Dear Honored Father; Beloved Mother; Glorious People of Heshan, Guangdong, and all China; Esteemed Government Ministers, and His Excellency President Hu Jintao,

Hello and greetings from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, United States of America. I am proud to write this report for your delectation and delight. I am sorry it has taken so long since my last report, which was filed during the preseason. I have no excuse, and will make none. But many things have transpired since then. Know what I’m sayin’?

First of all, I am humbled to say that I have been named as a starting player for the Milwaukee Bucks. It is gratifying to know that Senator Herbert Kohl is a man of his word, and that Coach Larry Krystowiak sees the value in my basketball knowledge and skills. I can also add that I feel that I deserve this starting job — my light shooting touch, honed in the dramatically-lit and venerably moldy gymnasiums of Heshan for many years, has stood me in good stead so far. I have mad skillz, yo. Every time I deploy my jump shot, I think of my old coaches, who taught me everything I know about basketball. They are truly a credit to our nation!

Sadly, we were roundly shellacked in our first game against the Orlando Magic, by the pathetic score of 102-83. They treated us like a pimp mistreats his prostitutes, in a backhand way. I did not have a very good game; I only scored nine points, collected a mere three rebounds, and had a dismal +/- of negative 10. Most of this was caused by my being disqualified due to collecting six shameful fouls. I can only excuse myself by saying that I am a rookie playing his first NBA game, and that we faced the fearsome hero Dwight Howard. Furthermore, many players on my team also played like shit on a stick, especially Desmond Mason and Maurice Williams. But I realize that I must do better for my team, for my ancestors, and for my country.

Everything else is going respectably well. I am fitting in with many of my teammates, as far as I know. They are encouraging when I miss a shot, and many of them have invited me to go out and “have fun” with them, to “kick it” and/or “meet some honeys.” I am afraid of the implications of this, as I do not know what it means. So I have mostly stayed in my hotel room reading, listening to the new compact discs from 12 Girls Band, High on Fire, and the “High School Musical 2″ movie. Also, I have been getting a lot of sleep. But, to disappoint Li Po, I do know for sure that I am not a butterfly dreaming he is Yi Jianlian.

I would say my best friend on the team is that “eager beaver” Andrew Bogut. He is from Australia, and was also a high draft pick, so we are on similar journeys through the National Basketball Association. Many is the time that we have had conversations about topics like learning the asinine rules about fouling and defensive three-point violations, and about the way most of my fellow players spend their money like Shanghai whores, saving nothing for their futures. I am grateful for the fellowship of this man, he is my homey for realz. At the same time, I know that my advisors are correct in saying that his presence threatens my status as “beloved and hard-working gentle giant.” I will try to implement the Rolling Ankle, Tears of Heaven strategy as previously discussed. (The corresponding strategy related to Yao Ming, codename The Harder They Fall, is scheduled for 8 November.)

My bonding with superstar Mr. Michael Redd continues to grow. Not only did he give me the incomprehensible nickname “My Rookie,” but he is also a devout Christian! Hopefully, he can tell me more about this obscure sect so that we can finally smash Falun Gong once and for all.

I am also happy to report that my two rival fan clubs are both growing every day. The members are fanatics who will jump into my arms upon the slightest pretext. Many are tiny women here for college, and some write very disturbing notes to me At any rate, all members are registered, so we are assured that Operation Profile can begin. I have received a generous gift basket of “lettuce” from officials at Google.com, which I will send via international messenger on Monday.

My last item concerns the city of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This is not such a bad city after all. The people do not seem very much backward — many of them understand the game of basketball, although I am afraid that most of them would have a hard time locating China on a globe, or even be able to find the globe itself. But they have been chanting my name in preseason scrimmages, and many have shaken my hand and attempted to hug me to show respect. The females seem very different from our own, and most of them are named Jennifer. But they have a certain fleshy peasant charm, and I think this sojourn will teach me many things about the ways of Americans.

Respectfully submitted on this day, 1 November, Year of the Boar,

易建聯

Oh hell no. No you didn’t just go and write some article on the ESPN.com pretending you know all about the NBA, Scoop Jackson. Not in MY house. Not on MY dime. Not on your life. There’s only room for one blustery African American sports pundit on the Worldwide Leader: and You. Are. Not. It. You feel me?

So, with the new season breathing down our neck like Phoenix is doing to San Antonio this year, here is the REAL wiki for the Association, broken down all up in the ABC style so all y’all wannabees and neverwuzes can follow along. Written by ME, maintained by ME, made famous and fabulous by ME. Let us begin.

