The New Big Three? Let’s Wait and See

I’m done fuming about LeBron. (Maybe). It has now been eleven days since LBJ’s fateful life-altering, mind-blowing, landscape-revamping, earth-shattering, loyalty-combusting, legacy-tarnishing, self-indulgent-exuding decision (what has come to be known ironically as…“The Decision”) that saw him sit in front of a camera and reveal to the world that he would be “taking his talents to South Beach and play with the Miami Heat,” and honestly, I’m through griping about it. (Maybe). In the past, whenever I’ve learned a new piece of valuable sports information—most notably that of a blockbuster trade or significant free agent signing—my typical reaction has been instinctive, impulsive, and right to the point, as I often have found myself arriving at a bold conclusion within the first few seconds of pondering the new information at hand.

For example, I remember when I was a sophomore in high school napping on a bus back to campus from a JV Basketball game, when I was rudely awoken by a friend who informed me that the Yankees had just traded for Alex Rodriguez. As a Yankee fan, I was ecstatic. And, as myself, I was predictably extemporaneous: “We’re going to win the World Series!” I blurted out mere moments later. The disgusted looks of my teammates, the majority of whom who were ardent Red Sox fans, will forever be tattooed on the annals of my memory. For there I was, my countenance and emotions in diametric contradiction to the sullen expressions plastered across their faces, a supporter of the baseball club that now could claim ownership for the best player in the game.

There was a silence, and a gloomy one at that, as my fellow teammates sat behind me facing forward, their dejectedness palpable as the A-Rod news percolated throughout the vehicle. I was smug, but had been with good reason. The Red Sox had been the favorites to land Rodriguez throughout the entire winter, but a seemingly imminent exchange with Texas for Manny Ramirez never materialized, and the Evil Empire had reigned supreme once again, just as they had a thousand times before. I was about to turn around and for the first time in my life truly enjoy a bus ride, when one of my teammates spoke up, and I’ll never forget the words that came out of his mouth: “I still think the Red Sox are a better team.” Damn you.

In hindsight, I was right. The Yankees did win a World Series, and Alex Rodriguez was a big reason why. It just didn’t occur until six years after I made my definitive forecast. Boston, of course, won the World Series in A-Rod’s first season with New York and did so in fairytale manner beating the Yankees in the 2004 ALCS after being down in the series three games to zero…blah blah blah blah blah. Where was I going with this again?

Oh yeah. LeBron. That’s right. It was on the 8th of July when I watched “The Decision,” when I was reminded of my impulsive nature of yesteryear and presented a rare opportunity for reflection and redemption. When James made the announcement, the initial sentiment I felt was disappointment. Having suffered through a tumultuous decade of ineptitude as a Knicks fan, it was this summer—this moment actually—that was supposed to change one sphere of my life drastically. I had already envisioned it: I would move to New York, work at some awesome job, and in the evenings attend MSG to watch the one and only LeBron James throw up his chalk and do his thing on the court for the orange and blue, and eventually lead them to one of multiple championships that I could tell my children and then my children’s children about.

Thanks a lot.

My disappointment then morphed into anger. So he was going to Miami to join forces with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh. Yeah, that seemed fair: two of the league’s top three players on the same team with a five-time All-Star power forward to boot (and this was still days before it was suggested that Pat Riley might have been orchestrating this coup years ago from the time when there was even a sniff of the three starlets teaming up together). On top of that, the Knicks’ master plan to clear cap space (which began in November 2008 with the trading of Jamal Crawford and Zach Randolph...on the same day) and use that and the majestic amenities of New York City as a selling point to lure big name free agents—no, sorry, exclusively LeBron James, Dwyane Wade, and Chris Bosh—to MSG had failed, and the one guy they obtained— Amar'e Stoudemire—has feeble knees and doesn’t even get along with head coach Mike D’Antoni. Excuse me, the two have since “cleared the air” over a plate of truffles and scones, I forgot. Oh, and Crawford won sixth man of the year last season and Randolph was an All-Star in the WESTERN CONFERENCE. My anger gradually turned into an overwhelming fervent rage.


I had loathed the Heat before, having grown up during the Tim Hardaway-Alonzo Mourning-P.J. Brown era, but this was a new kind of abhorrence. Miami, at least on paper, had the most talented roster in the NBA, and that was evident looking only at three players. They have since added savvy veterans Žydrūnas Ilgauskas and Mike Miller to bolster the new big three’s supporting cast, but it really won’t matter who they sign to fill their roster’s quota. In a league whose exuberant youth is more prevalent than ever, in those brief moments following “The Decision,” I likened the rest of the NBA’s hopes when compared to those of the Miami Heat to some lyrics off of one of B.o.B’s latest tracks: the kids don’t stand a chance.

