Bleacher Report - Articles by Jared Stearne

Greeks, Afros, Olympics—and What the Heck is a FIBA?

Jared Stearne — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 11:52:52 -0400

The Dream Team is often hailed as saving USA Basketball, as if it was in some sort of funk, but nothing could be further from the truth—before 1988, USA Basketball had finished as low as second once in all of its history.

Back in the summer of 1988, the American team flew into Seoul with a staggering 86-1 record in the Olympiad—its lone loss being the controversial 1972 Munich Gold Medal Game (using controversial here may be the understatement of the century).

A team of plucky collegiate superstars, led by David Robinson, not only failed to bring home the Gold, but failed to make it to the Gold Medal game, 'only' earning Bronze. (Speaking of which, how the heck did 1988 Yugoslavia—with Toni Kukoc, Vlade Divac, Drazen Petrovic, and Dino Radja—not win the Gold Medal game?)

Back in America, it was time for change, and not of the political variety. With FIBA—the International Basketball Federation, but the acronym is French, because the French love running sports leagues for everything for some reason—allowing American professionals to participate for the first time in 1989 (non-American pros were already allowed), and American resentment sky-high following the perceived embarrassment of a loss in 1988 to Cold War-foe Soviet Union, the path to Gold was clear like never before.

What followed in 1992 was the ruthless slaughter that Americans had been hoping for, like how you feel when your team just bludgeons a hated rival into submission—it never gets old. The Americans, leaving nothing to chance, enlisted the aid of the NBA’s most dominant figures—Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Charles Barkley, and Magic Johnson, just to name a few.

When the dust settled, the world collectively shuddered.

But what might be expected to stunt the growth of non-American basketball may have actually had the opposite effect. Following the 1992 Barcelona games, the NBA has received not only a growing number of international-born players, but these players have made increasingly significant impacts—and this trend doesn’t appear to be slowing down.

You know the culprits, as do I—they’re literally household names, now. Manu Ginobili placed fifth in the MVP voting this year, a year after Dirk Nowitzki won the award. And he only wrested the trophy away from Steve Nash, who held the league’s highest honor for two years straight.

Yao Ming is a potential Hall of Famer in Houston, and AK47 is already popular enough to have a nickname. Don’t forget about Finals MVP Tony Parker, who has transcended basketball to become a legitimate American celebrity—although there’s a very attractive reason for that one.

Just as the wave of foreign prospects and All-Stars shows no sign of cresting, we’re hit with the latest bombshell—Atlanta Hawks forward Josh Childress has accepted an offer from Greek powerhouse Olympiakos (3 years, $20 million). The best part? As soon as the story (rumor) breaks, pundits nationwide estimated that the wave has already crested, flattened, rolled back out like the tide, and is now headed back the other way.

I can’t help but think that some of our best and brightest talking heads are jumping the gun here. Josh Childress, a sixth man from designated league laughingstock Atlanta, is proof that international basketball is taking the torch from the USA? The same USA that has run its Olympic record up to a Texas High School Football-like 114-5?

Excuse me for being less than impressed.

Nevertheless, deft agents have found one more suitor in their constant struggle to wrest dollars from the fists of league executives. For you see, even those players who no one else wants are surely wanted in Euro-ball. Two early examples—Andris Biedrins and Sasha Vujacic, two well-known and well-received imports, are both holding their clubs up for more lucrative deals, citing slouching exchange rates, superior benefits, and more playing time.

Let me be the first to assuage your fears: Don’t worry. *pat pat*

As stated, agents are notorious for using whatever they can to negotiate better contracts. Also, players, agents and front-office big wigs know too well what a year or more of competition against a lower level of competition will do for an athlete.

It would be like demoting oneself to high school when you struggle in college. It may work in baseball, where demotions are largely opportunities to fix mechanics like pitch grips and batting eye without damaging the major league club (or to give a player playing time to develop when its not available at the major league affiliate), but it won’t work in the NBA. Players going overseas will face increasing pressure to stay overseas, because once their game changes to the FIBA mold, their NBA game, if anything, gets worse.

