Sac.1989
Starter
Talk about adding a FA vet with heart, defensive intensity and leadership. I feel he perfectly fits our needs at the 3 and wont clog the offense.
http://www.gq.com/blogs/the-q/2011/06/caron-butler.html#ixzz1OJ0pNh5k
The saddest man of these playoffs is not the defeated Kobe Bryant, nor the furious Kevin Garnett. It's Caron Butler. Caron Butler, who has not played basketball since New Year's Day. Caron Butler, who, in all likelihood, will not play basketball until next season, whenever that might be.
For a month now, Butler has been the central character in a boring and repetitive subplot that goes something like this: he says he really wants to play, could be ready to play, will probably play in an upcoming game/series. Dallas Mavericks management rejects this claim. Butler says he should/could/will play. Dallas officials tell him no. Butler says yes. Mavs say no. Dirk basically ignores him.
Of course he wants to play. He's a basketball player. But Butler's restlessness, his yearning comments to the press, indicates a deeper frustration. Not playing is bad enough; sitting and watching your team not only succeed without you, but thrive, is even worse. There are few realizations more painful than your own irrelevance.
"That was a really tough blow for us when Caron went down," said Mavs GM Donnie Nelson a few weeks ago. "That was the Tonto, that was the Robin."
What Nelson didn't say, and what Butler must be realizing, is that Batman didn't need Robin. The Lone Ranger didn't need Tonto. Sidekicks are replaceable. Superheroes aren't. Meet the resurgent veterans Kidd, Marion, Stojakovich. Meet the upstart JJ Barea.
In any case, Butler's eager posturing is more reminiscent of cartoon anxiousness, of Henery Hawk and Scrappy Doo's "lemme at 'ems," than of the dignified second fiddle that a proper sidekick is supposed to play. And like those cartoons, Butler has no control over the larger narrative. Dirk talks about him like a non-entity: "I think we as players focus on whoever is ready, and that's really all I'm worried about." Rick Carlisle drops tired clichés: "Caron, simply being here every day and doing what he's doing is an incredible source of inspiration for all of us."
When your coach starts discussing your rehab workouts as inspirational to the team, you know you've descended into mascot territory. In tangible terms, all Butler can do is continue to rehab at his supercharged pace. Elsewhere, he can let his unrest manifest through attempts—intentional or subconsciously arrived at—to reinsert himself in the narrative. This is the genesis of Butler's graceful public praise for Miami's Udonis Haslem, dripping with the subtext of his own longing. (Unfortunately for Butler the subtext to the subtext is that without Haslem, the Heat have looked like a team missing something all season, a team a step out of rhythm. Without Butler, the Mavericks look fine.)
The tragedy of Butler's absence—and the emerging evidence that maybe he's not as crucial to the Mavericks' success as everybody assumed he was—is heightened by its context. Caron Butler has resided on the outskirts of success throughout his NBA career. He was traded from the Heat to the Lakers as part of the deal that brought Shaq, and with him a title, to Miami. (Only fitting that his current team, playing without him, now takes on the next iteration of the Heat). Butler was traded from the pre-Pau Lakers to the Wizards for Kwame Brown. In Washington he finally found his footing as the stable, well-rounded voice of reason between Gilbert Arenas and Antawn Jamison. He was an All Star in 2007. He got hurt. So did Arenas. The Wizards were swept in the first round of the playoffs.
And here resides Butler once again. The saddest man in the NBA not only because he doesn't get to play, but because he doesn't seem to matter anymore. Not even to his teammates. Butler's absence is barely even a story line. If the Mavericks win the title this year, it will go down as the season Dirk Nowitzki led a wily band of veterans plus JJ Barea to a confounding championship. It will be the year Dallas finally got the breaks they needed, the year everything broke right. It will be the year Mark Cuban's decade of spending and yelling and every other kind of posturing finally paid off. Here's the one thing it won't be: the year that the Dallas Mavericks heroically overcame Caron Butler's ruptured patellar to win a championship.
http://www.gq.com/blogs/the-q/2011/06/caron-butler.html#ixzz1OJ0pNh5k
The saddest man of these playoffs is not the defeated Kobe Bryant, nor the furious Kevin Garnett. It's Caron Butler. Caron Butler, who has not played basketball since New Year's Day. Caron Butler, who, in all likelihood, will not play basketball until next season, whenever that might be.
