Ballers, Gamers and Scoundrels

I should have known about Sherman “Jocko” Maxwell. I should have known about him, but I didn’t. And it saddens me.

You should have known about him, too.

We all should have known about him before he died last week, at the age of 100, in West Chester, Pa. Cause of death was complications from, well, the man was 100 years old.

We should have known about him because Maxwell was America’s first black sportscaster. Actually, back in 1929, when he read scores for five minutes every Saturday on WNJR in Newark, he was was a Negro. At best, as far as much of America was concern.

But like millions of other black men in his age and beyond, he was a man of class and dignity, I learned today as I read through the clips that accompanied his obits. He was a baseball fan who, through the grace of WNJR’s owner, was given an opportunity to read Negro League scores each week for the sation’s audience.

That was the beginning. Maxwell, I also learned today, ultimately did play-by-play for the Newark Eagles over the public address system, and was there when they won the Negro League World Series in 1946.

He was a baseball fan but in his career interviewed the greats of the day, including Sugar Ray Robinson and others.

Maxwell reported games for the Baltimore Afro-American and even chronicled Negro League games for the Newark Star-Ledger at a time when few non-black newspapers were reporting about those wondrous games. In fact, he kept such records at Negro League games that it seems folks believe much of its history would have been lost. “We, the old Afro-American players (the ones whom baseball’s social retardation kept out of their closed, lily white society for so long) owe him one hell of a debt,” Monte Irvin, 87, the former Newark Eagles/New York Giants superstar, said over the telephone yesterday. “So do the fans we had before they broke down racial barriers. So does baseball itself.”

In a sense, he was my Jackie Robinson. He was Bryant and Greg Gumble’s Jackie Robinson. Mike Tirico’s Jackie Robinson. Stephen A. Smith’s Jackie Robinson. James Brown’s Jackie Robinson. He was Jackie Robinson for the myriad black sportswriters who dot the cable and broadcast television and radio airwaves every day now.

And I should have known about him.

But I didn’t.

Oh and I learned that he was on the radio until his retirement in 1967. And that he never was paid a dime for a single moment he was on the air. “No salary ever in any sports, put that down,” he told the Star-Ledger’s Christine V. Baird in a wondrous profile published a decade ago. “Never asked. They never gave me any.

Maxwell earned his living as a postal worker.

Others have championed this, so I am only joining the chorus: Sherman “Jocko” Maxwell should be in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

The Star-Ledger’s Jerry Izenberg reported last week that there are 32 baseball broadcasters in Cooperstown, and yet Maxwell isn’t among them.

I didn’t know that, either. And I should have.

The weight of it all finally got to Jose Reyes. The weight of expectations. The weight of scrutiny. The weight of criticism - not so much of his performance, but his behavior.

Sure, the New York Mets’ wondrously gifted shortstop was as culpable as any during the team’s historic collapse last season. But when conversations turned to Reyes, the chatter wasn’t about his lack of production during that fall, but his behavior.

Now we’re not talking Pacman Jones behavior here. We’re talking simply Jose being Jose. Displaying an exuberence beyond measure. A joy that oozed from every pore. And elaborate hand-shaking, arm-slapping, booty-bumping celebrations that punctuated every great play.

Internally, team executives and even some of his teammates looked down on the moves. They whispered that Reyes weren’t being professional, that his hystrionics showed an immaturity. Some local media were even more harsh. Last fall, I shared the set during one local show when one of the other panelists described Reyes as a “punk” for his antics.

The weight of it all finally got to him, and Reyes vowed he would be different. During spring training he promised to show us a new, more reserved Reyes, a more professional Reyes.

Thank goodness that didn’t last very long.

Jose Reyes is back, and I’m glad for it. The Mets are, too. He’s become the spark that lights the fire in New York.

Prior to tonight’s game against arch-rival Philadelphia, Reyes was 10 for his last 23 at bats. That rush included two homers, three RBIs and Reyes himself scored six runs.

Coincidentially (or not), the Mets won all five games, matching their longest win streak of 2007. The last four victories came against the Phillies, who humiliated them last fall by winning the division  - and who’d won nine straight over the Mets before Jose became Jose again.

Prior to that, the pedestraian, professional Jose was playing  pretty pedestraian baseball. So were the Mets. Now they’re 10-6.

The Jose we know would still be on the side of a milk carton had not teammate Carlos Beltran asked/ordered him last Tuesday to cut the crap (not sure how you say that en Espanol) and be himself.

