|  | | Kerry Kittles and the other Nets have enjoyed the acquisition of Jason Kidd. |
We now arrive at All-Star Weekend, where you can be sure that Karl
Malone will grouse about being here, and Michael Jordan won't talk to the
assembled media, and the Commish will wax eloquent about the hundreds of
international cities that are covering his league, while pooh-poohing all
the North American cities that his teams seem to be abandoning, and
eventually, somebody from Mexico will ask him when the league is expanding
to Cancun, and the slam-dunk contest will be even more deadly boring than
it's been, and NBC will have the best postgame spread, and Shaq will
re-christen himself The Big Enron ("'cause my game is arresting"), and there
will be invitations handed out by wannabees claiming that AI and MJ and Kobe
will be at six parties simultaneously, and the game will be mercifully
forgotten within two hours, and we can move on to the second half of the
season (aka, The Lakers Wake Up).
But until then, we look back at the first half of the season,
highlighted by:
The Rules Are, There Ain't No Rules. Freed to do whatever they want
defensively, coaches dabble with zones. The bigger impact on the game,
though, is liberalizing handcheck rules, which increase the flow of the game
and create more scoring.
The South Beach Follies, where Riles railed night after night about
how it was his team's fault, until 'Zo found a medication rotation that
didn't leave him feeling like a zombie, and the Heat started winning, after
which it was about the guys finally sacrificing for the system.
Marc Jackson if You're Nasty, a colorful tale in which free agent Jackson wants to leave Golden State for greener pastures. Actually, any
color pastures will do. He signs a $24-million offer sheet with Houston in
the summer, but the Warriors wait until the 14th and last day before
matching it. Angered, Jackson comes to camp out of shape and the Warriors
make no attempts to move him. Incensed, he plays less and less for Dave
Cowens ("he's been fine," Cowens insists, though no one believes him), and
after Cowens is fired, even less for Brian Winters, and his teammates stop
communicating with him at all -- on orders from management, it is disclosed.
Apoplectic, he calls the Warriors "a bull---- organization and GM Garry St.
Jean a "bleeping bleep," and is suspended for two games, but isn't allowed
to go home to Philly for four days because he has to attend a 15-minute team
meeting midweek. Meanwhile, the Players' Association files a grievance with
the grievance arbitrator, to be heard next week, in which it will argue that
Jackson shouldn't be docked two games' pay because he was telling the truth
about the Warriors and St. Jean. In other words, the union is going to try
and prove that St. Jean is a bleeping bleep. I wish I was making this up.
You Know I Have Weak Ankles. Grant Hill's plans to return to dominance
in Orlando come crashing to earth when his left ankle once again gives way
after just 14 games this season. Surgery is again performed on his ankle -- the
third such operation in 18 months -- and the Magic suddenly look older and more
vulnerable, and $93 million in the hole, and sending away Brendan Haywood
and Bo Outlaw for future cap room is not so prescient.
The Big Queasy. The Hornets, dashed in their plans to build a
publicly-financed arena in Charlotte, court Louisville, Norfolk, Va., and
Anaheim before announcing their intention to move to New Orleans for the
2002-03 season. Few outside of New Orleans and Hornets ownership believe
Nawlins can support a pro basketball team. Chief among them: the owner of
the Saints, Tom Benson.
Senor Issel Esta Despida. Dan Issel, already on thin ice in Denver for
assorted run-ins with players and extended losing, crashes through when he
calls a fan a "Mexican piece of (bleep)" while leaving the floor after a
December loss, and is suspended for four games without pay. After a week of
negotiations and threats, and a strangely muted apology, Issel announces his
resignation as head coach and president of basketball operations.
Brad Miller Live. During the Chicago-Lakers matchup in early January, Miller, the Bulls' center, clocks Shaq on the head one too many times, and
The Big Aristotle goes thermonuclear, taking a wild swing at Miller's
rapidly retreating noggin. Shaq misses, but is still fined and suspended for
three games. O'Neal seethes at what he says is nightly abuse by overmatched
centers that goes unpunished. In a related story, the Bulls keep losing.
Mr. Cuban, You Have Some 'Splaining to Do. The Mavericks' owner takes
his criticism of the leagues' officials public, both in a memo to deputy
commissioner Russ Granik and in comments to the Dallas Morning News where he
says that he wouldn't hire NBA Supervisor of Officials Ed Rush "to run a
Dairy Queen." Cuban is fined $500,000 by the Commish, works at a Texas DQ
and dons a ref's uni in a Globetrotters game. Seems somehow appropriate.
Here Comes Mr. Jordan. The Wizards' president of basketball operations
steps back into uniform after three plus years, and after a 2-9 start, says
of his squad, "I just think we stink." The next night, the Wiz somehow beat
Philly in Philly, and everything turns around. Rip Hamilton becomes a
player, Jordan plugs holes where they spring up, Doug Collins coaches
without the lather, and Washington starts winning regular for the first time
since the Carter Administration.
And Tuesday, Jordan plays Kobe.
"He's been dying to get Michael in a one-on-one situation for a few
years," Phil Jackson acknowledged, "and I know that he'll screw it up to
that level at some point, but that's not what the purpose of that
game ... when we finally get to see that team, I don't think that's what it's
all about. I think it's gonna be about Michael playing they way he has to
play for his team to win, and Kobe having to play the way he has to play for
our team to win."
Well, sure, Kobe will see it that way, no doubt.
Kidd Rock. Jason Kidd's arrival to Exit 16W, along with the return of
Kerry Kittles from injury and Keith Van Horn from Stephon Marbury, injects the Nets with energy and excitement. The Nets and the Kings and the Mavs
play a New Millennium Showtime, getting up and down the floor and scoring in
triple digits most every night. By playing a circa 1984 game, they provide a
look at what the league can look like in the future when unselfish point
guards find teams filled to the brink with shotmakers.
Oh, and the games are going to be on ABC and ESPN next season.
I like that.
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