The All-Worst-Guys-To-Play-With-Team

Everyone who has played pickup hoops knows that there are some guys you just don’t want on your team. Their styles of play and on-court attitudes manage to cripple team chemistry, clash with the team’s style, or just flat-out piss everyone off. When these guys hit the first free throw while shooting for teams, you are most likely missing yours on purpose. They are the guys that have you desperately looking around for an apocryphal fifth man when they ask if you’ve got next. It isn’t that they are bad at the sport, or a bad person in general, it’s just that playing on their team sucks all the joy out of the game.

PG – Gilbert Arenas

Earl Boykins, the consummate ball-hogging point guard, gets a pass here due to the fact that currently no NBA team wants him to play for them. Since the easy answer is out of the league for the time being, the honor goes to Gilbert Arenas. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but love for Agent Zero. I’m actually praying he doesn’t read this, since I wouldn’t put it past to him to enroll at Colorado just so he could drop 70 on me in intramurals. But as great as he is, Gilbert represents the worst of point guard attributes. It’s not entirely his fault; in the perfect situation he’d be playing shooting guard with a Jason Kidd-type bigger guard running the point. But when he’s running the show, ball movement isn’t exactly his highest priority. He’s a scorer, not a distributor. That he bought six PlayStation 3s the day after they came out should tell you all you need to know: Incredible human being, not-so-incredible teammate.

(I was going to put Eric Snow here, but writing about Eric Snow is about as exciting as watching Eric Snow, so I went with Gilbert. I think Snow has mercifully been benched anyway.)

SG - Jamal Crawford

Ever since Jordan revolutionized the game, the shooting guard position has produced by far the most divisive group of players in the sport. Of the current crop of 2s in the league, Dwyane Wade is probably the only one that the vast majority of fans can all agree on.
Kobe Bryant is the obvious choice here, due to his obsession with the offense running through him, his willingness to throw his teammates under the bus, and his being a tremendous douchebag. However, Kobe is also the most talented player in the NBA, automatically disqualifying him from consideration. Would you rather see Kobe waiting for the next game, or Ricky Davis? Not to mention he can, and sometimes will, pass the ball – he’s averaging 4.5 assists per game for his career despite having played with exactly one good teammate in 12 years (Lamar Odom doesn’t count because, good as he is, he and Kobe are allergic to each other). That number is also skewed a bit by the fact that he didn’t learn how to pass until his third year in the league.
Vince Carter is another common answer. He admittedly committed the unforgivable sin of not trying on teams he didn’t like and the amount of heart he plays with makes the Grinch look like Gandhi. But, again, he can play, and athletic slashers bring tons of good energy to any team.
The real answer here is Jamal Crawford. I can’t imagine a team that starts Jamal Crawford ever having any real success. He’s a scorer, no doubt, but he isn’t an elite scorer and doesn’t do enough in other areas to make up for it. That he came in to the league as a point guard makes lack of court vision even more frustrating. The fact that he can spring for 50 points from time to time is mitigated by the fact that he plays every game like he’s trying to. He desperately wants to be the star of the team but doesn’t seem to realize that his talent just isn’t there. The phrase “plays within himself” will never be applied to him. His lack of defense and the amount of shots he’s missing make him a significantly more unsavory teammate than any other shooting guard, and while he may not be as deplorable of a human being, I’m not really dying to hang out with him after the game either.

SF – Tim Thomas

The quintessential guy who should be awesome but never does anything. Thomas, by all accounts, should be taking over games and creating mismatches all over the floor. But he rarely looks like he’s trying and falls in love with his jumper way too often. No one likes playing with the guy who just hangs out on the perimeter, throws up a three or two and doesn’t play D. It’s ten times worse when you’ve seen that he’s capable of dominating, and for some reason just doesn’t.

PF – Dirk Nowitzki

Don’t let the lost Steve Nash MVP award fool you. He's a seven-footer with a sweet mid-range jumper, but think about actually being on his team for a minute. Dirk is one of the most frustrating types of pick-up players there is: a big man who won’t play near the rim. He’s got a great jumper, but he won’t go inside and ruins spacing for anyone that isn’t a three-point specialist. He’s soft on the boards and he’s a disaster on defense, meaning everyone on the team has to work that much harder while the 7-footer camps out around the perimeter. Shooters are nice, and big men with jumpers are valuable, but big men with jumpers who waste the “big man” part of their game lose the novelty fast when you have to run the offense through their mid-range game.

C - Darko Milicic

Yeah, it’s nice to have a big man who plays D. It’s not as nice when he’s an offensive black hole. When he doesn’t seem to try or care it’s absolutely infuriating. Playing with aloof loners whose horrendous offense turns every possession into 4-on-5 drains all the fun out of the game quickly. Plus, even for a big guy, his assist-to-turnover ratio and rebound rates are pretty awful. Basically, if he touches the ball there’s about a 60% chance something bad will happen, and if you even think about yelling at him, or even giving him some constructive criticism, he’ll pretend to ignore it and proceed to sulkily give even less effort for the rest of the game. Guys like Darko end up walking off the court without saying “good game” to anyone while everyone asks why he even bothered coming to the gym in the first place.

