Burned again?
I bought an authentic Minnesota Wild sweater (sweater, not "jersey") a number of years ago, with Marian Gaborik's name and number, 10, on the back. It was not inexpensive. I've been a huge fan of Gaborik, through thick and thin, ever since the day I watched the brand-new Wild franchise use it's first-ever draft pick on the speedy Slovakian sniper. His future as a member of the Wild appears increasingly unlikely, as he and his agent, Ron Salcer, appear intent on forcing the franchise to trade him to avoid losing him with no compensation next July 1st, when he becomes an unrestricted free agent. This sad, familiar scenario is bringing back the worst kind of memories for me, of a time when I made the mistake of becoming emotionally attached to a player rather than to a team.
I was overjoyed in 1996 when the Minnesota Timberwolves swung a draft-day trade to bring in point guard Stephon Marbury. Marbury had reportedly become friends with Kevin Garnett, the young phenom whom the Wolves had drafted #5 out of high school the previous year. The two were said to be close, and magazines like Sports Illustrated ran stories about how the two of them were going to bring respectability to the fledgling franchise and bookend a dynasty for years to come. The cover featured the two of them shaking hands and grinning, and the caption read "Feel The Warmth", a play on how the two of them were helping each other adjust to the bitter Minnesota winters.
For two seasons, things seemed to be progressing according to plan. Marbury averaged 15.8 points and 7.8 assists per game, and was named to the All-Rookie Team. He and Garnett led the team to its first-ever playoff berth that season, and they also made the playoffs the next season. Though they were eliminated in the first round each time, they were making progress. It seemed to be only a matter of time before the team was able to take the next step and contend for a championship.
Beneath the cheery surface, though, things were apparently souring. The 20-year-old Marbury was reportedly incensed because he was not allowed to consume alcohol in downtown Minneapolis clubs, as he apparently was routinely allowed to do in his native New York City. He began to feel cheated by having to play for a small-market team like Minnesota. He began to feel resentful at having to share top billing with Garnett, believing that he deserved the spotlight and the role of "The Man" all to himself. Perhaps he even longed to move back home to Coney Island. Whatever the reasons, Marbury wanted out of Minnesota. During the strike-shortened 1999 season, he and his agent, David Falk, forced the team to trade him to the New Jersey Nets. This player, in whom I had invested so much of my hope, turned out to be the worst kind of selfish punk. I felt betrayed, extremely resentful, and very bitter.
After the Wolves drafted Marbaby, I had purchased a plaque which featured a photo of Marbury and Garnett. The two of them were shaking hands and smiling, much as they had been on the cover of SI. When "Me"bury forced his way out of town, I put duct tape over his half of the photo, completely blotting him out. The plaque hung on my wall that way for many years, until all the seasons of mediocrity and dashed dreams brought about by Garnett's own selfishness and the chronic mismanagement of the franchise by the Timberwolves' "brain trust" of Kevin McHale and Glen Taylor (perhaps I'll say more about this subject in a future post) turned me off to the team almost entirely, and I took it down in frustration.
So, here I am again. I've worn this Gaborik sweater with pride for years. Now, it appears as though he and his agent (why is there always an agent in these things?) will burn me as badly as Marbaby did all those years ago. What do I do with that Gaborik sweater if he does that? Do I burn it? Do I piss on it? Do I take a shit and wipe my ass with it? Ultimately, it doesn't matter. The larger lesson I've learned from all this is that I will never again buy any item that bears the name of a player. I will only purchase items which bear the name of the team. The team will theoretically always be here (Norm Green notwithstanding). Players are transitory.
Part of me doesn't blame Gaborik for wanting to cash in. He could put one skate on the ice tomorrow, hurt his groin again, miss another 30 games and trash his value, and never have the chance to make these outrageous demands again. I don't even really blame his agent for wanting to maximize his own cut. Assigning blame really doesn't help me, anyway. It's a business. I get it.
So, thanks Stephon Marbury and Marian Gaborik (and David Falk and Ron Salcer). Thanks for teaching me this lesson. Thank you, and screw you.
I was overjoyed in 1996 when the Minnesota Timberwolves swung a draft-day trade to bring in point guard Stephon Marbury. Marbury had reportedly become friends with Kevin Garnett, the young phenom whom the Wolves had drafted #5 out of high school the previous year. The two were said to be close, and magazines like Sports Illustrated ran stories about how the two of them were going to bring respectability to the fledgling franchise and bookend a dynasty for years to come. The cover featured the two of them shaking hands and grinning, and the caption read "Feel The Warmth", a play on how the two of them were helping each other adjust to the bitter Minnesota winters.
For two seasons, things seemed to be progressing according to plan. Marbury averaged 15.8 points and 7.8 assists per game, and was named to the All-Rookie Team. He and Garnett led the team to its first-ever playoff berth that season, and they also made the playoffs the next season. Though they were eliminated in the first round each time, they were making progress. It seemed to be only a matter of time before the team was able to take the next step and contend for a championship.
Beneath the cheery surface, though, things were apparently souring. The 20-year-old Marbury was reportedly incensed because he was not allowed to consume alcohol in downtown Minneapolis clubs, as he apparently was routinely allowed to do in his native New York City. He began to feel cheated by having to play for a small-market team like Minnesota. He began to feel resentful at having to share top billing with Garnett, believing that he deserved the spotlight and the role of "The Man" all to himself. Perhaps he even longed to move back home to Coney Island. Whatever the reasons, Marbury wanted out of Minnesota. During the strike-shortened 1999 season, he and his agent, David Falk, forced the team to trade him to the New Jersey Nets. This player, in whom I had invested so much of my hope, turned out to be the worst kind of selfish punk. I felt betrayed, extremely resentful, and very bitter.
After the Wolves drafted Marbaby, I had purchased a plaque which featured a photo of Marbury and Garnett. The two of them were shaking hands and smiling, much as they had been on the cover of SI. When "Me"bury forced his way out of town, I put duct tape over his half of the photo, completely blotting him out. The plaque hung on my wall that way for many years, until all the seasons of mediocrity and dashed dreams brought about by Garnett's own selfishness and the chronic mismanagement of the franchise by the Timberwolves' "brain trust" of Kevin McHale and Glen Taylor (perhaps I'll say more about this subject in a future post) turned me off to the team almost entirely, and I took it down in frustration.
So, here I am again. I've worn this Gaborik sweater with pride for years. Now, it appears as though he and his agent (why is there always an agent in these things?) will burn me as badly as Marbaby did all those years ago. What do I do with that Gaborik sweater if he does that? Do I burn it? Do I piss on it? Do I take a shit and wipe my ass with it? Ultimately, it doesn't matter. The larger lesson I've learned from all this is that I will never again buy any item that bears the name of a player. I will only purchase items which bear the name of the team. The team will theoretically always be here (Norm Green notwithstanding). Players are transitory.
Part of me doesn't blame Gaborik for wanting to cash in. He could put one skate on the ice tomorrow, hurt his groin again, miss another 30 games and trash his value, and never have the chance to make these outrageous demands again. I don't even really blame his agent for wanting to maximize his own cut. Assigning blame really doesn't help me, anyway. It's a business. I get it.
So, thanks Stephon Marbury and Marian Gaborik (and David Falk and Ron Salcer). Thanks for teaching me this lesson. Thank you, and screw you.
posted by Dave at 9:52 AM
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