tlongII
10-28-2014, 03:15 PM
http://www.oregonlive.com/blazers/index.ssf/2014/10/the_shot.html
Every Portlander knows The Shot, the impossible less-than-a-second-left Damian Lillard buzzer beater last spring that sent the Blazers to the second round of the playoffs for the first time in 14 years.
TV cameras captured a God's-eye-view of The Shot. But the best video -- The Shot of The Shot -- came from a cell phone situated court side. The six-second video crops out the crowd and every other distraction. A life-sized Lillard cuts through the center of the frame. The ball disappears, then reappears with a swoosh.
Thousands of Trail Blazers fans captured their own cell phone images and videos of the moment, but this particular clip has been viewed online 9 million times.
It is, in the words of thousands of commenters, the best Vine ever. But the story behind those six seconds? That's a little more complicated.
*****
Laz Glickman has been around famous basketball players his entire life. His grandfather, Harry Glickman, helped create the Portland Trail Blazers. His dad, Marshall Glickman, was the team's president for a while.
Laz is an only child and "a little bit spoiled," his mom admits. A shelf next to his Lake Oswego bed holds a pair of LaMarcus Aldridge's size 17 sneakers. They're wedged between a pair of Nicolas Batum's size 16s and Brandon Roy's 15s.
He's also a 14-year-old boy with a braces-laced grin that goes goofy when he talks about his brushes with fame. He plays jazz piano and makes straight A's. Though his grandpa has the best seats in the house reserved for life, Laz doesn't sit court side all that often.
"I get the privilege to sit in those seats four or five times a year," Laz said. "I don't want to take advantage."
Harry Glickman was recovering from a stroke last May as the Blazers headed into Game 6 against the Houston Rockets. His wife Joanne wanted to attend, so she asked her grandson to escort her. The team, up three games to two in the best-of-seven series, hadn't won a playoff round since the year Laz was born.
You could see Laz on ESPN that night. He was the kid wearing a Wesley Matthews jersey over a sweatshirt, the one holding a cell phone steady in his right hand as he pumped his left fist in the air.
Batum tied the game, 96-96, with 40 seconds left. There was some back and forth -- a contested jump shot, a ping ponging rebound -- and then the Rockets scored with a Chandler Parsons' reverse layup.
Houston led 98-96. Only .9 seconds remained.
Laz shot so many videos that night, his cell phone ran out of memory. While the Blazers took a timeout, he rushed to delete another clip to make space on his phone.
On TV, you could see Lillard loafing as the timeout wound down. He dragged a step or two, his chin pointed up as if he had all the time in the world to just hang. The Rockets' Parsons crouched behind him, stalking every step.
When the whistle blew, the ref handed the ball to Batum. Lillard broke into a sprint. Parsons stepped backward, dazed for just a moment.
Laz pushed record. He trained his phone mid-court -- not where Lillard was standing, but where he was heading.
Lillard curled by, cutting through the frame. The point guard clapped his hands as he dashed across the court. Parsons lagged behind him. Batum tossed the ball. Lillard caught it, turned and shot all in one motion. Swish.
"I went so crazy," Laz said. "I was trying to run on the court. The usher had to stop me."
The whole town watched endless loops of instant replays that night. The shot became The Shot. No matter that the Blazers had only made it to the second round, along with seven other teams. This was one of the greatest moments in franchise history.
On TV, Lillard was a speedy moving ant, a blur unwinding from the pack. You had to watch twice to know where to look. You had to ignore the crowd and the nine other players vying for the ball and the game.
Laz knew he had something special, something with the benefit of limited scope. On his video, you hear Lillard clap as he curves six steps toward the line. You hear his shoes squeak as he pivots toward the basket.
Before he left the Moda Center, Laz uploaded the video to Instagram, hashtag #RipCity.
*****
Thomas Peterson has never been to a Blazers game. He watched Game 6 with his father on TV in their Lees Summit, Missouri, basement.
