spurschick
06-03-2005, 10:24 AM
Like Rodney, the Spurs don't get no respect
Hard to get on bandwagon of quiet team in quiet city
COMMENTARY
By Michael Ventre
NBCSports.com contributor
Updated: 6:51 p.m. ET June 2, 2005
Perhaps the most overused phrase in the history of comparisons involves the name “Rodney Dangerfield.” If somebody is an exceptional talk-show host, for example, but is largely overlooked, he is “the Rodney Dangerfield of talk-show hosts — he gets no respect.” Over the years, the label has been applied to countless actors and actresses, broadcasters, scientists, politicians, musicians, dog catchers, proctologists, you name it. It’s as if there’s an enormous respect void out there in the universe, with millions of people swirling inside its boundaries tugging at their neckties, making sad-sack faces and yearning for props.
The problem, of course, is that it was just a schtick. The late Rodney Dangerfield got a lot of respect, from fans and peers alike. If you see a clip of a Rodney routine, or catch him as Al Czervik in “Caddyshack,” and you conclude that the man doesn’t deserve our respect, then you’re the one who doesn’t deserve any respect. And that’s no schtick.
The San Antonio Spurs are in this very situation, even after gaining their third NBA Finals in the past seven years. Do they get respect? They do, and they don’t.
Among those who follow the NBA passionately and appreciate the nuances of the game, who love teamwork and unselfishness, who understand that defense wins championships but it’s also handy to have a dynamic offense, the Spurs get respect up the wazoo.
But the general public is even more dismissive of the Spurs than Rodney was to his self-flagellating alter ego. Casual sports fans regard the Spurs as a bland and colorless collection of nondescript professional athletes from a quaint city who probably belong in the background but who stubbornly refuse to stay there. As to those fans, the Spurs give an exaggerated roll of their eyes, because they get no respect.
Basketball connoisseurs know who Tim Duncan is. They know that there is a grass-roots campaign to anoint Dwyane Wade or LeBron James as the new Best Player In The NBA, but that the quiet and unassuming Duncan might be the rightful choice.
Yet most folks with a passing familiarity of the league see Duncan as the drummer in a rock band, not the front man. He’s essential to the group’s success, but he doesn’t jump out at you. To those people, Duncan makes a pleading gesture with his hands, because he gets no respect.
Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker are splendid players. They’re young, athletic, quick, talented and they already have loads of experience in big games. Any team would love to have them. But because they play in San Antonio, they’re known in various parts of the country as Tony Ginobili, or Manu Parker, or Mr. Eva Longoria and his sidekick. Ginobili and Parker should each make an appointment with Dr. Vinny Goombatz, because they get no respect.
And don’t get me started on the rest of the Spurs. Bruce Bowen? As a defender, he’s on his man like cologne. But could the general public pick him out of a lineup?
Robert Horry? When he was with the Lakers, he was a bona fide hero, worthy of his own ticker-tape parade for canning untold numbers of back-breaking perimeter shots at clutch moments of historic games. Now that he’s with the Spurs, he’s seen as a scrappy journeyman who makes an occasional contribution.
Then there’s Gregg Popovich. Talk about Rodney. During his post-game press conference, I expect him to say, “I could tell that my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.”
Whenever anyone opens the “best coach in the NBA” discussion, the names are always either Larry Brown or Phil Jackson, with an occasional Jerry Sloan mention thrown in for variety. Pop is a low-key, humble, articulate sort who plies his trade in relative obscurity and who never promotes himself. No matter what job Brown has at the moment, he always has feelers out for five others. Jackson is either lunching with the Knicks, dining with the Lakers, autographing his book or body-surfing in Australia. If Pop wins the title this year, he’ll probably say, “My wife made me join a bridge club. I jump off next Tuesday.”
There isn’t much the Spurs can do about this, either. They’re in San Antonio, which as you probably know is the Rodney Dangerfield of American cities. No matter how hard San Antonio tries, it will never be New York or Los Angeles. As far as quality of living, the good people of that community probably are happy about that. But it’s a small television market, which means when the Spurs make the NBA Finals, league executives tug at their collars, jerk their heads and crack jokes about raking in as much advertising revenue as the NHL. Only they’re not kidding.
Commissioner David Stern said last year, when the Lakers had a team that included Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal, Karl Malone, Gary Payton and Phil Jackson, that the ideal NBA Finals would be the Lakers against the Lakers. Unfortunately for him, he’ll be getting the opposite of that, which is the Spurs against anybody.
Alas, it seems the Spurs are trapped in a respect vacuum, despite their considerable talents and accomplishments. When the regular season ended, I picked the Detroit Pistons to win it all, and I’m sticking with it. I know how good the Spurs are. There’s just something holding me back from jumping on their bandwagon.
