“It happened at barbershops, on radio interviews, at playgrounds and in church. It even happened at the home of my parents, proud season-ticket holders since the day after the Cavaliers won the 2003 draft lottery.
Everywhere I went — in Cleveland and sometimes elsewhere — I seemed to find myself defending Mike Brown.
Folks who had never played one minute of organized basketball, who couldn’t diagram a pick-and-roll on the chalkboard, who didn’t know a jump stop from a jumpsuit, were killing the Cleveland coach.
I had no vested interest in standing up for Brown, but I did so every time. Because to me, the criticism was bizarre.
After covering the NBA since 1995 and witnessing various coaching styles, philosophies and demeanors — from hotheaded control freaks to laid-back delegators — I had come to this conclusion about the men who roam the sideline:
A good coach consistently gets his team at least as far as, and sometimes further than, it should go. Period.
And for all the ugly offensive sets the Cavaliers ran during Brown’s first three years as coach, he always, without question and without fail, pushed his team further than it should have gone since his arrival in 2005.”
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