Don't Stare at the Forest
I like Skeets a lot, but sometimes his ceaseless Vince Carter bashing renders me glum. I understand why he does it; Skeets rides hard for his Raptors, and Carter very passively tore the throat out of his fair city. But to my set of peculiar biases, it seems excessive: while I would never hold up Vince Carter as the epitome of athletic excellence, it seems almost unfair to expect him to be. Time and time again, Carter's proven that, despite having all the gifts in the country and an irresistible nice guy vibe to him, he just doesn't get basketball. And I don't really know if we can hold him accountable for this.
Case in point: The above video, presented to me by the aforementioned Dino-nut. What's amazing is how breezy and kind Carter comes off as, and yet what an utter, sniveling "fuck you" his actions in the story come off as. Then there's the fact that, for any NBA player with an ingrained sense of identity, the Rucker means something. They go there to prove they're in touch with the raw, to do shit that would get them tossed out of most pro contests. No matter how deft or astonishing one plays, the assumption is that, when he touches down at the Rucker, he's saying he can do more. Vince, though, thinks of it as another goodwill appearance, until he finally wises up and casually brings the house down.
That's the common thread in Carter's career: the paraphrase someone on The Wire (Bodie on Namond?), Vince is just not built for this shit. Which is a puzzling statement to make, seeing as Vince is physically as suited to the sport as anyone in total imagination. Notably absent, however, is that sixth sense for the mores, ways, and means of sports participation. It would be otherworldly if this quality didn't so often lead to disappointment and rancor; as it is, something like the graduation fiasco serves to disqualify Carter from the brotherhood. Once he's retired, he'll immediately become a credit to the sport, and even in Toronto people will line up to touch the hand of the most perfect dunker of them all. Only then will he really make sense, as an outwardly pleasant man who, in some remote sense, is connected with outstanding feats on the hardwood.
For most active players, the converse is true; to some degree, that's the basic assumption of the Lens of Psychology that, practically speaking, our version of fandom depends on. Compare Carter's slightly creepy presence in the league with that of his cousin McGrady, also awash in humanity, also disrupting the usual life/ball balance. But in T-Mac's case, all his pain and weirdness comes rushing back into his game. That Carter is detached, or defines himself outside of basketball (however humbly) gets in the way of his stylistic self-discovery.
Both accidentally and inevitably, McGrady's sports life carries on in the same vein as his personal life. This is the kind of thing that makes us call T-Mac "bottomlessly soulful" and Carter "without a soul," and makes us feel that watching McGrady is not just an exercise in aesthetics and entertainment. And, I would argue, the same thing is true for being McGrady. Vince Carter makes it ruefully clear that to him, basketball is not life, and is in no way intertwined with his deepest self-discussion. It may drive us mad as fans but ultimately, it's more dismal fact than point of contention.