Occupy John Wall Street: A 2012 NBA Season Preview

It is ironic—or perhaps fitting—that a prematurely-tattooed, groin-punching Sixth Man prophesied the NBA’s most capricious, supped-up season in a generation. It was a ratings-shattering NBA year capped by The Decision and followed by a year of other ill-advised ones. Shaq had a sex tape before it was mercifully taped over. Allen Iverson now answers to the Besiktas in Turkey; Stephon Marbury to the Foshan Dralions in China. Orlando traded for Gilbert Arenas. And Tony Parker cheated on Eva Longoria. With a teammate’s wife

T’was a season of the improbable. Darko Milicic—the Serbian 7 footer drafted after LeBron, before Carmelo, DWade, and Chris Bosh—was freed in the Minnesota hinterlands and even cracked the top five with two blocks a game. Zach Randolph looked—dare we say—graceful in dispatching the top-seeded Spurs in round one of the playoffs. Second year rookie Blake Griffin brought national exposure to a) the Los Angeles Clippers, and b) even more miraculously, the Kia Optima.

But, in the end, the 2011 NBA season was a morality play on the hardwood. What started with the breathlessly bally-hooed Summer of LeBron culminated with gritty Dirk’s Redemption in the spring. Dirk Nowitzki endured a torn tendon in his finger, a 104 degree fever, the “childish” slights of LeBron and DWade, and the Ghosts of 2006 to secure his legacy as one of the all-time greats.

LeBron James, meanwhile, met his comeuppances at the hands of the NBA Gods, hubris, and a stingy Mavs’ zone defense. Cleveland meant The Chosen 1 could not win one with the hand he was dealt. Miami: Year 1 meant The Chosen 1 could not win one with the stacked deck he picked either.

The 2010-2011 Miami Heat were the stuff of NBA2k11 video game dynasty mode. In pixels, an unstoppable, high-octane offense. In real life, an unbalanced roster with no real point guard or bench exposed under the Finals’ glaring spotlight.

The Miami Heat were all Hollywood. And the league loathed them for it. With questionably cast A-listers, scintillating storylines, a few sparkling explosions, but nothing to hold it all together, the Miami Heat smacked of another Michael Bay movie bust.

The Dallas Mavericks, meanwhile, were the Disney story. A G-rated, feel-good tale where the long-maligned nice guy finally wins with a little help from his friends. This hero was not a panda adept in kung-fu or a talking race car but a scraggly, bearded 7-footer named Dirk with a fall-away jumpshot fine-tuned by the best of German engineering. He led a motley crew of castoffs, aged parts, plus a breakout 5 foot-something backup point guard. And they were all cobbled together by a chastened tech billionaire who finally behaved…. for a while anyway…