So this is how it works: The NBA and its 430 reasons to exist try to blow themselves to smithereens for five months, catch themselves at the last minute, and suddenly everyone is a great statesman and human exemplar.In other words, threatening to kill yourself, then deciding at the last second just to take a few toes off your left foot makes you a man of peace?Yet such is the nature of self-congratulation, and of wanting something so badly you forget how badly youve been treated.We are unclear who actually deserves the credit for slapping the two sides silly, though we have heard some silly notions along the way, including the one where the new baseball deal spurred the basketball people to greater conciliatory impulses. This is, of course, idiocy.We only know one thing for sure: When Ken Berger of CBSSports.com broke the news on Twitter at 12:11 PST, the first instinct of the insomniac class was, Yeah, right, sure. Seconds later, people were scrambling for all-night caterers and 24-hour parade routes.And one other thing: You may start complaining about the Warriors and Kings on December 26.Details are understandably sketchy while both side scramble to take credit for brokering the deal, which must still be approved by kindred spirits like Bob Sarver and Metta World Peace, but this lockout will fade into insignificance once people see that losing 16 games and a month and a half is probably good for the product.And next year, when an owner tries to make next years schedule 98 games long to make up for the 16 lost this season, lots of people will nod happily and say, Yeah, mmmmmm, more games. Nummy.Too bad, too, because having seen the NFL avoid the lesson in humility it sorely needed and Major League Baseball duck the bullet entirely, the NBA was our next realistic hope for some good and proper shame directed at the owners and their uniformed minions.Oh, we like our amusements as well as anyone, an the NBA is a worthwhile amusement even in Oakland and Sacramento, as hard as that may be to believe.But the NBA got to thinking it was bigger than itself while both sides and posed and preened and prostituted and acted all indispensable and like that there. It isnt, of course, and not even the most ardent hoop blogger can make such a claim with a straight face. A full season would have shown the league and its players its real place in the universe, and nothing beats a humble for educational value.Instead, the sides pulled out of their mutual death spirals in the middle of the night FridaySaturday, proving of nothing else that tryptophan does not paralyze all people equally. David Stern forgot that he hated Billy Hunter, and Hunter pretended that he thought Stern was an owners tool, and they became fast friends again.Makes you want to heave just thinking about it.Camps are expected to open December 9, and the Warriors and King both open December 26, the day after Christmas to honor a deal made the day after Thanksgiving. Hurray for everyone, I guess.But this isnt a day to be proud of, in all frankness. It should never have gotten to this point, and the owners should have been made to learn that fans dont care about them, never have and never will. Their job is to provide the shows demanded of them, and having tried to screw the product, they should enter the new season with more shame than pride.They wont, but a fella can dream.
Frank Deford’s death over the weekend did not mark the end of longform sportswriting as we knew it; he had long ago become part of the electronic commentariat that has reduced longform’s place in the public’s attention span.
But there is still longform writing and storytelling to be found in many places, and it is still worthwhile. It has more production value, as the TV folks like to blather, and the words have to fight for their place between the cracks left by the pictures and the mutated graphics, but longform lives, and it should, lest we all agree as one people to further desiccate that attention span like a grapefruit left in the sun.
Deford’s death, though, reminds of when longform was the zenith of the storytelling art. It could, and still can, give you access and depth and breadth that a TV crew simply could not, and cannot. Even extended TV features are by their very nature so contrived by all the equipment that nothing is natural, nothing is a surprise, and the act of writing is almost an afterthought.
Deford knew this. He more than merely dabbled in TV himself, playing the wizened old raconteur who was as much character in his pieces as storyteller. He was also a star and a starmaker with The National, a daily sports network in newspaper form that was long on talent and ideas but short on delivery and distribution. It lasted 17 months, until mid-1991, but it led to grander attempts decades later, and could if you squint your eyes hard enough be the natural parent of Grantland and The Ringer and Vice and SB Nation and dozens of others – all bigger ideas, positioned in the post-typing world. Some lasted, more didn’t, but capitalism is like that – making fuel to keep the fires burning and the engines churning.
Deford could have thrived in such a world, to be sure. He was not, in the hideous phrase, “a man of his time.” Indeed, he was a crossover figure years ago in ways that other longform writers attempt to resist even now. They want to be Deford at the height of his powers at a time when the instruments for their gift are either dying or veering away from anything that hits the 600-word mark.