More importantly, few if any legitimate athletes would be willing to tarnish their image and legacy by electing to play against lesser competition—unless an obnoxious sum of money is involved (see: David Beckham).

Kobe has already grown tiresome of the unfavorable Jordan comparisons. Think he’d like being known as the guy who fled to Italy when he wasn’t able to win a ring without Shaq? Think LeBron James wants to be the best player in all of Croatia?

Additionally, unless the USA’s economy and market for sports just bombs out completely, no Euro league will have the financial advantage to simply force American-born stars to leave the NBA.

Some point to Tiago Splitter, one of the best European prospects today, and his choice to remain abroad, as evidence that the tide is changing. But take heed: Tiago understands that rookie contracts are a joke next to the King’s ransom he currently receives. He may never come across the pond for the biggest bucks, but then again, he also realizes that he may never be good enough in the NBA to warrant the biggest bucks. So why bother if he’s not already established stateside?

Long story short—don’t count on it. Like in 1992, when USA basketball had to reassert itself as the big fish, the 2008 team has the players and the historical backdrop to do the same. If the USA team can get through to the finals and claim the Gold Medal, look for a big change in people’s perception, worldwide.

It won’t be anything about USA losing its international footing. It will remind the world (ourselves included) of how far the world may have to go in order to catch up.

If that doesn’t happen, then forget it—I’ll buy an Olympiakos jersey.

Dusty Baker, Office Manager: My "True" Story

Jared Stearne — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 17:43:51 -0400

I'm no baseball player, but like baseball players, I'm told I require management. And, having followed the San Francisco Giants in 2002 as a "well-wisher" (in that I did not wish them any specific harm), when Human Resources announced that Dusty Baker was leaving his post as manager of the Cincinnati Reds to become a sales manager at my small San Francisco company, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The First Day

When I walked in the office the following Monday and saw Dusty in my former supervisor's office, I suddenly knew which.

I imagined he would be dressed in full baseball manager regalia, complete with button-bursting gut and cleats, but in retrospect, I suppose that was a silly thing to expect.

He did, however, maintain his trademark toothpick and sun-blocking sports shades. A grey and white pinstriped suit, white handkerchief, and jet-black wing-tipped shoes formed the rest of his ensemble.

His sunglasses were so dark; I couldn't even tell if he was looking at me. I sensed he was, though, so I hurried to my desk and sat down. I booted up the computer and went about my early morning ritual: checking email, reading the top news stories, and listening to my voicemails.

I was about done when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Son, let me see what you've got, today," he said. Amazing how his toothpick never budged from his lower lip, even as he was looking down and talking. Years of practice.

"Yes, Mr. Baker." I turned back towards my computer, but I noticed that he was still there. I picked up my phone and pretended to call someone. I finally heard him 'mmhmm' and stroll back to his desk.

A few moments later, I nervously glanced over my shoulder to see if he was still looking at me. He was standing, one foot on his chair, leaning on his bent knee, arms folded, staring through pitch-black glasses. Classic managerial pose.

The Second Day

Things didn't get any weirder for the rest of the day, or the majority of the next day. Dusty stayed behind his desk, rarely venturing out of his office. He called over a co-worker of mine once, and, from the looks of it, seemed to go over batting stances with him in his office.

I must admit, I appreciated the lack of attention. I managed to get a healthy amount of work done without the constant supervision, despite the bizarre circumstances. Things were going well until about four o'clock, when Dusty came back over to my desk for the first time since Monday.

"How do you feel, junior?"

I exclaimed that I was doing great, and that I was more productive than usual. I made a mental note to kick myself when I got home—Dusty may have been a good manager after all. And then he opened his mouth, again.

"You've been having a great day, start to finish," he said. I nodded. "I want to see you finish this thing." I stared blankly. "You've got to reach deep down inside, and finish this thing."

I was as confused as you are, reading this. I swear.

