Single page view By Tim Keown
Page 2

They're deep into the conference semifinals of the NBA playoffs, and the vise is tightening. It happens every year – the game slows to a turgid pace, forearms live in the smalls of backs, and hips and shoulders greet anyone with designs on an easy hoop. The NBA Playoffs: bumper cars in shorts.

Teams like the Suns, Mavericks and Sonics don't win titles. We would like that to change, for aesthetic reasons. We'd like to see a return to the days of the Showtime Lakers and the Larry Bird Celtics but … wait, I watched an old game with those two teams the other day and realized I'd forgotten how much time Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Robert Parish spent doing things to each other that aren't legal in the red states.

So the Suns and Mavericks are putting on the best display of pure basketball, but don't get used to it. It's the last you'll see of the free-spirited, open-court game.

Beauty gives way to the beast in the playoffs, when it seems like they're playing half-court. Everybody's grabbing, nobody can move, the jockeying for rebounding position looks like feeding time at the stockyard. It's a mess, and there are times when it's unwatchable.

If you're an official, what do you do? How would you like to have that job this time of year? You could call seven fouls – legitimately – on each possession, and everyone would hate you for killing the game. Or you could call nothing but the most obvious fouls, and everyone would hate you for allowing the game to become a brawl.

Mike Tyson
"Hi! Remember me? I used to be Mike Tyson."

Seriously, is there any other way? Danny Fortson is out there daring the refs to call fouls on him. Watch him for an entire defensive sequence sometime and see if there's even a moment when he isn't fouling someone. The man lives in a constant state of foul, and he's an incredibly valuable player because of it. The Sonics would have taken their fancy-pants offense back to Seattle after the first round if they didn't have him out there hammering people.

Here's one solution for the enterprising referee: a timer. Maybe it would emit a tiny electrical impulse, reminding the ref to blow the whistle and call whatever foul is taking place in his line of sight at that moment. He could set it for one minute during the first quarter and decrease the time by 15 seconds every quarter after that. By the fourth, we'd get a foul every 15 seconds and both sides would be equally furious.

It wouldn't matter to Fortson, though. At a pace of one foul every two minutes, he'd be gone by halftime.

This Week's List
Cascading beer, half-naked goofballs bounding out of the stands: You know, it's probably good for Jason Giambi to return to Oakland, if for no other reason than to know there's a place where he still matters.

The logic isn't linear, but I think you'll understand: If Jose Vizcaino is your starting first baseman – even for a game or two, even if you so much as consider it a viable option – then maybe it's time to trade Roger Clemens.

Comeback player of the week: Erick Dampier.


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