You Herd Me!: I'll Say It If Nobody Else Will

by Cowherd, Colin

  Everybody knows that CEO pay is out of control in many sectors. The big guy is making way too much compared to the average worker. At least too much for most people’s taste. The vitriol, though, has ramped up in recent years.

  People don’t seem to get nearly as agitated over this fact: 60 percent of corporations are not paying taxes. Yet you can’t put a singular face to that. At least that rich CEO is ponying up a large chunk to the IRS.

  I would argue part of that current animosity over wealth isn’t just about the gap between rich and poor, but it’s also due to an expanded media, where we see and hear daily how we all stack up. From the Internet to social media, blogs, and reality shows on every other cable channel, we get lavish lifestyles poured into our glass nightly and hourly. You see the faces of wealth.

  It’s one thing to have a more successful family member, but what if he was your neighbor? What if you had to watch him routinely upgrading his landscaping—the kind you only wish you could afford? What if he pulled into the driveway with a new SUV every twelve months while your 1993 model was in and out of the shop? Sometimes the harsh truth isn’t that much fun when it’s pushed into your face.

  Animosity and jealousy, two very ugly words, only arrive after disclosure. The same goes for sorrow and heartbreak.

  If God didn’t really exist, is the public better off knowing that? Don’t many people rely on that existence for comfort and guidance?

  There’s a reason the media doesn’t televise suicides. We don’t need to see it. Nobody really does. Whose life is really elevated by seeing someone else take theirs?

  We often demand total transparency but, number one, total transparency doesn’t exist, and two, we’re all probably happier if we don’t know everything about everything.

  IQ, Low-Q, No Clue

  I hereby present two words no guy wants to read:

  Menstrual synchrony.

  It’s an unproven theory most guys don’t know about, and those who do know about it would rather not discuss it.

  Don’t bother looking it up. I already did.

  The theory suggests that menstrual cycles of women who live together—in homes, convents, prisons—can become synchronized over time. The concept first came to the public’s attention in 1971, in an article in Nature magazine that studied the menstrual cycles of young women in a college dormitory. Supposedly women can sense the pheromones of other women and eventually their cycles synchronize, like an airborne virus.

  Menstrual synchrony was brought to my attention years ago by a female friend who happened to play college basketball. She swore it was true. Research is split on whether it’s a scientifically verifiable phenomenon, and frankly I would like to move on, regardless of the evidence.

  But it does get me to my point: If it’s possible for women to share such an experience, isn’t it also true for men?

  I would say it is, but unfortunately for men, the “shared experience” is far more embarrassing.

  Because for men, the experience is stupidity.

  Anytime you get more than three men together in a room, on a golf trip, on a Las Vegas weekend, at a poker game, in a bar, or at a ballgame, it’s a virtual certainty that one of them will morph into a cross between Johnny Knoxville and Andy Dick.

  It’s a $2.99 testosterone combo deal, with a side of moron.

  Even smart, thoughtful men can’t help but lose fifty IQ points in the company of other men.

  Would any guy—by himself—jump off the roof of a house?

  Nope.

  Would any guy—by himself—light a bottle rocket in his hand?

  Nope.

  But that just described Daniel Tosh’s television career.

  I know: let’s find four or five guys, turn on a camera, and give them beer. The rest, I guarantee you, will be a waterslide through Neanderthal hell.

  When NBA center Jason Collins became the first active player in a major American sport to come out as gay, the news was illuminating in so many ways. The announcement shed light on small-minded bigots and open-minded NBA stars such as Kobe Bryant and Steve Nash.

  More than anything, though, it showed just how little we think of groups of men. I mean, Wow. It’s just amazing how little regard we have for men who congregate in groups.

  For one, they’re dangerous. For another, they’re stupid.

  And that’s just the beginning.

  It might be hard to believe, but immediately after Collins’s announcement, the story shifted to focus on how men might react to another man’s sexual orientation. This idea—that a man within one of these hypermacho groups might be attracted to other men—was so unsettling that it consumed the narrative.

