An Open Letter to Adam Silver, Commissioner of the NBA

Dear Adam,

May I call you Adam?

I know we don't actually know each other but I feel like you're my brother from another mother. We're both white. We're both Jewish. We're both bald. We both wear glasses. We both love hoops. We're both financially stable. We both have a B.A. in Political Science. You're a lawyer and my mom wanted me to be a lawyer. You lived in Chicago and I live in Chicago. Your people died in Auschwitz and my people died in Auschwitz. See what I'm saying? I feel like we could switch bodies like in Freaky Friday and no one would even notice. I'd have no trouble running a multi-billion dollar global corporation and you'd do just fine teaching ugly 16-year-olds how to read and write good.

Before I tell you why I'm writing you this letter, I want to make it absolutely clear that I am not your average basketball fan.

I'm a connoisseur. I appreciate basketball like Sidney Deane "hears Jimi" in White Men Can't Jump.

I'm a savant. I understand basketball like Rain Man understands toothpicks.

I'm an enthusiast. I love basketball like a "fat kid love cake" (50 Cent).

I'm a junkie. I'm as addicted to hoops as Pookie is to crack in New Jack City: "The shit just be callin' me man. It be callin' me."

Chapter 1: Playing

There's never been a time in my life that I wasn't playing hoops. When I was 5, I played in the driveway with my brothers and ran down the hill behind our house when one of us shot an air-ball. When I was 8, I made the Philadelphia YMCA All-Star team and played on the floor of the Spectrum during halftime of a '76ers game. When I was 11, I made the winning shot against my Denver YMCA's team archrival. When I was 14, I broke my nose when a kid on the other team threw a pass into my face from four feet away.

I'm a bit embarrassed to share with you, Adam, that I didn't play on my high school team my junior or senior year, but it was only because the fascists at my school didn't allow students to be in the musical and play on the basketball team. Yes, I can sing; yes, I was the lead in West Side Story and Guys and Dolls; and, yes, I had relations with my female co-stars. (We can discuss that further offline.)

Where was I? Oh right. Even though I didn’t play on my high school team, I played in a rec league with my friends and played 3-on-3 with my friends and my brothers and my brothers' friends every night, all summer, every summer. In college, despite playing on the tennis team for four years (yes, I’m also a multi-sport athlete, no biggie), I played pick-up in the gym all the time.

In 1998, I lived in Washington, D.C. and played at a local park with all black dudes. One time there was a series of gunshots right next to the courts. I felt scared.

In 1999, I lived in Israel and played on a kibbutz with all Israelis. Not only do Israelis foul like they’re being attacked by Hezbollah but they also call fouls when you breathe on them. I felt annoyed.

In 2000, I lived in Cincinnati and played at a local park with all black dudes. They called me Eminem. I felt cool.

From 2001 to 2003, I lived in Boulder and played in the University of Colorado gym with mostly white dudes. I touched the rim for the first time in my life and had finally learned how to shoot. I felt proud.

Starting in 2003, I went back to Israel every summer and played at Gan Hapa’amon, a park less than one mile from the Old City in Jerusalem. Many of the dudes wore yarmulkes when they played. Lots of the dudes spoke Russian. The Palestinians usually played on their own court. I felt confused.

From 2003 to 2009, I lived in Denver and played with the teachers and coaches at my school. I also played as much as possible with the kids I coached. Quick story: One of the best players I ever helped coach was a kid named Kyle Lewis. In the fall of Kyle’s sophomore year, I guarded him the entire afternoon in a series of pick-up games. He destroyed me. I went home and cried in my future wife’s arms because I felt old and tired and beaten.

But I kept playing. I moved to Chicago in 2009 and for the next ten years played every Thursday for two hours with a bunch of North Shore Jews and one South Side Mexican at Sheridan Park Rec Center near UIC. We showered together and partied together. I felt happy.

In 2013, I played for the 35+ U.S.A. men’s basketball team in the Maccabiah games in Tel Aviv. The dudes were mostly investment bankers from the East Coast and I was pretty much the last man off the bench. I felt unfulfilled.

Since 2017, I’ve played with a motley crew at 6am at Sheil Park, less than a mile from my house in Chicago. Old dudes, young dudes, fat dudes, skinny dudes, tall dudes, short dudes. I feel inspired.

I love hoops, Adam, and as you can see from my exhaustive resume, I plan on playing for the rest of my life or “‘til the roof comes off, ‘til the lights go out, ‘til my legs give out” (Nate Dogg).

Okay, fine, so I’ve played a lot of basketball and can make cool hip-hop references but you still may not trust that I’m a reliable source to give you some feedback. Did I mention I coach?

