Paul is great for Hornets, but not the MVP

The Celtics' anti-Paul defense was characterized by the same persistence and coordination that they have demonstrated all season long. None of the Celts took a play off on defense.

Even so, Paul was quick enough to dribble right and pull on several occasions, making at least two spectacular baskets. He was 2-for-4 from beyond the arc with his two hits and one good miss coming when his feet were set. The one time that Paul had to stop, pop and unleash a 3-ball under modest pressure, the ensuing shot missed badly.

Paul's only isolation play resulted in a layup-plus-one against Ray Allen.

Overall, Paul showed off blazing speed, a terrific handle, a penchant for going right, the need to fade back slightly to create room for his pop shots, a better left-to-right crossover than vice versa, and some difficulty finishing among the trees.

At the other end

The Celtics made Chris Paul work on the defensive end. (Brian Babineau/NBAE / Getty Images)

Part of Boston's game plan was to sap Paul's strength by forcing him to work hard on defense. And it surely did. Here's what it looked like:

So if Paul's numbers were impressive — 7-for-16, 6-for-8 from the stripe, 10 assists, 3 steals, 2 turnovers, 22 points — keep in mind that he also yielded a total of 29 points in head-to-head competition.

In addition, several of Paul's rotations were either late or faulty. Even so, Paul did have some spectacular moments on defense:

How, then, does Paul compare to his rivals at the point-guard spot?

Each is absolutely a perfect fit in their respective systems, but none of them deserves to be this year's MVP (whatever the standard for this bogus award might actually be).

Straight Shooting

With all signs pointing to Donnie Walsh assuming the command seat in the Knicks organization, his most important decision will be choosing a coach. Let's handicap the obvious possibilities:

ISIAH THOMAS: Jazzy Jim Dolan is said to "prefer" Zeke's return, and Walsh has fond memories of Thomas' seasons on the Pacers bench. But retaining Thomas as coach would be a disaster of immense proportions. So much so that's it's hard to imagine the NBA-savvy Walsh making such a foolish move.
ODDS: 1,000-1

Is there a spot for former player Mark Jackson on the Knicks bench? (Tony Firriolo / Getty Images)

MARK JACKSON: Long a fan favorite in New York, the Brooklyn-born Jackson has maintained a presence in the metropolitan area by serving as the color man on the Nets telecasts. While Jackson certainly has the necessary moxie and most likely the requisite expertise, Walsh simply can't gamble the future of the franchise on a rookie coach. Playing is one thing and commentating from the safety of the sidelines is another, but actually coaching is a quantum leap into the unknown.
ODDS: 5-1

SCOTT SKILES: Does Walsh really want a Billy Martin clone to be the face of his team? For sure, Skiles preaches defense and relentless hustle, but he's also incurably and inappropriately confrontational. If Skiles is in, then considering their mutually hostile relationship in Chicago, both Jamal Crawford and Eddy Curry have to be out.
ODDS: 3-1

PAUL SILAS: Dignity, honesty, great communication skills, nurturing yet demanding — all of these are Silas's assets. He'd need an X's and O's assistant, but Silas would restore some badly needed respectability to the organization. However, he's been out of the league for too long, and as he closes in on his 65th birthday, Silas is also a mite long in the tooth to deal with the unusual stresses of coaching in the Apple.
ODDS: 500-1

HERB WILLIAMS: An all-around nice guy who's certainly paid his dues, Williams is another refugee from Indiana who has a continuing relationship with Walsh. But Williams lacks the kind of marquee name that the job requires.
ODDS: 15-1

MIKE FRATELLO: Another familiar name on the merry-go-round, Fratello is too much of a nag and a self-promoter to deserve serious consideration.
ODDS: 250-1

RICK CARLISLE: His teams will be tough and disciplined. Yes, Carlisle can be stubborn, and he's much too honest to engage in the kind of meaningless schmoozing that impresses the media. Perhaps, though, his stint as a TV commentator has improved his ability to deal with stupid questions. It says here that Carlisle is the right hire.
ODDS: 5-1

Vox Populi

I was having a discussion with a few friends about Bruce Bowen. One of them swore that Bowen is not a good defender at all, but just uses cheap shots to get into opponent's head, and isn't really talented enough to play in the NBA. I feel that while Bowen can be dirty at times, he's always guarding top-notch scorers, so he's under much more scrutiny than other defenders in the league. What do you think? — John G., Boston

Bowen is indeed one of the league's premier defenders. Among the tools of his trade are his strength, his relentless effort, his quick hands, his experience and his understanding that some rules can be pushed to the limit. Does he routinely slap, push and bump his man? Absolutely. Does he sometimes encroach on an airborne shooter's landing space? Certainly.

