Category: Beyond the Bison

Julian Dorey

Columnist

Debating who is “the greatest ever” can get about as heated as anything there is. Sports fans of different generations will never bridge the gap between Jordan and Chamberlain—and many don’t seem prepared to accept that Hank Aaron was a just a little better than Joe D.

Unlike baseball or basketball, in football, there are so many different positions requiring unique skill sets that it’s nearly impossible to choose a clear-cut “best player.” Instead, purists generally judge position by position.

The wide receiver slot is the one that always gets me arguing.

Most fans can accept that the greatest wide receivers from the game have played in the last 20 years or so. The NFL was a run-first game for a long time, but it has slowly morphed into a weekly, gun-slinging shoot-out. This is why receivers like Terrell Owens, Marvin Harrison and Randy Moss are all considered top five receivers of all-time, even though they all come from the same era.

For many, though, the greatest is Jerry Rice. He had it all. He could learn a playbook better than anyone else, he had a second gear that defied his physical skill set, and he had hands that were regularly checked for glue (none was ever found). But he also had Joe Montana and Steve Young, two Hall of Fame quarterbacks. Even in his twilight years in Oakland, he put up decent numbers with late-career bloomer Rich Gannon. I don’t mean to take anything from Rice—he was legitimately great—but he did have some tools other guys did not.

These are among the reasons I cannot agree with the popular sentiment. To me, Randy Moss is the greatest receiver to ever play.

Moss had it all. He could break a 4.3 40, he had the critical 6 foot 5 inch height, an IQ that was off-the-charts (despite his questionable on-field and off-field antics), a vertical leap that would make Vince Carter smile, the wingspan of a 6 foot 10 inch monster and hands that rivaled Rice’s super glue.

Oh—he also had “straight cash, homie.”

OK, I had to throw that in there. Moss was the greatest combination of size and speed you will ever see. He had to catch the ball from the likes of Daunte Culpepper (who faded away completely after Moss left Minnesota), Andrew Walter (who?) and Aaron Brooks. Finally, later in his career, after already putting up astounding numbers, he got the chance to play with the infamous Tom Brady. Simply put, though, Moss played with food fit for the garbage disposal throughout most of his career while Rice played with filet mignon.

So, call me stupid but there isn’t a receiver in the world I’d take over Moss. That’s why I was about as ecstatic as I could be when Randy recently announced he is returning to the NFL.

On his 35th birthday, the wide receiver officially announced that he is ending his one-year retirement. Despite a rocky 2010 campaign that included playing for three teams (NE, Minn., Tenn.), I felt Moss walked away with so much left in the tank. He avoided injuries for most of his career, and still showed the 4.3 40 speed in 2010.

The reason he walked away wasn’t because he was “losing it.” It was because of his all-famous, lifelong caveat: he doesn’t care.

He has never worried about what others think, and when he talks, he certainly does come off as a wild child (see: “Straight cash, homie”). When Randy does things the way Randy wants—you could describe him as “Randy being Randy.”

But none of that has anything to do with his play. Moss has been the best since he came into the league in 1998. He has made countless plays that seem to defy earth’s basic principles. He has posted stats that seem like results from a lopsided Madden game.

He’s number one in my book. And he’s coming back for his last round in the ring.

Can’t wait.

By Julian Dory

Columnist

Baseball’s steroid era will forever leave a black mark on a game born in the streets and fields of our great country.  Forever, in the sport where records are most indelible, fans will have to insert mental asterisks next to any outstanding achievement between the late 1980s and today.

Barry Bonds. Cheated.

Mark McGuire. Cheated.

Roger Clemens. Cheated.

It is a shame. Their talent was astronomical without the assistance of dirty syringes and skin-seeping creams.

Most recently, last year’s NL MVP, Ryan Braun, had his name dragged through the mud of public shame after testing revealed he had broken the MLB’s performance-enhancing drug policy.

When that news broke, it was the one of the worst lows of the steroid era.  A clean cut, well-spoken, hard-working star that had risen just as the dust settled from the worst point of the steroid scandal in baseball had sunk to the depths of every other guilty offender before him.

Back to square one.

Or … maybe he was innocent?  Braun had not put on much noticeable muscle since entering the league in 2007 and the drug-testing in baseball is widely-regarded as being built upon paranoia.  Any tests that pick up even a scent of an oddity result in a “failure” marker, a 50-game suspension for the guilty player and an indelible mark of infamy. Sure, we never look at some players the same ever again, but some players have failed tests based on substances they regularly took, bought from their local drug store.

