Coach's Corner

My 16-year-old daughter, the new owner of the family truck, learned one of life's many frustrating lessons today. She took it well, probably because she has no idea how many times this experience will repeat itself over the arch of a lifetime. It was a simple little problem, an opportunity for a practical lesson to be taught by her increasingly irrelevant dad.

She'd already been lectured on the many responsibilities inherent upon the owner of a motor vehicle ... such as fixing little things oneself. A burned-out brake light provided the perfect opportunity to demonstrate the old-fashioned art of American self-reliance. After purchase of the appropriate bulb, the lesson commenced.

We start at the beginning when a request to "go get a Phillips head screwdriver," is met with a look of total befuddlement. Possessing her dad's instinctive grasp of the mechanical, we march back in the garage for a visual examination of a Phillips head screwdriver juxtaposed against the traditional flat head version. Screwdriver ID complete, we stride (with great purpose) out to the hardy white truck, for years used by my son as an instrument of vehicular terrorism.

After some trial and error, Janie gets the hang of finding the slot and figuring out what direction to twist. But as the final screw comes out, two disturbing events occur simultaneously: the omnipresent but always-forgotten rubber gasket snaps in two, and a large chunk of gray plastic, exact origins unknown, falls loudly on the street.

Rule No.1 of fixing is revealed: Something unexpected and bad will always happen. It will be after 5pm, or on a Sunday. Always. Nothing to do but plow forward with the simple task of bulb replacement, trusting we'll find a place to shove the gray thing back into, and hoping the gasket isn't really that important.

Janie removes the old bulb. No problem. I hand her the new one (remembering that I'm teaching self-reliance), letting her figure out how to get it back in. After several frustrating minutes, she gives up. I take over. Sure enough, she's doing nothing wrong. I can't get the damn thing in either. A close inspection of the bulb reveals that ... guess what? They sold me the wrong bulb! Rule No. 2: 77% of the time The Expert, be he a plumbing-supply man, the old guy at the hardware store, or in this case the dealer's representative, will give you the wrong part. Which leads directly to The Prime Directive of Fixing: After some time, effort, and frustration you'll have accomplished absolutely nothing. You'll put back together whatever you just broke and go at least one more time -- at least being the operative phrase -- back to the parts store and start all over again.

This repetitive fiasco would end for me like this: New gasket and proper bulb in hand, I begin anew -- only to find that I've stripped one of the Phillips screws, making it impossible to change the bulb, and forcing me to ingratiate myself in front of a smirking mechanic. For my daughter a father hopes for a better fate.

A painful segue indeed into another broken thing and stupid things being done to fix it. It being the National Basketball Association. David Stern's been hailed as a genius more often than Isaac Newton. I dispute this. I believe any moderately intelligent basketball fan could've been commissioner of the league during the time of Magic/Bird/Jordan and come away with similar results.

When things go south, that's when the genius label is earned. Things are south. Right now. During the regular season, ugly swathes of colorful but empty seats caused Stern to trot out his mike-the-coaches idea, precipitating an unprecedented rebellion. High-profile coaches refused to wear them. Teams refused to pay big fines and ignored tough league talk. After near-universal disparagement of this stupid idea, which Stern cooked up as he watched TV ratings fall to new lows, he backed off.

Now he's spoiling my favorite time of year. Acting as pimp for the networks, Stern's insisted on drawing out a five-game series -- in the past played in eight days -- to two weeks. The Company spin is, of course, "it's for the fans." This is total bullshit. It's for the networks to get more games, on fewer stations, on the air at prime viewing times.

Its effect is to kill the playoffs' frantic natural momentum. There are so many days between games, I've lost track of who is playing when. I totally missed a Spurs game because I forgot about it. I am a fan. This is a bad idea. Real bad.

This idea is also meeting with universal mockery. Nobody I've heard or read -- certainly including players -- likes it. However, nobody I've heard or read matters. The NBA, the NCAA, etc. are entirely beholden to their sugardaddy, Mr. Television, addicted to its drug of choice ... money.

It's an apt metaphor. Big-time sports are nothing more than a high-priced, coke-sniffing whore working hard for her flashy pimp. A real commissioner might realize this soft bed has a high, unacceptable price and take steps to regain control of a great game. Commercials upon commercials, followed by invidious, doggedly repetitive promotions for future network trash, followed by a little basketball, followed by five days off before the next game.

I'd do a better job than David Stern. I really would.