It is not cool to be a Blazers fan in Lees Summit. Peterson's friends root for the Miami Heat. Their team wins championships. Peterson's couldn't even win a playoff series.
Thomas is a Blazers fan because his dad grew up in Portland. His all-time favorite player is forward Thomas Robinson.
"He is really good and aggressive at basketball, fun to watch," Thomas Peterson said. (It doesn't hurt that they share a first name.)
Thomas Peterson was six months old the last time the Blazers won a playoff series. When Lillard made The Shot, Thomas and his dad jumped and hollered together. They shook the basement the way 20,000 fans shook the Moda Center.
They watched the instant replays, and then his dad went to bed. It was late on a Friday night, but Thomas wanted more, so he logged on to Instagram to look for photos from inside the Moda Center.
He searched for anything with the hashtag #RipCity. Laz's video came up first.
This was the video that would convince his friends that the Blazers were good, Thomas thought. He downloaded the clip to his computer, then uploaded it to the video-sharing service Vine. He planned to show it off to his classmates on Monday.
The Blazers found it first.
*****
By Saturday morning, a dozen different views of The Shot were making the Internet rounds. Sports websites showcased them all.
Damian Lillard posted only one on his Facebook: Thomas's Vine.
The sports website Deadspin called it "perfect." USA Today said "it might be the greatest sports Vine of all time."
By the time Thomas woke up in Missouri, his Vine post had already gone viral. Editors at the ESPN Assignment Desk had left a comment, asking for permission to air it. Others left comments saying they had seen Thomas on ESPN, holding his cell phone up as Lillard made the shot.
"you got some perfect seats man," Bane wrote.
"best angle on earth," wrote iambobbybeige.
Thomas didn't step in to correct anyone. It felt too good to have a viral video. People were leaving comments asking him to watch their videos, as if he were suddenly famous enough to make other people Internet stars.
After a few days, the comments started to turn. Someone with the username Rami Romaya accused Thomas of taking the video from him.
"That was me recording," Rami wrote. "This guy stole my video."
Rami threatened violence, both physical and electronic. Other commenters came to Thomas's defense. You can clearly see a young teenager on ESPN filming this, they said. It's Thomas, no question.
An account called Vine Stealing jumped in to accuse Thomas of taking the clip without permission.
"You lied man come on," the commenter wrote.
Finally, someone came to Thomas's defense: Laz Glickman.
*****
Laz only recently told his mother about the confusion and controversy. Yes, nine million people had watched the court side clip. But only 142 had liked Laz's original post.
Social media is, by and large, a self-policing free for all. Laz figured there was nothing he could do. Kids trawl Tumblr and Vine looking for content curators, not auteurs.
His mother disagreed. Kids today may have fluid ideas about copyright, but Lisa Glickman grew up in an age of ownership. If her son shot the video, he legally owned it, she told him.
"I didn't realize you got ripped off, honey," Lisa Glickman said. "I thought it was you who went viral. I didn't realize it was just it that went viral. How dare Thomas."
"What exactly would I gain from exposing him?" Laz said. "It's not like I'm going to become a millionaire because I shot it."
A few days after the video went viral, Laz reached out to Thomas. The two spent a few days chatting over Instagram. Thomas apologized and told Laz he didn't expect the Vine to become so popular. His friends at school hadn't even been impressed. They were still rooting for the Heat.
"I told him, 'I don't want to down on you because you seem pretty chill,'" Laz said. "... He didn't know he was stealing."
It'd be a stretch to say the boys are friends now, but they do share a connection, a kind created by sports long before the days of social media, a kind we all shared in the seconds after The Shot. As the Missouri teen cheered in his basement, we were leaping off our barstools or dancing in the aisles or jumping from our couches to scream. Lillard, the man who made The Shot, was strolling toward the scorer's table and grabbing a microphone: "Rip City!"
