John Stockton

It is All-Star Weekend in the NBA, and with it came speculation about the next batch of Hall of Famers. John Stockton, one of the best point guards in the NBA, was among those eligible. And I am hoping he does get in. Here's my own little tribute to this amazing player. I wrote this a few days after his retirement ceremony with the Utah Jazz. It still resonates as strongly as it did when I first wrote it.

John Stockton was the very first basketball point guard I adored. And I still do.

I was a huge Celtics fan, and I am a Larry Bird worshipper above all else. But when it came to point guards, John was pretty much above everyone else. I grew up on the kind of basketball that was pure, intense, and full of grace. That was in the 80s, when the usual teams that met during the playoffs were Bird’s Celtics, Magic’s Lakers, Isaiah’s Pistons, and Ralph's Rockets. I fell in love with the NBA during that era, an era that will never be replicated. It is as irreplaceable as Stockton himself.




The irony of it all was that I had to get a second glimpse of him before I was convinced of his greatness. I was originally drawn to that other high-profile Jazzman, Karl Malone. Malone was an easy player to admire. He was competitive, fiery, and often delivered (he wasn’t called The Mailman for nothing!). But I had to take a good long look at his teammate who often handed him the ball, who made it easier for him to shoot, and who set up plays for him perfectly.

John was the epitome of the point guard. He was a master of basic passing, eschewing flash for directness. As a matter of fact, of all the years I have watched John play (and mind you, I don’t regularly watch the NBA since we didn't have cable back then), I have only seen him do a behind-the-back pass TWICE. The rest, he did it by sheer mastery of ball-handling, accuracy, sharp eyesight, and instinct. Michael Jordan needed to dunk a ball to achieve greatness. John only needed to pass the ball to become legend.

I felt that no other point guard I knew came close to John. Save, probably for Magic. But the difference was that John had more charisma. Plus his personality and character was ultimately at a level Magic could not reach. At the moment, I am hard-pressed to name a guard that could fill John's shoes. Hardworking playmakers abound the NBA, but no one comes close to John's spirit and fire. Iverson is too cocky. Kidd is lackadaisacal at times. I have a crush on Jason Williams, but that's as far as I could go. Hamilton is so-so. Bibby is too inconsistent. Fisher is a Laker. Nash has zero likability. And don't get me started on Payton, that greedy schmuck. Edited to add: Rajon Rondo is fantastic, but even he couldn't fit into John's shoes.

That time when John made the game-winning triple during the NBA finals with the Bulls, he jumped so high and with so much joy that I jumped with him. He had this verve about him that was infectious. I can only aspire to so much enthusiasm. I realized then that I loved what he did. What he has done. In the past years, I was content to simply watch back and marvel at what he could do. It was only during that instance, after that buzzer-beating game-winner, that I felt his passion channel right through me. You truly felt his happiness. It was hard not to love him after that.

I also loved the fact that he never succumbed to the money. I read how Pat Riley offered John millions to play for the Heat back then. But John refused. It is through him and Malone that I’ve learned to love the Jazz, despite the fact that I was more a fan of the Eastern Conference teams (LA destroyed the West for me). He was humble, steadfast, and ferociously loyal and well-grounded. A far cry from the glitzy affairs and scandals that rock the NBA nowadays. His was a life that anyone would love to have. And he had a career that many envied. It was not about the money. It was simply about basketball. (Karl would emphasize that as well, when he moved to LA with a huge pay cut just so he could win a championship, a prize that continues to elude him to this day.)

The players loved him. Even Sir Charles, for all his bluster and gruff, could only put John on a pedestal higher than his. I got misty-eyed while watching a press conference after the Olympics in Athens, when Iverson, bemoaning the US' difficulty in winning games and commending their opponents' play, said "That's the game the way Karl Malone and John Stockton play it. It's good for kids to see how the game is supposed to be played." Hearing it from Iverson, the guy with flash and the controversy following him everywhere, who seemed to give himself more credit than anybody else (save, probably, for Tracy MacGrady), astounded me. Iverson embodied basketball selfishness. But he conceded that Stockton (and Malone) possessed the kind of skills that can only win basketball games. Hearing that from someone as young as he was just made my heart beat proudly. How true. How affirming.

