We needed Darth Vader.
(Yes, another Star Wars reference. I swear I don't love the franchise this much, it just comes in handy for analogies. But I digress.)
We needed Darth Vader. We needed him to chop Luke's arm off. We needed him to crush the Rebel Alliance.
We needed the Evil Empire.
Just as the New York Post suggested, the ultimate triumph of good against evil would not have been possible without, well, evil. For the Jets to overcome, the Patriots had to exist as the personification of decadence and dominance. And they absolutely had to humiliate the Jets like they did in November.
So all Chicago Bulls fans still stinging after the loss to Miami, listen to me.
We need LeBron James.
Hurdles
A few minutes after the Bulls surrendered a 12-point fourth-quarter lead to Miami in Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals, I fought the oncoming catatonic state that was taking over my body and made a pointed Facebook status.
It read:
"1988. 1989. 1990. We will return."
The generation of Bulls fans who remember the days prior to the Jordan Renaissance is growing more scant every day, but they're still out there. They remember when red, white and black wasn't the premier color scheme for any Nike shoe. They remember when Converse and Adidas reigned and there was no such thing as an Air Jordan. When Chicago Stadium was a drafty old barn that hadn't seen a championship since Bobby Hull.
The days when, as Sam Smith says in his book The Jordan Rules, the late Johnny "Red" Kerr would have to call the Chicago papers to spell players' names after games for the box score.
Save for a few close years in the mid-'70s, the Bulls were an afterthought before Jordan. And even after he did jump-start the Bulls, glory did not come easy.
Off the hardwood, sportswriters said a team with no star center or distributing point guard could ever win a championship. On the court, the Detroit Pistons were doing their best to prove the critics right.
Those three years mark the successive seasons in which the Pistons knocked the Bulls out of the playoffs. First in five games, then six, then a heartbreaking seven-game series at the turn of the decade. Detroit had Chicago's number, and they knew it.
This was the mental hurdle the Bulls—and Jordan—had to clear. He had famously broken the Cleveland Cavaliers with "The Shot" in 1989 (Smith writes in Rules that the Cavs would not beat the Bulls once until Jordan's first retirement), and the Celtics' dominance was at an end. The Pistons and their "Bad Boy" tactics stood in Jordan's way for three straight years.
Until the breakthrough.
One distinct play may have sealed it, but the Bulls finally defeated Detroit in the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals. The rest is, of course, history.
New enemies
Twenty years later, the Bulls are once again trying to climb the mountain after 14 years of relative anonymity. Save for one year in the mid-2000s, Chicago had not made it to the second round of the playoffs since the last year of the Dynasty.
This would be the year the Bulls would finally revisit the mountaintop.
They had seemingly disheartened the faux-triumvirate in Miami after three nail-biting regular season victories. They had the top seed in the playoffs. They played hard-nosed defense at every position and they had the Most Valuable Player.
But the Heat would have the last laugh, and Chicago would be sent packing.
People forget that Jordan and the Bulls did have their moments of regular season triumph against Detroit, only to go down swinging come springtime. Same was true for the Cavs before the breakthrough in '89. Just as sportscasters say shooters need to see one go in before they can start hitting shots, the Bulls needed to see an enemy defeated before they could start running through the league with regularity.
These Miami Heat are not those Detroit Pistons. (A more fitting Miami team would be that of the late '90s: Alonzo Mourning, Tim Hardaway, P.J. Brown. Those guys could throw shots with the best of them.) But they are standing in the way of the Bulls, and if Miami wins the chip this year, they will be the team to beat for the coming future. The Bulls will have no choice but to gameplan for them every year.
(Ed. note: Interestingly enough, the roles have almost been completely reversed (from a Chicago fan's perspective) from that of the old Bulls-Pistons rivalry. The Bulls are now the hard-nosed defensive team led by their star point guard and other adept role players, while the Heat are the finesse guys with two top stars and an unsung shooter (who'd have thought Chris Bosh could ever be connected with John Paxson?) and a "doberman" defense anchored by Wade and James.)
The face of the franchise
As the Bulls' 15-point lead dwindled away in Game 5, it was LeBron James leading the charge, hitting shot after shot. Remember those faces Knicks fans always made when Jordan (and sometimes, Reggie Miller) made deficits disappear against New York in the '90s? Those were the faces we were all making at the end of that game.
All because of LeBron James.
It's not so much the Heat the Bulls will have to defeat. Dwyane Wade is and will be a great player for his career and Chris Bosh will contribute under the radar. But it is James (who knocked the Bulls out last year with Cleveland with another cold-blooded performance) whom Chicago will have to eliminate in order to get ahead.
Luke needed Darth Vader in order to triumph. Our own young "skywalker" needs LeBron James.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Shaw-Shaq Realization
(Ed. Note: As I've said before, I'm not the only guy sitting in the cheap seats. Brian "Styx" Spicklemire is not only a great composer (though he is from Indiana), he's also an avid sports fan and solid writer. Here's his take on the recent retirement of NBA great Shaquille O'Neal.)
Shaquille O'Neal officially retired from basketball Friday, ending an 19-year career that saw "The Big Diesel" accumulate four NBA championships between two teams, three finals MVPs, and 15 All-Star selections. He finishes his playing days fifth on the all-time scoring list, and along with Kareem,Wilt, and Russell, officially puts his face on Mount Rushmore (to steal an analogy used by just about everyone at ESPN since they stole it from Bill Simmons) as one of the greatest big-men of all time. He is perhaps the most physically dominant athlete I've ever seen play live, and is the only man on the planet that could make a seven-foot tall rapping genie seem plausible (if not enjoyable).
After making the announcement via social media, Shaq was interviewed on SportsCenter, and said that he was considering playing next season, saying:
"I really, really thought about coming back, but this Achilles (the injury that has plagued him all year,) is very damaged and if I had it done the recovery would be so long we'd have same outcome as this last year -- everyone sitting around and waiting for me.
I didn't want to let people down two years in a row. I didn't want to hold Boston hostage again."
It's difficult for athletes to walk away from a game they've played and loved their whole life. I'm sure "The Big Aristotle" believes in his heart of hearts that he could have played another season if it weren't for a bad ankle. It's hard for anyone to know when it's time to move on to the next stage in their life, be it a professional athlete or just a regular person. we get used to a comfortable routine, or a great feeling, or a lifestyle.
We get, as Red from The Shawshank Redemption would put it, institutionalized.
Life imitates art
There's an important scene in the movie where Brooks, an old inmate who's been in jail for decades, tries to kill fellow inmate and friend Heywood, so that they won't release him on parole and send him away from the prison. Morgan Freeman's soothing voice is able to stop him (and really, couldn't Morgan Freeman's mellow baritone convince anyone to do basically anything? I mean, besides bringing the FIFA World Cup to America and to take Evan Almighty seriously?) and later, the group of inmates recount the attack:
Andy: I just don't understand what happened in there.
Heywood: Old man's crazy as a rat in a tin shithouse, is what.
Red: Oh Heywood, that's enough out of you!
Ernie: I heard he had you shittin' in your pants!
Heywood: Fuck you!
Red: Would you knock it off? Brooks ain't no bug. He's just...just institutionalized.
Heywood: Institutionalized, my ass.
Red: The man's been in here fifty years, Heywood. Fifty years! This is all he knows. In here, he's an important man. He's an educated man. Outside, he's nothin'! Just a used-up con with arthritis in both hands.
Replace the words "fifty" with "twenty," "con" with "rapper/actor/reality TV star," and "arthritis in both hands" with "a body that gave up on him five years ago," and you've got O'Neal. An all-time great player who did everything short of advertising himself as "Shaqwater," playing mercenary for the Cavs and Celtics these last couple years trying to chase one more championship; trying to hold onto that feeling. But I think he knew he was done, if not last year after not being able to take Lebron to the NBA finals, then in 11 painful-to-watch playoff minutes against Lebron this year. That's when he knew.
That's when he had "the realization."
