The Unraveling of David Stern

January 3, 2007
By: Dave Zirin

David Stern has made a series of decisions so brazenly bizarre, so proudly unpopular, it makes one wonder if Donald Rumsfeld hasn't secretly taken over the NBA.ling of David Stern

Anyone seen David Stern recently? Is there proof that the man they call "Money" isn't growing out his fingernails, freezing his urine, and trading in his wingtips for tissue boxes? All I want this holiday season is an assurance that the Commish doesn't think he's nine feet tall, green, and running Whoville. But indications are that the slogan for this NBA season is "How the Stern Stole Christmas."

We have already discussed in this space the noxious 15 game suspension of Carmelo Anthony, but that's just the tip of the plunger.

This year, "Money" has executed a series of decisions so brazenly bizarre, so proudly unpopular, it makes me wonder if Donald Rumsfeld hasn't secretly taken over the NBA. Not since Josef Stalin insisted that the girls of the USSR wear pigtails under penalty of imprisonment, have we seen a leader stride so confidently off the deep end without any fear of reprisal.

Stern's long march from sanity began with his executive order for a new basketball - now being compared to the success of "New Coke.". If there was one part of the NBA in perfect working order, it was the rock. For over 35 years, everyone from Kareem and Oscar Robertson to Jordan and LeBron has used the same leather sphere. Baseball would never switch from cowhide to Nerf, but Stern flushed tradition, moving from leather to some synthetic flubber called Cross Traxxion. The new ball was slicker than Pat Riley's do, and even worse, seemed to be making Vince Carter a good three-point shooter. Worst of all, it was causing a series of open cuts on players' hands, scraping them raw. Everyone despised it, but for half the season, Stern just said, "Let them smoke shake."

It caused a full scale players rebellion and pushed Stern to backtrack and go back to the old ball this week. The only people this upset by this decision were the folks at the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). PETA issued a homophobic rant where they wrote,

"As excruciating as these 'injuries' must be for a worldclass athlete, thousands of cows stand to suffer far worse if the NBA goes back to a leather basketball -- so we'd like to suggest a compromise. PETA would like to offer a lifetime supply of cruelty-free hand cream to any NBA siss ... excuse me, superstar who'd be willing to give the composite ball another shot. NCAA athletes have been using composite balls for years without experiencing scratches or scrapes -- but we understand that the delicate hands of pampered NBA superstars are far more sensitive than those of your average Joe who actually has to work for a living."

Gee. That's mighty progressive of PETA, rivaling their Pam Anderson photo shoots. But I personally believe that no one should dribble anything that didn't at one time have a face.

Yet the ball is nothing compared to the new "rules regarding player comport." Now no one can so much as look at the ref and think bad thoughts without drawing a technical. Stern, in yet another move of Kipling-esque paternalism seems to want players in a state of sedation, smiling up and down the court like they all had chainsaw lobotomies. He might as well put thorazine in the Gatorade. Granted no one wants to see Rasheed Wallace act-the-fool every time he gets whistled for a reach-in, but 122 techs were called through the first 51 games. Players are so putout the union has even threatened legal action to slow the whistles. (If you don't say shit, you must acquit?)

You know you've made some wrong turns when Mark Cuban has been handed the moral high ground. Cubes earned a black belt in sarcasm when he wrote on his blog, "No complaining. No backtalk. No taking off your warm-ups on the court. No arena sound system is too loud. The new ball. All changes for the better. Anyone who has seen me at the games knows it's a completely different ballgame, and I'm thankful."

This year, we should be buzzing about the greatness of "Agent Zero" Gilbert Arenas and the best lefty shooter in history Michael Redd. We should be clucking about the emergence of Dwight Howard, and the resurrection of Amare Stoudamire. We should be analyzing how Zach Randolph morphed into a 300-pound version of Adrian Dantley. We should thank heavens that Grant Hill's ankle finally doesn't look like it was repaired with scotch tape and balsa wood. We should be wondering how Steve Nash, entering his mid 30s, just seems to getting better. Instead, we have Stern, tweaking the league, and leaving both fans and players with the purplest of nurples. Mr. Stern: a holiday plea. Please return the joy to Whoville. If you don't, we will have to assume that at long last, and after a great run, "Money" has finally lost his sense.