Category: Basketball

May 25th, 2012

It’s really too bad about the Indiana Pacers. They were never destined to win, but that never stopped me from secretly rooting for them. They were what I loved about basketball – sport by committee, team dynamics and clutch shooting. They were Rik Smits and Reggie Miller and Travis Best and Young Jermaine O’Neal. The Pacers used to be my team.

And then, they weren’t.

I’ve tried to frame my mental shift from Pacers fan to Celtics fan without looking too much like a bandwagoneer. I’ve probably failed in that regard. I’m still a bandwagon jumper, paternal history and Garnett-loyalty be damned.

But some things just bring you down so much it’s hard not to jump. For me, it just so happened to be the same thing that brought the Pacers down.

The Malice at the Palace

I don’t know what I was doing in Minneapolis, but I knew I had been drinking. Both Kerrie and I had been out. Celebrating, probably. Seeing some punk rock band. I have no idea.

All of us that night were basketball fans. We went back to our friends’ house in time to catch the end of Sportscenter.

The year before, the Pacers had lost to the eventual champion Pistons in six games, thus busting any hope for a Timberwolves/Pacers NBA Finals. (A Sam Cassell injury would bust the other side of that matchup.) We ended up with a Pistons/Lakers Finals. Good for ratings. Bad for the small guy.

The wounds were still fresh, but the Pacers had come out of the gates with a 6-2 record to begin the 2004-05 season. They were stacked. They were ready to win. They were better than any group in team history – even counting the 2000 NBA Finals team that lost to the Lakers in 6.

It was the night of November 19, 2004.

Their opponent: the world champion Pistons. They were in Detroit. And they blew the champions out. At home. Without question.

It was the biggest statement game of the season thus far.

And then.

And then…

One flagrant foul. One cocky small forward. One beer cup. One rush into the stands. One defensive roundhouse.

The Malice at the Palace had begun.

Adrift

For the next few weeks, I struggled to defend my team. “They were provoked,” I said. “Ben Wallace is a coward,” I said. But the brutality of the players and fans held tight. I remember the sudden clash of fan and professional, like a symphony performance gone wrong.

Ron Artest was suspended for the year. Half of the team was sent home for at least a few games. The season was a disaster. Despite a hot streak here and there, the Pacers struggled to gain home court advantage for the first round. They fought harder than they needed to, trying to salvage what was surely Reggie Miller’s last chance at an NBA title.

I still think of the separation between performer and spectator as a sacred wall of protection. But it’s a fallacy. There’s no fallacy that can keep an aggressor in his or her seat. There’s no fallacy that can protect a performer from his or her aggressors. That wall couldn’t protect Dimebag Darrell. That wall couldn’t protect John Lennon. These are people who died from behind the wall, so why should we expect a sports team to be free from that?

All this aside, what happened that day I wouldn’t realize until recently, when I read Grantland’s oral history of the Malice at the Palace. Nine years later, I was able to put my finger on what soured me on my favorite sport for four years, as I struggled through year after year of middling teams, my attention waning despite my usual loyalty. I had been a Dolphins fan for twelve years of disaster, why would four years of this Pacers disaster suddenly want to turn me away? Why would I take advantage of any opening to get out, completely open to the eventual turn toward my father’s team – the Celtics – and their run as champions?

Turns out, it was this. It was this fight.

It was the slap in the face that came with the fight. It was the lack of respect. It was the questions I’d have to answer as a diehard Pacers and basketball fan. The questions about the NBA’s thug nature. The direct correlation with the new dress code policies. The exodus of talent from Indiana. The focus on smart and marginally talented white kids. The inherent racism I’d encounter while trying to defend the aggresion of Ron Artest and Jermaine O’Neal and Stephen Jackson, and the response that came with it.

