Monday, July 22, 1996
USA dominance on court provides no entertainmentIt was special
to see Magic Johnson feed Michael Jordan on the break or to see
Charles Barkley, Karl Malone, and Patrick Ewing on the front-line
at the same time. And then the 12th man, Chris Mullin, would come
into the game and shoot the lights out.
I watched the 1992 Olympic basketball tournament as intently as
anybody. The collection of NBA superstars known as the "Dream Team"
re-established the United States as the dominant power in
international basketball. It was a dream come true for basketball
fans.
And so I eagerly punched out at 1:01 p.m. and began the
three-mile journey home to watch Dream Team III. At 1:07 p.m.,
after a few rolling stops and several evasive maneuvers through
traffic, I plopped on my couch and turned on NBC just in time to
see the tipoff.
I watched the first few minutes with much anticipation as
315-pound Shaquille O’Neal outmuscled a 180-pound Brazilian big man
underneath. Then the United States’ 6-foot-7-inch point guard
Anfernee Hardaway posted up the 5-foot-9-inch Brazilian point
guard, and exulted after merely backing his opponent in and laying
it up over him.
By halftime, with the United States up by 20 and the outcome of
the game all but decided, I pondered as to why I had hurried home
to see a game that was never going to be a contest.
I stayed around and watched a second half where the spectacular
plays did nothing except to wake up the fans (myself included) that
thought a nap would be more exciting than watching the Dream Team
make the Brazilian national team look like a high school team.
Again, I pondered the same question.
I concluded that I had watched the game because some of my
favorite players were playing for the United States.
Those were, however, the only two reasons. I cringed with every
foul call and every time-out which did nothing except prolong an
already-decided game. Almost as soon as it started, I wanted the
game to end. It was, in a word: boring.
I like to see a good game; one in which there is a battle waged
for every rebound, and every bucket means something. How exciting
is it when Grant Hill dunks the ball to increase the lead to 53? I
could give them the same kind of competition on my driveway; no
defense, and meaningless showtime.
What fun is watching a game when the only anticipation towards
it will involve the great debate as to whether Barkley will try the
headlock or the back-breaker on another Angolan?
I wasn’t alive when Doug Collins and his teammates were robbed
of the gold at Munich in 1972. I know that Michael Jordan led the
United States to the gold in 1984 when the Soviets boycotted the
game in response to our boycott in 1980. I don’t even remember
David Robinson, Mitch Richmond, and other college all-stars being
romped by the Soviets in 1988.
I understand that USA Basketball felt it necessary to create
these Dream Teams to once again prove world dominance. The foreign
professionals would beat our college kids and then claim that they
were the best in the world.
The Dream Teams have put to rest any question about who plays
the best basketball on the planet.
And so the only Olympic basketball tournaments I have followed
involve Dream Teams. I don’t advocate not putting together these
collections of the best players on the planet because I want to see
the United States dominate any sporting event.
I merely want to point out that watching the Dream Team is not
as exciting as it once was. The novelty is gone and now there is a
business-like atmosphere surrounding the Dream Team: don’t cause
trouble, be professional, and win the gold. That’s all.
With the Soviet machine dismantled, the rest of the world is
even farther behind the United States in basketball talent, and it
will be some time before Dream Teams are ever seriously
challenged.
It makes for an uneventful tournament, but our college kids
could be beaten by Croatia, Yugoslavia, or Lithuania, so Dream Team
III is the only solution to winning the gold. An uneventful
solution, but the only sure one.
And so I watch the Olympic tournament, drawn in by national
pride and names, but soured by boredom. I am dazzled by a play here
and there, but I would pay more money to watch a pick-up game
between the U.S. players than to watch another 40-point rout in the
gold medal game.
Scott Yabroff is a Summer Bruin sports columnist.