  How will this be viewed within the NBA community?

  How do players feel about the possibility of playing with a gay man?

  Will teammates feel funny showering with him?

  Will teammates, fearing that people may question their sexuality, shun him?

  By the way, it’s worth noting that players on six different teams over the course of twelve NBA seasons had already been showering next to this guy long before he made his historic announcement. So there’s that.

  It’s also instructive to note that this problem—or perceived problem—was limited to groups of men. In other words, the guys who gather together and end up jumping out of a window or blowing up a firework in their hands.

  Individually, men have handled this alleged issue just fine.

  Greg Louganis, the Olympic diver, announced he was gay and nobody seemed to care much. Of course, he was in an individual sport, where men weren’t coming together in a big group to act like idiots. When it’s a team sport, where a collection of men engages in low-level groupthink, somebody better call security. We could have a problem here.

  We all know that men, especially young men, commit most of the crime in any country. The likelihood of arrest for men rises sharply in the late teens and remains high through the early twenties before dropping off when marriage and families and a decrease in testosterone brings some sanity to the proceedings.

  But consider the poor opinion that society has of young men. They can go to war, vote for the leader of the free world, but can’t rent a car before 25 or drink a beer legally until 21. Essentially, society feels it has to babysit you young fellas. We’ve installed layers of rules and laws to stop you from hurting yourself—and us.

  Your parents must be proud.

  That’s not to say that groups of men can’t be heroic or capable of great things. But it seems like those great things are always framed within an organization that prides itself on the leadership and guidance of older men. Think about military groups or sports teams; they’re supervised and motivated by older, wiser men who are less prone to the irrational antics of the childish and impulsive.

  Left to their own devices, young men all too often fall into the sad and pathetic frat mentality.

  Not even our smart and civilized neighbors to the north are immune from this dynamic. The conclusion of the 2011 Stanley Cup Finals between the Vancouver Canucks and Boston Bruins got ugly. The Bruins beat the Canucks and a riot erupted in the streets of Vancouver. An eyewitness reported hearing a group of young men (of course) chanting, “Let’s go riot!” In the end, more than 140 people were hurt, more than 100 were arrested, and the property damage estimate hit $4.2 million.

  What’s hockey’s main demographic?

  Young men.

  Obviously.

  You can picture the scene, can’t you?

  Hey man, we just lost. I think the only thing that could make me feel better is to light a Chevy on fire.

  That’s the mentality that creates concern for Jason Collins’s future as an active athlete. In his profession, he can’t help but be surrounded by groups of young men who are so consumed with protecting and promoting their masculinity that they become incapable of common decency and tolerance.

  Guys, it’s time to grow—and grow up.

  Michael vs. LeBron: Swish
or Swoosh?

  Michael Jordan is the most popular and revered athlete in the world. He is absolutely glorified as a global icon, to the point where his fiftieth birthday in February of 2013 caused the sports media to reach for new ways to cover what is essentially a nonevent.

  LeBron James, on the other hand, is one of the most polarizing athletes in the world. Any of his missteps, or perceived missteps, is exaggerated. His flaws, or perceived flaws, are dwelled on long after they’ve been either rectified or proven wrong. The Decision is a running joke that may end up being the second or third line of his obituary.

  Why? Why are two of the four or five greatest basketball players in the history of the game treated so differently? Is Jordan so morally superior that he deserves no criticism while the other is so morally reprehensible he deserves it all?

  No. Far from it. Couldn’t be further from the truth.

  To accurately assess the phenomenon, start with one word: Nike.

  I am in no way insinuating that Michael Jordan didn’t do his part to fuel his popularity. But part of his appeal—a big part of his appeal—is that he had the greatest marketing ever put forth on behalf of an athlete.