Turns out, in that year, when my favorite player of all time to that point was in his best position to win a title, when the Pacers were a juggernaught that no one could handle, when Ron Artest had put up his best year ever and was playing even harder than before, when Jermaine O’Neal was riding the thrill of being the #3 player in the league (behind All World PFs Kevin Garnett and Tim Duncan), when everything should have ended up in a Finals berth and a 62-20 record, everything fell apart.

Because certain people couldn’t hold their fists. Becuase certain networks couldn’t understand the volitility in throwing young men into a court and threatening them. Because the crowd wouldn’t respect the sacred wall of protection.

Reconciliation

I was tired. Basketball was still my favorite sport, but I was tired. So tired.

The resurgence of the Celtics gave me not only an excuse to move, but helped me rediscover the game. I lost a lot with that fight. But I didn’t know it until I revisited it.

And now, I tend to forgive the Pacers. With Brad Miller retired, Reggie Miller announcing and Ron Artest stuck on an underachieving Lakers team, those early 2000s Pacers teams are distant memory. Now I see a Pacers team that is eerily similar to those “us against the world” teams – no real stars, just a bunch of above-average players fighting against the league’s superstar mentality.

I was destined to be a Celtics fan, my dad might say. But I was never long for downplaying my Pacers love. I was never going to forget the midwest; the cradle of basketball civilization; the home of Larry Bird and the Basketball Hall of Fame.

Who knows what would have happened if the Malice was a dream? A championship? A change in fortune? Or was this all really just predestined – if it wasn’t the fight, it would have been something else.

It’s really too bad about the Pacers. But, as always, there’s always next year.

February 19th, 2012

SCENE: SIERRA and COREY watch basketball, just after SIERRA has woken up from a nap.

SIERRA: “What are the names of these teams, daddy?”
COREY: “These are the Knicks and the Mavericks.”
SIERRA: “Which team has the giant basketball, daddy?”
COREY: “That’s the Knicks. The Knicks have a giant basketball logo.”
SIERRA: “Oh, I LOVE the Knicks, daddy.”
COREY: “Daddy doesn’t like the Knicks. The Knicks sometimes beat daddy’s favorite team.”
SIERRA: “Don’t you like the white clothes teams?”
COREY: “Well, you see, I sometimes like the white clothes teams. The teams that wear white are the teams that are playing at home. Like, when the Sioux Falls Skyforce play at home, they wear white jerseys. Today, the Knicks played in New York, so they wore white. So I like the white teams sometimes, when the Celtics play at home. And sometimes I like the green team, when the Celtics are playing somewhere else.”
SIERRA: “…”
SIERRA: “Look at my giraffe.”

December 13th, 2011

Any questions about how excited I am to have basketball back should be summed up by this well-said quote from Kevin Garnett:

From Paul Flannery’s Twitter Feed:

“Chemistry is something that you don’t just throw in a frying pan and mix it up with another something and throw something on top of that and then fry it up and put in a tortilla and put it in microwave, heat it up, give it to you and expect it to taste good.

You know?

If y’all don’t know what I’m talking about then you can’t cook and this doesn’t concern you.”

I know. Exactly. EXACTLY.

I can’t WAIT until TNT hires KG after he retires. YOU’RE ON NOTICE, SHAQ.

July 8th, 2011

Just 90 minutes ago, I conducted a user interview with a director-level staff member at the Toyota Center in Houston. We chatted about the project and about average internet usage and all the things I was supposed to talk about. But I couldn’t help but slide one extra question in at the end.

ME: “So, do you think Yao Ming will ever play again?”

HIM: “On the record? Yeah, absolutely. Off the record … ”

All records aside, we have our answer. Just 30 minutes later, Yahoo! Sports’ Adrian Wojnarowski reported that Yao Ming, who hasn’t played a full season since his sophomore season, is officially retiring. And, as always, Kelly Dwyer of Ball Don’t Lie sums it up the most elegantly.

