OK, let’s all just get together and agree on this, so we don’t have to unduly pick on the guy: Eli Manning isn’t any good. Like, at all. Obviously, his last name has offered him “potential” status long past the expiration date, but we think all of us, along with Eli himself, would be a lot happier if all just accepted Eli’s lousiness and moved along. He’d finally be able to move ahead with his squash career.
For all the talk of Manning’s supposed “turnaround” season, his numbers are actually quite atrocious. He’s 24th out of 25 quarterbacks in efficiency rating, he’s first in interceptions and his overall stats are actually worse than they’ve been the last couple of years. Sure, last week was a particularly high-profile meltdown, but this is going to get worse before it gets better.
Giants fans are understandably worried that the kid might be overpaid. But because Eli Manning is the son of one legendary quarterback and the brother of another, the question they want to ask is more personal than usual. Yeah, he had a great college career, but did this kid get here on his own merits, or is he the N.F.L.’s first legacy admission? Did Ernie Accorsi — who was sitting up there in his glass box at Giants Stadium, tense as a snare drum, not wanting to speak to anyone — see something others missed? Or did he just commit the biggest blunder in the history of the N.F.L. draft?
The Giants players pretend that nothing special is happening, but they fool no one. If Eli Manning is a bust, their team is in trouble, for many years. Ernie Accorsi is in trouble. Tom Coughlin is in trouble. A lot of careers are suddenly on the line.
Every two weeks, the gents at Free Darko will be taking a look at the deranged ecosystem that is the National Basketball Association in their own indelible fashion. Here’s this week’s entry, from Dr. Lawyer IndianChief.
We at FREEDARKO have often championed the NBA as a League of Stars, one that exhales the breath of Iverson, one that stomps with the tree-trunked quadriceps of Tim Duncan. In the age of fantasy sports, each morning the nation’s groggy eyes whiz past boxscore outcomes to check who put down 30, who grabbed 15, and who dished out 10. When Commissioner David Stern boasts of taking the league from the days when the NBA finals were shown on taped delay, to a successful televisable commodity, he should thank Larry, Michael, and Magic. When he talks about the success of the league’s expansion into markets such as Toronto, New Orleans, and Florida, he should thank Vince Carter, Chris Paul, and Shaquille O’Neal. When he speaks of world domination, he should place his palm in the sickle and hammer-wielding hands of Yao Ming to say, “You have done so much for so many.”
The NBA as it currently exists is the direct offspring of MJ and AI, one that markets and emphasizes outstanding individual performers to the point that every silver-haired analyst in the country becomes purple-faced in preaching a right-way/team-first approach to counteract the supposed evils of this 21st century game. We tend to ridicule these fogeyfied former players and coaches in the same manner that the mohawked 14-year-old smirks at the drooling elder who screams at nobody in particular to turn down the Melt Banana. Yet this year, I may have to side with the silver-haired; not for their advocacy of right-way basketball, but because of their disdain for individual superstar. Yes, this is the year I must admit that stars are in fact killing the league that we clutch so preciously.
Kobe Bryant, Kevin Garnett, LeBron James, Shaquille O’Neal and Dwyane Wade are at the root of this league’s doldrums, yet it is not necessarily their doing. That is, the expectations of what a star deserves and what a star must be — that stars are to win championships, be serviced by ideal role-players, play in densely populated markets, and serve as spokespeople (not ambassadors) for the NBA — that has brought about the current dreadful state of things. It is time to realize that the faux importance granted to superstars is no longer warranted. Many stars don’t make the all-star team — Michael Redd, Carmelo Anthony and Elton Brand have all been snubbed in recent years — and even more fail to make the NBA playoffs. It is also time to realize that, for stars, Larry O’Brien trophies, playing in American metropoli, and cultivating a supporting cast are things that must be earned. Case by case, I shall go through the prime suspects to detail how they have adversely precipitated shit upon the NBA universe.