Chapter 2: Coaching

In 1999, I was the head of the middle school girls’ basketball program at my teaching job in Cincinnati. The girls hated me cuz I worked them so hard. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a reference is made to a grown man working young girls really hard. I only meant to indicate that I made them run a lot so we could full-court press our opponents.)

From 2002 to 2008, I was the 9th grade boys’ basketball coach and the Varsity assistant at my teaching job in Denver. We nearly won a state championship but, no joke, Kyle Lewis forgot to bring his hoop shoes to what turned out to be our final playoff game.

From 2009 to 2015, I was the 9th grade boys’ basketball coach at my teaching job in Chicago. We usually practiced at 6am before school and the boys brought swimsuits for the shower. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a coach knows about his players’ shower habits. I only meant to indicate that these boys were insecure little nerds who felt uncomfortable being naked around each other.)

I took a hiatus from coaching after one too many children came out of my wife’s vagina but I recently got back in the mix. A couple years ago, I coached my oldest daughter’s horrid 8th grade basketball team and, last year, my son’s soft 4th grade team.

It’s not just the coaching, however, that should prove to you I am worth listening to; it’s my obsession over teaching kids to use their left hand, my fascination with how to beat a 2-3 zone, and my admiration for anyone who sets a flare screen. I can’t tell you how many late nights I’ve spent lying in bed, wide awake, diagramming plays, when my wife snuggles up to me and, half-asleep, says, “Are you thinking about basketball?”

Yes, Adam, I’m always thinking about basketball, even when I’m not playing, coaching, or watching it. And trust me when I tell you that I’ve watched a lot of basketball. Bear with me one more minute, won’t you?

Chapter 3: Watching

When I was 7, I watched a bunch of ‘76ers games in the Spectrum from the second row and, I believe, single-handedly willed Moses Malone & Co. to a championship season.

When I was 13, I watched the Nuggets make a deep playoff run and became best friends with Nuggets superstar and Hall of Famer Alex English. Well, maybe not “best friends” exactly, but see I was good friends with this kid named Brent Farber who was one of the richest Jews in Colorado, and Brent’s family bought Alex English at an auction. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a reference is made to a white family buying a black man at an auction. I only meant to indicate that the Farber family paid a large sum of money for Alex English’s services. Shoot, that still sounds weird.) Whatever, long story short: Mr. English came to Brent’s house and shot around for an hour with Brent and me and one other dude, and he and I have been best friends ever since.

When I was 17, I sat in the upper deck of McNichols Arena and went absolutely nuts as the Nuggets won the first of three straight games against the Sonics to become the only #8 seed to defeat a #1 seed. I’d recently been fired from the only real job I’d ever had and my second high school girlfriend had just dumped me (like the first one did) but all was well because Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf & Co. had made history. (By the way, I was not pleased with your predecessor, David Stern, blackballing Abdul-Rauf for his silent protest during the national anthem. We can discuss that further offline.)

When I was 20, I watched the Bulls play the Sonics in the NBA Finals on a small, black-and-white TV with an antenna in San Jose, Costa Rica. I slept on the floor every night, ate rice and beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and explained to everyone in my broken Spanish that Gary Payton’s nickname, “the Glove,” had nothing to do with condoms.

When I was 22, I graduated college in California and drove across the country to my new job in New York. Along the way, I made a detour in Chicago to watch Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals between the Bulls and the Pacers. I sat in the upper deck by myself and cheered wildly for MJ & Co. I was also the only one in the United Center to recognize and get a picture with the “black Zorro’s” teammate from White Men Can’t Jump. You know, the “big, bad, Gomer Pyle, droopy-eyed son of a bitch.” (Adam and dear readers of Saul, if you know this reference, congratulations, you are as much of a basketball junkie as I am.)

When I was 28, I was in Israel during the NBA Finals and my wife’s dear old tired aunt explained to me how to use the TV because I was planning on waking up at 4am to watch my boy Chauncey Billups dominate. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a white man refers to a black man as his “boy.” I only meant to indicate that Chauncey and I have a special connection cuz he and I are both from Denver and I watched him play in high school.) I couldn’t figure out how to work the TV and was therefore forced to wake up that dear old tired aunt in the middle of the night. She was not pleased but she understood that Chauncey and I were boys.

When I was 30, I was in a small town in Sweden during the NBA Finals and there was no Eurosport in our hotel, so I jogged two miles into the town center every other day at 3am in hopes of finding some bar or hotel that was open. I don’t remember how successful I was but I do remember having an icky feeling inside after the Mavs were up 2-0 and then somehow the Heat won four games in a row and Dwyane Wade shot 8,000 free throws cuz the Mavs suddenly forgot how to play defense without fouling. As my son would say, “it was sus.” (Much more on this soon when I finally get to the point of this letter.)

