Rooting Against a Rubio Trade

By Isaac Huss




















For a single, 31-year-old diehard Twins fan, trade deadlines are basically like Valentine’s day. You’re never unaware that it’s happening, and once every few years there’s someone new in your life that warrants your attention (the name Shannon comes to mind..Shannon Stewart, that is), but typically it comes and goes without so much as a raised eyebrow.

Then consider that the NBA closes trade season in mid-to-late February, and you’ll begin to understand why my unhealthy and irrational 7-year love affair with Ricky Rubio feels a bit threatened this time of year. Imagine my trepidation when the late great Flip Saunders (RIP) and now Tom Thibodeau are dangling the Babe from Barcelona into the trade waters, hoping someone, something would bite.

It was already about all that I (and my Twitter feed) could take when ESPN’s Brian Windhorst made it very clear that Thibs was trying to move Ricky, and that was long before Rubio dramatically started social media flirting with Kristaps Porzingis (he’s mine, Zingis).

I tried to quit Rubio, I did. I was convinced at the end of last year that, even as the team was making improvements, Ricky’s wasn’t. This was most obvious in the open jump shooting and finishing at the rim categories, of course. But it was his tendency to tense up and force bad passes and shots as the game tightened that was as much of a concern as any. After all, there are five guys on the court, and only one of them needs to shoot. But if one of them can’t shoot and can’t pass or make simple decisions about whether to do one or the other, well, then, the writing’s on the wall.

I also started to allow my heart to stray towards another: Kris Dunn. I was convinced by the draft lottery in May that Dunn was definitely the third-best player in the draft at worst. His combination of playmaking and scoring along with aggressive, physical defense had me dreaming about another favorite point guard of mine: Gary Payton. And while the Wolves staying at #5 wasn’t terribly promising in its likelihood of netting Dunn, I wasn’t without hope that he would fall to the Timberwolves at #5, and by golly he did.

Almost immediately, Woj bombs started dropping all around me claiming that Rubio was surely to be traded sooner rather than later, and just as immediately I had regretted my role in coveting Dunn. I should have known that Thibs would see Dunn as his guy and that Rubio would have to go. I was naive, in hindsight, to think we could draft Dunn and have him and Rubio coexist like Isiah and Dumars, hell even Ricky and Johnny (Flynn). After all, Jamal Murray was still available, and while I considered him a hair below Dunn based primarily on the defensive discrepancy between them (in favor of Dunn), I would now have preferred Murray if only it meant filling a more obvious need while more importantly not displacing Rubio, my love.

Well, to the surprise of just about everybody, Rubio not only survived that draft night in the blue and green but also the rest of the offseason, and was the opening day starter to kick off the 2016-17 season. But not even Dunn’s atrocious start to his NBA career could seem to dim Thibodeau’s affinity for him and subsequently his desire to unload Rubio to free up the starter position in the near--if not immediate--future.

Fast forward to the 2017 NBA trade deadline and you had all the makings of a Rubio trade: the lingering stench of the Reggie Jackson rumor (pull my hair back?), the less nauseating but not much more palatable Iman Shumpert rumor, and then the newest and sexiest but no less head-scratching, the Derrick Rose (and Joakim Noah) rumor, complete with Ricky and Kristaps sitting in a Twitter tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

You had Thibodeau effusing praise upon Dunn for months without giving Rubio a whiff of a vote of confidence, even though Ricky is by far the greatest veteran presence on the team (and it’s not even close) and has been showing real signs of turning a corner in terms of running Thibs’ offense, posting an incredible assist-to-turnover rate--despite some of the greatest degree of difficulty passes in the L--and even individual shooting-wise improvements.

The ultimate test of irrational fandom for a favorite individual player on a favorite team is how you would feel if he was traded away in an obviously beneficial trade scenario for your team (and even for your favorite player). For instance, if Ricky were to be traded to Indiana along with Shabazz, Brandon Rush, a number 1 and a number 2 draft pick for Paul George and Monta Ellis, that would be an objectively amazing trade for the hometown Timberwolves that might even make New Orleans blush.

But, admittedly, I would have a hard time getting excited about a trade like that, even in all its glory, but for the sole fact that it would mean Rubio would be leaving town. Even now, if I know Rubio isn’t going to be playing (like when he missed five games in November), I’m significantly less excited to watch even the likes of Karl-Anthony Towns, Andrew Wiggins, and Zach LaVine. It’s a problem, I know.

