By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
The rules of life don't change much. Never buy loose diamonds from a man in lizard-skin cowboy boots. Remain faithful to your beloved. At a mile and an eighth, always consider Eddie Delahoussaye's horse. Once past the age of twelve, never, ever request an autograph--not from John Elway, not from Sandra Bullock, not from God. Avoid cheap whiskey. Kiss your babies regularly. Keep your front shoulder in there against the inside curveball.
And let somebody else finance Carmen Electra's wedding trousseau.
The National Basketball Association lockout, or players' strike, or hostage crisis--whatever the hell they call it--is now in its 148th day. Seven weeks of the season have already been canceled, and the rest is in doubt. To hear the participants tell the story, this is a life-and-death struggle for the rights of man, something akin to the Battle of Stalingrad. If matters aren't resolved soon, we learn, Karl Malone won't be able to tip the servants at Christmas. Shaquille O'Neal may have to content himself with another six months behind the wheel of his ratty old 1998 Rolls-Royce. Such is the underlying moral issue at stake here.
The Knicks' Patrick Ewing, president of the NBA players' association, puts it this way: "We're fighting for our lives." Little matter that Ewing was one of the superstar players who in 1995 led an attempt to decertify the players' union.
Now, before basketball fans take to the streets waving banners, shaking their fists and singing the glories of solidarity, it wouldn't hurt to understand what Ewing means (this year, anyway) by "fighting for our lives." It's simple: The 410 or so players of the NBAPA want to take home 60 percent of the revenue generated by NBA games, while the team owners are offering 50 percent. Those revenues amount to some $2 billion each year. Your kid could do the arithmetic--as long as the calculator has enough digits.
For his part, Patrick Ewing earned $20.5 million in 1997-98--not including product endorsements. Is he fighting for his life? Struggling to improve his own dismal working conditions? Well, maybe. Computed on the basis of a six-day work week and a seven-month season, Ewing earned just $14,236.11 per hour last season. Try to make do on that and see if you don't turn into Mother Jones.
On the other hand, what passes for a "protracted labor dispute" in the world of professional sports--complete with its own arbitrators, lockout fund and ten-hour negotiating sessions--is really nothing more than a stubborn argument between millionaires and billionaires. About one-fifth of NBA players earned the league minimum last season--$272,250 for veterans, $242,000 for rookies--but the average salary was $2.2 million. The male American pro athlete is not a blue-collar worker like the poor fan who worships him. He's a rich man--no getting around it. So when he starts whining about how even wealthier men are ruining his life, it's not easy to listen sympathetically. And when he starts whining that the American public doesn't support the NBA players because they are predominantly black, the whole mess takes on a new layer of absurdity. Crying racism when the issue is greed--player greed and owner greed --is laughable.
By the way, the people who are already losing the most, proportionally speaking, from the NBA's non-season, really are working stiffs--the woman who takes Bulls season-ticket orders in Chicago, the guy who sells nachos in the rafters at Big Mac, the waitress in the nearby restaurant who depends on game-night tips to buy her son new blue jeans. A survey conducted last week revealed that the average NBA arena requires between 200 and 500 part-time workers to stage a single game, and that doesn't begin to take into account the lost revenues of businesses in the vicinity: In Cleveland, shops and services around Gund Arena are losing an estimated $1.9 million with the cancellation of each Cavaliers game; in Chicago, it's $8 million per lost Bulls crowd. Consider also the hundreds of millions of dollars in licensed NBA merchandise languishing on store shelves. Is there a fourteen-year-old in America willing to pay $19.95 for a Golden State Warriors sweatshirt? Don't count on it.
Even here in football-crazy Denver, the crunch can be felt. The hapless Nuggets may be one of the NBA's worst draws and least attractive products, but every saloon owner on Federal Boulevard and hotelier on the 16th Street Mall must be praying for the season to get under way--somehow, sometime. In the meantime, Fox Sports Rocky Mountain, bereft of actual NBA action, recently aired highlights from Nuggets history--the only highlights from Nuggets history, actually: The team's May 1994 playoff win over the top-ranked Seattle Supersonics, and the December 13, 1983, scorefest that required three overtimes to become the highest-scoring game in league history: Detroit 186, Denver 184.
Clearly, pro basketball learned nothing from the bitter baseball strike that resulted in the cancellation of the 1994 World Series. Thanks to the magnetism of Larry Bird (in whose name one of the hottest mini-issues of contract dispute is being fought) and Magic Johnson, NBA hoops rose from the grave to become the hip pro sport of the 1980s and early 1990s, and NBA commissioner David Stern was hailed as a marketing genius. But who's to say it won't take even longer for the NBA to regain the affections of its fans than baseball did? It took four years, a suspiciously lively baseball and a slugger with tree-trunk arms for the grand old game to regain a foothold. What will basketball have to do? Preserve Michael Jordan in a cryogenic freezer? Let Dennis Rodman play in a ball gown and pumps? For now, sales of college basketball tickets have risen dramatically, along with the volume of the public grumble.