You Herd Me!: I'll Say It If Nobody Else Will (20 page)

If you hear hoofbeats behind you, think horses, not zebras.

49ers quarterback—and the face of the franchise—Colin Kaepernick wears a Miami Dolphins hat in public. It goes viral on Twitter and he predictably gets flack from some fans in San Francisco. Of course he would. To make it worse, he tells fans to get a life. You must be bored, he says.

It’s just a hat, right? No big deal, right? Kaepernick still loves the 49ers, right?

Let me ask you this: You okay with your wife having her ex-boyfriend’s name and face tattooed on her? It’s just a tat, right? It’s just ink, right? She still loves you, right?

There are these things called boundaries, and in this case the fans are right. They have a right to be ticked off. Kaepernick crossed a loyalty boundary.

Do you think it’s cool for the president of Six Flags to wear Disney gear in public? If you ran Fox Sports, would you be happy with your employees wearing ESPN gear in public? I can hear you now—“Come on, Colin, those are rivals.” Well, there are only thirty-two NFL teams, all vying for the same top free agents, coaches, scouts, and administrators. You don’t have to be in somebody’s division to be a rival.

You don’t think Cowboys owner Jerry Jones views the Pittsburgh Steelers and New England Patriots, both in the AFC, as rivals? It’s all market share, and Jones wants more of it.

Maybe the younger generation has grown up with fewer boundaries, and this is a blind spot. At some point in everyone’s life, though, boundaries are needed.

Think about how we raise our kids. We set up boundaries for them constantly. We tell our children “Don’t talk to strangers.” Or “Never get into a car at school unless it’s with Mom or Dad.” Those aren’t laws, just boundaries we set for safety.

Everyone’s favorite athlete, Michael Jordan, was the all-time boundary-setter. The way MJ sees it, you are with him or against him. Remember during the Dream Team Olympics, after winning gold, he draped a flag over the Reebok logo to cover it. Why? He was a Nike guy. A loyalty boundary had been set.

Call me a shill. Call me a company man. I just believe I owe my employer and fellow employees some public loyalty. At least while we’re in the trenches together.

Conspiracy theories are the best. Every major event seems to spawn a million nonofficial versions assembled from little bits and pieces of evidence that always add up to a cover-up or a huge lie. I’m fascinated by the theories and theorists—even when I know they’re completely, outrageously out of their minds.

Why are these theories so damned fascinating? Simple: even the most implausible theory seems to carry enough truth to create doubt. One piece of information leads to another and pretty soon enough dots are connected to make even the most outlandish theory seem possible. The sadly delusional 9/11 Truthers, the believers in the Roswell alien invasion—they all manage to stumble upon something that leads to something bigger. By the time I walked out of the theater after seeing
JFK
, Oliver Stone almost had me buying into the Magic Bullet theory.

Sports haven’t been spared the conspiracy bug. Conspiracy Guy in sports has been hanging around the fringes for years, picking up just enough credibility and followers to keep the conversation flowing. As a radio host, I find him annoying and tedious, someone who refuses to accept reason, and I feel I’m in a unique position to put my three most favorite conspiracy theories to bed.

It’s the least I can do for America.

Conspiracy theorists in this country have their favorites: the UFOs of Roswell, New Mexico; the JFK assassination; Obama’s birth certificate. What follows are my sports versions, the Mount Rushmore of sports conspiracy theories, fueled by irrational fandom and a willful adherence to cynicism over common sense.

This is my favorite. I love this one.

It goes like this: before the 1985 NBA draft, commissioner David Stern had the Knicks’ lottery envelope frozen so he could feel it in the tumbler and pull it out only for the No. 1 pick, which would give New York the rights to draft Georgetown center Patrick Ewing, by far the best player in the draft.

The idea behind this theory—the kernel of “truth” that sprouts all the wild tendrils—is the age-old belief that sports leagues want big-market teams, especially New York teams, to be successful. A successful New York team, the theory goes, makes for a successful and profitable league.

This fails to address a central question: If the league wanted to ensure major-market superiority—and had the ability to manipulate events such as the draft to make it happen—can someone explain why New York has had decades in which its franchises were irrelevant? How about Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., both Los Angeles franchises? Why aren’t they good all the time?

But what really gets me is the assumption that David Stern, a young star executive in one of the most high-profile positions in sports, would willingly risk his entire career to get Patrick Ewing in a Knicks uniform.

This man, who was once the executive counsel for the league, would throw away
everything
—including a seven-figure salary for decades ahead—to mastermind the biggest scandal since the 1919 Black Sox.

It’s truly astounding.

Where’s Stern’s motivation in this? No commission has ever had a contract based on which markets win the most games. During his career, he’s continuously had bigger and bigger contracts no
matter who was winning. The Celtics, Knicks, Lakers—they’ve all been down during his tenure, and it hasn’t affected him in the least. He was getting more money and more power when the league was headlined by Allen Iverson, Stephon Marbury, and Stevie Francis. Why should he care about Patrick Ewing?

There was absolutely no benefit for him to risk throwing away his entire career to help the Knicks be good. None at all.

Patrick Ewing became a Knick because that’s the way it happened. The envelope wasn’t frozen, and Stern didn’t mastermind some bizarre conspiracy to elevate his league and himself by elevating the Knicks.