There’s just something about the way the man plays the game. He plays hard every minute. He never takes a play off on offense or defense. He’s constantly communicating with his teammates and coaches, on offense and defense, even in fleeting glances that set up jaw-dropping alley-oops or 70-foot leak outs. As Bill Simmons described his experience watching Larry Bird in The Book of Basketball, Rubio changes the way you watch the game. You start to see what he sees: plays developing ahead of time; open passing lanes before they open; hell, you even expect other NBA players to give their all like Rubio does, which is, shall we say, not typical.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Rubio’s play, however, is that he is so relatable. He’s certainly taller, longer, more Spanish, and better looking than most of us, but by all accounts, he’s a slow white guy who can’t jump or shoot. He plays with incredible emotion and leaves his heart on his sleeve. He tells teammates, “Change your face.” He cheers on the third-string point guard when he hits the game-winning shot after he supplanted Rubio himself in the crunch time lineup. What Rubio feels, we feel.

And, best of all--from a Timberwolves standpoint, anyway--Andrew Wiggins has shown himself more than capable of being the primary ball handler and setting up the offense (oftentimes himself) during crunch time. Not that I would ever prefer Rubio to stand in the corner spotting up during any set offensive play (ever), mind you.

But it does serve two purposes: 1. Starting the offense with Wiggins prevents teams from denying Wiggins the ball late in the shot clock and 2. It serves to help the team (and its fans) to avoid repeating the debacle against the Clippers four years ago when Kevin Martin had his pocket picked clean by Jamal Crawford when Martin was trying to bring the ball up the floor in the key play that helped turned a huge Timberwolves win into a crushing loss.

No, Rubio is no longer the liability in the clutch that he once was. He’s more of a threat with his shooting, and that seems to have bolstered his confidence and helped his ability to make the right pass with the game on the line. And, when he has an off game, Tyus Jones has shown the ability (as mentioned earlier) to step in and knock down shots when called upon.

So I’ll go to sleep tonight and rest easy knowing the trade talk has died down, that Thibs said he doesn’t see a trade that would improve his team (and those who heard him actually believe him), that he’s happy with his team as-is, and that we’ll likely have another Minnesota trade deadline come and go without anyone to show for it.

But until that 2pm deadline passes, I won’t be able to help still sweating it out, knowing that my favorite player, Ricky Ricard Rubio Vives may be slangin' his passes elsewhere--if not this week, then soon enough. And I’ll be sad. Like a jealous lover.

This post was amended on 2/23/2017 to account for the author's incorrect reporting of his own age.

STATUES OF LIMITATIONS

Celebrate imperfect athletes or withdraw fan club membership?

By Isaac Huss

Jeremy Jannene on Flickr

My favorite athlete as a child, hands-down, was Kiiiiiiirby Puuuuuuuckett. I was a rather impressionable six year old during the 1991 World Series, and boy did he leave an impression. Imagine my sublime delight, then, when I found out that I had been chosen to appear in a promotional poster along with my idol when I was seven (!). The poster was to advertise for the Kirby Puckett Eight-Ball Invitational in support of Children’s HeartLink, his preferred charity. Yeah, I had some modest success as a child model/actor, and while I had the fortune of appearing in a few other higher-paying spots, you couldn’t have paid me to stay away from this one.

Kirby showed up late, hardly said boo to me, and the poster never saw the light of day, thanks to an apparent dispute between the charity and Puckett’s wife. All things considered, I got my signed baseball, a meeting with my hero, and couldn’t have been happier. But it was the first time I realized that these sports stars I adored were not perfect, and it wouldn’t be the last time a dispute involving Mrs. Puckett caused me to think twice about idolizing her husband. But more on that later.

Selective Memories

Last Sunday, March 6 marked the ten-year anniversary of his death. Patrick Reusse of the Minneapolis StarTribune wrote a nice column reminiscing about Puckett through the eyes of former Twins teammate and longtime radio broadcaster Dan Gladden. He also said this: “We prefer to remember the great times and great laughs with Puck, rather than the public troubles that surfaced in the final 2 ½ years of his short life.”

I’d like to as well. In fact, I rarely prefer to remember the bad times I’ve undergone or witnessed of others. And the purpose of reliving these memories here is not to beat a dead horse, nor to color a dead man’s legacy.

Instead, I’m seeking something else: clarity. As in, what do I make of these conflicting sentiments that I harbor, essentially simultaneously, in my mind and heart? How do I reconcile the fact that perhaps my favorite athlete of all time was also, at least at times, a terrible human being? That even when he was at his most publicly likable he was very possibly also his most privately despicable? Is any reconciliation possible?

A Star for the People...

In the years following that magical 1991 season, Kirby’s play remained at a very high level, although his team went on the decline. That made him all the more endearing, really, as his greatness was even more impressive compared to his teammates and the overall state of the franchise. But then again, his numbers would have stood out on any team. After all, through his first ten seasons, he produced more hits than anyone in the modern era.

But of course the numbers couldn’t possibly tell the whole story. People adored Kirby. There was just something about him that endeared people to him: teammates, coaches, and fans alike.

