jbeecham
ASFN Addict
Posted by Paul Shirley, April 28, 2005
Memphis, Tenn. — I have decided that there are way too many television channels available to the general public. I, like everyone else in our dumbed-down society, spent much of my youth in front of the idiot box. Fortunately for the growth of my brain, my father did his doctoral thesis on the effects of television (mostly the public variety, i.e. Sesame Street) on the intellectual development of children. (I think; I have yet to sit down and crack open his work. Such the devoted son I am.) Because of this, my brothers and I were not allowed to watch much TV in our childhood. This is not to say our lives were entirely barren of entertainment—we loved Alf and Quantum Leap as much as anyone—but we did not spend hours upon end staring at the screen.
My first post-college employment opportunity started in November of 2001 and came in response to the following ad:
Professional basketball player needed. No experience necessary. Willingness to put up with language barrier, shoddy travel conditions and lack of an on-time, or even complete, monthly payment a must. Suckers only, please.
Because I spent most of that year in Athens worrying more about tracking down a paycheck from two months previous and placating a Greek landlord who could not understand why the team was three months behind on its rent payments, getting the requisite satellite installed at my apartment was not high on the priority list. Consequently, my contact with the outside world was limited to the internet and some very shaky phone service. The upshot of this entertainment moonscape was that I learned just how much of a time-waster television is. It was an amazing revelation. Suddenly, I had hours to fritter away sitting by the sea with teammates who didn’t even speak the same language as me. (Wait, how was that good again?) At any rate, I learned how to live without it quite well and, upon my return to the US that summer, found that I had not really missed any regularly scheduled programming.
To this day, I still do not watch much television. I catch the occasional episode of Arrested Development when I can, and the World Poker Tour gives me the sports-related fix that was once filled by basketball. (I get quite enough of that particular game in my current job as assistant cheerleader for the Phoenix Suns.) I do see a fair amount of TV when I go to ‘work’, though. Our practice days involve a certain amount of dead time, be it dressing in the locker room, rehab or strength work in the weight room, or random wandering through the training room area. Because most athletes are apparently chronic sufferers of ADD, there are televisions everywhere. Since we are all dumb jocks, most of these are tuned to some sports channel or another. (I will be non-specific, since the attacks are forthcoming.)
I vividly remember summers when my brothers and I, not quite old enough to have jobs, would spend entire mornings watching SportsCenter over and over (with intermittent channel flips to the Price is Right, of course). Because we spent a lot of time studying it, I think I am qualified to say that the format then consisted almost entirely of highlights and scores. In those days, back when the anchors were not trying so hard to be funny (and consequently, could actually slide in a humorous remark now and then), the viewer was left to his own devices regarding his thoughts on the events he was watching. Not so today. Now, on every sports channel I see, the issues are analyzed to death. Well, actually past death. More like analyzed to decomposition…via writhing piles of maggots.
So now, instead of showing the facts and letting the people decide for themselves as to their conclusions, presenters on shows turn it over to people whose only qualification is that they look vaguely presentable on camera and can out-yell all comers. I really don’t think this is a good thing for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is that, when it gets down to it, sports just are not that important. There is a reason the sports page has been historically found on section D or E of the newspaper.
Of course, I could make the same argument about the news. There was a time when a person could be presented with the facts regarding any old issue and not be subjected to some random “expert’s” opinion on gay marriage, abortion, or the Surreal Life.
(I should note that, by taking this course of argument I am, in fact, railing against myself because really, who the hell am I and why should anyone put any stock in what I write? The good news is that I have not been told that I am an expert on, well, anything, so I have not been given carte blanch to begin yelling about why I think the Chiefs got a steal in the fourth round with the drafting of Craphonso Thorpe [New feature--in-parenthetical parenthetical expressions. How about Craphonso for a name? One would have to become a football player just to take out the aggression that would build up from having that for a moniker. I doubt he ever heard, “Hey, Crap-Honzo, catch the damn ball,” back in school. Seriously, though, who approved that on the birth certificate? There needs to be some sort of watch-dog organization for these things.] Basically, I write what is the direct channeling of a very strange brain, and should be treated as such.)