Be himself. Beltran finally figured out that all of that holier-than-thou weight that finally got to his teammate was silly. Why do athletes have to be robots? Why do they have to conform to some old-school edict?

Don’t they just have to play? Play and respect the game? Play and play hard. Play and be a good teammate. Play and, for people like Reyes, be a leader.

Joese Reyes was all that. He was just all that a bit differently that some old-heads thought he should be.

Thank goodness he realized, with some prodding, that he should simply be Jose.

One stinking yard. Steve McNair passed for 31,304 yards during his 13-year NFL career. Had it been 31,305, he just might’ve ended up in the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

McNair, 35, announced his retirement today. He worked out hard during the off season to “see how his body would react to my mind,” he said today. “My mind was feeling, yes, but my body was saying, ‘What are you doing?’”

His legacy is clear at simple: Steve McNair was one of the toughest and most versatile quarterbacks ever to play the game. He epitomized the game’s warrior mystique, playing hurt for most of the last half of his career, taking pounds and yet most often rising to play again.

He’s one of only three QBs to amass more than 30,000 yards passing and at least 3,000 rushing. The other two are Fran Tarkenton and Steve Young, both of whom are already enshrined.

So why not McNair?

One stinkin’ yard. That’s what stood between McNair and a game-tying touchdown pass in finals seconds of Super Bowl XXXIV against St. Louis eight years ago at the Georgie Dome in Atlanta. On a play that started at the 10-yard-line, McNair hit wide receiver Kevin Dyson at the six, only to watch as Rams linebacker Mike Jones corralled and wrestled him down at the one just after the clock dinged :00.

After the game, McNair cried like a baby.

“It’s always going to be there,” McNair said three years ago, referring to the single yard that will always define his career. “I don’t care how many people say that they don’t think about it, you always replay it in your mind. I think about how sad and how bad I was feeling. It was a low point in my career because I think that we had a chance to win the game if we would have gotten that yard and went into overtime.”

The final score was 23-16. But it might as well have read “0″ for McNair HOF chances.

And that’s a shame. His numbers and longevity should at least give him due consideration.

He was also all that the NFL hopes its men to be. In an era too often defined by the likes of Pacman Jones, McNair was a family man of faith, a self-described country boy from Alcorn State - and a descendant, as it were, of Doug Williams, a player in whom many African Americans took pride.

The aura surrounding that day in the Georgia Dome was not quite like the one 12 years before when Williams led the Washington Redskins into Super Bowl XLI against the Denver Broncos. On that day, black America held its breath and the Redskins’ 42-10 victory, along with Williams’ courageous MVP performance, prompted what I like to call a national Negro holiday.

There was rooting for McNair, too, whom, like Williams, was nurtured at an historically black college. His loss was painful, but we moved on.

Something Steve McNair will never be able to do.

Love is looking elsewhere

You might think of them as mercenaries, arriving with all the right intentions, all the right words, only to leave before you really get to know them, before they really grow. This morning, UCLA freshman Kevin Love became the latest college basketball “rookie” to announce he was leaving academia for NBA-demia.

In the weeks since the end of March Madness, fellow frosh Michael Beasley (Kansas State), Derrick Rose (Memphis), Eric Gordon (Indiana) and O.J. Mayo (USC) are the most heralded among as many as a dozen freshman who have declared their intention to leave school for pro ball.

This flood was precipitated by the 19-year-old age minimum imposed by NBA Commissioner David Stern and the league’s players’ union that is slated to exist until 2010-11. Just recently, Stern and NCAA president Myles Brand expressed a desire to raise the minimum to 20 years old - closer to college football’s three-year requirement.

I’ve long expressed the belief that if a young man is old enough to place his life on the line for his country, he’s old enough to go man-a-mano under the boards against Shaquille O’Neal or Dwight Howard (who leapt straight to the NBA from high school just prior to the new rule). That said I don’t see the one-year rule as a hardship - for the player or the game.

For every Kevin Garnett or Kobe Bryant, who successfully makes the leap from prep to pro, there are numerous Omar Cooks, who overestimate their skills and never play a moment in the NBA; or even Sebastian Telfairs, guys who merely play but who don’t appear to improve enough to anything more than role players, if that.

Attending college for at least a year can never be bad - whether or not the young man ever becomes a true scholar. Scholarship, alas, isn’t for everyone.

On the court the year on campus allows young studs to own the spotlight rather than fight for minutes or struggle (at least for a bit) against players who are physically stronger and savvier in the ways of the game. Beasley, Rose and Love all lived up to their billing this season, the latter two leading their respective teams to the Final Four. They came, they shined and they conquered. Now, time to go.