Twilight of their careers
There seems to be a string of major sports figures retiring recently. Phil Jackson finished an incredible career with 11 NBA titles and probably owns the title of greatest basketball coach of all time, (though I personally put Wooden ahead of him) said last year that he was thinking about retiring, but decided to come back for a chance at another three-peat. Did he hang on for one season too long? Maybe, maybe not, but the Lakers' outcome this season certainly didn't match up to what he must've hoping for.
Brett Favre is probably the best recent example of someone hanging on too long. Everybody gives Favre grief (and deservedly so) for holding the Packers and Vikings hostage while he was debating whether or not he was coming back for another season, though the media should get some credit/blame for turning that into a circus. (By the way, does Ed Werder know that he doesn't hafta go back and camp on on Favre's lawn this year? Does he just get all of July-August off now? What else does he have to do?)
Still, it's easy to understand why the decision would be so tough for him to make. He was walking away from a game that meant everything to him. Wouldn't you need a clear-cut reason to walk away from something that had been your daily life for the last 20-plus years?
By the way, as I write that paragraph, every Colts fan, including myself is preparing for what I'm dubbing the "Peyton Manning Retirement Tour": the last three or four seasons after Manning's prime that he continues to come back play, regardless of whatever pundits think he should do. It'll probably be painful to watch, but if the Favre-Packers saga taught front offices everywhere something, it's that you've gotta let your franchise player go out on his own terms. When they mean as much to the team/city as Favre did/Peyton does, it's the right thing to do.
He knows he had skillz
See, it's easy to understand why Shaq would try to extend his career by playing seventh or eighth banana, albeit on a championship squad. Even with an athlete that has as promising a future career ahead of him, (somewhere between NBA analyst and TV star, and I'm thinking reality TV. You're telling me that if he, with his interest in law enforcement, decided to star in a new reality series with "Dog the Bounty Hunter", you wouldn't be glued to the TV. It would easily be better than "Franklin & Bash".)
And this isn't limited to athletes; it's hard for anyone to move on past a significant portion of their life, so we find ways to hold onto the parts that make us feel comfortable. We fall in love with a particular movie or song, not because it necessarily is any good, but because we identify it with a time we wish we could get back too. It reminds us of some time when everything seemed perfect. It's why every guy in his thirties I know still blasts Metallica, friends of mine will still defend the time they saw "Prince of Persia" to the death, and every time we hear Train's "Hey, Soul Sister," all we can think about is how great that one summer was (Sidenote: I'm convinced that playing off of these emotions is the only way Train has been able to sustain a music career).
It doesn't matter how it ended, or why, or when; we latch onto those things, these images and sounds that bring us back to visceral memories of a time where everything seemed to fit. Whatever "it" is for us, it's the closest we can get back to it. Eventually, something happens and we realize that it's nothing more than a memory, that we should've moved on already and we've missed our window for a timely exit.
That's the realization: that, painful as it may be to move away from something that means so much to us, we have to leave because whatever "it" is, it's just not there anymore.
I think Phil Jackson realized it after getting walloped in Game 3 against Dallas. For Favre, it was probably sometime between concussions while playing on fumes for a Vikings team that just couldn't reproduce the magic they had one season earlier. For Jorge Posada, it was probably the time he had to reflect and have the realization after getting dropped in the batting order last month and subsequently pulling himself from the next game. It took that event for him to figure out what everyone else already knew: that the familiar praise for the numbers he wasn't putting up anymore was over.
Derek Jeter is experiencing the same thing right now on his quest to perfectly re-enact the movie "Mr. 3000." Not being able to play the way you're used to, and having people remind you of how far you've fallen from your prime is tough. They've been institutionalized. For me, it's whenever I'm listening to the radio and I remember how ridiculous the line "(You're) So gangster/I'm so thug" is. It hits us square in the face (or in Favre's case, I suppose it's somewhere between the torso and back of the head) and we realize the moment has passed, and however hard we try, we can't go back to it.
Whatever we're trying to hold on to is gone.
It's especially hard for athletes, who have been conditioned to compete their whole lives, to accept this fact. Luckily, we mostly forgive them of their realization-failures. When Shaq's legacy is discussed years from now, we won't talk about his last two stops in Cleveland and Boston, just like how we remember Jordan's last moment as the jumper over Bryon Russell, and not the last 2 seasons he played with the Wizards. (I'll pause a second for Bulls fans everywhere to erase the Washington years in their heads again.)
Shaq vs...the future
Friday, as soon as O'Neal had made it official, there was already speculation as too how long it would be until the "Shaqtus" officially unretires. For what it's worth, I think he's done. He has plenty of opportunities ahead of him, and seems to be at peace with his decision.
Still, eight months from now, when that Achilles is healed, and some struggling team (hopefully not from Indiana) needs one more veteran big man on their roster, he's gonna get multiple calls. Will he take any of them into serious consideration?
Red probably said it best:
"These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That's institutionalized."
I can understand why Shaq would want to play one more season. Why he and so many other pro athletes get to the realization that it's time to move on a little while after everyone else has figured it out. They're still comfortable, they're institutionalized. And sometimes all you can think about is getting back inside those walls.
Brian Spicklemire is a composer, percussionist, part-time astronomer and Harrison Ford stunt double from Indianapolis, Indiana. You can hear his music on his website (www.brianspicklemire.com) and follow him on Twitter (BLAMOtis).
Shaquille O'Neal officially retired from basketball Friday, ending an 19-year career that saw "The Big Diesel" accumulate four NBA championships between two teams, three finals MVPs, and 15 All-Star selections. He finishes his playing days fifth on the all-time scoring list, and along with Kareem,Wilt, and Russell, officially puts his face on Mount Rushmore (to steal an analogy used by just about everyone at ESPN since they stole it from Bill Simmons) as one of the greatest big-men of all time. He is perhaps the most physically dominant athlete I've ever seen play live, and is the only man on the planet that could make a seven-foot tall rapping genie seem plausible (if not enjoyable).
After making the announcement via social media, Shaq was interviewed on SportsCenter, and said that he was considering playing next season, saying:
"I really, really thought about coming back, but this Achilles (the injury that has plagued him all year,) is very damaged and if I had it done the recovery would be so long we'd have same outcome as this last year -- everyone sitting around and waiting for me.
I didn't want to let people down two years in a row. I didn't want to hold Boston hostage again."
It's difficult for athletes to walk away from a game they've played and loved their whole life. I'm sure "The Big Aristotle" believes in his heart of hearts that he could have played another season if it weren't for a bad ankle. It's hard for anyone to know when it's time to move on to the next stage in their life, be it a professional athlete or just a regular person. we get used to a comfortable routine, or a great feeling, or a lifestyle.
We get, as Red from The Shawshank Redemption would put it, institutionalized.
Life imitates art
There's an important scene in the movie where Brooks, an old inmate who's been in jail for decades, tries to kill fellow inmate and friend Heywood, so that they won't release him on parole and send him away from the prison. Morgan Freeman's soothing voice is able to stop him (and really, couldn't Morgan Freeman's mellow baritone convince anyone to do basically anything? I mean, besides bringing the FIFA World Cup to America and to take Evan Almighty seriously?) and later, the group of inmates recount the attack:
Andy: I just don't understand what happened in there.
Heywood: Old man's crazy as a rat in a tin shithouse, is what.
Red: Oh Heywood, that's enough out of you!
Ernie: I heard he had you shittin' in your pants!
Heywood: Fuck you!
Red: Would you knock it off? Brooks ain't no bug. He's just...just institutionalized.
Heywood: Institutionalized, my ass.
Red: The man's been in here fifty years, Heywood. Fifty years! This is all he knows. In here, he's an important man. He's an educated man. Outside, he's nothin'! Just a used-up con with arthritis in both hands.
Replace the words "fifty" with "twenty," "con" with "rapper/actor/reality TV star," and "arthritis in both hands" with "a body that gave up on him five years ago," and you've got O'Neal. An all-time great player who did everything short of advertising himself as "Shaqwater," playing mercenary for the Cavs and Celtics these last couple years trying to chase one more championship; trying to hold onto that feeling. But I think he knew he was done, if not last year after not being able to take Lebron to the NBA finals, then in 11 painful-to-watch playoff minutes against Lebron this year. That's when he knew.
