While watching the NBA Draft last night, it became apparent that the biggest question wasn’t about what Cleveland would do with the first pick or how many times Minnesota fans would scream “KKKKKKKKKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!” There wasn’t much trepidation around who would select Jimmer Fredette and where.
No, it became obvious our biggest concern should have been how uncomfortable Stuart Scott was going to make it to watch the coverage of the draft itself.
I twisted and squirmed uncomfortably for most of the broadcast each time Scott opened his mouth. The absolute worst was the wide shot of the crew: Jay Bilas, Jeff Van Gundy and Jon Barry sitting next to Scott as he cracked an absolutely horrendous joke about the Chicago Bulls drafting “a certain Bobcats owner from North Carolina.”
Nobody on the set moved. No one made eye contact. No one laughed.
After at least a good four or five seconds of dead-air (which feesl like an eternity when there’s no music, no one speaking and no one even blinking), Scott said with a wry smile, “So we’re pretty sure the Bulls aren’t going to take Michael Jordan with this next pick.”
Again, no one moved a muscle. No one spoke.
And no one laughed.
Yeah, Stu, we’re pretty certain Jordan won’t be drafted by the Bulls. It also marked the 957th consecutive time he’s referenced either Jordan or North Carolina when on-air.
It was yet another example of Stuart Scott showing what a caricature of himself he’s become. It’s like he sat down with Chris Berman one day and they shared career notes. All that’s left is the YouTube clip of Scott completely losing his mind on set during a commercialbreak because someone walked in front of a camera.
Scott’s biggest problem is he puts too much of himself into every situation to the point that you are readily aware of his presence before he even opens his mouth. As with too many studio hosts these days, he sees himself as a personality, instead of the guy steering the ship.
Scott forgets we already have personalities like Magic Johnson and Jon Barry on the set. Often, during the pre and post-game, Michael Wilbon is there to provide context – which he can, because, you know, he’s one of the most respected journalists and opinion givers in sports media. Scott’s job is supposed to be that of a classic point guard – throw a bone to each of them in each segment, let the analysts do their thing and reign it back in when it starts to drift off topic.
Every “Boo-yah” is grating, like nails on a chalkboard or my beagle’s howl in the middle of the night because she saw a leaf blow across the yard four houses down. In other words, much like I yell at my beagle in those moments, when I hear Scott my first reaction is “Shut up!”
As viewers, it’s difficult to watch the mind-numbing absurdity of the questions Scott poses during a broadcast. A few examples:
- “If Carlos Boozer stays healthy, how much does that help the Chicago Bulls?”
- “If Kobe Bryant doesn’t score points, does this make the Lakers a worse team offensively?”
- “Was Michael Jordan a big reason the Bulls won the 1991 Finals, Magic?”
It’s mind-numbing, really. I can’t tell which is worse, the pretentious, semi-loaded questions (and the fact that even the people he’s asking the questions to don’t know if he’s being serious) – or the forced jargon that he works into the highlights. This play was sick, that play was “phat with a capital P”, someone’s “as cool as the other side of the pillow.” Or, the classic, “holla” – which was what they named his recurring column in ESPN The Magazine.
Of course they did.
The man uses “boo-yah” as a verb, noun, adjective, period and an exclamation point. Apparently, it’s the most versatile word in the English language that’s not even technically a word.
Scott often just lacks awareness, which makes him come off as a sideshow. Case in point, during the 2008 NBA Draft, he asked Indiana Pacers president Larry Bird about drafting Jerryd Bayless and his strengths as a player – except the Pacers had traded him to Portland about five minutes earlier.
People can respect a shtick, but they can’t respect clueless hyperbole.
It’s difficult to criticize a man who has cancer and has valiantly fought that battle. But this isn’t even meant to be criticism – it’s just annoyance. Annoyance with an overwhelming number of people in media who’ve become characters and caricatures, who search wildly for a catchy phrase and try to inject more and more of themselves into the broadcast.
Scott often tries to appear hip and smart, all while trying to drop words that give him street cred. It’s a recipe for disaster. What he and so many others do not get is that we tune in to watch the game or event, not them.
The self-aggrandizing nature in which Scott, Berman and so many others conduct themselves takes me down a path where I have to question their motives, their intent and purpose for becoming the show instead of part of it. And just by making me do that, I resent them for it.
By approaching their profession this way, folks like Scott take away what I’m looking for when I sit down for the first time after working all day, playing with my kids, cleaning up from dinner, giving baths and doing laundry. I need entertainment in the form of a game. If I wanted jokes, I’d watch Colbert, Jon Stewart or throw in a Will Ferrell film on DVD. Same as if I want news, I’ll put on the news.
And by not staying out of the way, these personalities are robbing me of “me time” by forcing me to think about if the latest “boo-yah” was used as an exclamation point or a period. Everything we get now, in the form of pretentious hyperbole, is delivered in a self-promotional fit of megalomania.
Sports has become like too many other things in life that are fluffed up and given the works. Now all steaks are marinated in eight different spices. Drinks are all combos of four liquors and juices. TV shows are a weird mix of comedy, drama and reality. Cars have rear-view cameras, GPS, talk to you and plug into an outlet. It’s not enough to have an open bar and a good DJ at a wedding, we have photo booths with crazy outfits and paper mâché stations.
You know what? Just give me a steak with nothing on it, served medium to medium rare. Give me a beer. Give me a 1968 Camaro or a 1977 Silverado pick-up truck.
And for crying out loud, just give me a ball game with Vin Scully.
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