Kobe Bryant. It isn’t enough that Kobe sent one franchise into disarray; he had to discombobulate the Bulls as well, and to a lesser degree any team (e.g. Houston) with an ounce of interest in Kobesmith Black Mambazo. Sure, things seem to be going fine in LA, yet the Lakers’ record may not reflect the internal turmoil and hurt feelings amongst players like Andrew Bynum and forgotten co-star Lamar Odom. With regard to Chicago (who, via GM John Paxson, has tried admirably to diffuse the K8 situation), I attended Toronto’s 30-point shredding of the Bulls as the crowd chanted “Kobe! Kobe! Kobe!” and I can assure you that those chants aren’t lost on young fragile players or on coach Scott Skiles. Of course, Kobe’s story is really no different from that of any other disgruntled superstar asking out (see Vince Carter, Allen Iverson), yet the ripples his trade requests sent throughout the league were far more seismic.
Now, let’s take Kobe’s ostensible foil, Kevin Garnett. Garnett never uttered the exact words “I want out” to the Minnesota brass, but he certainly moped his way out of a town that put their faith in an unproven high-schooler and paid him record-breakingly large piles of money. Garnett’s departure to Boston may benefit the league in a number of respects (making the Eastern Conference competitive, reviving a storied franchise); and in fact it is the prospect of Boston’s tenacious three winning a championship that constitutes the only hope of stars reclaiming the league — if Pierce, KG, and Ray Ray triumph, sweet 1980s-caliber star-oriented order will be restored to The Association. Nevertheless, the whole exhausting process of KG departing set a standard for future handling of the “beleaguered superstar.” Evidently, such a figure should be pitied for never winning a ring and nursed back to health when paired with substandard teammates. From Bill Simmons to Barkley, from Skip Bayless to Stephen A. Smith, members of the media and a unified public practically airlifted KG out of Minnesota and treated him like a recovering tsunami victim upon his arrival to Boston. Let’s just see what happens LeBron starts to mumble in a year or two…
Which brings me to the next culprit, LBJames. What I am watching happen to the Cavs right now is scarily similar to the KG situation, except LeBron hasn’t even made a full declaration that he always wants to play with the team that drafted him (like KG did). LeBron’s smooth contract maneuvering, his robotic responses toward every question about his future, and his seeming numbness toward most of the Cavs’ post-Boozer transactions should scare the life out of any self-respecting Cleveland resident.
LeBron’s silhouette started looming over the league a couple years ago, when NBA-pundits were begging and prodding Michael Redd to ditch his faithful Bucks to sign with the Cavs and be LeBron’s hypeman. Since losing Carlos Boozer and failing to sign Redd, Cleveland has made a series of questionable front office moves that didn’t seem to faze LeBron much last year … but give him time. People are so concerned with LeBron’s daily mood that certain Cleveland contract hold-ups have already generated a barrage of “OH MY GOD HOW COULD THE CAVS NOT THROW MILLIONS AWAY TO SASHA PAVLOVIC AND ANDERSON VAREJAO” stories. As good as LeBron has been playing, it’s almost as though he is preemptively sticking it to the Cavs to say, “Man, you guys sure would love to see 30 and 12 and 12 for the next ten years wouldn’t you … Wouldn’t you?”
And then there is the uproariously perplexing tale of Dwyane Wade and Shaq down in South Beach, where the Heat’s performance has been so poor, they have managed, after a mere handful of games, to rile the ever-so-cool Pat Riley. Every time Riles opens his mouth to spit venom, he appears to be saying, “I can’t understand how our team sucks so badly? We have Shaquille O’Neal and Dwyane f**king Wade?!” Those superstars will set you up for disappointment every time.
So what is to be done about this toppling league of stars? How to construct the ideal team to restore enthusiasm for the NBA and well-being for teams around the league?
I say we look to last year’s Golden State Warriors, the most enjoyable team in NBA history, who constructed a team not of stars, but of a constellation. The new formula for NBA team-building to reassure sportsfans everywhere that this is the greatest league in all of sports is to follow the lead of Nellie and Mully down by The Bay. Basically, stack your team full of seven or eight different guys that would be able to average 20 points per game if they played on the Atlanta Hawks, roll the basketball out on the court and let the TNT explode. Distribute stardom equally; Matt Barnes is just as star-worthy as Mickael Pietrus, and maybe even both are as star-worthy as five-star general Baron Davis. Until this more democratic system is instituted, stars will rule the league in an irresponsible and dictatorial fashion. This is no longer a league sheriff a la Michael Jordan or Shaq-in-his-prime to regulate alpha-dogs when their aspirations or demands become too lofty. This is a lawless land, and to restore order we must invoke further disorder, pitting the Delfinos versus the Barbosas and letting the madness ensue.
