The first email I ever received was a letter from outer space. My father sent it from Israel, probably in 1987; someone else had to print it out and deliver it to my mother. But it was special because it came from outer space. The message itself was an update on his trip with a paragraph devoted to explaining the new technology. I remembered wondering if I’d ever get another email.

Nearly three decades later, I find myself wondering again if the email I just received will be my last.

What was once the backbone of Internet communication — and there’s a good case to be made that communication is the backbone of the Internet itself — has less and less use in our daily life. It’s been functionally replaced by messaging, chat, and DMs, effaced by social media, and perhaps most importantly, withered away as what we want to say and how we want to say it have changed over time.

What made email immediately useful in daily life was the sheer speed of it. You didn’t have to wait three to four days to see expressed in writing what, for whatever reason, couldn’t be put into words on the telephone. Writing was different from speaking and our ability to employ it was no longer limited.

The faster the Internet got, the more emails we wrote. It was a golden age for those of us prone to long, weighty missives, especially those of us with literary aspirations who knew that these could very well be published posthumously.

But email wasn’t just becoming a proxy for letter-writing. It was also taking the place of the telephone. We unlearned how to use the phone well before we forgot how to write. I realize how quaint that sentence sounds. Still, in those few years before cell phones became widespread — and I’d argue that using cell phones for talking was just a transitional phase in technology — we began using email to avoid having to make voice-on-voice contact. It was sometimes a matter of convenience, sometimes avoidance. But email was an effective, efficient buffer against our oldest (and most forthright) form of communication. It introduced distance even as it upped the tempo and immediacy of daily life.

It’s always been curious to me that real-time messaging has been a part of the tech landscape for nearly as long as email (think AOL) and yet it took at least twenty years for messaging in its various forms to outmode email. Today, email is used primarily when some level of formality, professional or otherwise, is required. Even then, they’re often used either to begin or end a conversation. It’s perfectly acceptable to never reply because they’re meant to linger as a broad statement. The sole exception that comes to mind is task-oriented exchanges like going back and forth over an edit. Even then, email’s grasp on the situation is tenuous; I now use Google docs as much as I do Word.

Why has messaging replaced email?

My best guess is that it has a lot to do with the rise of social media and the ways in which conversation has taken precedence over simple utterance. The web has gone from a mere repository of content — and a conduit for its transmission — to a thing that, on the most basic level, is premised on interaction.

We don’t want to launch things out into the void and wait for a response, we want immediate engagement.

Messaging is only slightly faster than email but it lends itself far better to the Internet of now. Platforms that visualize everything as real-time exchange simply feel more like a two-way street. Chatting has proven more timeless and mutable than self-consciously writing, even if the language and overall mode of expression has changed over time — and IRL conversation has completely retreated from view, to the point where texting while talking is almost socially acceptable.

But it’s not just how we want to communicate that’s changed, it’s what we want to say. We simply no longer feel the need to “go long” or expand our thoughts that far past 140 characters. Granted, Twitter no longer enforces that limit on DM’s, but long DM’s just look and feel wrong. Facebook posts over 250 words qualify as a “rant”. And we’ve all had the experience of typing so much in a chat window that the other party’s name disappears, at which point the conversation might as well be over. We probably have more to say than ever — in the same way that we consume more Internet than ever — but it’s always in rapid bursts.

Maybe it’s to leave room for others; maybe it speaks to a lack of focus. Either way, the pace and tone of online life has turned email into a dinosaur. It’s cold and even rude to send an email, unless you’ve got no real precedent or pretext for reaching out via some other, more conversational means.

The rise of emojis more or less ended the debate over whether messaging killed writing as we know it; at this point, there’s an entirely different language being spoken. Email had that vestigial link to letter-writing which is to say, email was where writing was ruined, not the means by which writing would evolve into something new.

If email is going to be with us for much longer, it’s ironically going to be because of this connection to the past. It will stick around in the same way that the fax machine — the ultimate liminal technology — has yet to fully bow out of daily life. The formality of email is what keeps it alive.

And as long as society demands we officially introduce ourselves before asking for something or offering up something, we’ll need email. As long as individuals are allowed to set the context for interaction rather than jumping blindly into it, email will be around. And when we need to clearly and expansively lay out an idea without immediately inviting the input of others, email is there for us. If anything, email still survives because it protects us from interaction. It slows things down and forestalls online life. That’s almost the opposite of when it facilitated functions of IRL.

Maybe it’s not long before were all writing letters again.

Why Email Refuses to Die was originally published in Startup Grind on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

No sport is more relatable than basketball. Players are quite literally exposed: We hear their interactions, read their body language and facial expressions, and interpret their style of play as a window into their personalities. It’s also a social sport where relationships unfold in real time and chemistry reigns supreme. Players can’t hide themselves from us. At the same time, their humanity is inescapable.

