They're Calling My Flight
It's standard procedure after road games, particularly the losses. Jerry Sloan answers questions for reporters, and while the Jazz writers know not to bother asking about injuries, or travel problems, or a rough schedule, some local guy inevitably will. And it always produces the identical, sometimes annoyed, response: It had no effect. It made no difference. Anyone who blames our play on factors other than what happened on the floor will never be a winner.
I understand his philosophy, especially with a team that is still as young as these Jazz are. Let people make excuses for losing, and it becomes a habit. And pretty soon, losing does, too.
But that doesn't mean we have to believe the answer. As much as Sloan would hate for any of his players to admit it, last week's road trip was brutal. I never have understood why the NBA allows its world-class product to be so diluted with a schedule like that one -- four games in five nights, all in different cities, with the team continually going from the arena to the airport for some post-midnight travel. (OK, I really do understand it -- the more games, the more revenue.) The fans who pay to watch these guys at the top of their games, to watch competitive, fair matchups get cheated.
Sloan allowed no discussion of his team's energy level Saturday night, but anyone who witnessed the game knows what a factor it was. By the fourth quarter, Mehmet Okur could hardly raise his arms. Deron Williams' shot began falling short. And it's no wonder the Cavs' fast break was producing highlight dunks.
Thanks to a series of storms on the East Coast (and I've never seen an ice storm last so long as in Philadelphia on Friday, nor an airport in as much turmoil as Philadelphia on Saturday morning), my trip last week included three flights delayed 90 minutes or more; two flights cancelled outright; a missed connection that forced me to spend an unscheduled night in Atlanta, then catch a flight out before sunrise the next morning; and a last-ditch, no-other-way seven-hour drive across Pennsylvania in order to make the game in Cleveland shortly after tipoff. Oh, and there was work to be done, a game to cover, nearly every night. (I have a rule against complaining in print about my job, but hey, what's a blog for, anyway?)
The point is, I'm exhausted -- and I don't run up and down the court for a living, or try to guard LeBron James on anything but Xbox. How can these guys, even in the shape they're in, even with charter flights and luxury hotels, not feel the weariness of continual travel? The Jazz went 0-4 last week, that's right. Don't tell their coach, but it wasn't all basketball.
-- Phil Miller, at an airport somewhere
I understand his philosophy, especially with a team that is still as young as these Jazz are. Let people make excuses for losing, and it becomes a habit. And pretty soon, losing does, too.
But that doesn't mean we have to believe the answer. As much as Sloan would hate for any of his players to admit it, last week's road trip was brutal. I never have understood why the NBA allows its world-class product to be so diluted with a schedule like that one -- four games in five nights, all in different cities, with the team continually going from the arena to the airport for some post-midnight travel. (OK, I really do understand it -- the more games, the more revenue.) The fans who pay to watch these guys at the top of their games, to watch competitive, fair matchups get cheated.
Sloan allowed no discussion of his team's energy level Saturday night, but anyone who witnessed the game knows what a factor it was. By the fourth quarter, Mehmet Okur could hardly raise his arms. Deron Williams' shot began falling short. And it's no wonder the Cavs' fast break was producing highlight dunks.
Thanks to a series of storms on the East Coast (and I've never seen an ice storm last so long as in Philadelphia on Friday, nor an airport in as much turmoil as Philadelphia on Saturday morning), my trip last week included three flights delayed 90 minutes or more; two flights cancelled outright; a missed connection that forced me to spend an unscheduled night in Atlanta, then catch a flight out before sunrise the next morning; and a last-ditch, no-other-way seven-hour drive across Pennsylvania in order to make the game in Cleveland shortly after tipoff. Oh, and there was work to be done, a game to cover, nearly every night. (I have a rule against complaining in print about my job, but hey, what's a blog for, anyway?)
The point is, I'm exhausted -- and I don't run up and down the court for a living, or try to guard LeBron James on anything but Xbox. How can these guys, even in the shape they're in, even with charter flights and luxury hotels, not feel the weariness of continual travel? The Jazz went 0-4 last week, that's right. Don't tell their coach, but it wasn't all basketball.
-- Phil Miller, at an airport somewhere
3:36 PM
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