Jay Mariotti Nba

CLEVELAND -- He always has a rapper's catchphrase for everything and everyone, primarily himself. And while Shaquille O'Neal really should adopt The Big Hypothermia -- an ode to a bone-chilled, unemployment-scarred town that couldn't be farther from Hollywood if it were on Uranus -- it's typical that he would produce a more creative, applicable nickname.

"I'm the Big Witness Protection Program," he said, playing off the Nike ad extravaganza for LeBron James. "I've come here to protect the King."

Works for me. Given their collective magnitude in pop culture, it's hard to fathom that Shaq, maybe the greatest entertainer ever known to sports, has arrived in middle-market Ohio to join hands with James, who soon will push aside old man Tiger Woods as the most prominent athlete in the land, if not the world. But this is the unusual bond that happens when the Cavaliers feel extreme urgency to win an NBA championship for James, so he doesn't flee next summer for New York -- and the Phoenix Suns only feel urgency to watch their bottom line. Shaq is shipped to Cleveland for a few pierogies, and, suddenly, a beleaguered town that hasn't won a major sports title since 1964 becomes pro basketball's epicenter.

What, you expected him to suddenly morph into Meryl Streep or Beyonce or Barack Obama, gracious and classy in victory? Michael Jordan was a basketball killer. He thrived on humiliating those who even remotely doubted him, be it a player or coach or someone such as me. I won't forget standing in a parking lot by a gym on Chicago's west side, watching his neck veins bulge as he screamed at me for slamming his impending NBA comeback.

"I hang those [bleeping] articles on my refrigerator so I can read them every morning,'' he said, climbing into his Ferrari Testarossa.

And to think we debated, with considerable vigor, whether Michael Beasley or Derrick Rose had better character traits before last year's NBA Draft. Turns out the answer was "none of the above," which shouldn't shock anybody who knows how teenaged basketball phenoms are pampered, enabled and, in the end, used up like chew toys. Rose is the new poster child for academic fraud, having scandalized an SAT test and reduced Memphis' runner-up finish in the NCAA Tournament to a vacated, forgotten rat hole.

As for Beasley, he is a troubled soul who needed help and was fortunate to find it this week. He has checked into a Houston rehabilitation facility and is receiving treatment for stress-related problems that apparently include drug and alcohol issues. This came after a photo on Beasley's Twitter account showed a small plastic bag that appeared to contain -- well, you know -- and included recent postings that didn't suggest a well-adjusted mind:

---

---

If LeBron James dares to venture online and see himself scorched by the masses, he might as well do some instructive Web-surfing, too. I suggest he call up a dubious Michael Jordan clip on YouTube, where a certain John Rogers, CEO of Ariel Investments, beats him in a one-on-one game at his "Flight School" basketball camp. What's funny is how Jordan opens with trash-talk -- "Don't be mad at me. I'm just too good for you," -- only to be schooled on three driving, twisting layups.

And how did the Greatest Player Ever respond to this professional embarrassment, which he knew was being taped? Oh, by hugging and congratulating Rogers, then willingly absorbing verbal abuse from comedian Damon Wayans while the other campers howled.

Years ago, this would have constituted franchise suicide. Years ago, when Ron Artest was attacking fans and and facing spousal-abuse charges and firing obscene gestures and qualifying as the NBA's scariest menace to society, you wouldn't wish him upon your most despised team. But even the unhinged grow up eventually, which is why I dare say the Los Angeles Lakers have made a monumental statement in signing the sort-of-reformed problem child.

Not much in sports makes me cringe these days, but describing Ricky Rubio as the next Pistol Pete Maravich -- legend and cult hero forevermore -- certainly is hard on the frown lines. So the Mane from Spain has flowing locks and a flair for the flashy, sexy pass. Does that make him remotely equipped to wage battle in a league loaded with elite point guards, from Chris Paul to Deron Williams to Jason Kidd to Derrick Rose to Rajon Rondo?

Pistol Pete was a one-and-only, never to be replicated in any era, a prolific scorer and exquisite passer whose showmanship would have thrived in a time when entertainment and SportsCenter hits seem to trump winning championships. Rubio? He's 18. I have no idea how much he'll improve his shaky jumper and adapt to the raw physicality of NBA ball. He very easily could be a Eurobust who has brainwashed us with YouTube reels that conveniently ignore his turnovers and no-look flips with no-chance recipients.

---

---

Editor's Note: This column has been updated from Thursday's original version.

He's accustomed to the NBA's sunniest and most extravagant addresses, from Disney World to Hollywood to South Beach to the Arizona desert. Ontario Street in downtown Cleveland? Put it this way: Shaquille O'Neal will have to buy a thick winter coat, assume a less gaudy nickname (The Big Smokestack?) and watch courtside celebrities such as Jack Nicholson and Ludacris suddenly morph into Drew Carey.

But there's nothing ludicrous about this new development in his fascinating journey through basketball and life. Shaq is intelligent enough to realize, at 37, that even one season with the Cavaliers could have a profound impact on his legacy -- and that of LeBron James. If Shaq wins his fifth NBA championship in a town that hasn't won a title in a major sport since 1964, and he succeeds in keeping an ambitious native son in his native northeast Ohio, his work will be done.

---

---

ORLANDO -- There is much to dislike about Kobe Bean Bryant, from the bursts of conceit that verge on megalomania to the 57-page transcript detailing the sex, lies and disgrace of his one-night stand with a 19-year-old in Colorado. But never, ever deny him this: He is a basketball savant who, in one definitive swoop Sunday evening, quieted those who said: a) he'd never win an NBA title without Shaquille O'Neal, and b) he has been trumped by LeBron James as the sport's most dominant force.

ORLANDO -- They're as different as Yoda and Danny DeVito, the Grateful Dead and Weird Al Yankovic, a complete mismatch in wisdom and savvy and diamonds on their fingers. Just because Phil Jackson evokes the appearance of a half-asleep grandfather waiting for his Metamucil doesn't mean he isn't in complete control of his scene. And just because Stan Van Gundy is running around and howling like a crazed banshee doesn't mean he has a clue.

If the Lakers win another championship Sunday night, Game 5 of the NBA Finals might signify the end of Jackson's spiritual, never-boring adventure through coaching. Yet even as he stares down his 10th crown -- which would push him past one of his biggest critics, the late Red Auerbach, as the most decorated of all pro basketball coaches -- he keeps absorbing potshots from snipers who think he's cruising through a career as an opportunistic fraud.

ORLANDO -- It was a night when a veteran dismissed as old and inept proudly turned back time, a night when a man-child with 21 rebounds and nine blocked shots was the goat, a night when the well-coached team won and the team that executed horribly in critical moments lost. Sometimes, the slim difference between a champion and a wannabe funnels down to savvy, character, IQ, experience, all the traits that never seem cliche when it's past midnight in overtime and the studs are separating from the frauds.