Looking Into Future All-Star Crystal Ball

I was hanging out in my pajamas, waiting for the day to get started, when I ended up reading an article in the ESPN Mag on the Class of 2011. It's Kevin Durant, Carmelo Anthony, maybe Chris Paul, and even less maybe, Deron Williams. If you're wondering.

But the one point really stuck in my craw -- well, in addition to Carlos Boozer being slipped in the Class of 2010 -- was the characterization of O.J. Mayo and Andris Biedrins as All-Star caliber, or future All-Stars, or something like that.

We do this all the time, as if eventually, all deserving players make the All-Star Game. In fact, this could not be further from the truth. The vagaries of fan voting aside, the All-Star Game offers precious few slots for up-and-comers, or players who need that one appearance to grant credence to their place in the league's hierarchy.

In fact, a large chunk of the roster slots are eaten up not by All-Star players, but perennial All-Stars -- better know as potential Hall of Famers. So much All-Star real estate is taken up, year after year, by athletes gunning for immortality that it leaves precious little room to test out, or prove, the All-Star-ness of slightly lesser guys around the league. Assessing their worth relative to the All-Star Game, or waiting on this honor to really give them their due respect, ignore some very basic facts of math -- and historical trends about the relative consistency of the league's biggest stars.

Case in point: In the 2010 game, Kobe Bryant, Kevin Garnett, Tim Duncan and Jason Kidd had over ten appearances each. Dirk Nowitzki was at nine, Paul Pierce, eight, and Steve Nash, seven. Of those, at least Dirk isn't going to be done anytime soon.

After that, there's the new guard piling up appearances: LeBron James and Dwyane Wade with six. Chris Bosh, Dwight Howard, and Joe Johnson at four, and Carmelo Anthony, three; chances are, we'll be seeing them in the ASG for the foreseeable future. Some schmoe named Chris Paul also got his third nod. Kevin Durant and Deron Williams, their first. I don't quite get it, but Chauncey Billups has five.

I'm sorry if that glazed over your eyes, and admittedly, we are in between two mammoth generations these days. However, I meant to waste your time, and there's always some overlap between waves of stars. By my count, I just rattled off 14 sure-fire Hall of Famers. JJ, and Billups, prove me wrong; regardless, you're perennials now, and that means you take up space. Deron, I have found it impossible to predict how you will be received by anyone outside of Utah, but good luck.

So, exactly how many slots does that leave for the young, the hungry, the ones who need to make the All-Star Game to validate a label affixed to them, in some cases, since they first entered the league? Well, no starters, which is to be expected, seeing as those are determined in large part by reputation. On the bench, then, there's eight.



Share Eight chances for "future All-Star" or "All-Star caliber" to make real, hard sense. Remember, all these players need is one appearance. Yet it's clear that, once we take care of the inevitable great ones, an outstanding performer on a losing team, or secondary contributor on a playoff squad, has to just keep his finger crossed and hope that one year, the math (and roster requirements) shake out.

The irony? The perception of Monta Ellis or Al Jefferson rests on this crapshoot. Failing falls on him, not the flawed process or mangled language. Of course, we could alter our definitions, such that future All-Stars need not ever make the game, and All-Star caliber guys can, somehow, be excluded forever from the event that's a point of reference. That doesn't make so much sense, though. It's high time we start leaving the All-Star Game out of the discussion altogether.

It's often said that the All-NBA teams are where legends are made; All-Star appearances are more democratic, variable, and thus offer more players the chance to earn some credibility. And granted, eight spots offers a lot more daylight than All-NBA. The fact remains, though, that the perennials are at once the main attraction in the All-Star process -- the ones who have the most on the line -- and the spoilers. I'm not trying to propose some hair-brained solution (multiple games! term limits!), but it's time we be honest about this: "All-Star" matters only in gobs and bunches.

To use it as a benchmark for lesser players, when their appearance in the game is secondary, even arbitrary, makes no sense. And yet, how often do we bother to describe Kobe as "twelve-time All-Star", instead of just one of the greatest ever?