For a month now, Butler has been the central character in a boring and repetitive subplot that goes something like this: he says he really wants to play, could be ready to play, will probably play in an upcoming game/series. Dallas Mavericks management rejects this claim. Butler says he should/could/will play. Dallas officials tell him no. Butler says yes. Mavs say no. Dirk basically ignores him.
Of course he wants to play. He's a basketball player. But Butler's restlessness, his yearning comments to the press, indicates a deeper frustration. Not playing is bad enough; sitting and watching your team not only succeed without you, but thrive, is even worse. There are few realizations more painful than your own irrelevance.
"That was a really tough blow for us when Caron went down," said Mavs GM Donnie Nelson a few weeks ago. "That was the Tonto, that was the Robin."
What Nelson didn't say, and what Butler must be realizing, is that Batman didn't need Robin. The Lone Ranger didn't need Tonto. Sidekicks are replaceable. Superheroes aren't. Meet the resurgent veterans Kidd, Marion, Stojakovich. Meet the upstart JJ Barea.
In any case, Butler's eager posturing is more reminiscent of cartoon anxiousness, of Henery Hawk and Scrappy Doo's "lemme at 'ems," than of the dignified second fiddle that a proper sidekick is supposed to play. And like those cartoons, Butler has no control over the larger narrative. Dirk talks about him like a non-entity: "I think we as players focus on whoever is ready, and that's really all I'm worried about." Rick Carlisle drops tired clichés: "Caron, simply being here every day and doing what he's doing is an incredible source of inspiration for all of us."
When your coach starts discussing your rehab workouts as inspirational to the team, you know you've descended into mascot territory. In tangible terms, all Butler can do is continue to rehab at his supercharged pace. Elsewhere, he can let his unrest manifest through attempts—intentional or subconsciously arrived at—to reinsert himself in the narrative. This is the genesis of Butler's graceful public praise for Miami's Udonis Haslem, dripping with the subtext of his own longing. (Unfortunately for Butler the subtext to the subtext is that without Haslem, the Heat have looked like a team missing something all season, a team a step out of rhythm. Without Butler, the Mavericks look fine.)
The tragedy of Butler's absence—and the emerging evidence that maybe he's not as crucial to the Mavericks' success as everybody assumed he was—is heightened by its context. Caron Butler has resided on the outskirts of success throughout his NBA career. He was traded from the Heat to the Lakers as part of the deal that brought Shaq, and with him a title, to Miami. (Only fitting that his current team, playing without him, now takes on the next iteration of the Heat). Butler was traded from the pre-Pau Lakers to the Wizards for Kwame Brown. In Washington he finally found his footing as the stable, well-rounded voice of reason between Gilbert Arenas and Antawn Jamison. He was an All Star in 2007. He got hurt. So did Arenas. The Wizards were swept in the first round of the playoffs.
And here resides Butler once again. The saddest man in the NBA not only because he doesn't get to play, but because he doesn't seem to matter anymore. Not even to his teammates. Butler's absence is barely even a story line. If the Mavericks win the title this year, it will go down as the season Dirk Nowitzki led a wily band of veterans plus JJ Barea to a confounding championship. It will be the year Dallas finally got the breaks they needed, the year everything broke right. It will be the year Mark Cuban's decade of spending and yelling and every other kind of posturing finally paid off. Here's the one thing it won't be: the year that the Dallas Mavericks heroically overcame Caron Butler's ruptured patellar to win a championship.
