NBA owners need protection from themselves

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NBA owners need protection from themselves

I will now explain the NBA lockout at its essence for you. Actually, Rashard Lewis will do that. I will cut and paste his remarks. This is, after all, a full service shop.Speaking to the Washington Posts Michael Lee from Las Vegas, Lewis, who has been targeted as one of the reasons the NBAs salary structure is whacked by its owners, pointed out a very salient point.Talk to the owner. He gave me the deal.Exactly.

Lewis signed a six-year, 118 million deal with the Orlando Magic after the 2007 season not because he walked into Rich DeVos office with a pistol and told him to empty his vault and common sense, but because DeVos offered it to him. Just like every other player in every other sport in the history of the industry.When it comes to contracts, the players arent sitting there negotiating that contract, Lewis said. Im sitting at home and my agent calls me, saying, I got a max on the table. Im not going to sit there and say, Naw, thats too much. Go out there and negotiate 20 or 30 (million) less. And neither would any of you if the chance ever arose.The fact is, salaries get out of whack because of two things:1. The owners get that blood apumpin when they fall in love with a player.2. The owners get buyers remorse when it turns out that players deteriorate over time.In short, every time an economic model in sports is broken, it is because the owners situation has changed. Either too many teams have lost their sense of proportion, or they arent generating as much money, or most often of all, losses in their other businesses have inspired them to shoot down their expensive hobby.In other words, the players are not responsible for anything except agreeing to play for the money the owner has offered them. They didnt break the system, if the system is actually broke. The owners did.Or at least the owners say they did. They say theyre bleeding money, which is what they always say the year before a CBA is due to expire. It is part of the life cycle of labor-management relations, which runs like this:1. A deal is signed, and the owners trumpet victory and the mechanism for profitability is ironclad and foolproof.2. The owners start getting that I-want-that smell in their noses that people do in car dealerships and malls.3. The commissioner tells advertisers their league has never done better and everyone is happy.4. The collective bargaining agreement expires in a year to 18 months, and suddenly everyone is losing his or her pantaloons.5. Lockout, until the players acknowledge that they are killing the golden goose.6. Repeat Steps 1 through 5.Happens every time.But Rashard Lewis is still right. No contract is ever signed without the owner saying, Yeah, Im good with this. Because owners are fans, and owners need fans, and owners fear fans. Owners love to look like the baddest dude in the room, and hurling money at the employees is a pretty big rush at the press conference.Conversely, not giving in to that quick adrenal fix makes the owner the butt of talk radio and newspaper and Internet japes, and owners have egos that are like yours and mine, only they can fire people to keep them fed.In short, they want their cake, they want to eat it, and still own the bakery. Which would be fine if they werent positioning themselves as moral and financial exemplars being screwed daily by the evil players and their malignant agents.Put another way, the next owner to stand up and say, I was a jackass. I am a jackass. Im probably going to keep being a jackass. Our salary structure is my fault will be the guest of honor in a crawlspace.But heres the best part. The owners want the players to shave a third off their salaries and agree to a hard salary cap, the one that the NHL owners got after closing their game for a year. Well, guess what? The NHL CBA comes up after this year, and owners are already saying the system doesnt work.You know what system would work for the owners? For players to play for nothing. And supply the balls and shoes and the uniforms. And treat their own injuries.Thats the goal. But theyll never get close but because, as Lewis said, they dont have the discipline God gave a heroin addict. They blow their own money because it gets them high, and then blame the players they give it to for taking it.I understand the owners dont want to overpay players, Lewis said, but youve got to do better negotiating. Try your best to save money.No, thats no fun, no fun at all. And after all, isnt that what you all go out to the arenas and stadiums every night and weekend to do -- see the owners have fun? Of course it is. Thats why so many people go to games to watch the ticket takers, and ignore the events on the field to stare rheumy-eyed into the owners' box.If thats what youre in it for, great. But youd save thousands each year merely by parking in front of a bank and staring at the ATM machine all day. And go team!