Such was John’s greatness that he never did get tagged with a moniker. What else can you call a basketball player whose abilities defy description? (Edited to add: Instead, you get all these places named after him!) Nothing seemed right for him. What did sound right, in all his years of playing, was when courtside announcers, in describing a play, would say over and over again, “Stockton and Malone!” “Stockton to Malone!”... I miss hearing that.

To say that Stockton never won an NBA championship should not mean that his career lacked the greatness it deserves. HE WAS AS GREAT AS ALL THOSE WHO HAD WON RINGS. He had the awards and statistics to back him up. He was a legend. And I can never thank him enough for giving himself to the game as he had. I shed tears when Malone, obviously upset about John’s retirement announcement, said immediately after "there will never be anyone like him. I guarantee you that."


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In another beautiful basketball story: Today, NBA Commissioner David Stern announced that they will be giving the Finals MVP trophy a name, similar to the Lombardi and the Heismann. They're naming it after that venerable Celtic great, Bill Russell.

At the press conference, Bill was overcome and almost was at a loss for words. He had just lost his wife, to whom Stern had entrusted the news to and asked her to keep it secret from Bill. She must have been extremely proud - to have died knowing some beautiful news about her husband. And Bill... said the most beautiful thing at that press conference. He thanked his teammates. He emphasized that basketball was a team sport, and thanked his teammates.

That honor could never have happened to a better man and player. Congratulations to Bill Russell. All Celtics fans are immensely proud of you.

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¡Viva España!

Quite possibly the best Aussie Open match I have watched so far. It ranks up there with the other epic five-setters of all the Grand Slams. Rafael Nadal finally made it to the Australian Open Final, but at the expense of an equally deserving Fernando Verdasco. So deserving, that in fact, Rafa announced later that "He deserves this win, too. I want to congratulate him for everything."

Truer words have never been spoken.


I woke up early to catch the third set and watch Fernando and Rafa see-saw their way through the match. It was a fantastic display of tennis. They were compatriots and friends, and yet there was an element of competition. There was no dillydallying with the towel-offs or the slow lead-up to service. Every point had a quick pace to it, and safe play was never an option with these players. They rallied long and hard, produced intelligent shot-making, and volleyed with a purpose. There was no trash-talking or pomposity or preening. Though saddled with injury and stress, the two plodded on and gave the performance of their lives. Even in the fifth set, they never leveled off, nor did they ask for timeouts. They were competitive and inspired and motivated for all of five hours and could seemingly taste a slot in the finals.

In the end, it was that rare Verdasco double-fault that finally clinched it for Rafa. And true to form and friendship, he clambered over the net and gave his opponent a well-deserved embrace.

I was actually rooting for Fernando to win. I have this soft spot for the tournament strugglers, and this was his first Grand Slam semifinal ever. But Rafa was not to be denied. Although the tempo was seemingly set by Verdasco, Nadal stuck with him and never backed down. I was never a Nadal fan, but he just got my admiration for his on-court performance and behavior. You could tell he wanted this. During changeovers, I found his frustration very evident, verging on the disheartened. He clearly wanted to get this over with but couldn't seem to find the answers.

Verdasco likewise was a solid competitor throughout. But alas, he fell short. I felt for him when he double-faulted that one last time. And Rafa did, too, as he hugged him and kept his spirits up as Saturday morning crept in. I love that he did that. It was so nice to see such a friendly spirit of competition pervading throughout the match. And Fernando, bless his heart, admitted that he felt guilty for stretching Rafa to the extremes that night, but that he will be rooting for him come Sunday. "He's a big friend. I wish him the best of luck."

