What if the owners of nba basketball teams were a basketball team and evaluated on their strengths and weaknesses like players. Imagine a team where Steve Ballmer, Mark Cuban, James Dolan, Dan Gilbert, and, okay, Michael Jordan all played 82 in 5 months to maximize television revenue, were pressured to play through injury, were traded at the drop of a dime, put in front of cameras before and after every game no matter how tired they were, and scrutinized endlessly by a media that had the best interests of everyone but them in mind, tracked relentlessly by data so their bodies could be maximized to the fullest athletic potential, and every once in a while, just for fun, told to shut up and dribble.
Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks, would be the flashy point guard of the team. Look at that boyish hair. Maybe not the superstar, that would be Steve Ballmer, former Microsoft employee — owner of the Los Angeles Clippers. Cuban’s temper would probably get him into trouble every once in a while but that’s fine because he makes twenty-five million a year playing the sport he loves and he should be grateful. Steve Ballmer, the center, is more meditative. His post-game press conferences are subdued affairs where he is respected enough to receive softball questions from ESPN reporters about playing through injury, the whole time gritting his teeth in pain because he has just played through a high ankle sprain that no one knew about — because that’s what leaders are supposed to do.
Dan Gilbert, owner of Rocket Mortgage, and James Dolan, nepo baby — owner of the New York Knicks, are young players still learning the ropes — and still on their first NBA contracts. They’re walking on eggshells as they play for their financial lives in the league, no one knows the expectations they have from their families in the inner city and the pressure it puts on them as rooks.
And then there’s Michael Jordan, shoe-guy, the owner of the Charlotte Hornets, has-been who can still throw up a buzzer beater when he’s not injured. They keep him around because of name recognition but every fan in every city knows he’s toast. A few more years he tells himself, and I’ll retire to Boca.
They’re a stout, grizzled group of guys who play hard, hang out after tough road games, and stand up for the issues they believe in like business tax loop holes and deregulation. Most of them have young children who cheer for their dads and most of the time fans treat them with respect. Sure, people flash their twenty-eyed cameras at them when they walk through the dark tunnels before they reach the court, ask for too many autographs, and occasionally throw a soft drink in their recognizable faces, but it’s a small price to pay to live your dream they’re told.
One or two of them might even dream of owning an NBA franchise one day but for the most part understand that the league is run by owners who have never walked a day in their shoes, who would rather fuck their wives than offer ownership positions to players lest they suddenly realize the big secret behind the whole house of cards: the owners don’t actually do anything except clap.