That's when he had "the realization."
Twilight of their careers
There seems to be a string of major sports figures retiring recently. Phil Jackson finished an incredible career with 11 NBA titles and probably owns the title of greatest basketball coach of all time, (though I personally put Wooden ahead of him) said last year that he was thinking about retiring, but decided to come back for a chance at another three-peat. Did he hang on for one season too long? Maybe, maybe not, but the Lakers' outcome this season certainly didn't match up to what he must've hoping for.
Brett Favre is probably the best recent example of someone hanging on too long. Everybody gives Favre grief (and deservedly so) for holding the Packers and Vikings hostage while he was debating whether or not he was coming back for another season, though the media should get some credit/blame for turning that into a circus. (By the way, does Ed Werder know that he doesn't hafta go back and camp on on Favre's lawn this year? Does he just get all of July-August off now? What else does he have to do?)
Still, it's easy to understand why the decision would be so tough for him to make. He was walking away from a game that meant everything to him. Wouldn't you need a clear-cut reason to walk away from something that had been your daily life for the last 20-plus years?
By the way, as I write that paragraph, every Colts fan, including myself is preparing for what I'm dubbing the "Peyton Manning Retirement Tour": the last three or four seasons after Manning's prime that he continues to come back play, regardless of whatever pundits think he should do. It'll probably be painful to watch, but if the Favre-Packers saga taught front offices everywhere something, it's that you've gotta let your franchise player go out on his own terms. When they mean as much to the team/city as Favre did/Peyton does, it's the right thing to do.
He knows he had skillz
See, it's easy to understand why Shaq would try to extend his career by playing seventh or eighth banana, albeit on a championship squad. Even with an athlete that has as promising a future career ahead of him, (somewhere between NBA analyst and TV star, and I'm thinking reality TV. You're telling me that if he, with his interest in law enforcement, decided to star in a new reality series with "Dog the Bounty Hunter", you wouldn't be glued to the TV. It would easily be better than "Franklin & Bash".)
And this isn't limited to athletes; it's hard for anyone to move on past a significant portion of their life, so we find ways to hold onto the parts that make us feel comfortable. We fall in love with a particular movie or song, not because it necessarily is any good, but because we identify it with a time we wish we could get back too. It reminds us of some time when everything seemed perfect. It's why every guy in his thirties I know still blasts Metallica, friends of mine will still defend the time they saw "Prince of Persia" to the death, and every time we hear Train's "Hey, Soul Sister," all we can think about is how great that one summer was (Sidenote: I'm convinced that playing off of these emotions is the only way Train has been able to sustain a music career).
It doesn't matter how it ended, or why, or when; we latch onto those things, these images and sounds that bring us back to visceral memories of a time where everything seemed to fit. Whatever "it" is for us, it's the closest we can get back to it. Eventually, something happens and we realize that it's nothing more than a memory, that we should've moved on already and we've missed our window for a timely exit.
That's the realization: that, painful as it may be to move away from something that means so much to us, we have to leave because whatever "it" is, it's just not there anymore.
I think Phil Jackson realized it after getting walloped in Game 3 against Dallas. For Favre, it was probably sometime between concussions while playing on fumes for a Vikings team that just couldn't reproduce the magic they had one season earlier. For Jorge Posada, it was probably the time he had to reflect and have the realization after getting dropped in the batting order last month and subsequently pulling himself from the next game. It took that event for him to figure out what everyone else already knew: that the familiar praise for the numbers he wasn't putting up anymore was over.
Derek Jeter is experiencing the same thing right now on his quest to perfectly re-enact the movie "Mr. 3000." Not being able to play the way you're used to, and having people remind you of how far you've fallen from your prime is tough. They've been institutionalized. For me, it's whenever I'm listening to the radio and I remember how ridiculous the line "(You're) So gangster/I'm so thug" is. It hits us square in the face (or in Favre's case, I suppose it's somewhere between the torso and back of the head) and we realize the moment has passed, and however hard we try, we can't go back to it.
Whatever we're trying to hold on to is gone.
It's especially hard for athletes, who have been conditioned to compete their whole lives, to accept this fact. Luckily, we mostly forgive them of their realization-failures. When Shaq's legacy is discussed years from now, we won't talk about his last two stops in Cleveland and Boston, just like how we remember Jordan's last moment as the jumper over Bryon Russell, and not the last 2 seasons he played with the Wizards. (I'll pause a second for Bulls fans everywhere to erase the Washington years in their heads again.)
Shaq vs...the future
Friday, as soon as O'Neal had made it official, there was already speculation as too how long it would be until the "Shaqtus" officially unretires. For what it's worth, I think he's done. He has plenty of opportunities ahead of him, and seems to be at peace with his decision.
Still, eight months from now, when that Achilles is healed, and some struggling team (hopefully not from Indiana) needs one more veteran big man on their roster, he's gonna get multiple calls. Will he take any of them into serious consideration?
Red probably said it best:
"These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That's institutionalized."
I can understand why Shaq would want to play one more season. Why he and so many other pro athletes get to the realization that it's time to move on a little while after everyone else has figured it out. They're still comfortable, they're institutionalized. And sometimes all you can think about is getting back inside those walls.
Brian Spicklemire is a composer, percussionist, part-time astronomer and Harrison Ford stunt double from Indianapolis, Indiana. You can hear his music on his website (www.brianspicklemire.com) and follow him on Twitter (BLAMOtis).
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Living in Acronymity and the Statistical Revolution
Last Tuesday afternoon, young Derrick Rose won his first Most Valuable Player award.
That same afternoon, bloggers and sports nerds everywhere had a moment of silence for LeBron James, Dwight Howard, and Skip Bayless' sanity.
Now imagine you came across someone who had never watched an NBA game , and had to explain to them why Derrick Rose shouldn't be MVP. How would you do it?
Did he not have the statistics for his position (scoring and assists)? No, he was top-10 in both.
Did he not make big shots in crunch time? No, he did that...and did it again...and did it again.
Did he come through as a Sprewell-type, getting in trouble with the law and drawing the ire of his peers and outsiders? No, he was widely praised as a genuine individual, deflecting much of his accolades to his teammates and coaches, and of course, his mother.
So why was Rose not worthy of MVP?
Could you tell this nameless, basketball-deficient person that it's because of a statistic that wasn't known until a few years ago and has a formula better suited to a college course?
Revenge of the nerds
I am not a fan of the statistical revolution, I cannot lie. I thought it was useful when it became a staple for baseball. After all, baseball has always been a haven for stats and stats junkies, people who craved something deeper than batting average and home run totals. There had to be some better way to determine which players were better infield defenders, had more range in the outfield, and who would be a better pinch hitter when the game was on the line.
So I embraced it. I looked for things like Value Over Replacement Player (VORP) and On-Base Plus Slugging Percentage (OPS) to see how a player was really doing at a certain point in time.
Then I stopped playing fantasy(-land) baseball.
Now, as I've gotten back into basketball following the Bulls-Celtics series from three years ago, I've become wary of the many bloggers who tout rates and efficiency over scoring, assists, rebounds and intagibles. Yes, most of these guys were downplaying Derrick Rose's MVP credentials, but even before the avalanche of criticism, I was having trouble dealing with them.
In short, the nerds had truly taken their revenge.
Internet thugs attack!
None of the statistical revolution would have been possible without the Internet. In the past, it would have taken years for new ways of quantifying success to gain credibility, solely through newspapers and magazines. But with the Internet, the theories of Bill James and John Hollinger were verified, tested and hailed with relative ease and little time. And right behind them were hundreds of bloggers, armed with a love for the game, little athletic talent, a TI-83, and a membership in every fantasy baseball league.
The League of Extra-Ordinary Geeks. Or as Chamillionaire would say, internet thugs.
It's not that these are bad people. They levy good arguments plenty of times, and it's difficult to argue with statistics that correctly placed. But, as any hip-hop fan knows, there's hardly anything worse than a person bashing your favorite player or team from behind the safety of a computer screen.