For us fans, the experience of March Madness is one of total immersion, maybe even transgression. We dodge work, get drunk midday, gamble, and meticulously fill out brackets that we secretly want to see go up in flames. March Madness is a full-bore binge that packs a visceral jolt unlike anything in American sports.

As spectators, we’re also suddenly confronted with — and forced to acknowledge — the hundreds of players taking part in the Big Dance as people. The pace of the tournament is frantic. We abruptly jump from game to game in hopes of catching something memorable. But the human aspect is never far from the surface. In-game commentary is peppered with stray factoids about players. Storylines are crafted that highlight unlikely inspirational figures. And “One Shining Moment,” the tournament’s official anthem, celebrates big dreams with mawkish fervor.

When we watch March Madness, we’re engaged in people watching. It’s hard not to think about college basketball players as real people. When this happens, we can’t help but confront the human toll and very real consequences of NCAA policies — the sham definition of “student-athlete.”

The basic structure of college sports is exploitative. The NCAA leverages unpaid labor to generate ungodly amounts of revenue for itself and institutes of higher learning. Student-athletes aren’t swapping their services for a quality education and a shot at a professional career; instead, they practice and travel like pros to the detriment of their education, and, more often than not, are chasing NBA dreams that will never even come close to materializing. Or, in the case of an elite few, they’re forced to wait a year before getting drafted and signing a multimillion-dollar deal — as both a favor to college ball and an attempt to protect NBA front offices from their own poor judgment when it comes to scouting.

All of this can get very abstract, and with good reason. It’s a complex web of shadowy history (explored in exhaustive, withering detail by Taylor Branch) and a fundamentally corrupt economic system, most recently and radically outlined in the explosive book Indentured, by Joe Nocera and Ben Strauss. March Madness adds another dimension to this argument. It brings us face-to-face with the student-athlete, a profound encounter that can affect us on an emotional, rather than strictly rational, level.

There’s a well-established connection — suggested by philosophy, borne out by empirical research — between encountering another person’s face and our human capacity to understand and share their feelings. With empathy comes our capacity to behave ethically toward others, or at least consider their situation in an ethical light. The face is fundamental to the way we see basketball. But the endless parade of faces and penchant for human interest during March Madness practically demands that we ask ourselves: Who are these people? What are their stories? How do they make us feel?

It’s not as simple as calling for college athlete compensation or decrying the NCAA. Instead, we find ourselves looking at just how many different roads there are to March Madness and how each of them fucks over student-athletes in its own way.

Nobody’s doling out much sympathy to the one-and-dones, the surefire future pros who use their single season to secure a spot in that summer’s NBA draft. But even in these cases, there’s a downside to their participation. Often stifled by college systems or incorrectly utilized by slow-witted coaches, they can see their draft stock drop during this lost year. Maybe it’s important for the overall health of basketball in America. In theory, it weeds out frauds and allows the best prospects to make their case in full. But this does nothing to address the ethics of the situation. When you watch Duke’s Brandon Ingram or Cal’s Jaylen Brown, remember: You’re watching someone who, against their will, is making millions of dollars for someone else instead of themselves.

Another class of player actually stands to benefit tremendously from March Madness. These are the guys on the cusp of NBA viability or the unheralded small-school stars who use the big stage as an opportunity to break out, generate hype, and make themselves into a presence in the pre-draft conversation. These are the success stories, the discoveries who really make the tournament sparkle. These we can feel good about. These are the NCAA’s star case studies: Players who used college as a springboard toward greater visibility and recognition. We should acknowledge, however, that in this case, the deal is, at best, a break-even proposition. These young men owe the NCAA no debt of gratitude. They’re serving an internship in hopes of being groomed for future success. It’s a strictly professional arrangement that just so happens to work out in their favor.

The other problem — and this gets to a fundamental question about athlete identity, ego, and mentorship — is that it’s difficult to separate these players from the what-ifs, near-misses, and wannabes who populate so much of college basketball’s ranks. These are players who are accustomed to receiving special treatment and feeling superior on the court. Then, one day, all that evaporates. Hopefully — not to get all moralistic — they can accept this shift, get that degree, and find a new career path, maybe one within the world of basketball. But this is a best-case scenario. For the lower tier of college players, their basketball future — if they have any at all — will likely consist of thankless play overseas and a lot of soul-searching. We know this already, even if they don’t.

