Against Sportsmanship

HBO aired a much hyped documentary about the career-long rivalry between Larry Bird and Magic Johnson this past Saturday night. I watched it tonight, but I’ve also seen a host of basketball writers comment about it since this weekend. All of the commentary is in basically the same glowing terms. Though they all applaud the doc itself, the bigger cheers seem to come from the memories it revived of the actual on-court battles that these two great players had in the earlier era of the NBA—battles that, from the footage I’ve seen, were truly epic.

Here’s what I know: on court, Bird and Magic hated one another. It was about more than basketball to them. Because of the franchises they were both drafted by, the personal vendettas that went back to their college years took on all kinds of new dimensions in the pros. West coast vs. east coast. Glamorous Los Angeles vs. working class Boston. The cold-blooded recluse vs. the warm-hearted charmer. Black vs. white in a racially divided America. To hear them tell it, each guy went to the box scores the next morning and checked to see how his rival did the night before, and each of them used those results as fuel to try to get better. They lived to play one another. More accurately, they lived to try to beat one another.

Admittedly, part of this antagonism was roiling before Magic and Bird arrived on the scene. The Lakers & Celtics had squared off in the Finals seven different times prior to the 1979-80 season, with Boston winning on each occasion. Magic may not have been the whole difference, but he was certainly instrumental. The Celtics and Lakers met in the 1983-84, 1984-85, and 1986-87 finals, with the Lakers coming out victorious in the last two of those three series. Magic was unanimously voted the Finals MVP in ‘87. Bird received that honor when the Celtics took the trophy in ‘84.

While Lakers / Celtics in the Magic / Bird era was arguably the greatest NBA rivalry of the 20th century, there were certainly others. The “Bad Boys” Pistons vs the Bulls, where the infamous “Jordan Rules” were spawned. The Lakers vs. the Pistons in the same time period, along with the MJ Bulls vs. Bird’s Celtics. Even the early 2000s gave the fans the Lakers vs the Sacramento Kings, which had enough drama, entertainment value, and genuine poisonous feelings between the players that it could be considered great.

Yet today’s NBA has none of that.

Yes, rivalries still exist. Obviously the Celtics / Lakers tilt in the 2007-8 Finals was treated as big news. The Suns and Spurs don’t like each other very much. The Cavs were even at the center of what could have been a great rivalry with the Wizards—that is, if they were ever meeting anywhere later than the opening round of the post-season, and if the Wizards were ever actually able to beat the Cavs.

But unfortunately for the fans, we’ve entered what I will call the Sportsmanship Era of the NBA.

Part of this sad circumstance has to do with the way the game is officiated. Chuck Daly’s Jordan Rules made for great drama and a more even competition, but they also very much made it possible that the greatest player in the game could end up getting knocked out of the series (or more) by injury. Flagrant fouls were established in the NBA in 1993 to help protect players like Jordan, whose mastery of the game was so high that only the roughest physical play could hope to stop them.

This isn’t a phenomenon specific to the NBA. The NFL is also notorious for the legislative body armor it’s created around the quarterback position. All sports commissioners have a justified compulsion to protect their leagues’ biggest stars. The acknowledged wisdom is that it’s those stars who generate interest in the league and, therefore, revenue. While the league office can’t make these stars bullet-proof, they can certainly institute as many precautions and penalties as they think are necessary.

The irony, though, is that the “revised” officiating has arguably made the game far less competitive and, therefore, interesting. Just as linebackers and defensive linemen in the NFL argue that they can barely do their jobs now, NBA players argue that it’s impossible to even get near enough to established great players to hope to stop them. In recent NBA history, I like to point to the way Da-wyane Wade was officiated in the 2006 Finals as the best example of this. (There’s an entire series on Youtube covering the 5 most outrageous phantom calls in that series. Phantom fouls three and five are my favorites.)

It’s a conscious decision on the part of the league. David Stern and company have clearly come to the conclusion that what best serves the NBA is great players given a wide berth to be great, not the best teams fighting each other the hardest to win. I’m sure Stern would argue that the two are not mutually exclusive, but I beg to differ—partially because the life or death intensity of Bird and Magic’s rivalry in the 1980s was the phenomenon that prevented the league from capsizing.

By no means am I saying that I want the players going after one another in the parking lot with tire irons. (The last thing I need in my life as a sports fan is LeBron howling “Why? Whyyyyyyy?” while holding a kneecap busted by some thug hired by Kobe to take him out of the Finals.) I’m also not saying that sportsmanship shouldn’t be taught in youth sports, when kids need to learn the boundaries of behavior. But considering the firestorm that ignited over LeBron’s refusal to shake hands with Orlando after losing in game 6 of the ECF last season, I am saying that the focus on clean play and sportsmanship in professional sports has gone too far.

In fairness, the league isn’t wholly responsible for this situation. The other contributing factor is the culture of friendship that’s developed among the players. Unlike LeBron and Da-wyane, Bird and Magic weren’t going to dinner with one another during the season or advising one another on contract negotiations. They played against one another once in college, but they didn’t grow up together in AAU tournaments as high-schoolers and younger.

I’m not necessarily happy about this development as a fan, but it’s one I can understand as a human being. NBA players’ lives are basketball, and this starts at a very early age. Basketball is their recreation, their escape, their profession, their social life, their fraternity, and in many cases, their support group. Outside of professional sports, how many other industries are there in the world where a 19 year-old African-American kid can not only become a multi-millionaire, but also associate with a bunch of other people in the exact same position? I don’t think you need a second finger to count. In this regard, it’s natural for these players to bond with one another. Who else understands their lifestyle, their stresses, their responsibilities, and in many cases, the “have-not to have-everything” culture shock they’re experiencing?