College basketball gained, as well. As with Kevin Durant and Greg Oden the prior season, national interest in college hoops was largely driven by interest in its young stars. Sure college sports benefits from the indigenous fans who root for the name on the front of the jersey, not the back. But when it comes to attracting new fans and those with no particular affinity, the stars are the thing.

Their presence gave college hoops its juice (the good kind) this season, as will another wave of younguns next season. They will draw the kind of spotlight that will also touch some of their less-heralded (older) teammates. They will boost ratings, and allow coaches like Bill Self of Kansas to get rich.

So why shouldn’t they?

One thing is clear: Winning a national title isn’t what it used to be - at least to the players. Otherwise many of these talented frosh would return to even more talented squads and chase the ring again.

That is, if they weren’t chasing the golden ring instead.

No one plays harder than Tyler Hansbrough!

No one has a bigger heart than Tyler Hansbrough!!

Tyler Hansbrough cures cancer!!!

We would not have been surprised at all to hear that last declaration from CBS announcers Dick Enberg or Jay Bilas during Saturday’s telecast of North Carolina’s exciting win over Louisville in the NCAA Tournament East Regional Finals. A few of my boys and I caught the game at one of our favorite haunts and by the middle of the second half it was clear that the talented and respected duo were beyond smitten with Tar Heel junior Tyler Hansbrough, the three-time All-American. Smitten to almost comedic proportions.

In time we were laughing out loud at the incessant fawning and lofty assertions.

Oh my Tyler Hansbrough!!!!

Nobody outworks Tyler Hansbrough!!!!!

Tyler Hansbrough stops global warming!!!!!!

Before I go on, let me be clear: Nothing I’m about to say is meant to diminish Hansbrough. Not in the least. His 28-point 13-rebound performance in UNC’s 83-73 victory was for the ages. The 6-9 forward hit 12 of 17 shots including two consecutive HUGE baskets after Louisville had erased a 12-point deficit to tie the game in the second half. From then on it was, quite frankly, as if Tyler Hansbrough was the only player on the floor. He was a downright beast hitting the kind of shots said Cardinal coach Rick Pitino, an opposing coach would “pray that he takes.”

‘Cept Hansbrough was knocking ‘em down like me and my boys were knocking back, well, never mind.

Moreover, he seems to be a nice, understated, humble kid. A Missouri native, he’s certainly shown me something.

I’m not sure what kind of pro Hansbrough will be, but he’s already one of the all-timers in college ball. He deserves his props.

But the way Enberg and Bilas were gushing you’d have thought Tyler Hansbrough was the reincarnation of Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, David Thompson or, dare I say, Larry Bird. Their tone bounced from reverent to near-hysterical.

At one point I thought the veteran Enberg might start hyperventilating.

He’s a flailing crocodile, a whirling dervish!!!!!!!

To be fair, this isn’t just about the CBS duo. Much of the sports media have been lovin’ them some Tyler Hansbrough all season long. The kid gets a bloody nose earlier this season and he becomes Rocky. In fact, a colleague, Mike Freeman of CBSSportsline.com, first wrote about the media’s fascination with TH in early March. In a year that produced an array of stars on top teams - Michael Beasley, Derrick Rose, Kevin Love, just to name three - Hansbrough has been largely ordained by sports’ chattering class as the very best of them all.

He’s certainly in the discussion but he’s not so clearly better than the other top college players that his selection as player of the year should be delivered with a “Duh.”

So what are we talking about here?

To my boys it was pretty clear: “Isn’t he like the first white college superstar in like forever?” one of them said.

I thought for a moment, and the only name I could come up with was Christian Laettner, the former Duke star who left college ball in 1992. (Like most people, I completely blanked on J.J. Reddick, another Dukie who was the 2006 Naismith winner but was also a polarizing figure and pretty much an NBA bust. I couldn’t come with 2005 Gonzaga star Adam Morrison, either. See: Reddick.)

Is it really that simple? Even as our nation is on the cusp of potentially electing a black president, one who’s bravely forced us to talk about race in a manner unlike any politician ever, are we still so transparent that some of us will just get over-the-top giddy over a white guy who can ball?

Duh.

Primarily, I am annoyed at notions that evolve around “hard working” and “heart.” to assert, even in the emotion of the moment, that no one works harder that Tyler Hansbrough is asinine and unquantifiable. It feeds into the stereotype that white athletes “work hard” to achieve success while black athletes are “gifted.” Write this down: There is not an elite athlete in America that did not work hard to achieve greatness. Yes, some may have worked harder than others but to ultilize a particular hustle play to assert that no one works harder than that player is just stupid.

