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The NBA has gone soft. Lots of sports analysts and equally self-righteous individuals like to debate about it. But I'm telling you: the NBA has gone soft. The same association that produced guys like Charles Oakley, Larry Johnson (never mind the Granny persona), and Charles Barkley now has succumbed to fluff like Chris "Birdman" Anderson: all tats and no balls. These times they are a'changing, your old road is rapidly agin', get out of the new one if you can't lend a hand, or in this case, play in the Turkish Basketball League (see Allen Iverson). This ripening of players came on slow, and the man behind the castration of the NBA was none other than David Stern, its current acting comissioner.
He's an old man, as tight as ever in his old age, with his nice fine suit buttoned high to keep back his constant gagging--this rap element-- his tie up under the fat of his chin to keep it from jiggling too much when he talked. . . He often struggles to not shit himself.
It was a nice slow snip. As if no one would notice.
It all began with his rule that made it mandatory for all injured players and those not on the 'official' roster to wear suits when sitting on the bench with the team during games, and for all players to wear suits to NBA interviews, charities and functions, and on arrival to the court or on departure. It even specifically targeted 'urban' clothing like doo-rags, hardwood classics jerseys, baggy jeans, t-shirts, 'bling,' sneakers and Timberland style boots. . . Yes, all players were expected to dress like the members of David Stern's weekly tea parties--strictly formal, and stiff, as if a large stick had been stuck up the ass. It was controversial in that still to this day the NBA is the only sports organization to enforce a dress code for players when off the court/field/diamond/etc, with many organizations having instilled only dress codes for wear on the court/field/diamond/etc and in that instance for the saftey of its players.
The dress code came after the infamous brawl in 2004 between the Pistons and the Pacers that resulted in Ron Artest and other players charging the stands to beat fans who had shown their dissatisfaction at the performance and its actors in the most traditional and time honored of ways: by hurling tings at them. No not rotten fruit, but in this case beverages they paid entirely too much for in the first place.
May as well get your money's worth, I guess.
The rule was an attempt to repair the NBA's tainted image, piqued with the images of that night, like a shameful battle, like a Little Bighorn. Upon seeing it David Stern no doubt struggled once again, not to shit himself. He probably quivered over his glass of Montrachet 1978, his plate of confit of Moulard duck foie gras balancing precariously on his bony knees, not quite sure whether it should fall crashing to the floor or not. Even it felt shameful to be wasted. He then probably wiped his face with a fine linen napkin, called in his manservant to collect his plate and utensils, and then proceeded out into his yard where he shot off a couple of blasts from a relic elephant gun at any poor birds that happened to be flying overhead. He liked the gun because it was mean, and the unrelenting jolt from the rifle's butt reminded him of a time when it was much easier to coerce a women into having sex with him. The blast always made him think of Theodore Roosevelt, and that weathered picture of him standing over a fallen elephant he had killed with the gun. He was going to kill himself an elephant too; he let off his steam and probably went back into his office and set into motion this plan to stifle players and make a dress code.
Yeah thats probably how it went. Probably.
Regardless, the error in this, not seen by mister David Stern is that 'the clothes don't make the man,' nor does it necessarily change his character. Its like any Manager at a Super Market. He goes to work in slacks and a leather belt and nice leather shoes, with a nice white shirt and a nice tie around the neck. It makes him think he's better than say, the poor soul wearing the orange and yellow reflector vest of the 'cart retriever,' that obtrusive neon thing made to 'save your life' by making you visible but instead 'kills you slowly' by making you a walking Day-Glo d-bag of shame and embarrassment. . . But the fancy clothes still don't change the fact that he works at a super market, and they certainly don't change his character. In fact they make him an even more pompous ass. Yes, perhaps not the best analogy, but the point is clear: clothes do not make the man. No siree they don't. A clown in a suit is still a clown. I say it is so.
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| See what I mean? |
The rule was generally well received, and besides, it gave players an opportunity to show off their wealth in the form of custom made suits reminiscent of Jay-Z and Puff Daddy. Fine, don't want us to dress like rappers? We'll dress like rap moguls.
David Stern felt well. He believe he had stopped a fear in him which had kept him up most nights, and tormented his dreams when his heavy eyes finally succumbed to that fear. A fear that more and more of his players would end up like Chris "Birdman" Anderson and that he would forever be known as the commissioner who let the NBA turn into a freak show circus. And he had valid concerns, observe:
BEFORE (2001):
A simple country boy. With a wide smile shaped by mothers tenderness: 'Now be sure to brush up my boy, must'nt have a dirty mouth my boy.' A simple everyday Joe Schmoe with a nondescript simple haircut. Muscled from simple, clean, wholesome work. Nurtured by the caring hand of God. Unnoticeable in his gelatinousness; everyday; commonplace, save for a few tattoos hinting at some inward hidden demon like some vanguard of a horrible storm.
