Swish-ful thinking

Could it be?!

Word was, last week, that the Vancouver Canucks owner was jonesing for an NBA franchise. The rumour was that he was interested in purchasing the Indiana Pacers and shipping them north.

Not gonna happen.

Not with the Pacers, anway. They may be bleeding, but how could the NBA justify taking a team out of basketball country? They couldn't. No way.

So Francesco Aquilini, the owner of the Canucks and their home, GM Place, says he's not pursuing an NBA team at this time. But methinks he's interested in a roommate for his hockey squad.

Wishful thinking? Perhaps. The NBA failed Vancouver the last time they were here. Despite what you may have heard, the Grizzlies were supported. Sure, their attendance dropped to just over 13,000 in their last couple of lame-duck seasons. Keep in mind the Grizz had the worst 5-year record of any team in NBA history. The worst. What city's fans keep coming back year after miserable year when their boys aren't the least bit competitive? For the product they put out on the floor, the Grizzlies were more than adequately supported.

If this town had even a middling team, you can bet your bottom dollar (and that's what it's all about) they would be embraced. Sure, the puckheads are threatened. They seem to think being a sports fan is a zero sum game. But there's room enough for all sports at the table.

Back when the Grizz were here, foreign born were a rare sight on an NBA team. I remember one guy got a look in training camp but didn't stick. Since some American players don't like to be outside the comfort of their borders, who needs 'em now? That is, who needs the ones who don't want to be here, because you can replace them with those that do and with foreign born players who would be glad to be in the NBA. But there was too much made of the few who complained about living in Canada. The vast majority of American players here had no problems. They were happy to have a job. A ridiculously high-paying job.

Vancouver also didn't have any all-sports radio stations and all-sports TV was limited to TSN (aka The Hockey Network). These days, there's room for other sports.

The Canadian dollar was commonly referred to as the peso at the time. Now the Canadian economy is weathering the economic storm better than the Americans, and our dollar has improved significantly.

The Pacers are definitely out (I couldn't possibly support TJ Ford anyway), but there are other possibilities. The one I like the most is the Hornets, just for old-time's sake. Back in the 1940s, Vancouver had a professional basketball team in the Pacific Coast Professional Basketball League. Their name? The Hornets.

Kismet, baby!

C'mon, Francesco. Get on it. I'll forgive the NBA for taking away our Grizzlies if they'll steal us a team from some other city.

Today's (Old) Sports Guy offering is an interesting read in retrospect. It was an interview I did with Steve Nash just as he was coming out of college and preparing for the NBA draft. I wrote some nice things about him, but in reality I had no idea he'd turn into the player he did, let alone an NBA MVP two times over and millionaire several times over. I'm sure he didn't, either.

I don't have the exact date, but it would be some time between April and June in 1996.

The Sports Guy

by Guy MacPherson

“it’s been a while since I’ve taken an elbow in the head from you.”

So I nailed him in the head one more time for old times sake. Dropped him. Sure it was future NBA star Steve Nash and we were in the media dining area at GM Place. But I felt I had to remind him of his roots. He should never forget where he came from once he’s making millions in the NBA.

Indeed, it had been a while – about four or five years – since I last saw the wee lad, since I used to school him on a regular basis in pickup hoops in Victoria.

“I’d just like to say on record that that’s not true,” he said immediately following a rare Grizzlie victory. Of course he has to say that. If the NBA scouts found out the truth, I would be the one running around signing autographs here and doing interviews there with every breathing sports reporter.

Nash had been in town all of one day and had already given interviews to virtually every media outlet in the lower mainland.

“I had to do a couple of hours at the CBC and (interviews with) every TV station that’s here,” he says.

One would think it would get tiresome, answering the same questions over and over again, especially for a kid on holidays from the rigors of studying sociology in university. But Steverino is having a grand old time with it. His answers may be stock but like a polished stand-up comedian, it’s all in the delivery.

“That’s part of the business. I always say it’s a relationship of reciprocity,” he says, proving that you can be a student and an athlete in the NCAA. “The media has to do their job and it helps you out as well. Give and take. You answer the same questions over and over. I just try to have fun with it, be myself and just answer the question as candidly as possible every time. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s tiring with all the different requests pulling you in every direction. But for the most part, I just try to have fun with it and enjoy it while it’s here.”

That’s the perfect attitude to take. Too many celebrities-of-the-month feel burdened by their success. And as soon as their luck runs dry, and they’re down on it, they realize how good they had it.

“It’s a really fortunate time,” says Steve. “I’m fortunate to be able to experience all these different things and be in all these different places. I just look at in the perspective that I get to have a lot of fun and be a pretty lucky 22-year-old. I’ve got an opportunity to work hard and maybe be successful.”