Still, honestly, Braun’s case seemed to smell funny from the beginning. That is why when Braun won his appeal of his suspension (and in essence, his original conviction) last week it came as a pleasant news story.

But not a surprise.

For the first time since baseball put down its iron fist on its drug policy, a star embedded in the web of steroid-offenders wiggled himself free. The arbitrators ruled that Braun’s testing had been administered incorrectly, and this, as a result, skewed the results (he had tested positive for heightened levels of testosterone).

Braun was unequivocal in declaring his innocence and happiness with the results.  He had maintained his story from the beginning, and he had never even offered a possibility as to how he could have increased his testosterone.

It is great to see a major star, and reigning MVP, acquitted of such a regrettable offense.  But it is even greater to finally see a corner for baseball to turn with regard to its steroid era.

Now, the knee-jerk reactions may fade.  Now, the drug testing may be reevaluated and perfected so that innocent players don’t have to declare that status.  Now, the offenders of the real drugs—HGH, creatine, cypionate—might finally realize there is no hope in even attempting to hide their abuse from drug-testers anymore.

Most importantly, parents might finally be able to rest easy when their children talk about their “baseball heroes.”

 

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

It’s still pretty cold outside up north. But in Florida and Arizona, the weather is just perfect.

Over the weekend, the pitchers and catchers of all 30 baseball clubs reported for spring training. It’s hard to believe, but baseball is just over a month away. With the new season comes new hope for every team. For some, that hope will die quickly; for others it might linger into the summer.

One team, though, is going to have the most pressure of all from the beginning: the Boston Red Sox.

Who can forget the fateful 2011 collapse of the Sox? They dragged it out all the way to game 162 and then broke the hearts of the Fenway faithful. The most troubling part is the collapse didn’t stop with the players packing their bags the next morning.

For the next several months, rumors swirled far and wide about the players’ clubhouse antics. Numerous reports surfaced about the starting pitching staff—Josh Beckett, Jon Lester, the struggling John Lackey and Clay Bucholtz—taking part in head-scratching rituals like drinking beer, playing video games and ordering fried chicken during games in which they were not pitching. Fans and the media were convinced that the “loose” locker room that allowed this behavior was the reason for the collapse. All I can say is that it couldn’t have helped.

In the midst of it all, two-time World Series champion manager—the man who broke the curse of the Bambino—Terry Francona, was unceremoniously shown the door, largely because of the growing belief within the organization that he was responsible for allowing the reprehensible behavior that occurred on a daily basis in the clubhouse.

As if the collapse, the public embarrassment and the untimely exit of Francona weren’t enough, longtime genius general manager Theo Epstein decided in October to take his talents to the Cubs, leaving behind a giant mess in Boston in the hopes of fixing one in Chicago.

The Red Sox now enter this season without the two men who brought together the 2004 team that ended an 86-year championship drought.

In fairness, the replacements are solid. Immediately upon his departure, Epstein’s right-hand man, Ben Cherington, was named his successor. Shortly after that, Cherington took a very different approach in hiring the next manager, bringing in a polar opposite of Francona, a no-nonsense, tough guy, Bobby Valentine.

Valentine figures to change more than a few things around Yawkee Way. His spring training itinerary already has some Red Sox veterans groaning. But when things go as cold as they did as fast as they did last season change is warranted.

The Sox have a stacked roster. Even with the departure of All-Star closer Jonathan Papelbon, they put in place a more-than-capable replacement in fellow All-Star Andrew Bailey. With Dustin Pedroia, Adrian Gonzalez and David Ortiz at the heart of their order and speedsters Jacoby Ellsbury and Carl Crawford at the top of the lineup, the Red Sox still figure to sit right around the league lead in runs scored.

The media will make last year’s questionable judgment of the starting staff a distraction all year, so it will be interesting to see how the players deal with it. On paper, the proven All-Star and World Series-winning potential is there in Beckett and Lester. Bucholtz also has been great when healthy. The biggest question mark is Lackey. Since signing an $82.5 million contract two years ago, Lackey has been completely worthless and seemingly lazy. It’s probably a safe bet to say that this is his “make-or-break” season with the club.

Could the Sox win a World Series this year? Absolutely. They have more than enough talent to do so. But shaking the demons of 2011 is going to be an uphill battle, especially in a city like Boston.

By Julian Dorey
Columnist

It seems like “teams” never win anymore in the NBA.