Aldridge, LaMarcus: The Next Big Thing. REAL big thing, too: LMA is 6′11″ and about as nasty as a nice boy from Texas could ever be. Forget Greg Oden and his microfractured self; hey, even forget last year’s ROY, a guy named Brandon — LMA is the cat who is gonna lead the Blazers back into prominence. I can understand how someone who is only focused on the NBA’s blingity bling (and Kim Kardashian’s ass) might not think twice about a guy like LaMiracle. But THAT IS WHY I EXIST. No one will have the kind of hops, motor, length, and street-smart court savvy that LMA has…unless he’s a guy named Tim Duncan, whom LMA will face tonight in the season’s first game. You want a prediction? Here’s one: I’m telling you he’ll be on the All-Star team in February. I KNOW it’s a bold statement…that’s the ONLY KIND I MAKE.

Bobcats, Charlotte: People been sayin’ that this franchise is snake-bit. Dead in the water. High and dry. Folded, fluffed, and put away wet. Slathered with goat cheese. Plumb tuckered. Ghost-written. Cruelly slapped by the Great Pimp in the Sky. Well. guess what: THEY ARE WRONG. Sure, they’ve lost Sean May and Adam Morrison for the year…but who cares? May was too big, and Morrison is about as useful as a malignant taintgrowth. If you’ve got Emeka Okafor in the middle, Gerald Wallace and J-Rich on the wings, and “Replay Ray” Felton running point, you’re a good team. NO MATTER WHAT THE RECORD SAYS.

Clang: More often than not, that’s the sound of the ball going into the hoop…or, rather, NOT going into the hoop. The dirty little secret of the NBA is this: MOST PLAYERS MISS, MOST OF THE TIME. Not to say this is necessarily a bad thing — hey, it’s the hardest and most athletic sports league of any kind in the history of the world, OF COURSE it’s going to be hard to get the pumpkin in the peach basket. But the fact that the league average field goal percentage is BELOW FIFTY PERCENT? Come on, guys. Raise your game.

Dress codes/Donaghy/David Stern/Drama: One of the saddest things about my IMITATORS is that they have no real sense of OUTRAGE. Sure, lil’ SJ thinks he’s copping a feel with his oh-so-non-envelope-pushing statements about Denver winning the whole thing…whatever, dude. That’s just, as St. Marvin of the Anthem once sang, “Flyin’ High in the Friendly Sky.” But if you wanna BE me, you better BRING IT WITH YOU LIKE GHETTO GIRLS BRING SALAMI AND BREAD ON THE BUS SO THEY CAN MAKE A SANDWICH. I am literally OUTRAGED BY EVERYTHING. And this letter D triumvirate is no exception.

Listen up to Stephen A. Smith: Last year, David Stern imposed an unfair and racist dress code on the players of the NBA. I’m all for classing the joint up, but come on — everyone KNOWS that this policy affected one group more than any other — yep, you guessed it, it was young black males. So now the Association finds itself in its worst crisis it has ever faced in its entire history, a cheating/lying/gambling scandal led by a WHITE REFEREE — and the Commish is just going to let it flow, slow and low that IS the tempo? Sure, they’ve s-canned this Donaghy character (or rather “jerk” because dude HAS no character, see what I did there?), but there is another D that the league needs to get rid of. No, it’s not David Stern, or even Defense, although Phoenix and Golden State are gonna try.

It’s DENIAL. And it’s not just a big river in Africa. Studies are now showing that Every Single NBA Referee Has a Gambling Problem. Or else every Other ref…statistics are in conflict on this issue. Still, either way, Stern is guilty of major hypocrisy. Intrude on the fashion choices of your (mostly black) indentured servants, but change your policy willy-nilly when it’s your (mostly white) overseers in trouble. Okay, Mr. Stern, nicely played. But now that we understand the game, we need to change this uncool rules pronto. Or the NBA will just be bogus too.

Egg: It’s what’s gonna be on everyone’s face when the PHILADELPHIA 76ERS return to prominence in the NBA this year. Sure, everyone’s wailin’ on the Celtics tom-tom like Sheila E. But are we forgetting that Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen and Paul Pierce have exactly ZERO RINGS…between them? Now check out my guys in Philly! Every night it will be like “My Dinner With Two Andres”: Andre Iguodala, a slasher and cutter who hit the hole like Jeff Stryker or bomb it from downtown like a religious fanatic, and Andre Miller, probably the best pure point guard since Bob Cousy hung up his sweaty Converse sneaks. Reggie Evans will average 16 boards a game, Jason Smith will go pyro every other game or so, and we’ll even bring in old Kyle “Ashton Kutcher wishes he was me” Korver to make it rain from Three-ville. Keep your boys in green, people — I’m rollin’ with Mo Cheeks and his gang of lunatics.

Okay, that’s all the time I have. Gotta go send some text messages and search the Internet for pictures of Eva Angelina. As my girl Erykah Badu always says, “Peace out till revolution.”

Stephen A. Smith is the world’s biggest NBA expert. Deal with it, especially if you call yourself Snoop or Spoon or whatever.

A few weeks ago, Pat Riley stepped down from his job as the coach of the Miami Heat. He’s done this before — a few years ago he said he was burned out on coaching and wanted to just be a GM. That was when the Heat weren’t that good of a team. But then Riley traded for Shaquille O’ Neal and a few other players and the Heat got good, at which point Pat took over as coach again and they won the NBA title. That was last June.

