Of late, my attitude toward the Sonics has been uncharacteristically sanguine, almost Zen at times. There's no more yelling, no more vicarious pain and post-game dyspepsia. No more throwing shit at the TV. Peace, I say, and rise again. All this, despite the team's nagging inconsistencies, their darkling lunar cycles of apoplectic despair; despite the woefully foreshortened season and the crackle of blue-chip buzzards passing overhead, crowing a new day. I've been thoroughly, albeit calmly, enjoying each and every game for the past month or so, whether slouched down in my big couch before the television or seated in the third tier of Barry Ackerley's screw-the-press press box. Perhaps my newfound calm simply derives from seasonal exhaustion: a late-game punch-drunkenness minus the cynicism. Maybe it's just the meds. Whatever it is, I'm not questioning it. It keeps the blood pressure down and waxes a fine cathode shine on the pointless agony of loyal spectatorship.I even still like Vinnie Baker, all the while knowing he's got to go when the gig's over. It's been a rough ride for Vin. The man whom Baker replaced only three years ago, the Portland Trailblazers' Shawn Kemp, recently checked himself into rehab for cocaine abuse after years of diminished returns on the floor and ugly paternity suits littering every road stop. His spiral into narcoleptic obesity, as everyone knows, started here in Seattle with an ego-blistering salary dispute and allegations of alcoholism. Whatever it is that's nailed Kemp, as well as Baker, seems to be a psychic disease specific to the Northwest. It's got something to do, I think, with Seattle's position as a final outpost, a dead-end swamp of Manifest Destiny that can never completely disguise its backwoods perversions and penchant for manic, suicidal behavior. There's a sticky, creepy, sodden atmosphere of frontier gothic about this place, and it makes vulnerable souls wicked sad and lonely: Think Kurt Cobain. The pot here is too strong, the ground too soft. Vin, the NBA's Charlie Brown, needs some sun, a new gang. So long, Baby Jesus. And stay away from In Utero.
But I digress. The unanticipated result of my recently acquired calm regarding the Sonics is, first of all, that I don't give a rat's ass whether they make the damn playoffs--which, of course, they won't. There's still plenty to be excited about, provided you take it one game at a time. Witness, for example, the way the team has been responding to coach Nate McMillan: After dropping two in a row last week (to Phoenix, and then most depressingly to Houston), McMillan took the guys to task, demanding that they continue to play hard and stay focused, regardless of their record. Be professional, Nate implored. And they came out and absolutely clobbered the playoffs-bound Milwaukee Bucks, applying a tenacious, swarming defense and executing crisply and confidently at the offensive end. In all the hubbub of crisis management and endless blowhard analyses, it's easy to forget the simple pleasures to be had in clamping down on a single, well-played game.
And secondly, let me now praise a few famous men: Gary Payton and Desmond Mason. Since his midseason suspension for insubordination, Payton has been in regal form, sweeping the floor on offense and defense with cunning and grace. And Mason, with his selfless play and unflagging attention to the smallest detail, is garnering an increasingly important role for himself. He never did look like a rookie. Now he's starting to look like an All-Star. With these two guys on board--not to mention Rashard Lewis--the Sonics are worth watching... right to the bitter end.
