Five Things I Dig and Don’t Dig About the Toronto Raptors
Intentional or not, there is some masterful work at play here.
The ultimate balance – as much as one is possible – has been struck.
For hoop fans, the Toronto Raptors are topish entertainment. Wins are tight. Losses are, mostly, scrappy. They compete like hell. They play like a team AND they like each other. There’s individual improvement. Dynamic play. Heroics. The lot.
And, for draft hounds snuffling for more prospects, the Raptors are also tanking like a Sherman crossing the Ardennes.
Injuries have helped. An untested roster, experimental coach, and patient front office thrust into an über competitive season make it mostly inevitable. A few mistakes along the way to tip the scales once in a while doesn’t hurt either.
Perhaps, at full strength, this team wins a bit more. At this point, a top ten pick seems written in stone. Apparently, I’m not alone in sussing out this finesse job.
Let’s roll.
(Data does not include games on November 12, 2024)
1. Immanuel Stick-ley Ball
It’s early. Three games in for Immanuel Quickley. Two of them compromised by in-game injuries. I won’t be too quick to judge.
That said, there was a noticeable lurch in the Raptors’ pass, pass, pass offence (4th in the league in assists, 2nd in potential assists, 3rd in passes made) since IQ’s return. The ball staying in his hands a bit too long.
That’s not always bad. IQ’s the point guard. He’s a primary scorer and distributor for this team. He GETS to choose when to have the ball, and have more of it. But it’s the when – and when not – that’s so very important.
I concede this team hasn’t won much, so it’s not like what’s been happening has been working, exactly. But this team’s flowed. The rock moves. Drive, kick, swing, swing, backdoor, dump-off. An orchestral experience of ball movement.
IQ’s reintegration was a bit discordant to all that. Of Raptors lineups that played at least 10 minutes together this year, the top six in assist percentage do not include IQ. He also led starters in average dribbles and seconds holding the ball per touch – and passes to be fair – these past two LA games. Those games happened to be two of Toronto’s three slowest in pace this year too.
That might not seem like much to go on, but the change was noticeable. Like here.
Okay, it ends in a wide open Ochai Agbaji 3 (more on him later), but look how badly IQ misses a swing pass to RJ in the corner (two passes, if you count the foregone backdoor).
Or, here. D’Angelo Russell is off daydreaming and Agbaji is wide open for a shot or a rip-and-go. IQ opts for a heavily contested 3 instead.
I don’t hate the following drive either. It just stands out of place.
RJ hits Agbaji in the chest on a crosscourt kick. Agbaji, instead of shooting a fairly open 3, makes an extra pass to IQ, IQ chokes out the flow, pumpfakes and drives – shirking an additional swing to Gradey Dick. That’s fine. Get a paint touch. IQ opts for a tough floater over Ivica Zubac, though, when a kickback to Dick or spray out to RJ in the opposite corner to return the initial favour (never good when a teammate’s hands are up in the air for an extended period of time) would’ve ended the play in a more harmonious note.
I know it’s all nitpicking. It’s also IQ getting back into the swing of things. The rust and cobwebs and whatever else. One can spin this positively too. The contrast in flow is, perhaps, more of a testament to how well this team has played “Darko Ball” the last little while than it is IQ’s “style of play”.
Sadly, any acclimation will be, once again, delayed with IQ’s most recent injury. Heal well, King!
2. + 3. Drake the Dolt
I have an unhealthy hatred for Drake. He’s meaningless to my life. I should really just go take a bath and forget he exists. Canadian cable TV nor the Toronto Raptors allow me the serenity.
Drake sits in the most TV-focussed seat in the entire arena. He’s the organization’s desperate play to be relevant south of the border. Without him, they’re just…a…billion(s) dollar basketball team.
Okay, sure, fine. Use his likeness to draw international audiences. Passive product placement. I get it.
They don’t stop there. Worse, with overly welcoming arms, he’s anointed broadcast time alongside Jack Armstrong and Matt Devlin.
Okay. Play around. Have some jokes. It’s cute, I suppose. It cuts the fat of tedium, sometimes. It’s distracting. It’s all the less enjoyable witnessing old men and pop icon poser try shooting the shit together. It’s like putting tomato sauce on vanilla ice cream, very hard to stomach.
I think it’s bad TV. But whatever. I’ll accept I’m likely the minority. The show must go on.
Then, Saturday night happened.
Saturday, Vince Carter had his jersey raised to the Scotiabank Arena rafters. A lot of ex-Raptors and Toronto-related celebrities were in attendance includin DeMar DeRozan, who was playing against the Raptors, Drake, and singer, Jessie Reyez.