Then, this year, they weren’t winning and Riley stepped down as coach again. And the reason gave was that he had a bad hip and a bad knee and he was in a lot of pain and it was getting worse and he couldn’t coach in so much pain.

This caused a certain amount of controversy. A lot of sportswriters didn’t believe that it was knee and hip pain that was making him leave the team, they thought he just didn’t want to deal with the Heat losing so many games. These guys, Mike Lupica prominent among them, thought Riley was a creep.

Other people wondered where the skeptics got off questioning Riley. They thought the skeptics, Mike Lupica prominent among them were creeps themselves. How, they asked, can one man judge how much pain another man is in? What makes you so damn smart you can tell just from looking at someone how much pain they are in?

The answer is easy. You can’t.

But I can. I’m Bill Frist.

I’m not a sportswriter, you see, or a United States Senator, anymore; I’m a doctor. I went to medical school and everything. And while I didn’t actually examine, or even meet Pat Riley, I did the next best thing. I saw him on videotape. You would be amazed at what a valuable tool videotape can be in making a medical diagnosis.

Remember when the Heat won the championship, as I mentioned before? This summer, they threw a parade for the team — in Miami, mind you, where everyone likes to dance and party. So Riley danced, sort of. He did it as a joke and everyone laughed.

Well, I’ve seen the footage of him dancing. You may not know this because maybe you aren’t a doctor like me, but you need to use your knees and hips to dance, and Pat Riley did not, in my expert medical opinion, look like a guy who was suffering severe knee and back pain.

Granted, that was back in June. But he has been on camera since and I’ve seen the video clips. Not ALL the footage, of course, but edited highlights. And the five minutes I spent looking at this footage tells me, conclusively, that this man is not experiencing enough pain to prevent him from doing his job.

And now there’s word that Riley’s actually had his hip replaced. Ha ha, it is to laugh. His new hip is about as real as evolution. I’m guessing tummy tuck, brow lift, maybe some light adjustment on that horrid chin implant he got in Los Angeles. But if he has a new hip, I’m a liberal. And I’m not.

So in this case, Mike Lupica and the others are right. But I want to caution them that making medical diagnoses based on footage they’ve seen on YouTube is not a job for amateurs. It takes a highly trained professional such as myself. If they, are you, need help in that area, they, or you, should call me. Lately, I’ve got plenty of time.

William Harrison “Bill” Frist, Sr., is a former U.S. senator from the state of Tennessee. He is now in private practice, somewhere.

1.
I speak from my heart.
From whence shall I take the beautiful, fragrant flowers?
Whom shall I ask?
Perhaps I should ask the noble George Vecsey,
scribe of the Times of New York?
For he possesses the knowledge
about the olden days of the NBA,
about how those men were harder and tougher
than the delicate hummingbirds of today.
But there is a deeper truth,
one about the origins of this game,
back when it was called by its true name: tlachtli.
I shall enter the forest of memory
to tell you the details of those diamond-encrusted times.
Thus I will salute the princes;
I will please the lords.

2.
First, a note about tlachtli.
It is inconceivable that you do not know our sport,
its rules and its customs,
its unutterable glory.
Our ball was hard rubber, weighing five pounds or more.
Two teams entered combat on an H-shaped court
trying to propel the ball into stone rings
mounted 15 feet above the stone floor.
Hands were not allowed, feet were not allowed;
we used our bronzed broad chests, our thick Mexica thighs,
our buttocks were also employed in this task.
There were no referees, the idea would make a jaguar laugh.
From the centuries gone by, I scoff at your NBA!
But it is all cool, I bear the future no ill will.

3.
The centzontle, bird of four hundred voices,
sends forth his songs.
But the tlachtli team called the Tenochtitlan Centzontli
did not send forth any such silver songs.
They sent forth pain and suffering
and fatal sucking chest wounds to their noble opponents.
I remember one match on Xochitl 11,
in the year of Reed.
It was the Cup of the Emperor,
the entire court was there, resplendent in gold and precious stones
and festooned with sweet-smelling flowers.
When the ball was introduced,
the Centzontli began to maim their opposites,
slicing them with tools and teeth,
and punching their most private areas.
There were no weak grabs called “hard fouls,”
no tiny tacklers inciting the crowd,
no back-pedaling by pampered stars.
Permanent harm was inflicted by the Centzontli —
the emperor was well pleased!
But even after subduing their foes,
the Centzontli could not put the ball in the ring,
so both teams were put to death,
gallantly sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli!
Thus did it go down.