  Marketing creates popularity, and popularity creates a shield. Nobody on earth—nobody in the history of the earth—is marketed more thoroughly and effectively than Michael Jordan. It’s not even close. Nike is the only company that can create a marketing campaign that drives public opinion. And that’s not open for debate, either.

  The type of campaign Nike runs creates an army of people who do the groundwork. They spread the word. They defend against all critics. This army of evangelists works in concert with the larger campaign to create an airtight, indestructible image.

  It’s nothing less than a real-life superpower.

  If you have it, nothing can penetrate. If you don’t, you’re going to have a hard time shedding anything even remotely negative.

  Take USC football coach Lane Kiffin. He’s unpopular for any number of reasons. He got too much too soon when Al Davis hired him to be the youngest head coach in the NFL. He was an ingrate when he dared to question Grandpa Al’s football acumen after being fired by the Raiders. He’s considered cocky and egomaniacal. He remains Public Enemy No. 1 in Tennessee for the slippery way he left his job as head coach of the Volunteers. Kiffin is not always deft when it comes to public relations, so everything sticks to him. Big stuff, little stuff—doesn’t matter. If it went wrong, blame Lane. The Trojans were part of a ball-deflating scandal in 2012. He knew nothing about it and had nothing to do with it. He got blamed.

  Unpopular guy: everything sticks.

  Popular guy: nothing sticks.

  We hold these truths to be self-evident.

  The closest comparison to Jordan is Ronald Reagan. His “marketing” campaign was a political movement that anointed him to save the country after Jimmy Carter, and the movement served as his Nike. Reagan was an immensely popular president, and his popularity was remarkably persistent. It withstood despite Iran-Contra, losing 241 Marines in Lebanon, and goofy jokes about bombing the Soviet Union. What did Reagan’s popularity get him? A lifetime—and beyond—pass that led the country to consider putting him on Mount Rushmore. Nothing could touch Saint Ronnie, and his popularity made him be known as The Teflon President.

  Michael Jordan is the Ronald Reagan of the sports world.

  He punched two teammates in practice sessions.

  Didn’t stick.

  He called Kwame Brown a homosexual slur.

  Didn’t stick.

  He was serially unfaithful to his wife.

  Didn’t stick.

  He left the NBA during his prime in a frivolous attempt to pursue a baseball career amid rumors and allegations that he was forced out because of gambling problems.

  Didn’t stick.

  He gave an outrageously petty Hall of Fame speech, going so far as to ridicule an old man who had the audacity to keep him on the junior varsity team when he was a sophomore in high school.

  Didn’t stick.

  He is one of the most ineffective, even inept, decision-makers as president of the Charlotte Bobcats.

  Didn’t stick.

  Indestructible and invincible must be a pretty cool way to go through life.

  To make one thing clear: Jordan was the best basketball player I ever saw, but Nike created a mythical figure, where flaws disappear and attributes take on legendary status.

  Jordan is the first athlete to literally become his own brand. It’s almost laughable when you say it out loud: the man is his own brand. How powerful is that? Consider this: the most recognizable player in Major League Baseball, the best player in the biggest market with the best image—Derek Jeter—wears baseball spikes with a silhouette of Michael Jordan on them. The most well-known baseball player wears a basketball player’s shoe. That’s some serious power.

  LeBron, despite talent that is in the same neighborhood as Jordan’s, doesn’t have anything close to the marketing power behind him. Because of that, he doesn’t have anything close to the same impenetrable force field surrounding him.

  Nike doesn’t need to turn LeBron into another Jordan. They still have Jordan to be Jordan.

  When Nike started its marketing push with Jordan, it needed him. Nike was already a multinational company, but the late ’80s and early ’90s were a different time. The landscape wasn’t as cluttered. There weren’t hundreds of television channels; there was no YouTube, no Internet. A company like Nike could still drive pop culture with clever advertising campaigns like the ones they ran for Jordan.