As for the declaration, based on Hansbrough hitting a big, tough shot down the stretch (of which he hit many on Saturday), that no one has a bigger heart, please. Heart is sports is on display every day and night on fields and courts throughout the nation and in every sport. How many big, touch in-the-clutch plays have you seen in your lifetime? Too many to count, probably. Elite athletes, who perform their best at the most challenging moments - on the biggest stages - all have heart. On that assessment, Hansbrough is just one among many bigger-heart ballers.
A generation ago, in 1987, we had this same discussion regarding the media’s views and descriptions of Larry Bird relative to the other great players of his age, particularly his clear peer, Magic. Dennis Rodman called Bird “overrated” by the media, which selected postseason awards. Isiah Thomas, then the littlest “Bad Boy,” defended his teammate: “I think Larry is a very, very good basketball player. He’s an exceptional talent. But I have to agree with Rodman. If he were black, he’d be just another good guy.”

Thomas, who was articulating the frustrations of many players in that era, meant that if Bird were black, the media would view him just as it did black stars, not deify him as many did. But rather than use the comment as a catalyst for an honest self-assessment and a discussion about how white stars were described relative to black ones, the media turned on Thomas like enemy armies on Spartan’s “300.” accusing him of racism. Ultimately, Thomas was forced to apologize.

Twenty years later, here we are again.

Tyler Hansbrough is unbelievable!!!!!!!!

Tyler Hansbrough will never be outworked!!!!!!!!!

Tyler Hansbrough rebuilds New Orleans!!!!!!!!!!

Tyler Hansbrough will no doubt be the darling of San Antonio. And what a stage. With an all-No. 1 seed Final Four, the Tar Heel has the chance to cement the legend that has already been crafted for him.

That is, unless he finds Osama bin Laden between now and then.

If you say something long enough - no matter how absurd, illogical or wrong it may be - someone just might start to believe it. (Just ask Hillary.) That’s the only way to explain how the open-wheel folks at Indy Racing League came to implement its latest rule change: From now on, the minimum weight for IRL cars must include the driver.

What’s the big deal? Well, it just so happens that the lightest driver on the circuit is a woman. And not just any woman. It’s Danica Patrick, whose hotness (off the track more than on it) has made her perhaps the most popular driver in open-wheel racing. At just 100 pounds, she weights 20 pounds less than the two other women on the circuit, Mika Duno and Sarah Fisher. The heaviest driver, according the IRL guide, is 165-pounder Ed Carpenter.

The rationale for the move? Patrick told USA Today that she asked IRL honchos for a reason for the change. “They didn’t really have one,” she said.

I guess it wouldn’t exactly have been smart for her to just call a lug a lug. But I will. It’s stupid, and it sounds like good’ ole hateration.

There was buzz in IRL garages about Danica’s slight size providing her with some unfair advantage almost since the moment she burst onto the scene - and we do mean burst! - three years ago by becoming only the fourth woman to qualify for the Indy 500, the first to actually lead the race and finishing fourth, the best showing ever by a woman. Danica even admits that in a sport where less weight can mean higher speeds, being light offers a slight edge.

In 2005, rival teams were outed in an AP story, saying Danica might gain as much as 1 mph due to her size.

Whatever. If it was that much an advantage, why has Danica not won a single race in 47 tries?

It might be fair to call Danica, one of the highest-earning female athletes on the planet; the Anna Kournikova of the grease set since her results have not yet lived up to the hype. But it’s pretty hard not to think this rule change was just the sad result of the constant whining by her competitors.

The IRL took great pains to prevent us from calling this the “Danica Rule.” Circuit spokesman John Griffin said the new rule would lessen the disparity between the lightest and heaviest drivers, which can be as much 100 pounds. (Have the IRL’s tubbies not heard of Jenny Craig?)

Uh-huh.

Look, I fully understand efforts to create a level playing field, whether in racing (NASCAR has weight requirements) or elsewhere in our society. Disparities that provide one group with an unfair advantage over another - in sports, in the workplace, in the classroom, wherever - are growing more and more outdated with each passing day. Thankfully.

But throw in the potential new NFL rule banning hair from hanging from under a player’s helmet beyond his name, and I began to wonder whether sports, which has typically been a stage for change in America, is lurching backwards just as the rest of the nation slowly - and almost historically - moves ahead.