4.
I say, I cry out with sadness,
that your players are weak like soup without lamb’s eyeballs.
But please do not think I am a hater
of your future civilization —
I would love to experience your microwave popcorn,
your excellent shoes, your antibiotics!
(Yea, for I have a burning in my groins
and a swelling like the fertile womb
of a fertility goddess.)
We would kill many rabbits for a satellite dish
or for a silver PT Cruiser.
And although our young black-haired maidens
are beautiful, sweet-smelling, and accomplished,
Salma Hayek is truly the bomb diggity.
But although life here in Mexica is difficult, brutish, and short,
at least our athletes had integrity,
at least our brawls ended in sudden death.
And I say this to you in conclusion:
at least none of our owners would have traded Allen Iverson
without receiving at LEAST 20 virgins!

Huitzilihuitl Tzintli was the sports editor of the Nahuatl-language newstablet “The All Glory and Honor to the Noble Hueyi Tlatoani Herald-Democrat” from Year of Rabbit to Year of House. Due to massive amounts of peyote, he is able to astrally travel in time. We welcome him to Hard Wood.

Hive Mind Queen:

We understand that Experiment A is soon to come to a close. We agree that the experiment has received a critical mass of negative feedback and should be terminated. With only one more month to go, we submit this preliminary report. Our findings about Association Bipeds (ABs) can be summarized in the following points.

1. The digital extremities of ABs are incredibly sensitive. We attempted to regulate this using feedback sensors, but were unable to prevent slight injuries to the “palms” of the bipeds’ “hands.” We realize that this became a nationally discussed issue, and was a major factor in the abandonment of Experiment A; we regret our failure in this regard. However, this information must be seen as a huge boon for our war leaders, who will find it easy to attack these “palms” in Experiment B.

2. Biped exoskeletons are also remarkably porous and semi-permeable. As we suspected after testing our theory on unit Eddie Griffin, we needed to emit only tiny amounts of hallucinogens before units began to act erratically. This worked on easily subsceptible units (units Rasheed Wallace, Brevin Knight) as well as usually placid ones (unit Steve Nash). The bipeds were penalized for these outbursts, but the penalties rarely carried any long-term consequences. Again, utilizing this knowledge in Experiment B (scheduled for AB year 2009) is indicated.

3. According to sensors built into our exoskeletons: 81 percent of Association bipeds test positive for hydrated ether CH3CH2OH, or “alcohol”; 62 percent test positive for cannabis sativa; and just 5 percent for cocaine hydrochloride CAS 53-21-4. The average AB has a cholesterol level of 251.8, but that figure is grossly distorted by results from unit Erick Dampier.

4. We have been surprised at how much our internal modulations were able to affect the outcome of contests. Even the smallest changes in gyroscopic balance, surface tension, and cellular density sufficed to frustrate the bipeds. Our sub-experiments have worked wonderfully; through minor adjustments, we were able to make unit Emeka Okafor (one of the most intelligent and potentially fearsome of the ABs) into Terra’s greatest athlete for three weeks, then manipulate him to appear journeymanlike to destroy his confidence. We performed a similar adjustment on unit Andrew Bynum. Not to sound overconfident, but at this point Experiment B is looking like a “piece of Ionivian Blackmatter-Worm cake,” as the phrase goes.

5. We have still not been able to determine the military or social purpose of the contests staged by the ABs. We suspect that the main motivating factor is to ingrain the war songs known as “Rock and Roll Part 2″ and “Shout” into the central nervous systems of the spectator bipeds. As is well known, these two songs contain high levels of sonic interference for our kind. Step one for Experiment B: destroy all public address equipment.

6. Begging pardon of Hive Mind Queen, but there is an increased level of chatter about your host, formerly known as unit Commissioner David Stern. Some ABs, rejecting our presence, clearly suspected something was wrong. They are happy to go back to “the old leather ball” as soon as possible. (Exception: unit Jarrett Jack, who must be monitored more closely in future.) But many Association Bipeds still harbor animus against “unit Stern” for not consulting them about the change. This is in accord with previous animus harbored for “Project NASCAR Fans,” “Project Dress Code,” and “Project Draft Conspiracy.”

We urge caution, Hive Mind Queen. Many bipeds both on and off court resent “unit Stern”’s new authoritarianism. If not checked, this could cause “him” to lose control of the Association. Some might urge him to take time off or to even step down from his role. We do not need to tell you that that would be catastrophic for our cause. Recommendation: self-deprecating humor in interviews, fewer arbitrary rulings affecting the personal lives and sartorial choices of Association Bipeds, re-engineering of our exoskeletons to more closely resemble the skins of the quadruped known as Bos taurus.

Above all else: avoid airport security screenings. The last thing the movement needs is for some low-level functionary to look inside an x-ray monitor and see a curled-up queen where a biped brainstem used to be.

Analysis: These bipeds will be easy to defeat in 2009. We are proud to serve our cause, and will be sorry to be demobilized during the re-engineering process.

Yours in the struggle,

Field Unit One.

Dear Mr. King,

My name is Ethel Ann Iverson. I am the mother of your star player, Allen Ezail Iverson. I have never asked you for a thing in the eleven years that my son has played for your team. But I am asking for something now.

