You don’t understand, OJ: people are paying to see me.

To the surprise of only those who believe in Santa Claus, ESPN is reporting that surefire NBA lottery pick O.J. Mayo received gifts—including hotel rooms, clothes, and a flat screen TV—from representatives of sports agents while he was at USC. Today, we get NCAA president Myles Brand’s reaction:

“This is not acceptable behavior and on occasion, it’s illegal. You get thrown in jail if you rob a bank, but people keep robbing banks. The fact of the matter is these kinds of activities are unacceptable, they are unfortunate. We expect the schools to enforce the rules and protect our student-athletes.”

Brand added that he’d like to see the NBA set up a rule whereby players are required to stay in college “two, three, or four years.”

While I can’t find the original article, it appears that, as of 2006, the NCAA was paying Myles Brand $895,000 a year. (Similarly, USC head coach Tim Floyd has a base salary of $850,000.) That same year, Brand delivered a speech defending the NCAA’s pursuit of increased revenues and dismissing complaints that the association’s commercialism was inappropriate. “Nonsense,” he said. ” ‘Amateur’ defines the participants, not the enterprise.”

Brand is right that it’s “unacceptable” for Rodney Guillory, the guy buying Mayo the gifts, to try to funnel the payments through allegedly non-profit shadow corporations. But remember that the NCAA is a tax-exempt organization–one with roughly $500 million a year in revenue and regular million dollar payouts for besuited blowhards. It provides vicarious thrills and bragging rights to the privileged segment of American society that call themselves alumni through a business model that compensates the athletes—the main attraction—at a tiny fraction of their market value. (Mayo could make a pretty compelling case that the value of his scholarship is less than .5% of what he would have made with an NBA contract and endorsement deals last year.) And of course, out of his boundless magnanimity and benevolent paternalism, Brand would like to protect guys like Mayo by requiring them to stay in school for four years.

So I say, here’s to you, O.J. Mayo. Way to get yours. Don’t bother denying it. Don’t act demure or contrite. Be honest: tell them Myles Brand and the rest of the NCAA are a bunch of wrinkled, profiteering, bloviating douche bags, peddling nostalgia for pennies on the dollar that should be yours. The next time some inflated sports-world muckraker confronts you with evidence that you got paid, tell ‘em the truth. You’re a baller and you want to get paid like one.

His website calls him “The Perfect 10 Model” (and even provides a recipe). He’s built like a power forward, shoots and passes like a guard, and can get off the floor when the mood strikes him. He also dresses like an Eastern Bloc Walt Frazier and flashes facial hair skills that would make George Michael blush. (It takes a lot to make George Michael blush). He was kicked off the Serbian national team for responding to a coach’s halftime tirade by flippantly peeling and eating a banana; he spent the second half in the crowd, posing for pictures and signing autographs. The current national team coach offered a TV or a laptop for his phone number. He wears mullets, fauxhawks, and braids equally without a hint of self-consciousness, lies about his height to bachelorette parties and about his snowboarding habits to his employer, evinces the mean ambition of a hot-boxed Breakfast Club, and, for all this, boasts over $15 million in career earnings, with another $18 or so guaranteed. He is Vladimir Radmanovic, a singular figure in the NBA.

Granted, underachievers are not a rarity in a league with guaranteed contracts. And there have been more than a few whose failure to fulfill their promise arose from deeper, decidedly unfunny troubles. (Eddie Griffin was perpetrator of perhaps the funniest drunken car accident in history until he died in another drunken car accident and it became hard to laugh at the first; Similarly, Vin Baker’s bug-eyed, jowly ineptitude was born of his constant suckling at the hooch-tit.) Despite his childhood in the war-torn Balkans, all signs point to Vladi being not a demon-stricken underachiever but rather a flamboyantly dressed, comically disengaged playboy, a combination of The Strokes and Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd’s ‘Wild and Crazy Guys.’

Though I lament his departure from Seattle (for non-basketball reasons; as a GM, I would never sign him), his decision to sign with the Lakers has been a boon to Vladiphiles everywhere. Now he’s just a channel flip away, wearing grandpa-on-vacation knee-high black socks and improbably poised to add a championship ring to his garish get-up. (Perhaps that will finally discredit the ring as the litmust test of winner-ness). But more importantly, in his crusty coach, Vladi’s found his first worthy NBA foil.