The irony is that these end up being some of the biggest headlines of March Madness, simply because coming up big when people least expect it is axiomatic of the anarchic thrill that makes the tournament such a visceral experience. When we see these players out on the court, though, it’s hard not to feel a certain pathos about them. It’s a stretch to call them victims of the NCAA. But here, at the pinnacle of their basketball careers, we’re also forced to consider that this is more or less the end of the road. They’ll never shine any brighter than this; they fall from grace at the very moment we have reason to take notice.

The question is do we ever make that connection? Can we look past the humanity of any athlete, regardless of sport? Or is March Madness a special case where the sheer momentum and sensory overload of the game discourages any form of empathy? If you don’t take the time to recognize players as people facing real-life dilemmas, does that make you as rotten as the NCAA?

You tell me: is the student-athlete plight real, or does attacking amateurism sound as futile as taking the violence out of football? Is the problem an existential one, or can it be fixed? Is March Madness ultimately doomed by ethics? Will it continue unabated because the world is a fundamentally terrible, unfeeling place — or is there real room for improvement and change?

Deleted scene from Shea Serrano’s Rap Year Book

Sometimes, context is a bitch. When “In Da Club” came out, 50 Cent was everything. The hype around him was deafening. New York was back. Hip-hop was overtaking the charts, again (somehow this is always a story). The man, the myth, they were practically inescapable. And “In Da Club” was a monster, the throbbing, sneering, elastic summary of why 50 Cent owned the year.

That was 2003. Forget about what’s happened to Curtis Jackson since then. There’s simply no way to recreate that moment as a listener. It was too much, too bloated, to carry over through a single. With over a decade of distance between us and “In Da Club,” the song sounds quite different than it did in 2003. It’s tinny, even chintzy; the beat sounds canned, not insistent; and 50 comes off as hollow, referencing his charisma instead of really channeling it. “In Da Club” is a nice memento from a year that belonged to one artist. But it’s a reminder of that past — nothing more and nothing less.

Incidentally, the real Song of the Year for 2003 is Freeway’s “What We Do.” “What We Do” is what “In Da Club” pretended to be: street shit smoothed out just a little bit for mass consumption and maximum soulfulness. “In Da Club” was a fun little song by a known former drug dealer. “What We Do” is one of the most honest explorations of the hustler’s mindset we’ve ever gotten in rap. It’s telling that Jay-Z doesn’t steal the show because “What We Do” isn’t built for that kind of egoism — the kind of temporal, personality-driven drivel that 50 Cent depended so heavily on. “What We Do” was built to last.

A way of experiencing music that simply can’t be accomplished via digital means

I’ve always taken a resigned, even fatalistic, view toward accumulating music. There’s so much must out there, you can’t expect to hear it all or have an encyclopedic knowledge of any genre, much less the entire canon of recorded sound. When you get into the dicey realm of collecting, there are simply so many places to hit, so many other people trying to hit them, and so little time that trying to have it all is an absurd proposition. If a record doesn’t come into my life, then it wasn’t meant to be.

That’s the short answer of why I’ve long been opposed to reissues. On the surface, it’s a hopelessly snobby stance. It limits access and keep people who don’t know exactly what they want or what’s out there from getting a chance to experience art.

For me, it has more to do with the extremely $$$$$$ belief that the closer you can get to music-making itself, or at least that moment when it first became a part of public consciousness, the better. Walter Benjamin is probably turning over in his grave at the mere implication that a reproduction could itself have an aura. But there’s a legitimate case to be made that, owing to both its own history as an object and the very material properties of older pressings, an original inhabits a unique place in time and space.

All of which begs the question of whether or not reissues are meant to be an end-in-themselves. For one, the off-hand purchase of a single reissue can open the door to an entire musical sub-universe. Streaming just isn’t the same.

I realize this is a hopelessly dated line of reasoning — ownership of an object can be emboldened and create an impetus that passive consumption never will. There’s no such thing as wanting or needing more with streaming because it’s already all there in front of there. Our streaming existence is not one in which we stake out territory and set up shop, it’s one where there’s no such thing as commitment or investment. It stands in sharp opposition to the most hardcore version of collecting music.

But one thing I never took into account was that, for someone like me, reissues offer the chance for a test run. You can see what it’s like to live with a record in a real, tangible way before deciding whether or not you feel like forking out an exorbitant sum of money for it — or, as is often the case, devote any time or energy to tracking it down in the first place.

It’s for these very reasons that I’ve lately created a loophole for myself in my no reissues policy: I’ll buy them and keep them at my girlfriend’s place. She’s hardly averse to worthwhile records appearing out of thin air and it gives me the chance to keep them confined to a liminal space, i.e. in a place that’s not fully mine and set apart from my own personal trove of music. It’s not cultivating a second collection, it’s giving me a way to live with records without having to compromise my — well, they’re not principles, beliefs or values, but they’re certainly self-imposed rules that I can hardly shake at this point.

