Keidel: No More Action For Phil Jackson?
By Jason Keidel
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Phil Jackson picked an odd time to be swept off the court, the first time for a team he coached in 65 playoff series. Or did he?
Clearly fatigued, beleaguered, and beaten, Jackson said he was glad that the season was over, and his team played like it. One thing you can say about Jackson's Lakers is that they knew how to win and really knew how to lose – by 39 to the Celtics in the 2008 NBA Finals, and then by 36 on Sunday to Dallas.
So much of the scene was incongruous. Not just losing to Dallas, but losing four straight to a team renowned for choking. And the serene mien with which he handled his teams was shattered by the callous, if not criminal, assaults by Andrew Bynum and Lamar Odom on defenseless Dallas Mavericks. Not to mention David Stern's parting gift – a $35,000 fine on Phil for questioning refs.
As with any man of Jackson's success, we rush to wrap him in adjectives, to find the phrase that defines him. With a .704 winning percentage and 11 championships as a coach (and two more as a player), Jackson retires with more bling than Mr. T. Or does he?
It is perilous to pen any coach's epitaph, particularly one as competitive as Jackson. Retirement is most pliable term for the lifer, from Bobby Bowden to Joe Paterno to Jim Calhoun, men who don't need the cash but love the cachet that comes with championships.
Little about Jackson is normal, like his long, bony frame contorted and folded on those padded sideline chairs while he meditated on his team's spiritual woes. He built a reputation as something of a basketball mystic, like a scene out of Robert Redford's classic, "A River Runs Through It," the son of a minister, roaming the mountains of the great Northwest, searching for justice, peace, truth and triangle offenses.
Often taller than his players and always towering over the media members prodding him, he literally and figuratively looked down upon the world, often surly and snobbish. It is the luxury of winning, which he did often, and there was no doubting his presence or prescience. But no matter your take on his thorny persona, it's hard to bash him when you have to snake your way through 11 Larry O'Brien trophies to reach him.
It's unfair to say he's best ever when he never won without Michael, Scottie, Shaq, or Kobe in their prime. But it's equally unfair to say he took the backdoor to brilliance. The aforementioned legends had no rings before Jackson arrived, and that's not a coincidence.
Two generations of New Yorkers have two starkly different takes on Jackson. My father's generation saw him help the Knicks win two titles. My generation saw him torment the Knicks, with more than a little help from Mr. Jordan, for nearly a decade.
For all the rings and triangles and other sporting geometry, Jackson's greatest gift was acting as a buffer between a superstar and his own ego. A coach wears myriad hats, few of which involve actual coaching, at least in the conventional sense of offense and defense.
In an age of coddled stars with agents, cell phones, and sneaker deals, whose "feelings" are now more important than field goal percentage, a coach is equal parts strategist, satirist, and salesman. Magic Johnson made the NBA a player's league when he got Paul Westhead fired in 1980, cracking the coaching door open for Pat Riley.
Since then, the Bob Knight way of scolding and scalding players gave way to a Tony Robbins refrain of positive reinforcement. Though their age and wage said otherwise, it seemed that players became more childlike as the game became more plodding and predictable, an amalgam of pampered personalities and a series of pick-and-rolls. Jackson kept the ball and his teams moving past everyone, to 70-win seasons and three "threepeats" while falling just short of a fourth.
Jackson took over the NBA after Magic and Bird saved the league from extinction, infusing basketball with far more "we" than "me," and extended that narrative by selling Jordan on the virtues of trust and flow. Jordan, the greatest ever to play Dr. Naismith's game, came to Jackson's way of thinking after shouldering the entire Chicago load for years and realizing that dropping 50 a game made for great Spike Lee ads but always led to losing to Bird and Isiah when it mattered.
Six rings and a sabbatical later, Jackson assuaged Shaq and Kobe long enough to win three titles, with success forcing each to tolerate the other. Jackson gave his players homework, books and motivational pamphlets, treating each player like athletic clay for the Zen Master to mold into his masterpiece.
Jackson was much like Joe Torre – the avuncular graybeard who played the game when the pay was less and the play was harder – finding common ground with men half his age. Players often referred to both in paternal tones. The Core Four constantly and fondly coined Torre a second father, and Kobe clearly gushed with nostalgia when pondering Jackson's influence, saying he "grew up" under Jackson and learned almost as much off the court from him as on the hardwood.
Though Jackson clearly understood the game and the craft he learned from Red Holzman, another Red, Auerbach, took umbrage with Jackson's hold on the mythical title as most successful coach in NBA history.
We can argue all day about whom was better between the two, but the answer is eternally subjective and incidental. I've cringed at pundits placing Jackson ahead of Lombardi and Wooden. We have an improper impulse to make the latest the greatest. Lenny Kravitz is somehow better than Jimi Hendrix and Britney Spears is better than Billie Holiday.
Now the speculation will spout about the chances that he'll coach his original team, the Knicks, where he learned to play and coach under the other Red.
In a sense, Jackson is perfect for the Knicks, from his ancestry to the team's current pedigree. No doubt he can make Amar'e Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony better together and separately, though neither is nearly as good as the quartet Jackson rode to 11 titles. But would Jackson tolerate James Dolan, who still may lean on Isiah Thomas? Would Dolan let Donnie Walsh go if Jackson demanded it?
The bet here is that Jackson will fish the banks of Fairbanks or some mountainous valley where rivers and streams are right for some stream of consciousness diary that is sure to follow, before he follows the only scent he knows – sweat, leather, and hardwood. He will either return or come very close, and it will be interesting, as things always are around the Zen Master.
Call him odd, eccentric, or silly. But be sure to call him a winner.
Feel free to email me: Jakster1@mac.com
Would you take Jackson over D'Antoni? Let Keidel know in the comments below...