If you don’t have a superstar—a Kobe Bryant, a Lebron James, a Dirk Nowitzki—common belief says you can’t win a championship. Many will go as far as to say as teams without a superstar can’t compete, period.

This year, one team has decided to ignore these axioms: the Philadelphia 76ers.

Sure, this exciting and very young team might not be quite ready to legitimately compete for an NBA title, but they are making waves around the league and have certainly declared themselves a force to be reckoned with. As of Feb. 14, their record stands at 20-9, good enough for third in the Eastern Conference. 

They’ve achieved that record without a superstar. Swingman Andre Iguodala was recently named to his first All Star Game in his eight-year career and has played brilliant team ball and defense this year, but he’s hardly a “Batman” by the modern-day NBA standards.

Outside of Iguodala, the Sixers are supported by smart, hard-working role players. Their scoring starts with their brilliant young guards, Jrue Holiday, Lou Williams and Evan Turner. None of their stats jump off the page at you, but these players all thrive in their roles. Holiday is the unassuming 21-year-old point guard, Williams is the ice-in-his-veins scorer off the bench, and Turner is the scrappy, strong-rebounding facilitator.

In the front court, the Sixers continue to be led this year by 32-year-old veteran Elton Brand. Brand can’t score like he used to, but his leadership has continued to be an invaluable asset for the team. Seven-footer Spencer Hawes has been a pleasant surprise this season when he’s been healthy. And Thaddeus Young has continued to be the nightmare matchup for opposing teams off the bench. 

Sprinkle in Jodie Meeks’ three-point efficiency and the solid play of the rookie big men, Nikola Vucevic and Lavoy Allen, and it’s easy to see why the Sixers are winning: teamwork and depth.

The mad scientist behind it all is Doug Collins. After just two years as the head coach of this youthful team, Collins has halted the losing trend the Philadelphia fans have unfortunately become accustomed to with their basketball team.

Not one player “demands” the ball. Not one player calls the 76ers “my team.” Not one player complains. Not one player takes a single possession off. These are trends you just don’t see in the NBA today.

In the past few weeks, the Sixers have beaten (handily) superstar-oriented teams like Orlando (Dwight Howard), Chicago (Derrick Rose) and the L.A. Lakers (Kobe Bryant).

It’s so refreshing to see the mighty fall to a team that stands for everything people claim the NBA does not anymore.

Given another year or two to gain some experience and continue to develop, the Sixers may well be on their way to proving that there doesn’t have to be an “I” in team after all.

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

I hate the Giants.

I don’t like anything about them. I don’t like their stupid, plain blue uniforms. I don’t like their stadium. I don’t like their fans, and I most certainly don’t like their players.

But I’m a realist. That’s why even I can say the New York Giants deserve all the credit in the world. They played best when they needed to and fully earned another Super Bowl title. Simple as that.

Above all, though, Eli Manning proved that he is good. No, he proved that he’s great. It pains me deeply to give the third Manning any credit—let alone this kind—but we’ll see him in Canton when it’s all said and done. Eli put a team of unheard-ofs on his back and carried them all season.

Somehow, they ended up 9-7 in the regular season. Somehow, he really got them going in December. Somehow, they beat the Patriots for all the marbles—again.

It makes me feel sick, but the guy is officially one of the greats. He might not necessarily have staggering career numbers, but he has made some of the biggest plays in the biggest games he’s played in. His accuracy down the field has even developed into one of the most enviable weapons in the game.

It doesn’t feel right. I just never have thought of Eli as elite. But he is.

I’m not going to sit here and say that he’s as good as his brother. (In football, measuring QBs by their number of championships can be a little misleading.) He’s not. But who knows? If he can continue to deliver in the biggest of spotlights for the next several years, maybe we will have that conversation.

Maybe the quiet kid from the South who had to live in the long and dark shadows of his family for so long always had a fire in him. Maybe he was just quiet to hide the beast that he wanted to unleash. It’s hard for me to believe, but he has done it twice now.

Two times, he has culminated an unexpected run—both times after making the playoffs after the last game of the respective season—going toe-to-toe with one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time.

And both times, he won.

Eli, I will never look at your empty face with as much as a smile. But, for the moment, my hat is begrudgingly off. You’ve played with the best. And you’ve won.

 

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

Some of us are college football fans. Others casually watch. Others don’t watch at all. But just about all of us have heard of Joe Paterno.

On Jan. 22, the world lost a great one. Never again shall we see an old-school, long-reigning, dynamic—yet so humble–football coach like Joe Paterno. Paterno was more than a football coach. He was an idol.