There’s a world of difference between “do I know or care” and “should I cop?” Not to toot my own horn but I’m rarely flying completely blind when it comes to buying music, if nothing else because I usually have some passing familiarity with the style or genre. Maybe I know the original label or based on a few of those well-placed record nerd descriptors, can venture a good guess at what I’m about to get myself into (THANK GOD FOR THOSE HEAVENLY MOMENTS WHEN MUSIC EXCEEDS AND OUTWITS ALL PRECEDING ASSUMPTIONS AND EXPECTATIONS). Still, I’m learning to use reissues as gateways in the same way that other people use them to discover more music. For them, it’s about discovering what’s out there. For me, it’s about setting goals — however improbably or ill-advised — for the future.

Maybe I’m still a snob, or hewing to a self-justifying (and self-limiting) view of what I can, should, or will allow myself to think and feel as a listener. Maybe this is all a way of lowering expectations for myself while falsely elevating my own level of taste or expertise. Regardless, while I’m not ready to admit that I need (or have any lasting use for) reissues, I’m thankful for what they provide: access, however fleeting, to a way of experiencing music that simply can’t be accomplished via digital means.

So yeah, that guy I just bought an OG of the Family Circle LP from, you really should be thankful that the Numero Group exists.

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How I Learned to Love Reissues was originally published in Cuepoint on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The verdict is in: Thabo Sefolosha did not obstruct justice when four members of the NYPD broke his leg outside of a nightclub this past April. At this point, we shouldn’t be surprised by wanton police brutality when a person of color is involved. The attack on Sefolosha only underscores what white America has been told time and time again: That no matter who you are, where you come from, or what your life looks like, simply being a person of color is an affront to law enforcement. As Tom Ziller writes, NBA players (and other athletes) have been quite vocal in the fight against police brutality and vigilante justice — as if that’s even a valid distinction to draw anymore.

But LeBron James memorializing Trayvon Martin with a hoodie portrait or Derrick Rose wearing an “I Can’t Breathe” tee because of what it means to be black in America is totally different than actually seeing it happen to a fellow NBA player. There’s a difference between solidarity or identification and something that hits this close to home; saying that it could be you is very different than when a member of the moneyed, insulated, and to some degree, coddled class of professional athletes receives exactly the same treatment as an anonymous kid from the neighborhood. Never feeling entirely safe is one thing. Seeing one of your own — someone who presumably had some measure of built-in protection against this kind of incident — has to have a chilling effect on the athlete community.

But what do I know? Maybe it’s just a grim reminder, or inevitable confirmation, that to cops, only the most visible, famous, and wealthy African-Americans are deserving of special treatment, i.e. the access to basic civil rights like not getting thrashed on the street. There was a conversation on Twitter about exactly what the threshold was here; who in the NBA would be absolutely free and clear when it comes to police violence? Outside of local markets, you could count the names on one, maybe two, hands. No one’s fucking with LeBron James but he also happens to be one of the most famous individuals on the planet. Kyrie Irving, though? Don’t think it couldn’t happen because post-Thabo, simply being an athlete (I don’t believe for a second that these cops didn’t recognize Sefolosha and friends as ballers) and carrying the privilege that comes with that doesn’t mean shit to law enforcement.

Here’s what makes this case especially disturbing. Thus far, almost every single time a cop kills a perfectly innocent citizen, there’s an argument to be made for him as an outlier. We have an entire lexicon devoted to it — “rogue cop,” “bad apple,” and of course, the like-clockwork revelation of “a record of misconduct”. This line of thinking doesn’t explain the assault on Thabo Sefolosha. Not only were there multiple police involved, they were going after someone who himself was representative of a different kind of institution. This was a statement: It didn’t matter one bit that Thabo was a pro athlete. All that counts for nothing. These cops knew exactly what they were doing, if not exactly to whom, and it was a direct rejection of the idea that Thabo Sefolosha could ever be special in their eyes.

I can’t imagine it feels good for NBA players to go from the generic — “this could happen to anyone black in this country” — to “cops could give a fuck less even if you’re clearly someone who, by almost every societal standard, counts as exceptional.” This isn’t run-of-the-mill racism, it’s a rejection of the very notion that some people of color could be more important or accomplished than others. If skin color is the great equalizer, Thabo Sefolosha reminds us that there’s nothing accidental or errant about these actions. Professional athletes need to be put in their place. If anything, they’re more of a threat — more of a nuisance to this country — than someone completely anonymous. Thabo didn’t just have the audacity to say a thing or two to those cops. He made the mistake of actually being someone they might actually have to listen to or take seriously.