"Sure, I'll wrap this up by five, like normal." I was almost nervous, trying to think of what would come next.

"No, son, you've got to have heart. You want this. Finish it. No one is coming in to save you."

I sort of hiccup-laughed. You know, when you literally burst out laughing, but you catch yourself before you complete a full laugh? It was the fact that he was dead serious shut me up. Dusty sauntered back to his office, and resumed his perch.

I watched in envy as every other employee filed out between about 4:45 and 5:30. And I was just too damn nervous and confused to follow suit. I mean, if your manager—scratch that—an actual manager manager had those damn sunglasses trained on you the whole time, you'd be scared to leave, too.

And you know the worst part? He might've been asleep the whole friggin' time! I mean, you watch 162 baseball games every year for decades; you're bound to doze off once or twice. And baseball games are more exciting than offices, let me tell you.

It was 7:37 when my illustrious manager stood up, clapping softly. He emerged from his office again to see me, hunched over at my computer, eyes glazed over from lack of blinking.

"I know you're tired son," he offered. "Be ready for me in five days. Now get some rest."

"Does that mean I can go home?"

He laughed. "Yes, but I need you back here tomorrow to cheer on your teammates."

The Third Day

I casually walked in a few minutes late the next day. I took my time brewing some coffee and running through my daily routine. Not long after, Dusty tapped me on the shoulder once again. In case you were wondering, he still had the grey and white pinstripes on, with the polished black wing tips. I don't think he was wearing it every day, though. I think all of his suits looked like that.

"Son, let me tell you something." I spun around to face him, sat back in my chair and prepared for a speech. "You're doing a lot of walking."

"I'm sorry I was a few minutes late," I said while searching for a response. "The metro was backed up pretty badly."

"It's okay, son, but I need you more aggressive. You're becoming a liability."

I froze. Was I about to be fired? Or perhaps worse, demoted to AAA? I didn't even know what I was supposed to be afraid of.

"You've been clogging up the bases, and our other guys haven't been able to do their job." I almost blurted out a 'What!?' but I resisted the temptation. "I don't ask that you be the fastest. But get up there, do what you do, and get out of the way. We're a team. If I ask you to sacrifice for the team, make sure you put your all into it. Don't get greedy to hit one out of the park. Play within yourself."

He gestured with his hands, both of them together, scooping air towards his chest. "Within yourself."

I must've visibly rolled my eyes because he saw something he didn't like one bit. "Hey! Come on now, son. Get your head in the game." He put his hands on his hips and slowly walked away, looking off into the distance, lips pursed.

I was shaken enough to actually be worried.

The Fourth Day

I came to work at 7:52 the next day, and was on the phone taking care of business by 8:00, when my manager poked his head out of his office.

"Jared, can I have a word, please?"

I dutifully marched into his office, half expecting, or hoping, for some kind of recognition for being all of eight minutes early. I sat down beside a young looking African-American gentleman, and Dusty seated himself in his throne, opposite each of us. For the first time, he wasn't wearing glasses.

"I appreciate your work, here. You've been doing good," he stated. I cringed. The guy next to me looked like a bigger, stronger version of me. He even had better clothes on.

"But I feel its time we tried someone else in your spot," he said as he nodded towards the young man next to me. "I think Corey is more of what we're looking for."

Yes, that Corey. "You're replacing me with Corey Patterson!?"

"Calm down, son. This is part of the game. Corey can bring some speed and hustle to this team," he trailed off. I must've looked like I was about to interject, which I was. I just couldn't find the words. He was replacing me with a guy who held a career .293 on-base percentage.

I stared at Dusty wide-eyed for some time before standing up and excusing myself from his office. I began to pack up my things: my iPod, my JaMarcus Russel bobble-head doll, the photo of me with Mark McGwire with a Jason Giambi head taped on top, and a Miguel Tejada on top of that, with a Nick Swisher on top of that, and a Billy Beane on top of that.

