Shoutout to Youtube for making this all possible. I know I’m not the only one who’s Facebook blew up around 9pm last night when the dunk of the year (so far) went viral. The announcer on NBA.com said Kendrick Perkins life just changed and I wouldn’t disagree. I wonder if anyone said anything to him in the locker room? Did his teammates console him, or did they try not to make eye contact? Did his ears get hot when he saw the highlight again? Did his nose itch? Did his Mom watch the game?

When you’re doing your thing people always say, “Keep up the good work.” It’s like they see you going hard and they’re like, “Damn if they just keep doing this, they’re gonna get somewhere.” I mean look at Lebron. How many times do you think he’s heard the phrase, “Keep up the good work,” or better yet, “good game?” Yeah, he has no jewelry but can you deny how far he’s taken it already? He went from a high school phenom to a global icon in less than a decade, and with no signs of slowing down. We’re seven days into the 2012, so let’s not forget how far we’ve come, and just as importantly, let’s not forget how far we’re going.

With the demise of the Jordan brand upon us, the faithful Jordan heads must hold onto the mere morsels of fresh that still remain. In my humble, the last few years have seen the brand scrambling for an identity, amongst too many retros and uninspired design. Not to mention, within the past five years, many of us also grew up, and realized we can’t wear basketball shoes to every occasion anymore.

Nonetheless, 2012 will see the release of one of the brand’s most celebrated designs in the form of the Air Jordan IV. Originally released in 1989 the Jordan IV introduced Nike’s iconic “Flight” logo to the world, while also providing MJ with the footwear to hit “The Shot“. Designed by the formidable Tinker Hattfield, rumor has it that the IV’s are set to drop on February 18th. I know someone’s juiced.

Written By Lukas Brekke-Miesner

Bill Russell is recognized by many as the greatest basketball player of all time. Of course Michael Jordan fans will rebuke, as will any others who view scoring as the number one measure of a player’s prowess, but no player dominated the game to the degree which Russell did, or made the impact that he did. Among a laundry list of accomplishments, Bill Russell won an unprecedented 11 championship rings in 13 seasons and was the first African-American coach of any major sport.

For Russell, basketball was a journey. He was cut from his Junior High team and offered only one scholarship upon graduation from McClymonds High School in West Oakland. He attended USF, where he introduced the world to shot blocking (the stat was not kept until Russell came along) and led them to two national championships. He then led the US to an Olympic gold medal and the Boston Celtics to the aforementioned 11 world championships, collecting 12 all-star appearances and five MVP awards along the way.

Despite his success however, Russell was viewed by many as surly, standoffish and even racist. In the segregated city of Boston, fans had a love-hate relationship with the centerpiece of their dynasty. Things boiled over when his house was broken into, trophies were trashed, racist graffiti was scribbled on the walls and his beds were defecated in. While the fans of Boston assumed that Russell was a hateful person because of his refusal to acknowledge fans, sign autographs or be cordial with the media, they evidently didn’t see that these behaviors were in response to the racism and resulting trauma he had dealt with in his life. He was drafted only five years after the color line in basketball was broken, so the Irish Catholic capital of America wasn’t exactly a bastion of tolerance, and Russell wasn’t raised to be submissive.

Russell’s parents, frustrated with the blatant racism of the south, chose to relocate the family to California. In Oakland, the racial climate eased, but the institutional effects of racism were still all too apparent. When he made it to the NBA, the effects were magnified further. Russell was not one to lay down or let the struggle of his family be in vain, so he took a hard stance against bigotry. This brought him face-to-face with a city and country that honored his physical ability, but not his humanity.

Russell was fighting for his humanity on a public stage a decade before the Black Panthers were birthed in his old neighborhood. Russell (who had an FBI file) marched with King, supported Ali when he refused to serve in Vietnam, refused to play in cities where he and his black teammates were refused service, and even bought land in Liberia for retirement. He then upped the ante by becoming the NBA’s first black coach. Interestingly enough, his teammate at McClymonds, Baseball hall-of-famer Frank Robinson, became the first black Major League Baseball manager. Another schoolmate at Mack, Curt Flood, was the first player to stand up to ownership and challenge the reserve clause, leading to the creation of free agency in a win for players’ rights. So you see, Bill Russell was more than another great athlete from Oakland, he was another freedom fighter from Oakland. There must be something in the water out here that refuses to settle.

