The Atlanta Hawks and Learning to Fall in Love Again

Picture a once passionate relationship that has cooled and then frozen to the point where the principals have nothing to talk about but the weather and what's for dinner. The thrill is gone; all that's left is idle warmth, and the creeping fear and dread of a future without any promise of new heights. Now imagine that this couple is a basketball team. You are thinking about the Atlanta Hawks.

As recently as last season, the Hawks were a symphony conducted by a nebbish secret genius or, for those less inclined toward metaphor, a really good basketball team playing fun, fast, free-flowing hoops. Powered by a unique five-out attack, Atlanta's sudden evolution into powerhouse was abrupt and seemed at times stupidly unstoppable. At its regular-season peak, the team played like Golden State without the magical realism, or like a Safeway Select version of the Spurs. And then shit got dark.

The Hawks already have lost more games than they did through the entirety of last season. Their cornerstones were bandied about in trade scenarios. Kyle Korver, who broke through as an All-Star last year, has shot threes like a guy with doofy hair. In the middle of it all, ex-genius Mike Budenholzer continues to wage a war against the Curse of the Coach of the Year.

The Hawks might dream of sexier circumstances, fresh locales, and new partners, but a trial separation is not the answer. Instead, they need to make an earnest attempt to realize what made them special in the first place. That's not about playing better defense, sharing the ball better, or executing the game plan—it's about falling in love again.

Did the loss of DeMarre Carroll's beautiful face and his consummate glue-guy antics doom them from the outset? Is Kent Bazemore good at basketball? Did the Hawks just stumble to 60 wins because the East was such a humid shit show last year? All interesting to consider, but these are questions for losers who have already given up.

Ask, instead, whether winning 60 games cursed this team with unrealistic relationship expectations. Can they put aside their fantasies and instead celebrate what is real? That 28-6 third-quarter run against the near divine Warriors was real. Did it send a rush of electricity surging through their loins and their hearts? Did it begin to resurrect a dream half-buried? Sixty wins was godlike, but the Hawks were never gods. Realizing that is key to progress.

Al Horford and Jeff Teague are, of course, both aware that they were dangled in trade rumors—or, in marriage terms, that they were in the preliminary stages of divorce proceedings—but, at the last moment, everyone involved realized the freezing-cold reality of trying to punch through this life alone. Mike Budenholzer can walk back exactly what angle of dangle the dangling actually achieved, but ultimately both Horford and Teague are left with the impression that the Hawks can easily imagine a future without them. Can they forgive the flirtation and play together for the kids?

Continuity is the altar at which conventional wisdom worships. Aside from the aforementioned loss of DeMarre Carroll and fan-favorite bouncer/big man Pero Antic, the Hawks are running out a squad that's remarkably similar to last season's, and yet they've lost that utilitarian zip. Budenholzer, as a Popovich acolyte, may be reluctant to such a drastic midseason shakeup, but sometimes you have to forcibly inject some madness and unpredictability into a stale relationship, whether that be making love in a Banana Republic changing room or inserting a devil-may-care skateboarding German point guard into the starting lineup.

Anyway, it's important to at least try. Teague appears increasingly shook, bored, and at war with making shots. Maybe throw Korver on the bench as well and tell him that if goddamn Finals MVP Andre Iguodala can take a nominal demotion for the good of the team, then so can he. As for the concern about Horford's migration even further from the block, and his launching an unprecedented amount of threes? That's fine. That's just a little bit of chaos, and little bit of chaos keeps things sexy, in basketball and everywhere else.

Chemistry comes easy when you win. But adversity erodes spontaneity and confidence, and right now the Hawks are playing like someone who has taken an ill-advised peek into their lover's diary. Angst hovers around defeat, and the Hawks must artificially smother that angst with genuine affection.

"Bazemore, my, how long your arms are!"

"Thabo, you deserve so much more justice than this shit world has given you!"

"My word, Al, are you aware you have the best eyelashes in the NBA?"

"Jeff Teague, how did you get so good at Candy Crush, it's really quite wonderful your grasp on this game. Bravo."

"Tiago, we've always admired how gigantic you are. Truly you are a huge monster."

And so forth. Even Tim Hardaway Jr. should be complimented from time to time, if possible. It may not always be possible, but it's a good practice is my point.

One way to rekindle the spark is to remember the good times, the stuff that makes all this worth fighting for. So the Hawks should invent an anniversary! On March 6, they can indulge in one of their non-mandatory team dinners and take shots of Patron to honor their defeat of the surging Cavaliers one year ago. Or how about the time the entire starting lineup received Player of the Month—now that's magic—or the anniversary of that slovenly dummy Paul Pierce thinking he had saved the Wizards' playoff hopes by sending Game 6 into overtime, only to realize his clutch histrionics had been in vain.

See that sad guy over there? They call him the Half-Truth. The Hawks made him like that. There's nothing like fond remembrances of smiting one's enemies to get some spice back into things. Well, there's the Banana Republic Changing Room Sex bit, but you generally don't get to do that twice. They're sticklers about it.

Anyway, there is reason for hope here. Despite the friction and the failure to live up to unrealistic expectations, it's clear that Budenholzer and the brain trust want to make it work. This is key. Love is patient, love is kind, love utilizes side-to-side ball movement and relentless counterattacks. And all of that works, thankfully.

This malaise is a mental hurdle, and one that must be cured with reason and maturity and openness. As was endlessly repeated by a fawning media last season, these Hawks are a group of professionals—men of character, not raw boys or entitled princelings. The East has gotten better, but not that much better, and the Hawks are almost certainly more suited to the role of spoiler than that of shadow contender. As such, they can and should aspire to be a postseason Trojan Horse, and still ought to be considered prohibitive favorites in any series until LeBron and his staccato inevitability lurches into frame.

If and when LeBron lurches, he, too, hopes to find those demoralized Hawks, the time-killer Hawks, the disappointed and disappointing Hawks. But a Hawks squad that has given up the ghost of perfection and embraced their flaws—and, more important, forgiven each other for those flaws—is a team that remembers just what it is to love something bigger than themselves. Those Hawks are Mr. Budenholzer's Opus. They could still lose—still get swept, even. But their music would still be beautiful, even without a ring. There's dignity in that.