At this holiday time, won’t you give my boy the gift of freedom?

You cannot deny that Allen has done more for the Philadelphia 76ers more than any player in the franchise’s history. Over the years, he has scored 19,583 points, dished out 4,283 assists, and stolen the ball 1,626 times. Sure, those are just counting statistics, but you have to admit that they are some pretty impressive statistics. Maybe Allen’s PER rating isn’t in the top 20 of all time, but you know as well as I do that that rating is on some bullshit. I’ve punched John Hollinger in his mouth before, I’m not afraid to do it again.

Just listen to some of the other accomplishments of my son Allen, or AI as lots of people call him. He is the shortest player to ever win the MVP award. (In case you forgot, he’s also been the MVP of the All-Star Game two different times.) He has averaged over 30 points a game in four different seasons, and he’ll do it again this season, just watch! In addition, when the heat has been on, my son has risen to the occasion, as shown by his 30.6 points per game average in the playoffs.

He has done all while facing some pretty incredible odds. He only weighs 165 pounds, and has taken a lot of brutal beatings over the years. In fact, your own website lists 30 different injuries that he has incurred over the years. Yet he always comes back from these injuries, ready to play some more. I think this is one of the reasons for his popularity. His jersey is one of the most popular and sought-after in the whole NBA, and it’s pretty likely that no one would have ever heard of the Philadelphia 76ers if he wasn’t on your team. In fact, y’all might be down in the ABA with my team, the Richmond Ballerz — and we’d give you quite a game, Mr. King!

In return, Mr. King, what have the 76ers ever done for Allen? I know the first answer out of your mouth is going to be $97 million, I wouldn’t expect any different from you. After all, you just suspended my boy just for missing a fan appreciation night. Like Allen doesn’t appreciate the Philadelphia fans, even though those boo-birds have never shown him any love at all? Please. If I could, I’d like to give them some appreciation — with my own two fists. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.

Between you and me, that $97 million is like the damned minimum wage anyway, considering that he’s been the entire team for about a decade. What else have you ever done for Allen? You saddled him with that slave driver Larry Brown, which was stupid. You brought in fifth-banana Chris Webber and tried to pretend he was a #2 option. That Kyle Korver is a nice respectful boy, and he peels a mean potato for Thanksgiving dinner, but you cannot honestly believe he is an NBA player. Andre What’s His Face is a whole lot of nothing. Samuel Dalembert I have found to be a surly fellow, and he’ll never reach his potential, and that potential was overrated anyhow. Who else plays for that team? You can’t remember and neither can I. And Maurice Cheeks is a nice man, and quite a hot tamale to boot, but he just isn’t a coach. I think I could design a better offense on the back of a napkin.

And some of this other stuff you have forced my son to go through in your city of “brotherly love” is just — excuse my French — also some bullshit. Making a big deal about how he has to go to practice? Haha, I’m laughing over here, because practice is for people who can’t do it right. Causing some kind of unholy fuss just because he and some friends went out looking for that Tawanna when she was up to no good — with his own cousin? Any other team would have kept that under wraps by giving some money to the Policeman’s Ball (hint hint) and passing out free drink coupons to some journalists. Allowing a huge fuss over his wonderful “40 Bars” song, probably the dopest thing ever recorded even if it did have some salty language about the gay homosexuals in it? Thanks but no thanks.

And what kind of a team is it that allows its star player to get into trouble at casinos over and over again? Isn’t it your responsibility to take care of the biggest investment in your organization? You KNOW Allen loves to gamble. If you really loved him, you would have made sure that he had a way to take care of his urinary functions so he wouldn’t have had to pee in a trashcan in front of everybody at Bally’s. And when he got into that little three-card stud game in Trump’s, and those cheap thugs wanted him to give back money that they had already paid him, couldn’t the big rich famous Philadelphia 76ers have just ponied up $10,000 so there wouldn’t have been any kind of controversy? (By the way, Mr. Donald Trump, if I ever see you in person, it’s Fist City for you. I’ll knock your hair back into 1983, you fake-ass overleveragedbillionaire.)

It’s been like this all throughout his career. In high school, when Allen was uninvolved in that little brouhaha at the bowling alley and got convicted of hitting that girl with a chair — later overturned by Gov. Wilder, THANK you very much — where was Bethel High, making sure that its star athlete didn’t have something more wholesome and healthful to do than go bowling? That’s why I liked Georgetown — they let Allen just be Allen, but they made sure that he wasn’t getting up to anything bad.

This is why my boy needs a change of scenery. If Philadelphia was a real team, you would have made sure that he never got caught with weed or guns in his car. You would have taken care of him, nurtured him, instead of just giving him $97 million of fuck-you money and abandoning him in a world he never made.