Me, too, Fernando. Congratulations to you both.

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Post-Olympic commentary

It's been a while since the Olympics. My memories of the Olympics usually involve staying up late at night just to watch the games live. But I also remember my very first Olympics experience, when my relatives in the US sent us Betamax tapes of the 1984 Los Angeles games, complete with American commercials. I remember being enamored of gymnastics, and swimming, and diving, track and field, and basketball. Bouginskaya, Kristin Otto (and her unshaven pits), Popov, Carl Lewis, and Louganis were my idols. I rooted for Larry Bird and his Dream Team. And I discovered a lot of obscure sports, back before there were cable TV and professional leagues for just about everything. I watched archery, and water polo, and cycling, Greco-roman wrestling, and rowing. I watched them all, and I watched them in the dark with the glare of the TV to keep me company.



The Barcelona Games in 1992 were my favorite. The opening ceremony was glorious, and it still provided the most spectacular and breath-taking Olympic flame-lighting ever, when a Spanish archer, from the middle of the Olympic field, with raised bow and enflamed arrow, shot and lit a cauldron at the top of the stadium. It gave me goosebumps and sighs for days.

This year's Olympics was a big deal for me, and not just for the reasons why China being host was lauded for. To me, it meant a return of the Games to Asia. Only three Asian cities have hosted the Summer Games so far – Tokyo, Seoul, and now Beijing. So it was a big deal to me, despite the fact that it meant scheduling nightmares for US broadcasters.

We rarely broadcast the Games live. NBC would spotlight those high-profile sports, and relegate the rest to Internet streaming or to their roster or obscure cable channels. Which was not so bad, considering just how many sports there are on the Olympic roster nowadays. I saw the Philippine efforts in taekwondo live over the Internet, at around 10PM. I saw the Redeem Team finally capture the gold at 4 in the morning. Live telecasts were not so bad. But forcing all the games to air at primetime was kind of a nightmare for all of us who had work (or school) the next morning.

And there was the specter of Michael Phelps all throughout the Olympics. It was understandable. He is an American, a decent boy from a decent family. He displayed incomparable work ethic, and a charming humility up to the end. He was also a team player. But most importantly, all humility aside, he was competitive and insanely ambitious. Eight golds in a single Games? That was Mark Spitz's bailiwick. And yet he did it. The eighth gold was rather anti-climactic. But it was, if I recall correctly, the fourth and seventh golds that were won in dramatic fashion. A split second tag at the wall. A fortunate break in the relay that was won, not by Michael, but by a superhuman named Lezak.

So Michael Phelps was the face of the Americans' glory at the Olympics, and probably the face of the international athlete. And it became all too much to bear as the Games went on. Swimming was over, and yet commentators continued to sneak in Michael's name in the most inane way possible. At track and field events, at diving, basketball, and even beach volleyball. It started to get old reeeeeally really quickly.

And there was too much emphasis on too few games. I grew sick and tired of beach volleyball and Kelly Walsh's kinetic tape. Of Usain Bolt's fancy posturings. Where were the martial arts, the BMX debut? I wanted to see the drama unfold amidst wind and rain-battered sails. I wanted to see the over-the-top jubilation that was the staple of fencing. There were none of those.

But there were some moments. Like tiny Henry Cejudo literally wrestling the gold away from his opponent. Or the very gorgeous-looking Aussie Matthew Mitcham coming from nowhere to snatch the platform diving gold medal and preventing a Chinese sweep of the events. Or the Redeem Team piling on their gold medals around Coach K's neck – a beautiful tribute to the unsung heroes of the Olympics, the coaches. And my very favorite Olympic moment of all in Beijing – seemingly undefeatable Roger Federer finally winning his very first Olympic gold medal in tennis doubles. The sight of him on the podium during the awarding ceremony, all teeth and grin, a bit teary-eyed, and simply loving the moment. It was that scene that showed that the Olympics is still something to aspire for, even if you have every Grand Slam title in the books and earned millions. A gold medal is seemingly worth more than that.

