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Adam Morrison, NBA Champion and tourtred artist, is substantially mediocre at trash talk

By Bret Greenleaf

Jan 22, 2015; Spokane, WA, USA; Gonzaga Bulldogs former player Adam Morrison walks off the court after a game against the Saint Mary’s Gaels at McCarthey Athletic Center. The Bulldogs won 68-47. Mandatory Credit: James Snook-USA TODAY Sports
Jan 22, 2015; Spokane, WA, USA; Gonzaga Bulldogs former player Adam Morrison walks off the court after a game against the Saint Mary’s Gaels at McCarthey Athletic Center. The Bulldogs won 68-47. Mandatory Credit: James Snook-USA TODAY Sports /
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Adam Morrison is a nice man who politely insults his adversaries.

Sunny Day Real Estate drummer Smooth stroking human wig, and real life Jimmy Chitwood, Adam Morrison was an exceptionally talented scorer. The once impishly-mustachioed 2006 College Player of the Year was the Pacific Northwest basketball messiah of the mid-2000’s, the kind of swingman supremely adept to score from anywhere beyond half-court.  He was just as able to create shots from all angles by dribbling through double-teams as he was prone to scale the perimeter off the ball as a catch-and-shoot threat. At 6-8, Morrison was a, if not the paramount match-up nightmare of his era, essentially laying hardwood for Kevin Durant’s style of offense.

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His pro career, however, was not nearly as illustrious, averaging a despondent 4.5 points per game over three seasons in the NBA with the Bobcats (RIP, j/k) and Lakers.  Nonetheless, the kid could score, and he did it often at the college level.

We know what he was good at.  Things Morrison is not exceptionally talented at? Well, I don’t claim to have ever hung out with Adam personally, but I (we) can imagine he doesn’t possess proficient perfunctory oratory skills, won’t grace next months The Economist under a headline of “The Next Warren Buffett,” and probably won’t leave Hannah Davis swooning with flushed features and mild perspiration by showcasing his sweet moves in the rink re-living Scott Hamilton’s graceful gold medal routine at the 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo. I don’t know, it’s just a hunch (prove me wrong, Adam. Prove me wrong).

We can confirm, however, from a grand sample size of one, that the former Bulldog is not an accomplished trash talker when managing hecklers. After Duke’s 66-52 Elite 8 victory over the ‘Zags on Sunday evening, Seattle Times columnist Jerry Brewer sent out this tweet:

It’d be a stretch to label the first letter of Morrison’s Myers Briggs Type as any deviation from a monolithic “I”, so expectations shouldn’t be high, but that was a really, really weak response.  The Duke fan makes a solid point, seeing that JJ Redick is having a career year, averaging 16.1 points per game while shooting at a 44% clip from beyond the arc, and this is a perfectly fine comeback on the third grade blacktop of Washington Elementary in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but ADAM, YOU HAVE TWO RINGS!  This trash talk performance may be last in the league behind Ricky Rubio and Jimmer Fredette (Nuggets Jusuf Nurkić is the best, obviously).   At least he’s still confident in his stroke.

This may have served as a golden cathartic opportunity missed to capitalize on shaming a representation of one of the NCAA’s favorite antagonists (or being sensible and not engaging, recognizing one’s own strengths), but there’s still faith for his future (as one former NCAA video scout to another).

Find your happy place, Adam. We know you’re a sensitive guy; a man of intensity and passion. Hell, you cried on national television and owned the hell out of it afterwards.  Putting fans in their place may not be your game, but your medium is out there waiting for you somewhere.  Express yourself, man, UNLEASH THE INNER SPIRIT THAT MOTIVATES YOUR SOUL.

Vernon Davis found an easel and a paintbrush.

Barry Zito found a guitar and yoga mat.

Arian Foster dug deep into the sensibilities of his heart through poetry.

Something about the crew socks, “creative facial hair,” and perpetually midnight glare-stoic upper body language combination conveys the soul of a tortured artist; a lost man scouring the sunset for his muse— who apparently was not on a basketball court in Charlotte, Los Angeles, Brooklyn, Portland, Belgrade, or Turkey.  Something tells me there’s a beautiful sculpture in there, somewhere.

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