David Stern Has Better Things To Do Than Defend LeBron James
There are many things that I can say about NBA commissioner David Stern, and almost every one of them is positive. He took what was the rinky-dinkiest of professional leagues and put the names on the back of the jersey ahead of the names on the front, creating a licensing mecha-Godzilla at a time when the more prominent sports associations were still selling foam fingers. His was the first league to really investigate globalization and demand that its referees not be fat pigs, while paying them well enough (except for Tim Donaghy, apparently) to not need a day job. He created the NBA dunk contest and, rumor has it, actually built Michael Jordan in an underground laboratory. He made three members of the Fab Five and two Phi Slamma Jamma graduates impossibly wealthy. And he didn’t help rig the 1985 NBA Draft Lottery to deliver Patrick Ewing to the New York Knicks, using a frozen envelope.
Sure he was a little slow to embrace the hip-hop generation (like, at the speed of never), creating a now-un-bridgeable cultural chasm between league officials and its players that manifests itself during annual All-Star Weekends filled with performances from Meat Loaf and Hall and that mustachioed dwarf. And granted, it was his idea to let ladies have their own league and we all know how that debacle turned out. But, overall, his is a brain that never stops looking for a way to modernize and improve — however soulless those twin endeavors are.
But David Stern’s mother didn’t raise a fool, either. He sees what’s happening here, reads the blogs, newspapers, and likely even has a minion or two-dozen scouring Twitter. Sure, NBA ratings are up because everyone wants a chance to verbally jihad the Heatles and their most annoying player, LeBron “I’m really John, but for all intents and purposes, call me George” James. And deep down, he knows this: the person who said that any publicity is good publicity has never come into contact with a sports league whose PR department is more sensitive than a sunburned, drunken redhead.
To the folks in the Olympic Tower on Fifth Avenue in New York City, the notion being casually disseminated to the general public is that the fans don’t actually hate human tetherball LeBron James. In the league officials’ eyes, angry fans are just joshing. They see James as a wrestling villain, and only project their hatred onto him for fun. How do I know that? I can read, can’t I?
That may be what the Commish says publicly, but privately he must be seething. This is not how he planned to spend the twilight of his illustrious career: defending a guy who manipulated the system to weaken two NBA teams and who is pretty much a boneheaded-statement vending machine. Instead, Stern wanted to prepare for what people are expecting to be a bruising collective bargaining negotiation at season’s end, which will actually only be painful for the players, because Stern is going to snap their union’s will like an Olive Garden breadstick. As he has done in the past.
Looking at the bigger picture here, James’ growing unpopularity is an issue for everyone but the man himself. He keeps saying that he doesn’t mind being booed, but…really? Has there ever been a person throughout history, other than you-know-who in Germany (yes, Michael Ballack), who doesn’t want at least a little love?
Perhaps we’ll never know the answer to that and other burning questions, and so we’ll focus on what we can completely comprehend: The Miami Heat are a pretty fearsome basketball team. James and his mentor Dwyane “I’m really George, but for all intents and purposes, call me John” Wade have learned how to share the spotlight and even the third guy (who I predicted months ago would have to buy a ticket to the All-Star game) has found crevices in the offense in which to fill. Injured players are on the road to recovery, and even the mute fans are being called out for their Miami sportsfan-itude.
And yet, if the regular season were a great predictor of post-season success, we would now be about 7 years into the reign of “King Dirk of Dallas.” Because the NBA is like the Arnold Palmer beverage of sports leagues: half good and half crappy. And so if, like the Miami Heat, you are a good team, you feast upon the terrible squads and pad your record. So when you hear statistics like the Heat have won 400 of the past 403 games, you think, sure, it’s an achievement, but regular season records don’t mean crap come playoff time, other than for home court advantage.
What does? Ask Commissioner Stern. That guy knows everything.
Tony Gervino is a New York City-based editor and writer obsessed with honing his bio to make him sound quirky. He can also be found here.