The legacy of Percy Sledge
(November 25, 1940 - April 14, 2015)

Percy Sledge, who passed away this week at the age of 73, was anything but a one-hit wonder. In the mid-60s, Sledge rattled off a string of aching, luminous singles that split the difference between soul and country. But above all else, Sledge will forever be associated with the mega-hit “When A Man Loves a Woman,” a universal statement of pop romance that’s as well known — and as over-exposed — as a song has ever been.

As we mark Sledge’s passing, by all means we should dig a little deeper than his signature hit. My personal favorite is “It Tears Me Up,” which has always struck me as a despondent, inverted version of “When A Man Loves a Woman.” On “It Tears Me Up,” we hear the toll love takes, the almost inevitable disappointment that comes after (or sometimes before) the rush of sentiment.

“When A Man Loves a Woman,” though, remains the defining moment of Sledge’s career, and the reference point for everything else he recorded. The song crystallized a particular moment in history but it also gave Sledge an identity, an outlook. Love is everything and at the same time, there may be more to love than we ever dared imagine. Sledge brought religion to R&B in the most spiritual, sublime way possible.

Yet it takes an effort to listen to “When a Man Loves a Woman” with fresh ears, to hear past the years of anodyne covers, soundtrack use and mindless oldies broadcasts. As listeners, we often fight against history. How we’ve come to experience or understand a piece of music can distract us from what’s really right in front of us.

In Sledge’s case, we owe it to ourselves — and to his legacy — to reconnect with the way the song must have sounds when it came out in 1966, when it served as a mission statement to everyone, from teens fumbling around in the backseat down through happily married retirees. The song is universal, which may also explain why it’s turned into a cliché over time. It’s easy to get distracted from Sledge, turn inward, and lose sight of what the song is really trying to tell us.

“When a Man Loves A Woman” isn’t just about the intoxicating, all consuming power of love. It’s both a challenge and a warning. By all means, seek out love — it’s maybe the most basic need of all, the desire to want and feel wanted. But “When a Man Loves a Woman” also warns us to know what we’re getting ourselves into. If the song positively beams with emotion and celebrates just how far gone we can get, it also acknowledges the high stakes of the situation. Granted, a failed relationship isn’t the end of the world but at the time, it sure feels like it.

“When a Man Loves a Woman” may be about a common experience but it’s told from the inside-out, a personal story disguised as a comment on the human condition. Percy Sledge sings like someone who has loved and lost, who knows things others don’t and wants to share it — for our sake, but also as his own catharsis. There’s a reason that the song pivots to the first person in the middle and at the end. We’re hearing a confession as much as an ode. And it may not be as pretty as it sounds.

That’s where “When A Man Loves a Woman” really defies expectations. Most of the lyrics are about what can go wrong, not how love will make everything right. A man will become preoccupied and distant from the rest of his life. The woman of his dreams can drain his bank account and he won’t even notice. And if he did notice, he likely wouldn’t care. He’ll do anything she says, “even sleep out in the rain.” We then learn that Sledge himself has given everything over to a woman and still ended up with nothing. The song may sound like an embrace but it’s the memory of one, a wistful thought that might just be masking a gaping emotional wound.

The worst part — maybe even the tragedy — of “When a Man Loves a Woman” is that, no matter how much misery this woman causes, our narrator (you/I/Sledge/we/us) can’t conceive of anyone or anything matters this much to his life. The song ends on “you’re my world,” a statement of both ecstasy and resignation. He’ll keep coming back again. We all will. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s bad. But when a man loves a woman, that’s just how it is.

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What Really Happens When a Man Loves a Woman? was originally published in Cuepoint on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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By any measure, it’s been a grisly year for NBA injuries. Hard to say whether there have been more players than usual missing significant time, but luck of all luck, this season, a lot of big names have gone down. And as fun as the 2014–15 campaign has been, it’s been as notable for its DNP’s as for what actually took place on the court.

A lot of what did happen, though, was a direct result of injuries. This season was remarkably good at producing surprises and in more than a few cases, an injury opened up the opportunity for young player to thrive. It’s a shame we had to do without Kevin Durant, Derrick Rose, Chris Bosh, Jabari Parker and yes, even Dwight Howard, but had they not exited stage left, the emergence of MVP candidates Russell Westbrook and James Harden, All-Star Jimmy Butler, out-of-nowhere stud Hassan Whiteside, and Greek phenom Giannis Antetokounmpo might never have happened.