For 62 years—46 as head coach of Penn State’s football team—the Italian kid from Brooklyn aged with success and grace in the farmland of Pennsylvania. Among that farmland, Paterno built a utopia—a place where young and old could assemble every Saturday to escape from whatever stresses their lives brought upon them.

“Happy Valley,” as Penn State has now long been known, became one of the few football meccas in America.  It is one of the rare situations in life when a triumph can be completely attributed to one person.  Paterno single-handedly built a respected and revered program by marching a selfless, diligent and proud football team out of the tunnel every Saturday.

For all 46 years.

After a successful life living among the cornfields, Joe Paterno went out the same way he lived: without a complaint.

During this sad time, some have chosen to refocus on the recent tragedy that occurred at Penn State—and unfortunately, they’ve chosen to rehash empty claims that Joe Paterno was the man at fault.

In the words of Nike CEO, Phil Knight: “If there is a villain in this tragedy, it lies in [the] investigation—and not in Joe Paterno’s response.”

So in this one last nostalgic piece about the old ball coach, I’ll leave the “scandal” at that.  Never before has a man been so undeserving of what he got—and so graceful in how he handled it.

Joe Paterno accomplished many great things on the football field.  He won two national titles, he sent hundreds of players to the NFL, he created never-before-seen offensive and defensive play packages and he took the Penn State program to the pinnacle of excellence.

But nothing can compare the lasting impact he has left on so many off the field.  Penn Staters and non-Penn Staters alike have been witnesses to that for the last half-century.  Paterno touched more people than most could touch in a billion lifetimes.

Being a good—great—person was what consumed Joe’s life—not winning another football game.

That’s a beautiful thing.

 

Joseph Vincent Paterno

1926-2012

 

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

The NHL Winter Classic on New Year’s Day is one of the great recently-consummated American sports traditions.  Something about playing hockey outside—just like the players grew up doing—makes an already high-octane game a little more exciting.

But the annual HBO series “24/7” has taken the buzz about the Classic and hockey itself to a new level.  Starting last season, HBO created the show with the idea that two separate camera crews would follow around the two participating teams until they played in the Classic.  The show takes fans inside an NHL organization and through a day in the life of an NHL player.

The Classic is a great event, but the show does even more for the sport.

It’s no secret that hockey is the fourth most-followed sport out of the four major sports in America.  Some cities, like Detroit, Philadelphia and Chicago might disagree, but on a national scale, this is inevitably the case.  I have never really understood why the game doesn’t take more with the casual sports fan, but I feel that with each year of “24/7” gaining more and more viewers, these “casual fans” will soon catch on.

Where else can you see uncut, unedited, raw interaction among a group of sports stars?  The producers of “24/7” have perfected their craft after just two seasons.  They work their way into the locker room in a way that allows players to adapt quickly to their presence and forget about the cameras altogether.

After all, hockey isn’t Hollywood—it’s still a business.

This past year, the NHL held the Winter Classic in Philadelphia, with the Flyers playing their arch rivals the New York Rangers.  The game already had plenty of intensity on tap from the moment the NHL announced it. These teams hate each other.

“24/7” took viewers deep into the innermost parts of the fire behind the rivalry.  Despite the fact that the Classic simply adds up to another regular season game, the series makes it seem like much more.  The players know what’s coming, and with all the hype of an HBO series, they clearly lose sight of the normalcy of the game.

The show also takes the audience into delicate subjects like the harsh realities behind concussions and serious injuries.  The toughness the hockey players show and the pain they so willingly endure never ceases to amaze me.

The camera crews even follow some of the players back to their homes to see how important a topic the Classic is when they leave work.  These segments are some of the most valuable ones, because they remind the viewers that the players are normal people who have to keep their heads on a swivel every time they report for work.

With two years of the series in the books, the audience is only growing.  “24/7” shows sports fans everything they want to see—passion, intensity, and a whole lot of expletives.

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

It was 4 a.m. on Saturday. Black Friday was in the rearview, the Thanksgiving leftovers were already gone, Route 295 was empty (I can attest), and America was sleeping.

Then, in the high class confines of a New York hotel, exhausted NBA commissioner, David Stern, followed by delegates from both the NBA owners and players, plopped down into an auditorium seat for an impromptu press conference.

The media waited, this time with bated breath. Something had to be stirring, right? There’s no way Stern would call them in at this time of day if it didn’t mean something.