Mr. King, it’s the holidays. Please grant my son emancipation and let him do what he does best: play ball in an environment where he doesn’t have to make any choices whatsoever and is answerable to nobody except the hoop and the rock. Oh, and me — after all, I brought him into this world! I want him out of your Babylon, Mr. King, somewhere he can be free. Free to win a championship for a team that isn’t the Philadelphia 76ers.

Don’t make me take my earrings off, Mr. King. You do NOT want that to happen. Trust me.

Ann Iverson is the mother of 76ers guard Allen Iverson and an owner of the Richmond Ballerz ABA franchise.

Young LeBron versus old LeBron. Jeff Van Gundy versus Alonzo Mourning’s leg. Chris Dudley versus the free throw line. Basketball is the quintessential team sport, but it’s also about one-on-one matchups. This is why Hard Wood is proud to present the newest installment of JUMP BALL. Today’s installment features two coaches that aren’t strangers to controversy, or each other - Knicks coach / GM Isiah Thomas, and Texas Tech coach Bobby Knight. They recently visited HARD WOOD HQ for a brief chat.

THOMAS: It’s not a popular opinion nowadays, but everyone that knows me knows I’m not one to shy away from taking an unpopular stance. I wouldn’t have been half the player I was without Coach Knight, and I’d be even less of a man if I didn’t have the General leading me into battle while I was growing up. Everything that I’ve done, as a Piston and as a businessman, I owe all to Coach Knight.

KNIGHT: Well, I have to say it’s great that Isiah is making me partially responsible for what he’s done to basketball over the past decade. He screwed the sheep in Toronto like it blueballed him for a month. He took the legs out from under a talented Pacer franchise. He actually killed a professional league. And now he’s actually taking his scorched-earth business acumen to one of the NBA’s most valuable franchises. It takes a lot of work and dedication to bury a team based in New York, but with just a few moves, Zeke’s managed to turn that trick. And now that he’s also drawing up plays, he’ll be able to fingercuff the Knicks without having to even drop trou.

THOMAS: While I’m sure that Coach Knight has a perfectly good reason to crack the whip regarding my executive decisions, he’s neglecting a lot of the good things I did. I did draft Vince Carter and Tracy McGrady while in Toronto. I oversaw Jermaine O’Neal’s development while coaching Indiana. And I managed to acquire one of the premier point guards in the NBA, Stephon Marbury, for just about nothing. To focus on all that negativity without mentioning the high points would be like me talking about Coach Knight not having won a NCAA championship in nearly 20 years, or his “hands-on” approach to coaching.

KNIGHT: For your information, that “hands-on” approach to coaching has won me over 800 games, and helped turn a bunch of know-nothing boys into real men that can actually handle a little criticism. You wonder why the NBA is full of prima donnas flashing their gats and gold teeth all over the place? It’s because no one put a foot in their ass and set them straight. And at least my hands-on approach with my kids won’t get me on the ass end of a sexual harrasment lawsuit. Guess the bling-bling of those Bad Boy rings doesn’t appeal to the ladies nowadays? By the way, Zeke, I also coached a motion offense that featured a little thing called PASSING. You might want to work that into your repetoire one of these days, though I’m sure Jamal Crawford will hit that 1-on-5 30-footer one of these days.

THOMAS: Thanks for the advice, Coach. I’ll gladly take it under advisement the next time I’m counting the zeroes on my paycheck. While you’re doling out advice: I’ve been in the market for a red sweater that will accentuate the curve of an washed-up has-been’s beer-tits. Could you send me about 50? And if you could make sure they’re clean so I don’t get your chair-tossing-sweat stink all up in my face, it’d be appreciated.

KNIGHT: Isiah, I have to say you are the biggest little bitch I’ve ever had the displeasure of trying not to choke. You’d be working the frier at one of Magic’s BKs if it wasn’t for me. And if it wasn’t for real players like Dumars & Laimbeer, you’d be kissing Greg Anthony’s ass for a job fetching Tim Legler’s croissants. Like I’m going to take any shit from a know-nothing teeth-polishing kiss-ass that can’t count past his toes. Yeah, keep smiling so I know how many teeth I punch out, you dirty little fuck.

THOMAS: Bring it, old man. I made that punkass Laimbeer my bitch, and he’s only a B-cup. I’ma love watching you suck on your own titties, Grampa.

KNIGHT: Oh, it’s go time now, you mother- [sounds of scuffling] have a seat, Zeke [sound of glass breaking, girlish scream] FIGURE FOUR, ASSHOLE, THIS IS A FIGURE FUCKING FOUR [tape stops]

Listen, a lot a you guys been askin’ why I had to give all that business to Benny-Boy. Well, here’s the real poop on the issue, straight from me, Scott Skiles. And those a you don’t believe me, you can go take a long walk off a short pier, see?

