A Love Letter

Dear Kevin,

I didn’t sleep much last night, and, well, you’ve been on my mind a lot lately.  So perhaps telling you how I feel, or at least putting these feelings into words, will help me to rest a little bit easier.

It’s been a tough couple of months, to be honest.  Since it became clear back in May that you wanted to leave, I’ve gone through what seems to be the usual string of emotions.  First, denial: I didn’t believe it was true, didn’t want to believe it.  Then, anger.  Then, sadness and resignation.  And now, well, I just feel numb.

It didn’t help when you visited Boston.  I guess I never thought about what it’d be like to see you with someone else.  But there you were, hanging with Rajon Rondo, Rob Gronkowski, and who knows who else.  Let me tell you, Kevin, it hurt.  There’s just no way around it.

I’ll never forget the day you came into my life.  Sure, I’d known about you, known that you were a high school phenom in Oregon and a star freshman at UCLA.  But it wasn’t until June 27, 2008, my 23rd birthday, when Kevin McHale traded for you and our lives really began together.  You were the best birthday present a guy could ask for, really.

I admit, I wasn’t convinced, at least initially.  I really wanted Derrick Rose or Mike Beasley, but O.J. Mayo was a stud himself, and #3 was the highest we’ve ever picked, and we needed a stud.  I wasn’t sure he was worth giving up for you, but hey, we got Mike Miller out of the deal and got rid of Marko Jaric, so I was in (even if it meant Marko’s gf wouldn’t be around).

But you eventually won me over, first with your efforts on the boards and then your outside shooting.  That night when you grabbed 30 rebounds to go along with 30 points, the Target Center was a different place.  There was an energy that had not been enjoyed since the days of that other Kevin.  For a little while there, you made us forget about the other Kevin.  I really mean that.

When a man fills up the boxscore to historic proportions, night after night, when he plays a key role on an Olympic Gold Medal team (defensively, even!), when all inclinations are that he’ll sign a long term contract where nobody wants to sign a long-term contract, it’s hard not to fall in Love.

And I did, Kevin, I fell for you.  Hard.  And that’s what makes this hurt so bad.

And since we’re being honest, it was Love that made me overlook your imperfections.  The lackluster effort on defense.  The complete unwillingness to foul somebody.  The multiple possessions a game where you didn’t bother to cross half court to join your team on defense.  The curious habit of the best rebounder in the game excusing himself from offensive rebound opportunities on opponents’ free throws, in order to get to the other end of the court without having to… jog?

Not to mention your complete unwillingness to pass up a somewhat uncontested jump shot to pass to a more-open teammate.  More forgivable, given that none of your teammates could hit a jump shot, even a more-open one.  But still.

No, I knew you weren’t perfect.  And sure, there was a sneaking feeling that you were a player capable of incredible stats yet incapable of helping his team finish in the top 16 out of 30 teams.  But you were a Timberwolf, and I loved you for it.

But I started getting worried when you complained about the $60+ million contract you signed in January 2012, almost as soon as you signed it.  I get it, you wanted a fifth year.  But it seems like an either-or proposition to me.  As in, either you sign a contract with the team and pledge your allegiance to it, or you don’t, and then you can talk all the shit you want.

Instead, you signed the contract, then explained how you would play with a chip on your shoulder, a phrase typically referring to proving enemies wrong, not your employer.  That following December, you curiously decided to air out your dirty laundry to Yahoo! Sports about the contract negotiation, team roster moves, and even your hurt feelings when people in the organization supposedly didn’t buy that your broken hand came from those now-infamous knuckle push-ups.

Let me let you in on a little secret, Kevin: nobody buys that your broken hand came from knuckle push-ups.  And yeah, we were pissed.  But we got over it.  And, believe it or not, we could get over this.

What’s “this” you say?  Let me be clear: I don’t want you here against your will.  If you do indeed walk out that door and out of my life forever, it would hurt.  But I can’t make you Love me, if you don’t.  Just show some respect along the way, bro.  This organization traded a top-3 pick for you (Mayo), traded away an all-star caliber player (Al Jefferson) to put you in the driver seat, paid you over $43 million, and would be happy to pay you the rest of the $31+ mil left on your contract, and then some.