Nate McMillan, a more mild-mannered member of the Scott Skiles/Avery Johnson young tough guy school, was way too no-nonsense for Vladi’s bullshit. Mike Dunleavy was just a quick stop on the contract-year gravy train (look—Vladi even rebounds!). But Phil Jackson is as hopelessly adolescent as Vladi (if possessed of a better attention span). His Zenmaster schtick consists mainly of third-hand mystical pablum and a willingness to insult his players in the press. What better situation, then, for Vladi and the Vladiphiles? We used to have to scour awkward translations of Serbian message boards to find the latest nugget of Vladi apathy, but now it’s front page on ESPN. Phil calls Vladi a space cadet; Vladi separates his shoulder snowboarding. Phil says Vladi should see the team psychologist; Vladi says Phil is like Jack Nicholson in Anger Management. Phil says Vladi is not playing up to his potential; Vladi says they’ll talk about it in the exit interview. And on and on it goes, Mean Girls in men’s clothes playing a child’s game.

Cue up the banana, Vladi. Let’s hope that exit interview doesn’t come for a long time.

A little Monday morning paparazzi action for you, courtesy of “The Dirty” and a hot tip from my man, Matt N.

It’s Spencer Hawes and the Durantula hanging out with what appears to be next year’s pledge class. More photos here.

Local sportswriter Seth Kolloen just announced the second issue of his new magazine, Sports NW. The cover story is a piece by Free Darko scribe Bethlehem Shoals, arguing that the relocation of the Sonics to Oklahoma City is part of a David Stern plan to woo red-state America. The cover art is provided by Supersonicsoul contributor Rafael Colonzo, Jr. Check it out:

Check out Reid’s latest opuses, conveying the full range of swirling, gripping emotions produced by the Sonics relocation saga:

Last night, Kevin Durant had career highs of 42 points and 13 rebounds in the Sonics season-capping victory over the Golden State Warriors. Earlier this year, after the Seattle Fire Department put out an embarrassing scoreboard fire (with an assist from Squatch) the Warriors blew out the Sonics so badly that I left at halftime. But by the last couple weeks, the Supers had matured into a tough ticket, a team you didn’t want to face if you were jockeying for a playoff spot.

Now the season’s over and the team’s future location sadly uncertain. Nevertheless, it’s time to grade the on-the-floor product (or what remains of it–I left off the traded players). This was tougher than I thought: when I scanned my original list of grades, there was hardly even a ‘C’ among them, and how can a 20-win team get all A’s and B’s? I went through again with a more critical eye, but still, I like this team, and it’s not really their fault they sucked. Without further ado:

Chris Wilcox: B-
It’s hard to know which is receding faster–his hairline or the dream that he’ll somehow harness his considerable hops and brawn and become a top-notch power forward. His failures seem to arise more from a lack of guile and skill than effort, but how hard would it be to develop a lefty jump hook? He still finishes an alley-oop as well as anybody.

Earl Watson: B
The Earl posted his finest pro season, which, while featuring an impressive combination of defense, penetration, and professionalism, didn’t entertain like his time at UCLA. Thus I propose he be called “The Earl of Westood,” in remembrance of those halcyon days when he and Baron Davis (“The Baron of Westwood”) finished each other’s alley-oops like Peter North finishes scenes: with gusto. For those keeping score, Westwood now boasts an Earl, a Baron, a Miller, and a Wizard. It’s like its own little medieval video game.

Johan Petro: C-
It’s hard for me to offer an objective assessment of the man who karate kicked the Hip To Be Fit Cadillac Remix into YouTube glory and whose infrequent highlights inspired Kevin Calabro to bellow his uniquely sublime “Sacre Bleu!” I shall try, though. The Frenchman displayed a fairly reliable mid-range jumper (which he forced too often, leading to a terrible shooting percentage), occasional rebounding prowess, and no ability to defend or use his left hand. At least the Sonics didn’t use a lottery pick on him, like they did on…

Robert Swift: Incomplete
In his few minutes this year, Wild Bobby Ginger looked raw…Monday Night Raw! Sure, the NBA pays better and the ponytailed pivot likely has another few years of hardwood promise to unfulfill, but when you’re done chasing those chimerical hoop dreams, Bobby, I know a guy named Vince who has a few vials of the good stuff and a job for you.

Mo Sene: C+
Rounding out the twenty-one feet of first-round 5-spot bench ballast is my favorite of the three, the Senegalese sensation with the Van Damme video collection, Mouhamed Saer Sene. While Mo looked a little lost on offense on his too-few call-ups, he did inflict some serious D-League damage, to the tune of a Defensive Player of the Year Award for that circuit. Keep up the good work, Mo!

Mikael Gelabale: B-
Showed some promise for a hot minute, then blew out his knee. He and Mo formed a classic comic pairing at the end of the bench, and if there’s any justice in the hoop universe, they’ll someday, somewhere get a chance to ball together. Picture ‘em rollin’!