Drake, eventually, joined the broadcast alongside Matty D and Jack. All was well, at first; it was pretty clear Drake had had some wobbly pops. Can’t throw stones in glass houses at that. Some casual banter. Fairly, harmless.
Until Drake devolved to his natural repugnant self. Most will remember the night for what Drake said to and about DeMar DeRozan. Zulfi Sheikh broke that beef down; I won’t get into it. Other than it’s a disgrace for someone to leverage their national TV luxury to shit on such a lovely, wonderful human being. Okay, I will get into it.
It’s so, so dumb. Drake’s like a 12 year-old bully fenced inside a schoolyard yelling at some adult walking by to get the “fuck outta here pussy”. Said adult is barely going to notice, care, or be affected by such irrelevant petulance. DeMar demonstrated as much.
If you want to go down that road, Kendrick Lamar did moreee than enough to lay out why Drake is, indeed, a piece of shit.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. What followed, was much, much more transgressive. And, to me, terribly underreported. Bear with me.
Following some bullshit story about Drake being at a Raptors game as a kid where Vince Carter singled Drake out of the crowd and tossing him his armband – Yaaa, right, dude, VC really thought you were such a special little boy – Drake redirects the broadcast to his “longtime friend” Jessie Reyez, and in a manner of seconds, switches from egotistical buffoon to gross, misogynist dickhead.
“By the way, put that camera on Jessie Reyez. She looks a 20 million out of 10 tonight. Let’s get a camera shot of her. Honestly, she looks incredible. Let’s get a courtside shot of Jessie Rey, uhhh?”
The DeMar comment was enough to get TSN to cut the cord on the whole thing. Ogling an adult woman on national television demands it. The broadcast even goes to break, a natural segue to silence Drake.
TSN does not. It does the opposite. It enables the bozo.
As they continue on with Drake talking about his son celebrating his 7th birthday BUT ALSO DRAKE’S BIRTHDAY TOO IN CASE YOU FORGOT, the cameraperson pans to an unsuspecting Reyez and another person sitting with her. The broadcast team has answered Drake’s voyeuristic bidding.
At the same time, the three continue to joke about Drake still being “27 years-old” with Jack adding “plus plus” to that number, the two of them slimily uttering “…easyyyy, eassyyyyy” to maintain Drake’s false veneer that he’s anything but a dirty, middle-aged man-pervert.
Some more banter.
Then, Jack acknowledges that the camera is now, again, looking at Jessie and Drake gets more excited than a ten year-old with $100 at Dairy Queen.
“Oh yeah, let’s get a shot of her. Look at that. Wowzers. Wowzers. An absolute national treasure right there.”
He whistles like he’s catcalling from a dangling crane and utters “Holy Smokes,” as though he’s physically incapable of keeping his caveman brain thoughts to himself.
Finally, to wrap up his guest appearance, Drake goes for one more glance at Jessie Reyez.
“Let’s come back to Jessie one more time before I get out of here…”
A count of at least a half dozen times of Drake leering Jessie Reyez on national TV like he’s a pubescent boy getting his hands on a Sears underwear catalogue for the first time. All of this happening with Jessie totally unaware of whats going on.
To her credit, when Jessie does find out, she rolls with it.
Doesn’t matter.
The interaction was disgraceful. It required intervention in the moment and demands redress now. An apology to Jessie for one. A promise to remove Drake from subsequent broadcasts for two. Maybe sprinkle in a six-month arena ban for good measure?
(To date, I don’t know of either TSN or the Toronto Raptors making any public statements on the matter.)
I know this might sound like a biased overreaction. I assure you it is not.
This kind of blatant misogyny is the exact plight on society we’re trying to snuff out. It’s not acceptable in private, at the workplace, and, especially, not on public television. Particularly, on a network that holds up and celebrates its female colleagues and broadcasters.
Instead, these interactions reinforce sexism. How are we supposed to end the objectification of women, and, by extension, more importantly, violence against women, if we have some yokel on TV hooting and hollering like a celibate ape escaping a convent over how attractive – not talented, not successful, not intelligent BUT attractive – a woman is? What message is that sending to all the young boys and men watching Saturday night Raptors?
Oh, and what message is that also sending to generations of female fans watching their favourite athletes while listening to some drunkard undress a woman with his eyeballs. Easy sell for Toronto’s new WNBA team, Come watch us, we won’t dehumanize you.
Drake never should have been on the broadcast. He deserves no platform, big or small. We were all reminded of that Saturday. Reminded that Drake is – as Kendrick Lamar made very, very clear – who he has always truly been.
A dolt.