That's exactly what happened with Derrick Rose's season. As soon as the calendar turned over to 2011 and Rose was mentioned as a possible MVP candidate, it seemed the LEoG was chomping at the bit to find a more deserving player than the Chicago Kid. Whether it was Dwight Howard, Kobe Bryant, or the Unmentionable Punk Player from Akron, Ohio, no one could stomach the thought of Derrick Rose as the Most Valuable Player.
But what was most perplexing was that while the LEoG was detracting was Rose's abilities, it seems the former NBA players-turned-color analysts were recognizing that Rose was well-worthy of the award. One after another, the ballplayers in the ESPN-tailored suits were confident in D-Rose's MVP credentials.
Doesn't it seem like the guys who played the game would be best suited to recognize who was the MVP?
Only time will tell
It's always been odd for me that the Most Valuable Player award doesn't take into account the postseason. After all, the season doesn't end with the regular season; it ends with one team holding the big trophy.
Tomorrow night, the Chicago Bulls and the Miami Heat will play for the right to go to the NBA finals. It's the matchup everyone has looked forward to since the playoffs started, and many sabermetricians believe the Heat, based on all the numbers available, will advance. But the games must be played, and those nerds-turned-internet thugs will be sitting in the bleachers like they always have.
Too bad for the rest of us that now, they'll have a laptop in front of them.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
That same afternoon, bloggers and sports nerds everywhere had a moment of silence for LeBron James, Dwight Howard, and Skip Bayless' sanity.
Now imagine you came across someone who had never watched an NBA game , and had to explain to them why Derrick Rose shouldn't be MVP. How would you do it?
Did he not have the statistics for his position (scoring and assists)? No, he was top-10 in both.
Did he not make big shots in crunch time? No, he did that...and did it again...and did it again.
Did he come through as a Sprewell-type, getting in trouble with the law and drawing the ire of his peers and outsiders? No, he was widely praised as a genuine individual, deflecting much of his accolades to his teammates and coaches, and of course, his mother.
So why was Rose not worthy of MVP?
Could you tell this nameless, basketball-deficient person that it's because of a statistic that wasn't known until a few years ago and has a formula better suited to a college course?
Revenge of the nerds
I am not a fan of the statistical revolution, I cannot lie. I thought it was useful when it became a staple for baseball. After all, baseball has always been a haven for stats and stats junkies, people who craved something deeper than batting average and home run totals. There had to be some better way to determine which players were better infield defenders, had more range in the outfield, and who would be a better pinch hitter when the game was on the line.
So I embraced it. I looked for things like Value Over Replacement Player (VORP) and On-Base Plus Slugging Percentage (OPS) to see how a player was really doing at a certain point in time.
Then I stopped playing fantasy(-land) baseball.
Now, as I've gotten back into basketball following the Bulls-Celtics series from three years ago, I've become wary of the many bloggers who tout rates and efficiency over scoring, assists, rebounds and intagibles. Yes, most of these guys were downplaying Derrick Rose's MVP credentials, but even before the avalanche of criticism, I was having trouble dealing with them.
In short, the nerds had truly taken their revenge.
Internet thugs attack!
None of the statistical revolution would have been possible without the Internet. In the past, it would have taken years for new ways of quantifying success to gain credibility, solely through newspapers and magazines. But with the Internet, the theories of Bill James and John Hollinger were verified, tested and hailed with relative ease and little time. And right behind them were hundreds of bloggers, armed with a love for the game, little athletic talent, a TI-83, and a membership in every fantasy baseball league.
The League of Extra-Ordinary Geeks. Or as Chamillionaire would say, internet thugs.
It's not that these are bad people. They levy good arguments plenty of times, and it's difficult to argue with statistics that correctly placed. But, as any hip-hop fan knows, there's hardly anything worse than a person bashing your favorite player or team from behind the safety of a computer screen.
That's exactly what happened with Derrick Rose's season. As soon as the calendar turned over to 2011 and Rose was mentioned as a possible MVP candidate, it seemed the LEoG was chomping at the bit to find a more deserving player than the Chicago Kid. Whether it was Dwight Howard, Kobe Bryant, or the Unmentionable Punk Player from Akron, Ohio, no one could stomach the thought of Derrick Rose as the Most Valuable Player.
But what was most perplexing was that while the LEoG was detracting was Rose's abilities, it seems the former NBA players-turned-color analysts were recognizing that Rose was well-worthy of the award. One after another, the ballplayers in the ESPN-tailored suits were confident in D-Rose's MVP credentials.
Doesn't it seem like the guys who played the game would be best suited to recognize who was the MVP?
Only time will tell
It's always been odd for me that the Most Valuable Player award doesn't take into account the postseason. After all, the season doesn't end with the regular season; it ends with one team holding the big trophy.
Tomorrow night, the Chicago Bulls and the Miami Heat will play for the right to go to the NBA finals. It's the matchup everyone has looked forward to since the playoffs started, and many sabermetricians believe the Heat, based on all the numbers available, will advance. But the games must be played, and those nerds-turned-internet thugs will be sitting in the bleachers like they always have.
Too bad for the rest of us that now, they'll have a laptop in front of them.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wilting Roses: The ESPN Culture of "Blah, Blah, Blah"
"Everybody's talkin' at me, I don't hear what they're sayin'..."
Disregarding the fact that hardly anyone under age 40 knows where those words actually come from, they say a great deal to the world today. In the aptly-described "Information Age", facts, statistics and opinion alike are available as soon as we get out of bed in the morning. We can find out about an earthquake in Tunisia, a space shuttle launch in Russia, or an unusual birth in Luxembourg almost immediately, and if we don't care about it, we don't have to.
No field has benefited more from the Info Age than sports. After all, most sports fans today are junkies (nerds!) concerned with statistics and more news than can be provided in the box scores now, so there is up-to-the-minute reporting on everything. Pro stars, college stars, high school stars, grammar school stars even! There is analysis on everything, breakdown of everything, and critiques on everything. It is as in-depth as you can get, and when there's nothing concrete anymore, there are endless panels of experts to give their (often clashing) opinions.
And therein lies the problem. When there are thousands of shouting voices, who can say which is worth listening to?
More importantly, which one is shouting the truth?
The fates, intertwined
As the NBA season started, all focus was on the Miami Heat. The trio of LeBron, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh had been predicted to do everything short of conquer the entire continent of Asia, and only the Los Angeles Lakers were thought to have an eventual chance against the mighty [insert Heat nickname here].
To clarify: the Heat had already been given a berth in the NBA Finals. Before the season had even started.
(Note: I will attempt to deliver the next few paragraphs without any sarcasm or animosity. However, LeBron James is still a punk and will be treated accordingly.)
As the season got underway, the Heat train experienced a few bumps and near-halts: an opening night loss to Boston, a buzzer-beating home loss to Memphis, defeat at the hands of the lowly Pacers. Chris Bosh was ridiculed from coast-to-coast and had a popular song parodied in his honor. Erik Spoelstra was already a lame-duck coach in the minds of many. And all the predictions of astronomical win totals? Disapparated faster than Severus Snape.
Meanwhile, the Chicago Bulls and their fans were greeting the season with guarded apprehension. One of the final favorites to land LeBron, Chicago had been similarly spurned on the night of the decision, though they did get low-post machine Carlos Boozer as a consolation prize. But as the preseason finished up, word came down that Boozer had "curiously" broken his finger in the preseason and would sit out the first month.
New coach Tom Thibodeau had a great resume and endorsements but was still a wild card. Meanwhile, Derrick Rose had publicly declared "why can't I be MVP of the league?" leading many pundits to believe he was crazy.
Chicago and Miami were over a thousand miles away from each other, but from Bulls fans' perspectives, they might as well have been neighbors competing for best Christmas decorations.
The numbers, chopped and screwed
After a full month of play, the Bulls were 9-8 and still awaiting the return of Boozer. Going into tonight's game (the 73rd of the season), they are 53-19. Translation: a 44-11 record since December 3, an .800 winning percentage.
Over the same period, the Heat (who were 12-8 on December 3), ran off a record of 39-14 for a percentage of .736. Not better than the Bulls but still incredibly good. (To compare, the Lakers were also 39-14 in that span; the league-leading Spurs were 41-13, a .759 clip.)