Pretty lucky, indeed. It will be a huge lifestyle change for Nash. He’ll be living the good life, able to afford anything he wants, adored by millions. Is he ready for it?

“Yeah, sure,” he says, like I’m from Mars or something. “I’ve waited 22 years for some money so I’m excited.”

What was I thinking? Of course he’s ready. Twenty-two years is a pretty unreasonable length of time to wait for your first million. Most of us don’t have to wait that long.

American universities go until June unlike their more progressive Canadian counterparts who finish in April. Had Steve done the honourable thing and stayed home to star for the UVic Vikings, he would have been finished by now.

“Yeah, but if I stayed in Canada, my career would have been over, too.”

He has a point. Maybe. But if I were in his shoes, I’d be finished either way. What’s the incentive to stydy now that he’s only weeks away from becoming so well-to-do?

“Honestly?” he says. “Because I’ve come so far, I’ve done my senior thesis, kept up with all my studies and I’m just about to graduate. So I really want to get it done.”

Nudge nudge, wink wink.

During spring break, Nash was at home in Victoria visiting family and friends, playing ball every day at his old stomping grounds, UVic’s McKinnon gymnasium. He just spent four years playing against the best college players in the United States, a couple of weeks ago he was in New York City winning the NCAA 3-point contest. In the summer, he’ll be practicing with the pros, and come the fall will be playing with the best players in the world. But he still has time to play a little pick-up with hackers.

“It’s been fun just going up (to Uvic) and messing around. I gotta play ball. I’m a basketball player. If I get hurt, I get hurt, you know? I just gotta play ball. I’m insured, so...”

For me personally it will be a little strange to see someone whose butt I used to kick so often, playing among the elite.

“It is strange,” he says. “But I mean I thought you would have foreseen it when I was killing you when I was 12. But I guess you didn’t notice.”

Now it’s my turn to state something for the record. Steven Nash wasn’t killing me when he was 12. That’s ridiculous. And an outright lie. No 12-year-old can stop me. He was 13 and he knows it.

But I didn’t foresee anything.

“Well, you should have,” he says. And then he gets all humble on me. “It was probably because I was dribbling off my foot, throwing up airballs and getting nailed in the head all the time.”

Hey, if you can’t stand the head wounds, get off the court, little boy. You teach ‘em when they’re young and it makes them better.

Meanwhile, I’ll sharpen my elbows for when we meet again on the courts this summer. He’ll thank me later.

General Managing for Dummies

There's some fantastic reading over at the (Current) Sports Guy lately. And (Current) Sports Guy-related readings elsewhere.

Bill Simmons is making a push to be hired at the general manager of the Minnesota Timberwolves. He lobbied unsuccessfully a year or two ago for the open position with the Milwaukee Bucks. One of these years, an NBA team is going to take a chance with the guy. Well, probably not, knowing the NBA. But I'm all for it.

Simmons may be an outsider, but he knows his hoops. Sure, he never played the game, but did Bryan Colangelo or his dad? (I actually don't know the answer, but for now let's go with no.) So we can throw that qualification out the window. Did Rob Babcock? You don't have to have played the game to be a good or decent GM.

But the real question here isn't would he be among the best. It's would he be the worst? It's doubtful. Could he be worse than Chris Wallace in Memphis, Mike Dunleavy in Los Angeles, or Babcock when he was in Toronto? Again, doubtful.

Are all former players who have risen to the ranks of GM better than those that haven't? Isiah Thomas, Dunleavy, Chris Mullin, Wally Walker, etc. answer that one for you.

In a Q&A with Star-Tribune writer Michael Rand, Simmons gives a number of great reasons why he's be an ideal candidate. He rails against the old boy's network that continually rehires basketball retreads who have failed elsewhere, he's thought long and hard about both the position and basketball in general (having just written a 700-page tome on the NBA), which I can't wait to read), and Minnesota fans would be rejuvenated by the gimmicky hiring.

He makes a compelling argument and I honestly can't think why a team – especially a sinkhole of a team – wouldn't take the chance. In a fascinating New Yorker piece, Canadian author Malcolm Gladwell just made the case that underdogs, be it in sports or war, needing to take different approaches in order to stand a chance at winning. If the T-Wolves aren't attracting the creme de la creme of GM candidates, they should roll the dice on someone whose outside-the-box thinking might give them an edge. What have they got to lose? Their fan base? Their credibility? You can't lose what you don't have.

The Case Against:

Simmons doesn't help his cause much, though. The NBA is an old-boy's network. This much he acknowledges. So why does he say things like this?:

RandBall: Which three current GMs would you immediately try to fleece in a trade if given an actual GM job, and why?

