When Sports Betrays the Fans: Thoughts on Luka Doncic's trade through a Texas lens

The 16-year-old version of myself would be ashamed of me for writing this story. After all, I was the same high school sophomore who couldn’t believe my mom wouldn’t let me wear a screen-printed T-shirt of anti-Dallas Mavericks propaganda that said, “DUCK FIRK.” My plan was to wear this brilliant article of clothing to the AT&T Center for Game 7 of the legendary 2006 playoff series. Had she let me, maybe Manu Ginóbili doesn’t foul Dirk Nowitzki, and the Spurs go on to win. Come on, Mom.

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Anyway, that version of me would be horrified that I’m sitting here, approaching middle age, feeling sorry for the Mavericks. What the hell happened to you, man? You used to stand for something.

But it’s hard to feel schadenfreude toward Mavericks fans after the earth-shattering Luka Dončić trade to the Los Angeles Lakers. For one, the Lakers are my least favorite professional sports team of all time. Second, it’s obvious the string-pullers don’t understand why the fans care about this in the first place. The trade proves how the gap between the fans—who pay for it all—and those who write the checks is only getting wider.

The conspiracy theories surrounding why the new Mavericks leadership, post-Mark Cuban, would trade a 25-year-old, homegrown Dončić for a 31-year-old Anthony Davis and several rusty nickels are growing by the minute. The hypotheses range from plots resembling the evil owner’s motivations in the first Major League to long-standing grudges to an NBA desperate to breathe life into a flailing Lakers franchise.

Whatever mix of incompetence and tangled motivations caused this dumbfounding, earth-shattering trade, one thing is clear: the fans have been forgotten. The Mavericks didn’t even attempt to justify the trade beyond empty platitudes.

Weight gain? It was just the holidays. Welcome to Texas. “Defense wins championships?” Even if you give the benefit of the doubt to Nico Harrison and the casino magnate family that now owns the Mavericks, maybe they genuinely thought a core of AD, Klay Thompson, and Kyrie Irving gave them a better shot at a title this year.

It’s a foolish thought.

But even if that was their reasoning, it ignores the fans’ desires, hopes, and dreams. This is the same fanbase that labored through the lowest of sports lows with Nowitzki before finally reaching the mountaintop. Winning one title with Dirk meant infinitely more to DFW than any quick-fix championship plot ever could have.

Because players are the fans’ ultimate entry point into caring about sports in the first place.

College athletics have a slightly wider bridge with its traditions, atmosphere, and the experience as a whole. But even that is narrowing, as the transfer portal makes it harder to emotionally invest in players. For every mercenary, though, there’s still a Jahdae Barron or a Quinn Ewers. There will always be transcendent college figures like Earl Campbell, Vince Young, and—dare I say—the potential of Manning? They’re the collegiate equivalents of what Dirk represents to Dallas. Those are the icons we never stop talking about, the ones we wait decades for.

How many stories of fandom start with:

“There was Kevin Durant pulling up for a jumper.”

“I watched Ricky Williams run.”

“I saw Derrick Johnson tackle.”

Unlike college, professional sports rely almost exclusively on a connection with the players. Unless a player links generations, a lot of pro sports fandom consists of isolated journeys. But when there’s a player to bond over—one that carries the hopes of an entire city—that’s an invitation for the next generation of fans to start caring and keep the tradition alive.

My dad wasn’t a Spurs fan. He was a casual basketball fan who liked Bill Russell and Larry Bird. But he got tickets to a game and took me to see the Spurs in the Alamodome, where I saw Tim Duncan. That experience allowed us to care about Tim and the Spurs together through the highest highs and the most gut-wrenching lows for the next 20+ years.

On lottery night two years ago, when the Spurs landed Victor Wembanyama, I nearly lost my life or a limb. As the pick was announced, I ran out into my street celebrating and almost got hit by a neighbor’s oncoming car. 

I waved at them in apology—would they have understood that Wembanyama represented an invitation for my kids and me to love the Spurs together? Probably not, and I didn’t try to explain

I celebrated with such fervor, I bought my kids Wemby jerseys so we could have that shared experience. I have a bunch of friends with sad children who own Luka jerseys on lonely hangers today. The invitation to care becomes a much tougher sell without a player like Wemby or Luka. When they’re dealt for no reason, it’s even harder to justify investing in it at all.

“Kids, I get it, but you have to #trusttheprocess…”

We don’t start loving sports because of franchise valuations, super leagues, or players represented in the form of assets. And sure, I may not feel the heartbreak that Mavs fans feel after losing a player they thought they’d cheer on for over the next two decades, but it’s obvious that I will someday, in one form or another. The machine will grind me up too. 

I’ve played my minuscule part in growing it all. I’ve put my quarters in the slot as it continues to gorge and grow. And with each shift, whether rooted in greed or incompetence, it’s clear I’m no longer needed, nor are my hopes considered. 

And neither are yours.

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So… when’s the next game again?