The essay I eventually wrote fell a wee bit short of any de Tocquevillean insight and, as far as I know, is not required reading today on anybody’s list. But I do remember one conclusion I reached: the NBA had no significant claim on the American consciousness.
That revelation came to me in the city of Detroit, where I arrived on the evening of what would turn out to be one of the most historic games in NBA history: the sixth game of the finals between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Philadelphia 76ers. All in all, I figured Detroit to be a pretty good place to take in the game. It was an NBA city with a proud basketball tradition. And the league’s rising star of the moment happened to be a local lad, a Laker rookie by way of Michigan State named Earvin “Magic” Johnson.
Now back in those days, it didn’t matter where you were in this country–the NBA wasn’t regarded as prime-time fare. In the East, that meant the games were televised on tape delay at 11:30 p.m. So I mainlined coffee to prep for the late-night ordeal with coffee and, finally, turned on the game. But to my amazement it wasn’t on. The local affiliate had opted, instead, for a “Sanford and Son” rerun, pushing the NBA telecast back to midnight. I imagine a handful of fans in Motown were still awake at 3 a.m. to see the Lakers clinch the championship. And to witness Magic, subbing for an injured Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and playing center for the only time in his NBA career, dazzle with 42 points.
So NBA Commissioner David Stern can be forgiven if he refuses to play Chicken Little over record-low TV ratings for San Antonio’s just-completed, prime-time championship run. After all, he was there with the NBA back when the sky really was falling (sky hooks, too). He knows the difference. And if he needs to be reminded of his league’s manifold blessings, he can glance at the NHL, a league with bankrupt teams, major labor woes and soccerlike TV ratings.
There was actually much to admire in the Spurs-Nets final, particularly in the ferocious efforts put forth by both sides. That the Spurs have exactly one player who, in current form, could have played for any of the great championship teams of the ’80s is, in a fashion, a tribute to the character of that team. In fact, there are more class acts on San Antonio’s roster than on any in memory. And that one player, Tim Duncan, is something truly special; at age 27 he is already ensconced on my all-time all-NBA first team (along with Kareem, Larry, Magic and MJ, if you really had to ask).
Unfortunately, very little of what was appealing about this series made for good viewing. While Duncan is brilliant, there is little lyricism in his game, at least by Michael Jordan standards–just a remarkable combination of fundamental skills, athleticism and efficiencies down low. The rest of the action was so ragtag and lacking in fundamental skills that it was often unwatchable.
My clicker never lies. During the third game, I eagerly anticipated breaks in the action when I could flip over to the Tony Awards–and by the game’s second half I was staying put on Broadway longer and longer. One time I lingered long enough to see separate segments featuring Bernadette Peters, Antonio Banderas, Brian Dennehy and Vanessa Redgrave. I was away from the basketball game so long that by the time I returned to the Meadowlands the Nets had actually scored a bucket. Eventually I tuned in to the basketball only for the babes of Coors Light and flipped back to the Tonys as soon as the ball was in-bounded.
Welcome to the modern NBA, the byproduct of a host of forces–free agency, overexpansion, 19-year-old lottery picks and the “SportsCenter” highlight film–that inevitably conspire against offensive play. Chuck Daly, legendary coach and architect of the Pistons “Bad Boys” championship teams, once explained it to me most succinctly. Cohesive offenses were far more difficult to fashion, requiring a mature combination of ball-handling and shooting skills, as well as a sophisticated level of mental synchronicity between teammates. Better to let your team stand around on offense, catch their breath and use that energy on defense. Because a ferocious defense can be built around pillars that abound in the league–athleticism and effort. And, mind you, Daly chose the defensive route with Isiah Thomas, Mark Aguirre, Joe Dumars, Vinnie Johnson and Bill Laimbeer in his arsenal, firepower that would be the envy of every NBA coach today.
Still, none of this amounts to an epitaph for the NBA. There are even a few healthy signs–at least for the game itself. The internationalization of the NBA, a testament to the league’s visionary leadership, has assured that the talent pool is burgeoning. If the league can resist easy bucks from further expansion, the quality of play may actually begin to improve.
Because the foreign-born talent is raised away from some of the most pernicious influences of America’s modern basketball culture, they arrive schooled in fundamentals that have eluded a host of homegrown MJ wannabes whose understanding of Jordan’s extraordinary basketball legacy stops with “Air.” (Hey, Nike, here’s a radical notion: an ad featuring one of your hotshots practicing free throws.) No surprise that the two most entertaining NBA teams, Dallas and Sacramento, boast prominent foreign stars. As do the champs San Antonio, most notably Tony Parker who at 21 and, despite an up-and-down playoffs, shows great promise.
In the end, much of the debate about the current state of the NBA gets cast as a battle over style. Criticism is too easily dismissed as the petulant rantings of the middle-aged who don’t like tattoos or rap and are nostalgic about pretty much everything from their heyday, including the cold war. Truth is it runs a little deeper than that. Sports is like any entertainment form, most vital in its youthful incarnation. Think jazz in Miles’s and the Bird’s heyday. (Not that Bird!) Rock and roll when the Beatles crossed over and Chuck Berry could duck-walk without a cane. And for all its Tonys, nobody confused “Hairspray” with “West Side Story.”
If the NBA isn’t quite as fantastic as it once was, it remains a cut above the faddish, reality drivel that now holds sway on TV. And with the infusion of a few more Germans, Spaniards, French, Serbs, Chinese and Argentineans, the league may even rediscover its lost offense. That might, in turn, help fans to rediscover it. Because as the Tonys demonstrated with “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” there’s plenty to love in a great revival.