From his post:

A 77-game run in 2008-09 led to broken hearts amongst every basketball fan, as they watched him pull up lame on basic cable television on a Friday night, working as best he could to defeat the Lakers in the second round of the playoffs. This is a game that was created for winter, to distract young men from cabin fever, and Yao’s run was as cold and cruel as those dreary New England months around the turn of the last century that created what we, in the heat of July of 2011, obsess over. Fairness had no say in the deal.

I hated how he’d be voted in as an All-Star starter every year on the strength of millions of Chinese votes, but I always respected his game.

Category: Basketball, Sports

July 7th, 2011

When Upper Deck released the Michael Jordan baseball card in its 1991 set, it was a stroke of genius. In one card Upper Deck illustrated the juxtaposition of patience and brute force; the struggle of minor-league hope against established superstardom. And, in doing so, created one of the oddest natural moments in sports card history.

Jordan, playing baseball(Key note: NATURAL. This wasn’t Kurt Rambis freaking out over his glowing basketball. This was a real picture – a photo opportunity, sure, but a real picture of a real player playing a real sport for a real team.)

If you were a basketball fan, you wanted this card. It was the only way to get a Michael Jordan card that year. If you were a baseball fan, you wanted this card, much as you’d have wanted Eddie Gaedel’s card: as an oddity, a rare blip on the trading card landscape, a mashup before mashups were even a thing.

It was valuable. It was rare.

Twenty years later, we can see it for what it really was: arrogant.

Because, with the benefit of hindsight, this card freezes a privileged superstar at the peak of his ability, unable to understand failure, confident that he can do anything better than anyone, and completely willing to be paraded around as a novelty for the chance to prove everyone wrong.

Michael Jordan played baseball for a year. He was given a minor league spot by Jerry Reinsdorf, owner of both the White Sox and the Bulls. He was paid by the Chicago Bulls the entire time.

He batted .202 for the Birmingham Barons. He hit three home runs and drove in 51 runs.

He wasn’t perfect. And this card proves it, much to his chagrin.

The accepted story is that Jordan did this for his father. It was all done out of tragedy of his dad’s murder. He retired and went into baseball because his father’s dream was for Jordan to be a MLB star.

Maybe. But he also did it because that’s who he always was: unable to admit that he had flaws. The arrogance in that smirk, the ease with which he wandered onto the baseball field, the knowledge that he hadn’t worked a day to earn his spot on the team, and that, once he felt the heat from his critics, he was able to waltz back onto the Bulls with a simple phrase.

“I’m back.”

And we all embraced him. We had missed him on the floor. So we patted him on the head and let the experiment slide.

The card’s worth about five bucks, now. Funny what hindsight does.

June 30th, 2011

We’re only a few hours from lock-out, and something’s already bothering me about the owners’ position on the NBA collective bargaining agreement. Thankfully, the Salt Lake Tribune went ahead and said it out loud. From “Shutdown: NBA Owners Lock Out Players.”

“Parity and improved competition are also at the heart of the league’s desire for change. Superstars such as LeBron James and Carmelo Anthony controlled the 2010-11 fates of their former clubs, dictating where they wanted to play – Miami, New York – and damaging the futures of franchises in Cleveland and Denver. In addition, most small-market teams lack a realistic chance to win the NBA championship before the season even starts, while several clubs have either been sold or put on the market during the past year.”

There’s a lot wrong with that paragraph. But let’s look at two reasons.

Reason One: If small markets are hurt by their team, they sure aren’t showing it.

I don’t have any sympathy for small market teams, especially not in a league where profit-sharing allows small market teams to ride piggyback on merchandise sales of its larger market brethren, and ESPECIALLY not in a league where a salary cap dictates how much you can spend on your team.

To say most small-market teams lack a realistic chance to win the NBA championship – and to assume that large markets are given some kind of free “get to the second round for free” pass – is pretty short-sighted.

