The room is dark, eerily illuminated with blues, reds, oranges, yellows, and whatever other
bright primary colors the teams are wearing. On my 36-inch screen — bought for
occasions like this — are two games: ice hockey and, in the tiny
picture-in-picture, basketball. I’m alone. My girlfriend, to whom I haven’t
talked much since the playoff season began, except to say, as I whacked her
goodheartedly on the back, “Did you see that fucking goal!?,” was exiled
upstairs to watch Friends or whatever. I’m intently hunched over the
coffee table, a cold slice of pizza dangling limply from my hand, some cheese
(pleasing the dogs) dripping on the floor. I wonder how I got this pizza. A
sportsfan, totally, perhaps disturbingly, immersed in his work.
A bright light illuminates my lair like a thousand suns. Pizza now hanging
from my mouth, I think, “What the fuck?” Cat-quick, I refocus, turning to the
tube shouting, “Oakley, you scumbag, eat shit!” Is someone talking to me? I
hear only sound, no words, so intent am I on finding the little swap button
which turns the hockey big and basketball, now in a Ford commercial (Fords are
tough), small. As I do so often, I push the wrong button. I’m viewing
Washington Week in Review and, in the tiny little square, McHale’s
Navy.
The girlfriend, the person talking, is amused by this bungling. I’m badly
rattled and pissed. I’m pissed because I can’t handle my remote and, more
troubling, because of the interruption in my cave. The room goes black. I’ve
found both games. I’m happy. I have no real interest in these games. Could I be
drifting over a dangerous psychological edge? Now, the soothing voice of Chuck
Daly, gently explaining the multiple options Karl Malone has in Utah’s pick and
roll scheme. I take a bite of icy pizza. “Foul him, foul him,” I scream, those
moments of concerned introspection cast aside for the moment. Later, I ask if
maybe, just maybe, I’m a little too into this stuff. “I dunno, honey,” the
girlfriend says, “Maybe just a little.”
You’re familiar with the It was just doing it phenomenon. As in telling
your mechanic, “I can’t believe this. It was just doing it!” A corollary
is, The game’s over, I’m going to mow the lawn. As in, the Boone City
Beavers are down by three touchdowns with a minute-five to go. You say, “Fuck
the Beavers, I’m going to mow the lawn.” Only to be stunned and sickened
the next morning when the entire world is talking about the miraculous Beaver
comeback.
It’s later the same night when she says, “Time for Law and Order, turn
the goddamn game off.” I’m already feeling guilty from my earlier, insensitive
display, it’s her favorite show, maybe I could score some make-up points… and
besides, there’s only two minutes left, the game’s over, I’ll be a good
boyfriend. The next day, and for the next week, the main story in the sports
world is the brawl that broke out, seconds after the switch, in the waning
minutes of the Knicks/Heat game.
I can’t stand the Knicks, for years the NBA’s most obnoxious team. They embody
many of the traits I find most abhorrent in professional basketball: a haughty
arrogance, juvenile, macho-woofing, chest-butting, standing triumphantly over
fallen opponents they just elbowed to the floor, and the ludicrous display of
we-won-the-championship celebrations (which they never have), every time they
go on a 4-0 run. Their “style” of play, border line dirty and all-the-time
confrontational, greatly contributed to the very rule which, ironically,
probably lost them a shot at the Bulls in the conference finals. If you looked
at every brawl over the past decade, you’d find the Knicks involved in 90% of
them. They provoke trouble and then hold out their hands, wondering why
everybody’s out to get them: a team of Rodmans. They got exactly what the
Knicks Rule dictates and what they deserved. They provoked the incident, and
stupidly — so Knicks-like — left the bench to join the brawl. Occasionally,
justice does prevail.
Woofing and chest-butting aside, the biggest single cause of NBA violence is
what commentators euphemistically refer to as “the battle in the paint.” This
battle, usually between the two centers, goes way too far. The violence is more
damaging, on any given night, between any two teams, than anything I saw in 12
rounds of De La Hoya-Whitaker. It’s absurd. It’s ugly. I’m surprised fights
don’t break out every night.
Where in the basketball rulebook does it say you can shove someone out of
position? Since the NBA tacitly says it’s okay, huge men push, shove, grab, and
elbow their counterparts relentlessly and with malice. All NBA fights begin in
the pivot. Enforce the same defensive rules in the paint as on the perimeter.
It would result in a lot of fouls early in the season, until everybody adjusted
to playing defense instead of committing assault. If he were playing today,
Abdul-Jabbar would be shooting his unstoppable skyhook from the top of the key
(and not very well). How did this come to pass? I’d blame it all on the Knicks,
but I don’t want to be accused of being irrational.
This article appears in May 23 • 1997 and May 23 • 1997 (Cover).