Westbrook and Harden were elite players before 2014–15, each had to share the spotlight (and the ball) with another big name. Russ was the madcap complement to Kevin Durant; Harden, the welcome proof that Houston didn’t need to build around Howard. One could even argue that their phenomenal seasons are simply a function of increased usage. Maybe with Harden, the progression from best two-guard in the league to top-five player felt more natural, except Harden isn’t just putting up bigger numbers. He’s gotten even more aggressive, more definitive. To say that Houston’s offense revolves around Harden is an understatement. He’s now the catalyst for almost everything at that end of the floor.

If Harden accelerated his development by necessity through the absence of Howard, Westbrook was catapulted into another dimension by Durant’s injury — ascending from polarizing cult figure to undeniable superstar. Before the All-Star break, it looked like Russ was going to respond with a newfound sense of responsibility. He was now the caretaker; it was his time to take control and steer the team in the right direction. At some point, though, Westbrook snapped in the most glorious way possible. His triple-double rampage has been historic, mesmerizing, absurd, excessive, and at times difficult to fathom. It’s been this year’s most notable non-injury event. Contrary to popular belief, Durant and Westbrook long ago found a way to peacefully co-exist, relying on a yin and yang dynamic that didn’t always make sense to those of us watching from the outside. Still, what happens next in OKC is anyone’s guess, what with Duran’t pending 2016 free agency, and the unparalleled rise of Russ.

In Chicago, fourth-year swingman Jimmy Butler may be no substitute for 2010–11 Rose, but he’s a more than capable first option, a worthy All-Star and likely franchise cornerstone. Dippy as it may sound, there’s a karmic fairness to Chicago finding Butler and the rejuvenated Pau Gasol. For the past few years, Rose has been one of the most devastating stories in the NBA, but this season, Joakim Noah has struggled to play like himself, too. Butler blowing up and Pau’s resurgence doesn’t make the situation any easier, but at least for the Bulls and their fans, it’s proof that basketball misfortune doesn’t last forever. A team that lands on its feet and ends up with a new kind of stability isn’t doing too badly for itself.

Not to dwell on Butler, but the reality is that his position is tenable in a way that Harden’s and Westbrook’s aren’t. As Houston’s post-Howard frontcourt of Donatas Montiejunas and Terrence Jones continues to improve, Harden is likely going to share possessions more evenly. He’s just too smart and complete a player to do otherwise. And while Westbrook has stayed white-hot far longer than anyone thought possible, it’s unlikely we see this Russ again if KD returns healthy (or even if Westbrook changes teams down the road). Russ is thriving in survival mode, but that doesn’t mean he wants to keep it up for the rest of his career (or die trying).

We’ve also seen young players make unexpected leaps. It’s hard to imagine the Heat’s Hassan Whiteside — who went from D-League washout to an absolute force in the middle, seemingly overnight — getting showcased with a fully functional Bosh around. That’s both a good and a bad thing. Everyone now sees Whiteside’s tremendous potential but the 25 year old still has a lot of growing up left to do. Bosh, a remarkably adaptive player and a quiet leader, should help on both fronts if Whiteside sticks around in free agency this summer.

The Bucks are playoff-bound; Jason Kidd, it turns out, is a way better coach than he was with the Nets; and the team has done all of this without the NBA-ready Jabari Parker, who looked great until he blew out his knee early in the season. Again, Antetokounmpo — he of the monstrous wingspan, guard-like handle, splendid court vision, and massive dunking ability — might have put it all together with Parker around, but then again, he might not have. Parker’s injury forced his hand. Thankfully, Giannis was more than game. Also, Khris Middleton, but that’s probably enough Bucks.

In the end, no one misses Howard, but we’re all rooting for Durant and Rose to get healthy. We wish Bosh a speedy recovery from his non-basketball health issues, too. Parker, and while we’re at it, Lakers’ rookie Julius Randle (latest athlete contributor to The Cauldron), deserve long and fruitful NBA careers.

As for the the Lakers and Knicks, and how they’re finding life without Kobe and ‘Melo, respectively. Yeah, well, about that. Best not to ask anyone about those teams — you might get a faulty earful of Ewing Theory.

Still, this season is proof that there can be silver livings to injuries to top players. Teams will be stronger and their basketball quality of life decidedly higher because of how other players responded in their absence. Those who step up will better and will contribute more than ever. The 2014–15 season may have had more than its fair share disappointments, but the storylines we’ve experienced instead will make for an even better 2015–16.

Silver Linings: The 2014–15 NBA Injury Plague was originally published in The Cauldron on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I don’t want this to sound like boasting. I really don’t. But sometimes, I get retweeted. Usually it’s within minutes, sometimes hours. What gets me is when it takes days — or even months. That’s when Twitter really hits you.