It's called "sharing" on social media for a reason. Nobody owns a moment like that.
Every Portlander knows The Shot, the impossible less-than-a-second-left Damian Lillard buzzer beater last spring that sent the Blazers to the second round of the playoffs for the first time in 14 years.
TV cameras captured a God's-eye-view of The Shot. But the best video -- The Shot of The Shot -- came from a cell phone situated court side. The six-second video crops out the crowd and every other distraction. A life-sized Lillard cuts through the center of the frame. The ball disappears, then reappears with a swoosh.
Thousands of Trail Blazers fans captured their own cell phone images and videos of the moment, but this particular clip has been viewed online 9 million times.
It is, in the words of thousands of commenters, the best Vine ever. But the story behind those six seconds? That's a little more complicated.
*****
Laz Glickman has been around famous basketball players his entire life. His grandfather, Harry Glickman, helped create the Portland Trail Blazers. His dad, Marshall Glickman, was the team's president for a while.
Laz is an only child and "a little bit spoiled," his mom admits. A shelf next to his Lake Oswego bed holds a pair of LaMarcus Aldridge's size 17 sneakers. They're wedged between a pair of Nicolas Batum's size 16s and Brandon Roy's 15s.
He's also a 14-year-old boy with a braces-laced grin that goes goofy when he talks about his brushes with fame. He plays jazz piano and makes straight A's. Though his grandpa has the best seats in the house reserved for life, Laz doesn't sit court side all that often.
"I get the privilege to sit in those seats four or five times a year," Laz said. "I don't want to take advantage."
Harry Glickman was recovering from a stroke last May as the Blazers headed into Game 6 against the Houston Rockets. His wife Joanne wanted to attend, so she asked her grandson to escort her. The team, up three games to two in the best-of-seven series, hadn't won a playoff round since the year Laz was born.
You could see Laz on ESPN that night. He was the kid wearing a Wesley Matthews jersey over a sweatshirt, the one holding a cell phone steady in his right hand as he pumped his left fist in the air.
Batum tied the game, 96-96, with 40 seconds left. There was some back and forth -- a contested jump shot, a ping ponging rebound -- and then the Rockets scored with a Chandler Parsons' reverse layup.
Houston led 98-96. Only .9 seconds remained.
Laz shot so many videos that night, his cell phone ran out of memory. While the Blazers took a timeout, he rushed to delete another clip to make space on his phone.
On TV, you could see Lillard loafing as the timeout wound down. He dragged a step or two, his chin pointed up as if he had all the time in the world to just hang. The Rockets' Parsons crouched behind him, stalking every step.
When the whistle blew, the ref handed the ball to Batum. Lillard broke into a sprint. Parsons stepped backward, dazed for just a moment.
Laz pushed record. He trained his phone mid-court -- not where Lillard was standing, but where he was heading.
Lillard curled by, cutting through the frame. The point guard clapped his hands as he dashed across the court. Parsons lagged behind him. Batum tossed the ball. Lillard caught it, turned and shot all in one motion. Swish.
"I went so crazy," Laz said. "I was trying to run on the court. The usher had to stop me."
The whole town watched endless loops of instant replays that night. The shot became The Shot. No matter that the Blazers had only made it to the second round, along with seven other teams. This was one of the greatest moments in franchise history.
On TV, Lillard was a speedy moving ant, a blur unwinding from the pack. You had to watch twice to know where to look. You had to ignore the crowd and the nine other players vying for the ball and the game.
Laz knew he had something special, something with the benefit of limited scope. On his video, you hear Lillard clap as he curves six steps toward the line. You hear his shoes squeak as he pivots toward the basket.
Before he left the Moda Center, Laz uploaded the video to Instagram, hashtag #RipCity.
*****
Thomas Peterson has never been to a Blazers game. He watched Game 6 with his father on TV in their Lees Summit, Missouri, basement.