For years — OK, a couple of days — Slate writer Robert Weintraub has been tinkering with a concept called The SSW, short for “The Sean Salisbury Wisdom,” which tracks the consensus of the football punditocracy to ensure those triumphant declarations from Friday aren’t flushed down the memory hole on Monday. Here’s this week’s SSW.
PREVIOUS SSW
Record-setting 24 point line not nearly high enough–get those bets down on the Pats, the only sure thing in gambling.
NEW SSW
Once again, a nation is bamboozled by A.J. Feeley. First came the news he was dating soccer hottie Heather Mitts, now he almost pulls off an all-time upset. Up until that idiotic last decision, he was in full-blown QB controversy land.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S LESS
Not buying into the “blueprint” talk–something tells me they will fall out of Greg’s bag before he can deliver them to Mr. Brady’s client. Still, the last time architects featured prominently in NFL analysis, it was after the Chargers supposedly showed everybody how to beat the unbeatable Colts in ‘05. Sure enough, Bill Cowher, Ben Roethlisberger, and Art Vandelay followed the instructions and whipped them in the playoffs. Not seeing it this time around, however, although hope springs eternal.
PREVIOUS SSW
The Vikings without Adrian Peterson are like the Beatles without Stu Sutcliffe–addition by subtraction.
NEW SSW
Looks like Mort was right back when he said Eli would miss a month with the bad shoulder–unfortunately for the Giants, he stubbornly insists on playing the games.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S LESS
Even worse for Eli, Ole Miss, where he hid comfortably in the old man’s shadow for four years, blew a 14-0 lead in the 4th quarter and choked the Egg Bowl to arch-rival Mississippi State. The Bulldogs QB, Brent Schaefer, is stunningly reminiscent of Tarvaris Jackson as well.
PREVIOUS SSW
Steroids didn’t make Todd Sauerbrun a macho punter. But defying logic and kicking to Hester will make the ladies take notice.
NEW SSW
Kick returners have become more reliable game breakers than injury-plagued quarterbacks and interchangeable running backs.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S LESS
The Chicago-Denver thriller perfectly encapsulates why the NFL is a dictatorship in modern sports–a meaningless game in the big picture, but one filled with big plays, enough drama to give Morbidly Obese Bill Conlin a coronary, played in the Windy City gloaming, before passionate fans, involving teams with basic dark blue and white unis, that totally popped off the TV screen. Sure the Super Bowl sucks every year, but games like these keep us riveted.
PREVIOUS SSW
Redskins beat the bad teams (Miami, Jets), lose to the good teams (Pats, Dallas). Team unsure how to prepare for Bucs, as they fall into neither category.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S LESS
Tampa had zero first downs in the second half, and gave up 300 yards. And still pulled it out. I know the sharp guys on my teevee keep telling us Jason Campbell is going to be A Great One, but to me he’s a more athletic Jon Kitna, without the Holy Water. Kitna too can pile up some numbers, but can be counted on to make the killer turnover when you least need it. JC is showing the same disturbing tendency.
PREVIOUS SSW
Genius doesn’t work according to your puny mortal “schedules”–if it takes half the season for the Jets to start to dazzle, then that’s how it is. Don’t rush Eric, he’s being brilliant!
NEW SSW
Suddenly, Rich Kotite is looking pretty good in retrospect.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S LESS
Even vegetarians fell asleep watching the Jets on Tryptophan Day. Had this one been on NFL Network, Rich Eisen would have murdered Deion by halftime.
PREVIOUS SSW
Ricky’s back! The 1976 Bucs should ready to crack their annual celebratory Everclear for when the last 0-fer team gets a W.
NEW SSW
How come a guy so find of the sticky stuff fumbles so often?
BUT WAIT, THERE’S LESS
Can Pittsburgh be traumatized by a hellacious beating the Patriots haven’t even administered yet? Whither the Steelers’ once formidable offensive line? Big Ben is getting his appendix beaten out of him back there. Meanwhile, mushy field reminiscent of ‘82 AFC title game, when Don “Asterisk” Shula purposely left tarp off Orange Bowl field so resulting quagmire would slow speedy Jets. A.J. Duhe, where are you?