Naturally, the media looked to the numbers and wondered how Chicago was winning so much. There had to be a single, primary reason, right? So they saw Rose's statistical improvement and TV-friendly skill set, and started putting him at the forefront of the MVP race.
Correction: they firmly crowned him as the most valuable player. Every single one of them, from Jon Barry to Christopher Hitchens. Even Christiane Amanpour went on record: "the situation in Libya is growing dire, but Derrick Rose is hands down my MVP. The guy is a flat-out winner, unlike Gadhafi."
There was only one problem: the season wasn't finished yet.
The noise, muted
I'm a Chicago fan through and through. I even want the Cubs to succeed, if it means their well-meaning fans can be happy and the Chicago baseball rivalry can be a rivalry. I've watched Derrick Rose and the Bulls all season long and I've seen him and the Bulls get better every game. I sang the "Fast Don't Lie" jingle all through the winter, and I've mused many times over selling my life for playoff tickets.
Derrick Rose would be my MVP vote, as Cam'ron and the Diplomats would say, easy.
However, I understand the cases for other players. Dwight Howard is the engine for Orlando and he has improved his game this year as well (the Tim Duncan-like jumper.) Kobe Bryant is Kobe Bryant, the best in the clutches. LeBron James will always be a positional anomaly who can play almost anywhere on the court, and Kevin Durant can score almost at will now.
There is an argument for other players. But there shouldn't be a need to scream about it.
Skip Bayless has criticized just about everyone who's been born and played a professional sport in the United States, as well as Mother Theresa's charity work. We expect it from him. But now Dan LeBatard (whom I just don't respect) has weighed in on the supposed media-driven Rose-fest.
The quote that sums up all this Rose-hatred/MVP-misjudgment: "[Rose] is just not the best [player]. Which means he's not the most valuable."
Without going into detail, best does not equate in basketball with most valuable. If that were true, either Kobe Bryant or LeBron James would have won the award the last five years every single season, because they are without a doubt splitting time for best player (with Timmy D running third.)
What does it mean? I don't know. There are so many variables to consider even without sabermetrics. Chemistry, trade value, "aaaah" factor (see: fans after a Blake Griffin dunk), player mindset. But most of all, I think the MVP should come from a team that not only wins, but wins when it counts: the playoffs.
So since the season's not over, I think it's time for everyone to shut up.
That would fix everything, wouldn't it? There wouldn't be any of the D-Rose stumping which has caused so much backlash. There also wouldn't be coaches, players and media personnel campaigning for another player based a modicum of facts and a majority of shouted opinions. We could watch the games, total the stats, weigh them with those few remaining intangibles, and when the season's over, make a reasoned argument. The opinions would stay relegated to 100-plus characters on Twitter and the 10-plus characters at the barbershop.
It would be so easy. And so much quieter.
The reality, resigned
Alas, the world does not work that way. Everyone has a subject to formulate an opinion on and a chance to voice that opinion. Indeed, this blog post is a shining example of just that.
The system won't change. Without people like Skip, there would be no targets for our ire and no arguments to rebut. And there's no going back from the Internet and the culture of immediacy. It's a "global village", as Marshall McLuhan correctly theorized, and one where you can't move away from your neighbors.
As the Miami Heat have as yet failed to live up to lofty expectations, Rose's emergence as an MVP candidate is the natural debate topic. That would be fine, if most or all of the opinions weren't opinions and were instead well-reasoned arguments. But with new stats and figures every second and endless frames of tape, that is becoming almost impossible. After all, none of the so-called arguments have done what arguments are supposed to do: bring everyone involved to a logical conclusion.
So I propose that since we have nothing valuable to say, we should say nothing at all. That would be the most valuable thing we could do.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Disregarding the fact that hardly anyone under age 40 knows where those words actually come from, they say a great deal to the world today. In the aptly-described "Information Age", facts, statistics and opinion alike are available as soon as we get out of bed in the morning. We can find out about an earthquake in Tunisia, a space shuttle launch in Russia, or an unusual birth in Luxembourg almost immediately, and if we don't care about it, we don't have to.
No field has benefited more from the Info Age than sports. After all, most sports fans today are junkies (nerds!) concerned with statistics and more news than can be provided in the box scores now, so there is up-to-the-minute reporting on everything. Pro stars, college stars, high school stars, grammar school stars even! There is analysis on everything, breakdown of everything, and critiques on everything. It is as in-depth as you can get, and when there's nothing concrete anymore, there are endless panels of experts to give their (often clashing) opinions.
And therein lies the problem. When there are thousands of shouting voices, who can say which is worth listening to?
More importantly, which one is shouting the truth?
The fates, intertwined
As the NBA season started, all focus was on the Miami Heat. The trio of LeBron, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh had been predicted to do everything short of conquer the entire continent of Asia, and only the Los Angeles Lakers were thought to have an eventual chance against the mighty [insert Heat nickname here].
To clarify: the Heat had already been given a berth in the NBA Finals. Before the season had even started.
(Note: I will attempt to deliver the next few paragraphs without any sarcasm or animosity. However, LeBron James is still a punk and will be treated accordingly.)
As the season got underway, the Heat train experienced a few bumps and near-halts: an opening night loss to Boston, a buzzer-beating home loss to Memphis, defeat at the hands of the lowly Pacers. Chris Bosh was ridiculed from coast-to-coast and had a popular song parodied in his honor. Erik Spoelstra was already a lame-duck coach in the minds of many. And all the predictions of astronomical win totals? Disapparated faster than Severus Snape.
Meanwhile, the Chicago Bulls and their fans were greeting the season with guarded apprehension. One of the final favorites to land LeBron, Chicago had been similarly spurned on the night of the decision, though they did get low-post machine Carlos Boozer as a consolation prize. But as the preseason finished up, word came down that Boozer had "curiously" broken his finger in the preseason and would sit out the first month.
New coach Tom Thibodeau had a great resume and endorsements but was still a wild card. Meanwhile, Derrick Rose had publicly declared "why can't I be MVP of the league?" leading many pundits to believe he was crazy.
Chicago and Miami were over a thousand miles away from each other, but from Bulls fans' perspectives, they might as well have been neighbors competing for best Christmas decorations.
The numbers, chopped and screwed
After a full month of play, the Bulls were 9-8 and still awaiting the return of Boozer. Going into tonight's game (the 73rd of the season), they are 53-19. Translation: a 44-11 record since December 3, an .800 winning percentage.
Over the same period, the Heat (who were 12-8 on December 3), ran off a record of 39-14 for a percentage of .736. Not better than the Bulls but still incredibly good. (To compare, the Lakers were also 39-14 in that span; the league-leading Spurs were 41-13, a .759 clip.)
Naturally, the media looked to the numbers and wondered how Chicago was winning so much. There had to be a single, primary reason, right? So they saw Rose's statistical improvement and TV-friendly skill set, and started putting him at the forefront of the MVP race.
Correction: they firmly crowned him as the most valuable player. Every single one of them, from Jon Barry to Christopher Hitchens. Even Christiane Amanpour went on record: "the situation in Libya is growing dire, but Derrick Rose is hands down my MVP. The guy is a flat-out winner, unlike Gadhafi."
There was only one problem: the season wasn't finished yet.
The noise, muted
I'm a Chicago fan through and through. I even want the Cubs to succeed, if it means their well-meaning fans can be happy and the Chicago baseball rivalry can be a rivalry. I've watched Derrick Rose and the Bulls all season long and I've seen him and the Bulls get better every game. I sang the "Fast Don't Lie" jingle all through the winter, and I've mused many times over selling my life for playoff tickets.
Derrick Rose would be my MVP vote, as Cam'ron and the Diplomats would say, easy.
However, I understand the cases for other players. Dwight Howard is the engine for Orlando and he has improved his game this year as well (the Tim Duncan-like jumper.) Kobe Bryant is Kobe Bryant, the best in the clutches. LeBron James will always be a positional anomaly who can play almost anywhere on the court, and Kevin Durant can score almost at will now.
There is an argument for other players. But there shouldn't be a need to scream about it.
