Atlantica - 01.03.2001, Blaðsíða 35

A T L A N T I C A 33
ter’s cries of pain, Josh beams a smile while showing off an
autographed basketball to his brother, the disease momen-
tarily forgotten thanks to the brief encounter with a hero.
Pippen hustles up some ice for the little girl while Facchini
signals an end to all the fun. Pippen high fives the kids, says
goodbye to the family and walks towards the awaiting
media that stand between him and the end of practice like a
patch of prickly bushes on a pathway. “Oh, man. What do
y’all want from me,” he says razzing the journalists he
recognises. “You’re not going to give me a day off?”
There’s little rest for an NBA superstar. Listening to Pippen
speak to the media and having earlier eyed his teammates
sneaking away, it’s obvious that even the short time players
are required to be accessible is a nuisance, like spending a
Saturday afternoon on household chores. I sympathise with
the players. Before and after games the media intrudes,
sometimes while players undress. Plus, NBA athletes have
community functions they must attend; autographs to sign;
they play on Christmas and New Year’s Day. But on the
giant-sized other hand, these guys sure do make a truckload
of money playing basketball.
PRE-GAME
I catch up with the Blazers before a home game against the
listless Washington Wizards, a team in disarray. This match-
up couldn’t come at a better time for the Blazers; they’ve lost
two in a row on the road to less than stellar opponents, and
suddenly this team with one of the highest payrolls in the
league looks more like a group of pretenders than champi-
onship contenders.
The entire organisation seems to be in a sour mood, evi-
denced by the fact that when I arrive at the arena to pick up
my credentials I receive nothing but a blank stare from the
Blazer representative. I loiter for about 15 minutes and
there’s still no word on my status, which worries me because
I’m invisible without credentials. No pass. No access.
And it’s not just me. While I wait for someone with author-
ity to remedy the situation, a journalist from the Washington
Post arrives, gives his name and the Blazer representative
asks him in a snooty voice, “Did you contact our media
office?” The journalist glances in my direction, perhaps won-
dering how this person could be so insulated as to not have
heard of one of the nation’s most prominent newspapers.
Then he scowls, “I think my office took care of it”.
Finally our credentials are issued. The late entry doesn’t
minimise our time with the players, because the locker room
remains closed. Team meeting. When it finally opens for the
press most players avoid questions by walking into another
room where reporters aren’t allowed to follow. All that
remains is a pre-game spread of bananas, grapes and mel-
ons, as well as a refrigerator full of Gatorade drinks.
Apparently losing sucks. And nobody wants to talk about
it. With a road game coming up against the Lakers, the
Blazers desperately need a win, which shouldn’t be a prob-
lem. The Wizards stink.
NBA
The melody of the NBA: Oh, baby, let’s dance; this beer’s for you; Rasheed Wallace slams one home.
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