AFTER (2010):
A body of nothing but tattoos like cheaply colored tasteless wallpaper, forever fashioned to the outside of a rickety house not quite a home thats cold and empty inside (nothing but a draft blowing whhhhoooo, where a heart should be). Hair done up in some sort of gross salute to an Indian war hawk, only more comical than threatening. . . A walking billboard as to what one should never aspire in life to be. Certainly not a role model for children. . . A moving douche bag half used and forgotten, left forlornly on the bathroom floor. . .
David Stern was feeling mighty fine now; the storm had just threatened and rolled away to torment some other, foreign land. The image problem would work itself out real fine. . . But poor Mr. Stern was wrong - for as I said clothes do not make the man, nor do the shape his basic character. Rasheed Wallace continued his bickering and his constant criticism of every foul, whether he obviously committed them or not. Allen Iverson continued to smoke weed and smoke weed, and then smoke even more weed. He doesn't care. He's Allen Iverson. He's doesn't need to practice, just smoke weed. And Gilbert Arenas? Well he kept concealing a gun in his locker, along with teammate Javaris Crittenton, that is of course, before the guns were found and the two were promptly arrested.
Yes, once again, David Stern struggled desperately not to shit himself.
Yes, once again, David Stern struggled desperately not to shit himself.
This time when it happened, he was probably watching the tube, and he probably spilled his glass of Chateu Monton Rothschild 1982, along with his plate of hanger steak, currant mole, blue cheese and squash. His manservant probably came in with the same sad distant look on his face as before, to take his plate and utensils. This time he would have probably had to dealt with the atrocious stain on the carpet too. David would then probably get his elephant gun for a nice pressure releasing shoot out with the heavens. He might even get a few birds this time--guts and feathers. Then of course he would probably retreat back inside to do something about this tainted image issue and gun incident.
Yeah thats probably how it went. Probably.
Gilbert would be suspended indefinitely from the NBA. He would return after missing only fifty games, despite being found guilty by the courts and given two years probation and thirty days in a halfway house.
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| This certainly didn't help Gilbert Arena's case. Yes he's pretending to shoot teammates during a pregame ritual with fellow Wizard teammates. Yes, once again, David Stern struggled to not shit himself. |
Once again someone had shit in the water well, and as a result everyone was going to have to pay for it. David and his team thought long and hard for a remedy to their image problem. They had felt a need to flex some muscle. They needed more control yet how could they get it?
The man servants of over 30 NBA up-and-ups watched over 10 years of NBA basketball, game after game. Every team, every game--right down to the final showdown and the title. What they found astounded them. Endless amounts of bitching and complaints on calls from every NBA player to ever touch the ball and play the game. They felt degraded and small, belittled and second guessed in their own Goddamn league! They had been made to look bad. So what they did was create the new technical foul rule which creates new guidelines under which players may be given technical fouls. Technical fouls will be given out to players for:
- Players making aggressive gestures such as air punches, anywhere on the court
- Demonstrative disagreement, such as when a player increduosly raises his hands, or smacks his own arm to demonstrate how he was fouled
- Running directly at an official to complain about a call
- Excessive inquires about a call, even in a civilized tone
Critics of the rule (pretty much every NBA player in the league) say it will work only if referees can manage to control themselves, forgetting that they too--like NBA players--are human, and therefore just as capable of such overwhelming feelings that Daniel Stern feels 'make the game look bad.' What a bunch of bull. Now lets consider an NBA referee for a moment. They may be a guy who loves the game of basketball, or he may be bitter, or old, or in possession of some strange chip on his shoulder, or upset the players get paid so much and he so little, or prone to playing favorites, or just a plain ole asshole. . . Why are they given the benefit of the doubt? People make mistakes, ESPECIALLY referees. And how possibly could this be a good idea? The fans wanna watch players they love, and they wanna have players they can hate. How is such a thing possible if guys like Amar'e Stoudamire can't act like a pompous asshole every time he makes a basket?
If anything you're only making players swallow their emotions. . . they're aggression. . . And you know what? That's exactly how a guy comes to shooting up a locker room, or charging the stands to viciously beat people. Pent up aggression.
The rule can change a game, and can be abused. Observe:
In 10 seconds that d-bag drastically changed the game and had the head coach of the Timberwolves thrown out of the game. Now remember, a referee may, if he's feeling particularly pricky that day throw out a player upon the first technical, as with the second one its automatic, but still the option is available to said referee. So in theory, this ref could have thrown out Kevin Love, Corey Brewer, and Darko Milicic if he really wanted to. Its just too much power.
A dumb rule.
A tragically retarded rule.
If the NBA has any brains they'll eradicate the rule all together, as what can one expect during the playoffs? The games get heated, and rightfully so, are we to expect players aren't going to be allowed to be 'demonstrative,' or will the whole bullshit arbitrary rule be suddenly forgotten? As at times it almost seems like referees are afraid to blow the whistle, for the fear that some player will complain, and then he'll have to give him a technical, or otherwise face the wrath of David Stern.
'Tis why infinitely Retarded declares the new NBA technical foul rule to be tragically retarded.
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