In fact, this may be an even bigger prevention of true rivalries than the rule changes. Magic repeatedly tried to reach out to Bird early in their careers, dating back to when they played one another in the NCAA championship game. The antagonism was manufactured entirely by Bird. He snubbed Magic on purpose and made it clear that he had no desire, no reason to be friends with him. In Bird’s book, Magic’s only function in his life was to play against Bird and ultimately, to lose to him. This persisted for years. Even looking back on it now, Bird admits that his greatest joy in winning the ‘84 title was “knowing that [Magic] was suffering” because he’d lost. The plan ultimately backfired, as Magic credits that loss for driving him to work even harder so that he’d never experience that feeling again. But the fact remains that those Lakers-Celtics Finals would never have reached the intensity level they reached if not for Bird’s willingness to play the heel.

In today’s NBA, I don’t think there are any young players willing to play that role. The only star in the league with the right temperament seems to be Kobe, the guy who, according to Mike D’Antoni, implored his All-Star team to “step on the throats” of the Eastern Conference All-Stars coming out of a time-out a few years back. But like it or not, Kobe is a part of the old guard. His career is in decline. The league is in the hands of LeBron, Da-wyane, Carmelo, Chris Paul, Rajon Rondo, and others still well under 30. Led by LeBron’s example—which is really Magic’s example, minus his early relationship with Bird—these players are as much friends with one another as competitors against one another.

What they don’t have that Magic and Bird both did is a persona different from their true selves. Magic talks extensively in the documentary about how he was really two people: Earvin and Magic. Earvin was the fun-loving charmer who lit up every room he walked into; Magic was the guy who got to the gym before everyone else and literally lived for the opportunity to take revenge on Bird. After their second Finals showdown, Bird met “Earvin” when Converse coerced the two men into shooting a joint shoe commercial in French Lick, Indiana. They connected, they bonded, they felt at ease with one another. Magic then thought they could be friends the next season, that the first time they played one another, the two of them could go out for a beer after the game, chat, catch up, reminisce, etc.

But as soon as the next season began, Bird made it abundantly and instantly clear that Earvin was dead to him. He wanted to throw Magic to the crows. All of the old venom returned in an instant, and the true rivalry—the knock-down, drag-out physical rivalry, the test of wills, the hunger for not only victory but the pain of their competitor—picked up right where it left off. And it was Bird’s attitude that created that scenario.

Professional sports today are a very different animal from the Bird / Magic era: finance-wise, marketing-wise, lifestyle-wise. There didn’t use to be much drive other than winning. Now, players are brands. They have images to not just protect and develop, but cross-market. It’s less profitable for LeBron and Kobe to hate each other than it is for them to be friendly enough to co-star in Vitamin Water and Nike campaigns. Ironically, that Converse commercial with Bird and Magic—the one where they became off-court friends—may have set the precedent for this. But no one in the Sportsmanship Era of the NBA has chosen to flip that switch off so completely that the personal relationships truly become inconsequential when it comes to tip time.

Some people will still call Kobe / LeBron a rivalry. I think that label is a ridiculous reach. Yes, the public has christened them to be the two best players in the game (despite its indisputable factual error). But the two have never played one another in any game of real consequence. In fact, they’ve done more note-worthy things as Olympic teammates than NBA opponents. But the sponsors, the marketers, and even the league know deep down that rivalries are good for the sport. They know this because the Bird / Magic antagonism saved the NBA from bankruptcy in the 1980s.  But it also resulted in fights, in blood, in bruises, in injuries—in short, in the general peril that the foundation of the league’s success was one bad fall away from disappearing.

So now the league does its best to cultivate these bloodless face-offs: rivalries of stats, of individual records, of awards, with the hope that they can soon have rivalries where championships are decided  between teams of guys who really want to win, but also really want to lend a hand to help their opponent get up from the floor.  Hard-fought games that don’t cross the danger zone into “chippy.” Just enough emotion to steer clear of technical fouls. Losers crushed by the outcome, but not so crushed that they would forget to shake hands with the victor afterward. In short, rivalries governed by sportsmanship.

I reject these pseudo-rivalries. If that makes me a barbarian, so be it. But LeBron snubbing Da-wight after losing a hard-fought series is nothing compared to Kevin McHale clothes-lining Kurt Rambis to prevent a lay-up in game 3 of the ‘84 Finals. To pretend otherwise is absurd.

My great fear in all of this is that we as current basketball fans are being shorted, that the great players of today are stopping short of the top level of intensity because of the league’s doing and the players’ handling of own their personal relationships. It’s a selfish perspective, I realize. Part of the reason the NBA is like this is because the players themselves want it to be. After all, league rules aren’t forcing them to help opponents up from fouls or hug one another before and after games. On that level, the Sportsmanship Era is a grassroots movement that puts me even further in the minority than I originally thought.

But if I’m the only one against this new age of sportsmanship, then I’d also ask this: why were so many people so excited by a reminder of when Magic and Bird hated one another? I believe that the answer is that it created some of the best, most memorable basketball ever played. The emotion, the competitiveness that took the games to that level does not exist right now. And unfortunately for the fans, I also believe that it means the current league’s full potential may never be reached.

But that’s ok. At least we can all still be friends.

-T