Bleacher Report - Articles by Dan E. Love

Air Apparent: LeBron James to Chicago the Logical Answer to the 2010 Question

Dan E. Love — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:14:24 -0500

If you are like me, you are probably sick, tired, burned out and not at all intrigued by the hoopla surrounding the “Where will LeBron play in 2010?” hype.

If you’re like me, you were likely forced to watch Friday night’s Knicks-Cavs tilt—why was this a nationally televised game again?—with the sound down; that is, if you did not turn the game off altogether midway through the first quarter.

Will King James stay in Cleveland where management seems to have no clue as to how to build a winner?

Will LeBron jettison his hometown Cavs for a hapless Knicks team?

Will LeBron join forces with friend and fellow Global Icon, Jay-Z, to bring the New Jersey/Brooklyn/ Nets/Nyets into the NBA mainstream?

Will LeBron get serious about winning championships and sign with Portland or Oklahoma City?

Will LeBron sign with Kobe and the Lakers?

Will anyone care by the time July 1, 2010 finally arrives?

Seemingly, every scenario was hashed out. Except the one that, in my mind, makes the most sense. The scenario that, until this week , nobody talked about.

Will LeBron jump to the Windy City and build a Jordan-esque résumé for the team Jordan put on the map?

The better question is why wouldn’t he? It is no secret that the Bulls have the desire (and the cap space) to make a move this summer—most rumors currently point to Chicago native Dwyane Wade and Phoenix’s Amar’e Stoudemire—so why not make a run at the LeBron James?

If you are the Chicago Bulls, why would you settle for injury-prone Wade or Stoudemire when LeBron can be had for the same price tag? Moreover, if you are LeBron James, doesn’t Chicago seem like a natural fit?

(Wait, did I just pull a double Hubie Brown? I think I did. Let’s just move on)

LeBron, on multiple occasions, has thrown around phrases such as “Global Icon” and “Billion Dollar Athlete,” so, one could presume that playing in the nation’s third-largest market; a city that has global prestige like Chicago, would tickle James’ fancy—at least, a little bit, no?

If the prospect of playing in our president’s adopted home city (by the way, Obama > Jay-Z) has no effect on King James, the idea of playing with Derrick Rose for the next six-to-ten years—just as Rose begins to enter his prime, I might add—would make any man’s cookies a bit tingly.

With Rose, James and a nice, young supporting cast that would include the likes of Luol Deng, Joakim Noah and Kirk Hinrich—all guys who could play vital roles on a championship team—you could definitely see LeBron’s Bulls hanging a few more banners in the rafters of the United Center.

And this is the underrated factor that people tend to forget. The Chicago Bulls are a storied franchise; a franchise that has won more championships than all but two in NBA history. Ask your average basketball fan anywhere in the world to name three NBA teams off the top of their head, and I guarantee that 90 percent of the time you will hear “Celtics, Lakers and Bulls” (in some order).

You cannot tell the story of the NBA without the Chicago Bulls being one of the main characters. You can get away with leaving out the Cavs, Nets, Blazers and even the New York Knicks, but not the Chicago Bulls and their dominance of the 1990s. That is a fact that neither you nor LeBron James and his plans for world domination can deny.

So, it is ironic that the only thing that may keep this perfect storm from happening is the very man who built the Bulls dynasty of the ‘90s, may be the very man preventing a second Bulls dynasty in the ‘10s. As strange as it sounds, I am not sure Bulls fans would accept it.

It’s almost as if watching James perform (almost) the way as MJ did, would tarnish the memories Bulls fans have of His Airness—kind of the way Yankees fans resented Mickey Mantle at first. Furthermore, I am not sure whether LeBron—or Dwyane Wade, for the matter—wants to put himself in that position.

As seems to be the case with the enigmatic LeBron James and the Free Agent Clusterfudge of 2010, there are so many questions, but, really, only one correct answer.

Super Bowl XLIII: A Work of Fiction

Dan E. Love — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 11:29:12 -0500

I have this problem: I’m a writer, a fiction writer at that. As a writer—and, subsequently, as a reader—you learn that there is no such thing as a “wasted” word, sentence or phrase. Everything means something; everything is advancing the plot, directly or indirectly, foreshadowing things to come, even the blue and white tennis shoes a female character wears to work out in.

Because of this, however, I read into things...check that...I read into everything. It is both a blessing and a curse. I can tell instantly whether the girl at the bar is legitimately into me or if she is a secretly insecure cutie seeking validation in the form of male attention.

Earlier this week, I spoke with a gentleman from Minnesota wearing a green Boston Celtics hat, and instantly knew he was one of two things: A Kevin Garnett fan that followed his hero to Boston or an Irishman. During our conversation, he revealed to me how proud he was to be Irish.

