The blame rests with all of 'em; and all of 'em should quit
There are dark times, dark times indeed, uncertainty abounds.
Fans get screwed, arenas workers get screwed, lawyers get rich(er).
Nice move, former NBAPA.
I can’t for the life of me fully and competently explain what a “disclaimer of interest” actually is except to say it’s a move meant to fast-track the NBA labour mess to the courts.
It will allow the former union to sue more rapidly under American anti-trust laws and is a more surefire method of launching that suit because to decertify (the other “nuclear option”) was not a slam dunk either in a vote of union membership or with the United States Labor Relations Board. So the union, in effect, quit.
(Give me ‘til noon to try to figure it out, we’re going to do a little chat thing here, be sure to stop by).
There is no more NBAPA, any new deal will likely be hammered out by lawyers on each side and who knows if we’ll ever see another David and Billy Show.
The league could conceivably open tomorrow, with new rosters, new rules, new whatever it wants but I can’t imagine anything happens until this whole piece of crap starts to wend its way through a tedious legal process.
Blame ‘em both.
Blame ego and intractability and bad advice and a lack of leadership on the side of the owners and the players for putting a game so many millions truly love in such jeopardy.
The owners wanted too much, they seemed to want annihilation rather than compromise; the players should have seen the writing on the wall months ago if they wanted to try the legal gambit of decertification or the disclaimer of interest; the players should have taken what they could get because now they have nothing.
There’s no way to predict how this will ultimately turn out but at some point there will be an NBA and at some point some of you will come rushing back because it remains a beautiful game to watch and people simply need sports.
But it will not be easy for the game to return nor should it be. Fans, who pay the money that makes these people richer than any of us can possibly imagine, deserve better. They deserve better than David Stern and they deserve better than Billy Hunter and they deserve better than what they got.
Not sure there’s much recourse, never thought there was, but whenever they come groveling back – and they will – make them pay. Somehow make them pay.
They screwed you over for months, robbed you of a joy in your life.
They all deserve to be treated with disdain.
And both the leaders should resign. Let the lawyers make the money. And the deal.
The voters have spoken.
Well, at least a couple of dozen of you who went over to the Facebooky thing to chat, or vote, about the best and most important sports Hall of Fame.
You’ve got baseball well ahead of basketball and hockey (totally ignoring football and football and can’t say I disagree with you.
There’s just something about it, isn’t there? Tough to get into, a long and storied history to celebrate, a near-mystical little town to call home.
To me, it’s not even close.
Dear Pissed Off NBA Players Who May Have Wanted A Deal:
Next time someone says ‘hey, who wants to be union rep?’ Don’t reply ‘let the kid do it, it’s lunch, I’ve been at work for three hours and there are video games to play.’
Signed, People Who Don’t Want To Hear You Whine.
I’m watching Dougie Gilmour the past few days (and, trust me, there aren’t too many of us who like to be called Dougie, hope he doesn’t mind) and was wondering, ‘hmm, when was the last time I saw him play in person?’
Ready, Leaves fans? This is gonna hurt.
It’s 1993, Super Wife and I are traversing California (in a convertible, as I recall) to celebrate some birthday of note (think I shot 88 at Pebble as a present; or maybe it was 108, can’t remember) whilst the big series is going on.
Anyway, my good friends at McNall Sports hook us up with tickets to Game 6 of the conference final (yes, we paid; yes, we were four rows behind Tom Hanks, as I recall) and, yes, we were in the building for this infamous incident.
(Gretzky hits someone in the face, much angst ensues, Leaves lose, more angst).
Anyway, story gets better. If Toronto wins Game 7, looks like I’m going to have to fly home to be part of the army of People’s Wire Service correspondents covering Leafs-Habs and all the hullabaloo that would entail. Not something I’m entirely looking forward to.
Now, until you’ve tried to find a hockey game in 1993 on some weekday at 4 p.m. Pacific Time somewhere in Monterrey, you haven’t lived. Sure enough, some sports bar in like a Motel 6 has a corner TV and deep enough satellite that it’s got it and, tell you the truth, was no happier to see Toronto lose than the half dozen Kings fans I’ve known in my life.
Almost wanted to make me grow a Barry Melrose Mullet.
But I didn’t.
Hey, I missed the pucks Hall of Fame shindig.
Did anyone cry?
Did Ed Belfour wear a tux?
Hang on a sec!
No NBA season?
How happy are Pizza Pizza vendors?
Don’t have to pay out stupid promo contest.
From everything bad, something good comes.
Think art will imitate life?
And, no, players should not be joking about finding jobs now that the actions of their former union will continue to keep regular people in regular jobs with regular lives at regular arenas, saloons and restaurants out of work.
Hope Footlocker buries this one quickly.