With the ever expanding scope of Major League Baseball, the rapid internationalization of the sport is hard to ignore.  Given the various locales represented on MLB rosters these days, I thought it would be interesting to try and field the best possible team among those current rosters (8 position players, 1 starter, and 1 closer) using players from different countries for each spot.  That is, no country can be represented by more than one player.  Also, a player's birth country is used to determine country eligibility.

So, without further ado, here is my starting lineup for the 2006 Nooch Internationals...

Stat key: For batters: (Batting average/On-Base percentage/Slugging percentage)

For pitchers: (W-L / ERA / Innings pitched / strikeouts / walks)

Catcher - Victor Martinez, Ciudad Bolivar, Venezuela

Career stats through 2005: .293/.365/.463, 45 HR, 209 RBI

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .291/.362/.468, 7 HR, 37 RBI

Martinez is a switch-hitting, 27-year-old catcher with power.  That pretty much says it all.   He's a young player at a premium position who significantly outdistances his peers offensively.  Defensively, he's not Johnny Bench, but he's also not Mike Piazza.  So, given his plus bat at a position where any sort of run production is a bonus, I'll accept his defensive weaknesses (erratic arm, inconsistent at blocking pitches) to get a middle of the order thumper just entering his prime.

First Base - Albert Pujols, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

Career stats through 2005: .332/.416/.621, 201 HR, 621 RBI

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .308/.442/.751, 25 HR, 65 RBI

Is there really any other choice at this spot these days?  His meteoric rise among elite hitters has been nothing short of astonishing to watch.  Pujols has as consistent an approach to hitting as there is in the game today.  And that unwavering consistency has resulted in a relentless ability to drive the ball.  Defensively, he's not spectacular, but he's average-to-slightly above average and, given his athleticism, might develop into a very good defensive 1B.  When his legs are healthy, he can even run a little as shown by his 16 SB in 2005.  Oh, by the way, he's just 26 and just entering his prime years as a hitter.  It's almost not fair.

 

Second Base - Jose Vidro, Mayaguez, Puerto Rico

Career stats through 2005: .302/.364/.467, 108 HR, 503 RBI

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .318/.377/.419, 4 HR, 26 RBI

Playing in Montreal for a good portion of his career hasn't helped his notoriety.  However, Vidor is a career .300 hitter with decent power for a 2B.  He's reached double-digits in homers six times in nine seasons, with a high-water mark of 24 in 2000.  He's also a sure-handed defender with decent range.

Third Base - David Wright, Norfolk, Virginia, United States

Career stats through 2005: .302/.371/.524, 41 HR, 142 RBI

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .335/.408/.563, 10 HR, 40 RBI

Wright has superstar potential and has spent the last season-and-a-half making good on that promise.  His combination of power and average at the plate is already impressive.  Given that he is just 23, his future is bright enough to warrant some sort of light dimming eyewear.  .300, 30 homers, and 100 RBI for the next ten seasons looks like a reasonable bet for the kid manning the hot corner for the NY Mets these days.  Defensively, he's still a little consistent, as likely to make a stellar play as boot a routine one.  However, he has exceptional defensive range and will likely develop that needed consistency as he gets more experience.

Shortstop - Edgar Renteria, Baranquilla, Columbia

Career stats through 2005: .288/.345/.399, 246 SB, 834 Runs

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .320/.403/.468, 6 SB, 34 Runs

After a disastrous year in the AL in 2005, Renteria has returned to his comfort zone in the NL.   He's displayed a nice all-around game for most of his 10-year MLB career: double-digit power with double-digit steals and an average that hovers in the .280 range.  He also has good gap power, regularly compiling 30+ doubles.  Defensively, he has good range and decent hands.  At 30 years old, he also has a few productive years left before any significant age-related decline.

Left Field - Carlos Lee, Aquadulce, Panama

Career stats through 2005: .284/.337/.488, 184 HRs, 666 RBI

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .271/.346/.569, 19 HR, 46 RBI

Nicknamed "El Caballo", this Panamanian strongman has certainly been the horse of every lineup in which he's been.  Lee has a string of three straight 30-homer seasons, and, in 2006, he looks not only to extend that string to four but also finish with his first 40-homer year.  He also has double-digit steals in five of his seven MLB seasons.  Defensively, he has surprisingly good range and a strong and accurate arm.

Center Field - Andruw Jones, Willenstad, Curacao

Career stats through 2005: .267/.342/.503, 301 HRs, 894 RBI

2006 stats (through 6/7/06): .284/.349/.536, 15 HR, 54 RBI

Jones is the best defensive CF in the game.  The 8-time Gold Glove winner has exceptional defensive instincts and a powerful arm.  Offensively, he's been inconsistent.  High strikeout totals and mediocre batting averages have belied his effectiveness at the plate.  However, he has topped the 30-homer mark six times.  In 2005, he had a breakout season with 51 homers and 128 RBI.  At 29, he's still in his prime and should be an effective offensive and defensive force for several more years.

Right Field - Ichiro Suzuki, Kusugai, Japan

Career stats through 2005: .332/.377/.442, 190 SB, 561 Runs

2006 stats (through 6/4/06): .358/.408/.446, 18 SB, 47 Runs

The one-name wonder from Japan has exceptional bat control and has collected hits in record bunches in his five-year MLB career.  His .332 career batting average and 190 steals are a testament to his impressive speed and relentless game preparation.  Defensively, he has terrific range and one of the strongest arms in the game.

Starting Pitcher - Jose Contreras, Havana, Cuba

Career stats through 2005: 35-18/ 4.53/ 446.0/ 376/ 189

2006 stats (through 6/4/06): 6-0/ 2.54/ 71.0/ 36/ 20

After an inconsistent stint with the Yankees, Contreras found his stride in 2005 with the World Champion Chicago White Sox.  The big right-hander went 15-7 with a 3.61 ERA despite pitching half of his games in hitter-friendly US Cellular Field.  In 2006, he's followed up his outstanding 2005 campaign with another superb string of starts.

Closer - Eric Gagne, Montreal, Canada

Career stats through 2005: 25-21/ 4.08/ 543.1/ 626/ 182, 160 saves

2006 stats (through 6/4/06): 0-0/ 0.00/ 2.0/ 3/ 1, 1 save

Before getting injured in 2005, Gagne was the most dominant closer in the game.  His multi-pitch repertoire was filthy.  In one three-year stretch (2002-2004), Gagne had a 6:1 strikeout to walk ratio and averaged 50 saves a season with an aggregate 1.78 ERA.  Gagne also holds the MLB record for consecutive saves with 63.  That, my friends, is slamming the 9th inning door shut.

There you have it, folks, my diversity-filled roster for 2006.

So grab a pencil, an empty lineup card, and a world atlas and give this a try.  It is at least some of the fun of being a GM without any of the headaches.

 

Stats from www.baseball-reference.com and www.foxsports.com

Near the end of the movie, "The Warriors", the film's villain begins this strange mantra-like chant taunting the heroes and namesakes of the picture, daring them to show themselves after a night on the run from a myriad of New York's biggest gangs.

"Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay! Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay!"

He repeats the chant over and over again, becoming increasingly louder and more shrill with each incantation.  And for some strange reason, he has glass bottles looped around his fingers and begins clanging those bottles together incessantly.

"Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay! Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay!"

To their credit, the plucky little gang from Coney Island does come out to play, and they make their dramatic final stand in the sand.

Unfortunately, in NBA circles, the Warriors have not come out to play in a good long while. In fact, the last time the Golden State Warriors really did come out to play was 1975, and 1975 seems like forever ago.

"All in the Family" and "Sanford and Son" ruled the TV airwaves. "Jaws" was a box office hit. Bell bottoms were still cool. Big 'Fros were even cooler. And Rick Barry was raining jumpers from the rafters of the Oakland Coliseum like it was Singapore during monsoon season.

It was, as they say, literally raining buckets that season.

And there was no mistaking that the stringy-haired veteran forward from the University of Miami was the star of the team.  He played 40 minutes a night, lit up the scoreboard for over 30 points per, and led the league in steals.

Barry also left no doubt as to who held the keys to the offense and who sat in the driver's seat most nights.  Barry launched twice as many shots as any of teammates and did likewise from the free throw line with his trademark underhand technique.  He also led the team in assists (at 6.2 a game).  Suffice it to say when things happened to the Golden State Warriors in 1975, there was a pretty good chance that Rick Barry was right in the middle of it.

But the star's understudies had a fair amount to do with the team's success that season as well.  The team's first round draft pick that year was a smooth scorer from UCLA who later changed his name and become a fixture with the rival LA Lakers.  But in 1975, the rookie was still named Keith Wilkes and his silky baseline jumper would help to propel the only NBA team in Northern California to greatness.

