Closet Cheerleaders

Jerry Sloan is long gone.  He was the last remaining coach within a group of closet cheerleaders, masked in circling lip hair, and expensive suits.  He’s left us a mad-pile of puppet NBA coaches, who kissed enough ass to get to where they are today.

Take the L.A. Lakers for example. The greatest “coach” of all time, Phil Jackson, aka “zen master,” does about as much coaching as a cow. His low gruff voice, and quirky communication style, whispers a total of ten words during your average ball game, while Kobe demands the basketball from every player not named, well…Kobe.

It doesn’t get more awkward than this.

Is it fair to say, in today’s NBA, the central component to winning is rooted in the player of the hour, and less about set, or the God forsaken defense. Jackson’s eleven rings have been pieced together by two mainstays, one of which Jackson would rather not have exposed. The first of these large pie pieces is his “superior” triangle offense. A set that is more simplistic in its orientation than an episode of Blue’s Clues. This equation of basketball has been at the forefront of all his title teams, yet the truth of the triangle offense is that Phil never conceived of it. It was Tex Winter, his long time assistant in Chicago, who stole the set from USC’s great coach Sam Barry, and evolved into the faster paced NBA game.

Too bad Tex is ugly. @owenmain, gotta want it.

The triangle runs through its big man. It’s fond of a point-forward to bring the basketball up the floor, with the guard angled strong side corner, and the big, stationed on the strong side block. The point guard drifts to the weak-side three point region, while the power forward sets up weak-side, ten feet from the hoop, awaiting a possible alley-oop, or offensive rebound.  It is a set that my Junior High girl’s basketball team mastered in a matter of minutes. Not shittin’ you.

The second piece, one of which Jackson would love to leave locked in his coaching vault, is the long list of stars who have driven his ship to greatness: Jordan, Pippen, Shaq, Kobe, and Pau, to name a few. These players define the simplicity of his life; a lack or where-with-all to deliver momentary on the fly operatives, affecting the game as a whole. For Jackson it was simple–give the greatest player in the history of the universe the ball, M.J., or one of the most dominate big men in league history, Shaq. If not, let Kobe create, or Pippen and Pau bail you out.

Yet he has been glorified for every one of his eleven rings.  In today’s sports world money talks more than matter, and world-championships scream dollars signs, endorsements, new arenas, and top notch free agents. Whether or not a coach stumbled into the situation,  he becomes the face of both sporting and economical successes. He’s awarded a heafty contract extension, and his job as a coach, takes on a life of its own. With a multi-million dollar deal, he rivals players for dollars made; the house, the car, the women; and learns to  self-preserve his good-life, rather than coach and govern his club.

That is until he stumbles, ala Pat Riley post- 2006, and thus the coaching is dead.

This is why Jackson won nothing when Jordan retired. In 1993-1994, a season with Pippen at the head of the food of chain, the Bulls were man-handled by the superior Knicksin six in the 2nd round. Jackson’s zen-abilities, would have been better suited for a naked hippie commune in the surrounding mountains of Santa Cruz, then they would (take a breath and ahhh…) coach.  Had it not been for Jordan’s return, Jackson would of periled in defeat, and become the face of self-help healing courses.

His inabilities as a coach–communication and relateability–created a problem in 2004, when his Lakers lost to the Pistons, a group of better coached role guys, in the finals. Jackson’s means of self-preservation were evident when he he stepped down after the finals defeat then wrote a book, “The Last Season,” in which he lambasted the players he’d loved the last three title years. It begged the question, whether or not Phil was saving face for not only a debacle, but one in which he was at the helm of. The poorly written re-telling aimed its attack at Kobe Bryant (who trust me, I know had a part in it, but…) looking to pass the blame toward one of the greatest players this league has ever seen.  Jackson’s book earnings are disputed, but have been placed in the ballpark of five to ten million dollars, not to mention, his ass-kissing gestures in the book, mainly thrown at the Buss family, acted as an incestious form of career insurance, further flowering his enormous life savings.

Funny how, just five years later, a championship, new contract, and the pride of his league best tenth ring, changed things. Jackson is to “the boy who cried wolf” as Kobe is to…Jordan? Hmmm.

Across the country, another hyper clown is making headlines. Eric Spoelstra, otherwise known as “coach Spo” has been ring leading a circus parade, the Miami Heat, with dance grooves, circa drug ring mid-70’s. He’s had the “difficult” job of winning with the likes of three superstars in Bron Bron, D-Wade, and Bosh, all three, who would be the face of a franchise anywhere in the world.

With every win, spunky “Spo” becomes prouder of his club, not to mention his players. I’m sure Juwan Howard, the five minute a night washed up big man feels the love too. Or Eddie “Gan’sta” House, believes in himself because of coach Spo’s love for not only his star-children, but his middle class role guys.

Well…not so fast. During the team’s suprising 9-8 start, D-Wade made headlines when he proclaimed Spo to be “not my guy, but my coach.”  The small statement sent shock-waves through the organization because it proved Spo was not only unable to gain the respect from his players, but had the lack of gumption to move his team in the direction he saw necessary. It also asked the question of whether or not today’s NBA players are coachable? It would seem no, considering the NBA is now more of a drive through of entertainment than it is the patience of fine dining.

Larry Brown is a perfect example of a guy who loves to coach. He expects his players to run his sets, his plays, his defense, and come to practice.  But it is this expectation that has made him a journey man in the world of professional basketball. His puritanical approach to a team sport has led to many of his firings by a league looking for athletic players to excite a crowd feigning for entertainment, and the slick backed hip-hop moguls (dub Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind“) to lead them there.

On February 9th, in a one point win over the red hot Pacers, Bron Bron rose above three defenders to hit a go ahead jumper with thirteen seconds to play. His line: 41pts, 13reb, 8ast, 3stl, were evident of his dominance. But he had Wade and Bosh both wide-open, closer to the hoop. The obvious play was to deliver the ball for a better shot, to two superstars, mainly Wade, a one time champion, top five player today, to win the game. But Bron was feeling it, and took the shot with confidence. As he hit it, Spo could be seen jumping around like a grammar school fan, with eyes as wide as dollar coins. Which was disappointing.

For many of us who’ve watched enough basketball to know what the hell we’re talking about (your cue to exit this article if you don’t), the best player on the Heat the first forty four minutes is Bron, but in the last four, is clearly Wade. He’s led a team to a title, made big plays on the biggest stage, and hits free throws with better consistency. But Wade is now second fiddle to a corporation in Bron Bron, who sells more jerseys, tickets, shoes, and clothing. Because of this, Spo’s ability to coach was tossed out the window, and the entity of El Brondo, ran him over like a freight train.

Lucky for Spo, he delivered. After the game he was quoted, “Bron’s motor was insane tonight.” Really, insane? What a word choice. He sounds like a braces wearing sport’s fan, more passionate about a player, than he is a cool collect coach. I wouldn’t be suprised to see Spo in Cancun this summer, with a Bron jersey slung on his short, stubby white physique,  dropping ‘dope’ and ‘fly’ like a  wannabe ‘partna’.

Get out.

–Luke Johnson

luke@fansmanship.com