Listen, I’m the leader of the Bulls. That may not be a big deal to you — but it’s all I got! There’s always gotta be a leader, someone to set the rules for the rest of the fellas. And what I say, goes. So when I say no headbands, and some mug shows up with a lousy headband — well, it’s curtains for him, that’s all. An’ that goes for anyone, whether it’s Baby Ben, Sweet, Thabo, P.J., or any of ‘em. It’d be the same if anyone wanted to go without tapin’ their ankles. When you’re a Bull, you’re a Bull all the way! Ching-ching!

Now, I never asked the time a day from a scoreboard. I learned how to dribble the ball before I got outa diapers. I was always the shortest guy, the slowest guy, the guy with the weirdest head. I was dismissed on account I was deformed! But I had a heart as big as a cornfield, and I could handle that pill, brother — boy howdy, could I!

Everywhere I went, I hadda fight for respect. But who was it winning the Indiana High School championship all by my lonesome? Who was it a first-team All-American at Michigan State even though I served time in stir for puffin’ marijuana? Who was it setting the NBA record with 30 stinkin’ dimes in one game, an’ gettin’ shouted out by Phife Dawg on “The Infamous Date Rape”? Street credibility? I’m filthy wit’ it!

Now, I know Benny like I know me, and I can guarantee you can count him in for the rest of the season. He’s a real goer, boy, he can mix it with the rough boys and come out on top. Remember how he an’ his brother handled them Pacers in that rumble up in the Palace?

We made nicey-nicey, and all’s jake with him and me now. As long as he remembers who’s boss, that is. Cause if he can’t, he should expect more of the same. Zoom-zoom! Pow pow! Cracko, jacko!

Scott Skiles is the coach of the Chicago Bulls.

1. Camille Saint-Saëns, Symphony No. 3, Berlin Philharmonic, James Levine conductor (Deutsche Grammaphone)
This is pretty clearly the definitive recording of the “Organ” Symphony; I hate the Chicago Symphony recording from 2004 because Gaston Litaize couldn’t play his way out of a paper bag, and don’t even talk to me about the James Dutoit recording from 1992 with the London Sinfonetta, it offends me. Most people my age first heard this piece in the movie “Babe,” but by the time I first saw that film I already associated the piece with eating strawberries and chocolate with my parents in our little cottage outside Marseilles. Sublime.

2. The Fifth Dimension, The Magic Garden (Buddah)
Ah, Jimmy Webb, the great genius of American songwriting. He’s given us so many classics that it seems unfair to list more than a few: “Wichita Lineman,” “By the Time I Get to Phoenix,” and “The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress” have to top any sane person’s list of perfect compositions, and the list just starts there. (The Boo Radleys had it right with “Jimmy Webb Is God.”) His first collaboration with the 5th Dimension sent them “Up, Up and Away” to #1, but I much prefer this concept album. Oh, sure, it’s poshlost as all hell, and the self-pity and (dare I say it?) misogyny is laid on thicker than Billy Donovan’s hairpiece. But the songs are unimpeachable, from straight-ahead pop nuggets like “Puppet Man” and “Paper Cup” all the way to more ambitious pieces like “Requiem: 820 Latham” and “Dreams/Pax/Nepenthe” (I’m a sucker for any song with the word “Nepenthe” in it!). Haunting, vulnerable, slightly unhinged. Sublime.

3. Jacques Brel, Quinze Ans D’Amour (Polygram International)
I would venture a guess that I am the only current college basketball player who gets pumped up for games by cranking up “Les Bourgeois” and “Le Chanson de Jacky” on his Zune. Some of it is just my upbringing, but there is just something within me that resonates on the same frequency as this amazing Belgian. I tried to enjoy this year’s revival of Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris; it was fine, but I guess I’m just more in love with the original cast recording with the underrated Elly Stone. Still, there is no substitute for Brel in the original. That famous picture of me yelling after our win in last year’s finals? I was replicating the final frustrated scream from the end of “Amsterdam,” when Brel realizes that he regrets giving his virginity to a pox-riddled whore. So sublime.

4. Nellie McKay, Pretty Little Head (Hungry Cat)
Let me just admit right now that I have a big ol’ Gator crush on Nellie McKay. Who wouldn’t? She’s intelligent, attractive, witty, and passionate, and her politics are in the right place for real. There’s nothing not to love about her second album, probably my favorite of the year — “Pounce” is short and sexy, just like Nellie herself; “Pink Chandelier” floats some high-level lyrics (”penny for your thoughts / penny really cares / penny from the block / jenny likes your hair”); and “Columbia Is Bleeding” has inspired me to lobby the University of Florida to stop its program of experimenting on alligators with Viagra. THIS is the girl you marry.

5. Eek-A-Mouse, Eek-A-Nomics (RAS Records
Sometimes, when you just happen to be the son of an international fashion model who served as Miss Sweden and a famous French tennis and reggae star, and you just happen to be seven feet tall and devastatingly charming and handsome, and you just happen to have singlehandedly carried your team to the NCAA Championship, it’s kind of hard to stay grounded. In high school, I used to listen to a lot of Bob Marley — in my dark times, he was my anchor. But lately, I haven’t been having a lot of dark times. Maybe that’s why I’ve been kicking it to Eek-A-Mouse a lot. His non-sequiturs engage the strange corners of my brain (opener “The Freak” is basically a song urging a young lady to come over to his house so he can kill her and eat her! Heavens! ) and his beats are thoroughly ass-shaking.

