duncan228
05-20-2008, 03:47 PM
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/writers/steve_aschburner/05/20/spurs/index.html
Working up some hate for Spurs
Steve Aschburner
Them again.
The San Antonio Spurs again.
Are we having fun yet?
Other teams win preliminary-round playoff series, but the Spurs simply advance, methodically, relentlessly and even predictably, like Russia pushing into Chechnya. The NBA's blackshirts have become its brownshirts -- OK, so we're mixing military metaphors here -- marching in lock-step in the conviction that their way is the best way, seemingly the only way.
With a defense that changes games more effectively (but far less sexily) than most teams' offenses, the Spurs are stomping toward their fifth championship in a decade. For the fourth time in the past six years, they have made it to the Western Conference championship series, and their record in the first three -- the three won with the current core of Tim Duncan, Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker -- is a breezy 12-4. The Spurs rarely lose conference finals and never lose NBA Finals, dominating this part of the calendar the way Santa controls December and the IRS owns half of April.
In terms of excitement, enjoyment and entertainment, though, they are a lot closer to the latter than the former. San Antonio is the Green Bay power sweep in a league that sells Air Coryell. It is Tiger Woods minus the nickname and half again as corporate. It is Gandhi pushing aside E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, Tootsie and The Verdict as Best Picture, a film to be admired more than a movie to munch popcorn to. Not great for DVD sales, either, to watch again and again because, with the Spurs, seeing one of their championships feels like seeing them all.
But wait, there's more: The Spurs lately have mixed some unlikability into their formula. In their pursuit of excellence, they have the smell of the New England Patriots, sans camcorder, about them. No stone unturned, no element left to chance, no rule unbent right up to the point of breaking. They let Stu Jackson and David Stern sort it all out in the league office, while taking a "If you don't get a ticket, then you weren't speeding" approach.
For years, Bruce Bowen was San Antonio's lightning rod, a "defensive specialist'' to those rooting for him and his team but a knobby-kneed kickboxer to those rooting or playing against them. Bowen's knack for kicking, tripping, stepping on or otherwise clandestinely punishing the other guys' best players has been his brand, you might say, since he joined the Spurs seven years ago. Celtics guard Ray Allen, who might face Bowen's crafty/clumsy pestering again if Boston and San Antonio both advance, called that brand dirty -- "coward's basketball'' -- after a 2006 game in which Bowen kicked him in the back.
More recently, it has been Robert Horry, "Big Shot Bob'' getting a makeover in late career from some critics as "Cheap Shot Bob'' after his second shady incident in two postseasons. In 2007, he hip-checked Phoenix's Steve Nash into the scorer's table, sparking an emotional sequence that earned the Suns' Amaré Stoudemire and Boris Diaw one-game suspensions and might have lost the second-round series for their team. This time, in Game 6 against New Orleans, there was Horry forcefully bracing himself into David West's back, leaving the Hornets' power forward writhing face-down on the court after the hit aggravated the pinched nerve in West's back.
"It was a regular back-pick,'' Horry said a day later, in an explanation that would have been more credible if he hadn't claimed to know nothing of West's aching back prior to their collision; the Spurs prepare too thoroughly for their opponents for anyone to believe that.
Besides, it wasn't the impact itself -- West played more than 46 minutes in Game 7 on Monday, scoring 20 points with nine rebounds -- as much as the image at that moment: There the Spurs go again, doing whatever it takes to get whatever they want, imposing their will and their way oppressively on one of the league's happier stories of this season, the precocious Hornets and a franchise's rebirth in New Orleans.
San Antonio coach Gregg Popovich played with the outrage, sarcastically admitting that his club might be the "dirtiest team in the NBA.'' Said Popovich: "I just think it's typical of where we live. This is our country. We're sensationalistic, we look for things, we have to have stories.''
The rest of the Spurs' roster is more irritating to critics than illegal. For at least four more games, and as many as 14, we get to see Duncan time and again knotting up the basketball in his forearms while bugging out his eyes, incredulous that some referee blew the whistle on him. Wilt Chamberlain holds the record for most career NBA games (1,045) without fouling out, but based on theatrics alone, Duncan owns the mark for most games without committing a foul, period.