Common sense: the enemy of the conspiracy theorists.

The 1991 national championship game between the UNLV Runnin’ Rebels and the Duke Blue Devils was supposed to be a mismatch. The Rebels were riding a forty-five-game winning streak and had beaten Duke the year before in the title game by 30.

Duke didn’t have a chance.

And yet Duke won.

There had to be something sinister at work, right? The losers were from Las Vegas, a place practically begging for conspiracy theories, so the Rebels’ loss had to be a result of point shaving or some other nefarious gambling activity. In other words, they threw the game.

Conveniently, the conspiracy folks fail to acknowledge several important facts. Duke was loaded with good players—Grant Hill, Bobby Hurley, Christian Laettner—who put together a 30-5 record while playing in a far better conference than UNLV’s. The Devils were making their fourth straight trip to the Final Four.
Hill, a freshman, wasn’t around the year before and was emerging as a force.

Duke had the superior coach and the revenge factor on its side. UNLV was trying to become the first repeat champion since the 1972–73 UCLA Bruins. Set aside any bizarre notions of outside influences and ask yourself one question: Who do you think felt more pressure?

I was there, and Duke was on its game from the opening tip. The Devils also got the benefit of several close calls, including one that fouled out valuable UNLV point guard Greg Anthony.

But look: upsets happen. They happen often, and they happen even more often in the NCAA Tournament.

Is it so hard to believe that Duke was better than we thought, and UNLV not as good as we thought? Is it an impossibility to believe that UNLV came in tight and never got untracked? Couldn’t I argue—with conviction—that Duke’s big three of Laettner, Hill, and Hurley were better than UNLV’s top three?

Unfortunately, conspiracies don’t leave room for outlier events, such as Duke beating UNLV or an official making a terrible call in a crucial moment of a huge game. An unusual event always has to be dissected with a skeptical eye, paving the way for every nutcase to see the outrageous in the coincidental.

Because there’s another archenemy of the conspiracy theory: coincidence.

Sometimes things just happen. No rhyme, no reason—they just do.

There are 14,000 airports in the United States and 80,000 individual flights a day. And yet, at least a handful of times a year I run into a colleague or a friend during a layover somewhere in the country. How is that even possible?

And here’s something I’ve always wanted to know: Why do so many serial killers have the name “Lee”? There must be a reason, right? I’ve read a ton of books about serial killers—hey, they fascinate me, OK?—and it’s uncanny how many Lees there are.

Forget JFK assassin Lee Harvey Oswald and Tucson shooter Jared Lee Loughner, who shot 19—including congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords—and killed six. Instead, let’s limit the discussion to conventional serial killers.

The presumed Zodiac killer is Arthur Leigh Allen and the Green River killer is Gary Leon Ridgeway. The South Hill killer is Robert Lee Yates and the D.C. sniper is Boyd Lee Malvo. Henry Lee Lucas was once considered America’s most prolific killer. Derrick Todd Lee was a serial-killing monster from Baton Rouge.

This is a phenomenon that spans continents. Bruce George Peter Lee was imprisoned on twenty-six charges of manslaughter in Great Britain in 1981.

Why? How? If you saddle your son with any form of
Lee
, are you automatically improving his odds of roaming the nation killing people? Or could it be something more innocent? Is it possible that
Lee
is a popular name among families from lower socioeconomic levels, which makes them more prone to abuse and their children more prone to violence later in life? Probably, but the mystery and dark nature of the unknown makes for a better story.

I admit the level of coincidence in the
Lee/serial killer
example is staggering, but there’s nothing sinister or serious there. It’s just a series of weird coincidences. Serial killers have long been a uniquely American fascination, and movies like
Silence of the Lambs
created a mini-industry of cable television shows, books, and amateur sleuths.

One of the first serial killers to achieve celebrity status—for
lack of a better term—was Ted Bundy. He doesn’t fit the mold of the stereotypical deranged madman. He attended the University of Washington, was affable and handsome. He even defended himself in court.

Theodore Robert Bundy breaks the “Lee” mold, too.

But wait. If you research the details of his arrest, you’ll find that he was pulled over by a Pensacola, Florida, police officer. Bundy wrestled with the officer and got away briefly before being apprehended.

That cop’s name?

David Lee.

Game 6 of the 2004 American League Championship Series immediately became part of baseball lore. Red Sox starter Curt Schilling beat the Yankees while pitching with a torn tendon sheath in his right ankle that had been sutured in place by Red Sox doctors in a procedure that nobody could remember being done before. Late in the game, network cameras caught a growing spot of blood on Schilling’s right sock, which sent the broadcast crew into seizures of hyperbole.

Schilling was courageous, bold, single-minded. He was a man’s man, a team guy, a fearless warrior.

Boston was on its way to winning four straight against the Yankees after falling behind three games to none, and the end result of that postseason was the first Red Sox world championship since 1916.

So yeah, Schilling’s ankle became a big deal.

Three years later, announcer Gary Thorne said he was told by former Boston catcher Doug Mirabelli that Schilling painted the
sock to heighten the drama. This sent the conspiracy-minded into overdrive.

Where was the kernel of truth in this case? With Schilling, of course. He had developed a reputation as something of a self-promoter. He spoke his mind and wasn’t universally beloved within the game.