  How strong is Nike? Nike is a company so profoundly shrewd that it could take a geographically isolated college football program from a state that produces, on average, five Division I players a year, and turn it into one of the top ten brands in college football. You want to know Nike’s true power? Look no further than University of Oregon football.

  Oregon football is a national brand. When I mention that program, you immediately think of a million different uniform combinations, an offense that runs a zillion miles per hour, and facilities that would make a Saudi prince blush.

  All because Nike created the brand.

  Here’s another example: Reebok spent $50 million to be the title sponsor of the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta. But when asked afterward to name the title sponsors, 22 percent of respondents to a survey said Nike, and 16 percent said Reebok.

  How did Nike pull this off? In its usual smart, shrewd manner. It handed out swoosh placards in the venues and put giant billboards all over town. It put enormous swooshes on office buildings and skyscrapers in downtown Atlanta, so whenever there was a television shot of the city, there was sure to be a Nike swoosh in it.

  Let’s look a little closer at Michael and LeBron.

  From the moment Michael hit the last-second shot for North Carolina to win the NCAA title his freshman year to the time he won his first NBA championship, eight years passed.

  Eight years. Remember that.

  From the time he graduated from high school, LeBron spent eight years trying to get an NBA title—six of them with a Cleveland team that had nobody else who even resembled a star—and it was seen as a huge character flaw. He wasn’t a winner, he didn’t care, he choked when it counted. LeBron was viewed as being more frivolous than Michael, less focused, the product of a generation that valued flash and cash over banners in the rafters.

  Eight years for Michael, he became known as the ultimate winner.

  Eight years for LeBron, and his inability to win was seen as a huge character flaw and proof that he really didn’t care about winning.

  Michael was focused. LeBron was frivolous.

  The Michael vs. LeBron argument is almost entirely driven by what Nike created.

  Even now, even after LeBron has won back-to-back titles and has reached the Finals in all three years with the Heat, his achievements get minimized because he is seen as orchestrating a championship by leaving—no, betraying—Clevela
nd for the title-ready roster in Miami.

  That’s the criticism: he had to leave to get his championships.

  Excuse me, but isn’t mobility celebrated in this country?

  Not everywhere, and definitely not in every instance.

  Oh, we celebrate the guy who worked at Starbucks and left to start Peet’s Coffee, but when it comes to sports we turn that on its head and vilify a guy who leaves a stagnant Cleveland team—for less money—to join a team with a better chance of winning a championship.

  Joe Girardi went from managing the Marlins to managing the Yankees. Does anybody criticize him? No, he simply left for a better opportunity. Everyone seems to understand that—in most cases. Not in LeBron’s, however.

  The power of marketing can be seen in other sports. Everyone loves Peyton Manning more than Tom Brady, even though Brady has three Super Bowl wins and two Super Bowl MVPs while Manning has one Super Bowl win. (Jordan, by the way, seems to judge everyone by titles won, as evidenced by his contention that he’d take Kobe Bryant over LeBron because he has more NBA championships.) Why is Manning more popular? One reason: he has more and funnier commercials, which means he has a better image.

  Why does Derrick Rose sell tons of sneakers while Tim Duncan sells none? Because Adidas has created an effective and widespread marketing campaign around Rose—who has limited success in the NBA playoffs—and Duncan couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. It doesn’t matter that Duncan is one of the best players in NBA history and has won four NBA titles.

  Again, Jordan made a lot of his own breaks. But he didn’t win any titles until he was teamed with Phil Jackson and Scottie Pippen. And look at these numbers: the year he retired for the first time, the Bulls went from fifty-seven wins with him to fifty-five without him. Nobody’s saying he wasn’t the most important player on that team, the difference between an NBA title and a flame-out in the playoffs, but the fact remains: fifty-seven with him, fifty-five without him.

  LeBron’s final year in Cleveland, the Cavs won sixty-one games. The next year, they won nineteen. Nineteen. They dropped forty-two games and went from having the best record in the NBA to getting the No. 1 pick in the draft.