Skip Bayless has criticized just about everyone who's been born and played a professional sport in the United States, as well as Mother Theresa's charity work. We expect it from him. But now Dan LeBatard (whom I just don't respect) has weighed in on the supposed media-driven Rose-fest.
The quote that sums up all this Rose-hatred/MVP-misjudgment: "[Rose] is just not the best [player]. Which means he's not the most valuable."
Without going into detail, best does not equate in basketball with most valuable. If that were true, either Kobe Bryant or LeBron James would have won the award the last five years every single season, because they are without a doubt splitting time for best player (with Timmy D running third.)
What does it mean? I don't know. There are so many variables to consider even without sabermetrics. Chemistry, trade value, "aaaah" factor (see: fans after a Blake Griffin dunk), player mindset. But most of all, I think the MVP should come from a team that not only wins, but wins when it counts: the playoffs.
So since the season's not over, I think it's time for everyone to shut up.
That would fix everything, wouldn't it? There wouldn't be any of the D-Rose stumping which has caused so much backlash. There also wouldn't be coaches, players and media personnel campaigning for another player based a modicum of facts and a majority of shouted opinions. We could watch the games, total the stats, weigh them with those few remaining intangibles, and when the season's over, make a reasoned argument. The opinions would stay relegated to 100-plus characters on Twitter and the 10-plus characters at the barbershop.
It would be so easy. And so much quieter.
The reality, resigned
Alas, the world does not work that way. Everyone has a subject to formulate an opinion on and a chance to voice that opinion. Indeed, this blog post is a shining example of just that.
The system won't change. Without people like Skip, there would be no targets for our ire and no arguments to rebut. And there's no going back from the Internet and the culture of immediacy. It's a "global village", as Marshall McLuhan correctly theorized, and one where you can't move away from your neighbors.
As the Miami Heat have as yet failed to live up to lofty expectations, Rose's emergence as an MVP candidate is the natural debate topic. That would be fine, if most or all of the opinions weren't opinions and were instead well-reasoned arguments. But with new stats and figures every second and endless frames of tape, that is becoming almost impossible. After all, none of the so-called arguments have done what arguments are supposed to do: bring everyone involved to a logical conclusion.
So I propose that since we have nothing valuable to say, we should say nothing at all. That would be the most valuable thing we could do.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Saturday, March 12, 2011
A Fan, By Any Other Name, Is Just an Idiot
"I have discovered in 20 years of moving around the ballpark that knowledge of the game is usually in inverse proportion to the price of the seats." - Bill Veeck
It's every fan's worst nightmare.
You've somehow gotten great seats for a great game at your favorite team's stadium. Seats you would never get because, as the title of this blog suggests, you're tax bracket usually has you sitting in the upper deck. But somehow, you can actually see the players without having to increase your future chances at getting laser eye surgery. It's going to be a great day.
Then, out of nowhere, they show up.
The annoying fan.
You know the types. The fan who has an irrational hatred of your squad and can only express it with incoherent profanity. The guy who just has to let everyone know he's at the game, via phone call, text, Twitter, photo messages and keep updating them every two seconds. The guy who takes up two seats.
It's a hazardous world out there in the cheap seats for sure. But your likelihood of running into the "Phans" (after Philly fans, who have the rep of being the worst fans in America) increases a lot when you venture into the lower bowl, and I'm not talking your run-of-the-mill bandwagon jumper. So here is a handy guide for these terrible fans and how to avoid them.
The "Social Butterfly"
How to spot: Has newest phone on the market, usually matched with freshly bought home team jersey or cap. Friendly, at times overbearingly so. Will often shout "Did you see that?" about plays that everyone saw. Subset of "bandwagon fan".
Avoid by: Either be completely stony until they get the message or move out of range of their camera phone.
Not the worst fan to be next to, but can be deceivingly distracting. Or if you're cool with it, take a picture with the person and you just might make a new friend...who always has great seats to the game.
The "Deflector"
Chars.: Fan of the other team; will always tell you what's wrong with your team, your city, your politicians, restaurants, schools, etc. If their team starts losing, it's never their fault: "Oh, the refs have it out for us...we never play well here...it's Good Friday and the boys haven't eaten meat, they're tired."
Avoidance: I had the misfortune of running into this guy at a White Sox-Tigers game in 2006. The Tigers got out to an early lead and my man used that opportunity to tell me how bad the Sox were, how their World Series win was a fluke, and how Detroit was a much better city than Chicago. When the Sox took a late lead in the seventh inning, I turned around to ask the guy what he thought...and he was nowhere to be found.
The point? Winning is the best cure for this particular fan.
The "William Ligue"
Chars.: Lot of tattoos, a lot of facial hair, worn-out cap or t-shirt that they've have since 1992, and an attitude like they've stubbed their toe twice a day since birth. Loves the f-word, whether the team is winning or losing, but will go to Incredible Hulk status if the team does start losing. (Note: if this is a woman, disregard next paragraph and RUN. Run away quickly.)
Avoid by: Calling security, police, or Ron Artest. No fan alive can stand up to The Queensbridge Mangler.
The "Father-Daughter Day"
Chars.: Easy to spot: a parent(s) and a baby. Deceptive in that it looks like a heartwarming scene, but that child is one crowd-riling dunk from becoming a crying, screaming menace.
Avoid by: Never having kids yourself. (Kidding. Just move somewhere else.)
The "St. Patrick's Day"
Chars.: A group of younger people, usually under 30- or 35-years-old (variable). Hard to spot because they could be fans of the game wearing team apparel or they could just be on a work outing, but they will always be drunk by the fifth inning or third quarter. Will be excited and rowdy no matter the outcome; usually nice enough but can get belligerent towards anyone around them.
Avoid by: Talk to them early in the game so you're cool; by the time they're on their fifth round, you'll have known each other your whole lives. Agree with everything they say within reason. If they turn on you for some reason, either leave quickly or find your William Ligue-looking friend for backup.
The "Jeff Van Gundy"
Chars.: Will always be a fan of whoever's winning at that particular moment or who ESPN is backing at that point in time (see: many Bulls fans in the '90s, Yankees and Lakers fans in the early 2000s, Red Sox fans post-2004, Cubs fans of any generation, any current Miami Heat fan that doesn't live or has lived in Miami.) Other names: "bandwagon jumper", "rider", "fairweather fan", "jocker". A particularly annoying breed is the "girl who's in love with this athlete so she likes his team", i.e. female Patriots fans who only like Danny Woodhead (hah! You thought I would say Tom Brady?).
Avoidance: This is widely acknowledged as the worst of the Phans. As they're just following a team to be trendy, their knowledge will be limited and logic non-existent. The easiest way of dealing with these fans is to avoid interaction with them at all costs. Or just whack them, Sopranos-style. The world's usually better off.
With baseball season nearing it's beginning, the NBA playoff race heating up and March Madness kicking into gear, fans from everywhere in the country will be filling stadiums. If you know anyone who's unaware of these bad fans, or if you have any more Phans you know of, please let me know. Only you can cure Phanaticism.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
It's every fan's worst nightmare.
You've somehow gotten great seats for a great game at your favorite team's stadium. Seats you would never get because, as the title of this blog suggests, you're tax bracket usually has you sitting in the upper deck. But somehow, you can actually see the players without having to increase your future chances at getting laser eye surgery. It's going to be a great day.
Then, out of nowhere, they show up.
The annoying fan.
You know the types. The fan who has an irrational hatred of your squad and can only express it with incoherent profanity. The guy who just has to let everyone know he's at the game, via phone call, text, Twitter, photo messages and keep updating them every two seconds. The guy who takes up two seats.
It's a hazardous world out there in the cheap seats for sure. But your likelihood of running into the "Phans" (after Philly fans, who have the rep of being the worst fans in America) increases a lot when you venture into the lower bowl, and I'm not talking your run-of-the-mill bandwagon jumper. So here is a handy guide for these terrible fans and how to avoid them.
The "Social Butterfly"
How to spot: Has newest phone on the market, usually matched with freshly bought home team jersey or cap. Friendly, at times overbearingly so. Will often shout "Did you see that?" about plays that everyone saw. Subset of "bandwagon fan".