Sixth Man – Nate Robinson

Let’s see, a 5-9 guard who’s spending most of the possession dribbling through traffic…sounds bad enough, but consider that he averages less than two assists per game. How does a tiny guard with superb handles possibly manage to get that few assists? It doesn’t make one bit of sense. Yeah, he can dunk and block giant Chinamen’s shots, which can be exciting, but its way more exciting when you are watching on the sideline. The big plays aren’t quite as jaw-dropping when you’re love of the game has been numbed away after the tenth time you’re open on a cut only to look up to see him tap dancing through the lane with his head down.

Post-Halloween Short Story

The book thumped shut and retreated into a tan backpack as she slid out of her chair and out of the library. The November night air was perfectly chilled, flowing into her skin and refreshing her. Suddenly it didn’t feel like 3:30 in the morning. The sun had still not begun to brighten the sharp black sky, and she double-checked her watch. It remained far too late to be so far from her bed. She jogged down the steps, following the familiar route, past the Geology building and the corner wing place, into the subway station. She descended into the tunnel and through the empty turnstiles to platform B.

Something about emptiness of the station at this hour always appealed to her. The lonely benches and intensity of the echoes transformed the daily commuter chaos into a paradigm of isolation for late-night travelers. Long hours of studying and lab work had familiarized her with this pre-dawn transformation in her past six years at the University. She would almost miss it when she received her graduate degree in the spring.

The chugging of the approaching train interrupted her thoughts. Light pouring from the windows and its wheels creating a chorus of squeals, the train ground to stop. Its doors slid opened and she entered, taken aback to find other passengers on the train as well. She walked past a lone male traveler, and a group of three younger men. She took a seat across the aisle, next to the door. She pushed her hair behind her left ear and glanced around her as the train sped off towards the edge of the city.

. The first man looked to be in his forties. A nametag still dangled from his plaid shirt. The hospital logo was visible, as was the “Dr.” in front of his name. He was broad-shouldered but not overly thick. He rubbed his Rolex and appeared to be studying the men next to him. She thought she saw his brow furrow out of the corner of her eye as she looked away.

Her eyes moved right to the three black men, all sitting next to one another. The one in the middle, a hefty, bearded man with a tight black shirt and green jacket, was asleep. His head and arms bobbed with car as it shook down the tracks, shooting through a tunnel and grinding to its next stop. The one on the right was shorter, but muscular. He sat with his arms crossed, leaning on his bigger companion and rubbing his bicep through his Yankees jacket. She could barely see his face under the bill of his ball cap. He ground his teeth.

The man to the left was thin, with puffy black hair and a denim jacket. He sat completely still, his hands crossed in his lap. As her gaze shifted up she caught his eyes, wide and white, pupils glaring straight at her. She looked away quickly, to the first thing that caught her eye. She relaxed for a slit-second before realizing that she was staring across the car and straight into the doctor’s eyes. If the thin man’s stare had made her a bit uneasy, the doctor’s stare made her completely uncomfortable. The doors whooshed open and shut and the train shot through a tunnel. Desperately searching for something to occupy her, she glanced at the map above the door.

“Three more stops,” she thought. She repeated it to herself as she blankly stared at the map. She could still see the thin man in her peripheral vision. His eyes remained glued to her. He remained completely motionless. She swallowed and stole a glance at the doctor. His eyes, too, were locked on her. She felt a hot, tingly sensation run through her body, from her calves, up her gut and out through the tips of her fingers and her forehead. She felt flush. She felt like she looked flush.

With the penetrating stares continuing, everything she did felt amplified. She tried to reassure herself.

“It’s ok

it’s ok

it’s ok its ok its ok”

She tried to act natural She straightened her skirt on her leg, but it felt forced. She sat up and slouched back down. She fought panic.

The train stopped again. She silence was pounding. The eyes didn’t move. She thought she could feel the stare of the shorter man, from under the bill of his cap. The stares pressed against her, forced her down in her seat. She wanted to run, to take the next train but they held her there.

Suddenly, the doctor rose. He walked up the aisle, towards the door on her right. She exhaled, slowly and silently. She ran her hand through her hair. He was no longer staring at her. He looked straight ahead, as he approached the door. He took a step past her and

Everything blurred

His hand on her shoulder

He grabbed her arm she spun. She tried to scream but she-

She couldn’t, she gasped, she righted herself as he pulled her off the train.

She looked back for help

The thin man stiffened and lurched forward, but the doctor pulled again, spun her out of the door.

“Don’t worry” he whispered as his grip loosened. “We’re safe.”

She fought him; struggled again as the door slid closed and

His grip released and he backed away - she looked - the thin man’s stare remained fixed on her. The shorter man sprang up and glared as the car shook and prepared to roll away. The hefty man remained, but his head rocked back from his companions’ movement. She saw the blood. It pooled up in his seat, glistened at the top of his black shirt and dripped from the gash in his throat.

The train was swallowed up by the tunnel and the platform was still.