Bill Simmons: First, Chris Wallace. It’s like becoming a star actor or singer and having sex with Lindsay Lohan — you just have to do it so you can say you did it, and it’s so easy, why wouldn’t you do it? Second, Ernie Grunfeld. He’s panicking and that whole franchise is panicking, they are a dumb blockbuster trade waiting to happen. Third, and most obviously, Mike Dunleavy. You cannot go wrong making a trade with Mike Dunleavy. You just can’t. He’s the perfect storm of fleeceable — bad at his job, unaware of the salary cap, ignorant of character issues with players, desperate to keep his job. What’s better? It’s like being served a good trade platter. “I’ll be your maitre’d, Mike Dunleavy, can I offer you an Eric Gordon to start?”

I doubt Wallace, Dunleavy or Grunfeld would have much, if anything, to do with a fellow GM who denegrates them in public like that. And if they have friends around the league, they might conspire to shut out the outsider. That doesn't help the Wolves.

And then there's the issue of Simmons' Celtics lust. A GM, like a politician, should be clear not only of conflict of interest, but the appearance of conflict of interest. Even when being interviewed by a reporter in the city he hopes to represent, Simmons can't leave the Celts out of the discussion. On the subject of the Wolves' Al Jefferson (a former Celtic), he says:

It’s no secret, we’ve had a one-sided bromance for years now and he’s my single favorite non-Celtic.

Simmons also offers to work for free in the first year of a 3-year contract so long as he's permitted to write a book about Season 1. While such a book would be a must-read, from what I gather, being a GM is full-time work. Even more than full-time. At the first whiff of failure, the grumblings would be out there that he's more interested in collecting material for his book than in bettering his second-favourite team. Confidence would be shattered.

All that being said, I'm still hoping for it. He couldn't do any worse than Stu Jackson.

***

Speaking of Gladwell, that brings me to the next bit of required reading from the (Current) Sports Guy. The author of Blink, Tipping Point and Outliers is not just a egghead with a bad 'fro; he's an egghead with a bad 'fro who knows his sports. He and Simmons exchanged e-mails over the course of a few days and the results is interesting, thought-provoking and funny. It's in three parts so you'll have to navigate your own way past page one. Do it. It's worth it.

And if all that reading has gotten to you, check out Gladwell's own blog where he answers critics about his story on underdogs. And unlike most sites, the comments are worth reading, too.

***

I've got no scribblings from the (Old) Sports Guy today as we're on holidays and I don't have them with me. Just as well. I can't compete with what I've linked to, anyway.

Pro ball returns

Professional basketball is back in Vancouver, baby! And by "professional", I mean just barely. And by "Vancouver", I mean, of course, Langley. But hey, let's not quibble. The Vancouver Titans are in business.

We are used to barely professional basketball here. We had the Grizzlies for five wonderful seasons, where they became the worst team in NBA history over a five-year period. And Langley is only a half-hour or an hour from various points in the city. A basketball junkie will gladly make the trek to escape the madness of the NHL playoffs.

I didn't quite know what to expect. About anything. I had never seen a minor league professional basketball game before. Who would possibly be there ever, let alone on a night when the local major league hockey team is in the playoffs? I was surprised. Pleasantly. I don't know the official count, but my guess is there were about 300 people there to cheer on the mighty Titans.

The facility they play in looks good from the outside. As soon as you enter, though, it's like you're in a backstage tunnel. In fact, on the way to the gym you pass the team's locker room. The door was open and you could see the players sitting around. Not something you'd see at an NBA game.

As for the play, it was entertaining. There were some great passes, bad defense, and missed layups aplenty. But I could watch elementary school basketball and be entertained if the teams are relatively evenly matched.

What I couldn't stand was the team's announcer. He was almost bad enough that I would consider never going to another game. I think they must have scouted him at the PNE. He had a ridiculous fake radio voice, cheerled during the game so you couldn't even talk to your friends sitting next to you, and had a cache of douchey stock phrases he'd pull out whether it had anything to do with the play or not.

Although there was comedy to be had. Every single time the Slam got the ball on offense in the high-octane fastbreak game, the announcer would scream into the microphone, "When I say D, you say Fence! D!" and then wait for the three people who were into it to shout back "Fence!" It actually made me cheer for a quick Bellingham basket. Nothing better than when he'd say, "When I say--" as the opponents would score on the break.

More good comedy came from reading the players profiles in the program...

STOP THE PRESSES! I just picked up the program again and took a gander. Get a load of this, which I didn't notice until this very second: The announcer, Jason Cook, "... got a job at Playland where he was able to continue his dream of announcing while working on the Music Express ride. He continues to work at Playland entering his 20th year." (italics mine, for obvious reasons) Seriously, that's exactly what he sounds like, as I mentioned above. Every word he uttered (and he uttered lots – way too stinking much for my tastes) was said in the exact same manner he'd shout, "Does anybody wanna go faster?!" at the PNE.

