Kleeman's Last Word

SPURS ADVANCE TO FOURTH FINALS AND DEFINE GREATNESS

As the San Antonio Spurs notched yet another playoff series victory to clinch its fourth Western Conference Title in the last nine seasons, everything I had been saying all these years about their greatness came together. It finally all made sense.
It’s as if my several year quest to figure out why I support both a Houston and San Antonio sports franchise ended with a satisfying enlightenment, an emphatic thud that left the Utah Jazz staring at a 109-84 final score and elimination from its brilliant post-season run.
As good as a basketball butt whooping comes, this one was a 25-point spanking for the ages that ended before it began. The young Jazz had done all they could to give the wise and experienced, veteran savvy Spurs a tough fight, but it was time for a closeout game romping, where playoff virginity finally reared its ugly head and the presence of perpetual greatness prevailed.
Deron Williams and Carlos Boozer torched the Spurs in the first four contests of the series, emerging as more than just young talents, but best of the best superstars in the making. That’s a show of respect I seldom give to such up-and-coming players.
And sure, I tip my hat to Jerry Sloan for continuing to be one of sports’ finest coaches, never settling for anything less than playoff level basketball from his players, even when the best of them is still 23-years-old.
And while the Jazz should go home unapologetic for how they overcame low expectations from casual NBA fans and analysts alike to end up in the Western Conference Finals against the “been there, done that” Spurs, I’m not letting everyone off the hook.
There’s no need to point fingers, as the list of people owing The Spurs an apology is too massive for the blame-game. We’re all guilty of underselling or denying the greatness of this small-market franchise, even me, Mr. “I’ve been a Spurs fan my whole life.”
We Americans say we value certain qualities in professional athletes and sports teams, certain intangibles that align with our belief system—competitiveness, sportsmanship, class shown off-the-field, a propensity and drive to win, reliability, unselfishness and a workman-like attitude. And yet, our viewing habits barely reflect these moral requests. More than 90 million Americans watch a one-off football game that’s dubbed “great,” even when the actual contest is duller than the flowerpot in the upstairs guest room. We chant the name of Peyton Manning as if he’s somehow Jesus Christ reappearing as an athlete, not knowing a thing about his team or the position he plays (and certainly there are avid football fans who do know this stuff), but believing he’s great because Howie Long and Terry Bradshaw said so.
The only time a sizeable number of people care about professional baseball anymore is when the two teams that have never had trouble scoring high-dollar athletes, The Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees, are going at it. Never mind that the Houston Astros reached the World Series with grit and heart or that the Detroit Tigers fought their way to the championship round; you want to see the same boring old, overpaid, arrogant teams pretend every time they play each other, it should be automatically marked as one of the greatest games in history.
And on a night when two hard-working basketball teams faced off for the final time this postseason, most of us were more concerned with discerning whether Los Angeles Lakers’ star Kobe Bryant is a wasted talent crying for help at the peak of his career or a selfish Prim Donna scoring press for his own benefit.
Yes, we’re all a bunch of lousy hypocrites for what we think is good sports television and if you’re yawning or moaning about The Spurs reaching the finals yet again, consider yourself at the center of this tongue-lashing.
I knew Tim Duncan’s bunch was special, but it took Wednesday night’s thorough rollicking for me to understand just how great they really are. Since 6-11” Duncan arrived from Wake Forest University in the 1997 season, the Spurs have the best winning percentage, nearly 70 percent, in all of professional sports. They’ve clinched five division titles, never been knocked off in the first round, had the best winning percentage of any basketball team since the All-Star break, won four Western Conference titles and snagged four championship trophies. And as other teams have rebuilt, rebooted and overhauled their rosters in hopes of reaching the NBA Finals, the Spurs have consistently been among the best, their title hopes assured until somebody like the Dallas Mavericks or the 2004 Lakers had the testicles and the talent to best them. If four shots had bounced differently, if a foul had not been committed in the final seconds, if a lucky buzzer-beater had missed completely, who knows how many trophies these Spurs might have to their credit.
And yet, all the players on this winning machine can talk about is what’s left to be done. Without dwelling excessively on their marvelous success at stripping three formidable playoff teams of their title hopes, Duncan, Bruce Bowen, Manu Ginobili, Tony Parker, Michael Finley, Robert Horry, Fabricio Oberto, Brent Barry and company chose to remember Wednesday night that a championship is earned with 16 playoff wins, not 10, 12 or 13.
They play unselfishly, unconcerned with garnering attention on the highlight real. They move the ball, find open shooters and have a franchise superstar in Duncan who doesn’t like it when people shower him with praise, instead opting to prove his greatness by competing with poise and leadership in every game. They don’t behave like thugs off the court, speaking eloquently and adoringly of the competitors they admire.
They prove that there are plenty of talented white players in the NBA, even if nay Sayers refuse to acknowledge that fact. They play tough-nosed defense, forcing opponents into tough, contested shots and a low field goal percentage. When a player like Amare Stoudemire or the Phoenix Suns’ media attach a thuggish image or “dirty” label to the Spurs, they continue playing and competing, conducting business-as-usual.
And as much as Suns’ owner Robert Sarver hates to admit it, every year should be a Spurs championship year. Who wouldn’t want to have a team that great over a 10-year span?
I’ve taken their greatness for granted and now my perennial love of this team has been rewarded with a chance at a fourth championship.
When the Spurs begin their Finals’ series with the Detroit Pistons or Cleveland Cavaliers, many Americans will find other viewing options for a variety of reasons. The Spurs are hated because they win consistently, with the same brand of unselfish and complete basketball every year. Because they don’t have to dunk 37 times in a game to feel good about themselves. Because they don’t have Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant or Dwyane Wade to hog the ball and throw up 50-point performances. Because they don’t stir controversy off the court and create lasting sports feuds. Because they don’t throw their arms up wildly and throw punches when things aren’t going their way. Because they prove that professional basketball isn’t a thuggish Mecca for black rappers and that the NBA doesn’t color discriminate when it selects who the great players will be. Because their superstar’s greatest felony is laughing at a poor foul call made by a stubborn referee with a history of vendettas and agendas. Because the perception is casual fans don’t want to see teams play on both ends of the floor. They don’t want 80-78 contests; they want high-scoring marathons like the 127-129 regular season thriller between Dallas and Phoenix. Because they’re from San Antonio, a city that no one from New York or Los Angeles should give a flip about, right? Because they do it honestly, with humility, never thinking they deserve to win just because they’re former champions.
And yet as the American public continues to reward this great team with poor TV ratings, boos, thrown containers of Carmex, moronic post-game remarks accusing them of a tainted legacy and apathy, we turn around and say we wish the qualities above existed in the NBA. Then maybe, we’d watch it. Maybe professional sports would be honorable again if a team with the above qualities existed.
Such a team does exist, it’s called the San Antonio Spurs.
So line up those boos of apathy you crony hypocrites. It’s time for this great team to flirt with destiny once again.
At least now I realize how great they really are.

posted by Robert Kleeman @ 2:00 PM