The “this” that I’m talking about, that we could get over, is you dissing us, the fans! NBA basketball is a business, yadda yadda yadda, and the Timberwolves aren’t going to have anybody feel sorry for them.  But we fans have had your back for the past six years.  And it’s our hard-earned cash that ultimately pays your contract.

So far, you seem to have forgotten about us.  In an interview in LA last month, you said, “In six years I haven't been in the playoffs, and I think it's time for people to be watching me.”  Hey, Kevin, what are we, chopped liver?  We’ve been watching you for six years.  Cheering for you, even.  And yeah, we noticed you haven’t made the playoffs.

We’ve had to endure you talking about the Timberwolves as “they” and you fielding questions about how desirable such locations as New York and Cleveland (!) would be for you.  How was your trip to Boston, Kevin?  I hear Big Papi was offering advice on making the move there from Minny.  Maybe he can help you find some steroids too???  (I’m sorry, Papi, I didn’t mean that, honest.  This is just a tough time for me.  You know, with Kevin and everything…)

On SportsNation, you said that you received some advice.  And if that advice was for you to get out of Minnesota, I can’t find any fault in that.  It’s a free country, there’s probably more endorsement money to be made elsewhere, and there are definitely better teams out there.  And then there’s the winter…

But at what cost?  Was that advice to weasel your way out of your contract a year early, abandon your teammates and insult them on the way out, and all the while seem completely oblivious to the big “f--- you” you’re giving to your loyal and supportive fanbase?  I sure hope not.  If it was, you need to find somebody else from whom to take advice.

Eff yous notwithstanding, I still care about you, Kevin, so I’m going to offer you some free advice of my own.  Look yourself in the mirror and remind yourself that you signed a contract with the Minnesota Timberwolves, and by extension, their fans.  Request a trade, sure.  And if you have beefs with the organization, then by all means, take it up with them.

But here’s an idea: play out your contract!  Put in your work without being a complete baby about it.  Leave it up to the team as to whether they want to risk losing you in free agency.  The Wolves will likely be better this year, and guess what, they’ll pay you over $15 million bucks either way.

If not?  You do still owe something to the fans, and we’re not asking for much.  If you’re sick of losing and missing the playoffs, you don’t think that’s going to change, and you want to play somewhere else?  Fine.  We get it.  We’re sick of the losing, too, and can’t quite blame you.  Just don’t play the martyr.  As Flip put it best, “you’re either part of the problem, or part of the solution.”  And as Marcellus Wiley was fair to point out, don’t hide behind your agent.  You make the decisions, so stand behind them.

And do yourself a favor.  If you do end up with a new team, play some defense.  Don’t take plays off.  Work on your body language, and consider the team to be greater than yourself.

And, hey, did you hear about our new draft pick?  He went to UCLA and Flip calls him the best athlete in the draft, even if he is a bit of a project…  Oh, never mind.

But one last thing: if you ever run into Stephon, have him call me?

Fatherhood and Baseball, in that Order

I grew up watching NFL football in the mid-nineties, back when Norman Julius Esiason’s nickname, Boomer, spoke more to his strong arm as a quarterback than to his pontificating on sports talk radio.

Regrettably, I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing him in utero, when he apparently received the nickname from Mama Esiason.  According to the New York Times, it was his prolific prenatal kicking that made him Boomer.

It’s unclear as to whether said kicking was truly an effort to encourage labor at an earlier time or if it was just to call attention to himself.  Which is not unlike his recent rant against New York Mets infielder Daniel Murphy’s decision to miss the first two games of the baseball season.

On April 2, Esiason’s co-host, Craig Carton, bemoaned the fact that the Mets had to call up a minor league replacement as they awaited Murphy’s return from paternity leave.  Carton clarified that Murphy’s wife gave birth on Monday (around noon) and it would have been legitimate, in his mind, to miss the game that day.

However, especially since the Mets’ second game was not until Wednesday, Carton wondered aloud about the legitimacy of Murphy missing Wednesday’s game as well.  “I mean, what are you doing?” Carlton said.

Esiason then took it a step further: “Quite frankly, I would have said ‘C-section before the season starts, I need to be at opening day…’”  His explanation had something to do with being able to send his kids to college.  In conclusion, Boomer said, “Get your ass back to work.”

