Hard-charging Sixers will be hard to stop

Not every aspect of the Sixers' defense was first-rate, however.

Offense

Their sniping defense generated dozens of fast-break scores. In the first half alone, Philly had 22 fast-break points, which was 22 more than Chicago could manage.

For sure, this team has a golden future, but only if they can maintain their full-court, full-time intensity. Bringing in a big who can score in the paint wouldn't hurt either. If these two needs are met, the Sixers won't be surprising anybody in the future.

Kudos to Mo Cheeks and his staff for hanging in with the young guys and hanging on to an older guy (Miller) and letting him lead the way.

Straight Shooting

Now that Donnie Walsh is apparently a lock to run the Knicks, the next question is what to do with the mess that Zeke made. Here are some suggestions:

There's also been some talk about the future of Isiah, who is apparently one of Walsh's favorites. Perhaps he'll be retained on the bench or as GM, or perhaps in some administrative capacity. However, even though Jazzy Jim Dolan is on the hook for $20M, Zeke and his forked tongue have to walk the plank.

What do the Knicks need that they don't have?

Walsh has a monumental task. Restoring a semblance of life to the corpse that Zeke will leave behind may take at least 2-3 years. Or it may even prove to be impossible.

Vox Populi

I was watching a Celtics game the other night where Leon Powe took (and made) a rolling hook shot. Tommy Heinsohn went nuts. Why is the hook shot so rarely used by today's player? — Griff, Manchester, Mass.

Mainly because the mechanics are so unlike any other shot. The hook is released while stepping away from the basket and turning only the head toward the goal. In releasing jump hooks, for example, the shooter usually jumps straight up. For turnaround jumpers, the shooter winds up with all of his body parts facing the hoop.

Also, the hook requires more one-handed control (again while moving away from the target) than any other shot. And the hook-shooter requires lots of time and space to get his shot off.

It's a terrific weapon that's virtually impossible to block (at least from the strong side), but it takes specific coaching and lots of commitment to master. Magic had an excellent hook, as did Kareem. But too many of today's hooplings equate the hook with the two-hand set and the underhanded free throw.

So, let's get guys like Magic, Kareem, Johnny Kerr, Tommy Heinsohn and Phil Jackson to make an instructional video.

Bring back the hook!

Travels with Charley

Here's the second part of the most unfortunate episode of my coaching career. You can find Part 1 here.

The game played out exactly as I'd anticipated: We lost each of the first three quarters by one point before getting our doors blown off in the last quarter. Then, lo and behold, the score was 112-89, with 1:17 on the game clock, when I distinctly heard Whittaker shout out, "Red! Red!" — thereby ordering his team into a full-court press.

Jumping up from my seat, I glowered down court to where Whittaker likewise stood in front of his bench. "That's #@*^&%$@!" I yelled at him.

"Bleep you, &*($@!)!!" was Whittaker's response. Then he waved his hands, challenging me, beckoning me to approach him.

"Come over here and do something about it!"

And I couldn't take it anymore. The game. The CBA. My life. "YOU BLEEPING BLEEP!" Some last vestige of self-control snapped, leaving me wild and bellowing, a wounded beast suddenly turning on the hunter, charging downcourt, out of my mind with rage, intent on obliterating Whittaker, who moved to hide behind his bench players. I think I could have actually killed him.

But thankfully one of the referees, Jim Kinney, grabbed me in a bear hug from behind, pinning my arms and swooping me off my feet.

"It ain't worth it, Charley," he said in my ear. "Calm down. It ain't worth it."

"It is! I'm gonna kill the bleep!"

Slowly, Jim increased the pressure on my chest so that I had to gasp for breath.

"It ain't worth it."

He literally carried me toward the baseline, where the desperate need to breathe, to inhale, to lie down, suddenly overrode my anger.

"I'm OK," I said. "Thanks, Jim. I'm OK. Let me down."

He released me gently.

"I have to call a couple of T's," he said, almost apologizing. "You're ejected."

"I understand. I'm OK."

So I walked slowly off the court, the fans in an uproar behind me, hurling abuse, paper cups and crumpled newspapers as I entered the tunnel that led to the basement staircase, thinking, hoping, that this fiasco would motivate my players for our next game. Then, just as I reached the top of the stairs, gathering my body for the rhythmic descent into the basement, a hand seized my right forearm.

"What?"

It was a cop. About 5-foot-8, a solid 170 pounds, wearing his play-hat with its shiny black brim, a badge on his hat, a badge on his chest. The nameplate above his right breast pocket said, "G. Murray." His eyes were gray, almost colorless. There was an oversized six-shooter strapped to his waist.

Now, his other hand locked onto my forearm.

"Let's go," he said.

The force of his grip nearly tilted me headlong down the steps, and he had to yank me back to right my balance.

"I'm going," I said, then shook him loose. "Get the bleep off me. This has nothing to do with you."

He clutched at me again, and I repeated, "Get the bleep off me."

When we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he pushed the small of my back, propelling me toward the locker room.

"Get away, leave me alone."

Then he shoved me into the locker room and slammed the door behind me.

I proceeded to kick every dented, rusty locker in the narrow room. Right then, at that moment, everything that had happened was someone else's fault. Palie's. Whittaker's. Murray the mini-cop. I was the outraged innocent.

But then I realized that I was thirsty, so I ventured into the hallway to find a water fountain. And that's when all hell broke loose.