From second-to-second, we tweet in a haze, consumed by a collective sense of blather. Our tweets get buried and for all we know, the entire world has us muted. Twitter may not be as solipsistic as it once was — conversation is at least as common as shortform jokes and quips — but if anything, this has only made Twitter less and less real. It’s not a platform in the literal sense of the word, it’s a place where we shoot the shit as if none of us really care who listens.

Obviously, there can still be consequences to tweets. We’ve all had minor beef or misunderstandings blown out of proportion via Twitter. Say the wrong thing and it could fuck up your professional life. And of course, Temecula, plus the regular threats and harassment that are a regular web hazard for anyone who isn’t a straight white dude. By and large, though, Twitter is disposable, fleeting, easy to forget, and near impossible to recall.

But, as I’ve realized from these long-delayed retweets, Twitter never really goes away. A tweet is forever; as flattering as it may be that someone combs through my personal archive, it’s also creepy and unsettling. Not because I feel like I’m being stalked (though there is some of that) but for what it forces me to admit: That like it or not, these 140 character bursts don’t disappear. A tweet is forever, or at least as long as Twitter is a thing. And maybe well after that.

This could be a good thing. . It would probably be responsible and grown-up of me to remember that Twitter works like this and maybe even consult past tweets on a regular basis. I think about all the times I’ve used Twitter as a writing sketchbook, working out an idea in public before I take it private and try to make real sense of it. There’s also the rarely discussed fact that, essentially, we give this company a shit-ton of quality content as if they’re doing us a favor by hosting it. We should go back and reclaim it as our own.

But I don’t use this service like a mature person. I don’t think anyone, even respectable public figures or celebrities with a lot to lose, does. That’s what makes it so troubling when old tweets get unearthed. Symbolically, deleting a tweet is great. Practically, it does nothing. In the same way, the passage of time may make us forget what we’ve said but the Internet never forgets. It’s like we completely ignored that whole thing where posting candids on Facebook cost a bunch of millenials their shot and corporate employment. If anything, Twitter is a backlash against the sanitation of the web and every time it seems to get stale, some new Twitter sub-community reinvents the whole thing and reminds us how much fun (or what a pain in the ass) it can be.

But no one’s ever there telling us “hey, tweets matter, think hard about these. “ This is the total opposite of why Twitter caught on in the first place. Its logo is a faceless blue bird and it’s named after a weird little noise that barely expresses anything. Twitter has always promised us some semblance of protection, against others and against ourselves. There’s an illusion of anonymity for a lot of us and weightlessness for those of us identifiable by name. If there’s one thing we should know about the Internet, it’s that both of these are fantasies. It’s a shared sense of denial that will eventually blow up in our face.

This is where I stop and wonder exactly how tweets will come back to haunt me. This might be little more than a theoretical exercise to get a freelance check. Maybe the CIA is going over ISIL account looking for counter-terrorist nuggets. But there’s also the very real fact that, for many of us, this is a large part of the content trail we’re leaving on this Earth. And what a trail it is. Imagine if past figures of history had Twitter. Yes, George Washington tweeting sounds like a parody account but in some way, Twitter is changing the way events — and people — will be recalled.

That’s the spooky part. We rarely consider the past or the future on Twitter. You’re only as good (or as evil) as your last tweet, unless of course you post something mad racist and end up on Buzzfeed. To certain extent, this makes sense; Twitter is all about the present tense. Yet if you’ve got any expectations of anyone, anywhere, anytime caring about you outside of this very moment, tweets matter.

That’s not to say we should use Twitter as if it’s our lasting legacy. If that happened, we’d stop and find some new way to waste time. Time is Twitter’s best friend. We mark the passage of time with Twitter; we ignore it; we even accelerate if we want to, especially when it comes to current events and news cycles. Twitter can make things important and just as easily submerge them. The same goes for us as people, which is both comforting and terrifying. Knowing that really, we’re not going anywhere, might not be so scary after all. It’s good to know that Twitter works for us, not the other way around.

If there’s been one common thread in this chaotic NBA season, it’s injuries. Kevin Durant, Anthony Davis, Kobe Bryant, Russell Westbrook, Derrick Rose, Carmelo Anthony, Paul George, Chris Bosh, Blake Griffin, Jimmy Butler, Dwight Howard, Kemba Walker, Serge Ibaka, Al Jefferson, Isaiah Thomas, Jabari Parker, Ricky Rubio, Brandon Jennings, Ryan Anderson, and Tony Wroten, Jr. have all missed significant chunks of time.