A second rookie, guard Phil Smith, was a local kid (high school grad from the SF area and a college grad from the University of San Francisco), and he practically had to will himself onto the roster.  In so doing, Smith brought intensity to his role off the bench and became a tough defender who could also produce quick points.

Butch Beard and Charles Johnson were a pair of quick, pesky guards who both averaged double-digits in points and both produced better than a steal per game.  Jeff Mullins was an 11-year NBA veteran swingman who at one time could be counted on for over 20 points a night.  In 1975, he was in the twilight of a great career but could still produce points off the bench and offer solid all-around play all over the floor.

And the man at the head of the ship was Al Attles, arguably the baddest man to roam an NBA sideline.  Attles was a tough kid from New Jersey and earned the nickname "The Destroyer" during an 11-year NBA career that saw as many floorburns as points.  He was a tenacious defender and carried that tough-minded approach into his coaching career.

Attles' primary instrument for defensive intimidation and force was Clifford Ray.  At 6'9", Ray was undersized at center, but his ferocious attitude in the paint was the great equalizer.  In just over 30 minutes per game, Ray gobbled up 10.6 rebounds a contest.  Power forward Derrick Dickey also shared in doing the team's grunt work, making defense and rebounding priorities.

And to keep the defense fresh and the intensity level up, Attles utilized nearly every player on the bench, regularly working a 10-man rotation.  Though it took time for the team to acclimate itself to this quick-change style, they were ultimately able to adapt and finished the regular season a solid but unspectacular 48-34.

In the playoffs, the Warriors truly hit their stride.  They brushed aside Fred Brown, Spencer Haywood, and the Seattle Supersonics in the opening round.  They were pushed to seven games by Bob Love, Chet Walker, and the Chicago Bulls but pulled out a thrilling 4-point win in the series clincher.

In the NBA finals, The Big E, Elvin Hayes, and the great Wes Unseld were waiting.  Most experts predicted that the Washington Bullets of Messrs. Hayes and Unseld would take the title and that the magic of Golden State's Cinderella sneakers would finally wear off.

A funny thing happened on the way to Washington's championship coronation.  The Warriors had simply refused to take off those magic sneakers. 

Phil Smith came off the bench in Game 1 and unloaded for 31 points.  The Warriors won by six.  Games 2 and 3 were played in the Cow Palace (and the place looked just about like it sounds), because the team's regular season home, the Oakland Coliseum, had booked the Ice Capades never imagining that the local basketball would make it that far in the playoffs.  Nonetheless, Rick Barry took over both games scoring 36 and 38 points, respectively.  The Warriors took Game 2 by a single point and Game 3 by eight.

Up 3-0, the team relied on its trademark defense to fuel a furious rally in Game 4.  Butch Beard provided the spark down the stretch and the Warriors won the game and the NBA title with a single-point victory, 96-95.

Since that final buzzer of Game 4, the franchise has, unfortunately, slipped right off the basketball map.  The 1980's were ushered in by the trade of Robert Parish and the #3 pick in the 1980 NBA Draft for the top selection, Joe Barry Carroll.  Parish and that #3 pick, which turned out to be a skinny forward from the University of Minnesota named Kevin McHale, won three NBA titles together as members of the Boston Celtics, with each player leading a Hall of Fame career.  And Joe Barry?  No NBA titles, no Hall of Fame career, and no love from a fan base that demanded a level of greatness that he just didn't have.

There have been brief (re: very brief) respites from the misery.  The early 1990's brought Chris Mullin, Tim Hardaway, and Mitch Richmond together and the wild frenetic offense of "Run TMC."  But management broke up the trio before they ever really got going, deciding that Richmond was somehow a lesser player than Billy Owens.  Latrell Sprewell and Chris Webber brought promise in the mid-1990's, but Webber had a well-publicized rift with coach Don Nelson and Sprewell decided to choke Nelson's successor PJ Carlesimo.  So, that was pretty much the end of that.

Since then, the team has been a non-factor.  This past season, they failed to reach the playoffs for the 12th straight time and are saddled with the unenviable 9th pick in this year's NBA draft.  They have a couple of star players, Jason Richardson and Baron Davis, but precious little else that offers much hope for the future.

And somewhere there's a little guy with bottles on his fingers mocking them to come out and play.

Unfortunately, I don't think they'll be up to the challenge anytime soon.

There is much hand wringing in Kansas City these days.

And the reason for all of those distressed digits?  The 2006 edition of the local baseball team is displaying a disturbing inability to win baseball games.  In fact, the Kansas City Royals are losing so many games so quickly that the MLB record for most losses in a season is already a looming possibility, a mere third of the way through the long season.

It's a disgrace, Kansas City, an absolute disgrace.

Of course, any baseball team can lose a game.  By extension, any baseball team can find itself in a bad stretch and lose a bunch of games.  So, it's not really the losing that is bringing disgrace to the Royals at the moment.  It is the absolute and utter lack of flavor of those losses that is the real shame here.

The 1962 New York Mets lost 120 games, but they did it with style.

Their starting 1B was a lifetime .237 hitter but was nicknamed "Marvelous", nonetheless.  In one game, their "Marvelous" first sacker hit a gapper and lumbered all the way around to third.  The opposing team contended that the hitter missed touching the bag at second.  After a challenge to the umpires, the Marvelous One was called out.  As the manager charged out to protest, he was stopped by one of his coaches.  Turns out, the lumbering 1B had missed first base on his way to third as well.

And the manager who went charging out to second?  He already had 7 World Series rings and his own version of the English language at his command.  In 1962, Casey Stengel was a 72-year-old man who had little left to prove in the dugout but he took over a first-year expansion team and had to watch the worst season in baseball history.  The motives for Casey's willingness to endure the worst after having achieved the pinnacle of his profession are, indeed, perplexing.  But in a way, that was the magic to Casey's madness, as both the high and low of his managerial career are remembered to this day.

They had a shortstop, Elio Chacon, who spoke little English and ended up having to work out a system with the CF, wherein, he (the CF), would make his popup calls in Spanish.  So, the CF practiced the phrase, "Yo lo tengo", in the event he would have to call off Chacon.  Sure enough, the CF cried out, "Yo lo tengo!" and Chacon stopped.  The team's RF, who spoke not a word of Spanish, continued in his chase after the ball and knocked over the CF without hesitation.

They once traded a backup catcher, Harry Chiti, for himself.  That's right, the Mets obtained Mr. Chiti from Cleveland for a player to be named later and...sent Chiti back to the Indians to satisfy the deal.

Now, that's flavor, my friends.  Rich ribbons of smoke from luxurious Cuban cigars in the lexicon of losing.  By comparison, the 2006 Royals are half-a-Marlboro stomped out on the floor of the men's room at a Greyhound bus station.

So, if you are going to lose, Royals (and you are going to lose this season), lose with passion.  Lose with grandeur.  Mostly, lose with style.

Right now, a Kansas City loss is Jeremy Affeldt giving up 7 runs in 5 innings, Angel Berroa kicking the ball around the infield, and Ambiorix Burgos coughing up whatever lead they may have earned in the first place.  And that's somehow far less interesting than a Hall-of-Fame manager guiding non-bilingual players through routine pop-ups and trading backup players for themselves.

2006 Royals, you have a lot to live up to.  Don't disappoint us.

[Author's note: I originally wrote this article for a friend's website at http://thediamondangle.com/archive/april06/puck.html and it has been re-posted here with permission to do so.]

This season the Minnesota Twins are all wearing a patch bearing the number "34" on it in memory of a franchise legend.  And in seeing that number it is difficult to realize that the man who wore that jersey is actually gone.  So, too, is it difficult to see anything else but his trademark characteristic in the mind's eye.

You probably remember the smile more than anything else.

There was glory and heroism in that smile.  In the 1991 World Series, the man with the glorious smile seemed to rise above the limitations his short, stocky body should have allowed.  In one marvelous afternoon during that series, he leapt above the place he was supposed to be while chasing a fly ball from Atlanta's Ron Gant, making a gravity-defying catch against the left-centerfield wall.  And eight innings later he used his greatest attribute, his sheer force of will, to launch a game winning homer.  He gave hope back to his teammates that afternoon.  And he brought a Game 7 with him, which the Twins would go on to win and claim the championship.

And somewhere in that smile, he brought the kind of hope that exists on every baseball diamond.  Hope and renewal are a vital part of baseball, no matter who takes the field, whether it is a bunch of kids playing sandlot or elite professionals playing at the highest level of the sport.  And one man's brilliant smile seemed to embody that powerful part of the game all by itself.

But, on March 6 of this year, that smile went away.  Forever.

Kirby Puckett, who survived a childhood in one of the roughest parts of Chicago, who defied baseball critics unconvinced of his abilities and overly concerned with his unconventional body type, who put a pair of World Series rings on his fingers and a bronze plaque up on the wall in Cooperstown, passed away at the age of 45 after suffering a massive stroke.

And, sadly, his legacy is a complicated one. 

As a player, his skills were marvelous.  He somehow turned himself from a light-hitting rookie who hit no homers in 557 at-bats in 1984 into a run producing terror who hit 20 or more homers six times and slugged over .500 four times.  In the field, he won six Gold Gloves despite looking more like a plucky third-string fullback than a star centerfielder.  And in the post season, he seemed to be able to raise his considerable skills even that much higher.  In 24 post-season games, he slugged at a pace nearly 60 points higher than his career mark, and he was never a part of a losing post-season series.

But he wasn't entirely defined by the entries on a stat sheet.  He was the face of the Minnesota Twins franchise for every singe game and every single inning that he played for them.  And the team's fans adored him like few others.  In fact, he was the rare player who seemed to transcend individual team partisanship.  Indeed, even fans of other teams found it difficult to root against the little man who could. Perhaps, his appeal was best explained by his style of play.  For, he played with a joy that magically embraced teammates and fans alike.  His energy and passion for the game included laughter and celebration.  And fans took to celebrating right along with him.  He was somehow able to distill everything fans treasure about the game of baseball and take those fans along with him as he practiced his magic on the field.  It was a dizzying, fascinating, joyous ride that ended one spring morning in 1996.

After a horrific end to his 1995 season (he was hit by a Dennis Martinez fastball in late September that broke his jaw and burst an artery in his mouth), Puckett seemed ready for another stellar season.  He had hit .360 in spring training but woke up one morning unable to see clearly.  And the one thing a baseball player absolutely cannot do without is superb vision.  When Puckett was ultimately diagnosed with glaucoma, his baseball career was suddenly over.

There have been some who have tried to tie that Dennis Martinez fastball that rode up-and-in and struck Puckett in the jaw as causing his later vision problems (though, I am not sure how an injury to the mouth would affect one's vision several months later).  Some have even unfairly labeled Martinez as the villain in the piece, as somehow responsible for taking Kirby Puckett away from baseball.  But even if there is any sort of plausible connection to be made between the injury caused by the errant pitch and the development of a degenerative eye disease, hit batsmen are a part of the game.   And pitches that sail away from pitchers usually happen more as a circumstance of physics than nefarious intent. 

But the fact that something as energizing and engaging as watching Kirby Puckett playing baseball could just go away was unnerving.  And it was, perhaps, more suitable for some to attribute the end of his career to something that happened on the diamond rather than having to deal with the vagaries of the human body and the even more mysterious maladies that can afflict it.

Whatever the cause, the effect was the same.  Kirby Puckett wouldn't be able to play baseball again and fans would not be able to watch him.  The symbiotic joy his playing days provided turned to symbiotic heartbreak with his sudden exit from the sport.  It was hard to see the images of his tearful press conference where he announced his retirement, his right eye covered by a thick swatch of bandages, and not think about how sad it was for someone who brought so many good things to the game have to leave it under such rotten circumstances.

And without the game, the shadows seemed to overtake him.  The man with the glorious smile seemed to smile less.  He turned to alcohol, which never delivers the comfort it promises.  His once rotund but beloved shape now degenerated into massive obesity.   Allegations of sexual misconduct and a messy public divorce sullied his once-sparkling reputation.  And all the while the place where he found the most joy and solace was not there for him anymore.  That place, the sanctity of the baseball diamond, was out of his reach forever.

A national sports publication delivered another cruel blow by publishing, in painstaking detail, the more unflattering episodes of his life.  The smiling, beloved hero was now being reshaped by some as the unmasked villain.  He was portrayed in some circles as a charlatan who had gained the public trust and affection without revealing his true nature.  But we should all know that nearly everyone resides somewhere in between absolute heroism and vile debauchery, that assigning anyone absolutely one way or the other nearly always isn't a true reflection of that person's character.  But, sadly, we continue to make those designations and we continue to leave some among the wreckage in the wake.

With the game out of his reach, his critics taking his private life apart, and his health failing, Kirby Puckett lost one of the last things he had left.  His life.