“Philosophically, the opposite of love is not hate. The opposite of love is indifference. So you don’t carry around hatred in your heart, because it takes your ability to be happy. I don’t hate anybody.” – Bill Russell on Hate

His prowess in the arena made the world take notice, but is was his spirit, resilience and wisdom that allowed him to prosper. Russell’s difficult life resulted in him cutting all ties with Boston and becoming a shut-in, but in recent years he has finally reemerged. He has reconciled with Boston, brokered the resolution of the conflict between Kobe and Shaq, received the Presidential Medal of Freedom and reintroduced himself to the world as the man he always was beneath all the glowering veneers. Today we are treated to the wisdom and brilliance of an OG who’s spent a tremendous life in the trenches and has had the time and space to put it all in perspective. Russell speaks in a slow and measured tone reserved for the most revered of elders, and manages to simultaneously exude bravado, Buddhism and brilliance in each breath. And then he cracks a smile and laughs and you fall in love with the man all over again.

To read more of from Lukas’ writing, visit his personal site at 38th Notes.

Cliche though it may be, I think it’s worth restating every once in a while. The destination is cool, but the journey is really what it’s about. Everybody wants to blow up, particularly if they’re doing their thing exceptionally well. But once you’re there, you’re there, and there’s no turning back. As far as Mike goes, I think a lot of us are pretty well acquainted with his journey.

I remember sitting in Ms. Kennedy’s classroom, rifling through sports biographies as fast as I could, absorbing any and all information that might help me become a little more, well, like Mike. Stories about Michael — how baseball was his first love, or how he rocked the number 23 because he just wanted to be half as good as his brother, who rocked 45 — I learned the mythology like Bible-belt kids learn the gospels. Like any good story though, Michael’s is as inspiring today as it is was when I was ten. Just another reminder that sometimes, where you come from is just as important as where you take it to.

Case was always up on the hoop prodigies first. “You heard of Derrick Character?” he’d ask me. “You heard of Qyntel Woods?” he’d say. I haven’t found myself too juiced off many high school prodigies since Lebron. I mean Louis Williams on Philly because he graduated ’05, and Derrick Rose had those two bashes in high school. But since then, there really haven’t been too many hoopers that have truly dominated. Maybe John Wall…

But have you heard of Austin Rivers? I’m sure some folks have. He’s actually Doc’s son. Born in California, he graduated high school in Florida, acquiring two state championships in the process. He’s going to Duke next year, where he’ll probably stay for a year if the NBA ever comes back. A nasty jab step and a vicious crossover characterize his game as of now, but who knows where he’ll take it to. Take this with a grain of salt, remember this is a mixtape and not a game. But don’t forget where you first heard the name Austin Rivers.

For hoop fans, a lockout has to be the most hurt idea imaginable. In short, declining profits for some teams means raising the question of whether players deserve less money. More specifically, it’s a bunch of exorbitantly rich folks asking considerably less rich, but still very rich athletes to take a pay cut. For many of us, the notion that a dispute like this one could put a stop to something as dope as NBA basketball seems questionable, to say the least.

For those of us who find the idea of the lockout, or say Kobe or Lebron taking their talents to Beijing more than a little ridiculous, Malcolm Gladwell might serve as a voice of reason on the subject. In a recent piece for Grantland, Gladwell outlines what he sees as the problem, making the case that a basketball team isn’t exactly a business in the traditional sense of the word. Read on for a brief history lesson, and some insight on race, culture and the business of professional sports.

By Malcolm Gladwell

The Boston Red Sox signed their first black player in 1959, a utility infielder named “Pumpsie” Green.1 This was 12 years after the Brooklyn Dodgers broke the color line with Jackie Robinson. No other team in baseball dragged its feet on integration like the Red Sox. It wasn’t until 1965, in fact — 18 years after Robinson started at second base for the Dodgers — that Boston had its first full-time black player. Why?

