Memories of a fan: Why sports now mean nothing

Josh Cowen

Emphasis Mine

I used to love sports. When I was a boy, I was obsessed, you might say. University of Michigan sports were incredible. I loved the Detroit Tigers. I followed the Lions too. Long before they became the NHL's most valuable franchise, the Detroit Red Wings were like gods to me. But my interest in these teams paled in comparison to my devotion to the Detroit Pistons. Joe Dumars was the epitome of the professional athlete, so far as I was concerned. I watched him this Friday, in a televised ceremony at the Palace just before the Pistons played Portland, as his number was retired forever.

As I watched Pistons from years past walk to center court, to honor Joe D, I felt the strange sensation of sadness creep into my consciousness. With it came memories of those days, not so long ago, when sports meant something to me. When Isaiah Thomas took the microphone, called Joe his brother, and embraced him with a kiss, I felt like I was twelve again. I wished I was.

On Saturday, I learned that Larry Bird, the Celtic legend now coaching the Indiana Pacers, is taking issue with a new NBA policy. You sports fans may have known it for months. I just found out. The league is requiring all coaches to wear microphones for network televised games, and to allow cameras in the locker room during halftime. Any coach who does not comply will cost his team $100,000 per game. The networks think this will boost their ratings. The NBA wants to keep its pockets full, so it needs to keep the networks happy.

With this news I understood for the first time why I do not watch the Pistons, and why I cannot call myself a sports fan anymore. During the past few years, my feelings toward sports have not been characterized by disinterest, but by disgust. The reason is simple. Sports are a business now, an industry producing entertainment at all costs. Sports have been infected by a sickness, the symptoms of which are greed, disloyalty, and selfishness. The effect of this plague is devastating: the death of sportsmanship. No player is immune.

Immediately after experiencing this epiphany, I went to my video collection and pulled out two dusty tapes. The first was the 1989 NBA Championship video, "Motor City Madness." The second was its 1990 counterpart, "Pure Pistons." I watched them both back to back. "Pure Pistons" was particularly poignant. It opens with a camera shot of the white board in the team's locker room. In the bottom right corner of the board Isaiah Thomas had scribbled: "Not a Battle of Skills but a Battle of Wills." I cannot imagine one athlete today even understanding this adage, let alone bothering to inspire his or her teammates by sharing it with them. The game has become a showcase of individual talent. Each player competes against teammates and opponents alike for the ultimate prize: A spot on the day's highlight films.

Money in sports does not bother me, per se. I know very well that it was the cornerstone of the NBA back when I cared too. But then it was a behind the scenes lurking, not showing its ugly head at every moment. Today it is what drives our athletes. Something else used to push them. My videos are proof of that. "Motor City Madness" shows a heartbroken Magic Johnson seconds after he tore his hamstring during the finals. Magic explained his anguish: " I love to play so much." "Pure Pistons" includes Isaiah Thomas' press conference, at which he announced that Joe Dumars' father had died before Game Three of the 1990 Finals. Isaiah struggled for the words to express himself. His teammate was his brother, and he too had lost a father.

Team. That is a concept missing today. Players chase money, and bounce from city to city trying to find it. This was not always true. Isaiah worked in Detroit for nine years before he won a championship. Little by little his team improved, and he met his goals in time. Few athletes understand the value of loyalty anymore. When Tiger Stadium hosted its last game this fall the analysts covering the ceremony noted the tears in the eyes of many players. Tiger Stadium had been their home. I try to imagine Kobe Bryant or Allan Iverson at such a ceremony, if their arenas were closing. I doubt they would even show up.

I used to love sports. I loved them because of men like Joe Dumars. The concept of team meant something to me because it meant something to them. Watching them play always inspired me to sprint a mile, shoot free throws, or play catch. Today's players inspire children to make money. In doing so, they spread the affliction of greed to new hosts. Fearful of my own susceptibility, I cling to the only antidote: The memory of being a fan.

- Josh Cowen can be reached via e-mail at jcowen@umich.edu.