You Herd Me!: I'll Say It If Nobody Else Will

by Cowherd, Colin

  People behind the rope.

  Do these people have agendas? No question.

  Do they have access and insight? Absolutely.

  In music, the Grammys are chosen from the votes of 150 experts from various musical fields. Artists, producers, engineers … you know, people with access. Voters can vote only in their area of expertise, which means a jazz artist can’t vote on Best Gospel Album. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s nomination committee has six hundred members including artists, historians, and working industry veterans.

  You can almost hear Garth from Wayne’s World saying, “Who would know rock better than those who rock themselves?”

  I’m not anti-sportswriter. And God knows I’m not anti–talking head. But listen to the numbers on some of these sports panels:

  The NFL Hall of Fame, the shrine of pro football immortality, bases its inductions on the opinions of thirty-seven people—all of them media members.

  How many could diagram even one play? If they were all in a room, how many would be able to tell the difference between “Z right wiggle, 24 fox chase, double tight left, zap set on two,” and “tight right, eagle slant and go, 44 jet Zebra motion and set”?

  How many have watched any film at all? How many go to training camp every summer? Don’t you think an eleven-year NFL player like Archie Manning would have a better sense of greatness than, say, a columnist who was promoted from beat reporter and doesn’t even cover practice with any regularity?

  And yet people like the columnist—and not people like Manning—are the arbiters of football immortality.

  The voting for the Heisman is so regionally biased that it borders on embarrassing. Andrew Luck, the best college quarterback I’ve ever seen either live or on television, claimed only a third-place vote on one ballot in the South, where perhaps they mistook Andrew Luck for a magician or a scratch-off game.

  Who got the first-place vote? A running back from Alabama, of course, who ran behind an offensive line filled with future NFL high picks and gained an impressive 1,600 yards. But a closer look reveals that four of his five biggest rushing games were against North Texas, Georgia Southern, a two-win Mississippi team, and an Auburn team that was 1-5 against ranked teams.

  In the 2012 Heisman race, Johnny Manziel won five of six regions, and deservedly so. Where did he lose? In the Midwest, where voters went with a linebacker, Notre Dame’s Manti Te’o.

  Manziel produced over 5,000 yards of total offense and forty-seven touchdowns in college football’s best defensive conference and almost single-handedly turned his program around by beating No. 1 Alabama on the road.

  Te’o, whose popularity was based partly on Notre Dame mythology and partly on Dead Girlfriend mythology, had fewer tackles as a senior than he did as a junior. And not only that, but in November, as Notre Dame was pursuing an undefeated season with some of its biggest games, Te’o had just thirteen solo tackles in four games.

  The NBA got into the act in the 2012–13 season—media voters were woefully off-target when they voted Marc Gasol as NBA Defensive Player of the Year. The thirty NBA head coaches—you know, the guys who study film and organize game plans and see every player in the league live and in-person—didn’t have Gasol on the All-NBA first-team defense. To take it a step further, the coaches didn’t even have Gasol as the best defensive player on his own team. That honor went to guard Tony Allen. To make matters worse, it was the second straight year the media’s number one pick didn’t merit first-team accolades from the coaches.

  These are the same voters who bestowed upon Phil Jackson just one Coach of the Year award despite his eleven NBA titles. That means Jackson has won as many awards—one—as beleaguered Lakers coach Mike D’Antoni, whose teams have such a reputation for poor defense that he’s called Mike Antoni. (Drop the D—get it?)

  Sam Mitchell has a Coach of the Year plaque in his trophy room, too. It came in his lone winning season. His career record? 156-189. It would be hysterical if it wasn’t so regrettable.

  And baseball … baseball might be the worst.

  You have to be a member of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America for ten years to vote for the Hall of Fame. The problem: many of the members who have a vote don’t cover the sport regularly. Some don’t cover it at all. A writer who covers a team for a year can remain a dues-paying BBWAA member even if he immediately leaves the beat after that one year and becomes a food writer.