The commissioner, seated next to his biggest aggravation over the last two years, Union Director Billy Hunter, let out the bombshell: the NBA lockout is over.

He made his word choice much more complex than that, but the bottom line was all that mattered. After all the low-level bargaining on miniscule clauses and the soon-to-be-signed deal is finished, the only question remaining is where we are now.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about what a mess the NBA lockout was. Frankly, it was a soap opera that a lot of fans decided not to care about. More importantly, it was a process that never would have happened if the owners hadn’t been blind. They should have seen the now watered-down product for what it was to become years ago. Seemingly everyone but the owners knew that the hard cap, the high-spending teams and the unfair advantages of the bigger market franchises would all pose a problem as the 21st century NBA came into its own.

Even a common sports fan could see that under the previous labor agreement, the players had the ability to practically run the league. With this new agreement, one would hope that many of the problems that have damaged this once revered enterprise over the last few years would disappear. But there is nothing in the new deal to fix them.

The owners don’t want the Knicks to get Chris Paul in 2012? Fine, let’s increase the luxury tax by three times. An extra $20 million from Knicks owner James Dolan to the cause for CP3 is really going to keep the billionaire up at night. Right?

The smaller markets can’t get high enough attendance, so let’s kick some marketing money from the top teams down to the bottom-feeders so they aren’t strapped for cash. After all, communistic reasoning solves everything.

The fact is, with no “franchise-tag,” with no destruction of guaranteed contracts and with a feeble attempt to create parody by increasing the luxury tax, the NBA isn’t too far past square one.

This “lockout” took 149 days. Teams have been forced to cancel the first two weeks of the season. Stadium workers have been out of jobs. David Stern and Billy Hunter were teetering on the border of turning to Jack Daniels to wash away their sorrows. For what?

Right now, not much.

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

As the cold winter readies to set in, the lights in ball parks are out. But the drama is in full force.

Every year, almost immediately after the World Series’ conclusion, baseball’s hot stove ignites. Baseball free agency is a much longer process than the signing periods in other sports. Every November, several of the game’s greats hit the MLB’s salary-capless market, with price tags that only get heftier as the years pass by.

This particular offseason is a historic one. Our generation’s greatest player—-a man who may have every right to consider himself equal among names like Ruth, DiMaggio, Williams, Mays and Aaron when his career comes to a close—-is there for the taking.

That man is Albert Pujols.

Pujols has a smooth right-handed swing that rivals any the game has ever seen, and has power that can place the ball into unprecedented territories of every stadium he visits. Pujols is a rare combination of top-tier power and gold-glove fielding. He might be a big man, but he can move and throw with the best of them at first base. Fans have watched him tear through the Major Leagues since 2001. His St. Louis Cardinals have won two World Series Championships during that span.

But the place he chooses to play this off-season may very well end up being what he is most remembered for. Will he be the loyal player and sign with the team that gave him his chance, the team he has already tasted victory with? Or will he be a typical 21st-century player and leave for another team with a bigger market?

He performed admirably for St. Louis for 10 years and delivered titles to the team. Cardinals fans can’t ask any more of Pujols.

Let’s be clear; this is not a LeBron James situation. Pujols is a not an attention-grabbing player with nothing on his mind but where his legacy will stack up among his sport’s greatest. In addition, St. Louis isn’t his hometown, nor has he failed to deliver them a championship trophy.

Pujols might not be concerned about his legacy like James, but his final decision in his free-agency process will be integral in how he will be rememberd 30 or 40 years from now.

It is easy to admire Pujols. In a baseball era that saw steroids destroy the very sanctity that made the game America’s pastime, never once was Pujols’ name implicated in the drug-abuse mess. It’s easy to forget that, sometimes. Pujols has many great qualities that are set to make him the highest-paid player in Major League history.

We live in an age where business rules sports. Where words like loyalty, legacy and love don’t seem to apply. In the end, the high and mighty dollar circulates through everyone’s minds. Unfortunately, as a result of professional sports’ current business models, it seems players don’t ever start and finish their careers in one place. At some point, an organization or a player seems to draw a line in the sand and move on.

It’s somewhat sad that great players now seem to divvy up their careers between two or three teams. What happened to men like John Elway, Bobby Clarke and Bill Russell in sports?

Those guys don’t really exist anymore—-and it’s a damn shame. For once, a player has a chance to buck the recent business-model trend and sign on to finish his career in one venue. That’s Albert Pujols.