But his passing did not kill the art of clever writing and incisive storytelling. There are far too many people who can do that still, even if the market for their gifts is neither as pronounced nor as eager for the product as it once was. It did remind us not only that he was a giant, but that there are still giants among us should we deign to take the time to seek them.
Thus, Deford’s death marked his passing but not the thing that made him worthy of our attention. Storytelling, longform and otherwise, remains the heart of why this is still worthwhile to a culture, and when the generation his work spawned starts to die off, I suspect we’ll still be saying the same thing then. Notebooks are smartphones, photographs are streams, but the human eye and ear and hand still remain pre-eminent.
That is, until the robots take over, at which point reading won’t be worth it.
You thought you were done worrying about the Raiders. You thought the votes were in, the moving vans booked for three years down the road, and all gnashing and sharpening of teeth was over. You thought you were free.
Then those buttinsky-come-latelies from St. Louis decided to rear their litigious heads, and now you find yourselves slipping back into that desperate-hope world from which no one escapes.
It seems the city and its regional sports authority has decided to sue the National Football League and its 32 semi-independent duchies over the relocation of the Rams 15 months ago because, and you’ll like this one, the league allegedly did not follow its own relocation rules when it moved the team.
As you know, there is no such thing as a rule if everyone governed by the rule decided unanimously to ignore the rule. This doctrine falls under the general heading of, “We’re billionaires, try and stop us.”
But all lawsuits have a common denominator, and that is that there is money at the end of the rainbow. St. Louis is claiming it is going to miss out on approximately $100 million in net proceeds (read: cash) and has decided that the NFL and especially their good pal Stan Kroenke is going to have to pay for permission to do what they have already done -- specifically, leave.
Because the suit was filed in St. Louis, the benefits of home field advantage apply, and the league is likely to have to reinflate their lawyers for some exciting new billable hours.
As to whether it turns into a windfall for the jilted Missourians, well, as someone who has known lawyers, I would list them as prohibitive underdogs. But there is nuisance value here, which brings us to Oakland.
The city and county, as we know, did not put its best shoe forward in trying to lure the Raiders into staying or the other 31 owners into rejecting the team’s pleas for geographical relief. By that, we mean that the city and county did not fall all over itself to meet the league’s typically extortionate demands.
But they did play angry enough to start snipping about the 2019 part of the Raiders’ 3-More-Coliseum-Years plan, and they are threatening to sue over about $80K in unpaid parking fees, so filing their own breach-of-rules lawsuit might be a possibility.
Because, hey, what’s the point of sounding like a nuisance if you can’t actually become one?
By now, it is clear that everyone in SuitWorld got what it needed out of the Raiders’ move. The city and county could concentrate on guiding the A’s into activity on their own new stadium. The team could go where Mark Davis has been agitating for it to go for at least three years – somewhere else. The state of Nevada could find a place for that $750 million that was burning a hole in its casino vault. And the league went to a market that it, at first reluctantly and then enthusiastically, decided should be its own.
The fans? Oh, please. Who cares about them? To the NFL, and to all corporations in all walks of business, folks are just walking wallets.
But for some cash? Well, climb on board, suckers. The gravy train is pulling out on Track 3.
Nobody is fool enough to think the Raiders would be forced to return. Hell, even St. Louis isn’t asking for the Rams back. They just want to get paid for the money they probably banked on in the good old days before Stan Kroenke decided to head west.
And that would doubtless be Oakland’s stance as well if. Now the circumstances are slightly different, in that St. Louis worked harder to keep the Rams than Oakland did to keep the Raiders. St. Louis scared up $350 million toward new digs for the Rams, well short of what Kroenke would have accepted, while Oakland said it could get its hands on some infrastructure money and no more.
But Mayor Libby Schaaf complained in her relocation post mortem that the league didn’t follow its own guidelines (yay correlation as causation!), maybe with an eye toward throwing a few lawyers into the fire to see how long it would burn.
There is not yet any indication that the city and county are going that route (and the silence may simply mean that they are sick of the Raiders’ saga as everyone else seems to be), but if they do, well, don’t freak out that the team might be forced to return.
Except, of course, in that place where migraines start. Dragging this back up is a bit like the phantom pain amputees feel -- but hey, people will do a lot for a bit of court-ordered cash. Anyone who has ever watched Judge Judy will understand.