How close we were last night to a 0-0 tie on “Monday Night Football.” That’s one that would have gone down in history; we’d certainly remember a soccer result more than we’d remember a dull, sloppy, soaked morass. All that was missing last night was fog.
Actually, for a 3-0 game, there was some enjoyable moments, not least of which was the return of Ricky Williams, who ran for 15 yards — there were no yardlines, so that number’s pretty much a guess — on six carries before getting hurt, of course. (Football is somewhat rougher than yoga, apparently.) The highlight might have been Joey Porter intercepting a pass and then taunting his former Steelers teammates. We think that Joey Porter’s career could not wrap up in any more fitting a fashion than on a winless team, with Joey still jumping around and barking.
Sometimes we think football would be more fun if every field were just soaked and muddy. Especially domed games. Everyone would be so confused.
After struggling all day yesterday, Redskins safety Sean Taylor died this morning from his wounds after a shooting in his home Monday.
Taylor “did not make it through the night;” his femoral artery had been severed, and the bleeding “could not be stopped, just curbed.” Michael Wilbon wrote yesterday that, “Taylor grew up in a violent world, embraced it, claimed it, loved to run in it and refused to divorce himself from it. He ain’t the first and won’t be the last.” He was shot after leaving the bed of his fiancee with his 18-month-old daughter just down the hall.
Hooray! Sensible World of Soccer is coming to Xbox Live next month and — wait a second, is that what it really looks like? Yes, we’re afraid. It is. Despite that, the game’s cult following can look forward to playing the game in the very near future: Dec. 19, to be exact.
Speaking as Americans who barely even understand soccer, let alone a whole video game devoted to soccer, we can’t really tell you why some people are so excited about the game, or why it’s one of the most important of all time, according to Chris Grant and his band of old guys. We’ll leave that job to the onslaught of European commenters we assume have already started drafting their exceptionally terse response.
Despite expectations to the contrary, the original NBA Ballers was actually a fairly decent arcade-style basketball game, provided you could get beyond all the ridiculous ‘bling’ and ’street cred’ nonsense and just play ball. The sequel, on the other hand, plastered on an extra layer of stupid with a paper-thin story mode and more attitude than gameplay. So when Midway announced this morning plans to bring the series to the Xbox 360 and PS3 with NBA Ballers: Chosen One, we were understandably conflicted. However, the company’s promise of a return to the series’ one-on-one and two-on-two roots with no mention of story or street cred gives us reason enough to be less apathetic than we might be otherwise.
According to the publisher, nestled among the game’s new shinier graphics, which Midway boasts as offering “the most true-to-life athlete likenesses seen in a sports video game,” will also be new competitive combo and super-move systems that we expect to check realism at the door. In addition, this third game in the series will also include more than 65 selectable NBA players, as they compete to become “The Chosen One,” which we’re pretty certain is street lingo for some kind of religious awakening. NBA Ballers: Chosen One is expected to shoot for the net from mid-court next spring.
We are set up, once again, for a dreadful Monday Night Football game, but at least there’s some history on the line: We’d love to see Steve Spurrier and the 1976 Buccaneers on the sideline, cheering for the Dolphins so that they can all have their yearly Miller High Life celebration once the last winless team finally succeeds.
It seems unlikely it’ll happen this week; maybe the Dolphins should play the freaking Buzzsaw. The Steelers should have themselves some fun tonight, though it’ll be amusing to hear Kornheiser attempt to come up with John Beck jokes. So, you know, enjoy, if you can: If only this were the game on the NFL network.
OK, let’s all just get together and agree on this, so we don’t have to unduly pick on the guy: Eli Manning isn’t any good. Like, at all. Obviously, his last name has offered him “potential” status long past the expiration date, but we think all of us, along with Eli himself, would be a lot happier if all just accepted Eli’s lousiness and moved along. He’d finally be able to move ahead with his squash career.
Every two weeks, the gents at 
For years — OK, a couple of days — 
How close we were last night to a 0-0 tie on “Monday Night Football.” That’s one that would have gone down in history; we’d certainly remember a soccer result more than we’d remember a dull, sloppy, soaked morass. All that was missing last night was fog.
