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10 years ago today, the NBA saw its darkest chapter unfold. Has the league ever really recovered?
It didn’t start with a shove or a fist. It started with a plastic cup of Diet Coke.
***
Early this season, I found myself sitting at a Washington Wizards game here in DC. The tickets were fairly cheap on StubHub and I had a free evening to kill.
The NBA these days admittedly doesn’t mean as much to me as it did when I was a kid. Maybe it’s due to my favorite team, the New York Knicks sucking worse than a hooker on a hunger strike, but the enjoyment just isn’t the same.
So when I go to the occasional NBA game, it’s easy to become detached and spend time looking around and noticing the “little things” that people don’t much think about.
On that evening in particular, one of the things I noticed were the police and security that surrounded the perimeter of the court, on the floor itself, during each time out. Their gazes, even the height I was viewing the game at, were nothing less than piercing. At this point, it probably seemed a routine thing, as each whistle signifying another timeout brought out the cops standing stoically not so much as a barrier between the court and the crowd, but almost as a vigilant watch on the crowd.
Again, one of those things no one really thinks about, but most of us know exactly why they’re there.
***
As a culture hooked on the opiate of nostalgia, every little anniversary begs the question, “where were you when…” The night of the infamous Malice at the Palace, 10 years ago today, I wasn’t even watching the game. Even as a lifelong Hoosier, I’ve never thought much about the Pacers, particularly as a fan of the Knicks. I thought even less of the Pistons, so while a number of my friends were hunkered down in the Pink Room of my fraternity watching the game (and partaking in other things), I was making my way from the frathouse back to my dorm at Indiana University.
Now the game had been on for some time, and by all accounts, pretty unmemorable, as most games early in the season usually are. I’d just entered the breezeway of my tower at Willkie South when, while waiting for the elevator that always seemed to take forever (especially during those times when you’re drunk and really have to take a piss) I heard a collective “OOOOOOOOOOOOOH” in the common room below where the big screen TV was. I went downstairs to see what the hubbub was, and then it happened.
For all intents and purposes, the Pacers pretty much already salted the game away with a 97-82 lead. The noise from the small crowd in the lower level common room of Willkie South was in response to Piston center/forward Ben Wallace being fouled hard from behind by infamous Pacer Ron Artest. No big deal, really, as skirmishes weren’t completely uncommon in the league, and it always made for good tape on SportsCenter.
The initial pushing and shoving with 45.9 seconds left to go in the game have less to do with turning that night into one of infamy, it was the plastic cup of Diet Coke tossed by Detroit fan John Green on a lounging Artest. Certainly, Artest laying on the scorer’s table was silly enough, but then it wasn’t completely out of his character, something that made him a polarizing character throughout his NBA career. That said, you can’t really justify hating someone for being weird. I suppose you could try, but that would only end up being a larger reflection on those who chose to hate.
From the moment the cup was thrown, splashing down on Artest, causing him to jump into the crowd looking for blood, everything changed. Any innocence the league had, any semblance of virtue that comes from playing a game evaporated. Of course, the focus would fall on the players for what they did, particularly Pacers Jermaine O’Neal and Stephen Jackson, but the truth is, it was always the fans. Whether it was Green, or Alvin Shackleford and Charlie Haddad, the game stopped being something you go to see, but rather something far darker.
I realize that this was only one event, and certainly not one repeated any time since, but sometimes all it takes is one thing to blow off the veil of illusion and see that maybe what you see isn’t really what you get. The player/fan dynamic has always been a tightrope walk, and the night that everything devolved into chaos in Auburn Hills, a mirror was put up that reflected the ugliness in us all.
This is an ugliness that extended beyond the Palace that night.
It just so happened that Artest’s brother Isaiah also lived in Willkie South, something that made me feel for him, as he was the target of a lot of garbage from some fellow students, as if he called his idiot brother and goaded him to get into the biggest fight in NBA history. Whether it came in the form of dirty looks or awful messages scrawled on the whiteboard hanging from his door, the poor kid went through Hell. In fact, I remember him disappearing from campus altogether, for which I don’t think anyone could blame him.
Maybe we just love a good car crash, but the “Malice” quickly became legend, and when people talked about it, the usual adjectives that followed included “awesome”. Yeah, the sudden meltdown of human decency was quite a sight to see, and I have to admit, 10 years ago, maybe that was an adjective I used, but watching it now, it only confirms for me now when I have fleeting thoughts of then.
I just don’t love the NBA anymore.
And I know it’s not so much about my favorite team playing out its seasons face down in a ditch, but the NBA used to evoke a feeling of passion in me that made it my favorite sport.
BUT WAIT.
Back in June, I shared a remembrance of “The Mistake by the Lake” in Cleveland, where I told a romantic tale of debauchery and violence during 10 Cent Beer Night at Cleveland Stadium where the visiting Texas Rangers had to fight for their lives to escape a stadium filled with drunken idiots.
So what’s the difference, Shimbo?
Believe me, it’s a question I’ve asked myself even before I sat down to write this article. It didn’t take long for me to come up with an answer. This has little to do with the NBA in the end. It is as it was, it’s about the fans. It’s about the reaction. It’s a different time. Whether it was the people who threw bottles, chairs and whatever else inside the Palace, or it was the people who went out of their way to call the players savages and animals without even bothering to examine the behavior of the fans, or the people who think the players should’ve beat the hell out of more fans that night, everything is far uglier in 2004 than it was in 1974.
Cheap beer can be passed off as the culprit in Cleveland. In Detroit, not everyone was drunk, and beer is a whole hell of a lot more expensive.
When I say the NBA lost a piece of its soul that night, it’s not just on the league, it’s on the fans as well. The product on the floor, while talented, just doesn’t seem as good as it once did all those years ago. The fact that going to games these days means being stared down by law enforcement, even if you have no plans on sparking a “Malice Part 2”. Maybe it’s the whole package.
Yeah, the NBA is still successful where it needs to be. Teams are now selling for billions of dollars, so it’s easy to say that the league is better than it’s ever been, but remembering that night 10 years ago, it’s hard for me to feel that way.
***
Walking out of the Verizon Center after the game, I look at the fans passing through the halls. People are laughing, smiling, talking about the game or whether they’ll to the station on time to catch whatever Metro they’re trying to catch. It’s just another night at the arena. Some of them can’t wait to come see the next game. “When’s LeBron coming?”
I really do wish I felt the same way. I just can’t.
Hashim R. Hathaway (Uncle Shimbo) is the host of the Never Daunted Radio Network, and proud father to NeverDaunted.Net. You can reach him on Twitter @NeverDauntedNow