Ginobili has worn the fur on the back of his head thin from rubbing it on the hardwood, the inevitable follicular toll from all that flopping. With Parker, it's more that wife of his, the Mrs. Omar Moreno (circa 1979 World Series overexposure) of the new millennium. With so much of the NBA postseason carried on ESPN and ABC, plunking a desperate housewife front and center as if she were Jack Nicholson or Spike Lee feels like another callow opportunity for marketing (cough) synergy.
Michael Finley is annoying for his double-dipping; by drawing paychecks from both the Spurs and the Mavericks worth a total of $21.7 million, the aging role player was paid nearly as much as Chris Paul, Tyson Chandler and West combined ($24.3 million). As for Popovich, he looks like the father of every guy's first girlfriend, Mr. Tough As Nails there to force small talk when you pick her up and, worse, waiting when you drop her off.
Oh, and let's not forget the Spurs' fans, or at least the ones who reacted to Horry's shot on West by cheering and chanting the veteran forward's name. Aren't they supposed to be better than that? As a group, the folks in San Antonio have had it good way beyond their numbers with those four Larry O'Brien trophies; the fans of 16 of the NBA's 30 current teams haven't had even one championship to cheer. At this point, it's like passing through Hershey, Pa. Before the first local opens his mouth, you want to preemptively shout: "Yeah, I get it! You make chocolate here! Get over ourselves!''
Worst of all, the Spurs really don't let you scratch your schadenfreude itch. They are, by and large, swell guys to be around off the court, even to the cranky, bored and hungry-for-change media. They are smart and experienced and coolly efficient, so far in these playoffs dispatching two recent Coach of the Year winners (Mike D'Antoni, Byron Scott), a two-time MVP (Nash) and this year's runner-up for the award (Paul). Now they have Phil Jackson and Kobe Bryant in their crosshairs, respectively the 1996 and 2008 winners of those two awards.
The Spurs stay off the police blotters, away from bankruptcy court and generally out of the gossip columns, with Popovich and general manager R.C. Buford ready to make, er, corrections to the roster if that changes. They are a "Just win, baby'' operation without the leather jackets, the greaser's haircut or the snarl, and all of their gamesmanship still can't undermine a franchise image established by St. David Robinson.
In short, San Antonio is a team you might hate to love, yet not quite one of those you can love to hate. Now that's irritating.
Working up some hate for Spurs
Steve Aschburner
Them again.
The San Antonio Spurs again.
Are we having fun yet?
Other teams win preliminary-round playoff series, but the Spurs simply advance, methodically, relentlessly and even predictably, like Russia pushing into Chechnya. The NBA's blackshirts have become its brownshirts -- OK, so we're mixing military metaphors here -- marching in lock-step in the conviction that their way is the best way, seemingly the only way.
With a defense that changes games more effectively (but far less sexily) than most teams' offenses, the Spurs are stomping toward their fifth championship in a decade. For the fourth time in the past six years, they have made it to the Western Conference championship series, and their record in the first three -- the three won with the current core of Tim Duncan, Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker -- is a breezy 12-4. The Spurs rarely lose conference finals and never lose NBA Finals, dominating this part of the calendar the way Santa controls December and the IRS owns half of April.
In terms of excitement, enjoyment and entertainment, though, they are a lot closer to the latter than the former. San Antonio is the Green Bay power sweep in a league that sells Air Coryell. It is Tiger Woods minus the nickname and half again as corporate. It is Gandhi pushing aside E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, Tootsie and The Verdict as Best Picture, a film to be admired more than a movie to munch popcorn to. Not great for DVD sales, either, to watch again and again because, with the Spurs, seeing one of their championships feels like seeing them all.
But wait, there's more: The Spurs lately have mixed some unlikability into their formula. In their pursuit of excellence, they have the smell of the New England Patriots, sans camcorder, about them. No stone unturned, no element left to chance, no rule unbent right up to the point of breaking. They let Stu Jackson and David Stern sort it all out in the league office, while taking a "If you don't get a ticket, then you weren't speeding" approach.
For years, Bruce Bowen was San Antonio's lightning rod, a "defensive specialist'' to those rooting for him and his team but a knobby-kneed kickboxer to those rooting or playing against them. Bowen's knack for kicking, tripping, stepping on or otherwise clandestinely punishing the other guys' best players has been his brand, you might say, since he joined the Spurs seven years ago. Celtics guard Ray Allen, who might face Bowen's crafty/clumsy pestering again if Boston and San Antonio both advance, called that brand dirty -- "coward's basketball'' -- after a 2006 game in which Bowen kicked him in the back.
