This is an important date because what I witnessed last night, I have not witnessed in the five years I have lived in Sacramento. Last night I saw the Sacramento Kings of the NBA play basketball like it's supposed to be played. That is: players passing to each other, setting screens, making the extra pass, rebounding, defending vigorously, talking to each other on D, relying on their offensive sets to produce open shots, and playing with enthusiasm. The result was a resounding, effective win over the Dallas Mavericks, a team that has been playing surprisingly well this early in the NBA season, and certainly no push-over.
The Kings' new owner, Vivek Ranafdive and his partners, promised the the River City a good product and it looks as if they are keeping their word. While the reborn Kings were thumping the Mavs, the three new players that were acquired the previous day from the Toronto Raptors watched their new team. They couldn't have been anything but impressed. One of those players, Rudy Gay (who Memphis stupidly traded away last year to the Raptors) should turn out to be the small forward the Kings have been desperately seeking lo these many years. Gay has the ability to create on his own, a Go-To Guy as the clock ticks down to the last seconds. How the other two players, Quincy Acy and Aaron Gray will fit in is anybody's guess. Big kuddos have to go out to GM Pete D'Alessandro who orchestrated the trade.
I was also relieved that the Kings have finally had the good sense to see what point guard rookie and second round draft choice, Ray McCullam can do. His minutes against the Mavs was too brief to tell, but I predict that one of these days, sooner rather than later, he will be the Kings true Point Guard. No disrespect to the Pizza Guy Isaiah Thomas, who will always be an asset as the sixth man, a scorer and a disruptor, and deservedly a fan favorite.
The following poem should remind us all of our childhood days.
Playing the Game by Barbara Goldowsky
You stick out your fist: stone
breaks my two fingers playing scissors.
You offer your hand, open.
I shred the palm: it's paper.
I am still scissors.
Have you no heart? you ask.
But I am stone.
Your hand is still paper,
you wrap me up:
closer than blades,
harder than hearts.
