It's when I started cheering uncontrollably for Melo's shots to fall that I felt the full magnitude and power of Olympic basketball.
Here's the thing. I actually like Carmelo Anthony. He's as decent a person as you can find in the NBA, and in the end, truly, that's what matters. And his role in pushing Chris Paul, LeBron James and Dwyane Wade to address the racial unrest and police brutality against black men in this country a month ago is worthy of true, longstanding praise.
But as a basketball talent -- and he is a talent -- he's always struck me as a nice-guy version of Jay Cutler: Super talent and star power that's ... well, a total waste. Bad shots. Poor ball movement. That whole killing-off-Linsanity thing. A strange alchemy that despite his greatness often turns his teams into a handful of dust.
I've always enjoyed, on the sports side, rooting against the guy. Or more accurately: Watching Melo be oh so Melo.
But on Wednesday, on every one of his 10 shots in USA's 105-78 beatdown of Argentina in the semifinals, I found myself cheering for him. Rooting for him. I didn't care that only three of those buckets fell for points, or that Argentina seemed to unearth open shots every time Melo took the floor.
Because he was my guy, for a moment, bathed in the patriotic light of the Olympics, of our national team and that every-four-years coming together that only this event can truly bring about.
Check that. He wasn't my guy.
He was our guy.
This, at its essence, is the magic of the Olympic Games. I can't pretend to be a huge beach volleyball enthusiast, but I lived and died with every point until Kerri Walsh Jennings heartbreakingly lost the first Olympic match of her career. I'm a dude who couldn't touch his toes if there was a $1 million waiting for me down there, but I'm in awe of the women's gymnastics powerhouse that just dominated the world and history. On and on it goes, the red, white and blue rewriting for me and a lot of us how we not just see our sports, but how we love them and those who play them.
This is so utterly true for Olympic basketball that it turns the game, every four years, into something utterly unique. I believe the NBA is at a zenith, an all-time level of greatness and talent and drama and storylines. And that means as a byproduct as much hate and derision as there is love and respect. That's part of sports. We hate our enemies (unless, like me, you're a Bears fan -- then you hate your own quarterback most of all) as part of the ritual and spectacle of following them so closely.
LeBron's a jerk, Steph's overrated, CP3's a choker, Wade is dirty, Melo is a waste of talent -- these things aren't true, not truly and deeply, but they're the so-called facts of fandom that drive us. Hate matters. It's fun, when directed at things like sports rather than life or real issues, to tap into these feelings. It's why booing can feel so good. Taunting, for a reason, goes on as much in the stands as on the floor. Rivalries power us as much as loyalties.
These Olympic Games have temporarily pulled down some of these barriers. Team USA hasn't lost but has flirted with danger. We all feel that risk, together, as the impossible loss suddenly seems possible. And that binds us, fans from the spectrum of 30 teams.
For a few weeks we get to enjoy basketball together.
That means Golden State Warriors fans can cheer Kyrie Irving. Dallas Mavericks fans can root for DeAndre Jordan. Pacers fans can get excited for Jimmy Butler, and Bulls fans can celebrate Paul George. Even Oklahoma City Thunder fans -- the true patriots, at least -- can find it within themselves to support turncoat Kevin Durant.
And we can all cheer Carmelo Anthony, even us sportswriters who've made sport out of his Melo-ness, despite admiring him as a man away from the court. Because in the Olympics, in can be all of it combined -- the game, the players, the country they hail from, the quirks and the weaknesses that became for a moment American attributes rather than things unique to that one guy.
You think Draymond Green's become a self-absorbed, out-of-control, balls-punching, private-parts sharing disaster? For this slice of Olympic magic, for this run at gold, he's our disaster.
Being a fan of the U.S. men's Olympic basketball team -- and thus every single one of its players, no matter which of the 30 NBA teams you happen to love, or loathe -- reminds me of the old joke growing up in my home: Nobody can put down the Catholic Church but me.
There's something special in this, especially at the Olympics, particularly with the basketball team.
Coach K, at least for my money, is the single greatest college basketball coach of all time. He's also one of its most polarizing figures, and a lightening rod for anger and derision from non-Duke fans. Except, right now, he's not. Right now he's ours. All of ours. And there's power in that.
Soon enough, the joy of the NBA will start back up. We'll argue over LeBron's legacy, Durant's decision, Wade's move to Chicago ... all of that great stuff that makes sports worth all the time and sweat and angst and money we pour into them.
For right now, though, as our team tries to attain gold for all of us, something just as spectacular is happening. We get to be fans without NBA borders, and together we get to enjoy dominating the rest of the world at this beautiful game.