Sadly, there was more to dramatic glory. There was also, as they usually say, "agony in defeat". The US relay runners dropping their batons. Gymnast Sacramone repeatedly falling on her bum during the Team event. And the lovely Dara Torres just barely losing in her final bid for an individual gold medal. Hopefully, we will see them back in London in four years. If not, may they realize that everything's not lost.

I cannot wait to see the London Summer Games in 2012.

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An All-Star Pastime

That was one hell of an All-Star baseball game.

I mistakenly thought I was going to watch the performance night of So You Think You Can Dance but caught the pre-game introductions of the MLB All-Star game instead (don't know why that was in my head the all afternoon, but there you go). I had a late night at work and came home running towards the elevator at around 8:05 pm when the doorman at my apartment building called out "Just in time for the baseball game!" I was momentarily confused and soon discovered why when I turned my television on.

I was looking at an assemblage of baseball heroes past on the Yankee Stadium diamond. After the momentous occasion that was the Home Run Derby the night before, I decided to stick around and watch a full game of baseball. My first since the Boston Red Sox won their first world series championship. Little did I know that I was in for a really looong night.

But I didn't mind. I had forgotten how great the game was. I watched basketball more often, but I appreciated every single sport and tried to watch all of them. When I was younger, I used to endure sleepless nights just staying up late to watch sports on ESPN. It didn't matter what sport it was – basketball, golf, hockey, football, NFL, baseball, tennis, billiards, gymnastics, even dressage. Baseball was probably one of those sports that people – non-Americans, especially – find hard to appreciate. Particularly when you are not familiar with half the people that are on the field, and nothing seems to be going on for several innings. But this was probably the only game when you didn't care who else what out there (seriously, who kept track of the outfielders?), and the only game when good defense made it even more exciting and more fascinating to watch. (Offense worked, too, and I remember seeing my all-time favorite baseball player, Blue Jays' John Olerud, for the first time and loving him rip one every time he came up to bat.)

Baseball's first line of defense is always the pitcher. And in last night's All Star game, pitching was ON FIRE. There were strikeouts aplenty, and the first five or six innings flew by very fast as the defense dominated. Sure there were a couple of hits – homers even – but it was such great fun seeing all these great baseball players struggle to score a run. There were groundouts, flyouts, a bunt, two sacrifice flies (one of which helped decide the game), and at one point, a stream of forceouts at the HOME PLATE with the bases loaded. How the heck did that happen?!? And how the heck did the NL not win after that!?!?

Ah, but the AL kept it close. With nary a Yankee in sight, and only one Red Sox player on the field, and all of them non-starters, the game took a strange turn as it headed into the wee hours of the morning. Managers all over the league had their worst nightmares confirmed as Francona and Hurdle used up every pitcher on their roster, many for more than two innings. For closers and one-inning relief pitchers with the competitive post-season looming, it was their worst fears realized as they sat and stood for innings on end, warming up endlessly, and throwing too many pitches. (Poor Lidge; at least Francona ably used Mariano Rivera when he only pitched 2 innings.) And as the game pushed further into the dawn, position players were being recruited in contingency plans as relief pitchers themselves – a thought too strange to comprehend but may most likely be an interesting visual.

However, in the 15th and FINAL inning, the AL finally broke through with a Mike Young sac fly and Justin Morneau, Home Run Derby winner and consistent batter, slid into home plat and narrowly missing the tag.

It was a great end to a great (albeit long) night. And a fitting farewell to that "Cathedral of Baseball" Yankee Stadium. As if the ghosts of Yankees would not bear to see their beloved game end on their turf. 2008 was a pitcher's year (see Sabathia, Harden, Santana) and this all-star game showed it.

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