But then I remembered the words of my teammate on that bus ride more than half a decade ago. When word broke the Yankees had added the most gifted baseball player on the planet to an already star-studded roster, my friend still felt the Red Sox had the better club. He was right. So the Miami Heat has LeBron, D-Wade, and Bosh. So what. Will it work? What’s the team chemistry going to be like? Who’s going to take the final shot? And is Chris Bosh really that good (to this day, I have yet to meet anyone who has watched a Toronto Raptors game in its entirety)? We don’t know…yet. But one thing is for sure: a new era, for better or worse, has dawned on the NBA, and the rest of the league will be forced to take note whether they like it or not. But unless your from Miami, or just a fan of Wade, Bosh, or James (though he’s losing fans faster than BP at this point), I think it’s safe to say you’ll be rooting against them (Welcome, the Yankees of basketball). And even if LBJ isn’t okay with that, it’s exactly what he signed up for when he made his—eh-hem, “THE Decision.”

Hitting the Same Löw

The first two lines of Germany’s National Anthem read: Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,/Über alles in der Welt, which translated means: Germany, Germany above all,/ Above all in the world. Prior to tonight’s match against Spain, these words rang true within the hearts and minds of Germans across the globe, their native contingent of footballers having advanced to yet another World Cup semifinal, their confidence level through the roof. They had won with both patience and panache, exerting their dominance over their opponents with incisive passing and timely shooting, slotting four goals per game past Australia, England, and Argentina, respectively, in the run-up to their showdown with Vicente del Bosque’s La Roja. Save a 1-0 slipup against Serbia in the group stage, Joachim Löw’s squad was, in fact, living up to Hoffmann von Fallersleben’s lauding poetry, at least from a football standpoint, especially with Spain’s recent run of atypical unconvincing play: Germany, Germany above all,/Above all in the world. Then came this evening in Durban.

Whether it was the absence of the suspended Thomas Müller, Bayern Munich’s enterprising young forward who blossomed vigorously in South Africa tallying a quartet of goals, Löw’s inability to make tactical adjustments at halftime to disrupt Spain’s methodical means of moving the ball forward, or simply Deutschland’s opponents themselves, tonight will go down as one of the more pallid German performances in recent memory. The contagious influences of Miroslav Klose and Lukas Podolski that had become so second nature this tournament had conspicuously evaporated, and while Müller’s replacement Piotr Trochowski initially provided a spark, it came in the form of a blistering shot that Iker Casillas had little trouble turning away, the lone, innocuous imprint the Hamburg winger made all match. Even the normally reliable Mesut Özil—who still should receive consideration for player of the tournament—whose passes were expectedly crisp and precise, was a salient nonfactor, Sergio Ramos’ tackling of the 21-year-old inside the box being the most memorable moment of the match containing the Werder Bremen midfielder. So just how was this train that had gained so much momentum, that been accelerating at a seemingly unstoppable rate, halted so sharply?

It seems ages ago when German captain Michael Ballack was ruled out of South Africa having sustained an injury from Portsmouth’s Kevin-Prince Boateng in May’s FA Cup Final at London’s Wembley Stadium. To be sure, it was a blow to the squad that had grown so accustomed to Ballack’s efficacious presence and pull in the center of the midfield the majority of this decade, but as the group stage progressed, the pundits began to surmise that this nascent, free-flowing fast-paced attack was coming as a result of the former Chelsea star’s absence, a notion that became more and more believable after the 4-1 deposing of England and the 4-0 drubbing of Argentina. It was the latter match in which a FIFA camera spotted the Matt Damon lookalike near the German tunnel, revealing a radiant, and purportedly genuine, smile after teammate Arne Friderich netted his first international goal to make it 3-0. But one couldn’t help wonder if his beaming wasn’t somehow belying his true sentiments, especially if he had heard Martin Tyler coronate Müller as this German generation’s number thirteen, the 20-year-old having sported Ballack’s usual kit number this tournament.

In my opinion, Ballack’s presence in the lineup this evening in Durban would have made a difference, and one for the better I might add. It’s true that a cabal of youngsters—most notably Müller and Özil—had been largely responsible for Germany’s progression this tournament, the injection of youth critical to the team’s success. But this evening, when Spain effectively subdued the infectious exuberance that had encapsulated the German camp all World Cup, the lack of an authoritative leader became glaringly apparent, and Ballack might have filled those shoes (he would have succeeded where Podolski failed in notching the game-tying penalty against Serbia in the group stage, at least). They may not have scored as many goals with their captain patrolling in the middle, but they certainly would have had more direction (and they might have scored more goals, who knows), an area where the Spanish thrive.

Wednesday night’s 1-0 defeat was the German’s second consecutive semifinal loss at the World Cup, and the second consecutive time they have been ousted by Spain in major tournaments, having lost to La Roja in the final of Euro 2008 two summers ago, also by a 1-0 score. Undoubtedly, after a relatively meaningless clash with Uruguay for third place on Saturday, the flight back home to Berlin will be a long one for Joachim Löw and his men. And Lord knows the manager will have to answer for much more than his prominent robins egg blue v-neck he was sporting on the sideline in Durban. But where did they go wrong? And more importantly, how can they fix it? It’s now been twenty years since the Germans last hoisted football’s holy grail, it won’t be for another four years until they’ll be given a chance to break the ongoing drought in Brazil. There will be a lot on the players’ minds as well as Löw’s and his adjutants as they begin to prepare for Euro 2012 qualification next month, but if one thing will stand out the most it will almost definitely be that of the current state of German football: good, but not good enough.