A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun

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AP

A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun

I’m liking this 2017 so far. Then again, after 2016, nearly any year would be an improvement.

Just this last weekend we got a flat-earth scandal that turned into a mock-up about media self-importance and fake news (yay Kyrie Irving and his impish sense of satire!).

We got the overblown Russell-Hates-Kevin narrative, and the faux Russell-Secretly-Loves-Kevin counternarrative, all because we are stunningly attracted to meaningless and utterly contrived drama (yay our ability to B.S. ourselves!).

We got the NBA All-Star Game ripped for having no defense even though last year’s game was, if anything, worse (yay short attention span!).

We got the Boogie Cousins trade and the national revulsion of all the thought processes the Sacramento Kings put into this perpetually rolling disaster (yay making Boogie and Vivek Ranadive household names!).

And now we got the Great Sutton United Pie-Fixing Scandal. Yeah, pie-fixing. Hell never felt so fun.

So here’s the deal. Sutton United, a very small fry in English soccer, got to the fifth round of the FA Cup, a competition in which all the clubs in England are commingled and play each other until one team remains. The big clubs almost always win, so any time a small club goes deep, it’s a big deal.

Anyway, Sutton went deeper in the competition than nearly anyone in the last century, a charming development given that it is such a small club that it had a stadium caretaker, goalie coach and backup goalie all in one massive fellow, a 46-year-old guy named Wayne Shaw. Shaw became the globular embodiment of the entire Sutton Experience, a jolly lark for everyone involved and especially when he ate a pie on the bench in the final minutes of Sutton’s Cup-exiting loss to Arsenal.

And now he’s been eased into resigning his jobs with the club, because – and this is so very British – there were betting shops taking action on whether he would in fact eat a pie on the bench, and he either did or did not tip off his pals that he was going to chow down on television.

He did eat the pie. His pals collected on their bets. The sport’s governing body opened an investigation into market manipulation by gambling – which is hilarious given that no fewer than 10 gambling establishments have advertising deals with English soccer clubs. Shaw was invited to quit to kill the story, and he took the hint.

Hey, dreams die all the time. But it’s still pie-fixing. Let that rattle around your head for a minute. Pie-fixing. Not match-fixing. Not point-shaving. Pie-fixing.

Now how can you not love this year?

Sure, it sucks for Shaw, but it serves as a series of cautionary tales for athletes around the world.

* Gambling is everywhere, and every time you inch toward it, you dance on the third rail.

* If you want to help your friends, give them cash.

* This is a horribly delicious way to lose your gig.

* And finally, fun in the 21st century isn’t ever truly fun because someone in a suit and a snugly-placed stick is going to make sure you pay full retail for that fun.

But it is nice to know that something that has never happened before is now part of our year. Pie-fixing is a thing now, as silly in its way as Irving’s flat-earth narrative was. And as we steer away from normal games as being too run-of-the-mill-fuddy-duddy entertainment, we have replaced them with sideshows.

Or do you forget how many people complained Saturday and Sunday that the dunk contest wasn’t interesting enough? How stupid is that?

Lots. Lots of stupid. But against pie-tin-shaped planets and pies turned into betting coups, how can it possibly compare?

We chase a lot of idiotic narratives in our sporting lives. The great What Will The Patriots Do To Roger Goodell story died like the old dog it was. We still try to flog Warriors-Thunder as a rivalry in search of better TV ratings when all the obvious evidence is that it is no such thing unless you think a couple that broke up nine months ago is still a solid story. We have Bachelor fantasy leagues, for God’s sake.

This would leave most normal folks in despair, thus matching their everyday experiences, but yin meets yang, and every time it looks like we are all barrel-rolling into the sun, we get Irving, and then we get Wayne Shaw.

