As published by The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com)
By Ronald N. Guy Jr.
By the end of this madness, half of you will pump your
fists in air or slap the table in passionate agreement. The other half will condemn me a crusty old
curmudgeon wailing ancient values from his porch, half a bottle of poison in
one hand and a cigarette in the other.
You’ll be both be right, at least figuratively;
neither will be wrong, at least not totally.
In the ninth edition of this column, way back in April
2008, I reflected on a recent television interview with Cal Ripken Jr. The conversation with the Baltimore legend
covered his entire Hall of Fame career with a predictable focus on that
unimaginable streak of 2,632 consecutive games played.
Ripken, in typical self-deprecating fashion,
attributed the accomplishment to nothing more than applying his dad’s blue-collar
work ethic and being prepared to perform every single day. Okay, Cal.
Translated for mere mortals, you only play in 2,632 consecutive games if
you possess an uncompromising commitment to your craft and a competitive fire
that’s perpetually ablaze.
Ripken’s record is unbreakable. It isn’t just the odds of a human playing
that many consecutive games. It’s that
it doesn’t even occur to today’s players to try.
In MLB and the NBA, we are in the era of mental health
breaks or general maintenance days off.
In a little slump? Sore
ankle? Balky shoulder? Take a day.
Better yet, take two. Further, the
best NBA teams routinely sit stars during the regular season – Spurs, Cavaliers
– and the NBA’s worst, without even a modest disguise, sit players to tank
games and improve draft stock.
With the long regular seasons in these sports, the
strategy is understandable. And in the
NBA, the playoffs last for months – literally.
But I also hate it - to my core.
It cheats fans, makes a mockery of athletic competition and, in my mind,
reduces the players who tap out. Where’s
the overriding competitive fire? The
pride in knowing that you’re only as good as your last game played – or not
played? I’m not going to call this
generation soft. I’ll leave it
at…different (and quietly lament the travesty).
There’s a ray of light in this laissez-faire, I-need-a-day-for-me
and participation trophy era. An
athletic assassin. An ultimate
competitor. A man who eradicated
“submit” from his vocabulary. In its
greatest gospel of rock, “Stairway to Heaven”, Led Zeppelin, mystics and
rumored purveyors of black magic, may have eluded to this great athletic force
of the future when Robert Plant murmured, “…when I look to the west” and “In a
tree by the brook”. West. Brook.
Westbrook. Oklahoma City Thunder guard
Russell Westbrook.
Westbrook is, in a word, ferocious. In a league where players often “compete” at
a casual, too-cool-for-school pace, Westbrook attacks the game, every
game. No one plays a midseason contest
in Minnesota or Milwaukee on a sleepy Tuesday night like Russell Westbrook. Noooooooobody.
Does his game have flaws? Does he get out of control sometimes? Dominate the basketball too much? Yes.
But his effort and desire to win cannot be doubted. When the clock expires Westbrook wants his
opponent’s beating heart in his hand and he’s prepared to spill his last drop
of blood for ultimate victory. I respect
that. It’s how it’s supposed to be at
the highest levels of athletic competition.
And I also respect that after Kevin Durant, his
long-time running mate, bolted OKC to form another manufactured superteam, Westbrook
didn’t throw a fit or lament his personal misfortune. Instead, the dude averaged a triple-double
and turned in one of the best statistical seasons…ever.
In a perfect world Westbrook, the NBA’s conscience,
would guilt his peers into giving more consistent effort. But alas, he’s but one man against a now
deeply ingrained culture. At a personal
level though, maybe he’s the extra foot in the backside we need when our
motivation wavers. It’s the “What would
Russell do?” challenge or, simply, the one-time “What would Cal do?” challenge
by another name.
Hopefully that question, that standard, still
resonates. And hopefully this has been
more refreshing sermon than antiquated lunacy from an aging sports fan in his rocking
chair.
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