Now that I have shot down my own credibility, I want to talk about our point guard. There has been a lot of debate this year regarding who should be the MVP of the NBA. I honestly care only slightly who wins the award; my concern is weighted more heavily toward hoping I will have to deal with an awkward smattering of applause after my name is announced at the post-championship rally. Steve is a hell of a good dude and an amazing basketball player, but the same could be said about Shaquille O’Neal—the other theoretical frontrunner for the award. (Quick story, since I have totally wrecked the flow of this anyway. When I was first out of college and reported to training camp with the Lakers, with whom I had no chance of making the team as an undrafted, non-guaranteed camp invitee, I was determined to not betray the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. To that end, upon entry into the locker room prior to the media day that goes on the day before training camp begins, I marched right up to Shaq and said, “Hi. My name is Paul Shirley.” He smiled and said, “Yeah, I know who you are.” I nearly fell onto the floor. Instead, though, I said, “Nice to meet you,” and walked back to my locker to get dressed so that I could be asked exactly zero questions by the reporters in attendance. Throughout camp, Shaq was unbelievable. He was completely down-to-earth, funny, and approachable. When I was released at the first available opportunity, I was left with a lasting impression of a very cool individual.)
Steve Nash absolutely changes the entire feel of games in which he is involved. I recently spent some time speaking with a Canadian reporter who was doing a story about Steve. He was waiting for the floppy-haired one to finish with the beat writers and, while killing time, had come to talk to me because of his reading of the nonsense found here. In our time together, we developed the theory that Steve’s game is like it is because of his soccer background. To watch a Suns game is to watch a free-flowing exercise in extemporaneous basketball. There is a rough guide to be followed, but generally the decisions are left to the participants. The same could be said about the game of soccer. When observed from above, a soccer match seems amorphous and ever-changing. The game flows in S-curves and smooth shapes, as opposed to bad basketball, which is all Z’s and sharp turns. I think Steve brings this soccer mentality to the court. He never stops moving during the game and seems to flow up and down the floor throughout. Consequently, his teammates, and even the opposition, move in a similar manner.
Whether Steve is the most valuable player in the entire NBA is really not for me to say. I will say, though, that our team would not be what it is—maybe the most fun basketball team to watch in ten years—without his influence. Amaré Stoudemire is ridiculously good, Shawn Marion makes plays on any given night that make me wonder why the rest of us even try, and Joe Johnson is as good a shooter as I have ever seen, but without a director, the rest of the group, I think, would be lost. Steve guides the game in ways that are unseen to the casual observer. He plays the game the way it should be—in constant motion and with a grasp for the several dimensions on which a basketball game unfolds that is preternatural. For that, I think he is certainly our MVP.
But make up your own mind.
Memphis, Tenn. — I have decided that there are way too many television channels available to the general public. I, like everyone else in our dumbed-down society, spent much of my youth in front of the idiot box. Fortunately for the growth of my brain, my father did his doctoral thesis on the effects of television (mostly the public variety, i.e. Sesame Street) on the intellectual development of children. (I think; I have yet to sit down and crack open his work. Such the devoted son I am.) Because of this, my brothers and I were not allowed to watch much TV in our childhood. This is not to say our lives were entirely barren of entertainment—we loved Alf and Quantum Leap as much as anyone—but we did not spend hours upon end staring at the screen.
My first post-college employment opportunity started in November of 2001 and came in response to the following ad:
Professional basketball player needed. No experience necessary. Willingness to put up with language barrier, shoddy travel conditions and lack of an on-time, or even complete, monthly payment a must. Suckers only, please.
Because I spent most of that year in Athens worrying more about tracking down a paycheck from two months previous and placating a Greek landlord who could not understand why the team was three months behind on its rent payments, getting the requisite satellite installed at my apartment was not high on the priority list. Consequently, my contact with the outside world was limited to the internet and some very shaky phone service. The upshot of this entertainment moonscape was that I learned just how much of a time-waster television is. It was an amazing revelation. Suddenly, I had hours to fritter away sitting by the sea with teammates who didn’t even speak the same language as me. (Wait, how was that good again?) At any rate, I learned how to live without it quite well and, upon my return to the US that summer, found that I had not really missed any regularly scheduled programming.
To this day, I still do not watch much television. I catch the occasional episode of Arrested Development when I can, and the World Poker Tour gives me the sports-related fix that was once filled by basketball. (I get quite enough of that particular game in my current job as assistant cheerleader for the Phoenix Suns.) I do see a fair amount of TV when I go to ‘work’, though. Our practice days involve a certain amount of dead time, be it dressing in the locker room, rehab or strength work in the weight room, or random wandering through the training room area. Because most athletes are apparently chronic sufferers of ADD, there are televisions everywhere. Since we are all dumb jocks, most of these are tuned to some sports channel or another. (I will be non-specific, since the attacks are forthcoming.)
