It's Fan-Tastic

Pop quiz: who won the NBA championship last spring?

You had to stop and think, didn't you?

Got an e-mail the other day with training camp dates for the Orlando Magic. First preseason game is October 11th, against Atlanta, while the Miami Heat start their preseason schedule three days later, against Memphis.

You WERE wondering, right? Is it me, or has this been perhaps the quietest off-season in league history? Has the NBA even occurred to you over the last couple of months?

Bill Simmons, the relentlessly brilliant columnist for ESPN.com, often refers to himself as one of the 17 remaining NBA fans in America. Count me as one of those lucky seventeen. I share Simmons' passion for the game, as well as his unspoken resignation that professional basketball is teetering perilously close to becoming a fringe sport.

If there's one thing I have learned in my two years back home in Florida, it is this: football, college or pro, is king. Nothing generates more interest or e-mail than a juicy pigskin story. As for the other major sports, baseball still captivates much of our audience, despite the breathtaking incompetence of its leadership and the surreal detachment of its player pool. The NHL is interesting in the same way that a train wreck is interesting. Professional golf still has Tiger to jack up the ratings. Through the dog days of summer, Lance Armstrong captured headlines, as did Venus Williams. The burly undercurrent of soccer and skateboarding motivates those under the age of eighteen. And through all of this, the hardcores among us search for news from the Association.

Where art thou, NBA?

I woke up this morning to discover, much to my dismay, that I was married, with two children, a mortgage, and a minivan. And I love my minivan. Somewhere, in the darkest recesses of my memory, there resides an image of the NBA as a driving force in sports.

It starts with Marv Albert standing on an apple crate next to Doug Collins, and Ahmad Rashad hoarding his stogies on the sideline, as the venerable Bob Costas prepped us for the national matchup on that Sunday morning. Michael Jordan was prominently involved. There was a day when professional basketball was a viable national sports property, and I can see it as clearly as I see my kids' shoes piled next to my front door. In all cases, I ask: what happened?

Some of the leading men are still around. Marv still calls games, and Ahmad still steals money as the host of "Inside Stuff." Shaquille O'Neal has gone from phenom of the century to wise sage, drawing players toward him like a bug light. Gary Payton still draws a paycheck despite, as Simmons once put it, the fork sticking out of his chest. But Jordan, Scottie Pippen, Hakeem Olajuwon, Charles Barkley, John Stockton, Karl Malone, David Robinson, Tim Hardaway, Patrick Ewing, Detlef Schrempf, Mitch Richmond, Kevin Johnson, and Reggie Miller, among others, are done.

When Reggie walked off the court this past spring, many an astute columnist lamented the end of an era, and I happen to agree. Miller was the last productive link to the cadre of talent I listed above, the post-Bird-and-Magic era when the NBA became, in the words of its most supportive network, "Must See TV." And note that I say "productive link" - I am well aware that Payton, Mutombo, the Davis boys, and Kevin Willis are all still in the league, but unlike those players, Reggie was actually relevant until the moment he quit.

I always loved Reggie. Them were fightin' words here in Orlando in the spring of 1995, when the Magic faced the Pacers in the Eastern Conference Finals. Reggie reveled in his role as villain, a persona that never quite fit him. Fact is, Reggie Miller was a great guy, the kind of dude you'd love to go have a beverage with, if you happened to be a Pacer fan. In a previous life, way back when the idea of a mortgage and minivan seemed foreign, I prowled the tunnels of the Orlando Arena as a Magic radio reporter, seeking interviews to make myself useful in the eyes of David Steele and Dennis Neumann, and Reggie was one of my favorite targets. He was one of those rare athletes that answered questions directly, and convinced the media that he actually gave a damn. As an added benefit, he was a cold-blooded killer.

Nobody showed up for big games like Reggie. I spent many hours of my youth watching him go through his pregame routine, shooting those splay-legged jumpers, honing that singular bent-arm technique that no coach would ever endorse, watching him work himself into a frenzy. In his last seasons as a pro, Miller developed a little ritual in which he would accept a cold drink from Pacers PR director David Benner, who would stand impassively as Miller berated him with a merciless stream of trash-talk, nose to nose. It was just so cool to watch. Reggie was creating his own in-game universe, and Benner was doing a part of his job that he clearly adored, and basketball was king. I hope I can adequately describe that scene to my kids someday, when they happen across a "SportsCentury" episode on Miller. Reggie was an assassin. His job was to shoot until his biceps melted, and he freaking dared you to stop him. We need more of that in sports today.

How did the NBA lose that? I could spend hours on the topic, but I'll give you this - I still love basketball, Reggie or no Reggie. The game wins, even if the players lose. Basketball is beautiful. It's a great game. The basics of the sport serve as a cautionary tale: move with purpose even when you're not the number one option, think three steps ahead, and get in the other guy's grill, and you'll play forever. Even if NBC has moved on to pro rodeo.

So anyway, I'm looking forward to the 2005 season. Dale Davis now plays for the Pistons. Shareef Abdur-Rahim is in Sacramento, I think. Eddie Jones was last seen heading to Memphis, where he'll swap draft stories with Jerry West. Shaq has convinced Jason Williams and Antoine Walker to come to Miami. Dikembe Mutombo has re-signed with Houston. Waiting in the wings are Marvin Williams, Chris Paul, Raymond Felton, Ike Diogu, Joey Graham, Danny Granger, and a host of other young bucks ready to make their mark. I still love this game, Reggie or no Reggie.

Shoot until your biceps melt, boys. There may not be as many of us watching as there used to be, but I will be there. If you keep your heads up and try just a little bit, you might even pull a few kids off their skateboards.