You can see it coming. Jeremiah Tilmon establishes position on the block, then continues to back in under the basket, then continues as if his goal is to set up shop among the cheerleaders, or maybe join the pep band, or maybe sidle up to the guy manning the Dippin’ Dots stand on the concourse. You know where this is heading, toward a tangle of limbs on the floor. Then you hear a whistle.
You can see it coming. After catching the ball in the post, Tilmon pounds the ball once or twice but cannot find a clear path to the basket, then decides to lower his shoulder and create his own path. You know where this is heading, toward a defender skidding across the lane on his back as if he were thrown through a barroom door by a pair of bouncers. Then you hear a whistle.
You can see it coming. Tilmon drifts to the top of the key to set a ball screen, but the defender is just outside his personal space, so at the last second he slides one half-step toward midcourt. You know where this is heading, toward a defender rubbing a freshly bruised thigh. Then you hear a whistle.
So, the question is: If you can see it coming, why can’t he? I don’t mean that in a condescending way; I legitimately wonder if there is a way he can answer that question for himself before it’s too late. He’s got a problem that surely can be solved or at least minimized.
