The NBA is for Sissies

I like basketball.  I enjoy the sport and I enjoy watching the NBA.  But only to watch the superstars, the Lebrons, the Kobes, the D-Wades.  I don't have much interest in watching Mike Bibby execute a sound pick-and-roll and I don't jump with excitement when the Spurs pull off a fundamentally sound Drake Shuffle.  Only the superstars, but even watching them is becoming troublesome.  And that's because, in a manner of speaking, the NBA is for sissies. 

A couple weeks ago I witnessed (TM) Lebron James make an incredible 3-shot that bailed out his pathetic comrades and evened a contentious series with the bewildering Magic at a game a piece.  Alright, I thought, this is why I love basketball.  This is spectacle, this is athletic history taking place on a live national stage that only television can provide.  Surely the series would lurch forward with great enthusiasm and speed, showcasing the talents of some of the greatest athletes on Earth.  But it didn't.  Game 3 ground to a miserable pace.  Half the air time consisted of men standing at the free-throw line or refs waving their hands with yet another foul call.  If Lebron got coughed on...Foul.  If Dwight Howard got his arm pinched...Foul.  

You see these men, these gargantuan real-life superheroes of the modern age, aren't allowed to touch each other.  Not in this NBA.  A star the caliber of Lebron or Kobe is awarded an invisible cloak that sets off a whistle every time it's tugged, and instead of getting long exiting periods to watch these incredible specimens soar through the air and dunk over their hapless opponents like  conquering Pretorian overlords, we must sit there for half the duration, usually just when the game is getting good, and watch them attempt shots I could make in my backyard.

My father often complains that this sport is not basketball, what with all the traveling and the hip-hop machismo.  I'll agree with his conclusion, though not based on his points.  This isn't basketball, and I'd happily grant my father his wish of more traveling calls if it means letting these guys actually play against each other in the paint.  Dwight Howard could probably lift me off the ground and toss me through a third story window, yet he must be in serious danger if Derek Fisher tries to hold his hand during a post move.  

I don't have much interest in these Finals anyway, not with Lebron out of the equation, but the grind of watching the playoffs is beginning to wear on my interest in the entire sport.  Commissioner David Stern is a master tease.  He'll give me Lebron's Game 2 Three-Pointer, just to taste.  See, the NBA is exciting!  That shot will echo forever!  Isn't our sport great?  Then he gives me a two week stretch of Dwight Howard hurling free-shot bricks with no backspin and Kobe grimacing in anticipation of the call that almost always comes, at least to the bread-winners.

Well played, Mr. Stern.  Well played.