Luke Ridnour: C-
In assessing our team’s chances for success, an old basketball coach of mine used to say “you can’t make chicken soup out of chicken shit.” Well, with the help of some heavy seasoning, Frodo’s managed to make an edible broth. But 170-pound point guards who can’t shoot and aren’t terribly athletic shouldn’t be logging heavy minutes in the NBA.

Damien Wilkins: D
He scored 41 points in a double overtime game against the Hawks in November. That was fun and the exception to this rule: with Wilkins, the fewer the shots and minutes, the better.

Maximus Szczerbiak: Incomplete
Conceived as a Celtic and born a Cavalier, the future ruler nevertheless gestated as a SuperSonic. Little Z will have plenty of money, likely accompanied by good looks and an imposing physique. As the Bard once quipped, some “have greatness thrust upon them.” Live up to your name, kid.

Nick Collison: B+
Larry Brown would say that Collison played the right way. Of course, David Lee played the right way and Brown benched him. If you’re reading this, Larry Brown, please accept my heartfelt ‘fuck you’ for your sabotage of the 2005-2006 Knicks season. And Nick–nice work.

Jeff Green: B+
The former Hoya was something of a hoops dilletante, dabbling in a potpourri of roles–the Rodman-esque rebounder, the Radman-esque marksman, the raw rookie who loves to dunk. I have it on no less an authority than Steve “Snapper” Jones that Green regularly arrived early and stayed late to work on his game, something that paid off in an improved handle, left hand, and three-point shot. In the last month, he started to take a lot of shots, which would have been more alarming had he not been playing in a seven-man, D-League-caliber rotation.

Kevin Durant: A
He finished the season as one of only three teenagers to average 20 points a game–the other two being Lebron James and Carmelo Anthony. While his predecessors were physically mature as rookies, the long-limbed Durantula (Michiko Kakutani might call him the long-limned Durantula) still looks like he might get caught in a pool drain. Nevertheless, he soared over the rookie wall, finishing the season with a string of dominant performances and showing a promising flair for the dramatic. Seattle’s turned its lonely eyes to you, Mr. Durant. Please don’t go.

P.J. Carlesimo: B-
Chicken soup, chicken shit. The halfcourt offense was stagnant, but those mock turtlenecks and beige blazers were pretty hot.

Sam Presti: A
A fairly flawless first campaign. If I have to eat a broth made of chicken shit, I want Sam Presti to be the one preparing it. Another scoop of poop, Soup Nazi!

Kevin Calabro and Steve “Snapper” Jones: A+
Calabro’s the finest play-by-play announcer in the NBA, in this homer’s opinion, and Snapper proved that he doesn’t need lil’ bro Walton to excel. Top notch work, fellas.

Congrats to my good friend and Haymaker & Sally collaborator Jason “Reidster” Reid: Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban praised Reid’s “Don’t Stop Believing” remix of the Christine Gregoire rally that “Save Our Sonics” crashed (I was generously given a “musical supervisor” credit for suggesting the Journey hit), calling it an “important” effort in a TV interview last night. Sure, Cuban spoke about it only briefly, but he did go out of his way to bring it up. Note to Reidster: since he obviously reads your e-mails and admires your work, maybe you could talk to Mr. Cuban about funding your next feature?

Every college hoop fan knows that April brings two things: the Final Four and a chorus of voices calling for Billy Packer’s head. Obviously, the former is reaching what should be an exciting crescendo with tonight’s run n’ gun Memphis/Kansas match-up. But to assure myself that everything’s right with the world, I typed “Billy Packer” into google. Lo and behold, the annual tradition of the “fire Packer” petition is alive and well. They’re almost at 6,000 signatures.

Let me be the billionth person to send my plea to the deaf ears of CBS: Get rid of Packer, at least for the Final Four. Everyone knows he’s an asshole, and you have a national treasure in Bill Raftery ready to take his spot.

Memphis guard Chris Douglas-Roberts on star teammate Derrick Rose’s stomach troubles:

“He eats Gummy Bears and Starburst for breakfast, and Twizzlers and Honey Buns for dinner. That’s why his stomach hurts. We tell Derrick the whole year, ‘Stop eating so many Gummy Bears and Sour Straws.’ But he can’t. … Nobody eats Gummy Bears more than him.”

Apologies to any remaining readers for my prolonged dereliction of posting duties. It will continue, as I’ll be in Mexico the next six days for my friends Nick and Elizabeth’s wedding. In the meantime, enjoy Golden State Warriors star Baron Davis on roller skates (with a vintage New Edition sountrack!). It’s not new to the Internet, but it’s new to me, and I spend a lot of time on the Internet reading about basketball, so I figure it may be new to some of you: