The Celtics, the Lakers, and Some Thoughts on the State of the NBA and its Narcissistic Stars

Tonight at 9:30pm, the Celtics and Lakers begin competition for the NBA championship. For those who don't know, this is a renaissance of basketball, one that hearkens back some two decades to the glory days of the NBA, when Larry Bird worked his Hoosier magic and Magic Johnson (an overrated player--but then again, I am from Maine, and thus a diehard Celtics fan) roamed the court.

(Side note: one of the funniest things about sports is the ridiculous concept of "history." History, for sports and the sports marketing machine, extends about fifty years back. That which is truly ancient, occurring in realms almost inconceivable to the modern mind, happened between 60-100 years ago. Much of what drives this truncated view of history is the fact that modern sports are closely linked with television. Television is notorious for developing an undernourished version of history--History Channel excluded, of course--in which events barely two decades old are seen as almost comically passe. History, friends, is the realm of things that stretch back centuries, millenia, not merely decades! But alas, I am a wannabe historian, and these things irk me.

Side note continued: If you think I'm on a jag here, just consider my words after you've watched the hundredth commercial or halftime spot recalling the "glory days" of twenty years past, replete with slow motion footage and mystical voiceover. This little side note won't change anything, of course. However, it may free one watcher, one lonely viewer, from the absolutely hilarious conception of history common to television, marketers, and those for the twain meets. Histrionics concluded.)

Okay, with all that said, if you're interested in the game, read this hilarious Bill Simmons column on it. Bill Simmons writes for ESPN, he's not a Christian to my knowledge, he can be irreverent, but he's quite insightful on the game and frequently witty in the extreme. If you're going to follow the series, he'll give you a good briefing on the match-up.

For my part, I am ready for the NBA finals. Really--I've been preparing. Meditation, balancing exercises, that sort of thing. Why? Because the NBA finals offer a level of over-heated, self-serving entertainment of the kind rarely glimpsed in the mortal realm. NBA athletes are far and away the best in the world. They possess a collection of skill, dexterity, strength, size, and grace that is unmatched by any other class of sportsmen. However, with this burden of talent comes a burden of ego. There is no one like the NBA superstar. The world exists to drool over him, throw money at him, applaud him til all palms are red, all while he preens and pouts and whines and machinates and ruminates before television commercials about his barely comprehensible greatness. There are a (very) few exceptions to this rule, but most of the NBA superstars and stars and even normal role players one watches are highly skilled not only in the art of basketball, but the discipline of relentless, unimpedable narcissistic self-obsession.

However, they are extremely fun to watch, if you can just ignore the histrionics, attention-grabbing disorders, and general interest in self-promotion.

When overseas recently, I watched some rugby, which was quite fun. Rugby players are talented athletes, and they play before thousands, and they have their own brand of machinations, but theirs come nowhere near those of NBA players. Rugby players work hard, work together, and when they succeed, they briefly celebrate with their teammates and then move on. As one who admittedly loves the grace and skill of the NBA, it was a pleasure to watch the character and team-oriented play of the rugby players. There was no Lebron James out there, no player who seemed to have become a demigod in his eyes and the eyes of those who follow him. The rugby game was sport as it should be: competitive, fun, skillful, and team-oriented, not individual-exalting.

With all of this bluster, I confess that I still love to watch the NBA. I can't help myself. At its best, played at its highest level by its best players, it is a forceful ballet, an athletic drama. Its top stars, most of them outfitted with extraordinary coordination, 36-inch verticals, and fine-tuned ability, lead their teams in coordinated attack and defense. The best teams exist together in a kind of physical harmony, the players sharing a common mind and will. For these reasons, I try hard to overlook the lack of character displayed by many players and to enjoy the gift of graceful competition. Reminds one that Christians really have an opportunity to shine in the realm of sports. When one plays hard but fairly, skillfully but not self-servingly, one can really stand out. We should not abandon sports, but should season them. That includes the NBA and other levels of basketball and even local gyms and rec leagues. The world is sin-infested, and we can't just turn our backs on it--we need to be salt in places that smell, leaven in realms of dullness and decay.

Of course, if the Celtics win this series, that would be just fine with this New Englander. If some team full of narcissistic athletes has to win, I'll take the New England team every time.

What It's Like to Play in the NBA D-League (or at Least the D-League Tryouts)

Just read a pretty funny article about one writer's bid to make the NBA's Developmental League. "Me Got Game", by Davy Rothbart, is a funny and revealing look about what it's actually like to try and make a high-level professional basketball team. You'll want to watch for bad language in the piece, but if you can get past it, you'll likely be entertained by Rothbart's experience.

Rothbart recounts his initial moments as a D-League would-be.

"When we get to the arena, we run our pregame warm-up. I feel good, and every shot I fling up is going down. Marcus whistles. “Dang,” he says. “If I get the rebound down low, look for me to kick it out to you. I want to rack up some assists.”

Once the game starts, its pace is relentless, a nonstop sprint. When I sub in, I’m matched against a six-foot-two guard who played at Southern Oregon. I decide to drape myself on him on the perimeter so he can’t get off a shot, even if it means surrendering the drive. My lungs are on fire; my vision feels fogged. Then the ball rotates to me on -offense, and I let loose a long-range jumper, six feet behind the three-point line. Swish!"

Rothbart has a good first game, but things go downhill from there. As he writes, one gets a sense of the speed and force of professional basketball. Here's a snapshot from his next game.

"Right out of the gate, I know I’m in trouble. Yesterday’s games have sapped me of my juice, and the guy I’m D’ing up scores twice in a row. At the other end, I throw up an off-balance shot that barely glances the front rim. Coach Walsh yanks me. “Don’t force it, Davy,” he shouts. “Find your rhythm.” I nod, but when I sub back in, I can’t find it. Walsh pulls me out again, and I take a seat at the end of the bench, sucking breaths, close to tears."

After several games, the tryout for the D-League is over, and Rothbart reflects on his effort.

"Yeah, I found out the hard way—I couldn’t hang. I was good enough only to keep from embarrassing myself. (I’d totaled fourteen points and fifteen assists.) Anthony, who scored three points in our final game, also came up short. But that’s kind of all right. There’s something about laying it all on the line that feels gutsy and noble."

I enjoyed the writing, though it's not particularly noteworthy. What did stand out to me from the piece was the level of difficulty that former athletes often face in walking away from their sport. Some can hang up their shoes without much sadness, but others continue to chase a dream that retreats with each year that passes, like a shadow from a descending sun. It seems to me a difficult thing to be a marquee athlete. One day, you're playing on ESPN and in front of 20,000 screaming fans. The next, you're in a gym in the middle of nowhere, desperate to keep your dreams alive, unaware that they may well have already passed you by.

There's something about sports that makes it hard to keep in balance--perhaps the rush of testerone that becomes a regular part of life for athletes. When you're used to a cycle of highs and lows, you struggle, perhaps, to keep your life in balance, to adjust to the normal rhythms of life. This is especially true when you've been told at summer camps and motivational meetings that you can be anything you want to be. Sometimes, despite what the speaker may say, you can't. Most of us will be forced at numerous points in our lives to stop, drop what we're doing, and evaluate our lives. Is our current pursuit in the stream of God's blessing? Are we hacking away at dreams and hopes that should have died long ago? Are we, like Jonah, fighting God's will, no matter how much sea water and disappointment we swallow?

There is great humility in admitting one's limitations and in accepting the inevitable. This is no easy thing to do, but in doing so, we exhibit commendable self-awareness and realism. We also acknowledge that despite what our mind or heart may tell us, reality tells us to give up, to redirect ourselves, to lay down even the most cultivated of passions. For some of us, that's a sport; for others, it's a person we've long pursued; for others, it's a vocational dream. No matter what it may be, whether the D-League or a doctorate or even marriage, it's a fundamentally humble and healthy thing to stop fighting the circumstances around us--and the God who, we regularly discover, is behind them.

Reflecting on the Turbulent, Sad, and Triumphant Life of Pete Maravich

Mark Kriegel's Pistol came out in 2007 and tells the fascinating and tragic story of the basketball player known as "Pistol" Pete Maravich (1947-1988). I highly recommend it to most anyone who likes reading, and to those who like biographies, and to those who like sports, and to those who like good writing. This is a sizeable group of would-be readers, I know, but it's justifiably sizeable. Kriegel is a solid historian, a talented storyteller, and has good insight into the human condition. His worldview and mine differ, and his characterizations of people lean far too heavily on psychology for my taste, but though I possess a fundamentally different understanding of the causes and the solution of Maravich's sad life, I commend him for what is an excellent, if heartbreaking, biography.

This is not a conventional review but a reflection on the book. In general, the story of the Pistol is one of excess and, resultingly, sadness and pain. In short, Pete and his father were obsessed with basketball. This obsession created a person of extremes: the Pistol's obsession with the game made him perhaps the most talented basketball player ever, and yet his obsession destroyed him, emptied him, left him without any greater meaning or purpose in his life. To read his story is to see a real-life Faustus in action. He makes his bargain with the basketball gods, and they make him wildly talented, and yet they demand his soul in exchange, leaving him a shell of a person. It is hard, bitterly hard, to watch this unfold, particularly as a Christian. One aches for Pete, yearns for his domineering, driven father, Press Maravich, to bring balance into Pete's life, but this never happens. Press raised Pete to be the first million dollar basketball player and, incredibly, he was. He drilled him and trained him and immersed him in basketball until the boy could not miss--and could not be happy.

Pistol is thus not simply the biography of Pete, it is the story of Press, a man driven by a challenging background to succeed at any cost. He did succeed--his son clearly thrilled him, and many others--but the spectacular height of the success was matched squarely by his failure as a father to train his son in what truly matters. The father laid his Isaac on the altar, but there was none there to stay his hand, none to catch him from driving his son into depression, drugs, drinking, decadence, and an early death. This is a story of fathers and sons that has been told many times in human history, and will be told many times more to come.

Pete's life ends on a happy note. He becomes a Christian and, in turn, something of an evangelist. His transformation was genuine, and he became an adoring father, a good husband, a dutiful son, a passionate witness for Christ. This period of light in Pete's life is brief, sadly, because only a few years after God saves Pete, he dies in 1988. Playing basketball with, of all people, Dr. James Dobson, Pete collapses and dies on the spot. He left behind two young sons who worshipped the ground he walked on and who have never really found their way. Kriegel tells their story as well, and it is clear that the loss of their loving father left the boys as lost as Pete himself once was. Pete's life, then, truly is a mix of pain and beauty, though both are magnified in an unusual way. The beauty he created--even if you don't like basketball, watch this video, and hold onto your jaw--was breathtaking, and the wake of pain he experienced and created was similarly significant. Pistol Pete was a mystery, a paradox, and he will remain enigmatic, a comet who flashed brightly and landed hard.

If you're a man who likes sports, or a dad (or mom) who has children who love sports, read this book. It has lessons that you will quickly pick up, though of course Kriegel does not write in a moralistic way. Or, if you're a Christian who struggles to restrain your passions for earthly things, whatever they may be, read this book. You will profit from seeing the logical outcome of pursuing earthly things too hard. I did. As a boy, I was influenced by the Pistol, and came to love basketball too much. I still struggle to keep my passion for the game in check, though I have all the right answers in my mind--don't obsess over earthly things, it's just a game, play for joy and fun and, when possible, evangelism--but I don't always put those answers into play. I am a man, and I have clay feet, and though I am redeemed by the grace of God, I still struggle to keep my passions in perspective.

I suppose that many of us are like this, in one way or another, and that we struggle to keep certain impulses and interests in balance. Though we do struggle, we must not misread the presence of struggle as a justification for defeat. We've got to struggle on, to keep fighting, to pray hard, stay accountable, and seek holiness. Most of all, we've got to focus on Christ, the One who was, like the Pistol, a man of great paradox. This man, though, did not wrestle with sin. He had none. No, He was paradoxical because, though He was omnipotent, He became a man. Though He was a lion, He became a lamb. Though He deserved no death, He died, in order that you, and me, and Pete, and millions upon millions of other people could escape the sins that would drive us far from God's hand into a place of uncountable sorrow. This is a paradox that, unlike the Pistol, does not leave us with sadness. It leaves us with joy--and it promises to transform us, and make us triumphant, even as Pete now has won the victory, and lost his earthly chains.