Joakim Noah plays basketball for the University of Florida Gators. He was named the outstanding player in last year’s Final Four, and he will be a guaranteed lottery pick in the 2007 NBA Draft. He almost refused to travel to the White House to meet President Bush, but ended up going as a favor to his coach.

Hard Wood told me it would be cool for me to post some of my NaNoWriMo stuff here. I’d say more here but I don’t have the time. I have to get 50,000 words done by the end of the month while still holding it down on the court — and then there’s Thanksgiving, too! Dang. Anyway, here’s the first few pages of “Byronn Coe, a.k.a. Next-Level,” my first novel ever. I sincerely hope you enjoy it. –T.L.

Byronn Coe walked the ball up the court. Actually, he didn’t walk it — to everyone else on the court and in the crowded arena, he was going full speed. But to Byronn, in his mind, he was just walking. Taking it easy. Seeing everything on the court. Just the same way he always had ever since he could remember.

Every eye was on Byronn. He loved this feeling. But he didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, not when he had the rock. His long brown braids flapped on his neck softly, and there was a little bit of sweat on his brow. But it wasn’t scared-sweat. It was just so hot down here on the court. Under the lights. But Byronn didn’t care. This was his time…his time to shine.

Because this was an important game. The Atlanta Birds of Prey were finally back in the playoffs. No one had given them a chance. Sure, everyone had said they had a very talented team. Jim Jimson, the young shooting guard, could really light it up from three-point land. The big rookie from Drake, Melvin Trillions, had really turned into a rebounding force underneath. And John Smyth was just a freak on the court.

But over the course of this season, the Birds had become Byronn Coe’s team. This was no longer a disputed fact. Not even starting at the beginning of the year, Byronn had worked his way into the starting lineup through 3 percent natural talent…and 97 percent hard work. That was just how Byronn rolled. Of course, there was the other thing. But he didn’t want to think about that now.

Because this was the playoffs. Atlanta vs. Miami, last year’s champions. Once again, no one was giving the Birds of Prey a chance. All the pundits and all the experts were saying Miami, Miami, Miami. Well, that was just the way Byronn Coe liked it. Everyone had always looked past him. But they were looking right at him now.

Suddenly, Byronn saw an opening. Bubu Calrissian, a large Russian dude with a permanently sad expression on his face, was motioning him silently with his elbow. That elbow said, “Byronn, I can go back door on my guy.” Byronn looked at Calrissian for just a tic of a second. Then he tensed his muscles and got a tighter grip on the ball. These new balls feel a little bit weird, he thought to himself. Then he whipped a pinpoint pass, faster than a laser beam. The pass went straight to Bubu, who had broken right to the hoop. The big Russian grabbed the ball and slammed it home, right before the buzzer went off. The Birds of Prey had beaten Miami. In Miami. In the playoffs. How sweet it was.

In the locker room after the game, there was a little bit of hooting and hollering. This was understandable. But Byronn jumped up on a bench and yelled out, “Hey! Guys! We haven’t won anything yet. Lot of games to play yet, right?” His happy teammates agreed. But they still made some noise anyway. Byronn let them. It was a big win after all. And his 23 points, 11 assists, and 5 steals hadn’t hurt one bit.

But then he heard it. His cell phone. Not the main cell phone he had for talking to his friends and family. The other one. Byronn grabbed it out of his locker and went into the other room.

“I’m here,” he said with quiet authority.

“Next-Level? It’s Overdog.” The voice on the other end was steely and tough. Byronn knew that voice very well. But he had never met Overdog. It was like Charlie’s Angels, only this time it was truth, not fiction.

“What’s my mission?”

“You will find instructions waiting for you in locker 4281 at the Miami airport green terminal. The key to this locker is in your wallet. Watch the DVD once, and then destroy it in a shredder. Then it’s on.”

“What is it this time, Overdog? Protecting some diplomat from assassination? Taking the microfilm out of some foreign agent’s fake tooth?”

“It’s a lot more serious than those ones were, Next-Level. The entire future of the planet could rest on this mission.”

“I’m ready, Overdog. I won’t let you down.”

“You never do, Next-Level. You never do. Now get back in there and celebrate.”

“Oh, you saw the game?”

“Of course I saw the game. I liked that pass to Calrissian.”

“I liked it too, Overdog. I liked it too.”

Then Next-Level turned back into Byronn Coe. Even though they were really the same person, they were really very different. But they were still kind of the same. The one the nation knew as Byronn Coe walked back into the rowdy locker room. He was ready…ready for anything.

Tyronn Lue is an eight-year pro who plays the point for the Atlanta Hawks.