Mar
17, 2001 NBA
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MOM,
THEY'RE DOING IT AGAIN By
SCOTT STEVENS
It’s
bad enough we ignored his hand on Bryon Russell’s ass and framed the picture
in our minds. How beautiful it is to retire a winner!
Why
must we insist on dreaming the wondrous dream? Like the naïve child
who waits up for Santa only to wake up in his bed with the mystery still
alive and three hundred and sixty four days to wait for another chance
at glory. The nightmare that Bill Murray eloquently captured in Groundhog
Day appears to be a dream for most. Why has the mere suggestion that Michael
Jordan is getting in shape and preparing for a comeback caused the day’s
biggest uproar?
He
is not coming back nor should we want him to.
Just
as the NBA bites its lip and begins getting on with life after Mike (three
years too late), the world gets its collective panties in a bunch at the
mere idea. Even my sister’s boyfriend spoke to me today, muttering something
about a possible Jordan comeback. He hasn’t spoken to me since the Rams
got knocked out of the playoffs. Somebody needs therapy. This is bigger
than cornrows, tattoos, and high school kids.
Why
does Mike mean so much?
There
has never been an athlete who competed, achieved, and performed at the
level that Mike did. Or least that’s what we’ve accepted as infallible.
I’ve never really liked giving individuals props for competitors in team
sports. Isn’t it all, relative? I mean who would I be to tell the guy that
saw Oscar Robertson drop triple doubles nightly for an entire season that
he’s second to MJ. I’m sure the dude who witnessed Pistol Pete doesn’t
want to hear this Jordan stuff. For all the glorified romantic mumbo jumbo
we routinely speak about Mike, doesn’t it come down to greenbacks? The
only reason this remote possibility could cause such a stir is the true
Jordan factor.
Mike
equals money, credibility, and still more, easier money. Only Michael Jackson
and Bryant Gumbel have been as welcome into the homes of white America
and pop culture as Mike has. The league that flexed marketing muscle like
Tony Atlas during the eighties and nineties seemingly forgot the pill and
fumbled its way into the millennium. Now the NBA has stifled its talent
and allowed its coaches to adapt to the rules, leaving the game rhythm-less.
Rhythm-less?
That’s too harsh! The game has a rhythm and a beat, but no tempo.
So
I’m to assume that, His Airness who knows no bad call against thee, is
what the NBA needs. Please tell me it’s a sick joke. Can we move on to
the guys who grew up watching Him? The guys, who we told to impose their
will if they want to be great. Unfortunately for idealistic purveyors of
professional sports, Mike is like the blanket to Linus. He’s safe, reliable,
and cool (even Carolina blue to the heart).
Two
of the better games of the year were actually on TV this week. Tuesday
nights’ Kings vs. Magic slugfest showcased the league’s thoroughbred. If
the Kings snake their way to the Finals the NBA may turn into those marketing
geniuses they disguised themselves as a decade ago. I know add Mike and
stir is familiar and guarantees great returns but the build it and watch
them come theory still applies. Wednesday’s Timberwolves vs. Spurs game,
another overtime battle, brought together the tortoise and the hare Y2K
style. Garnett and Duncan have as natural a rivalry as two can, next to
Bird and Magic. Great games with playoff implications don’t thrill the
idealistic purveyor, so just more questions about the possibility. But
who needs a possibility when we’re still getting over the reality?
It’s
like the boogieman. Just believe! Nobody needs to see him and realize only
those with ulterior motives really want to. Keep your wits about you!