I vividly remember summers when my brothers and I, not quite old enough to have jobs, would spend entire mornings watching SportsCenter over and over (with intermittent channel flips to the Price is Right, of course). Because we spent a lot of time studying it, I think I am qualified to say that the format then consisted almost entirely of highlights and scores. In those days, back when the anchors were not trying so hard to be funny (and consequently, could actually slide in a humorous remark now and then), the viewer was left to his own devices regarding his thoughts on the events he was watching. Not so today. Now, on every sports channel I see, the issues are analyzed to death. Well, actually past death. More like analyzed to decomposition…via writhing piles of maggots.
So now, instead of showing the facts and letting the people decide for themselves as to their conclusions, presenters on shows turn it over to people whose only qualification is that they look vaguely presentable on camera and can out-yell all comers. I really don’t think this is a good thing for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is that, when it gets down to it, sports just are not that important. There is a reason the sports page has been historically found on section D or E of the newspaper.
Of course, I could make the same argument about the news. There was a time when a person could be presented with the facts regarding any old issue and not be subjected to some random “expert’s” opinion on gay marriage, abortion, or the Surreal Life.
(I should note that, by taking this course of argument I am, in fact, railing against myself because really, who the hell am I and why should anyone put any stock in what I write? The good news is that I have not been told that I am an expert on, well, anything, so I have not been given carte blanch to begin yelling about why I think the Chiefs got a steal in the fourth round with the drafting of Craphonso Thorpe [New feature--in-parenthetical parenthetical expressions. How about Craphonso for a name? One would have to become a football player just to take out the aggression that would build up from having that for a moniker. I doubt he ever heard, “Hey, Crap-Honzo, catch the damn ball,” back in school. Seriously, though, who approved that on the birth certificate? There needs to be some sort of watch-dog organization for these things.] Basically, I write what is the direct channeling of a very strange brain, and should be treated as such.)
Now that I have shot down my own credibility, I want to talk about our point guard. There has been a lot of debate this year regarding who should be the MVP of the NBA. I honestly care only slightly who wins the award; my concern is weighted more heavily toward hoping I will have to deal with an awkward smattering of applause after my name is announced at the post-championship rally. Steve is a hell of a good dude and an amazing basketball player, but the same could be said about Shaquille O’Neal—the other theoretical frontrunner for the award. (Quick story, since I have totally wrecked the flow of this anyway. When I was first out of college and reported to training camp with the Lakers, with whom I had no chance of making the team as an undrafted, non-guaranteed camp invitee, I was determined to not betray the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. To that end, upon entry into the locker room prior to the media day that goes on the day before training camp begins, I marched right up to Shaq and said, “Hi. My name is Paul Shirley.” He smiled and said, “Yeah, I know who you are.” I nearly fell onto the floor. Instead, though, I said, “Nice to meet you,” and walked back to my locker to get dressed so that I could be asked exactly zero questions by the reporters in attendance. Throughout camp, Shaq was unbelievable. He was completely down-to-earth, funny, and approachable. When I was released at the first available opportunity, I was left with a lasting impression of a very cool individual.)
Steve Nash absolutely changes the entire feel of games in which he is involved. I recently spent some time speaking with a Canadian reporter who was doing a story about Steve. He was waiting for the floppy-haired one to finish with the beat writers and, while killing time, had come to talk to me because of his reading of the nonsense found here. In our time together, we developed the theory that Steve’s game is like it is because of his soccer background. To watch a Suns game is to watch a free-flowing exercise in extemporaneous basketball. There is a rough guide to be followed, but generally the decisions are left to the participants. The same could be said about the game of soccer. When observed from above, a soccer match seems amorphous and ever-changing. The game flows in S-curves and smooth shapes, as opposed to bad basketball, which is all Z’s and sharp turns. I think Steve brings this soccer mentality to the court. He never stops moving during the game and seems to flow up and down the floor throughout. Consequently, his teammates, and even the opposition, move in a similar manner.
Whether Steve is the most valuable player in the entire NBA is really not for me to say. I will say, though, that our team would not be what it is—maybe the most fun basketball team to watch in ten years—without his influence. Amaré Stoudemire is ridiculously good, Shawn Marion makes plays on any given night that make me wonder why the rest of us even try, and Joe Johnson is as good a shooter as I have ever seen, but without a director, the rest of the group, I think, would be lost. Steve guides the game in ways that are unseen to the casual observer. He plays the game the way it should be—in constant motion and with a grasp for the several dimensions on which a basketball game unfolds that is preternatural. For that, I think he is certainly our MVP.
But make up your own mind.
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