Friday Night Lights

Imagine That


Shut your eyes for a second and take yourself back, if you can remember this far, to the 1995 NBA Finals. You’ll see some familiar faces – Hakeem “The Dream” Olajuwon, Sam “The Alien” Cassell, Shaquille O’Neal. You’ll probably see some unfamiliar faces as well – Donald Royal, Tree Rollins, and perhaps the most unfamiliar of them all, an 11-year-old Midwestern kid with aviator glasses, a Nike headband and a shooting shirt from a geographically removed college basketball squad.

I’m the 11-year-old, point guard of the Newcastle Magic (they relocated from Amway Arena to my driveway, because that’s where the hoop was). It’s Game 7. Yeah, I know that in real life, the Rockets swept the Magic 4-0. But forget that for now. It’s close. Touch and go. Horry is hitting some big shots. The Dream is a force inside. Royal and Rollins are no match. But the 11-year-old point guard keeps nailing baseline jumpers, keeps driving successfully to the bucket, keeps hitting free throws after and-1 layups, and guess what – he hits the game-winning shot as time expires. The Magic overcome insurmountable odds and win the championship.

Of course, the 11-year-old was me, and guess what – it was all in my mind. I had created an entirely new basketball league, a collection of teams almost identical to the real-life NBA, except instead of cities, there were streets (I lived on Newcastle Road), a league where I was the star. Games didn’t end until I hit the buzzer-beater and lifted Shaq, Penny and the rest of the Magic to the title. In short, sports were all about imagination – that anything was possible with the right collection of players and the right dream.

Fast forward to the first quarter of 2009. Like 1995, sports are an enormous part of the American tapestry. Unlike 1995, the treatment of sports has changed. No longer are baseball and basketball simple games played for the enjoyment of fans and the self-actualization of executives, coaches, and players. Now, every sport is treated as an equation to be solved, a soulless, rote prayer to the gods of obscure statistics where effectiveness, not raw production, is holy and honored. Just win, baby. Doesn't have to be exciting. Exhibit A: the San Antonio Spurs.

Don’t take my word for it, though – peruse the roster of general managers in baseball and basketball, and see how many seasoned “franchise guys” have been replaced by analytical, incredibly young Ivy League mathematics graduates. See if you can poke your head into a West Coast offense huddle without calling a play like “Jet I 454 AB Omaha 27x Scowler on three.” Take a look at the New York Times, where the universally drab Shane Battier is shockingly identified as one of the best players in the game. Check out Amazon.com and see the position of Moneyball on the best sellers list. Can the heart of the game ever hope to be retained when wins and losses are boiled down to formulas and equations?

Forgive me for saying this, but Terrell Owens’ paranoid schizophrenia is almost heartening. If you remember, back in December, TO accused quarterback Tony Romo and tight end Jason Witten of drawing up secret plays for each other in their hotel rooms on the road. Can you imagine that level of freedom on today’s tightly managed NFL teams, where the most simple halfback dive has the most complicated play name?

It’s a damning paradox. Young athletes need organized sports to improve their levels of skill, enhance coordination, and advance through their careers. But the longer they continue into organized sports, the more creativity is discouraged. Do top high school athletes become burned out because of the demanding year-round schedules of their specialty sports, or is it because it’s no longer a game – it’s a formula, with a highly specified path to victory? Is it a coincidence that at least in basketball, coaches who allow their players freedom on the court enjoy more than a semblance of success (see Bobby Hurley at St. Anthony’s in Jersey City, or to a lesser extent, Buzz Williams this season at Marquette).

Keep the imagination in sports. This is the set of activities that brought us the alley-oop, the flea-flicker, the spitball, and the bicycle kick. Equations and formulas may tell who which player is most effective, but they'll never be a substitute for timely hitting or clutch shooting. And that's how it should be.