FanNation - The Republic of Sport

Plexiglass barriers had gone up along Linwood Street, encasing attendants at gas stations and clerks at liquor stores, sealing employees from harm but also human touch. Hard to slide a hug through a slot meant for credit cards, pens and pennies. After the racially charged riots of 1967, when the west side of Detroit burned, most of the remaining businesses installed bars, steel shutters and, of course, bullet-resistant glass, making every trip to the bodega feel like a prison visit.

Who could restore dignity to the neighborhood? Who could lift the spirits of residents, especially now, with the auto industry on empty? A renowned lazy ass. When I think of Derrick Coleman, I see a talented 6' 10" NBA forward of the '90s with the smooth head and the body that always looked pulled from a hamper. He could defy coaches, dress codes and traffic laws, and still conjure 20 and 10. No utterance underscored Coleman's ethos of apathy more than this response when he heard that a New Jersey Nets teammate had missed practice: "Whoop-dee-damn-do."

As it turns out, this was impatience speaking. A lot of athletes use the pros to escape their communities, but Coleman couldn't wait to use his basketball earnings -- about $90 million over 15 seasons -- to lay a bread-crumb path back to the neighborhood where he has long maintained a home. His is the one with the backyard basketball court, which friends tend to use as a parking lot.

Did he ever love his NBA job? "I didn't have a hard time [leaving]," Coleman says. "I don't miss playing the game." This sentiment won't square with anyone who celebrates Brett Favre's desire to speak in audibles till his last football breath. "Oh, we'd get mad at DC too," laughs John Johnson, a longtime neighborhood friend of Coleman's. "We'd see DC lying on his back with a towel over his head, not playing. We'd yell at the TV, 'DC, get in the game!' "

It's worth remembering what Favre said before reneging on retirement, when asked what he planned to do next: "Nothing," expressing a vacuum of purpose many players feel at the end. Coleman, 41, always knew the future would bring an adrenaline rush. On the drive back to Detroit from Syracuse in 1990, shortly before he would be drafted No. 1 by the Nets, Coleman told Johnson that when he retired he wanted to use his riches to right old wrongs. "As a kid I got tired of talking to people through glass," says Coleman. "Why can't I have a conversation with you without talking through glass?"

There is neither plexiglass nor steel bars in the four stores he owns in Coleman's Corner, a handsome strip mall of brick and stucco he opened last year, part of a $6 million (and counting) investment he has made into developing the first retail center on Linwood Street since the riots. So neighbors don't get haircuts in their basements anymore; they gather at the Barber Lounge, where they can talk politics and watch football on the tube every Sunday. So teens don't have to take two buses to a suburban mall for a job; they can walk a few blocks to punch a clock at Hungry Howie's, the pizza franchise Coleman owns and Johnson manages.

Johnson was the one who winced when Coleman refused to raise prices as gas shot to $4 a gallon and the cost of food skyrocketed. He was the one who saw a 2% drop in the ledger after Coleman decided to offer a dollar slice of pizza from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. last summer. "Derrick remembered how, as kids, we'd take bottles in for a deposit," Johnson says. "He wanted kids to be able to buy a slice with them. I'd tell him, 'It's costing us.' And he'd say, 'That's O.K., school will be open soon. Then, we'll end it.' "

Some of those same children held an ear of corn for the first time when Coleman, a student of urban agriculture, brought a weekly farmers' market to a parking lot across from his mall. Who knew eating right didn't include a Fruit Roll-Up? "And you wonder why we, as black people, have a high rate of diabetes and high blood pressure," says Coleman, who hopes to ultimately own seven blocks in the area. He can talk green energy solutions, biofuels and the platform of his candidate for Detroit mayor, Dave Bing, the Hall of Fame guard and former Piston. Years ago, Bing built his manufacturing business in Detroit's inner city. "He has been my father figure," says Coleman, who stood next to Bing when he announced his candidacy last month. "I'm in his footsteps."

As even Bing acknowledges, there are safer places to invest than Detroit for millionaire athletes. "Yeah," says Coleman, "but if I don't try, how will I know?" A man of perseverance, this is the DC few knew beyond Linwood. All along, the NBA knucklehead wasn't misspending his talents, but saving for the day when his vision would shatter security glass.

-- Selena Roberts

Even now, at 50, Mike Singletary gives the impression that at any moment he might submit to the urge to make one more tackle, that he might put on a helmet and drive his face mask into your chest with such force that your sternum would meet your spine. It's not that there is any malevolence about him, just an unyielding intensity that hasn't dissipated in the 16 years since he retired as the Chicago Bears' middle linebacker. While the rest of the world is on simmer, Singletary is on permanent boil.

That's why he hardly seems to be the sort of coach who would become a punch line. Not only is Singletary the kind of man you do not laugh at, but he is also the kind you might even hesitate to laugh with, unless you were sure of his permission. But there is something inescapably comical about a coach giving his team a motivational speech with his pants around his ankles, as Singletary did at halftime of his first game as the San Francisco 49ers' interim coach, a 34-13 loss to Seattle on Oct. 26, and it brought the jokesters out to play. Was Singletary angling to join Michael Jordan in the next Hanes underwear commercial? Did he think that turning his boxer-clad backside to his team was the only way they would get to see an end zone? Was he demonstrating the proper way to give the Seahawks a second-half wedgie?

