In the wake of the NBA’s dismal television ratings for its showpiece All Star Weekend, media snakes have a familiar storyline: What’s wrong with the NBA? Considering that 101 Dalmatians outdrew the NBA’s crown jewel event, maybe, just maybe, the media has stumbled onto an issue of real concern. When people like me (I like the game and didn’t watch a second) start tuning out, real trouble might well be over the next rise. The league office, of course, pooh-poohs the silly notion of any erosion in fan interest. They point indignantly at “official attendance” figures showing most arenas being close to capacity. Any subscriber to NBA Season Pass can provide first-person testimonies to this charade. Large blocks of expensive, empty, arena-level seats can’t hide from a camera.
Long ago, a clever sports executive came up with an utterly disingenuous, cynical method of counting people. Thus was born the sham of “official attendance” — counting not people in the building, but tickets sold. Whether anyone’s there or not is irrelevant. They shamelessly announce 19,500 when only 10,000 really attend.
Clever marketing for sure, hiding a rash for a while. But if the patient’s really sick, the rash will morph into a nasty thing resistant to public relation antibiotics. Every empty seat tells a story: I didn’t want to come. Maybe it’s snowing out. Maybe ER looks good. Whatever. The message, when chronic, is devastating. It means people who spent $35,000 for a few season tickets have something better to do. It means big corporations — buying these seats to wine and dine customers — can’t give them away. This, sportsfans, is not a good sign.
Many theories, from the disappearance of Jordan to “the league’s too black,” have been thrown out there. Here’s one you haven’t heard before: The mother who whelped and protected the child has turned into a monster intent on killing her young. The psycho mom is, of course, television.
Here’s some personal anecdotal evidence. Last Friday night, with nothing better to do, I went to a girls’ high school playoff game between Hays and Reagan, but this isn’t important. I don’t even know where Hays is. The players were 100% anonymous. I had zero rooting interest. It was just a game. And it takes me by surprise every year, but once again, a high school basketball game that wasn’t even very competitive was the most entertaining basketball game I’d seen all year … college or pro. The reason’s elementary: no television to ruin it.
It was held in a nondescript, neutral high school gym before maybe 500 fans. A small, quick Reagan team in ivory white uniforms trimmed in Reagan powder blue was playing a much bigger Hays squad. I didn’t need Bill Walton to give me game keys. It was pretty obvious: small-quick against big-strong and, it soon became apparent, also very quickly. Both teams competently demonstrated the same complicated defensive and precise, patient offensive sets we see in the Erwin Center or the Delta Center. Hays stayed in a withering 2-2-1 full court press the entire game. Reagan showed commendable poise, never cracking until the very end in the face of what must have been unexpected Hays’ speed and quickness.
Halfway through the third period the game was over. If this were UT-Baylor, I would’ve left early. But I never even considered leaving this game. Why? Because time flew! The game had a great flow. The coaches didn’t over-coach. Timeouts were short and used only when necessary. The refs let the girls play, ignoring touch fouls, letting the action carry the game. Halftime was eight minutes long. There was no annoying “entertainment” during interminable TV timeouts. No artificial noise. Aside from loud partisan rooting, the squeaking of sneakers was the loudest noise in the gym.
The pro and college game are being killed by artificial, television-dictated “stoppages of play.” These, combined with too many coaches’ timeouts, have effectively killed the game’s natural flow and contribute greatly to the fan apathy coaches complain about. The Hays-Reagan game tipped off at exactly 7:30. It was over before 9. UT games are supposed to tip off at 7. They never do. And they often drag on until 9:30. Pro games are worse.
I, a rabid fan, become cranky and edgy, always looking at my watch. Even an outstanding matchup is sullied by timeout followed by timeout followed, 20 seconds later, by another damn timeout. Adding significantly to the frustrating artificial breaks are the three officials justifying their existence by tooting on their whistles. The 35-second-clock in the college game almost never runs down without a whistle. It’s maddening.
The high school game proved there’s nothing wrong with basketball. On the contrary, it demonstrated — unequivocally — that the game’s fine. Were I Lord Of All Things Basketball, I’d go to the soccer format of no artificial interruptions of play and cut coaches’ timeouts in half. If college players can’t figure out what to do down by 1 with 30 seconds to play, the coach should be selling shoes.
Sadly, my power and influence is on par with that of a sparrow. We’re unlikely to see my suggestions promulgated any time soon. This is too bad. The mother’s eating her young.
This article appears in February 25 • 2000.