  According to Tyler Kepner of the New York Times, some writers still voting have spent decades with no involvement in the sport whatsoever. Baseball’s voting structure means that our hypothetical food writer has a vote but Vin Scully, the most eloquent and informed baseball broadcaster ever, has no vote.

  Eleven voters kept Babe Ruth from being a unanimous first-ballot Hall of Famer.

  The Sultan of … say what?

  Bias seeps into everything. It’s part of the human condition, so instead of raging against something that’s inherent in all of us, learn to filter it and manage it. Think of it as accepting the flaws in your mate. The love flows more easily when you aren’t searching for—or demanding—perfection on a daily basis. You understand the flaws and appreciate the gifts.

  Halls of fame and awards in sports shouldn’t be controlled by people who lack a behind-the-rope quality. They can be part of it—jury—but not judge. Once I filter out the bias, I need to form an opinion based on what’s left.

  So stop fixating on bias and concern yourself with access and insight. If you can take me places I can’t see or experience without you, that’s a special relationship.

  But if you don’t think Babe Ruth is a first-ballot Hall of Famer, or if you can’t see that Phil Jackson is substantially better than Sam Mitchell, I’m going to be left with no choice but to reduce your power to influence anyone’s thinking.

  But your bias? Forget it. I’m already over it.

  My parents or teachers often relied on proverbs or maxims in times of crises. They were the guiding lights through chaotic times. At least that was the intention. Most were really corny but a handful stand the test of time.

  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is a pretty solid message in any era.

  The one I struggled to get my arms around was always, “You’re only as strong as your weakest link.”

  At least in sports, that’s just not always true.

  During the Michael Jordan era, considered the NBA’s golden age, the bottom of the league was atrocious. While the Bulls were piling up 72 wins in 82 regular season games—seven other teams had fewer than 30 wins. Yet television networks have no obligation to broadcast bad teams. The NBA should use this motto: “We are as strong as our strongest are.”

  Television revenue has far surpassed gate revenue for most sports leagues. Owners and leagues flourish when they sign multiple lucrative network deals. Those deals don’t have stipulations handcuffing networks to lousy teams. No network ever has to broadcast a Jacksonville Jaguars game. In essence, deals are all about your strongest and most interesting, not your weakest and least captivating, teams.

  Salary caps have mostly eliminated dynasties in professional sports. Great teams are disassembled due to financial restraints. Furthermore, you can only afford so many stars on one team, which even limits how good the very best can be. Even the best teams have holes now. Everybody has weaknesses. It’s mostly about having the talent that can make plays or change the direction of a close game. With added scouting and technology, nobody can hide their flaws.

  It’s no longer about your weakest link as much as it is about having a top end or a transcendent star nobody can defend or stop.

  The Miami Heat are maybe the worst rebounding team in the NBA in a league that habitually rewards that. They have been to three straight NBA Finals because nobody has figured out how to slow down LeBron James consistently.

  A hot goalie can erase all sorts of flaws for a hockey team. Find him and sign him.

  A few years ago the Connecticut
Huskies won a national title while only finishing tenth in the Big East during the regular season. You don’t finish tenth without several weaknesses. How did they do it? Nobody could stop guard Kemba Walker once the tournament rolled around.

  Get great at something and spend less time trying to fix every little problem. You can win with weakness.

  For the record, I still think you should treat others the way you wish to be treated.

  A False Positive

  You know what America really needs? Another Tim Tebow column.

  At this point, roughly seven years into our bizarre national obsession with the world’s most famous backup quarterback, there’s nothing I can serve up that you haven’t chewed, swallowed, and digested a hundred times. So I’ve decided to take a different approach by discussing the word sustainability.

  You know the word. It’s trendy, a buzzword with chefs who seek seafood either caught or farmed in ways that take into account the impact on the long-term vitality of the oceans. It’s a buzzword in the construction industry, where a more enlightened approach has caused builders to use processes and resources that are more environmentally responsible.

  From food to floors, people are seeking sustainability.