I mean no disrespect. But I can’t speak for the rest of the world.
Hard to get on bandwagon of quiet team in quiet city
COMMENTARY
By Michael Ventre
NBCSports.com contributor
Updated: 6:51 p.m. ET June 2, 2005
Perhaps the most overused phrase in the history of comparisons involves the name “Rodney Dangerfield.” If somebody is an exceptional talk-show host, for example, but is largely overlooked, he is “the Rodney Dangerfield of talk-show hosts — he gets no respect.” Over the years, the label has been applied to countless actors and actresses, broadcasters, scientists, politicians, musicians, dog catchers, proctologists, you name it. It’s as if there’s an enormous respect void out there in the universe, with millions of people swirling inside its boundaries tugging at their neckties, making sad-sack faces and yearning for props.
The problem, of course, is that it was just a schtick. The late Rodney Dangerfield got a lot of respect, from fans and peers alike. If you see a clip of a Rodney routine, or catch him as Al Czervik in “Caddyshack,” and you conclude that the man doesn’t deserve our respect, then you’re the one who doesn’t deserve any respect. And that’s no schtick.
The San Antonio Spurs are in this very situation, even after gaining their third NBA Finals in the past seven years. Do they get respect? They do, and they don’t.
Among those who follow the NBA passionately and appreciate the nuances of the game, who love teamwork and unselfishness, who understand that defense wins championships but it’s also handy to have a dynamic offense, the Spurs get respect up the wazoo.
But the general public is even more dismissive of the Spurs than Rodney was to his self-flagellating alter ego. Casual sports fans regard the Spurs as a bland and colorless collection of nondescript professional athletes from a quaint city who probably belong in the background but who stubbornly refuse to stay there. As to those fans, the Spurs give an exaggerated roll of their eyes, because they get no respect.
Basketball connoisseurs know who Tim Duncan is. They know that there is a grass-roots campaign to anoint Dwyane Wade or LeBron James as the new Best Player In The NBA, but that the quiet and unassuming Duncan might be the rightful choice.
Yet most folks with a passing familiarity of the league see Duncan as the drummer in a rock band, not the front man. He’s essential to the group’s success, but he doesn’t jump out at you. To those people, Duncan makes a pleading gesture with his hands, because he gets no respect.
Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker are splendid players. They’re young, athletic, quick, talented and they already have loads of experience in big games. Any team would love to have them. But because they play in San Antonio, they’re known in various parts of the country as Tony Ginobili, or Manu Parker, or Mr. Eva Longoria and his sidekick. Ginobili and Parker should each make an appointment with Dr. Vinny Goombatz, because they get no respect.
And don’t get me started on the rest of the Spurs. Bruce Bowen? As a defender, he’s on his man like cologne. But could the general public pick him out of a lineup?
Robert Horry? When he was with the Lakers, he was a bona fide hero, worthy of his own ticker-tape parade for canning untold numbers of back-breaking perimeter shots at clutch moments of historic games. Now that he’s with the Spurs, he’s seen as a scrappy journeyman who makes an occasional contribution.
Then there’s Gregg Popovich. Talk about Rodney. During his post-game press conference, I expect him to say, “I could tell that my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.”
Whenever anyone opens the “best coach in the NBA” discussion, the names are always either Larry Brown or Phil Jackson, with an occasional Jerry Sloan mention thrown in for variety. Pop is a low-key, humble, articulate sort who plies his trade in relative obscurity and who never promotes himself. No matter what job Brown has at the moment, he always has feelers out for five others. Jackson is either lunching with the Knicks, dining with the Lakers, autographing his book or body-surfing in Australia. If Pop wins the title this year, he’ll probably say, “My wife made me join a bridge club. I jump off next Tuesday.”
There isn’t much the Spurs can do about this, either. They’re in San Antonio, which as you probably know is the Rodney Dangerfield of American cities. No matter how hard San Antonio tries, it will never be New York or Los Angeles. As far as quality of living, the good people of that community probably are happy about that. But it’s a small television market, which means when the Spurs make the NBA Finals, league executives tug at their collars, jerk their heads and crack jokes about raking in as much advertising revenue as the NHL. Only they’re not kidding.
Commissioner David Stern said last year, when the Lakers had a team that included Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal, Karl Malone, Gary Payton and Phil Jackson, that the ideal NBA Finals would be the Lakers against the Lakers. Unfortunately for him, he’ll be getting the opposite of that, which is the Spurs against anybody.
Alas, it seems the Spurs are trapped in a respect vacuum, despite their considerable talents and accomplishments. When the regular season ended, I picked the Detroit Pistons to win it all, and I’m sticking with it. I know how good the Spurs are. There’s just something holding me back from jumping on their bandwagon.
I mean no disrespect. But I can’t speak for the rest of the world.