Derrick Rose keeps his seat

I have dearly missed Derrick Rose in this year’s NBA playoffs, and I think he should be playing.

Rose sat out the entire regular season recovering from an anterior cruciate ligament tear he sustained more than one calendar year ago. He has been medically cleared to return to play for about two months now, and he has been participating in full-contact scrimmages for much of that time. This means that, as far as his doctors are concerned, he is healthy. He is no longer an injured player.

From my outside perspective, the reasons for the delay of his return are somewhat murky. Rose has alluded to issues of unresponsive muscle memory and the possibility of other, slighter injuries, but there doesn’t seem to be a direct, easily understood explanation for why he’s not out there at this time. Essentially, he doesn’t feel right, so he’s not playing.

And there’s nothing really wrong with that. As a fan of Rose—heck, as a human being—I am concerned for his long-term well-being. I’d love to watch him play for the next 10 years at a high level, and if it takes an entire season (including playoffs) of recovery time to ensure that decade of excellence, it’s more than a fair trade. I’m certain the Chicago Bulls share the same view, as do his teammates, which is why they are handling the situation perfectly and showing absolute loyalty to Rose.

I suppose no one is more qualified to speak to Derrick Rose’s readiness than Derrick Rose, and it would be morally reprehensible for anybody to place pressure on him to return when he doesn’t feel physically or mentally capable. Really, I admire him for his honesty and his judiciousness, and I respect the outpouring of support from teammates like Joakim Noah. It makes you feel as if Rose might really be the kind of hardworking, passionate, team-first person you suspect he is.

The problem is, we don’t actually love him for the kind of person he is. We love him for the kind of player he is. Sure, being a great guy helps, but it’s secondary in importance to his capabilities on the floor. And lost in the shuffle of whether he can or should return this season is the question of what obligation a player or a franchise has to their fans.

Since it’s our money that floats the ship, I think they owe us quite a bit. At the very least, a my-12-month-long-injury-has-stretched-to-13-months-and-my-doctor-says-I’m-healthy-so-I’m-playing level of commitment.

We usually reserve this conversation for free agency season, when it usually rears its head in the form of loyalty to a city. Lebron James’ Decision to leave Cleveland is the most famous example, but some form of it plays out almost every year. As fans, we get upset when this happens; when we listen to our heroes say “this is business.” Not to us—for us it’s hard to understand why the sport doesn’t mean more than money to them. We hardly ever empathize with the athlete in this scenario. Until, of course, a beloved athlete gets injured.

Every time we see a player’s career ruined, or at least altered, by a significant injury, we are reminded why they hold out for more money or turn their backs on franchises for greener, more lucrative pastures. When tragedy strikes, particularly if that player is a superstar, we see clearly how rare their talent is, how narrow their window for financial gain. They operate within an absolutely cutthroat occupation, and they have only so much time to take advantage of their opportunities and secure their futures.

Which is what makes Rose’s situation so tricky. To say he “owes” me or any fan anything sounds like the worst kind of sports-talk-radio sentiment, but, really, what exactly is a fan’s position supposed to be? We invest tons of money and emotion into these teams and players; the league and its franchises welcome our investment, encourage it, need it. Yet we have no input whatsoever into the way our favorite teams are run or the decisions they make or how they perform. We spend our money to fund their stadiums and we endure the whims of cheapskate owners, and we root for teams that in some cases never, ever win. Is it really so much to ask that a player whom doctors say is healed actually plays? Does our allegiance mean that we even have to concede the expectation of player participation?

I can understand that Derrick Rose has to think about himself, his family and his future, both professionally and financially. But his talent is not intrinsically valuable; it only has monetary value worth protecting if it’s on display and customers pay for it. If he’s not out there when he’s been cleared to compete, then that talent is totally worthless by this measure.

It might be consoling to think that Rose’s caution helps to secure his fans more of him down the road if sports didn’t routinely disavow us of that notion. As Bill
Simmons has often pointed out, you never know how long the window for success will stay open in the NBA, even under perfect circumstances. Rose could sit out for three seasons and sleep for 20 hours a day in a barometric chamber. He could replace all his organs and have some kind of DNA renewal procedure that doesn’t even exist yet. He could have his blood doped every day for the rest of his career, and it still wouldn’t guarantee that he will never get injured again.

There just are no guarantees, period. Not in sports and not in life. Rose’s team has a chance to win right now. All his fans around the world know for certain is that they have today to watch him play. Forget the promise of 10 more years—there is no promise of tomorrow. What is Rose waiting for?

He’s medically capable. His team needs him. The fans need him. And, yes, he owes us.