I saw Corey's things in a box next to the computer tower on the floor. There was something shiny there, so I glanced over my shoulder before snooping through. It was a baseball trophy, with the following inscribed: Most Sacrifice Hits: 2007. My stomach sank.

I picked up my things and started towards the door. On the way out, I passed by Corey Patterson, attempting to train himself on how to make coffee. I paused, then turned back to ask him something.

"Corey...why would you leave the Reds to come work here? Is Dusty Baker that great?"

"No," he said, without looking up from his mess of ground and filters. "But I was out of a job—Dusty's the only one who will ever hire me."

Brett Favre: A God Amongst Men? Or Just a God?

Jared Stearne — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:32:09 -0400

Want to see a list of headlines on ESPN.com? I'll save you the trouble:

• Favre may show up at camp • Favre 'clears it up' in interview with Fox • Few fans attend Favre rally in Milwaukee • Pack fans rally, calling for Favre reinstatement • Pack won't release Favre • Sources: Favre seeks unconditional release • Favre itching to return to field • Packers: Favre officially on reserve/retired list • No comeback for Madden '09 cover boy • Teary Favre says 'It's over' • Favre's official farewell: Thursday in Green Bay • Packers QB Rodgers seeks own path to stardom • Packers to retire Favre's No. 4 during opener

Mood swing? Hardly.

This is the cunning cat-and-God game Favre is playing with the Packers, and indeed, the entire world. Some say the years of abuse and cortisone have warped his mind. Others say it's the concussions.

Still, more point to his history of painkiller abuse (a few even raise the issue of the low test-scores in Kiln, Mississippi, but I digress). But the truth is that we mere mortals cannot fathom the thought-process of a Higher Power.

For the Lord of Lambeau giveth, as Michael Strahan with his single-season sack record can surely attest—and the Lord taketh away, as he did when snatching victory from the jaws of defeat on countless occasions.

Both times, fans and haters alike questioned what they saw—doubted their faith. But they no longer have reason to.

As of today, Brett Favre stands tall as your all-time career leader in touchdown passes (and interceptions). But his lackluster wide receivers deserve much of the blame for the interception record, since they never could seem to beat their man.

Guys like Sterling Sharpe, Bubba Franks, Antonio Freeman, and Javon Walker weren't even qualified to be in the NFL, let alone as starting receivers. Each of these heartless, lesser men failed to fight for catchable balls each and every game.

Why, you ask? Well, even Jesus had Judas. And it took a man as great as Favre to persevere through such hardship.

Alternatively, maybe Favre was so brilliant that he saw a benefit in leading the league in interceptions twice and placing in the top five for interceptions nine times.

For you see, he knew that his apparent tendency to throw interceptions—which was entirely intentional, mind you—pulled opposing linebackers and safeties out of the box, urging them to sit back in coverage zones.

Then, and only then, could Favre hand the ball off to his notoriously average running backs—Dorsey Levens, Ahman Green, and Ryan Grant among them—allowing them to turn their otherwise insufficient skills into positive yardage.

In this way, Favre not only won games, but he allowed players like Samkon Gado to have a job in the NFL; surely sparing him a life of crime and or welfare dependency. Years later, most of us have yet to think so far ahead as Favre had years ago.

But Favre was so great, he still managed to force over 440 touchdowns down the throats of these utterly hapless Green Bay receivers. At 38-years old, he managed to line up passes to wideout routes so accurately that Green Bay receivers like Greg Jennings and Donald Driver found themselves at the top of the league's yards-after-catch list last season.

Despite having the good sense to keep Favre playing in Green Bay until now, Packers' brass never cared enough to surround Favre with a talented team. His Favreship was forced to toil in trenches behind inadequate and undersized linemen (fortunately, Favre's chiseled frame never needed a burly or dirty line to be successful, unlike Troy Aikman and John Elway).

His defensive line, the one part of the team often hailed as consistently great, was only so good because of its constant practice with Brett Favre. I am sure that every great Packers sack-master, from Reggie White to Kabeer Gbaja-Biamila to Aaron Kampman, understands that just nearly tackling Favre in practice means being the best defensive pass-rushing force in all of the NFL.

