and Jazz, most notably) give their wings in an effort to get a step past their defender. And here’s Knox showing enough confidence to take Paul Millsap off the bounce (something the four-time All-Star clearly didn’t expect) before an and-1 finish at the rim.

Knox still doesn’t know how to pass on the move and is only shooting 40 percent on drives since he entered the starting lineup. He ranks 471st out of 472 players in Real Plus-Minus. But the silhouette of a useful player is drawn. The Knicks needed to hit this pick and they didn’t screw it up! Good for them!

Jamal Crawford’s Late-Career Transformation

Jamal Crawford will always be known for his ability to get buckets off the bench. That’s his DNA and the first line of his basketball obituary. But this year has been different. It’s not an evolutionary change, per se, but Crawford, at 38, has spent almost all his minutes as Phoenix’s de facto backup point guard, setting teammates up, throwing lobs, and rewarding cutters. His assist rate is the highest it’s ever been—second only to Devin Booker on the team—and his shots per 100 possessions were only lower during his rookie season.

During the month of December, he averaged about five assists per game, including a career-high 14 at Madison Square Garden. Crawford goes out of his way to feed youngsters like Deandre Ayton and Mikal Bridges, incentivizing them to cut hard, sprint the floor, and dive into the paint.

Crawford was paid to be “selfish” earlier in his career. He took (and made) tough shots even when a more satisfying option presented itself. Now, he’ll swing it to an open man without hesitation. (More than once I’ve had to rewind and double-check to make sure it was him who threw the pass.) When a defender races out to run him off the three-point line, Crawford will forgo a one-dribble pull-up and circulate the ball around the perimeter.

In three fewer minutes per game compared to last season, when he was on the Minnesota Timberwolves, he’s averaging five more passes. On high pick-and-rolls, Crawford’s head is up, canvassing the baseline for teammates, trying to do more than settle for the jumper he can turn to whenever he wants.

The play below would never happen five years ago. If the screener’s man dropped that far, Crawford would use the sliver of space provided by Ayton’s screen to pull up. Instead, he lets him attack an off-balance DeAndre Jordan, who clearly wasn’t expecting a pass.

The Suns are extremely bad, but Crawford’s readiness to tilt his role towards that of a playmaker has made life (slightly) easier for a young core that would otherwise have no stability whatsoever at such a crucial position.

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