The Book of Basketball (41 page)

Here’s my problem: if you’re giving the MVP to the fifth-best rebounder in the league and he’s only responsible for 20 points a game (in this case, 14 points and three assists), he’d better be a cross between Russell and Dikembe Mutombo on the defensive end. Poor Unseld was only six foot six and eventually grew a Fletch-like afro to make himself look taller—shades of Tom Cruise wearing sneakers with four-inch lifts—and
it’s not like he was defending the rim and spraying shots everywhere. If anything, his value lay in subtle talents like outlets and picks. Maybe Big Wes was a wonderful role player, the perfect supporting piece for a contender, someone who made his team better (and eventually other teams better when he made a brief run at being the worst GM ever). But he was never a
dominant
player, you know?

No matter. By the holidays, everyone had decided that something special was happening with this Unseld kid; in the simplest terms, he stood out more than everyone else. His outlets were fun, his picks were fun and his rebounding stats were good enough that you could sell him as MVP and not get laughed out of the room. That doesn’t mean he was more valuable than Willis, Billy Cunningham (a 25–13 for a feel-good Sixers team that overachieved), or even a stat-monger like Wilt (21–21 plus shotblocking and 59% shooting). Much like Steve Nash in ’05 and ’06, this was the proverbial “nobody else jumps out, I really like watching this guy … fuck it” vote. You felt good about yourself if you voted for Wes; it meant you knew your hoops and appreciated the little things about basketball. The following year, Unseld had an even better season (16–17 with 52% shooting) for another good Bullets team, only they left him off the ’70 All-Star Team and both All-NBA teams. In fact, he never made a first or second All-NBA team again and only played in four more All-Star Games. You know what that tells me? It tells me that everyone felt like they got a little carried away with the ’69 MVP award—like sending a girl a dozen roses after the first date or something.
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Here’s how the voting went down: Unseld: 310 (53–14–8); Reed: 137 (18–11–14); Cunningham: 130 (15–16–8); Russell: 93 (11–8–22).
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I thought Cunningham earned the MVP and here’s why: even after dumping Wilt to L.A. for 45 cents on the dollar, Philly rallied for 55 wins and second place in a ferociously competitive conference. The key to everything? Cunningham. After rugged rebounder Luke Jackson blew out his
knee in Game 25, Dr. Jack Ramsey’s ’69 Sixers willingly embraced small-ball, moving Cunningham to power forward along with guards Archie Clark, Hal Greer and swingman Chet Walker, pressing all over the court and running as much as they could. Their chances hinged solely on Billy C. playing bigger than his size (six foot six), logging gargantuan minutes (82 games and 3,345 minutes in all) and battling the likes of Elvin Hayes, Jerry Lucas, Gus Johnson, and Dave DeBusschere every night. Not only did he pull it off, he finished third in scoring and tenth in rebounds. In a transitional season devoid of an alpha dog, it remains the league’s single most impressive feat. For whatever reason, everyone was more interested in Wes Unseld’s picks and outlets. My vote goes to Billy C.

Bob McAdoo, 1975

One of the top twenty-five players ever (Rick Barry) peaked during the regular season (31–6–6, league leader in steals and FT%) for a team that finished first in the West, then carried his underdog Warriors over Washington in the Finals with a vintage performance (28–6–6, 50 steals in 17 playoff games). One of the top sixty-five players ever (McAdoo) peaked during that same season (35–14, 52% shooting, 3,539 minutes) for a team that finished third in the East, then lost in the first round in seven games to Washington (whom Golden State eventually swept).
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McAdoo may have been an ahead-of-his-time offensive player enjoying a banner year, but Barry’s passing, unselfishness and overall feel separated him from everyone else. Unfortunately, we were still stuck in the Look, Big Guys Are More Valuable Than Anyone Else and That’s
That
era, a mind-set that wasn’t helped by the lack of titles for Oscar and West in the sixties and never changed until Bird and Magic showed up.