Avoid by: Either be completely stony until they get the message or move out of range of their camera phone.
Not the worst fan to be next to, but can be deceivingly distracting. Or if you're cool with it, take a picture with the person and you just might make a new friend...who always has great seats to the game.
The "Deflector"
Chars.: Fan of the other team; will always tell you what's wrong with your team, your city, your politicians, restaurants, schools, etc. If their team starts losing, it's never their fault: "Oh, the refs have it out for us...we never play well here...it's Good Friday and the boys haven't eaten meat, they're tired."
Avoidance: I had the misfortune of running into this guy at a White Sox-Tigers game in 2006. The Tigers got out to an early lead and my man used that opportunity to tell me how bad the Sox were, how their World Series win was a fluke, and how Detroit was a much better city than Chicago. When the Sox took a late lead in the seventh inning, I turned around to ask the guy what he thought...and he was nowhere to be found.
The point? Winning is the best cure for this particular fan.
The "William Ligue"
Chars.: Lot of tattoos, a lot of facial hair, worn-out cap or t-shirt that they've have since 1992, and an attitude like they've stubbed their toe twice a day since birth. Loves the f-word, whether the team is winning or losing, but will go to Incredible Hulk status if the team does start losing. (Note: if this is a woman, disregard next paragraph and RUN. Run away quickly.)
Avoid by: Calling security, police, or Ron Artest. No fan alive can stand up to The Queensbridge Mangler.
The "Father-Daughter Day"
Chars.: Easy to spot: a parent(s) and a baby. Deceptive in that it looks like a heartwarming scene, but that child is one crowd-riling dunk from becoming a crying, screaming menace.
Avoid by: Never having kids yourself. (Kidding. Just move somewhere else.)
The "St. Patrick's Day"
Chars.: A group of younger people, usually under 30- or 35-years-old (variable). Hard to spot because they could be fans of the game wearing team apparel or they could just be on a work outing, but they will always be drunk by the fifth inning or third quarter. Will be excited and rowdy no matter the outcome; usually nice enough but can get belligerent towards anyone around them.
Avoid by: Talk to them early in the game so you're cool; by the time they're on their fifth round, you'll have known each other your whole lives. Agree with everything they say within reason. If they turn on you for some reason, either leave quickly or find your William Ligue-looking friend for backup.
The "Jeff Van Gundy"
Chars.: Will always be a fan of whoever's winning at that particular moment or who ESPN is backing at that point in time (see: many Bulls fans in the '90s, Yankees and Lakers fans in the early 2000s, Red Sox fans post-2004, Cubs fans of any generation, any current Miami Heat fan that doesn't live or has lived in Miami.) Other names: "bandwagon jumper", "rider", "fairweather fan", "jocker". A particularly annoying breed is the "girl who's in love with this athlete so she likes his team", i.e. female Patriots fans who only like Danny Woodhead (hah! You thought I would say Tom Brady?).
Avoidance: This is widely acknowledged as the worst of the Phans. As they're just following a team to be trendy, their knowledge will be limited and logic non-existent. The easiest way of dealing with these fans is to avoid interaction with them at all costs. Or just whack them, Sopranos-style. The world's usually better off.
With baseball season nearing it's beginning, the NBA playoff race heating up and March Madness kicking into gear, fans from everywhere in the country will be filling stadiums. If you know anyone who's unaware of these bad fans, or if you have any more Phans you know of, please let me know. Only you can cure Phanaticism.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Basketball: the Beautiful Struggle
It's a March afternoon at Rainbow Beach. Trees are still leafless and lifeless, the grass is worn and patchy, the sky a dreary gray. A cold wind blows from the lake and scatters leftover trash. The beach is deserted, save for a few seagulls and the languid surf that laps at the shore.
There is nothing here to suggest what the future will bring: dozens of children running for the sand, the smoky aroma of barbecue, perhaps a softball game or two.
But the gloomy picture is broken up by the bounce. The steady bounce.
The steady, rhythmic bounce of a basketball on the asphalt. The clank of the rim as a shot goes awry and every once in a while, the soft swish of the worn nets as the roundball drops through the hoop.
Amidst a forlorn urban landscape, there is beauty, some small piece of paradise.
There is beauty in this blacktop.
America's pastime
Sports is a business. We all know it. I talked about how I accepted that fact long ago in my last post. Professional sports is an economically-driven vehicle where the primary focus is making money for someone. Not the entertainment, but the money.
Even so, all these sports we watch on television are games at heart. The Olympics were born from a simple footrace. Soccer was birthed in the mountains of South America. Baseball started in open fields and became famous in the alleyways of New York.
All those sports have their own special qualities. Every sport is born from the idea of human sacrifice and exertion, the idea that something has to be given up for something to be gained. Every sport says, "you must push yourself to win, to gain victory."
But no sport is more resonant with the human condition today than basketball. Especially for Americans.
Wordless poetry
In 1891, Dr. James Naismith hung a pair of peach baskets at opposite ends of a YMCA gymnasium in Connecticut, and basketball was born. About the same time, Scott Joplin's ragtime music was moving across the country, paving the way for the earliest forms of jazz.
Unlike the more traditional forms of music, where melody was even and rigid, jazz broke the norm. Time was out of sync to the casual listener and melodies were short riffs that could be thrown from instrument to instrument. Ragtime and jazz were an affront to American traditional society that was used to classical, folk and other "sit back and relax" forms of music.
Basketball, while it started slowly, took the same route. The game was played much the same way until 1954, when the shot clock was introduced to the NBA. Soon, basketball evolved from teams sitting on the ball for an entire half to a fast-paced, wildly rhythmic game that took fans from their chairs at home to their feet in the stands.
It stands to reason that just as jazz is recognized as the only truly American musical style, basketball is the only truly American sport. While you need a lot of equipment and space to play baseball (and, in a related way, classical music), basketball needs a ball, a hoop (or a milk crate) and two people who want to play. Basketball players and jazz musicians operate with a similar style: at once frenetic and languid, moving in abrupt starts and stops, improvising through planes that make sense to them and only to us once the end result is reached.
It's not enough to say these things. Basketball is a visual sport, and must be seen to be appreciated, just as jazz must be heard to be fully realized. For there are artists in both genres that we will never have the chance to appreciate in person ever again: Elgin Baylor, John Havlicek, Bill Russell, Earl Monroe. Kareem, Pete Maravich (the greatest pre-MJ player to wear #23), George Gervin. Magic and Bird, Hakeem Olajuwon, Michael Jordan. Compare them to Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dexter Coleman, Thelonius Monk, Max Roach, Buddy Rich, Jaco Pastorius.
All these men crafted art without brushes, prose without words, poetry in pure motion.
The beautiful struggle
Baseball has long been called "America's pastime". But basketball is the child of Americans, from Indiana to New York, from Los Angeles to Boston, from Chicago to Phoenix. The cities, the suburbs, the towns, the rural pastures—it's hard to find a place without a basketball hoop in the driveway or on the garage.
Why does basketball resonate with us? Because that simple act of trying to put an 18-inch sphere through a 36-inch hoop is a great reminder of our own personal struggles. We have a small window of opportunity to aim for, and though there maybe obstacles in our path at any given time, usually the greatest force acting against us is ourselves. Just as we may shoot baskets for hours and miss many more than we take, often we miss more opportunities than we make good on.
But just as it's inifinitely satisfying when we do finally succeed in life, it's just as sweet as when we finally drain that jump shot. Those kids at Rainbow Beach know, even as the sky dims to black, the wind blows harder and the rain starts to fall.
There is beauty in this blacktop.
JS
There is nothing here to suggest what the future will bring: dozens of children running for the sand, the smoky aroma of barbecue, perhaps a softball game or two.
But the gloomy picture is broken up by the bounce. The steady bounce.
The steady, rhythmic bounce of a basketball on the asphalt. The clank of the rim as a shot goes awry and every once in a while, the soft swish of the worn nets as the roundball drops through the hoop.
Amidst a forlorn urban landscape, there is beauty, some small piece of paradise.
