"You look at today, it's a different situation. You have a game that has been transformed into a game where almost every shot is either an outside shot - a three-point shot - or a dunk"
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Robertson is doing something subtler than the usual old-head grumble about “kids today.” He’s naming a design shift: modern basketball has been engineered into a binary, a sport increasingly routed through two shots the numbers love most. The three and the dunk aren’t just highlights; they’re efficiencies. Say “almost every shot” and you can hear the accusation hiding in the hyperbole: the middle of the floor has been priced out of the market.
Coming from Robertson, this isn’t nostalgia so much as witness testimony. He played in an era where the game’s texture lived in the in-between: post footwork, pull-up jumpers, improvisation under less-spaced conditions. His critique isn’t that today’s players lack skill; it’s that the ecosystem now rewards a narrower set of choices. Analytics, the three-point line’s gravitational pull, and rule changes that open driving lanes all conspire to turn possessions into predictable math problems: hunt the rim, spray to the arc, repeat.
The subtext is cultural as much as tactical. When the league sells spacing and pace as modernity, it also sells an aesthetic: clean geometry, repeatable actions, stars framed by shooters like stage lighting. Robertson’s line resists that branding. It suggests something has been lost along with the long two: variety, patience, the drama of contested midrange craft. He’s asking whether “transformed” means improved, or merely optimized for what looks best on a spreadsheet and on social media.
Coming from Robertson, this isn’t nostalgia so much as witness testimony. He played in an era where the game’s texture lived in the in-between: post footwork, pull-up jumpers, improvisation under less-spaced conditions. His critique isn’t that today’s players lack skill; it’s that the ecosystem now rewards a narrower set of choices. Analytics, the three-point line’s gravitational pull, and rule changes that open driving lanes all conspire to turn possessions into predictable math problems: hunt the rim, spray to the arc, repeat.
The subtext is cultural as much as tactical. When the league sells spacing and pace as modernity, it also sells an aesthetic: clean geometry, repeatable actions, stars framed by shooters like stage lighting. Robertson’s line resists that branding. It suggests something has been lost along with the long two: variety, patience, the drama of contested midrange craft. He’s asking whether “transformed” means improved, or merely optimized for what looks best on a spreadsheet and on social media.
Quote Details
| Topic | Sports |
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