But that’s not what was so galling about this MVP race. Here’s the one time where we can definitively say, “The other players stuck it to Player X.” Check out the top five: McAdoo: 547 (81–38–28); Cowens: 310 (32–42–24); Hayes: 289 (37–26–25); Barry: 254 (16–46–36); Kareem: 161 (13–21–33). So Barry was the league’s best player and proved as much in the playoffs … and he finished
fourth?
What happened? Barry was the Association’s
most despised player, someone who whined about every call, sold out teammates with a variety of eye rolls and “why the hell did you drop that” shrugs and shamelessly postured for a TV career (even moonlighting for CBS). We can’t discount residual bad blood from Barry jumping to the ABA, as well as his reputation for being a gunner and not clicking off the court with black players.
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So what if he turned his career around, became a team captain, led the league in steals and free throw percentage, finished second in points, finished with most assists (492) of any forward ever and led his team in every relevant statistical category except for rebounds? Rick Barry didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with the other players voting. They thought he was a dick. That may have been true, but nobody was more valuable in 1975.

Julius Erving (1981)

This season featured a two-man jog
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between division rivals Erving (25–8–4 for a 62-win Philly team) and Bird (21–11–6 for a 62-win Celtics team that clinched home court by beating Philly in Game 82). Doc became the “sexy” media story that season because Philly blossomed as an unselfish team, so everyone collectively decided at the halfway point, “Okay, this is Doc’s year.” Meanwhile, Bird quietly gained steam as the season went along, putting up a series of 20–20 games (36–21 at Philly, 35–20 in Chicago, 21–20 in Cleveland, 28–20 in New York) during an absurd 25–1 streak before suffering a painful thigh bruise, playing in pain for a month and healing in time for a February West Coast trip in which he tossed up a 23–17–8 with four steals in Seattle, then a 36–21–5 with 5 steals and 3 blocks in Los Angeles less than twenty-four hours later (with an injured Magic watching from the sidelines). By the last month of the season, everyone should have agreed that (a) Bird and Doc were dead even and
(b) the guy whose team clinched home court should get MVP. Didn’t happen. In that eighty-second game in Boston, Bird scored 24 in the victory and was all over the place—5 steals in the first quarter alone—while Erving struggled to tally just 19 points. When the Sixers and Celtics met in the ’81 Eastern Finals, Philly self-destructed with a three-games-to-one lead and Bird banked home the game-winning shot in Game 7. Bird for the series: 27–13–5. Doc for the series: 20–6–4. Two weeks later, the Celtics captured the title in Houston. So much for it being “Doc’s year.”

Does that mean Bird was the league’s best player? Not necessarily. You could make a strong case for Moses, the league’s best center from 1979 through 1983, only Moses was toiling away on a subpar Rockets team that finished 41–41 in 1980 and 40–42 in 1981. (Note: It’s hard to argue anyone was supremely valuable when he couldn’t drag his team over .500, even someone trapped on a bad defensive team with teammates who were either too young, too old or lousy to begin with.)
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So if we’re giving the MVP to someone who wasn’t the alpha dog, then it’d better be a great player having a career year—again, not in play in 1981—which means the time-tested “best guy on the best team” theory comes into play. And that was Bird.

Now, you might be saying, “Screw it, there was no clear-cut MVP that year and everyone knew Bird would get one eventually, so I’m glad Doc got it because he meant a lot to the league.” First of all, you’re a sap for thinking that; we showed Doc how much he meant six years later when he got showered with gifts during his retirement tour. Second, the MVP trophy isn’t a token of our affection—it’s not a diamond ring, a plasma TV or even a cock ring. What is it? An honor that says definitively, “The majority of us agreed that this guy was the most important player of this particular season.” And since that’s the case, everyone screwed up because four months after the ’81 Playoffs ended, Bird graced the cover of
SI
for a feature titled, “The NBA’s Best All-Around Player.” Why didn’t they realize that when he was tossing up 20–20’s? You got me. But if Bird was considered the NBA’s best all-around player during a year without a definitive
MVP and his team won the title, and we gave the award to someone else, then we made a mistake and that’s that.
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Dirk Nowitzki (2007)

An edited-for-space version of what I wrote in my 2007 MVP column after realizing that Nowitzki didn’t qualify under any of my three MVP questions
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but remained the consensus choice:

Statistically, Nowitzki submitted superior seasons in 2005 and 2006, and his 2007 stats ranked behind Larry Bird’s best
nine
seasons, Charles Barkley’s best
10
seasons and Karl Malone’s best
11
seasons. Nowitzki’s shooting percentages were remarkable (50 percent on field goals, 90 percent on free throws, 42 percent on 3-pointers), but his relevant averages (24.6 points, 9.0 rebounds, 3.4 assists) look like a peak season from Tom Chambers. He can’t affect games unless he’s scoring, doesn’t make his teammates better and plays decent defense at best. If you’re giving the MVP to someone because of his offense, he’d better be a killer offensive player. You can’t say that about the 2007 Nowitzki.

The argument
for
the big German is simple: He’s the most reliable crunch-time scorer in the league and the best player on a 66-win team. Of course, when the ’97 Bulls won 69 games, you could have described Jordan the exact same way … and he finished second to Malone. Then again, maybe we should scrap the historical comparisons after Steve Nash’s back-to-back trophies transformed the award into what it is now: a popularity contest. It’s a 900-number and Ryan Seacrest away from becoming a low-key version of
American Idol.
And since people want the big German to win the award this year, he’s going to win it. In the irony of ironies, Nash played his greatest season at a time when everyone took him for granted and paid more attention to Nowitzki…. You could have switched Dirk with Duncan, KG, Bosh, Brand or any other elite forward and the Mavs still would have won 55–65 games. But the 2007 Suns were built like a complicated Italian race car, with specific features tailored to a specific type of driver, and Nash happened to be the only person on the planet who could have driven the car without crashing into a wall. The degree of difficulty was off the charts. So yes, this was my favorite Nash season yet.

Did I vote for him? In a roundabout way, yes—Nash earned my vote for second place (I couldn’t give my MVP vote to a total defensive liability) and the Fans earned MVP because we had endured one of the least entertaining seasons ever. I know, I know, lame.
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But as I wrote in the column, “I wish we handled MVP awards, the Oscars and the Emmys the same way—if there’s no deserving candidate in a given year, let’s roll the award over to the following year and make it worth two awards, kinda like how golfers roll over a tie in a skins match and count the next hole for twice as much. I never understood the concept of dispensing awards out of obligation over anything else. An award should be earned, not handed out.”

You have to admit it’s a fantastic idea. At the very least, every MVP ballot should include another choice: “This year sucked; I refuse to make a first-place vote. Please make my vote next year worth two.” Anyway, you know how the Dirk debacle turned out: Golden State shocked Dallas in one of the biggest NBA upsets ever, although it stopped being so unrealistic right as the Warriors were butchering the Mavs in Game 3 in front of a frenzied G-State crowd. Here’s what I wrote between Games 4 and 5, when it became apparent that so many had made such an enormous mistake vouching for the MVP-ness of Mr. Nowitzki:

We’re headed for the most awkward moment in NBA history within the next 10 days. Here’s how it will play out:

(We see Jim Gray, David Stern and Dirk Nowitzki standing awkwardly in front of a single camera at halftime of a Round 2 playoff game.)

GRAY: Now to present the 2006–7 Most Valuable Player Award, NBA commissioner David Stern.

STERN: Leave. Now.

(Gray slinks off.)

STERN: Well, Dirk, maybe the playoffs didn’t turn out the way you planned, but for 82 meaningless games during one of the worst seasons of my 23-year tenure, you were the best player in a terrible league. Unfortunately, voting for the award happens right after the regular season, so voters weren’t able to factor in your complete meltdown in Round 1 against Golden State. You didn’t just fail to step up like an MVP should, you whined and complained the entire series, disgraced your teammates and embarrassed your fans. Not since David Hasselhoff has America been so embarrassed by someone with a German-sounding name. I don’t know whether to hand you this trophy or smash it over your head. Lucky for you, this is being televised, so I can only hand you the trophy and congratulate you on the 2006–7 Most Valuable Player Award. I’m going to leave now so I can throw up.