2, 4, 6, 8! What Donaghy did was really great!
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Great, meaning large or immense! We mean it in the pejorative sense!
Having grown up in an area that didn't even have an NBA franchise until I was 5 or 6, then got one that sucked big time for a decade, choked away a few playoff appearances, then quietly resumed their mediocrity, it's safe to say that I have no affection for professional basketball that runs beyond skin deep, even though it's the sport I grew up playing (and still enjoy doing so). It's hard not to feel for KG for the career he's had and the crappy talent that McHale has rewarded him by surrounding him with, and being the hometown franchise guy I'm obliged to name him as my favorite player, but I honestly can't say he's any more entertaining to watch for follow than a Lebron, Nash, or Arenas, and it's not like I can see much of them outside of the playoffs.
What keeps me interested in the NBA is the great depth of talent that we have devoted to it: Three of my favorite blogs cover the league devotedly as well as the most entertaining sportswriter out there (I know it's trendy to hate on Simmons nowadays, and I've long trained myself to skip over anything Boston-related, but his NBA columns are undoubtedly the best-conceived of the mainstream crew). These, along with the aforelinked Agent Zero, are among my daily stops not because I am a rabid fan of any one player or team, but because of the extremely thoughtful, sometimes even intellectual, culture that surrounds them. I feel that I share this stance with a great number of middling NBA fans, who have to give themselves reasons to watch the remaining teams in May and June when there is literally nothing else interesting going on in professional sports. In 2006, we followed the online antics of Mark Cuban that eventually got him fined. This year, we rooted for the Warriors in their cinematic uprising, howled at the ridiculous enforcement of a post-Malice rule that many thought cost the Suns a trip to the Finals, thanked LeBron for saving us singlehandedly from the dreaded Pistons-Spurs Finals matchup, then bitched after a brutal sweep that Cleveland should've never been there in the first place.
And now, what every fan has thought and muttered under his breath (or screamed, or blogged about, depending on the alcohol level) when a close call went against his team has all of a sudden become a lot more real than anybody would have suspected. No one knows yet how real this is; whether, as Stern insists, this was a bad apple in an isolated case, or if they all get together every Friday night in Salvatore's garage, eat a couple buckets of wings, and discuss the upcoming week's point spreads under green-shaded visors and a cloud of cigar smoke. Nor, however, does anyone really consider it the final death knell for a league that's been barely treading water for virtually the whole post-Jordan era. I strained my link muscle in the last paragraph, but all of those writers and more have all manner of opinions on the issue, my particular favorite being Simmons' cast for the hypothetical movie version. Once again, I sit back all the while as a fly on the wall and take in the pure writing talent that's being thrown around. I hate to say that the game needs an occasional Malice or Kobe's Denver Doldrums or now a Donaghy, but as someone who reads the NBA for the articles, an event with this one's undeniable bigness really shakes the cobwebs off of the current Bonds-era sportswriting with its hybrid character of columnist/moralist injecting each column with a Bayless-esque dose of self-righteousness, and brings to the forefront the brightest minds of the youngest branch of the media. If it takes a handful of serious but nonfatal disgraces to get that branch a wider audience, then by all means: Throw that intentional elbow, follow that nice girl back to her hotel room, and slap down that wad of cash on the over as you fumble for your whistle. These guys will be right here, making sure that no one ever forgets it.
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