Neil Sedaka is wrong. Breaking up isn’t hard to do — at least not with an NBA team.
My divorce from the Dallas Mavericks was quick and painless, a Spears-ian annulment that allowed us to go our separate ways. Every cliché was there: We’ve just grown apart; it’s not you, it’s me, by which I mean it actually is you; I never get to see you, but when I do it just isn’t as much fun anymore.
It started as nothing serious, a first foray into caring about the NBA. The Mavericks were a novelty team, putting up 120-odd points a game behind a 7-foot German who can shoot the three. Sure, they were known as the ‘allas Mavericks (no D), but dang, they were fun to watch.
Over the years, we shared some laughs: the first playoff appearance in 11 years in 2001, getting rid of Raef LaFrentz, the 2006 NBA Finals. There were also tears: Dirk’s knee, handing the Spurs a playoff series, losing Steve Nash, the 2006 NBA Finals.
Avery Johnson took what we had to the next level. The feisty little floor general from New Orleans, with his squeaky commands yapping from the sideline, finally made the Mavs a D-fearing team. As a disciple of ACC basketball, raised on defense, defense, defense, I could, for the first time, root guilt-free for my Mavs.
Things started heading for the rocks with the six-game implosion against Golden State in the 2007 playoffs. The No. 1 seed, falling to the No. 8? That’s not just losing, that’s failure from top to bottom. For the first time, I saw Nowitzki for what he was: an imported sideshow act who wouldn’t know defense or leadership if it punched him in his oversized jaw.
The Devin Harris trade was really the beginning of the end. Here was the young kid who was the future of the franchise, the tough defender and offensive trigger who had survived a baptism by fire in the Southwest Division. He’d single-handedly wrestled a playoff series away from the Spurs — and in only his second season!
But away he went, hand-in-hand with two years’ worth of first-round draft picks, for overpriced and over-the-hill Jason Kidd. We were all of a sudden banking on the health of Erick Dampier to make any sort of defensive stops in the frontcourt, a gamble of “put it all on red and spin the wheel” proportions.
The coup de grâce, the unforgivable slight, the “saw her with another guy at a romantic French restaurant” moment, was firing Avery. The tension between him and No-heart-zki had been just under the radar for months, a simmering storyline barreling full-speed ahead toward destruction.
It was a conflict bound to happen. In one corner, there was little Avery, an undersized, underappreciated scrapper who had carved out his niche through hustle, playing smart and leading hard. In the other was Dirk, an overpaid, overhyped prima donna with little more worth as a person than his scoring average.
Dismissing Avery was more than just a regime change. It signaled Mark Cuban’s intent to take the team in a different direction, one painstakingly devoid of unified leadership or passion. These new Mavericks are to be the Yankees of the NBA: a team led by a temperamental, filthy-rich owner who will spare no expense to snatch up aging superstars, sacrificing prospects and homegrown talent for the big-ticket names that sell jerseys in the team store.
So, with the separation complete and all ties severed, I’m looking for a rebound. Just a quick fix, someone to hang out with on a Friday night when nothing else is on — but maybe with the potential to turn into something serious. I’ve bounced ideas off some of my friends, and we’ve gotten it down to a few finalists.
There are, of course, the Washington Wizards. They have the upside of being the hometown team, which is also their downside. I’m a geographically confused sports fan, and take some perverse pride in my bizarre allegiances. Agent Zero, as Gilbert Arenas is sometimes known, makes for a compelling central figure, but there’s the guilt factor: an all-offense team that I’d have to stop watching around my dad lest he start railing against the no-defense ills of the NBA.
“What about the Cavaliers?” one friend asked. Bron-Bron is everything a basketball fan could ask for, the absurdly talented superstar who leads by both example and verbal assault. His stellar defensive play in Beijing was a beautiful sight to behold. But I want to root for a team, not a player, a mistake I made when I picked Dallas because of Dirk.
The Magic may be the answer on that front. They’ve got the young stud in Dwight Howard, who is about one year removed from being the most dominant player in the league, and Jameer Nelson is the kind of point guard I’ve been taught to admire. But they have (shudder) J.J. Redick, and though he’ll never play, the wounds are still too fresh from his time at Duke.
The sleeper pick in this Fantasy Franchise Draft may well be the Phoenix Suns. Whoever has Sean Singletary at least has to be in the conversation, even if he’s going to be a backup. But there might be just enough Dallas left in me to keep me from turning the corner and rooting for a one-time rival.
I guess I’m playing the field, casting out my sports fan net to find another fish in the sea. Suggestions are welcome. Send me an e-mail to support your favorite team (or talk me away from your least favorite). Any particularly convincing, creative or just plain funny arguments may find their way into this space in the future.
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