  An NFL franchise is no different. Every general manager and player-personnel guy should be building his team with sustainability in mind. You look at now, sure, but you look at now with an eye on tomorrow. You’ve got to build something that not only lasts but doesn’t destroy all your future resources.

  This is where Tebow comes in.

  Damn it, Colin, you said this wasn’t a Tebow column.

  Sorry. I bluffed. But stick with me. This will be the most valuable Tebow column ever written. There’s a lesson to be learned for all mankind here, I promise.

  Of all the fashionable words of our time—fusion, fiscal cliff, web-friendly, pesto—sustainability is the king. So why not link it with something we all love?

  No, not Tebow.

  Football.

  The foundation of every pro-Tebow argument consists of two words and two words only: he wins.

  That’s the homing beacon, the shining light in rough waters, pointing them toward safety.

  For the record, he’s won eight, lost six, and split two playoff games. Statistically, he does win more than he loses—by two games. I’m willing to let the Tebowers have this one, though, because even the most ardent among them don’t claim he’s Peyton Manning.

  Tebow’s problem in the NFL is more intrinsic to his style. His way of winning is not viewed as sustainable by the league’s sharpest minds. His quarterback ratings in his sixteen NFL starts read like interstate highways: 32, 88, 20, 38.

  That’s not a six-lane highway to the Super Bowl.

  If you want to win big and win regularly, your quarterbacks not only have to be consistent. They also have to be consistently good.

  The average QBR of the last ten Super Bowl–winning quarterbacks is 93.3.

  Tebow’s career average: 75.

  That’s not close.

  We’re not comparing Picasso to Matisse here. We’re comparing Josh Groban to a $50-a-gig wedding singer. For coaches, a 75 QBR gets you fired.

  And consider the context. Tebow’s abysmal 75 rating is taking place amid a new, pass-happy, spread-offense world, with repeated rule changes that favor receivers. Nobody can regularly stop a good passing offense in the NFL these days, but Tebow can.

  All by himself.

  This isn’t a scheme or a fit thing. It’s not as if Tebow just hasn’t found the right organization to maximize a unique skill set. When the Patriots shocked the football world by signing him—for no guaranteed money, I might add—the first question anybody could ask was what position he would play under Bill Belichick. What does that tell you?

  All coaches and general managers are chasing the same white whale: a franchise quarterback they can build around for more than a decade. Does that seem like a grandiose plan? Maybe, but take a look at the top fifteen quarterbacks of all time based on passing yards: Joe Montana, Tom Brady, Drew Brees, Peyton Manning, Dan Marino, John Elway, Brett Favre, Johnny Unitas, Terry Bradshaw, Dan Fouts, Fran Tarkenton, Troy Aikman, Bart Starr, Roger Staubach, and Warren Moon.

  You see where they’re going with this? The average career length of those fifteen quarterbacks is 14.8 years. Three of them—Manning, Brees, and Brady—have years left. Staubach brings the average down slightly; he played only eleven years because of his military commitment. Moon started his career in the Canadian Football League and didn’t throw a pass in the NFL until he was 28.

  The average career of those fifteen quarterbacks is more than four times longer than the average starting career of a college quarterback. This is precisely where the debate over Tebow—the crux of the he wins confusion—lies.

  Tebow was perfect in Gainesville. But college football is transient. Almost everyone—players and coaches alike—are using their current job as a stepping-stone to something bigger and better and higher paying. Players leave after a couple of years, assistants want to be coordinators, coordinators want to be head coaches, and head coaches want to be head coaches at bigger programs or the NFL. Unlike past generations of head coaches, the Schembechlers and Hayeses, even the top college coaches bolt. Urban Meyer got sick, literally, and left Florida. Pete Carroll fled USC so fast he left a contrail. Nick Saban absolutely loved LSU, until all of a sudden he didn’t.

  The dynamics are different in the NFL. There are no stepping-stone jobs—the league is the final step. There are thirty-two of those jobs in the entire world. If you win, even in a spectacularly unglamorous place like Buffalo, you stay forever or until you get booted.