As a run of bad luck, it’s remarkable. Injuries aren’t contagious and it’s not like there’s been some notable change in the way basketball is played. The schedule, while probably too long and with too many back-to-backs, hasn’t been overhauled. What may have changed, though, is the way teams approach injuries and other problems. Rose and Kobe have taught us that recovery isn’t as simple as fixing one problem. KD’s sad year has reminded us just how badly injuries can linger. Teams would rather err on the side of caution than opt for short-term gains.

For proof of this, look no further than the Western Conference playoff race. The Thunder, Suns and Pelicans are vying for the eighth seed. You would expect them to be pushing themselves like crazy. Instead, the Thunder have shut down Durant indefinitely; Anthony Davis has been in and out of the line-up; and in Phoenix, recent acquisition Brandon Knight is sidelined with an ankle injury. You’ve also got Thomas on the bench in Boston when the Celtics are still in the playoff hunt.

I’m not questioning the severity of these injuries; if a guy can’t go, he can’t go. I also have no idea if coaches or front offices are discouraging players from rushing back. But there’s been a clear shift away from the play-at-all-costs warrior mentality. It’s just not worth the risk.

The playoffs are supposed to be their own reward. The Thunder’s season could use a silver lining; the Suns and Pelicans are young teams trying to prove themselves. You have to ask yourself, though, what would any of these teams really gain. It’s a largely symbolic victory, one that affirms what we (and they) already know: That, in their current form, these are good but not great teams. For all the talk about the Thunder sneaking into the playoffs and terrifying someone in the first round, there’s been precious little discussion about the fact that they would face the mighty Warriors. Once Ibaka went down, it simply didn’t make sense for KD to test his foot.

This approach to injuries, and maybe the playoffs, is indicative of an overall shift in the way NBA teams do business. Let’s call it the New Rationalism. You see it in the widespread use of analytics and increasingly detailed film study. It’s why Houston’s GM Daryl Morey values relatively low-percentage three-point shooters so much. It’s how Sam Hinkie has earned acclaimed for trotting out a Sixers team filled with interchangeable no-names, all for the sake of a comprehensive rebuild. Think about it: Hinkie is respected because there’s sound reasoning behind his version of tanking. The longer it lasts, the more deliberate it appears.

That’s not to say that fire, passion, killer instinct, and everything that goes into an elite athlete’s psyche are no longer a factor. But there’s a sense of perspective that’s lacking in most of sports. Teams are really considering the long-term and the bigger picture. There’s a willingness to rewrite conventional wisdom and call out old myths as, if nothing else, gross exaggerations.

Some people balk at the use of the term “assets” to describe players, calling it dehumanizing. On the most basic level, though, general managers — and ideally coaches — are doing more than just encouraging and paying athletes. It’s their job to manage and protect them, as both investments and as people. The new attitude toward injuries is probably in everyone’s best interest. This season may be an extreme case but there’s little doubt that NBA injuries are serious business.

There’s also a consolation prize for teams that don’t make the playoffs: a late lottery pick. In this new marketplace, there’s nothing more valuable than picks. They’re a low-risk, high-reward way of introducing new talent into the mix. A team like OKC or Phoenix will — short of a miracle — only move up a few spots.

That may seem negligible. But in today’s NBA, a few spots is nothing to take lightly. The 2013 draft class was supposed to be historically thin, but the last third of the lottery yielded Giannis Antetokounmpo, Michael Carter-Williams, Steven Adams and Shabazz Muhammad. While the jury is still out on 2014, Jusuf Nurkic and Zach LaVine look like notable scores.

In the trenches, symbolic or moral victories still count for something. The playoffs make for great PR and mean extra revenue for the franchise. Still, it all seems less important than targeting a player in hopes of landing a talented piece at a bargain basement price. That, more than a playoff appearance, will be what makes a difference for teams in 2015–16. With the Thunder trying to convince Kevin Durant to stick around, adding young players who can contribute is undoubtedly more important than the team barely getting the chance at some extra basketball. The Suns are still building their identity; another good player only makes them better. And let’s not even get into the Bucks, Heat, Pacers, Celtics and Nets back in the East.

Ultimately, though, it’s the Pelicans that send the clearest message. Unless they hit the jackpot, the team won’t have a lottery pick this summer. The Thunder know they can play when at full-strength and Phoenix went on this same ride a year ago. The rag-tag Pelicans, more than any of these teams, would get a boost (and valuable experience) from the playoffs. And yet Anthony Davis is missing games.

Holding Davis back might not make sense on an emotional level — we want to see the sport’s biggest stars perform, especially in the exalted atmosphere of the postseason. But after the season we’ve seen, it’s understandable that making sure Davis doesn’t play hurt takes precedence over a few cheap, superficial thrills.