What quarterback, or offensive lineman, could stand up to a defensive end trained at attempting to sack the immortal Brett Favre? Just one: Brett Favre!

What's more, Brett Favre's much-maligned reputation for under-performing in domed venues was really a protest to return American Football to the great outdoors—the way it was originally intended to be played.

His difficult-to-catch fastballs were actually meant to stick to the frozen hands of receivers, shattering fast-forming ice and ensuring completions. Unfortunately, this meant Favre was largely unsuccessful at road venues in warm-weather areas like Tampa Bay. But it was playing his best before the Cheesehead faithful in Lambeau, the true believers, that was always most important.

Favre never lost sight of the goal. And that goal wasn't to win the Super Bowl, or he would have retired long ago. The goal was never to win the MVP, or he would have stopped after his first or second, and certainly his third. The goal wasn't to break the all-time touchdown, starts by a quarterback, or wins by a quarterback records, or he would have stayed retired during this most recent offseason.

The goal was always to save us. To save us. Think about that for a minute.

No, I don't know how remaining undecided on retirement will save us. I do not understand how his text messages (which were ironically intercepted) will reveal his divine plan to us. I do not even know why he insists on keeping lifetime backup Aaron Rodgers in limbo.

Come to think of it, I don't know why he called out Javon Walker for holding out for more money—I thought that was kind of lame.

And the whole Randy Moss thing. I mean, Packers fans hate Moss, don't make them change their minds. They're notoriously stubborn.

Oh, and that whole locker room controversy, that was just ridiculous. I really wish he would've just squashed that when he had the chance, but getting back to the point...

We must accept that we may never understand His way.

Favre is what we need in our world. We must all promise ourselves to continue to read every scrap of Favre-media we can find: watch every podcast, listen to every interview, watch every highlight...

...Or we may lose Favre from our daily lives. And that would be the greatest tragedy.

I implore all of you, please continue to consume every bit of Favre you can, just like you've done for the last so-many years. Keep up the good work, and Favre will never fade from our world.

Seven Rules for Successful NBA Drafts

Jared Stearne — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 16:28:45 -0400

7. Avoid Drafting Big Men from Unsuccessful Colleges and Conferences

As a Warriors fan, this one hits close to home. Patrick O’Bryant (Bradley) and Adonal Foyle (Colgate), anyone?

More than any other position, big-man skills need to be tested against elite competition. It is absolutely vital to see where these guys stand, because the adjustment from college to the NBA is usually hardest for a big.

The development period is often much longer, even for elite prospects. You know this rule will come into play when NBA GMs fawn over a guy because of his height, offering wisdom like “you can’t teach size.”

Very true, but if anyone could teach basketball, they would have learned by now.

The reality is, coming from an inferior league and playing against inconsistent talent hampers the development of any athlete.

And don’t forget the most important part—big men are prime candidates for college coaches looking to recruit a Final Four team. If they have one iota of talent, they’ll likely get picked up somewhere.

A legit big man is too valuable and too rare at the college level to get missed. If your guy slipped through the cracks in college—he’s probably not worth your time.

Recent Offenders: Alexis Ajinca, Mouhamed Sene

6. Players Who Wilt on the Small Stage Will Wilt on the Big Stage

This one is tough to enforce—no one wants to hold it against the guy who blew it in the most important game of his young career. But at the same time, credit is due to those players who elevate their game at the biggest moment.

If two players are relatively equal in ability and pro-projections, yet one played the role of Mr. Big Shot on his team, or had the responsibility of being the go-to option, you’ve got to go with Mr. March.

Recent Beneficiaries: Mario Chalmers, Dwyane Wade

5. Beware of Highly-Touted Import Prospects—Especially the Big Ones

Players from abroad are getting quite a few looks from GMs nowadays, and despite the frequent misses and reaches on draft day, many prominent basketball minds are convinced that such players can accurately be forecast.