The simple answer — that the Red Sox owner at the time, Tom Yawkey, was a racist — is not terribly satisfying. Lots of racists are happy to hire black people, particularly if they can exploit them as spectacularly as baseball owners exploited their players in the postwar years.2 There was a lot of money to be made by raiding the Negro Leagues in the 1940s. The talent pool was extraordinary: Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Hank Aaron, Ernie Banks, and Willie Mays, among others. The Sox were well aware of this. They tried out Mays and Robinson — both of whom they could have used in the lean years of the 1950s, when the team was known as “Ted Williams and the Seven Dwarfs.” In a recent academic paper, the economist Jonathan Lanning has also shown that almost without exception integration in the 1940s and 1950s had an immediate and significant positive impact on a team’s attendance — even in cities where you might not think the fan base would be enthusiastic.3 Lanning calculates, in fact, that almost no team in baseball had as much to gain financially from bringing in black players as the Red Sox, particularly since they were losing money in the 1940s. Yawkey’s bigotry left millions of dollars on the table.

Yawkey was not just a racist, in other words. He was a racist who put his hatred of black people ahead of his desire to make money. Economists have a special term they use to describe this kind of attitude. They would say that Yawkey owned the Red Sox not to maximize his financial benefits, but, rather, his psychic benefits. Psychic benefits describe the pleasure that someone gets from owning something — over and above economic returns — and clearly some part of the pleasure Yawkey got from the Red Sox came from not having to look at black people when he walked through the Fenway Park dugout. In discussions of pro sports, the role of psychic benefits doesn’t get a lot of attention. But it should, because it is the key to understanding all kinds of behavior by sports owners — most recently the peculiar position taken by management in the NBA labor dispute.

The rationale for the NBA lockout, from the owner’s perspective, goes something like this. Basketball is a business. Businesses are supposed to make money. And when profits are falling, as they are now for basketball teams, a business is obliged to cut costs — which in this case means the amount of money paid to players. In response, the players’ association has said two things. First, basketball teams actually do make money. And second, if they don’t, it’s not the players’ fault. When the two sides get together, this is what they fight about. But both arguments miss the point. The issue isn’t how much money the business of basketball makes. The issue is that basketball isn’t a business in the first place — and for things that aren’t businesses how much money is, or isn’t, made is largely irrelevant.

Basketball teams, of course, look like businesses. They have employees and customers and offices and a product, and they tend to be owned, in the manner of most American businesses, by rich white men. But scratch the surface and the similarities disappear. Pro sports teams don’t operate in a free market, the way real businesses do. Their employees are 25 years old and make millions of dollars a year. Their customers are obsessively loyal and emotionally engaged in their fortunes to the point that — were the business in question, say, discount retailing or lawn products — it would be considered psychologically unhealthy. They get to control their labor through the draft in a way that would be the envy of other private sector owners, at least since the Civil War. And they are treated by governments with unmatched generosity. Congress gives professional baseball an antitrust exemption. Since 2000, there have been eight basketball stadiums either built or renovated for NBA teams at a cost of $2 billion — and $1.75 billion of that came from public funds.4 And did you know that under the federal tax code the NFL is classified as a nonprofit organization?5 Big genial Roger Goodell, he of the almost $4 billion in television contracts, makes like he’s the United Way.

But most of all professional sports owners don’t have to behave like businessmen. For every disciplined and rational operator like the Patriots’ Robert Kraft or Mark Cuban, there is also someone like Washington Redskins owner Dan Snyder. Snyder was a brilliant entrepreneur, who at the age of 36 sold Snyder Communications — the marketing company he built from scratch — for an estimated $2 billion. He has subsequently run the Redskins like a petulant 14-year-old fantasy owner. Snyder Communications was a business. The Redskins are a toy. The former he ran to solely maximize profit. The latter he runs for his psychic benefit — as a reward for all the years he spent being disciplined and rational. And it is one of the surreal qualities of professional sports that they are as welcoming and lucrative for those owners who chose to behave like 14-year-olds as they are of those owners who chose to behave like grown-ups.