She’s only 18.

She’s only 18.

She’s …

If I keep saying it (okay, typing it), maybe I’ll stop thinking that we’ve seen the best of Michelle Wie. Maybe I’ll not acknowledge that feeling in my gut that the young woman TIME magazine once declared as “one of 100 people who would shape our world,” whom Arnold Palmer once said might influence golf as much as Tiger Woods “or more,” may not reshape anything at all - except her already-sizable bank account.

But she’s only …

And yet, it doesn’t look real good right now. Late last week, Wie withdrew from the upcoming Safeway International, citing yet another wrist injury, this one incurred on the range at Stanford, her school and my alma mater. Doctors there subjected her to every alphabet test imaginable - MRI, CAT, etc. - and her handlers tell us it’s nothing serious, just a strain. But after Wie essentially lost much of 2007 over a wrist injury that reportedly first occurred over a year ago, I’m more than a tad concerned that we’ve not heard the last from Wie’s wrist.

And that’s not good. For a golfer, a wrist injury may be the most debilitating injury imaginable, or at least tied with a funky back. At the moment of impact with the ball, it may be the most critical part of the body, certainly an area that absorbs the most shock. A tender wrist, let along an injured one, renders everything else moot - tempo, hip turn, head movement, follow through. None of them matters if the wrist is wrong.

Oh they can certainly heal, just like any other part of the body. And Wie is no doubt in her prime healing years. But an injured wrist makes it difficult to practice. And until fully healed it’s susceptible to being re-injured easily - like by trying to cut the food or your plate or turn the steering wheel.

But let’s face it, my worries for Wie extend beyond her wrist.

It’s not as if she’s dazzled us with her game for quite awhile now. It’s been two years since she was more of a contender than a side show. In 2006, she finished third in two events, including the U.S. Women’s Open. She also took fifth at the LPGA Championship. She was finally starting to show us that she had as much game as flame, that she was as skilled a golfer as she was powerful off the tee.

She was almost making me stop being annoyed at those who managed her career, the people - including her father, B.J. - who steered her to too many men’s events where she only experienced defeat and humiliation by missing cuts. Or who fueled the hype machine that landed her on magazine covers before her time and duped Madison Avenue into making her rich before she earned the right to be so. (At the age of 15, some guessed Wie would pocket earn up to $13 million in endorsements in her first year, which would have placed her third among Forbes’ list of highest paid woman athletes - behind only Marie Sharapova and Serena Williams.)

She was to be a six-foot-tall global marketing machine who could smack a golf ball 300 yards and rock the runway in high heels.

There was buzz of Wie clothing and jewelry lines. Brandon Steiner of Steiner Sports Marketing once told USA Today: “Once the apparel line gets rolling and you have a couple other major endorsements her earning could reach $30-40 million a year.”

Right now, though, there is simply no buzz. There’s no sizzle about Wie and I can’t help blame those who placed greed above the long-term welfare of, yes, a child.

Even worse, there are still lingering negative vibes from 2007 when Wie and her camp were criticized for pulling out of a tournament after 16 holes, citing, duh, a wrist injury when she was playing so badly she was in danger of losing her ability to accept sponsor exemptions -the only way Wie can play in an LPGA event since she is not a member of the LPGA Tour.

I know, she’s only 18. I keep telling myself that and, like others, still give Wie the benefit of the doubt because she is so talented, so engaging, so smart (hey, she is at Stanford!) and, yes, so young.

But I still can’t help but wonder: Have we seen the best of Wie?

How far have we come - or fallen- in 40 years?

Who says athletes don’t stand for anything any more? Okay, it wasn’t exactly John Carlos and Tommie Smith standing defiantly on the podium in Mexico City 40 years ago to protest racism in America. And so what the Boston Red Sox stood for today was money. Why be critical when at least some athletes stood up for something other than themselves?

In a unique display of cohesiveness and savvy, the Red Sox players delayed the start of their nationally televised exhibition game against the Toronto Blue Jays and threatened not to go to Japan for their season-opener when they heard that their coaches, trainers and staff would not receive the same $40,000 stipend they were getting.

Their timing was smart. “Being on ESPN did not hurt,” said third baseman Mike Powell. More important, their cause was worthy. Let’s not even debate the need for players, whose average salary last seasons was $2,824,751, to receive an additional $40G for their global goodwill journey. That the rest of their traveling party was making the same trip and receiving not an additional cent for their contribution to baseball’s world mission was, at minimum, disrespectful.

It was also stupid.

