The thought occurs -- what would Jerry Sloan the player have done with Baron Davis the player if Baron Davis the player had decked Jerry Sloan the player?
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| Jerry Sloan knows that there's no point in getting the Warriors riled up. (AP) |
Then again, who's to say that Sloan the coach didn't whisper quietly to both Fisher and Mehmet Okur, who got clocked on a gratuitous slam attempt by Jason Richardson late in Utah's 115-101 win in Game 4 on Sunday night, to let wounded dogs lie?
That's the inherent beauty of the Jazz, an odd yet profoundly effective team that runs erect and free under the radar all year long by winning a weak division, then muzzling a Houston team that ran a player light much of the year. Now they're on the big stage, weirdly enough granted them by the Golden State Warriors of all people, and you get a team so predictable yet so remarkably difficult to play.
And you end up back at Sloan, who as a player would have traded punches with Davis all night long if need be. You younger folk will just have to exhibit some trust on this -- either that or go find an older-timer who remembers the Bulls of the early '70s, one of the very best teams never to make it to the NBA Finals. Sloan was the off-guard and defensive specialist, and when we say defensive specialist, what we mean is boa constrictor in a bad mood.
And because we know how little you whippersnappers regard history, we'll just say this: Jerry Sloan was a flat-out bitch to play.
But that was a lifetime ago, and Sloan has been a coach for nearly 30 years, playing the same way, with essentially the same kind of player he was, tough-minded yet smart.
He endured some bad Bulls and Jazz teams before discovering the diamond-hard skills and personalities of Karl Malone and John Stockton, building an ethos around them that endures even now. Carlos Boozer, Okur, Fisher, Deron Williams, even Matt Harpring, they are all players with varying skills but a basic tough-mindedness that knows when it's time to take a swing and when it's time to pass on one.
Sunday, it was time to pass. When Davis skulled Fisher out of sheer we're-getting-our-asses-kicked-and-I'm-playing-like-doody frustration, nobody got clocked, and Fisher dismissed it as one of those things. When Okur got into it with Richardson in the waning moments, the eight peacemakers outvoted the two combatants, and Okur held his tongue afterward.
Why? Because Sloan wants nothing to get in the way of the difficult task of putting stake to heart Tuesday night in Salt Lake City. The Warriors run on emotion, so the idea is to give them as little as possible. The Jazz dominated the Warriors as the Warriors dominated the Jazz in Game 3, and given that the Warriors were already down 0-2, that worked just fine for Utah.
Sloan has done that math. Fisher has, too, because while he might be distracted by his daughter's condition, he is also the hand that holds the helium balloons, a player who is probably past his prime in every way but brain. And with the single momentary exception of Gordon Giricek, who seems to be playing right now with remarkably little confidence, the rest of the Jazz pick up on that and proceed accordingly.
Thus, they are a game away from the Western Conference finals, at which point they will become the Warriors -- the lovable underdogs nobody saw going this far.
Well, OK, lovable is probably stretching it a hair. Jerry Sloan doesn't convey "lovable" to any convincing degree. But he might actually be the best coach in the game because he doesn't give in to fads or personalities, even those of his loonball owner, Larry Miller. He provides know-how and spine to those who don't know how much it takes to excel in this league, and he rides veterans who do have the know-how and spine and makes sure they know to keep the rest of the herd in line.
And the question about Jerry Sloan the player? My own sense is four punches, but I could be romanticizing the past. At the very least, it would go all night, and there wouldn't be commemorative T-shirts given to the crowd at the end.
Ray Ratto is a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle.