The Financial Times recently interviewed Diego Della Valle, the chief executive of the Italian luxury goods manufacturer Tod’s. Della Valle owns the celebrated Italian football club Fiorentina. “I ask if the decision to buy the club was made from the heart, or for business reasons,” the Financial Times interviewer writes. Della Valle replies: “With football, business reasons don’t exist.” Exactly. Yawkey did not have “business reasons” with the Red Sox either. Why did he care that keeping the club lily white cost him millions of dollars? He inherited $40 million from his grandfather when he turned 30 in 1933 (which is roughly $700 million in today’s money). He fell in love with baseball growing up in Detroit. Ty Cobb was one of his best friends. The Red Sox were his heart’s desire, and in his case his heart’s desire — so the story goes — included things like running out on the field during Jackie Robinson’s tryout and yelling “Get those [expletive] off the field.” In case you were wondering how this kind of thing goes over with the baseball establishment, Yawkey was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.6

The best illustration of psychic benefits is the art market. Art collectors buy paintings for two reasons. They are interested in the painting as an investment — the same way they would view buying stock in General Motors. And they are interested in the painting as a painting — as a beautiful object. In a recent paper in Economics Bulletin, the economists Erdal Atukeren and Aylin Seçkin used a variety of clever ways to figure out just how large the second psychic benefit is, and they put it at 28 percent.7 In other words, if you pay $100 million for a Van Gogh, $28 million of that is for the joy of looking at it every morning. If that seems like a lot, it shouldn’t. There aren’t many Van Goghs out there, and they are very beautiful. If you care passionately about art, paying that kind of premium makes perfect sense.

Pro sports teams are a lot like works of art. Forbes magazine annually estimates the value of every professional franchise, based on standard financial metrics like operating expenses, ticket sales, revenue, and physical assets like stadiums. When sports teams change hands, however, the actual sales price is invariably higher. Forbes valued the Detroit Pistons at $360 million. They just sold for $420 million. Forbes valued the Wizards at $322 million. They just sold for $551 million. Forbes said that the Warriors were worth $363 million. They just sold for $450 million. There are a number of reasons why the Forbes number is consistently too low. The simplest is that Forbes is evaluating franchises strictly as businesses. But they are being bought by people who care passionately about sports — and the $90 million premium that the Warriors’ new owners were willing to pay represents the psychic benefit of owning a sports team. If that seems like a lot, it shouldn’t. There aren’t many NBA franchises out there, and they are very beautiful.

The big difference between art and sports, of course, is that art collectors are honest about psychic benefits. They do not wake up one day, pretend that looking at a Van Gogh leaves them cold, and demand a $27 million refund from their art dealer. But that is exactly what the NBA owners are doing. They are indulging in the fantasy that what they run are ordinary businesses — when they never were. And they are asking us to believe that these “businesses” lose money. But of course an owner is only losing money if he values the psychic benefits of owning an NBA franchise at zero — and if you value psychic benefits at zero, then you shouldn’t own an NBA franchise in the first place. You should sell your “business” — at what is sure to be a healthy premium — to someone who actually likes basketball.

I’ve really gotta pat myself on the back for keeping these Kobe posts to a minimum on the Bowties. You know how much of a fan I am. And I also know how much some of you hate him. But polarizing figures can be compelling, hence why we choose to celebrate them. Conducted during his junior year of high school, this short interview captures Bryant in the midst of his teenage years. Captured five years before he touched his first championship ring, and eight years before the incident in Eagle County, this video now serves as a relic of the past. Gaining significance through hindsight, it’s crazy to see where he started, but even crazier to see what he’s become.