4. Ochai on The R-ai-se
A lot of very, very good things are happening right now in the Toronto Raptors development system.
Which is the “most outstanding” is arguable. Ochai Agbaji’s sudden rise makes a strong case. He’s gone from discard pile of a rebuilding team (Utah Jazz) to impactful starter in a matter of one offseason.
Defence was never a problem for Agbaji. He’s decently agile, long, strong, pesky, determined and active offball. He’s no O.G. Anunoby, but he’s a simulacrum. That’s good enough.
Offensive impotence was the real vulnerability to Agbaji’s NBA fate. His inability to self-create (148 of his 178 total baskets were assisted last year) and inconsistent 3-ball, even from the corners (23% on 66 attempts last year), meant defenders heeded him little attention. Agbaji fed mostly off of cuts, fastbreaks, kickouts, and weakside attacks.
It was not enough. Nor did any of it, in two years, demonstrate much promise from an “older” NBA prospect. It – foolishly to all of us – left little hope for Agbaji’s future.
But that’s the beauty of perseverance and development. No story is foretold.
This year, in a small sample size, Ochai has proven himself a formidable threat. Leaving him open from 3 is a coin flip for punishment (48% on 4 shots/game!). Closeout too aggressively and, suddenly, Abagi is more than willing, and capable, of attacking, shooting 64% on three drives a game (way up from 42% on two drives last year) with career bests in at-rim frequency and accuracy.
The attributes of his drives tell the real story. There’s certainty in his attacks, ball and body control as he penetrates, and touch and finesses in tight spaces and angles when finishing. These don’t feel so much as strokes of luck, as they do a sudden progression in that je ne sais quoi basketball “feel”.
Watchi Agbaji take this handoff from Jakob Pöltl, for example.
Those less comfortable off the bounce would balk at the sudden space. Agbaji does not hesitate, he accelerates, venturing towards The Rudy Gobert. An extra dribble gets him in trouble. Gobert’s trap is timed. Agbaji affords him no anticipation, circumventing whatever trigger Gobert awaited, and elevating through with a lefthand scooper. That’s not rote work, that’s thoughtful evaluation and execution in a fraction of a moment.
Agbaji was feeling it because three minutes later it’s more or less the same play on the other side of the court.
For both drives, the threat of the 3-point shot is vital. Anthony Edwards, valiantly, fights past screens in both plays, knowing with Gobert in drop and Reid in retreat, the 3 is available. Agbaji knows he knows that and attacks. The permutational fun of hoops unfolds.
There’s continued growth peppered in too. A floater over a looming Ivica Zubac. A transition break crossover past De’Aaron Fox into the chest of awaiting seven-footer, Alex Len. An offhand squeaker through contact.
There’s yet much to build upon. Agbaji still, effectively, lacks self-creation; his “dependency” upon others remains high (only 10 of his 60 made shots were unassisted). Nor does he possess much of a mid-range game (10 attempts out of 108 total). Work in progress. Very allowed. Especially, if this sudden boon of offensive output and efficiency is here to stay.
5. Raging RJ and Big Bad Bruno
Let’s face it. The Raptors are a little soft. The defensive numbers attest to it.
They sit second last in points allowed per 100 possessions, allow a lot of good quality shots at the rim, give up a bunch of putbacks, turn defenses over seldom, and send opponents to the free throw line often.
They’re just too small, too undermanned and, ultimately, too overmatched. Against grande frontcourts, like Cleveland, Minnesota, the Los Angeles Lakers, and Milwaukee, they melt.
Still, none of it is for a lack of effort. Nor grit. These Raptors don’t back down. None of them. Not even their best scorer.
These last few games RJ’s not putting up with anyone’s shit. In Denver, sophomore kid, Hunter Tyson was talking too much RJ took exception running down the court alongside him face-to-face chest out like a fully inflated Jigglypuff. You think you’re, tough? Double techs for the both of them.
Then, a day later in Sacramento. No backdown to mercenary Keon Ellis.
Even when they win, RJ’s irked.
A Bruno Fernando sighting days later!
Speaking of melt, Pöltl struggled against the LA’s; Zubac, particularly, plagued him in Inglewood. Darko felt it and countered with Fernando.
He provided a much need oomph, finishing a whopping +9 in eight and a half minutes of work (and a not so sweet -10 in ten and a half minutes the next evening) and sharing with us all some Hulk Smash-type energy to celebrate.
He’s gotta be careful, those chest bumps could shatter lesser sternums. But, shit! That fires me up. And sooooo does this. Mannnnnn, that was meannnnnnnn.
It’s what you want to see from these guys. Mad losing. Mad winning. Mad playing well. Mad playing bad. Always mad.
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