... Okay, enough about him. Back to the player profiles. Without a media presence, and this being my first game, it's hard to know who was who. And I couldn't remember all the names. It set up conversations like this: "Oh man, did you see that pass by the guy who specializes in drawing portraits? He set up the guy whose mom cooks delicious Nigerian food beautifully!" Or "I can't believe the guy whose favourite movie is The Godfather is on the team."

In the end, the Slam lived up to their name with not one, but two slam dunks in the game, handing the Titans their fourth straight loss after three straight wins. I'll go again. But next time I'm bringing earplugs.

I didn't interview any player at the game, but I'm betting they'd all be engaging, which is more than you can say for some NBA players. Reminds me of the time I had a bit of a run-in with one of the 50 greatest players of all-time (or so they say). This column was from the week of December 7-14, 1995:

The Sports Guy

by Guy MacPherson

There’s nothing quite so disillusioning as meeting a hero and finding out he or she’s a jerk. You then have to reassess your values and judgments. This, thankfully, has never happened to me. I don’t like most people and my heroes are either long-retired or long dead.

Another type of disillusionment, albeit of a lesser intensity, is when you meet somebody well-known whom you had previously disliked, and they turn out to be a peach. What do you do? Take for instance Michael Jordan. I’ve never liked him as a player. Don’t ask why. Can’t explain it. The only shoe salesman I like is Al Bundy.

It doesn’t make sense, but that’s the way I feel. The one time I ever had personal contact with him, however, he was kind and gracious is turning me down. I dind’t speak with His Baldness on his most recent trip to the Wetlands, as he was being mobbed by the adoring media every step he took. Who needs the trouble? But I did poke my head in the media scrum and noticed MJ sitting patiently, answering politely all the inane, unoriginal questions reporters love to ask.

Why couldn’t he just be a jerk to justify my dislike for him?

Thank God for Scottie Pippen. He was another player I never cared for. I don’t deny he’s a great player. I just sensed something about him that I didn’t like. Maybe it was because his teams were always beating my Lakers.

Scottie didn’t disappoint.

I have no self-doubts about my abilities to pick and choose heroes in this case. Scottie’s no little softie.

The last reporter left Pippen, while all the others were still hanging on every word at the stall next to his, where Jordan was repeating everything he has ever said on any stop in the NBA. I sidled up next to Pippen and settled in for my brush with grateness.

It started out fine. He seemed like an okay chap.

“I think we just played poor basketball,” he started out, explaining the surprising closeness of the Grizzlies-Bulls contest. “Not taking anything away from their team, but we just didn’t play up to our expectations.” Blah, blah, blah. He was in Bull Durham-style athlete auto-pilot.

Then he opened up a bit more, perhaps by mistake.

“I don’t see anything good about their team right now,” he said as my eyes popped out of their sockets. “I mean, they’re just a team that’s playing with a lot of pride and playing hard. You don’t want to call them a young team, but they’re a team that hasn’t had the opportunity to get together.” Yada, yada, yada.

Hang on there just one second, I thought. Was he really being as forthright as I thought he was? Maybe he could clear things up. You don’t often hear an athlete outside of professional wrestling and boxing put down an opponent, even if he thinks the opponent is hopeless.

“You don’t see anything good about the Grizzlies?” I asked incredulously, because you would have. This is when the mood of the interview changed slightly.

“I don’t see anything good? Are you telling me something?”

“You said earlier, ‘I don’t see anything good about the Grizzlies.’”

“I answered your question, man. Don’t try to put words in my mouth, all right?”

“That’s what you said, though.”

“I don’t foresee them being no playoff team, if that’s what you asked me.”

It was obvious at this point that I wasn’t going to be ghostwriting any book of his. But I had to get to the bottom of this.

“What kind of positives do you see for this team?” I continued, asking the same kind of tired, moronic question that my colleagues were asking of Jordan.

“They’re playing hard,” he answered. I mean, they’re struggling now to win a game, period.”

And with that, my audience with the Pip was over.

“Any more questions, man? You can leave, please,” he intoned.

“Listen here, you arrogant snot. Don’t blame me for remembering what you said. Next time think before you speak, if that’s not too difficult a process for you to handle. And I’ll leave when I’m good and ready to leave,” I shot back.

Only I didn’t use those exact words. What I actually said was, “I’m sorry sir,” and meekly walked away.

The timing, as it turned out, was perfect because no sooner had Pippen dismissed me than the brilliant coach Phil Jackson dismissed the rest of the media pack.

“Come on everyone, let’s go!” the pop-philosopher said. “They close down the border at 10:45.”

I was almost going to tell him that this was a free country, too, and we can come and go as we please. But I thought better of it.

This country isn’t big enough for Scottie and me. One of us had to leave. And it wasn’t going to be me.

Not again, anyway.