I am not a professional sports journalist—but I really
look the part. I’m an unassuming white male in a dress shirt, laptop at
the ready, and often times I even comb my hair. Oh, I also have one of
those fancy digital recorder things.
Yet still, why are all the other press-row reporters looking at me
like that?
Oh yeah… it’s because I’m drinking a beer in the one location
within the Rose Garden where it’s absolutely not okay to sip
from a plastic cup of overpriced Bud Light. Raef LaFrentz could drink a
beer on the bench—in uniform, mind you—and get fewer
threatening glances than I’m receiving right now. First lessoned
learned as a faux-sports writer: Real sports reporters are never
alcoholics.
Don’t worry guys; I’ll drink it fast.
POSTING BAIL (OR DEBUNKING THE JAIL BLAZERS MYTH)
Rule #2 of being a professional sports journalist? When local teams
win, they are beatific angels, strumming harps at the feet of God. When
they lose, they are morally decrepit pieces of crap. Remember the Jail
Blazers teams of old? Of course you do, the local (and national) media
won’t let you forget. Jail Blazers hysteria is based on a series of
smaller elements: lazy journalism, the desire to turn an otherwise dull
sports section into a crime blotter, mild stereotyping of the lives of
successful African American men, and (most importantly) a basketball
team that failed to win enough games.
There was never actually an official Jail Blazers lineup—it’s
not like they changed the logo and got an angry mascot—but if you
needed to tag a team with this tired phrase, it would most likely be
the 2003-2004 squad. That roster had four players with marijuana
violations of one kind or another (Damon Stoudamire, Rasheed Wallace,
Qyntel Woods, Zach Randolph), a few that had run-ins with police
officers here and there, and even one convicted sex offender (Ruben
Patterson). Certainly not a squad of dribbling Mother Teresas, but
remember—they’re a basketball team, not potential prom dates for
your daughter.
Also, they were hardly the first players to don the Red and Black
and bump chests with authorities. For example, the 1980-1981 team was
home to Kermit Washington (who nearly killed an opposing player, Rudy
Tomjanovich, during an on-court brawl left Tomjanovich unconscious in a
pool of blood) and Bill Ray Bates (who sliced the ear of a Texaco
employee in a botched robbery attempt)—yet, no Jail Blazers tag
for them. The Blazers lineup of 2003-2004 was saddled with this naughty
nickname because they arrived fresh on the heels of a Blazers bench
that had come within minutes of wearing championship rings on their
fingers.
More importantly, it was clear this ’03-’04 team wasn’t going
to make the playoffs—meaning the press, and eventually the fans
themselves, were going to make them pay. Evidently our tolerant
city’s love affair with alcohol and strippers was never supposed to
extend to our professional athletes—at least, not those with
losing records. Carry the Blazers to the playoffs and feel free to
enjoy the wonders of Jiggles and Sassy’s all you like (you hear that
Steve Blake?), but once the losses outnumber the wins, this town will
come down upon you with the moral fury that God-fearing Red States
usually reserve for homosexuals or pregnant teens. Mississippi,
specifically.
But the new Blazers? Not like that. As the media keeps reminding
you, unlike those rampaging monsters of the recent past, this team’s
image is that of squeaky-clean youths who balance slam dunks with
etiquette classes. These guys know which fork is for salad, how to walk
with a stack of books on their heads, and the correct way to curtsy
like a lady. (Seriously, you should see Taurean Green curtsy; he’s like
the belle of the debutant ball.)
Of course, this image makeover is a moot point. From a sports
“journalist’s” perspective, I don’t care if the current Trail Blazers
spend all their money on their church tithe, or tipping for lap dances
in the champagne room—it shouldn’t matter. They’re a basketball
team. Their job is to play basketball.
TUNNEL RAT
Rule #3 of being a faux sports reporter? Attend the post game press
conferences presided over by head coach Nate McMillan, and conduct
locker room interviews with the players. The problem? Interviewing
someone who participates in hundreds, if not thousands, of interviews a
year is akin to talking to a robot. Actually… talking to a robot
sounds exciting; this is more like talking to your toaster. Players,
and coaches, aren’t programmed to say more than the standard template
of responses—”It’s a team effort,” “We gave it 100
percent”—which is fine, since most sports journalists are not in
the business of conducting interviews. Their job is to gather quotes,
present these quotes in a way that tricks readers into thinking they’re
“interesting,” and deliver them before deadline. Unlike my “peers,” I’m
not beholden to antiquated newspaper protocol—after live blogging
a game, I often wander off to explore the mysterious world of the
tunnels that snake beneath the Rose Garden.
It’s there you can see Greg Oden—looking like a kid kicked out
of the tree house gang—haunting the corners and waiting for the
rest of the players to spill out of the locker room. It’s also a great
place to mentally match which spouse is waiting for which player (I’m
horrible at this game), and to catch visiting players in all their
off-the-court glory. My personal highlight was seeing the Houston
Rockets’ Yao Ming decked out in a glistening white cashmere turtleneck
sweater, looking like he’s arriving for a warm Thanksgiving dinner at
the Huxtable house. Tightly surrounded by a giggling mass of fans with
extended camera phones, poor, polite Ming was just trying to maneuver
his 7′ 6″ frame onto the team bus—but looked defeated by the
realization that both he, and that ridiculous sweater of his, weren’t
leaving anytime soon.
BRANDON ROY MAKES JESUS JEALOUS
But enough about the past, and the cashmere wardrobe of opposing
players—here’s the most important thing my press credentials have
brought me. Rule #4: By any means necessary, obtain a clear glimpse at
a downright historic basketball team. And at this point in the season,
here’s what I’ve surmised: A team like this year’s Blazers are primed
to fail. They are the third-youngest team in the league’s history, with
their franchise player being a 20-year-old with zero minutes played and
a bum knee. And while I predicted a 36-win season in this very paper,
it was a foolish guess, one tainted by my biased fandom and access to
the players themselves.
Yet, here we are. It’s the halfway point of the season and the
Blazers have 26 wins, are battling for top position in the Northwest
division, and the possibility of a playoff berth is pretty likely. It
was easy to paint their winning streak of 13 games as just the
byproduct of a young roster that doesn’t know any better—a team
playing above their potential. However, now that the dust has settled,
you cannot deny that the Blazers beam with a natural chemistry and
desire to win games. Close games. Last-second heroic games. The kind of
games won by elite teams. All the while the legacy of Brandon Roy
continues to grow—and while he won’t take home All-Star honors,
or find his name among the elite of the NBA, he’s single-handily
winning games for this franchise.
Games that I cover, as professional sports journalist.
Join Ezra as he live blogs every Blazer home game. This Friday
Portland plays New York, at 7:30 pm.
blogtown.portlandmercury.com