In my defense, I did not mean to imply that these women were only suited for cookie-oriented purposes, and I was fully aware that the particular person I told this to worked in a bank (which actually might have made things worse). My statement was to be taken at face value and as a point of fact. However, the park board found this “exchange of ideas” rather damaging to my case and immediately adopted all of the mothers’ suggestions, all of which I unabashedly ignored in our very next game (a 16–6 drubbing of our hated rivals from Fairmount). When I jumped into my father’s pickup truck after the contest, I noticed an envelope under the windshield wiper: I had been terminated for “insubordination.” This did not strike me as an especially brave way to fire a sixteen-year-old, but I knew that was how the industry operated; one year later, the same thing would happen to Tom Landry.
Now, perhaps you’re curious as to how my ill-fated experience as a baseball coach has anything to do with my maniacal distaste for soccer; on the surface, probably nothing. But in that larger, deeper, “what-does-it-all-mean?” kind of way, the connection is clear. What those anti-cookie-baking mothers wanted me to do was turn baseball into soccer. They wanted a state-sponsored Outcast Culture. They wanted to watch their kids play a game where their perfect little angels could not fuck up, and that would somehow make themselves feel better about being parents.
Soccer fanatics love to tell you that soccer is the most popular game on earth and that it’s played by 500 million people every day, as if that somehow proves its value. Actually, the opposite is true. Why should I care that every single citizen of Chile and Iran and Gibraltar thoughtlessly adores “futball”? Do the people making this argument also assume Coca-Cola is ambrosia? Real sports aren’t for everyone. And don’t accuse me of being the Ugly American for degrading soccer. That has nothing to do with it. It’s not xenophobic to hate soccer; it’s socially reprehensible to support it. To say you love soccer is to say you believe in enforced equality more than you believe in the value of competition and the capacity of the human spirit. It should surprise no one that Benito Mussolini loved being photographed with Italian soccer stars during the 1930s; they were undoubtedly kindred spirits. I would sooner have my kid deal crystal meth than play soccer. Every time I pull up behind a Ford Aerostar with a “#1 Soccer Mom” bumper sticker, I feel like I’m marching in the wake of the Khmer Rouge.
That said, I don’t feel my thoughts on soccer are radical. If push came to shove, I would be more than willing to compromise: It’s not necessary to wholly outlaw soccer as a living entity. I concede that it has a right to exist. All I ask is that I never have to see it on television, that it’s never played in public (or supported with public funding), and that nobody—and I mean nobody—ever utters the phrase “Soccer is the sport of the future” for the next forty thousand years. Outcasts may grow up to be novelists and filmmakers and computer tycoons, but they will never be the athletic ruling class. Your hopeless dystopia shall never befall us, Mr. Pelé. Now get back in that Aerostar and return to the killing fields.
(Ralph Nader interlude)
On the last day of May in 2002, the Los Angeles Lakers defeated the Sacramento Kings in the sixth game of the Western Conference Finals in one of the worst officiated games in recent memory (the Lakers shot a whopping twenty-seven free throws in the fourth quarter alone, and Kings guard Mike Bibby was whistled for a critical phantom foul after Kobe Bryant elbowed him in the head).
Obviously, this is not the first time hoop zebras have cost someone a game. However, people will always remember this particular travesty, mostly because the game was publicly protested by former Green Party presidential candidate Ralph Nader.
“Unless the NBA orders a review of this game’s officiating, perceptions and suspicions, however presently absent any evidence, will abound,” wrote the semi-respected consumer advocate in a letter to NBA commissioner David Stern. “A review that satisfies the fans’ sense of fairness and deters future recurrences would be a salutary contribution to the public trust that the NBA badly needs”
“As usual, Nader’s argument is only half right. Were the Kings jammed by the referees? Yes. Was Game Six an egregious example of state-sponsored cheating? Probably. But this is what sets the NBA apart from every other team sport in North America: Everyone who loves pro basketball assumes it’s a little fixed. We all think the annual draft lottery is probably rigged, we all accept that the league aggressively wants big market teams to advance deep into the playoffs, and we all concede that certain marquee players are going to get preferential treatment for no valid reason. The outcomes of games aren’t predeterminedor scripted, but there are definitely dark forces who play with our reality. There are faceless puppetmasters who pull strings and manipulate the purity of justice. It’s not necessarily a full-on conspiracy, but it’s certainly not fair. And that’s why the NBA remains the only game that matters: Pro basketball is exactly like life.
8 33 0:97
Every time I watch a Spike Lee movie on HBO, I get nervous. That probably happens to a lot of white people, and I suppose that’s sort of the idea. But my reason for getting nervous has nothing to do with the sociocultural ideas that Spike expresses, nor does it have anything to do with fear that a race riot is going to break out in my living room, nor is it any kind of artistic apprehension. My fear is that I know there’s a 50 percent chance a particular situation is going to occur on screen, and the situation is this: A black guy and a white guy are going to get into an argument over basketball, and the debate will focus on the fact that the black guy loves the Lakers and the white guy loves the Celtics. And this argument is going to be a metaphor for all of America, and its fundamental point will be that we’re all unconsciously racist, because any white guy who thought Larry Bird was the messiah is latently denying that Jesus was black. The relative blackness and whiteness of the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics (circa 1980–1989) is supposed to symbolize everything we ever needed to know about America’s racial cold war, and everyone who takes sports seriously seems to concede that fact.
But this metaphor is only half the equation.
To say the 1980s rivalry between the Celtics and the Lakers represents America’s racial anguish is actually a shortsighted understatement. As I have grown older, it’s become clear that the Lakers-Celtics rivalry represents absolutely everything: race, religion, politics, mathematics, the reason I’m still not married, the Challenger explosion, Man vs. Beast, and everything else. There is no relationship that isn’t a Celtics-Lakers relationship. It emerges from nothingness to design nature, just as Gerald Henderson emerged from nothingness to steal James Worthy’s errant inbound pass in game two of the 1983 finals. Do you realize that the distance between Henderson and Worthy at the start of that play—and the distance between them at the point of interception—works out to a ratio of 1.618, the same digits of Leonardo da Vinci’s so-called “golden ratio” that inexplicably explains the mathematical construction of the universe?[38] Do not act surprised. It would be more surprising if the ratio did not.