When I was 36, I watched LeBron and DWade and Bosh win their first championship and I felt gross. When I was 37, I watched them win another one and I felt disgust. When I was 41, I watched KD and Steph and Klay win their first championship and I felt disdain. When I was 42, I watched them win another one and I felt violated.

But when I was 47, I watched the Nuggets win their first championship and I felt complete and total joy. All had been forgiven, the world was a happy place, and I loved my wife and children again.

This bliss was ephemeral, however, and now I will share with you, Adam Silver, my thesis: You have ruined basketball.

Chapter 4: Ruination

I know this is hard to hear, Adam, but I really need you not to be defensive right now. My intentions are noble and my only purpose is to protect the integrity of this beautiful game. Okay, so where do I start?

Traveling. It is not an exaggeration to say that anyone who knows anything about the NBA knows that traveling is basically no longer a thing. I normally like to paint pictures with words but if you’ll please watch this quick video and then go kill yourself, I would appreciate it.

I mean, c'mon man. Watch any game over the last 20 years and you'll likely see an egregious travel violation in about five seconds. Dudes travel when they receive the ball. Dudes travel on fast breaks. Dudes travel cuz they don't even know it's traveling.

Carrying. Was Iverson's crossover a carry? Probably not. Does KD carry the ball as he prances around the court like a Maasai ballerina? Maybe. Do Ja Morant and Luka Doncic and Jayson Tatum carry the ball practically every time they touch it? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. How can anyone play defense any more?

Illegal Screens. If the pick ’n roll were easy, then no one would know who John Stockton and Karl Malone are because their ability to run it would not have been special. But the pick ’n roll is hard, or at least it used to be. Nowadays, Steph brings the ball up and receives a (moving) screen from Draymond nearly 50 feet from the basket. Steph’s defender barely even tries to get around the screen cuz Draymond has been allowed by you, Adam, to do anything he wants. Some 6’10 stiff with slow feet is now guarding the greatest shooter of all time and it’s night-night. I know you want to free Steph and all these other chuckers for a 35-footer because the 3-ball is so sexy but for me and, I believe, thousands of other basketball purists, the sweet sound of the swish when Steph sinks his signature shot has been soured by Draymond’s shoulders in someone’s esophagus. You know how Steph taps his heart and points to the sky after he scores? He’s not thanking God. He’s thanking you, Adam, for granting Draymond screening impunity so he can bask in the rays of 35-foot glory.

Offensive Fouls. When Trae Young shot-fakes, gets his defender in the air, and then leaps into that defender as he’s shooting, that’s an offensive foul. When James Harden throws his arms into the defender’s arms, that’s an offensive foul. When Jaylen Brown launches himself into the defender’s chest, that’s an offensive foul. It doesn’t matter if the defender is moving. It doesn’t matter if the defender is 6’11, 260. It doesn’t matter, Adam, that you think more scoring sells more tickets. Rules matter. Fairness matters. Black Lives Matter, and you are enabling black-on-black crime by letting Player X physically injure Player Y.

Embiid got called for a foul here but you and I both know plays like these often go unnoticed.

Whining. Serbia doesn’t seem like a “whiney” country. I haven’t been there but it doesn’t strike me as a place where young men are allowed to bitch and moan. I think that in Serbia athletes and soldiers are expected to follow orders from their coach or commander and keep their mouths shut when they don’t like a referee’s call or, hypothetically, have perpetrated violence against civilians in Bosnia. Nikola Jokic is a basketball unicorn with hands made of the softest, sweetest butter, and when he played basketball in Serbia as a 16-year-old, I’m pretty sure he didn’t chirp at the refs. But now look what you’ve done to him, Adam. He saw LeBron chirping at the refs. He saw Chris Paul chirping at the refs. He saw Luka chirping at the refs. He saw every player (and coach and assistant coach and fan and owner) chirp at the refs and now he chirps at the refs. I’m telling you, Adam, if I read another article about which refs players respect and which refs are “always getting in the way” (Patrick Beverley, 2020), I’m gonna hunt you down. Refs should disappear into the game. Refs should not be on camera. As a fan, I shouldn’t know any of the refs’ names. You gotta tell these players to shut the hell up, Adam. You gotta keep ‘em on a tighter leash. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when one white man encourages another white man to keep hundreds of black men on a leash. I only meant to indicate that players in the NBA should be strongly discouraged from complaining to the referees.)

I saw you on TV watching hoops at the Olympics, Adam, and I know you saw what I saw. You saw a brand of basketball that was basically unrecognizable to Americans like me who only watch the NBA: no traveling, no carrying, no illegal screens, offensive fouls that were actually called fouls, and almost zero whining. It was rough. It was beautiful. It was war. It was poetry. It was basketball exactly as basketball should be.