Ron Harris Photographed By Dylan Don

On assignment to shoot homeless people fashioned in tailored suits for his friend’s clothing line, London based photographer Dylan Don happened upon Ron Harris one day in April. A former Harlem Globetrotter, Ron traveled the world in the 60′s as a member of the traveling team. Frequenting the Venice Beach courts daily following his career, many consider him to be a legend of the storied playground. Bringing a couple suits to the beach with him, Dylan found Ron in his element and was pleased when Ron agreed to take some shots. “The only reason he shot with me was in order for his daughter to get these photos.” Recalled Dylan. Fortunately, she did, and now they’re here for you.

To view a wider selection of Dylan’s work, visit his website at Dylan Don.

“We figured out what kids wanted. We didn’t want pretty. We wanted super heroes,” John Costacos says of the iconic posters he and his brother designed in the ’80s and early ’90s. The Costacos Brothers, Tock and John were responsible for over 700 different posters, depicting star athletes as larger-than-life, superhuman personas, which soared in popularity two decades ago, finding their way to the walls of millions of youngsters nationwide. Now, these classic pieces of kid-friendly memorabilia have found their way into the realm of high art, as Salon 94 in New York will feature a collection of lithographs from the Costacos Brothers’ glory years, appropriately titled For the Kids. For the folks out in New York, enjoy this one. For the rest of us, peep the gallery for a little nostalgia.

They called him “White Chocolate”. Watching him come down the court was exciting. It was like the ball was on a yo-yo in his hands. He was only really shining for three years, but in those three years he built a legacy. The cross on Gary Payton, the elbow pass in Oakland, the highlights go on. Some might call him a showman first, and a point guard second resembling the on court flare of Pete Maravich in his prime. But can you deny his impact? He made assists cool. But before it had begun it was over. Traded to the Grizzlies in 2001, it seemed as though White Chocolate turned back into Jason Williams, never to return. But thanks to Youtube we have the memories and the highlights. So hit the MORE if you’re so inclined and take a moment to remember White Chocolate.

“Phil knew how to get the best out of everyone. He decided early in the 1991 season that he would never have the starters play together in practice. Everyday he took Jordan and stuck him with the worst players. Then took the other 4 starters and played them against Jordan. He pitted Jordan against Pippen every day, and that’s ultimately what made them both so fantastic. On the flight home from New York after the bulls had lost games 1 and 2 in 1993. Phil showed the Bulls a Pink Floyd video, while Riley was showing his team General Patton stuff. During the video, Jordan got up and said, ‘Phil, you must’ve smoked some crazy shit back in your day.’ The Bulls won the next 4 games.”

I gotta admit, Steve Nash is pretty cool, and apparently quite introspective. As the leader of the Suns for the past seven years, (and those three years back in the 90′s) Steve Nash has risen to the pinnacle of professional sports on more than one occasion. Honestly, I was a little salty when Nash’s name was brought up in conversation during those MVP years, mainly because Kobe was doing his thing too. But with time comes perspective, and Steve Nash is pretty dope. Co-directing Into The Wind last year alongside filmmaker Ezra Holland, Nash helped tell the tale of Terry Fox, a cancer patient turned marathon runner who inspired people through sheer will. More recently, Nash has turned the cameras on himself to capture his life at the moment. Soon to be released in a theater near you, I bet we’ll all appreciate him a little bit more after the credits roll.

From The Liberator

The NBA Playoffs are my favorite postseason in professional sports. Sure, March Madness has its frenetic upsets and Cinderella stories, and National Football returns us to America’s postindustrial wastelands in the midst of winter and treats us to a type of violent beauty that culminate into one of the great spectacles of Modern American capitalism.

But pro basketball treats us to something altogether different. It’s the tragicomic sublimity found at the end of a winner-takes-all system. Having been part of the amateur athletic underworld, I have visceral memories of the high school seasons that turned into spring exhibition tournaments that culminated into the endless summer of hoops tournaments. Four and five games a day against hundreds of other black boys who spent hundreds of hours mastering their games so that their own style would shine bright enough to earn the admiring approval of one of the scouts in the audience.

The most amazing thing about the performances of Zach Randolph, Kevin Durant, and Derrick Rose and others is not just all-world skill and superhuman feats of athleticism. The most amazing thing is their inextricable link to a bunch of lower cased gods you’ve never heard of or have already forgotten about.