It is not cool to be a Blazers fan in Lees Summit. Peterson's friends root for the Miami Heat. Their team wins championships. Peterson's couldn't even win a playoff series.
Thomas is a Blazers fan because his dad grew up in Portland. His all-time favorite player is forward Thomas Robinson.
"He is really good and aggressive at basketball, fun to watch," Thomas Peterson said. (It doesn't hurt that they share a first name.)
Thomas Peterson was six months old the last time the Blazers won a playoff series. When Lillard made The Shot, Thomas and his dad jumped and hollered together. They shook the basement the way 20,000 fans shook the Moda Center.
They watched the instant replays, and then his dad went to bed. It was late on a Friday night, but Thomas wanted more, so he logged on to Instagram to look for photos from inside the Moda Center.
He searched for anything with the hashtag #RipCity. Laz's video came up first.
This was the video that would convince his friends that the Blazers were good, Thomas thought. He downloaded the clip to his computer, then uploaded it to the video-sharing service Vine. He planned to show it off to his classmates on Monday.
The Blazers found it first.
*****
By Saturday morning, a dozen different views of The Shot were making the Internet rounds. Sports websites showcased them all.
Damian Lillard posted only one on his Facebook: Thomas's Vine.
The sports website Deadspin called it "perfect." USA Today said "it might be the greatest sports Vine of all time."
By the time Thomas woke up in Missouri, his Vine post had already gone viral. Editors at the ESPN Assignment Desk had left a comment, asking for permission to air it. Others left comments saying they had seen Thomas on ESPN, holding his cell phone up as Lillard made the shot.
"you got some perfect seats man," Bane wrote.
"best angle on earth," wrote iambobbybeige.
Thomas didn't step in to correct anyone. It felt too good to have a viral video. People were leaving comments asking him to watch their videos, as if he were suddenly famous enough to make other people Internet stars.
After a few days, the comments started to turn. Someone with the username Rami Romaya accused Thomas of taking the video from him.
"That was me recording," Rami wrote. "This guy stole my video."
Rami threatened violence, both physical and electronic. Other commenters came to Thomas's defense. You can clearly see a young teenager on ESPN filming this, they said. It's Thomas, no question.
An account called Vine Stealing jumped in to accuse Thomas of taking the clip without permission.
"You lied man come on," the commenter wrote.
Finally, someone came to Thomas's defense: Laz Glickman.
*****
Laz only recently told his mother about the confusion and controversy. Yes, nine million people had watched the court side clip. But only 142 had liked Laz's original post.
Social media is, by and large, a self-policing free for all. Laz figured there was nothing he could do. Kids trawl Tumblr and Vine looking for content curators, not auteurs.
His mother disagreed. Kids today may have fluid ideas about copyright, but Lisa Glickman grew up in an age of ownership. If her son shot the video, he legally owned it, she told him.
"I didn't realize you got ripped off, honey," Lisa Glickman said. "I thought it was you who went viral. I didn't realize it was just it that went viral. How dare Thomas."
"What exactly would I gain from exposing him?" Laz said. "It's not like I'm going to become a millionaire because I shot it."
A few days after the video went viral, Laz reached out to Thomas. The two spent a few days chatting over Instagram. Thomas apologized and told Laz he didn't expect the Vine to become so popular. His friends at school hadn't even been impressed. They were still rooting for the Heat.
"I told him, 'I don't want to down on you because you seem pretty chill,'" Laz said. "... He didn't know he was stealing."
It'd be a stretch to say the boys are friends now, but they do share a connection, a kind created by sports long before the days of social media, a kind we all shared in the seconds after The Shot. As the Missouri teen cheered in his basement, we were leaping off our barstools or dancing in the aisles or jumping from our couches to scream. Lillard, the man who made The Shot, was strolling toward the scorer's table and grabbing a microphone: "Rip City!"
It's called "sharing" on social media for a reason. Nobody owns a moment like that.