When I watch an NBA game on TV or highlights on YouTube, I’m bitching and moaning within two minutes. I’m not looking for something to whine about though, Adam. I’ve always loved watching the NBA and I just wanna not do the dishes and not listen to my wife complain about work or me not doing the dishes. All I want is to sit there, zone out, and enjoy some hoops. But you won’t let me. And now my kids hate me because I’m always yelling at the screen and rewinding to show them something egregious that happened.

But when I watched those Olympics games, it was completely different. Quick story: I was watching Canada play Spain and as Kelly Olynk was dribbling down the court, he threw out his right arm and hit his defender in the face. By the time I had finished yelling, “That’s a foul!,” a ref had blown his whistle. I was not only happily surprised the call had been made but I also realized I’d been dead silent for the previous 20 minutes because there was absolutely nothing to complain about. The refs were doing their job, the players had seamlessly adjusted, I wasn’t barking at the television, and my children were no longer scared of me.

Here’s what I think happened, Adam: Magic and Bird brought the game to life, Jordan took it to another level, and Shaq and Kobe kept your big-city market dreams alive. But then something else happened: A gritty team from Detroit (led, of course, by my “boy” Chauncey) won in 2004, the zero star-power Spurs won yet again in 2005, and some giant white man from Germany named Dirk was about to win in 2006. So you, David Stern, and a few other Jews who, collectively, control the NBA, global politics, and international financial institutions, said enough is enough: We need some stars. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when Jews are described as controlling the NBA, global politics, and international financial institutions. I only meant to indicate that Jews control the NBA, global politics, and international financial institutions.) And Dwyane Wade was born. Don’t get me wrong, I like DWade. He was smooth as hell and has a cute face. But you gifting the Heat the 2006 championship by allowing DWade to throw his body into helpless Mavericks defenders and then calling a foul on those bewildered defenders was, I believe, the beginning of the end. (2006 was also the year I got engaged, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence. We can discuss that further offline.)

Fast forward to 2016 and you know who the new Dwyane Wade was? James Harden. James. Edward. Harden. 🤮🤮🤮

It’s not the fact that Harden doesn’t play defense. It’s not the fact that Harden has, like, the worst fucking personality ever. It’s not even the fact that hundreds of Ukrainian freedom-fighters are hiding in Harden’s gnarly beard. The reason everyone hates Harden is because he embodies everything that’s wrong with the NBA.

Here’s the play-by-play Jeff Van Gundy (former NBA commentator laid off, allegedly, for being overly critical of the refs) wished he could have done in 2016: “Harden brings the ball down the court and receives a wildly illegal screen from Clint Capela. Harden dribbles right, dribbles left, dribbles right again, and then clearly carries the ball as he crosses back over to the left. Harden commits an obvious travel as he steps back into a 3-pointer but, hold on, Harden somehow keeps his dribble alive, attacks the rim, forearms one defender in the face, throws his shoulder into another, scores, and then screams at the ref for not calling a foul. And there it is folks, another completely fabricated 40-point game for the Beard!”

It’s a slippery slope, Adam: By giving Dwyane Wade too much freedom in 2006, you ended up with James Harden in 2016, this insanely long letter in 2024, and this shameful video.

And the defender, Ricky Rubio, got called for the foul lololol.

Chapter 5: Hope

It’s time to make some changes, Adam. Scoring records don’t mean anything if you’ve disabled defenders. Real fans can distinguish between legit superstars and fake ones. There’s a reason no one likes Jayson Tatum. You can do it, Adam. You issued flagrant fouls when the Bad Boys crossed the line. You stopped the hand-checking when the Rockets-Knicks final turned into trench warfare. You moved the 3-point line in and then back out again. You’ve recognized that NBA players can and should be able to freely smoke the ganja. You’re a progressive, Adam, and I am totally confident you can stop this descent into madness.

I know things seem to be going well, Adam. I know the NBA expands every year and that there are millions of new fans in China, Turkey, and South Sudan. I know that the NBA was worth less than $1 billion in 1984 and is worth nearly $100 billion in 2024. But you’re losing fans like me, Adam. Your brother from another mother. The guy who has always been in love with basketball but can’t stand it anymore. The guy who knows NBA players are the best athletes in the world but can’t even sit through an entire playoff game. The guy who obsesses over all things basketball but now can’t stop obsessing over how messed it up it is.

50 Cent got shot. Pookie dies. Rain Man goes back to the institution. I don’t want to end up like them, Adam. I appreciate you reading this entire letter and I know you’re listening but right now I really need you to hear me.