But his legacy, while blurred with some parts mistake and regret and other parts heroism and joy, is to be celebrated, in large part, for what he was able to give to the game of baseball.  His days on the diamond should not be completely obscured by what may or my not have happened off of it.  His were bright, glorious days in between the lines.  The happiness he brought to people during his playing days was a real and palpable thing.

His baseball playing brilliance was real.  His kindness to the legions of kids who adored him was real.  His exuberance on the field was real.  His camaraderie with his teammates was real.  And I know that smile of his was real.

Rest in Peace, Kirby.  I hope that smile will endure among baseball fans as a sign of what is best about this game we love.    

Earl Monroe was cool.

So was Walt Frazier.

And the Pearl and Clyde had that quiet kind of cool.  They would just let the smooth silkiness of the game come to them.  In the creative spaces that dot the frenetic action of a basketball game, they would pick their spots to do their thing.  They were Miles Davis and Charlie Mingus on the hardwood, and they got to do their thing at the epicenter of basketball cool back in the day, MSG.

Monroe had exceptional quickness and body control.  He could flash to the hoop in an instant or weave his way through a defense by twisting and spinning, all the while fully controlling the rock.  His pump fake was deadly, and he had enough of a scorer's touch to ring up 18 per for his career.  Like Miles, the Pearl could push the pace, exploding with energy or he could back way off and let the action happen in slow, easy riffs.     

Frazier had a steadier game.  His quick hands and even quicker defensive instincts allowed him to become a premier defender.  His suffocating defense was relentless.  He would simply place himself between an opponent and the basket and not let that opponent rearrange that order for the remainder of the game.  His play was steady and powerful and fast.  Like big Charlie Mingus on the upright bass, Clyde Frazier's game rang out its bass line in quick, rumbling notes from the opening tip to the final buzzer.

And the two New York Knick teammates ran the backcourt at the Garden for six seasons together, one of which netted the Knicks their last NBA title in 1973.  The Pearl and Clyde were the Kings of New York in the early 70's.  The Yankees were suffering through one of the very few down periods in franchise history (in 1973, the team went 80-82 and was still trying to find its way after Mickey Mantle's retirement in 1968).  The NFL Giants were a non-factor for the entire decade of the 1970's.  Likewise, Joe Namath was playing on broken knees, and the Jets similarly disappeared for most of the decade.

So, the Pearl and Clyde brought excitement to the city but also did so with style.  Like their jazz counterparts, they simply understood the flow of the game, gauging the pace of a game and then creating within that pace.  Similarly, jazz musicians need to balance the flow of the group with opportunities to dot a piece of music with their own solos.  Like any great jazz artist, Miles Davis and Charlie Mingus understood this.  They simply went with the music until it inspired them to build on it.  They fed off of it and, in turn, it grew with what they gave back to it.

But the days of Earl the Pearl and Clyde Frazier are long gone as are the days of Miles, the Big Man on the Bass, and the Haitian Fight Song (one of Mingus' signature pieces).  Monroe is now a restaurateur, and Frazier hawks hair dye with Keith Hernandez.  No play for Mr. Grey, indeed.

Of course, times change, and today's NBA is a marvel of athleticism. It is strictly a speed and power game now.  Thundering slams and vicious blocks.  The Pearl and Clyde's quiet cool has given way to the volume of the Diesel.  The game is now a hip-hop soundtrack for a hip-hop generation.  And with LeBron, Mello, Kobe, and Wade leading the way, the future of the NBA is, as they say, bright enough to warrant shades.

However, I sometimes wonder if the price paid for all of that above the rim play is the loss of style.  And at the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man with an axe to grind, style should still count for something.  When athleticism trumps all else, the game misses out on a remarkable kind of flow.

Of course, there are some supremely talented players in the game right now.  And each does have his own style.  However, if assessed in jazz terms, the following active NBA'ers look this way to me:

Nash - Creativity a plus, but cannot wait for tempo changes.  Must always play up tempo.

Kobe - Throws too many notes.  Tries to create own energy too often instead of reading the game.

Shaq - Plays same note over and over and over again.

LeBron - Potential is there, has great feel for flow of game.  Fits game to flow and shines individually when necessary.  Rough edges need to be refined a bit but will be a virtuoso soon.

And while there is much to be said for the electrifying power game now in play in the NBA, there is also something to be said for the quiet cool of two guys who ran the show at the Garden back in the day.

And it's that kind of music that seems to be missing from the game today.