Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Tick tick tick.

Now on the clock -- the NBA players.

Well it’s not quite a clock.

It’s more like a ticking time bomb.

The owners have given the players until Wednesday to accept the latest offer they scribbled on the bargaining table.

And if not.

The NBA will blow up.

Now these players are used to making pressure decisions in 24 seconds.

Or less.

But if they miss this shot, the Association will fadeaway faster than a Kobe Bryant jumper.

Midnight will strike.

And the NBA will explode.

Implode.

Whatever.

At this point, the damage that both sides have done to this once great league is immeasurable.

Immeasurable for now.

When they finally do agree, it is going to be a long road to recovery.

How long?

We’ll find out Wednesday.

The bottom line is that none of us can relate to what these guys are bitching about.

NONE of us.

The debate seems to center around something called BRI.

Basketball Related Income.

What’s that you say?

Let me catch you up.

The players used to get 57% of the BRI.  

The owners said, WHOA... that’s too much.

So they offered 47%.  

The players said, WHOA... that’s too little.

Enter Newton's Cradle.

53.. no 48... 52... no 49... 

Now it’s 49 with a chance to go to 51. 

You lost me at hello.

For the last few weeks, they’ve been bickering over 1%.

ONE PERCENT!

Now in this case, 1% is still a ton of cash.

But enough already.

I couldn’t figure out a sudoku puzzle if you gave me a month.

But give me 10 minutes with these idiots and we’ll have a deal done.

15 minutes if we order chinese food.

Honestly, I don’t get it.

The bottom line is the NBA brings in a lot of money.

And as long as these games keep getting cancelled.

Nobody gets nothin’.

Times are tough these days.

Everywhere.

The OUT OF BUSINESS sign.

Has replaced the OPEN sign.

On way too many storefronts.

And there’s no reason to believe that’s going to change anytime soon.

Businesses are cutting back like Barry Sanders.

And those are the ones trying to stay open.

But the NBA has nothing in common with Joe’s Shoe Repair.

Or Borders bookstore.

Or Blockbuster Video.

Yet.

They are still sitting on a goldmine.

Still.

Last year, the league brought in a record 4.3 billion dollars in net revenue.

That’s billion with a B.

63 players earned 10 million dollars or more last year.

140 players earned 5 million or more last year.

336 players earned a million or more last year.

That’s enough for nearly 34 different 5x5 pickup games.

Between millionaires.

Armani Shirts vs Lamb Skins.

According to the NBA, five million dollars was the average salary in the league last year.

The average.

Per year.

Guaranteed.

That’s one Dr. Evil for every finger.

On your right hand.

And five dozen guys made enough to take care of the left too.

Of course some of the bottom feeders aren’t making nearly that much.

In fact, the minimum salary is not even 10% of the average.

Last year the minimum salary in the NBA was a measly $473,604.

That’s right.

Can you imagine -- the benchiest of bench warmers made “just” $473k last year.

How do you feel about this lockout now?

The owners say that 22 of the 30 teams have been losing money.

Duh!

Throwing around cash like that, it’s no surprise.

That’s why they said that something had to change.

No surprise there either.

Personally, I have chosen to believe that the NBA owners are telling the truth about their bad financial situation.

Even if they are the ones to blame.

Exhibit A, B, C, D & E.

July 8, 2010 -- just one year ago.

The Atlanta Hawks resigned free agent Joe Johnson to a six-year deal.

A six-year deal worth $119 million dollars.

Guaranteed!

And if the Hawks didn’t sign him, a dozen other teams probably would have.

Johnson is no ordinary Joe when it comes to playing the game of basketball.

But when it comes to playing in the NBA, he is nothing special.

In the six years he has played in Atlanta.

He has never made it to the NBA finals.

In fact, he’s never led the Hawks to the conference finals.

But he does have a 500-square foot shoe closet.

Really.

Hey you gotta spend that money on something.

The bottom line here is a whole bunch of rich people have a chance to stay rich if they just check their egos at the door.

And get a deal done.

Saturday night we turned our clocks back.

But that extra hour of negotiating really didn’t help.

At the end of the latest bargaining session -- BS for short.

