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BY SAM BELL and SAM BRECKENRIDGE

In print | Published September 2, 2004

The unthinkable happened — we got lit up.

We fondly remember the good old days. In 1992, 1996, and 2000, the United States proudly sent its best NBA players to Barcelona, Atlanta and Sydney. The dominance was beautiful. Nothing beats the image of Vinsanity straddling the head of a seven-foot, cheese-eating Frenchman. (Why didn’t Lipton use this image to market its teabags?) Chris Mullin and Vin Baker even got some PT. But it was more than that — we were untouchable, consistently beating opponents by at least 30 points. Competing players wept, as if touched by God, when MJ, Magic or “Basketball Jesus” brushed against them on their way to the hoop.

In the words of Biggie, “Things done changed.” Now we ain’t shit.

What happened? We’ll tell you what happened — the USA master marksman was Shawn Marion (hereafter referred to in all subsequent columns as The Missing Link)!

Let’s break down his shot:

1. Marion retreats to the corner, hoping that a teammate will attempt the wide-open 14-foot jump shot.

2. Shawn’s teammates suck.

3. A panicking Amaré Stoudamire, now with the ball but positioned way out of his range at the free throw line, recognizes a familiar face and passes Marion the ball.

As the shot clock expires, Shawn brings the ball between his legs, enters anaphylactic shock, triple pumps and vomits the ball in the direction of the basket. Buddy, the little kid at the end of “Hoosiers”, rolls three times in his grave.

When the dust settled, Team Nightmare came home with a bronze medal. We are not impressed. But we can’t just blame this on Shawn Marion and his spastic jump shot.

Here’s what really went down:

*1. *Our best players — Kobe, KG, Shaq, Kidd, Bibby and T-Mac — were all MIA. We didn’t even invite the paragon of American sportsmanship, Rasheed Wallace. An argument could be made that these athletes had an obligation to their country, that a sense of national pride should have persuaded them to brave the four-star hotels, to suffer the new cultural experience and to endure the subsequent sneaker deals. They knew better. There are lots of places in the world where interminable adulation, wealth and fame greet large 18 year-olds. Hell, this country owes them.

*2. *The rest of the world can play ball. And this isn’t news to the NBA, which now averages at least one foreign player per team. Sure, it’s really tempting to poke fun at the way some of these teams behaved (aren’t Puerto Ricans supposed to be on our team?) or took care of their personal hygiene (the Italians tripped, fell and landed in Miami circa 1983), but credit should be given where credit’s due. While you probably won’t see Lithuania’s Frodo in any Lipton Teabag commercials, he, like most of our international opponents, could shoot the lights out.

It’s not that we’re pissed at the players. In the most real sense of the phrase, we feel their pain. First of all, it’s our team. Win, lose or suspended for drugs, they’re our boys. This year, the guys were uncomfortable. They looked out of sorts. Sitting on our couches, we were just as uneasy as Richard Jefferson, who consistently found himself hesitating and listening to the taunts of some poorly-shaven Argentinean daring him to shoot one mid-range jumper after another. We would have hit the side of the backboard too. Emotionally, we did.

Back in 1992, MJ, BJ and Magic were invincible, and so were we. Little Shmu developed his cockiness from mimicking Sir Charles’ basketball diplomacy. Sammy wasn’t allowed to watch television, but he could sense the pride in the voice of Corey Flintoff and the rest of the underpaid, unappreciated NPR staff. Marketplace is next, folks.

Sam and Sam are seniors. You can reach them at sbell1@swarthmore.edu and sbrecke1@swarthmore.edu.

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