Europe comes home … Brawl leaves no answers

It’s been everywhere. I can picture it frame by frame: the hand grabbing head, squared off, fist to the face, yellow and black streaking across the screen.My first reaction was, “Holy s–!” Now, it’s no longer shock. Not disgust, sympathy or shame.
The words have been said. Pictures painted of hooligans and spoiled players. The images labeled, deconstructed and scrutinized.

I can’t relate.

I’ve seen and heard fans step over the line, launching racial slurs and family insults. I remember Latrell Sprewell and Vernon Maxwell and understand competitive thirst turning to aimless anger.

When I played high school soccer, a long-time rival slid at my ankles. It was homecoming, I captained the team and when his cleat hit my leg, something snapped. I looked him square in the eye when I hit the turf on top of him and just let one go, not thinking of consequence or circumstance. It was my moment, my rage. Logic didn’t propel my fist.

When his teammates stormed in after me, among scrambled thoughts, all that was clear in my head was, “Holy s–!”

I’ve got no fans, followers or expectations. I was a punk kid, hormonally challenged.

Ron Artest got a beer in the chest. Stephen Jackson and Jermaine O’Neal were defending a teammate. It’s one blind decision backed by several bad ones.

It doesn’t help that Artest has a few screws that could use some tightening. From a TV trashing to flagrant fouls, he’s a poor choice to start U.S. sports’ most repulsive brawl.

If it were Kevin Garnett, Tim Duncan or Tracy McGrady, actions would seem a bit more justified, but it wasn’t and now it seems like one bad apple bringing the whole tree down.

I can hear the words being said, the constant drone of gay slurs and barrage of, “Yo’ momma so fat she went out in a red dress and the kids yelled, `Hey Kool-Aid.’ ”

It’s not fans. It’s not a social state, an overhyped lust for athletics. Fans care too much, clearly, but launching a beer onto the court isn’t a step, it’s a leap, compliments of those spray-painting swastikas and beating up their wives.

But the NBA can’t check every past at the door.

“Can I see your ticket and a criminal record?”

The suspensions were fair. Without blame there’s no progress, even if just a band-aid on a gaping wound. It’s accountability and a warning sign. Decisions were made and a line was crossed that should never be crossed under any circumstance.

Watching Pistons fans showering beer and popcorn on Pacers players being ushered to the tunnel, I just kept wondering, “What the hell is going on?”

I’m not scared to attend an NBA game or wondering whether Pop Warner kids are going to start charging rowdy parents.

It seems almost overdue. Athletes aren’t paid for character and fans don’t have tickets because of social service. Bar fights happen and not because of some warped code of conduct. While there are lines at a professional sporting event, idiocy doesn’t draw those lines. NBA games provide the same cross-section as any local watering hole.

I’m not sure what I’ll remember: O’Neil’s flying fist, Artest’s stretched jersey or bloody faces. There’s not much hope, no great social enlightenment.

It’s just confusion. There’s no certifiable answer or explanation.