Esiason has since offered a statement to apologize.  And, as far as predictable and presumably involuntary apologetic statements go, this one seemed fairly sincere:

My deep apologies to both Daniel and Tori Murphy for creating an intrusion into a very sacred and personal moment in their lives, and that’s the birth of their son, Noah. Daniel is the Mets’ second baseman, whose brief paternity leave led to a flippant and insensitive remark that I sincerely regret. (In the) meantime, I’m very grateful to my many friends over at the March of Dimes who graciously reached out and re-educated me that if a pregnancy is healthy, it is medically beneficial to let the labor begin on its own rather than to schedule a C-section for convenience. In fact, babies born just a few weeks early have double the risk of death compared to babies born after 39 full weeks of pregnancy. As their promotional campaign says, ‘Healthy babies are worth the wait.’ And as a proud father, I couldn’t agree more.” ( From CBS Local)

In fact, I must admit I was fairly impressed by the depth of his apology.  He went past the threshold of “I’m sorry if you were offended” and went on to explain exactly where he felt he had offended and even sought to remedy his wrongdoing with education.  Perhaps some of us are more aware than others about the inherent risks associated with major surgeries, but that’s another story.  Again as far as politically-correct sorrys go, bravo.  Truly.

What’s still unresolved, however, is what seems to me to be a curious cluelessness regarding the point of paternity leave, particularly in reference to Carlton’s intimation that any time off “now that she’s had the baby,” is essentially overkill.

“There’s nothing you can do anyway,” he says.  “You’re not breastfeeding the kid.”

To Boomer’s credit, he initially defends Murphy by saying he has the legal right to take some time off.  But it’s then that he proceeds to give his endorsement of elective Cesareans.

Believe it or not, an additional, unassociated New York-based sports radio host is also struggling to comprehend what good a little old man can be to a woman and their child she had just delivered.

Mike Francesa, also a nationally-renowned sports personality, called paternity leave a “gimmick” and a “scam” while discussing the Murphy story on his own show.  “I guarantee you are not sitting there holding your wife’s hand. . . . I had three kids. . . I was at the birth and was back to work the next day. I didn’t see any reason not to be working. Harrison [Francesa’s son] was born at nine in the morning. I worked that day. What was I gonna do, sit with my wife in the hospital?”

What seems to be the sticking point for Carlton, who to my knowledge has not apologized or taken back any of his statements, as well as Francesa, who has publicly refused to do either, is that yeah, while everybody likes a few days off, there’s nothing specific to childbirth that merits a man excusing himself from work any longer than it takes to witness the birth itself.

Carlton and Esiason did mention the role a father would play in setting up a “support system” as something he could nobly do within the 24 hours they have allotted by virtue of their sports radio authority.   Hell, Francesa even said, “You can hire a nurse to take care of the baby if your wife needs help.”

Hmmm.  I don’t know, guys, I think I’m really starting to believe that “there ain’t nothing to do,” as Carlton says, so don’t try to convince me that the woman might need help.  Sounds like a gimmick.  Maybe even a scam!

Of course, what’s been missing from most of this conversation is, you guessed it, the woman.  I’m not sure I need to take the time here to explain how a man could be helpful in the days immediately after childbirth.  But if any of our aforementioned radio heads want to know, they could probably just ask the women who have given birth to their children.  As the saying goes, better late then never.

More broadly, though, what’s really at stake here is fatherhood.  Is a man a father simply by impregnating a woman?  In the literal sense, yes.  But anyone who’s ever had a father worth the name--or moreover, anyone who’s never had anything more a literal father--can tell you that fatherhood doesn’t end with a sexual act.  That’s merely when fatherhood begins.  Our at least should.

So bravo to Major League Baseball for instituting its 3-game paternity list policy in 2011 (yes, Murphy only missed two games), which allows its players to step away from their professional duties and focus on their fatherly duties.  Even if that means (gasp) simply sitting with their wives in the hospital.

But of course fatherhood is more than that.  It’s even more than changing diapers in the middle of the night.  But that’s definitely part of it, as Murphy has learned firsthand.

"We had our first panic session,” Murphy explained to reporters once he’d returned from leave.  “It was dark. She tried to change a diaper, couldn't do it. I came in," he said. "It was just the three of us, 3 o'clock in the morning, all freaking out. He was the only one screaming. I wanted to."