So when his 12th major league season was cut short because of a pitch he took to the face, we were all crushed. When he was forced to retire the following season because of an irreversible case of Glaucoma, it hurt. The weird thing, though, was that we hurt for Kirby as much as anything.

...Now a Falling Star

But none of that compared to the gut-check I experienced when I learned about the accusation against him of sexual assault, and then subsequently of domestic abuse of his wife (and mistress too). Because Kirby wasn’t just a great player. He was a great guy. That was a huge reason he was a first-ballot Hall of Famer, because he was a humanitarian, a community-builder, and a great friend. Or so we were told.

In Frank Dedford’s landmark column, The Rise and Fall of Kirby Puckett, the author recounts with great candor how Kirby somehow won our hearts with a sparkling public persona and meanwhile, behind closed doors, was abusing his wife--when he wasn’t cheating on her, that is.

Not quite three years later, Kirby passed away after suffering a massive stroke. But it was as if he was already gone. His weight had gotten out of hand to the point where he hardly looked like himself, and the public fallout of his criminal transgressions had led him to leave Minnesota, where he had made his home since first coming up in the big-leagues in the mid-1980’s.

Tarnished Legacies or Revisionist History?

Last Monday, March 7, Peyton Manning retired from the NFL. Had he retired a year earlier, or even after his numerous neck surgeries left his career in the balance, he could have ridden off into the sunset a first-ballot Hall of Famer himself and with his pristine reputation as all-american man intact. Sure, he would only have one of his now-two Super Bowl wins, but he also would have retired before being famously accused of using performance-enhancing human growth hormones which were delivered to his residence under his wife’s name. He also would have dodged the re-emerging of a scandal from his college days at the University of Tennessee, where he was accused of sexually harassing a female trainer.

Manning’s statistical greatness as an NFL quarterback is unquestioned. But should we now remember him differently? After all, his likability (not to mention marketability) from his championship Manning family pedigree to his aw shucks good guy reputation has been larger than life--and maybe just as impressive as his playing heroics. As it is now, there simply can be no comprehensive overview of his legacy without mention of scandal. But heaven forbid he were to be more credibly linked to HGH, much less formally charged?

I’ve rooted for Peyton Manning from time to time, although never if he was facing my Vikings. I’ve also rooted for Adrian Peterson (still do), Darren Sharper, the Love Boaters, Onterrio Smith… the list of Vikings with spotted reputations is lengthy. Chuck Knoblauch. Latrell Sprewell. I hope Johnny Manziel makes a comeback. Does this make me a terrible person? Or a forgiving one? Or both?

That doesn’t mean I root for players and teams indiscriminately. And there’s a big difference between wearing around a Darren Sharper jersey and an Onterrio Smith jersey nowadays, even though both players are now likely be remembered more for their missteps as opposed to anything they did on the field. But what about a Manziel jersey? Would I be pulling for a guy to conquer his demons and live up to his potential? Or implicitly acquitting his (alleged) alcohol abuse and domestic violence? That probably have more to do with my own intentions than anybody else.

But the lingering question for me, then, is the same as it is for Reusse: how should I remember these stars? Can I “choose” to remember someone for what I liked about them? Perhaps the nobler thing would be to do so. Or do we have a moral obligation to remember the missteps as well, so as to not be doomed to repeat history?

Times They Are a-Changin’

In this new world of 24 hour news cycles, social media, and secular yet hyper-moralism, we may not even have the option to choose to remember the great times we *shared* with these athletes without also simultaneously remembering their sins. This will certainly keep us from forgetting their moral frailty, sure. But to what end?

It was the late Cardinal Francis George who observed in 2003 that, “In the United States, everything is permitted, even encouraged: 'Go for it, try it, do it,' and we are urged, no matter what the 'it' might be. But, while everything is permitted, practically nothing is forgiven.”

We give these professional athletes everything: fame, fortune, power, and moral license (within the law, of course), and rush to worship at their altars as soon as they wow us with their talent and athleticism and finish on top in our championship rounds. We’ll even, for the most part, accept their physical limitations if they let us down on the battlefield (with some exceptions; see Blair Walsh for a recent example).

And we rightly distinguish between moral missteps and athletic failings. But what about true forgiveness? Which, of course, is not the same as, “Well, he’s on my team and he’s better than our other options at running back, so I’ll ignore the fact that he still doesn’t seem to think he did anything wrong.”

To this day 34 is still my favorite number. I wore it proudly in any sport it was available, including a brief but forgettable high school varsity basketball career. If people ask “Why 34?” Well, it all started with a man named Kirby Puckett. Although Herschel Walker had something to do with it too, as did Isaiah Rider. I thought the best player on the team wore 34 and by the time I found out it was merely coincidence that those players all chose the same number, it was too late. Much later did I realize Kirby Puckett wasn’t the perfect player from whom to inherit a number.

But then again, is any?