1:45am ET.

NBA Commissioner David Stern said to the players, this is our offer.

You have until Wednesday to take it.

But if you leave it.

The next offer will by yuckier.

Guaranteed.

Imagine that -- the NBA Commissioner used the word “yuckier”.

Now if you don’t care about the NBA.

You probably don’t care if they ever kiss and make up.

And you definitely don’t care about this blog.

But I do.

I love the NBA.

Well, I love the game of basketball.

It is this BS game of millionaires whining over who gets the bigger car that I could do without.

Make the right call.

And sign on the dotted line.

Both of you.

Tick tick tick.

Tattoo You

I’d love to be a fly on the Great Wall when the two new Chinese imports arrive.

Those imports are J.R. Smith and Wilson Chandler.

And they are American basketball players.

Pretty good American basketball players.

But with the NBA currently locked out, Smith and Chandler are moving east for next season.

FAR east.

They have both signed to play in the Chinese Basketball Association.

And under their agreements, they won’t be able to come back to the NBA until the end of the Chinese basketball season.

Which ends in March.

Now if you look at their numbers, these guys are fairly impressive.

Smith has hit over 900 3-pointers in his seven NBA seasons.

While Chandler has averaged nearly 14 points per game in his four years in the league.

But take a closer look.

And I’m not sure you could pick two more unlikely guys to play under the roof of the Communist Party.

Let’s face it, it’s their skin color.

No, not because they are black.

Thanks to an unreliable source on the internet, I found that just 0.7 percent of the Chinese population is black.

Out of a billion plus.

But it is not the color of their skin that makes them unique in China.

It’s the color in their skin.

As in body ink.

Tattoos.

Perhaps the only category that Chandler or Smith will ever lead the NBA in is number of tats.

These two guys -- former teammates in Denver -- are covered in tattoos.

And when I say covered, I mean COVERED.

Head to toe.

J.R. Smith

Wilson Chandler

Now personally, I find tattoos disgusting.

Ok, a little one here or there and I guess I’m fine.

But when you get into the neck.

YUCK!

Call me ancient.

Call me out of touch.

Call me anything you want.

But it is gross.

Of course all it takes is a trip to the local amusement park to realize that I am in the minority.

Tattoos have taken over the world.

Or at least this country.

And it’s not just the bikers.

Or the hoodlums.

Or the gang members.

Or however you want to label it.

It’s the school teachers.

And the soccer moms.

And the adult entertainers.

Talk about a buzz kill.

But this epidemic has reached the youth.

When I was growing up kids wanted to be like Mike.

Now they want to be like J.R. or Wilson.

Many kids are getting tattoos before they get their high school diploma.

And their parents can’t do much, but sit and watch.

And in some cases, pay for it.

That’s what happened to my friend.

Well sorta.

You see, a few years ago he got himself a really messy divorce.

REALLY messy.

He and his ex have two kids.

The 14-year-old girl lives with her.

The 16-year-old boy lives with him.

And they live a thousand miles from each other.

1125 to be exact.

A few weeks ago the mom showed up at the dad’s house to pay a surprise visit.

Only the dad was on a business trip.

SURPRISE!

While he was gone, she got to spend some quality 1-on-1 time with her son.

I’m not sure of the exact itinerary, but one stop on their reunion tour included a trip to the local tattoo parlor.

As a present, the mom bought her son the gift that keeps on giving.

A three-inch Boston Red Sox “B”.

On his left shoulder.

The teenage boy -- a minor I may add -- wanted to be like all his buddies at school who have tattoos.

But his dad wouldn’t allow it.

In fact, the dad made a point to tell his crazy ex a few weeks earlier that even though the boy wanted some ink.

He did not approve.

Not to mention he is Jewish -- and in Judaism tattoos are not permitted.

So he asked that she not do it.

And that’s probably what sparked the surprise visit.

When my friend shared this news with me the other day, I was disgusted.

Not because it was a Red Sox tattoo.

But because it was a tattoo at all.

On a 16-year-old boy.

Sure, mom-bership has some privileges.

But this isn’t it.

Knowing what I know about this story -- even though I can’t share.