The dropping of the pants, which was intended to illustrate how the Niners were getting their tails whipped and how humiliating that should feel, raised a more serious issue -- whether Singletary is the passionate, no-nonsense coach needed to turn around a lousy team or a loose cannon who's too intense to realize when he's embarrassing himself. He isn't particularly concerned with the public's verdict, but the opinion of team owners John and Denise DeBartolo York will determine whether he returns next season. "I'm not going to change anything about my nature," he says. "One thing I learned is that nothing is sacred in the locker room anymore. Anything you say or do might end up out there on someone's blog or radio show. But that won't keep me from doing what I need to do to get my message across to my players."

But the truly laughable thing about Singletary's situation is the idea that he's too unpredictable to run the 49ers long-term, when nearly everything else about him screams stability and success. He spent his entire 12-year career with one team, which he helped lead to a Super Bowl championship, and has spent his entire adult life with one woman, his wife, Kim, the college sweetheart with whom he has seven children. Singletary is loyal, passionate and intelligent, which his players seem to realize. Even Vernon Davis, the mercurial tight end whom Singletary banished to the locker room for drawing a foolish penalty against Seattle, accepted his punishment without dispute.

And linebacker Takeo Spikes appreciates where Singletary is coming from. "He'll make you do a drill three, four, five times if you don't get it right, and at first you get mad," Spikes says. "But then he says, 'You know why? Because I love you too much to let you slide.' You want to give your best effort for a coach like that."

The only important error Singletary made was buying into the outdated idea that professional athletes can be spurred to better performances by locker-room oratory or other motivational mind games. By the time a player reaches the NFL he has built up an immunity to psychological stunts, and all of his buttons have long since been pushed. Unless a coach can promise a date with Jessica Alba as a reward for a win, he is usually wasting his time by getting creative with his motivational techniques.

Singletary needs a bag of tricks even less than most. The sheer heat of his personality provides all the inspiration his players need, and perhaps he is beginning to realize that. It didn't take long for him to promise that in the future his speeches, both to his players and to the press, would be less volatile. "Maybe I'll drink a little more water," he said, in reference to channeling his intensity. "Maybe I'll breathe a little bit."

The 49ers, meanwhile, would be wise to take a good look at what they have -- an African-American man who came to prominence in Chicago and is intent on proving that he is more than a compelling speaker, that he's not too risky a candidate to be put in charge during hard times. It wouldn't be the worst move for the Niners to put their faith in such a man. There is, after all, some precedent for that kind of thing.

-- Phil Taylor

Brent Barry was kind enough to share a transcript of his poem with SI.

When it rains...

I can't help but sit here and think of what this means,
For the fans in the city of Seattle and what seemed to be routine.
Like a ferry ride to Bremerton or fresh salmon from old Pike Place,
A cup of joe while on the go, crossing bridges at a snails pace.
But this season there is silence, a reason not to cheer,
The balls have all stopped bouncing and the Sonics are not here.
Now life has more to offer us than just a doctor's game,
But for most of you, and it includes me too, Let me remind you of some names...
It was "The Voice" Bob Blackburn who announced Spencer Haywood coming in,
Then Bill Russell coaching Slick and Spencer and Tommy Burleson.
It was basketball in the great Northwest, you could feel it all around,
And fans held tight and tuned in each night to see Downtown Freddie Brown.
They paved the way for some inspired play and Lenny Wilkens returned to lead,
But in '78, while playing great, a title was not to be.
Lonnie Shelton and JJ had entered the mix, and the likes of Sikma too,
Then DJ and Gus, like the rest of us, saw the Green and Gold pull through.
From Alki to Pioneer Square, a celebration fans could not shirk,
As kids came down with phantom flus and dads skipped out on work.
The 80s had come, and with it some Magic, and a Bird that flew high in the East,
Still Chambers and Ellis, pretty nice fellas and X Man. Oh what a beast!
The 90s brought grunge, alternative stuff and everyone took the pill,
They brought in George Karl, and with wit and a snarl, he seemed to fit the bill.
Gary Payton took his rightful place, as the greatest to wear the fatigues,
And with alley-oops and spinning scoops the Glove was tearing through the league. (Did I mention that he liked to talk trash?)
The Reign Man was made immortal, ripping rims down coast to coast,
And the biggest treat to all those plays was Kevin Calabro as the host.
Squatch was waving Sonic flags with fans right by his side,
And KC was on that magic carpet and taking you for the ride.
There was Det and his mullet, Big Smoothe and the Hawk too,
And Mr. Sonic Nate McMillan, who gave his career to you.
Those teams were special for the Emerald City, it's style was renown,
Sixty-four wins in a single season?  And seeing Mutombo on the ground...
Then glimpses of a Baker, a Mason and a Rashard Lewis, Ray Allen tickled many twines but barely even knew us.
And here I sit in my office space and think of my career,
And what to say to my two sons, did the team just disappear? I played in Key Arena, I lived on Queen Anne hill, I played pinball at Shorty's after games and ate burgers at Red Mill.
I would have some chowder down at Duke's and watch the planes take flight And find myself in Fremont if I needed a beer that night.
I saw Star Wars at Cinerama, tossed a pitch at Safeco field, Drove all the way to Bellingham to see Pearl Jam perform Yield.
I ate at Belltown restaurants, I strolled all of Greenlake Park,
And loved to view the Christmas lights downtown when it got dark.
I lost golf balls at Snoqualmie but never got a chance to ski it,
I feel like kids who love pro ball and will never get a chance to see it.                             