If Allen Iverson can palm the ball, if LeBron can bully defenders with impunity, if Manu Ginobili is permitted to take extra steps, and if Anderson Varejao can flop for profit, it's only logical that Bowen's reputation as a defensive ace earns him some leeway in his own sphere of influence. Factor in his 3-point accuracy and his improving ball-handling skills and Bowen is certainly a worthy NBA player.

To me, a "dirty" player is one who thinks nothing of injuring an opponent. Guys like Bill Laimbeer, Zelmo Beatty, Jim Loscutoff, Bob Brannum, Clyde Lovellete, Wally Osterkorn and Isiah Thomas come to mind, but not Bowen. He's only taking what the refs give him.

The most impressive aspect of Bowen's game is his mind-set. Despite getting beaten time and time again by the league's most effective scorers, Bowen never hangs his head. For him, every play represents another existential moment for him to succeed.

There's no question that every team in the league would be happy to obtain Bowen's services.

Travels with Charley

Here's the third installment of my skirmish with the law. Read Part I and Part II.

Evidently the game was over, because here came opposing coach George Whittaker, bopping down the stairs and happy to be a winner, feeling invincible, knowing that he was a genius.

I instinctively rushed toward him, and suddenly we were face-to-face. I clenched my right hand. Instead of moving to defend himself, he stared at me, speechless, apparently shocked at my riotous fury, his mouth twisted into a vacant grin. I no longer wanted to hurt him, yet some red-eyed, swaggering compulsion moved my fist in a threatening arc. Whittaker never retreated as I swung weakly and missed his face by at least a foot.

All at once something grabbed at my neck from behind. My legs were shoved forward, and I tumbled to the floor. I found myself on my back, with the minicop jamming a forearm against my throat and a knee into my chest.

By then, my players had arrived.

"Get off him," one of the shouted, and another said, "Let him up."

The cop backed away and I was helped to my feet, but suddenly the cop was at me again, his left hand poking my chest, his right hand balled into a fist.

"It's over," one of my players said. "Let him alone. We'll take him into the locker room."

The players slowly formed a circle around me and Officer Murray. Large black men closing in behind him, cutting off his only avenue of escape, the cop's right hand moved slowly toward his gun, carefully unsnapping the strap on his holster.

"How many of us can you shoot?" I asked. "How many bullets do you have?"

Now the cop stepped back, holding his hands open in front of his chest, allowing the players to hustle me back into the locker room.

Inside, nobody knew quite what to do. So we moved in an aimless circle, waiting for the music to stop. We had the feeling that we were all under siege, and none of us was eager to leave our sanctuary.

But then the door burst open and a dozen cops poured into the room. The biggest one, at 6-foot-5, 240 pounds and the one with the angriest face, said to me, "Come outside, we want to ask you some questions."

"Ask them in here," I said.

"Come outside," Officer F. Jablonski insisted.

"They're gonna bust you," a player said, and the entire team surged forward to shield me. But the cops waved their nightsticks, and the players quickly retreated. Jablonski grabbed my necktie, yanked me through the doorway, and slammed me face-first against the wall. My arms were pulled behind my back, and my wrists were cuffed. The peace officers swarmed around me as Murray stepped up close in order to bang his nightstick against my legs and thighs.

"You bleeping cowards!" I shouted.

I would have said more, but the handcuffs were immediately ratcheted a notch tighter. I was pushed up the stairs, outside the arena and into the backseat of a squad car. A photographer flashed his gizmo as the car door slammed shut.

Officer Half-Pint drove while Jablonski rode shotgun. In the cramped backseat with my wrists tightly manacled, I couldn't twist or angle my legs without some part of my body suffering. Jablonski recited my rights in rapid-fire delivery. I couldn't understand most of what he said, but I didn't dare ask for clarification. I was a prisoner.

"What happens now?"

"You'll get booked," Murray said, without a trace of hostility.

Just doing his job. The law-abiding citizens of Cedar Rapids could rest easy.

"What's the charge? Did Whittaker file charges?"

"No," said Murray. "We'll file charges. Resisting arrest. Just cooperate and behave yourself."

"You know something?" I said to G. Murray. "You'd make a terrific referee."