In one of the more blasphemous tracts extracted from the post-Pentagon papers of 2018, the time-traveler Oscar "Mercury" Robertson slipped this line into an analysis of the great lockout of 2011:
Whether it's right or wrong (following Thucydides), the owners and players have more bargaining power than the fans, and so they will do what they can, as the fans suffer what we must. But I think this can give us a lens for appreciating the lockout just as we might appreciate a playoff series, as I'll try to explain.
You see...back in 2010, when the Lakers played the Celtics in the Finals, for most fans, the season was over. Either of the most banal, sketchiest contenders would prevail. And it was, as it had to be, the most cynical series that I have ever witnessed. To describe it is to encapsulate it: Kobe took over for a third quarter and left his teammates to wither and rot in the fourth quarter. Ray Allen shot seven threes in a half, but (seemingly psychologically) struggled the rest of the series and ended up right around average. Rajon Rondo probably got an obscene statline in a couple games because of a tremendous third quarter in which he was ubiquitous. The home team got a free throw disparity and won by a margin comfortably fitting this free throw disparity. Pau Gasol was and is less talented than Kobe but because he rebounded and had better percentages he probably played more effectively. When Kobe rebounded and forced his way into the lane all of this became more forgivable and his team won Game 7. Phil Jackson and Doc Rivers were calm and balanced. Kevin Garnett got beaten by Pau Gasol. Etc. Etc.
Now, none of this is to say the series was bad by any stretch. It was entertaining. But the winner was going to be the team with the preponderance of good players, having little to nothing to do with spectacle, style, or artistry. The team with better matchups and better luck was going to win.* Both teams were dedicated, and no team had any real sort of spark plug, or some sort of wild card (there were no really unlikely quarter or game or series MVPs. Glen Davis and Nate Robinson were kind of funny that one time, but that was more like a farcical whim than a substantive fact about the series) The playing of the series was like the writing of a book that has already been written. A living proof of Ecclesiastes. Even though we didn't know the winner, we knew the book had been written already, and it wasn't a novel or even a fun documentary series. It was just a stat sheet with a couple stochastic graphs that statisticians would roll their eyes at. Competitive advantage distilled to its most banal and least sophisticated form. A boxing match that might be somewhat rigged. Nash (the mathematician) equilibrium gone to salt becoming saturated in water. Like flipping a coin seven times in water to see if it's still fair. Am I repeating myself, or using too many metaphors to describe what seems like a simple, if slightly implacable concept? Because that's exactly what watching commentators for this series was like, except they were trying to describe how exciting it was. There's no accounting for taste.
*Yes, this in some form or another applies to all basketball, but rarely was the principle so naked as in this series, because anyone with any experience watching basketball likely knew all the major players, and there wasn't much of uncertainty to them except "would they shoot 40% or 50% in this series" kinds of things. Not "would they solve the opposing defense?" Not "would they win the game by some sort of staggering tour de force?" Not "would a team perservere unnaturally well or unnaturally poorly?" Not "would they finally arrive at the mentality of a champion?" (Except for Kobe, and that's about as overwrought and contrived as any narrative in sports.) I love that better players and better teams usually win, but the information was so perfect in this series, the processing of the information so solid, the players so experienced, that a single game's sample was basically eternity's sample. This was in some sense the starkest playoff series. The better (allowing homecourt advantage in the definition) team won, as it had to, as it always would, as it always could.
In the same way, maybe we can enjoy the lockout for its naked, ridiculous, already-writ application of power, just like we enjoyed that awful, awful 2010 Finals between the Lakers and Celtics. Halberstam would delight in talking about how the players' lawyer and the owners' lawyer were identical in form but different only in substance. And when it comes to endlessly drawn-out negotiations and concessions in which all the facts are already clear, all the bargaining chips are on the table, all the advantages are exposed, maybe that farcical view is just the kind of arbitrary narrative we need to make this an experience of comedy instead of dread.
God bless the CBA and its obvious imbalances. God bless the frontier of horrible contracts which will begin with the latest regulations of recent horrible contracts. God bless the patient owners, for they have the luxury of patience. God bless the small markets, for they will give their fans a scrappy college try that may even find a title or an unforgettable season. God bless the players, with their bodies that decay even as they read this sentence.