A chapter left unwritten, a generation with a gap, Forty one years of NBA action and now no one can clap.

 So what's my wish? It's simply this,

 It's when the city doesn't face this plight.

 And you hear it said, instead of bed,

 I'm going to the Sonics game tonight.

As you may know, the Oklahoma City Thunder held its first-ever home opener last week, against the Milwaukee Bucks. Me, I headed to the only place to be on such a historic night: Floyd's Place bar in Seattle.

Strange thing, though. When I showed up just in time for the 5 p.m. tip-off, ready to watch the Sonics -- oops, I mean the Thunder -- Floyd's was cold and empty; it was like walking into a Kafka novel. The walls of the venerable Sonics hangout were still painted yellow and a green foam finger made its pointless boast behind the bar, but there was no game on the TV and not a fan at the rail. The only patron was a white-haired gentleman mumbling incoherently into his beer, and he didn't look much like a sports fan. Though, on second thought, maybe he was. That's how bad it is in Seattle these days.

Think your city's suffering? Imagine if your favorite team bolted town after 41 seasons, not for some cosmopolitan burg but a dusty outpost where oil derricks qualify as urban skyline. Now imagine turning to your city's other teams for solace only to find each to be avert-your-eyes abysmal. Welcome to Seattle, home of the Sportspocalypse.

Don't take it from me, though. Here's Sherman Alexie, the brilliant Seattle writer and National Book Award winner, summoning all his powers of eloquence. "It is," he proclaims, "the worst f------ year ever."

To recap: Last season, the Mariners lost 101 games despite a $118 million payroll, which is sort of like splurging for gastric bypass surgery only to get fatter. They had a designated hitter who couldn't hit (Jose Vidro), a high-priced pitcher who couldn't pitch (Carlos Silva) and a general manager (Bill Bavasi) who, judging by his record, seemed better suited to philanthropy. "A terribly misevaluated roster," says David Cameron of the blog ussmariner.com. "Probably one of the worst baseball teams of the last 40 years." And Cameron is an M's fan.

Football provides no refuge. The Seahawks were supposed to contend, but through Sunday they were 2–6, and lame-duck coach Mike Holmgren has begun to resemble a walrus with acute acid reflux. Beloved U-Dub is even worse. After an 0–7 start Washington announced it would let coach Tyrone Willingham go at the end of the season; the Huskies are 0–1 since. "It's so bad around here," laments longtime Seattle Post-Intelligencer columnist Art Thiel, "that people turn from sports to the financial pages to cheer up."

This is epic, once-in-a-lifetime badness. Don't even try to compare your city. Sure, the Bay Area's got it rough, and yeah, Cleveland is going through a dry spell of, oh, two generations or so. But to lose like this, on so many levels, is unprecedented -- hey, even Philly is all sunshine and rainbows right now -- not to mention bewildering. "We're not the Vanderbilts of losing, like Chicago with the Cubs," says Alexie. "We're like the nouveau riche of losing. We don't know how to react."

Everywhere there are cruel reminders. Instead of a Sonics game, Key Arena is hosting Disney's High School Musical on Ice. (What's worse, it'll probably draw twice as well.) Even the Seattle clichés are in the cellar. Coffee? If Starbucks were an NBA franchise, it would be clearing cap space; the company is closing hundreds of stores in the U.S. Grunge? Grunge got sent to the minors years ago, and only its bastard progeny like Nickelback remain in the Show. And rain? Well I suppose rain never loses -- only those who slog through it day after day do. Like, you know, the people in Seattle.

Brent Barry, the former Sonics guard who considers the Emerald City a second home, is so bummed that he wrote a poem called When It Rains, which he recited on Seattle sports radio last week. ("A chapter left unwritten, a generation with a gap/Forty-one years of NBA action, and now no one can clap.") Says Barry, who's now with the Houston Rockets, "I know there are more important things in life, with the economy and the election, but it's like a black hole up there."

Alexie, an actual poet who was involved in the failed Save Our Sonics campaign, admits that he's cried 20 times in the last year. How many men do you know who've cried 20 times in their lives? "The other day I tried to watch [the Thunder]," says Alexie, "and I saw Earl Watson take a stupid jumper, and I missed him so much."

Now that is grief. Still, there has to be somewhere to turn. Cameron, the blogger, considers his options. "I don't know," he says. "Who are we supposed to root for? Go Boeing?"

Not a bad idea, though he shouldn't get too attached. I hear Little Rock is looking to land an airplane manufacturer.

-- Chris Ballard

Also: Brent Barry was kind enough to share a poem with us.