In short, 2017 is going to be fun of grand surprises for us all. I look forward to the day President Trump tries to fete the Patriots and only gets to Skype with Bob Kraft and the equipment guys who midwifed DeflateGate, and Mark Davis in Las Vegas, just to see if he can get a P.F. Chang’s into the Bellagio.

Why not? This is sport’s year-long tribute to sketch comedy, and evidently everyone is signing on enthusiastically to replace lessons of morality and honor and equality and dignity and sportsmanship with slackened jaws and belly laughs.

So yay sports! Or as it is clearly becoming, A Night At The Improv.
 

Patriots win one for the ages, but where does it rank?

Patriots win one for the ages, but where does it rank?

The price of watching Roger Goodell being booed back to the Bronze Age is a subtle but real one, and one that people will feel very dearly soon enough.

The last great cathartic Super Bowl is now done, with the New England Patriots winning the brilliant and decisive battle to be sports’ new evil empire. In doing so, it rendered Goodell a permanent and risible punch line in National Football League history, the mall cop who wanted the death penalty for littering, and in the words of the song “got what he wanted but he lost what he had.”

True, $40 million a year can make the dissolution of your public persona a reasonably decent tradeoff, but we lost the argument about who won his windmill tilt with the Patriots. It’s done, and he is now permanently and irrevocably a figure of ridicule.

But that’s not the only debating point America lost Sunday night, and while you wouldn’t think it given how much time we are willing to shouting at each other, quality arguments are not easily replaced.

We have almost surely lost the mindless debate about the best quarterback ever, because there is nothing anyone can bring up that the words “Tom Brady” cannot rebut except calling his own plays, and since that is no longer allowed in football, it is a silly asterisk to apply.

We have almost surely lost the equally silly shouter about the best coach ever. Bill Belichick is defiantly not fun, but he has built, improved and bronzed an organizational model that is slowly swallowing the rest of the sport. That and five trophies makes him the equal if not better of the short list of Paul Brown, George Halas, Vince Lombardi, Bill Walsh and Tom Landry.

Plus, Belichick locked up the most absurd response to a question in coaching history Monday when he said, “As great as today feels . . . we're five weeks behind the other teams for the 2017 season.” Even allowing for Gregg Popovich in-game interviews, the so-grim-he-could-make-a-robot-cry worship-the-process response has now become a cliché. If 2017 prep was so important, he should have skipped yesterday’s game, and he definitely should have chosen not to waste so much time on the trophy stand after the game when training camp drills needed to be scheduled.

Oh, and DeflateGate died. Dead. No zombie possibilities here.

We do have a meatheaded argument ahead of us about which championship in the last year is the best, which can be settled here.

1. Leicester City, because 5,000-1 is 5,000-1, and the whole world understands that. Plus, there was invaluable three-month buildup that engaged non-soccer fans.

2. Chicago Cubs, because 108 years is 108 years.

3. New England Patriots, because . . . well, I don’t have to explain it unless you have no useful memory span. “Down 25 In The Third Quarter” is the new “Down 3-1.”

4. Cleveland Cavaliers, because they slayed the first unbeatable Warrior team by coming from 3-1 down, and even as a silver medalist, it will always be an internet meme, which is what passes for memorable in our decrepit culture.

5. (tie) Villanova basketball and Clemson football in a tie, because they were essentially the same great game.

7. The Pittsburgh Penguins, because the Stanley Cup Final was devoid of drama or high moments, and only 14:53 of overtime. Feh.

But everything else is settled, and this Super Bowl will not be topped for a long time. Our current cycle of absurd championships is almost surely going to end soon, because “Down 3-1” has happened twice in eight months (three times, if you count Warriors over Thunder), and the bar has now been placed well beyond reasonable clearing.

Indeed, the only thing left is for a championship team to spontaneously combust on the award stand. But if they do so and ignite Roger Goodell along the way, that would be an ending America would cheerfully endorse.

But that also isn’t an argument any more, and yes, that includes Gary Bettman.