More recently, it has been Robert Horry, "Big Shot Bob'' getting a makeover in late career from some critics as "Cheap Shot Bob'' after his second shady incident in two postseasons. In 2007, he hip-checked Phoenix's Steve Nash into the scorer's table, sparking an emotional sequence that earned the Suns' Amaré Stoudemire and Boris Diaw one-game suspensions and might have lost the second-round series for their team. This time, in Game 6 against New Orleans, there was Horry forcefully bracing himself into David West's back, leaving the Hornets' power forward writhing face-down on the court after the hit aggravated the pinched nerve in West's back.
"It was a regular back-pick,'' Horry said a day later, in an explanation that would have been more credible if he hadn't claimed to know nothing of West's aching back prior to their collision; the Spurs prepare too thoroughly for their opponents for anyone to believe that.
Besides, it wasn't the impact itself -- West played more than 46 minutes in Game 7 on Monday, scoring 20 points with nine rebounds -- as much as the image at that moment: There the Spurs go again, doing whatever it takes to get whatever they want, imposing their will and their way oppressively on one of the league's happier stories of this season, the precocious Hornets and a franchise's rebirth in New Orleans.
San Antonio coach Gregg Popovich played with the outrage, sarcastically admitting that his club might be the "dirtiest team in the NBA.'' Said Popovich: "I just think it's typical of where we live. This is our country. We're sensationalistic, we look for things, we have to have stories.''
The rest of the Spurs' roster is more irritating to critics than illegal. For at least four more games, and as many as 14, we get to see Duncan time and again knotting up the basketball in his forearms while bugging out his eyes, incredulous that some referee blew the whistle on him. Wilt Chamberlain holds the record for most career NBA games (1,045) without fouling out, but based on theatrics alone, Duncan owns the mark for most games without committing a foul, period.
Ginobili has worn the fur on the back of his head thin from rubbing it on the hardwood, the inevitable follicular toll from all that flopping. With Parker, it's more that wife of his, the Mrs. Omar Moreno (circa 1979 World Series overexposure) of the new millennium. With so much of the NBA postseason carried on ESPN and ABC, plunking a desperate housewife front and center as if she were Jack Nicholson or Spike Lee feels like another callow opportunity for marketing (cough) synergy.
Michael Finley is annoying for his double-dipping; by drawing paychecks from both the Spurs and the Mavericks worth a total of $21.7 million, the aging role player was paid nearly as much as Chris Paul, Tyson Chandler and West combined ($24.3 million). As for Popovich, he looks like the father of every guy's first girlfriend, Mr. Tough As Nails there to force small talk when you pick her up and, worse, waiting when you drop her off.
Oh, and let's not forget the Spurs' fans, or at least the ones who reacted to Horry's shot on West by cheering and chanting the veteran forward's name. Aren't they supposed to be better than that? As a group, the folks in San Antonio have had it good way beyond their numbers with those four Larry O'Brien trophies; the fans of 16 of the NBA's 30 current teams haven't had even one championship to cheer. At this point, it's like passing through Hershey, Pa. Before the first local opens his mouth, you want to preemptively shout: "Yeah, I get it! You make chocolate here! Get over ourselves!''
Worst of all, the Spurs really don't let you scratch your schadenfreude itch. They are, by and large, swell guys to be around off the court, even to the cranky, bored and hungry-for-change media. They are smart and experienced and coolly efficient, so far in these playoffs dispatching two recent Coach of the Year winners (Mike D'Antoni, Byron Scott), a two-time MVP (Nash) and this year's runner-up for the award (Paul). Now they have Phil Jackson and Kobe Bryant in their crosshairs, respectively the 1996 and 2008 winners of those two awards.
The Spurs stay off the police blotters, away from bankruptcy court and generally out of the gossip columns, with Popovich and general manager R.C. Buford ready to make, er, corrections to the roster if that changes. They are a "Just win, baby'' operation without the leather jackets, the greaser's haircut or the snarl, and all of their gamesmanship still can't undermine a franchise image established by St. David Robinson.
In short, San Antonio is a team you might hate to love, yet not quite one of those you can love to hate. Now that's irritating.