The NBA is an odd amalgam of friendships and enemies’ lists, alliances and rivalries, defenders and critics—all under the same jiggling tent. Thus, it should have come as little surprise that the Minnesota Timberwolves fought so brilliantly for Nico Harrison’s honor when the people currently paying him are not only letting him twist in the breeze but aiming the wind machine at him to make the spinning more painful.
This is not, of course, Minnesota’s prime intention. The Wolves beat the Los Angeles Lakers 117-95 Saturday night for their own glory, honor and self-esteem. They spotted the Lakers a 28-21 lead, took it away two minutes into the second with a 14-2 run, then reinforced it with a 21-6 burst to start the third. If it wasn’t Jaden McDaniels crushing all before him, it was Anthony Edwards at his cheeky best, with sides of Julius Randle and Naz Reid scattered about the landscape, while the Lakers had LeBron James, Luka Doncic, and crickets. The final buzzer was an act of mercy, as was the you-can-go-to-sleep blowout at the end of a 10-hour hoopathon.
Given the way the nation fetishizes the Lakers in good times and bad, the game served as a swift kick across the eyebrows, as nobody had much time for Minnesota’s chances while they were too busy lionizing the James-Doncic partnership as the managerial move of the century. And, concomitantly, diminishing Harrison as the dumbest executive in the Metroplex, and given that the principal competition is Jerry Jones, that’s some condemnation.
The Wolves rather forcefully explained that all the votes on this are not yet fully counted, and that beating the Lakers well into Stupidsville in the first round could cause some people to rethink the Deal Of The Year. That’s probably not the way to bet, of course, as America is already pot-committed to the storyline of Harrison being an idiot, but you all know what don’t lie, right?
The game itself had few highlights once Minnesota wrested control, although there were a few shots of freshly re-signed Laker mastermind Rob Pelinka looking SoCal regal. They were in stark contrast to the shots of Harrison in Memphis the night before, looking as he watched Anthony Davis limp off the floor in Dallas’ 120-106 loss to the Grizzlies like they’d both just eaten tainted trout and washed it down with an ashtray.
It’s been a lousy world for Harrison since the day of the Doncic deal, and there is no way to defend it as a bright idea cleverly executed. The notion that it might not have been his idea does not change the fact that he did it, poorly and in haste, has been unlucky with injuries since, and capped it all off with a Kafkaesque press conference so contemptibly laughable that it reeked of him being reminded that his real job with the Mavericks is to be owner’s-son-in-law Patrick Dumont’s fall guy. In fact, this trade has all the earmarks of owner’s spite with a general manager’s fecklessness as seasoning, and Harrison’s “defense wins championships” mantra came across more as Stockholm syndrome play-acting than a strident defense of the mess at his feet.
But no, we imagine that general managers are still all-powerful and independent power-wielders rather than Smitherses to the owners’ Mr. Burnses, and here we should remind everyone that the money in the Mavs is Dumont’s mother-in-law Miriam Adelson, so she’s part of this grim tableau as well. But by not quitting on the spot, Harrison either believes the Doncic trade was brilliance in stasis, or he can be mocked for not having the spine required to walk off the job to preserve his reputation. He cannot be saved.
There are, though, enough folks who still speak highly of him (latest example, ESPN’s Bob Myers) to make one wonder if the insiders understand that Harrison cannot be the cartoon nincompoop he has been portrayed as being. Their best defense for Harrison is that “We don’t really know how this all went down,” which is typically code for “the owner did it because his shorts were riding up and made the general manager do the dance for it.” And the longer the Lakers survive in the tournament, the more the Harrison-as-pantomime-clown analysis will harden and become truth.
Hence, Minnesota stomping the Lakers in Game 1 turns the screw in an interesting way, as in, “L.A. sure could’ve used a guy like A.D. last night, huh? What if Luka isn’t the instant cure-all to what ails the Lakers?”
Well, maybe not. But if the Wolves are this much better than the Lakers thrice more, the matter of whether this is the worst trade of your lifetime takes a turn. It doesn’t turn Nico Harrison into Pat Riley or Sam Presti, but at least someone is fighting for what’s left of his honor, even if they don’t mean to do it.