Whatever decision he ultimately makes, he’ll most likely do it quietly. The money is out there everywhere he turns, including in St. Louis. I just hope that, for once, a professional athlete puts his personal business interests aside and makes the decision to ride into the sunlight wearing one uniform.

By Julian Dorey

Columnist

The NBA is a mess.

From the domineering, dictator-like behavior of commissioner David Stern at the top to the unintelligent fight for more money of every teams’ 12th man, the 2011 NBA lockout appears to have no sunrise on the horizon.

The Dark Age that has been looming over the watered-down establishment since Michael Jordan walked away a champion in 1998 appears to be ready to rear its ugly head.

For years, the casual American sports fans have slowly shied away from the professional hardwood action. Sports enthusiasts throw the same dull—yet somewhat justified—excuses out there every October, when the league usually prepares to tip-off its season:

“They don’t play any defense.”

“It’s a selfish sport.”

“Small markets can’t make it anymore.”

“If you don’t have ‘that guy’—what’s the point?”

Perhaps some of these statements are warranted. Perhaps they are not. But that’s a different argument for a different day.

As of right now, the current NBA season has entered a fatal stage amid the lockout proceedings. If the NBA Players Union decides to “decertify” this week, the chances of a partial NBA season may be decertified along with the imprudent union.

Meanwhile, basketball experts are devoting a lot of talk to the notion that after the NBA pulled in its best TV ratings in years last season, a cancelled season would kill the league’s momentum.

I say: what momentum?

It pains me as a lifelong basketball devotee to question the very sanctity of the sport’s highest level. But how can’t I?

LeBron James and his Miami Heat cronies are the only reason the league witnessed such a “revived interest” with the national audience last season. And, on the heels of yet another diminutive effort during the real “crunch time” of the postseason, James has officially developed into a punchline.

The truth is, after flaunting their TV ratings in the first season since Miami put together their embarrassment of riches, Stern and other league executives revealed just how short-sighted and unqualified they are with a task as grand as handling the number one professional basketball league in the world.

It leads me to wonder what happened to Stern. I don’t care who you are—you don’t just last 27 years as the commissioner of the NBA without some decent organizing abilities. When did he lose the common sense that elevated him to his unheard-of status among the professional sports ranks?

Everyone knew that the Miami Heat phenomenon would provide the league with an enormous spike in their TV ratings.

For a maximum of two years.

If the Heat were dominant, fans would quickly realize it and move on. If they didn’t live up to expectations, fans would call them a joke and move on. The NBA would inevitably continue its fade in significance even after a quick jolt of life.

And the Heat, from the big-market city of Miami, are at the heart of the NBA’s biggest issues. The NBA isn’t like the NFL or the MLB. You don’t have the so-called “small market” teams like Green Bay and St. Louis winning titles. No, the NBA is polluted with prima donnas who seem insistent on “padding their legacies” (before they even have them), on compiling stats that meet their self-entitled standards (at the expense of their teams), and on hijacking franchises with the stubborn intent to play in a big market city—thus completely eliminating any hint of loyalty, graciousness, and honesty the league once had.

Forget the Heat and their “ratings effect.” The NBA has a league-wide epidemic on their hands. James, Chris Bosh and Dwyane Wade aren’t the only evils in the NBA’s universe. Players like Carmelo Anthony, Amare Stoudemire and even Chris Paul and Dwight Howard are guilty of exhibiting the same virtues.

I lost faith in NBA players a long time ago. Because of that, I side with the owners’ stance on the makeup of a new collective bargaining agreement (CBA). But the respect I have for their “ability” to impose their much-needed will onto a new agreement is at a very low level.

When a product has so many flawed aspects to it, quick fixes eventually run out.

The league has pulled every trick possible over the last decade in an effort to conceal the damning problems with its general direction.

They allowed LeBron to be crowned “the next Jordan” while still in high school. They allowed the Boston Celtics and Los Angeles Lakers to use deep-rooted, league-wide connections to pull off severely unbalanced trades in order to “rekindle” the sport’s greatest rivalry. They failed to prevent the current “player-businessmen” issue ahead of time during the last CBA negotiations.

Did the league not learn its lesson from the last extended lockout in 1998-99? Did it pay no attention to the extended, depressive aftermath of the 2004-05 NHL lockout that resulted in a cancelled season?

The executive board’s widespread ignorance and severe inability to foresee the unfortunate set of circumstances now at hand has led me to the point of cynicism.

Moreover, it has led me to lose faith in a sport that has provided me with more memories than any other.