Show and Tell

To begin with the personal—I spent the last week and change in the dark. That’s not meant as a sly allusion to my fantasy team shooting the lights out either (though I did enjoy Gilbert’s 60 earlier in the week...54 last night!). I was visiting my folks in Seattle, where a displaced nor’easter pillaged the power grid and left us without electricity for 6 days. Like Gloria Gaynor, however, I survived; now, I’m back to tell about it. (No word on the whereabouts of the Gumbel Bros though. He’s a co-writer on this here weblog, but I think he’s been in the hospital giving birth to his girlfriend’s baby. Come in from the dark, TGB; it’s cold out there, and the readers are calling your number.)

A fracas in the Garden, a blockbuster deal, more controversy than a custody battle—‘twas the toughest of weeks to go without internet access, right? Lions and tigers and bears!

I don’t even know where to begin. Actually, I do: the fat man in Denver, the Carlo Rossi of the NBA. Is there any coach in the league more deserving of a deep-fryer and a double-wide than George Karl? Class, Karl hath not. He’s a P.E. teacher with an oversized salary and a 52-inch waist. Everything about the man embodies bloat.

Strangely enough, then, I find myself defending Isiah on this one. I don’t blame him for talking tough. Remember a few years back when Bill Cowher looked like he might storm the field to shoulder an opposing team’s breaking player? What’d the boys in Bristol say then? They spoke of Cowher’s “heart,” his “grit” and “determination.” Why shouldn’t we say the same thing about Isiah now? (Answer: because in my world, we take points off for rusty clichés.) Don’t get me wrong: Isiah still belongs on the sidelines of a women’s J.V. team. He can’t coach, and he makes terrible front-office decisions. Nonetheless, taking shit from a classless club in NYC…fuggedaboudit. Let the Nuggets sleep with fishes.

Speaking of the Nuggets, A.I. must be loving the deal to Denver—A.I., as in Andre Iguodala. Watch what happens once Andre Miller gets adjusted to Philly’s players. Iggy’s TOs will go down, his shot selection will improve, and his scoring ought to climb. There’s no reason why Iguodala won’t be a 20-point scorer this season. Add that to 50 % from the field, 2+ steals per, 6.5 rebounds, 5 assists, and a slam dunk title this coming February. Every brother in that city of love will be like Allen who? (Note of disclosure: I happen to have Mr. Iguodala in my fantasy league. Bite me.)

While in Seattle last week, I happened to attend the nationally televised Sonics-Mavericks game on Wednesday evening. Only “attend” might not be the right word for the experience; “participate in” is the better verb phrase. I need to thank the fine people at Lake Partners in Seattle for the night. An old friend invited me on the company dime: third-row floor seats, free beer and food, a halftime chat with Lenny Wilkens and Jon Barry, special parking, a pre-game pep speech to Chris Wilcox (also a fantasy team contributor), and several coy (dare I say, sincere) smiles from the dancing girls. Company dime or not, the whole shebang cost someone quite the pretty penny.

We sat so close to the court—indeed, on the court, in folding chairs—it felt almost pornographic, as if the hardwood action were being performed just for us. We saw the sweat drip from muscled flesh, heard the music of grunts and mumbles in the paint. When they ran the wing on a break, their rushing bodies brewed the air with the smell of gym rats. When they turned the pick-and-roll, the pounding of the ball vibrated rings in the beer at our feet.

Something occurred to me in the middle of those visceral four quarters. As I yelled at the referees, cheered the home-team, and called Dampier by his maiden name, Erica, I noticed an unattractive complacency on the faces of the ticket-holders near me. They were too content, too satisfied with just watching. I wanted a jersey or a whistle or a suit and a seat on the bench; other fans wanted email access. While I shouted “shoot-it!,” the dude next to me chatted with his broker on a Blackberry. While I called “foul!,” he called home.

I know it’s not uncommon for diehards to lament the apathy of the home-town crowd. That’s not exactly what I mean here. My experience with the courtside big-shots on Wednesday made me understand something more specific.

I realized while watching the Mavs what makes Mark Cuban so special. It’s not that he’s the “fan’s owner,” as so many are wont to dub him. It’s not that he shows the “heart” and “passion” of nose-bleeders rather than blue-bloods.

No, it’s more like he’s the owner’s fan—every arena’s exemplary sixth man. He roots like he has something to lose, as the rest of us should. Cuban drinks from the ambrosia of locker rooms, dizzies with the spectacle of pirouetting players, and maddens when the whistle-blowers in stripes wreck the show. What would happen if every Key Arena local wrote Commish Stern about Wednesday night’s game? Told him about the free-throw disparity, and asked why the Mavs shot 34 to the Sonics 10 (five of which came in the last two minutes)? What if all the marketing wizards at MSG volunteered their expertise? Had the country chirping about Miami and L.A. on Christmas day, the way the country clucks for the Yankees and Red Sox in the summer?

For this holiday season, I offer you all advice: don’t be like Mike. His playing days are through, and he’s too comfortable as an ivory-tower owner.

Instead, be like Mark.