There is no rebirth. There is no lockout. There is no God.
Whether it's right or wrong (following Thucydides), the owners and players have more bargaining power than the fans, and so they will do what they can, as the fans suffer what we must. But I think this can give us a lens for appreciating the lockout just as we might appreciate a playoff series, as I'll try to explain.
You see...back in 2010, when the Lakers played the Celtics in the Finals, for most fans, the season was over. Either of the most banal, sketchiest contenders would prevail. And it was, as it had to be, the most cynical series that I have ever witnessed. To describe it is to encapsulate it: Kobe took over for a third quarter and left his teammates to wither and rot in the fourth quarter. Ray Allen shot seven threes in a half, but (seemingly psychologically) struggled the rest of the series and ended up right around average. Rajon Rondo probably got an obscene statline in a couple games because of a tremendous third quarter in which he was ubiquitous. The home team got a free throw disparity and won by a margin comfortably fitting this free throw disparity. Pau Gasol was and is less talented than Kobe but because he rebounded and had better percentages he probably played more effectively. When Kobe rebounded and forced his way into the lane all of this became more forgivable and his team won Game 7. Phil Jackson and Doc Rivers were calm and balanced. Kevin Garnett got beaten by Pau Gasol. Etc. Etc.
Now, none of this is to say the series was bad by any stretch. It was entertaining. But the winner was going to be the team with the preponderance of good players, having little to nothing to do with spectacle, style, or artistry. The team with better matchups and better luck was going to win.* Both teams were dedicated, and no team had any real sort of spark plug, or some sort of wild card (there were no really unlikely quarter or game or series MVPs. Glen Davis and Nate Robinson were kind of funny that one time, but that was more like a farcical whim than a substantive fact about the series) The playing of the series was like the writing of a book that has already been written. A living proof of Ecclesiastes. Even though we didn't know the winner, we knew the book had been written already, and it wasn't a novel or even a fun documentary series. It was just a stat sheet with a couple stochastic graphs that statisticians would roll their eyes at. Competitive advantage distilled to its most banal and least sophisticated form. A boxing match that might be somewhat rigged. Nash (the mathematician) equilibrium gone to salt becoming saturated in water. Like flipping a coin seven times in water to see if it's still fair. Am I repeating myself, or using too many metaphors to describe what seems like a simple, if slightly implacable concept? Because that's exactly what watching commentators for this series was like, except they were trying to describe how exciting it was. There's no accounting for taste.
*Yes, this in some form or another applies to all basketball, but rarely was the principle so naked as in this series, because anyone with any experience watching basketball likely knew all the major players, and there wasn't much of uncertainty to them except "would they shoot 40% or 50% in this series" kinds of things. Not "would they solve the opposing defense?" Not "would they win the game by some sort of staggering tour de force?" Not "would a team perservere unnaturally well or unnaturally poorly?" Not "would they finally arrive at the mentality of a champion?" (Except for Kobe, and that's about as overwrought and contrived as any narrative in sports.) I love that better players and better teams usually win, but the information was so perfect in this series, the processing of the information so solid, the players so experienced, that a single game's sample was basically eternity's sample. This was in some sense the starkest playoff series. The better (allowing homecourt advantage in the definition) team won, as it had to, as it always would, as it always could.
In the same way, maybe we can enjoy the lockout for its naked, ridiculous, already-writ application of power, just like we enjoyed that awful, awful 2010 Finals between the Lakers and Celtics. Halberstam would delight in talking about how the players' lawyer and the owners' lawyer were identical in form but different only in substance. And when it comes to endlessly drawn-out negotiations and concessions in which all the facts are already clear, all the bargaining chips are on the table, all the advantages are exposed, maybe that farcical view is just the kind of arbitrary narrative we need to make this an experience of comedy instead of dread.
God bless the CBA and its obvious imbalances. God bless the frontier of horrible contracts which will begin with the latest regulations of recent horrible contracts. God bless the patient owners, for they have the luxury of patience. God bless the small markets, for they will give their fans a scrappy college try that may even find a title or an unforgettable season. God bless the players, with their bodies that decay even as they read this sentence.
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