The 2011 NBA Playoffs: The Memphis Grizzlies Are All the Rage

First, let's be clear: The Memphis Grizzlies smacked the San Antonio Spurs in round one of this year's Western Conference Playoffs. But good. Six, smix. It was a smackdown.

The Spurs, who compiled the NBA's best record this year, were simply no match for the hungrier and more determined upstart Grizzlies team from way down in Tennessee. At every turn, San Antonio seemed off balance, stunned, and eventually mortified by the beating it took.

Memphis gave the Texans its Medusa look and San Antonio became immobilized. In other words, faced with the Grizzlies' rage—its smash-mouth basketball—the Spurs finally surrendered, submitted, skipped town, so to speak.

And while we're at it: Has depressed-looking Tony Parker lifted his head yet?

Throughout the San Antonio series, Memphis players had fire in their eyes. Spirit-fire translated into sure-fire execution. In San Antonio's denouement, its final curtain, game six, it seemed like on every possession Memphis took it to the hoop—most times scoring or drawing fouls—while the “favored” San Antonio squad cowardly hoisted up jumpers from every which way but loose.

Check out San Antonio's game six third quarter detail: 11:02, Tony Parker misses 20-footer; 10:18, Manu Ginobili misses 26-footer; 9:22, Tony Parker misses 22-footer; 8:48, Tim Duncan, misses 18-footer; 8:38, Manu Ginobili misses 23-footer. You get the idea. And this was how it really was. Practically all the time.

Meanwhile, during this same third-quarter time frame of the pivotal game six—in which San Antonio was not scoring—Memphis took four of it's six shots from eight feet and in. The other two were an 18-footer and a 17-footer. Memphis made half of these shots. Memphis evinced a huge positive difference in attitude; a perceptive difference in basketball IQ; and a big difference in putting pressure on one's adversary.

San Antonio deserved to lose. Teams cannot play “chicken” basketball and expect to prevail in the NBA's late-season showcase. Even if San Antonio is now slow and languid—and they are—did they not know to try a more mature tact? Obviously not. Where was all of Gregg Popovich's acknowledged “wisdom”?

The Spurs might have provoked the speedier, but less experienced Grizzlies into self-defeating mistakes. But no. It was the Grizzlies who did the intimidating. It was the Grizzlies who did the dictating. It was the Grizzlies who pumped their chests.

The way Memphis is playing right now, their crew is taking what it wants. Never mind who the opponent is. That's irrelevant. For Memphis, it's like John Wooden used to say about his UCLA championship teams' opponents: “It doesn't matter what they do.”

Memphis' box score from its game four victory tells all: Three starters in double figures, the other two nearly there, two other bench players in double figures, and still two more bench players nearly there. Now you know the fundamental secret to Memphis' success: Every one on the Grizzlies is doing what he is supposed to do. Uh, yeah—and then some.

Zach Randolph and Marc Gasol are the key duo for Memphis, and they have excellent chemistry. They actually seem to like playing with one another, as opposed to the forced marriage of Carmelo Anthony and Amare Stoudemare, and in opposition to the marriage-of-convenience of LeBron and D-Wade. Gasol devours the backboards, pushing aside all comers in his path like The Incredible Hulk. Zack Randolph, along with Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant is one of the three best players currently in the playoffs.

Mr. Zach Randolph—and pretty soon all of Memphis foes will be calling him mister—has become a literal terror. He is taking no prisoners offensively. And in distinction from the more name players in the NBA, he is scoring when it matters most, matter-of-factly. His disposition states, “Yeah, I'm in charge of this game.” It is a pleasure to watch. Thank goodness for something fresh and new in commissioner David Stern's league.

Randolph, thought a “problem” or a “non-fit” at times in his career is making up for lost time. He is now Zach “Big Time” Randolph, offensive demon, a dragon of a basketball figure eating up the best defenders, simultaneously exhibiting passion and zeal about the whole thing. He is like a “Bad News Marvin Barnes” come back to life. But it's all good.

When the Grizzlies fans show signs that read “Don't Mess With Memphis.” It's appropriate. That's the team's expression. Memphis coach Lionel Hollins, who played on a championship team with the 1976-1977, Bill Walton-led Portland Trailblazers, has fashioned a team built on insouciance. Moreover, he has a point guard in his image and he has a center who plays similarly to Walton. (However, no one has ever been as good as Bill Walton in his short but sweet prime.)

Why can't Memphis win a title? (At the time of this writing, they lead the again “favored” Oklahoma City Thunder 1-0 in the Western Conference Semis). In 2011, there are no super teams in the NBA. Facilitating Memphis' quest is their rage. Their fire. Their ignorance of the belief that they are not supposed to win it all.

Ignorance can be bliss. Coach Hollins knows this well. And what a blessing such a blissful eventuality would be for the NBA.