Maybe they can, but the embarrassing success rate of GMs thus far leads me to believe that they’re not learning fast enough.

Every year, an import arrives in the lottery, and every year since 2002 (when Yao was drafted), we’ve been let down. When your name gets run alongside Andrea Bargnani and Darko Millic, you’re not looking good.

Conversely, lesser-known imports seem to have a surprisingly high success rate. I don’t know why or how, maybe it’s a coincidence.

But I do know one thing—guys like Manu Ginobili and Andrei Kirilenko didn’t even get invited to the green room.

See Also: Rafael Araújo, Nikoloz Tskitishvili

4. Youth is Not a High-Priority Skill

How many times has your club passed on an upperclassman from college because, although he was better than another player, he was a year or two older?

It’s true that younger players may very well possess more potential. But in the NBA, a career could last over 10 years—especially for a lottery pick.

It's not football, and we’re not racing against a four-year window. This isn’t baseball, and we’re not looking for pitchers with fewer than 800 innings pitched. This is basketball, and these kids can play every day if they want.

Give the older kid a chance—potential might not ever turn into anything on the court. And most importantly, people develop at different rates. Just being younger doesn’t even guarantee a guy has more potential.

With a high draft pick, don’t be in a rush to take Marvin Williams over a Chris Paul. Unless the gap in potential is immense, you’ve got to take the wire-to-wire stud, even if he wasn’t born in 1990.

Why not? Marvin Williams

3. Do Not Draft Unproductive Players, Period

DeAndre Jordan is going to be so bummed to hear this.

Unless the kid is a projected top-three pick, if he has enough potential to even garner pro-interest despite being unproductive, you should be wary of the fact that he’s coming out.

Also, the college game is not as intense, bruising, or as competitive as the NBA game. Simple logic—if he’s not good at the lower level, don’t draft him over a guy who was, and then expect him to outperform said more-successful player.

When put that way, it seems kind of silly, doesn’t it?

Please see: DeAndre Jordan

2. Ability Should Trump Attitude

This one is always hotly debated, as well it should be. You will have guys who bomb out of the league due to nothing but their horrible character. This happens in any sport, and any profession.

However, when drafting a guy you expect to help improve your team, you’ve got to weigh the good against the bad. I’m not saying character issues should be ignored—guys like Chris Washburn and had clear warning flags all over their pre-draft bio.

However, when you have a truly special talent, with a manageable character flaw, you’ve got to take the chance. In the NFL, a guy like Carmelo Anthony might have fallen to the middle of Round One—just look at Randy Moss. And what if Michael Beasley fell to the Knicks?

My point is that some flaws are permissible, and should almost be expected. Not everyone can be a goody two-shoes, and even if they are, it could be a front.

Look at how much bad press Kobe Bryant got for a few years before recently reviving his image. You run the risk either way, so make sure you’re at least getting your money’s worth on the court.

Example: Michael "B-Easy" Beasley

1. Always Draft the Best Player Available, Never Draft for Team Need

By far the most important rule of NBA drafting also seems to be a barometer of NBA prospecting success. Teams who draft best player available tend to (gasp) get the best player available. Teams who draft by need frequently get busts.

Call it NBA Draft karma. But in the NBA, where prospects are getting younger (despite the one-year amateur rule) and less experienced, it is increasingly unlikely that the team “one player away” could fill that role with a single rookie.

Also, consider your options. Want to have a great player who you don’t know what to do with? Or a lesser player who fits into a role perfectly, but can’t produce at an elite level for several years anyway—by which time you’ve had ample opportunity to fill the need elsewhere, or had new needs pop up.

Adhering to this rule is the number one way to ensure your team doesn’t end up as the sad-sack franchise that passed on the likes of Melo or Wade to get Darko.

Honestly, blowing the draft is one thing. But letting that Hall of Fame prospect—who everybody knew was a Hall of Fame prospect—fall through your fingers because you wanted more depth at point guard is a very hollow, very empty feeling. It might be worse than losing the NBA Championship.