Last season was baseball’s most bountiful ever. The game generated a record $6.075 billion in gross revenue. Yeah, that’s billion.

Interestingly, manages and coaches were included in the compensation pool for the two prior excursions to Japan. Why get cheap now?

Sanity ultimately prevailed. According to the Associated Press, MLB agreed to pay the managers, coaches and trainers $20,000 each, a source said. AP also reported that the Red Sox players would to make up the difference to make the amount equal to their, and they would also offer funds to other team personnel making the trip.

Kevin Youkilis of the Red Sox called the effort “…an experience of a lifetime, and it ended in a good way.”

Perhaps even more impressive was that the Oakland A’s, who will face the Red Sox in Japan, watched the boycott unfold from their locker-room in Phoenix and decided to delay the start of their own exhibition game until they received word from their Boston brethren that there was a fair deal.

If we’re lucky this effort, as money-centric as it was, would sparked a similar consciousness across all sports.

What if prior to the start of the NCAA tournament tomorrow, young players refused to take the court until the nation’s colleges agreed to really educate student-athletes and ensure that they obtain degrees.

What if NFL players refused to report until former players, who paved the way for their own success, were ensured they’d never have to pay another medical bill for the rest of their lives.

What if college athletes refused to play unless they were allowed to change schools when the coach that recruited them either resigns or is fired?

What if college recruits - particularly young African-American recruits - refused to attend any school that did not have people who looked like them in positions of leadership on the coaching staff and at the university?

What if tennis players refused to hit another serve until the game came up with a system that actually explains the rankings?

What if baseball players refused to play until their union agreed to a drug-testing policy that finally rid the sport of performance enhancing drugs?

What if the Knicks refused to play again until owner Jim Dolan sold the team?

Hey, we can dream can’t we?

Forget the owner’s box. Glen Taylor should be slapped into a penalty box.

The owner of the Minnesota Timberwolves is a farm boy from Confrey who grew up to become a state senator and made a few bucks making wedding invitations and other stuff. Enough bucks to buy a majority stake in the T-wolves.

But bucks, clearly, have nothing to do with brains.

Sports owners are the most visible of a unique breed of man (and woman) - people who think that because they’re successful in one arena it makes them smart in another. Kinda like of lot of the guys on Wall Street, as in the guys at Bear Stearns - $2/share Bear Stearns. I’m sure the folks who ran that firm were smart enough, at one juncture, to make enough money to buy the Hamptons. Then they got stupid. Or arrogant. Or both. Over the weekend their once-vaunted firm sold for $2/share. On the Street, that’s punk money.

We typically don’t hear about the Wall Street guys until something like Bear Stearns happens. Sports, by contrast, owners might pipe up any time.

Some of them are actually worth hearing from. Jerry Jones knows a bit about the football business. Jerry Colangelo know hoops. Marc Cuban is passionate and often entertaining. And as long as George Steinbrenner is breathing The Boss can say anything he wants.

Taylor ’s millions have not earned him the right to say a peep.

And certainly nothing as asinine as he uttered on Tuesday. In response to a local columnist who insinuated that the T-Wolves should tank the rest of the regular season in an effort to secure a better draft pick, Taylor noted that his team would never do such a think but added that Kevin Garnett - the T-Wolves’ signature player for 12 long seasons - “tanked it” when he sat out the last five games of 2006-’07 in order to get his sore right knee checked.

It’s tempting to chalk up Taylor’s missive as a brain fart, but that would be too dismissive of a remark that is beyond absurd.

Garnett is a rare athlete whose greatest fault just might be his indefatigable passion and commitment. Tanked is not in his DNA. In fact, if anyone tanked on the T-Wolves it’s Taylor, bungled things up by signing Joe Smith to an illegal contract that cost the T-Wolves three first-round picks and refusing to fire GM Kevin McHale who, in the pre-Isiah Thomas Era, may have been the worst executive in the NBA.

Garnett elevated the value of Taylor’s franchise for more than a decade, and played to the highest level of professionalism.

And for that, Taylor throws Garnett under the team bus.

But I love Garnett’s response. Last night, after KG led the Celtics’ 94-74 streak-ending rout of the Houston Rockets, he showed nothing but class. He refused to grovel in slime of the owner’s making. “Glen Taylor was good to me while I was a Timberwolf and I’m a Boston Celtic now,” Garnett told reporters. “I’m not going to be going back and forth saying tasteless things. That’s not my character.”

Character. Class. All that time KG spent with Taylor, it’s too bad none of the player rubbed off on the owner.