Coach's Corner
Coach rates the announcers on the NBA playoff broadcasts.
By Andy "Coach" Cotton, Fri., May 25, 2001
It pains me to admit that NBC has closed a still-significant gap with the guys over at Turner in the quality of its courtside talent and halftime show. The network's philosophy is: The play-by-play guy should be a personality. Marv Albert, the Peacock's lead announcer (and one of several guys shared with Turner), is at the head of the personality class. His distinctive style is recognizable in an instant. Despite some … ahh, "personal issues," he's the best. A. Bob Costas is overexposed. He's a versatile guy; liable to show up doing anything from cricket to the Super Bowls, but calling the game is not his best suit. He's okay. B.
Led by the smooth voices of Bob Neal, Kevin Harlan, and Dick Stockton, the Turner team is old school, letting the game carry the show and keeping chit-chat to a minimum. No matter when I wander into the game, within a minute I know what's going on. Harlan sounds so much like Neal -- who could easily be his dad -- I can't tell them apart. This is a compliment. The cable team gets a solid A.
For the 10th season, TNT's lead analyst is the crabby old professor, Hubie Brown. I've never cared for Hubie's pompous, didactic personality. His annoying, persistent use of The Regal We -- "We like to see our centers using the drop-step," like the NBA is his league -- gets on my nerves. So I'm a little bewildered to observe that Hubie doesn't bother me anymore. Maybe I've passed, without noticing, into an upper-level class of his basketball school, where I now understand his impermeable jargon. Scary. The professor gets a B+. Mike Fratello shares Brown's snotty attitude, and the same bizarre hair weave. He's a little easier to understand. B.
It's my fervent sports belief that two-man crews are better than three. But Danny Ainge and John Thompson usually work together, and it's not good. Ainge defers too much to Thompson, whom he always politely calls "coach." He's regressed as a broadcaster. Thompson was a media-hater in college. C.
Doug Collins is the best analyst on television. But he was better on TNT before he went over to the evil empire, where NBC believes if two is good, three must be better: an untruth in sex and TV booths. The ubiquitous Bill Walton, NBC's longtime Golden Boy, seems to be everywhere these days. Walton should be much better. I've never heard him say anything not obvious to a Tiny-Tot player … and I've heard him say a lot. C. Steve "Snapper" Jones has been with NBC for 12 years, mostly in a bad act with Walton that was like the final days of Cheech and Chong. He's better beyond Walton's shadow, but that only brings him up to average. C.
Studio shows: I don't understand the thinking behind NBC's studio show. With tiny ratings, it's evident the people watching are basketball fans. Yet NBC's glitzy show, hosted by Ahmad Rashad, tries to be something to everyone; ending up being nothing at all. It starts with Rashad, Kevin Johnson, and assorted others standing awkwardly around an empty set. (An idiotic trend that began on the nightly news; Dan Rather belongs behind a desk, and so does Ahmad.) They make a few no-shit points -- "The Kings need to find a way to stop Shaq" -- followed by a cream-puff interview. It's hard to critique the on-air people because they're on so little. When they get some time -- rare because the network's always rushing off the air for a Sunday movie -- Ahmad, Johnson, P.J. Carlesimo, and Peter Vecsey can be interesting. The show gets a C.
The contrast with the TNT studio show is startling. Turner figured out that the viewers are basketball fans. Basketball is what you get. Ernie Johnson (seated comfortably behind a desk) is in his 10th year as studio host. Aside from his ill-advised goatee, which makes him look like the perverted uncle from the Who's Tommy, Johnson has perfected his role as the only slightly sane person in the asylum. With the addition of Charles Barkley and the solid Kenny Smith, this show routinely enters areas rarely heard on mainstream TV. Ernie handles these situations with the bemused tolerance of a parent indulging his teenage kids. When Charles goes totally over the edge (a nightly occurrence), Johnson shakes his head and smiles. It's impossible to imagine Ahmad Rashad running such a freewheeling circus. In order to have drama, a group needs some tension. Peter Vecsey, with the sense of humor of a ballpoint pen, provides "inside information." He's a lightning rod and a perfect foil for Smith and Barkley. I like him and his condescending New York attitude. The studio chemistry's outstanding. They have fun and it flows out to me in couchland. The show's almost perfect and gets an A.
("Almost" because every year someone thinks it's a fine idea to add another basketball player from a losing team, frequently barely verbal, to the already overcrowded set. It's the only blemish on an excellent, fan-friendly show.)
Like an overdemanding parent, grousing because my kid didn't bring home all A's, I need to get a grip. Turn off the television, bathe the filthy dogs, and clean the grill. I must reclaim my life.