This also works against me at times. How was I to know that a female co-worker furiously attacking a Tootsie pop, mere seconds after saying, “You know, I really like that Lil’ Wayne ‘Lollipop’ song,” was not some form of awesome sexual innuendo.

How about the time she wore two-inch heels to the bar one night knowing that I hate when my female companions tower over me and my 5'10" frame.

Damn it! This is a sign that she’s about to break up with me!

If Super Bowl XLIII were a work of fiction, the story would begin at Paul Brown Stadium in January of 2006 with the Pittsburgh Steelers needing a big play to put away the Cincinnati Bengals. Then-Steelers coach, Bill Cowher, turns to his offensive coordinator, a brilliant young assistant named Ken Whisenhunt, for the game-changing play.

Whizzy, as the cool kids call him, draws up a flea-flicker, which of course is executed to perfection, clinching the game and setting in motion a dramatic run to a Super Bowl championship for the Men of Steel.

The story picks up the next offseason with Cowher resigning and the Steelers picking Mike Tomlin, a younger, badass defensive genius from Tampa Bay as the new coach over the Steelers’ own Whisenhunt. Clearly, Whizzy’s flashy offensive schemes are too gimmicky for the hard-nosed Steelers.

Faced with no other options (as the story makes it seem) Whisenhunt takes over the hapless Arizona Cardinals, the league’s worst franchise.

Meanwhile, Kurt Warner, the gritty, gutty, grizzly veteran quarterback looking to find a new home, finds one with Whizzy’s Cardinals...as a backup to a young upstart named Matt Leinart. Whisenhunt is skeptical of Leinart and his partying ways from the get-go, but with so much of the Cardinals’ money invested in the All-American boy, Whizzy has no choice but to start Leinart over Warner.

The thing is Warner knows he can still play; Whizzy knows it too, but can do nothing as Leinart struggles while his old team, the Tomlin-led Steelers, regain their status as one of the NFL’s elite franchises.

“Screw it,” Whisenhunt says at the beginning of the next season. “Kurt’s my guy. I don’t give a damn what people think.”

Well, “people” are skeptical, apprehensive, whatever you want to call it, as Warner begins the season as the Cardinals’ #1 guy.

“Warner’s washed up,” radio callers shout on Phoenix area sports-talk radio stations. “This ain’t St. Louis and this ain’t 1999.”

Warner, Whizzy and the rest of the Cardinals refuse to listen to those “people” and, out of nowhere, a funny thing happens: They start winning.

Yes, the hapless Arizona Cardinals are suddenly no longer hapless. Those “people” are even beginning to hype up Warner as a MVP candidate and potential Hall of Famer.

Of course, in the league’s other conference, the Steelers, as always, are chugging their way through to the top and seem to be destined for Tampa (see what I mean about foreshadowing) and Super Bowl XLIII.

Just when all seems well in sunny Cardinal-land, the stormy winter hits and the Cardinals are the Cardinals again.

“Warner’s washed up!” the people say. “And that Whisenhunt is too ‘pretty.’ This team needs a badass to kick their butts into gear!

Whisenhunt cannot agree more, and after an embarrassing loss in snowy New England, Whizzy goes badass on the team.

“Be here for practice Christmas morning,” he told the team. “Full pads, full contact.”

Badass indeed.

This badass practice is the turning point for the Cardinals. Arizona wins its regular season finale and then their high-powered offense steamrolls past Atlanta and Carolina in the playoffs. The Cards are now just one win away from a date with destiny (and Tomlin’s Steelers) as the red-hot Philadelphia Eagles.

“We need something that will shock the (bleep) out of them,” Whizzy tells his staff.

“What do you suggest?” random offensive coach asks.

Whizzy thinks back to that playoff game in Cincinnati and that game-clinching flea-flicker.

Perfect.

Before the Eagles know it, Kurt Warner is launching a bomb to Larry Fitzgerald for a demoralizing touchdown.

“We’re going to the Super Bowl!” Warner screams after a glorious victory for the Cardinals who are now full of hap.

In this story, Whisenhunt leads his band of underdogs against the mighty Steelers, with Tomlin glaring menacingly at the Whizzy on the Cardinals’ sideline, and pulls off the upset to end all upsets...

Of course, this Sunday’s Super Bowl will not a work of fiction; it will take place in real life: in a real stadium in front of real fans. And, none of those little signs, the seemingly innocuous sentences and paragraphs foreshadowing a happy, storybook ending for the Arizona Cardinals mean a damn thing in real life.

The Pittsburgh Steelers’ defense is indeed too tough, too badass for Whizzy’s flashy offense. Kurt Warner is old, and struggles against good defenses that get in his face.

In short, Mike Tomlin’s Men of Steel are the better football team and will take the Vince Lombardi Trophy back to Pittsburgh for a record sixth time. Period.

End of story.