There is beauty in this blacktop.
America's pastime
Sports is a business. We all know it. I talked about how I accepted that fact long ago in my last post. Professional sports is an economically-driven vehicle where the primary focus is making money for someone. Not the entertainment, but the money.
Even so, all these sports we watch on television are games at heart. The Olympics were born from a simple footrace. Soccer was birthed in the mountains of South America. Baseball started in open fields and became famous in the alleyways of New York.
All those sports have their own special qualities. Every sport is born from the idea of human sacrifice and exertion, the idea that something has to be given up for something to be gained. Every sport says, "you must push yourself to win, to gain victory."
But no sport is more resonant with the human condition today than basketball. Especially for Americans.
Wordless poetry
In 1891, Dr. James Naismith hung a pair of peach baskets at opposite ends of a YMCA gymnasium in Connecticut, and basketball was born. About the same time, Scott Joplin's ragtime music was moving across the country, paving the way for the earliest forms of jazz.
Unlike the more traditional forms of music, where melody was even and rigid, jazz broke the norm. Time was out of sync to the casual listener and melodies were short riffs that could be thrown from instrument to instrument. Ragtime and jazz were an affront to American traditional society that was used to classical, folk and other "sit back and relax" forms of music.
Basketball, while it started slowly, took the same route. The game was played much the same way until 1954, when the shot clock was introduced to the NBA. Soon, basketball evolved from teams sitting on the ball for an entire half to a fast-paced, wildly rhythmic game that took fans from their chairs at home to their feet in the stands.
It stands to reason that just as jazz is recognized as the only truly American musical style, basketball is the only truly American sport. While you need a lot of equipment and space to play baseball (and, in a related way, classical music), basketball needs a ball, a hoop (or a milk crate) and two people who want to play. Basketball players and jazz musicians operate with a similar style: at once frenetic and languid, moving in abrupt starts and stops, improvising through planes that make sense to them and only to us once the end result is reached.
It's not enough to say these things. Basketball is a visual sport, and must be seen to be appreciated, just as jazz must be heard to be fully realized. For there are artists in both genres that we will never have the chance to appreciate in person ever again: Elgin Baylor, John Havlicek, Bill Russell, Earl Monroe. Kareem, Pete Maravich (the greatest pre-MJ player to wear #23), George Gervin. Magic and Bird, Hakeem Olajuwon, Michael Jordan. Compare them to Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dexter Coleman, Thelonius Monk, Max Roach, Buddy Rich, Jaco Pastorius.
All these men crafted art without brushes, prose without words, poetry in pure motion.
The beautiful struggle
Baseball has long been called "America's pastime". But basketball is the child of Americans, from Indiana to New York, from Los Angeles to Boston, from Chicago to Phoenix. The cities, the suburbs, the towns, the rural pastures—it's hard to find a place without a basketball hoop in the driveway or on the garage.
Why does basketball resonate with us? Because that simple act of trying to put an 18-inch sphere through a 36-inch hoop is a great reminder of our own personal struggles. We have a small window of opportunity to aim for, and though there maybe obstacles in our path at any given time, usually the greatest force acting against us is ourselves. Just as we may shoot baskets for hours and miss many more than we take, often we miss more opportunities than we make good on.
But just as it's inifinitely satisfying when we do finally succeed in life, it's just as sweet as when we finally drain that jump shot. Those kids at Rainbow Beach know, even as the sky dims to black, the wind blows harder and the rain starts to fall.
There is beauty in this blacktop.
JS
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Flo Riding to Daytona
Today's post comes from LaVeda Peterlin, a veteran of Chicago's WGN Radio and one of the best bowlers to come out of the South Side of Chicago. Since last year, LaVeda's been traveling the country in an RV, from Tennessee to North Carolina. This week finds her at Daytona International Speedway for NASCAR's opening weekend. Check out her blog here: http://ljpeterlin.wordpress.com/
This week I spent living in my RV on the infield at Daytona. It has been a lot of fun, and you can feel the anticipation building for the upcoming big race weekend. Being on the infield has been a great experience; the first time I stood by the railing and watched the cars go by at speeds of more than 200 mph was exhilarating. On the infield there are mostly half million dollar, bus-type RVs, decked out with all the amenities, many of them with elaborate platforms built on the rooftops. There are also converted school buses and smaller RVs, but with the high price of admission, there are few, if any, eye sores. One thing for sure: Nascar fans are passionate about their drivers and showing their support.
Since Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jeff Gordon are now on the same team, there is less animosity among the fans than years ago, when there were two distinct camps. Now it is fine to like the both of them and root against Jimmie Johnson since he has been the big winner recently. Since Dale Jr. has joined the same team as Jeff Gordon, he has not been as successful as he’d like; in fact, he has not won a race in the past two seasons. More than 90 races have been run without Junior visiting the winner’s circle. Jeff Gordon has been in more than 60 races without a win of his own.
Today is the 10th anniversary of Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s passing, and many fans have tributes displayed on their RVs. Dale’s untimely death occurred on this very track, and no matter which driver is your favorite, the iconic stature of Dale Earnhardt cannot be ignored. NASCAR will have a tribute during the Daytona 500 on Sunday, when there will be silence during the entire third lap in memory of the man who drove the famous black No. 3 car.
The week has not been without controversy as everyone sees Dale Jr as the favored son, and wants him to win in honor of his beloved father. He pulled the pole for the Budweiser Shootout and then won the pole for the 500. There has been some speculation that Nascar is helping him as much as possible. With speeds over 206 mph, he is finding the newly paved Daytona Speedway to be to his liking. The drivers are pairing up and drafting to clock over 200 mph, which has Nascar concerned with safety once again.
Since Dale Sr.’s death, safety has been improved dramatically, and although it is exciting to see drivers top the 200 mph mark, it would be tragic if high speeds caused another needless death of a driver.
The fans are here to have a good time and it is obvious they enjoy seeing the speed of the cars, but not at the risk of losing another life. This should be a sport to watch, and not a matter of life and death.
This week I spent living in my RV on the infield at Daytona. It has been a lot of fun, and you can feel the anticipation building for the upcoming big race weekend. Being on the infield has been a great experience; the first time I stood by the railing and watched the cars go by at speeds of more than 200 mph was exhilarating. On the infield there are mostly half million dollar, bus-type RVs, decked out with all the amenities, many of them with elaborate platforms built on the rooftops. There are also converted school buses and smaller RVs, but with the high price of admission, there are few, if any, eye sores. One thing for sure: Nascar fans are passionate about their drivers and showing their support.
Since Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jeff Gordon are now on the same team, there is less animosity among the fans than years ago, when there were two distinct camps. Now it is fine to like the both of them and root against Jimmie Johnson since he has been the big winner recently. Since Dale Jr. has joined the same team as Jeff Gordon, he has not been as successful as he’d like; in fact, he has not won a race in the past two seasons. More than 90 races have been run without Junior visiting the winner’s circle. Jeff Gordon has been in more than 60 races without a win of his own.
Today is the 10th anniversary of Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s passing, and many fans have tributes displayed on their RVs. Dale’s untimely death occurred on this very track, and no matter which driver is your favorite, the iconic stature of Dale Earnhardt cannot be ignored. NASCAR will have a tribute during the Daytona 500 on Sunday, when there will be silence during the entire third lap in memory of the man who drove the famous black No. 3 car.
The week has not been without controversy as everyone sees Dale Jr as the favored son, and wants him to win in honor of his beloved father. He pulled the pole for the Budweiser Shootout and then won the pole for the 500. There has been some speculation that Nascar is helping him as much as possible. With speeds over 206 mph, he is finding the newly paved Daytona Speedway to be to his liking. The drivers are pairing up and drafting to clock over 200 mph, which has Nascar concerned with safety once again.
Since Dale Sr.’s death, safety has been improved dramatically, and although it is exciting to see drivers top the 200 mph mark, it would be tragic if high speeds caused another needless death of a driver.
The fans are here to have a good time and it is obvious they enjoy seeing the speed of the cars, but not at the risk of losing another life. This should be a sport to watch, and not a matter of life and death.
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