Every time I watch Michael Jordan’s historic, game-winning shot from 15 feet over the helpless, outstretched arm of Craig Ehlo, I cringe.
After the Cleveland Cavaliers had scored to take a one-point lead with three seconds left in the first round of a decisive fifth game in the 1989 NBA playoffs, the Chicago Bulls called a timeout. On the subsequent possession, Jordan, double-teamed by Ehlo and Larry Nance, broke free, caught the side-out inbounds pass from Brad Sellers and ended the series on one of the most iconic shots of a treasured career.
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I don’t cringe out of empathy for Ehlo (although he was almost beheaded by Jordan’s leg kick in the ensuing celebration). And I don’t cringe because the loss would prove to be a harbinger of the Cavaliers’ ineptitude versus Jordan’s Bulls.
I cringe because the play never should have happened. At least not that way.
The NBA has a rule that has existed, as far as I can tell, since 1967. It allows teams in the last two minutes of the fourth quarter or overtime to advance the ball to halfcourt by simply calling a timeout. In other words, after securing a rebound or after an opponent’s made basket, a team can advance the ball without any time coming off the clock.
During the final minute of a recent college basketball broadcast, I listened as both announcers overtly suggested that college basketball should adopt the same rule. “I’d like to see college basketball go to the NBA rule,” the analyst wistfully proposed. “It would provide more drama, more last-second shot opportunities.”
His comment represented more of a whimsical fantasy than an emboldened revolution, but he’s not the only one proposing this preposterous rule change, and this heresy needs to stop.
Moving the basketball to halfcourt would be akin to moving the football to the 50-yard line after a touchback in a game’s final two minutes. It would be like allowing a runner on first base a free pass to second with two outs in the ninth inning of a one-run game. These examples sound utterly absurd. But philosophically, they are no different than what the NBA does with this rule, and what so many misguided voices in college basketball propose. (In 2015 the women’s game adopted a rule allowing for the ball to advanced in the last minute.)
Basketball is a game played across 94 feet and 40 minutes. These figures represent the space and time that serve as foundational elements of the college basketball universe. Regardless of what occurs in that space during that time — what offensive and defensive strategies may be employed, what feats of athleticism may dazzle spectators — the space and time are immutable, unavailable for manipulation by the coaches or players.
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Under this suggested rule change, a timeout is called, and somehow the ball moves 47 feet without offense or defense being played. That 47 feet of real estate is invaluable. It should be earned, and the time it takes to travel that distance without turning the ball over is an essential part of the cost. Under the NBA’s advancement rule, a called timeout buys space and time. And, frankly, they come too cheaply.
Worth noting, too, is the way in which we have arbitrarily zeroed in on the last two minutes of every sport as some magical demarcation to alter rules that don’t exist for the balance of a game. Why do we stop the clock in the last two minutes of an NBA game? Why can certain things in college basketball only be reviewed in the last two minutes? Why in the world does the NFL have a two-minute warning?
It is our callow desire to “provide more drama” that is most disturbing, highlighted in this conversation by a seeming willingness to obfuscate the fabric of college hoops by introducing a rule that exists far outside the spirit of a timed sport.
The truly great moments at the end of a college basketball game come not in cheating space and time but rather by navigating within them and earning victory through some feat of excellence — be it strategy, execution, athleticism and sometimes just plain excellent luck.
So, sure, drama is important. It’s exciting. It keeps the spectator engaged, and engaged spectators keep the product alive. So, let’s talk drama:
Christian Laettner catches a 79-foot pass from Grant Hill with 2.1 seconds left and makes a shot to advance Duke to the Final Four in 1992. Tyus Edney drives the length of the court with 4.8 seconds left in a 1995 NCAA Tournament game that fuels UCLA’s drive to a national championship. Bryce Drew knocks down a shot, off a brilliant design by his coach and father, Homer, at the buzzer in a 1998 NCAA Tournament game. Sherron Collins darts up the right side and trips just as he hands the ball off to Mario Chalmers, who hits a 3 to send the 2008 national championship game into overtime, a game Kansas would win.
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What do these plays have in common? Their point of origin, following a called timeout, was the far baseline. By rule, each of these teams was required to go 94 feet in order to win or tie — 94 feet to immortality. Every foot earned the hard way, just as it should be.
(Photo by John Gaps III/AP)
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