Let’s just say she’d already done enough to scar this young boy for life.

She didn’t need to add ink to the fire.

But this kid used the oldest trick in the book to get his way.

If dad won’t let you do it.

Ask mom.

And unfortunately mom bit the hook.

Leaving this boy with a mark.

For the rest of his life.

Strike... and Yer Out

I LOVE THE NBA!

I have been a basketball fan three days short of forever.

I’ve been in the same NBA Fantasy League since 1993.

My son shares the same birthday as Michael Jordan.

I was the ball boy underneath the basket for Magic Johnson’s first game in the NBA.

A game which ended when Magic’s teammate, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, hit an 18-foot sky hook at the buzzer.

A sky hook that beat us by a point.

I’m old enough to remember watching Moses.

Malone.

And Dr. J.

In person.

And the Jordan before Jordan.

George Gervin.

(Best Nike Poster EVER by the way.)

Lloyd Free gave me a new name before he changed his.

To World B. Free.

He called me “Stove.”

I thought it was because I had a pot belly as a teenager.

He said it was because I was warm on the inside.

Loved that guy!

Now before I cut a tire on Memory Lane.

Let me say that I still the love the game today.

At times, it may be too much me me me.

But it is still a great game.

I just hope we don’t start saying it “was” a great game.

There’s a good chance by the time you read this, the NBA will be on full lockdown.

Lockout.

Whatever.

Honestly I don’t care if you call it a strike.

A work stoppage.

I call it bad news.

And if the reports are even close to true, this bad news might be with us for a while.

I haven’t watched a full NHL hockey game for probably five years.

Really.

I used to be the biggest fan.

THE biggest.

In the late 80’s, I fell in love.

With the Quebec Nordiques.

I watched every game.

On the satellite dish.

Even though I lived in Los Angeles.

I made several trips to Le Colisee to watch my Nords.

And eat Pomme Frites.

Even though they were gross.

I read the French newspapers.

Even though I don’t speak French.

I bought a Joe Sakic jersey.

Rooted for Mats Sundin.

And Owen Nolan

And Tony Twist.

And Ron Tugnutt.

I loved them all.

I couldn’t wait for the day that the Nordiques franchise would finally bring home the Stanley Cup.

That day finally came in 1996.

One year after the team moved to Colorado.

And the great people of Quebec City got nothing.

I don’t really care why the team moved.

Greed.

Money.

Owner.

Player.

Whatever.

The bottom line is they moved.

And us diehard fans just died.

In 1994, Major League Baseball went on strike.

Eliminated the World Series.

I still can’t say that out loud without spitting.

Major League Baseball eliminated the World Series.

Poof.

Gone.

Wow!

That same month, the genius NHL went on strike.

Lockout.

Whatever.

They ended up missing 104 days.

The 1994 season didn’t start until 1995.

The NHL, the ugly step sister of all the “major” sports, had a chance to show off.

While big brother baseball was in a time out.

Instead, the NHL decided to sit in the corner.

And pout.

I said it then and I say it now.

That was the death of the NHL.

Of course it didn’t help that another lockout put the entire season on ice in 2004.

No games.

Believe it or not, if you put a loaded gun to your head and keep pulling the trigger.

You will eventually kill yourself. 

The NBA’s pistol is loaded.

And this one’s not named Maravich.

The NBA somehow survived a work stoppage in 1998.

Starting that season in 1999.

I’m not sure it can live through another triple bypass.

With nearly ten percent of this country without a job, it’s pretty near impossible to have sympathy for these devils.

The average unemployment check is $293 per week.

The average NBA salary is $92,199 per week.

I’ve heard that something like two thirds of the teams in the NBA are losing money.

And I actually believe it.

At the end of the day, I’m probably an owners guy.

And I do understand why these multi-millionaire owners don’t want to keep losing multi-millions of dollars.

And I do understand why these multi-millionaire players don’t want to give up their multi-millions of dollars.

But here’s my one fan's opinion.

Figure it out.

Period.

Order some Gourmet Chinese Food.

Lock yourself in the Ritz-Carlton.

And figure it out.

If you don't.  

We will.