He's no Bernie Madoff, but Tate George still tricked NBA players out of their money.
HoopsVibe's Very Quick Call: I know one guy who's not invited to the ESPY's.
Jordan CP3.VI AE are legit.
HoopsVibe's Very Quick Call: These shoes are predictably built for guard play, but if that's your position they don't let you down.Read More
Who isn't a fan of Air Jordan 8s?
HoopsVibe's Very Quick Call: You can re-release classic Jordan kicks until the end of time. They'll still be dope.
The origin of "Fear the deer" is disputed. But one thing is certain: "Don't slag the stag" is being coined right here, right now. Slap it on a poster, Milwaukee. It's all yours! The problem is that in this article, I actually will be slagging the stag a bit. Milwaukee's not surviving Round 1. The Bucks Stop Here, in other words. Go Buck Yourself. Dismantle the Antlers. Why is it so easy to come up with these? Hoof Springs Eternal. Okay, that one might not work. These Bucks Were Made for Milwaukin'. What the hell is happening and why am I suddenly terrible at this game.Read More
The German concept of the uncanny, the unheimlich, popularized by Freud but more or less traceable to the dusky origins of the German national character, describes the soulsickening coexistence of the familiar and the foreign—that which we think we know, playing home to that which we are sure we don't. The zombie; the uncomfortably lifelike robot; the ghost in the shell. Enter the Utah Jazz.Read More
It was during Charlotte's crafty ambush of the Magic on Sunday—the second quarter, maybe the third quarter—that Stephen Jackson had A Moment. He made a shot and thought he was fouled on the elbow. He backpedaled, jutting his elbow away from him and patting it with his left hand. The camera followed him. His expression did not change. "Jackson wanted the call," droned Mike Breen, or whoever. Stephen Jackson continued patting himself on the elbow. The announcers fell into an inky pool of silence. The producer did not, could not cut away. No one seemed capable of saying or doing anything. Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat. Seconds of time peeled away from our lives, and each one seemed eternal.Read More
Dirk Nowitzki. Danilo Gallinari. The German; the Italian. Two lunkish big men with a silky touch from outside and a national heritage of totalitarianism and luxury car-making. It's a comparison that's been made with increasing regularity as the crazy-eyed Lombard has come into his own this season. There's just one problem: there is a max-contract player out there with a statistical fingerprint that looks strikingly like Gallinari's, but he doesn't play for the Mavericks.Read More