  Some jobs don’t have an upgrade. In television, it’s the unwritten rule of the late-night talk-show host. You get that job, you keep it and hang on until retirement. It’s Mount Rushmore.

  The college world is the coaching version of a three-day camping trip to a state park. Whatever keeps you warm for the night is fine. You survive today before you worry about tomorrow. Next week or next year might as well be a different lifetime. Everybody is playing the game within the game, angling for career advancement, determined to do one thing: win now.

  Sustainability doesn’t have the same currency in college football as it does in the NFL.

  The only long-termers in college are the boosters. They’ll still be here complaining and giving twenty-dollar handshakes forever. But college football has no pension plan for assistants and the players don’t get paid, so the sooner they can leave, the better. College is a resume builder—no more, no less.

  Pro football can be transient, but not necessarily by design. It’s similar to a mortgage, where longevity is rewarded with equity. The quick flip can reduce earning power. Longevity—sustainability, to stick with the theme—allows a coach to build a system that can sustain bad defenses, injuries, tough scheduling, free-agent misses, and bonehead drafts. All of this is predicated on building around a star quarterback who can overcome little defensive support and injured teammates by winning shootouts.

  Coaches and players have pensions in the NFL, so once you land the top quarterback it’s a signal to tell the wife and kids, “Let’s put our name on the mailbox. We’re going to be here for a while.”

  The single-bullet theory espoused by Tebow supporters—he wins—isn’t always the primary objective in the NFL. It might be hard for the ardent Tebowites to wrap their minds around, but it’s true. When Buffalo gave Ryan Fitzpatrick a contract extension on the basis of a four-game winning streak, the Bills were rightfully mocked. When Mike Shanahan allowed Robert Griffin III to play hurt, he was rightfully criticized. Those weren’t wise long-term decisions. Every individual win comes with too high of a cost if it derails the larger plan.

  The way in which Tebow wins is not a viable option for long-term success. He’s a guy who wins low-scoring games by the slimmest margins, with single-digit completions and a sub-fifty quarterback rating every other Sunday.

>   He is the quarterback version of a battery-powered flashlight: bright at first, increasingly dimmer as it’s used, and eventually discarded.

  So when fans want to preach the gospel of Tim Tebow: Winner, they’re thumbing their noses at sustainability and ignoring the bigger picture of the NFL: it’s not about winning this Sunday.

  It’s about winning every Sunday for 14.8 years.

  Nature vs. Nurture

  Respected baseball broadcaster Marty Brennaman called the idea nothing short of a travesty. Phillies closer Jonathan Papelbon called it stupid.

  What had Cuban defector-turned-overnight-lightning-rod Yasiel Puig done? In sports, the words travesty and stupid are generally reserved for serious offenses. For instance: crimes against humanity or the game. Maybe defacing property or cheating a teammate. In this case, though, Puig’s “crime” didn’t reach Al Bundy status, much less Al Capone.

  The harsh words and hostility toward the 22-year-old Dodger outfielder stems from this: he had miraculously compiled the best first month of a career in modern-day history. As a result, he was being considered for a spot in the 2013 All Star Game.

  That’s it.

  No punch line here.

  In the end, Puig lost out to Atlanta’s Freddie Freeman in the fan vote for the final spot on the National League roster. But the reaction from people in the sport—even Puig’s own manager, Don Mattingly, said Puig didn’t belong in the game—spoke volumes about baseball’s inflexibility and crankiness when faced with anything new and fresh.

  It’s a three-pronged attack: push back, roll your eyes, and publicly mock.

  The NBA and NFL embrace new faces. MLB interrogates theirs.

  However, instead of condemning baseball, is it possible that we’ve sidestepped a very obvious explanation? Wouldn’t it make perfect sense for anyone who lives in the ten-year cultural tunnel that produces major-league players to share the same rigid sensibilities?

  The answer is that simple: they’re a by-product of a narrow culture.