Just a reminder: the smallest markets in basketball last year were:
1. Memphis – Bad for some years, fantastic last year, filled with young talent and ready to make a leap.
2. New Orleans – Injury riddled and still reeling from some hurricane.
3. San Antonio – Four championships in the past twenty years.
4. Salt Lake City – A power through the 90s, a upper-tier team until recently
5. Milwaukee – Pretty awful.

And the five biggest non-NBA markets:
1. Tampa/St. Petersburg
2. St. Louis
3. Pittsburgh
4. San Diego
5. Hartford

So, the “small market” argument says that, if the five smallest markets were replaced by the five biggest non-markets, those teams would suddenly gain some kind of advantage? Would the San Diego Spurs or St. Louis Bucks suddenly be better?

While we’re at it, let’s look at the five biggest market teams:
1. New York – One playoff team in the past decade
2. Los Angeles – One team with tons of titles: the other with tons of lawsuits
3. Chicago – The best team in the world in the 90s, woefully underperforming through the 00s and until recently.
4. Washington – Snicker.
5. Boston – They’re good now. But remember the Antoine Walker years?

Reason Two: The league didn’t force someone like Dan Gilbert to purchase or create a basketball team in a place like Cleveland.

Last I checked, there was no dictate that allowed the NBA to force an owner to buy a team in a small market for more than it is worth. On the contrary – owning a basketball gives some people SUCH a hard-on that they’re willing to overspend.

If I buy a Mini Cooper, and I live in the mountains, I don’t have the right to complain about how my small engine makes it too difficult to travel over a mountain pass. And I certainly don’t have the right to expect the state to tear down the mountain to make a more level road.

You can’t blame your 400 million dollar purchase of a sports team – and the subsequent inability to sell said 400 million dollar sports team – on the players.

One More Thing

LeBron James and Carmelo Anthony controlled the 2010-2011 fates of their former clubs by dictating where they wanted to play, eh?

Well. Kind of.

Carmelo Anthony improved the future of the Nuggets. By requesting a trade, Carmelo guaranteed that the Nuggets would receive SOMETHING for their superstar, as we now see he had no desire to stick around in Denver. And LeBron, sure. He’s a dick. That’s easy. But he also worked the free agent market the way he could. The way any of us are allowed to when we want a new job.

So did Kobe Bryant, back in 2006. Remember that? When he flirted with signing with the Clippers until Lakers management traded Shaquille O’Neal for next to nothing and – coincidentally – signed with the Lakers the next day? Now THAT was a jerk move. But, that being said, the question is still worth asking: why are we blaming players for the desire to switch jobs?

Parity is a fallacy. Parity is designed to allow bad general managers the chance to make bigger mistakes with smaller consequences. Parity hurts America, and it promotes communism and clubs seals and forces babies to become prostitutes. It gives Clippers fans hope that, despite a history of horribly managed basketball decisions (very very LARGE MARKET decisions, by the way) that they have a chance.

Argue about player salaries and cash and lockouts all you want. Just don’t position things like the players have some kind of upper hand. It takes two people to sign a contract, after all.

Category: Basketball, Sports

April 17th, 2011

Conversation while driving past Twin Towers Circle in east Sioux Falls:

KERRIE: How awful would it be to live on “Twin Towers Circle?”
ME: Well, you just wouldn’t move there. I don’t think they CHANGED the name of the street to Twin Towers Circle. You know going in what you’re getting.
KERRIE: What if it was your dream home?
ME: *thinks*
KERRIE: …
ME: Well, I’d just say it was named after Hakeem Olajuwon and Ralph Sampson.
KERRIE: …
ME: You know. The Twin Towers of the Houston Rockets.
KERRIE: …
ME: Or, Big Boss Man and Akeem. The Twin Towers.
KERRIE: …

SO MISUNDERSTOOD. I don’t know, though. Seems like it would be PRETTY COOL to live on a street named after a late-80s wrestling tag team. Like Demolition Street. Or Legion of Doom Boulevard.