Coach's Corner

It's quite remarkable how quiet a sprawling, cavernous arena like the Alamodome can be only an hour before game-time. Soon, 28,000 people will fill every seat to see the Stockton/ Malone/Hornacek show, the longest-running play in the NBA. Now it's quiet. Five Spurs are on the floor, doing what basketball players do. The comforting sound of balls slap-slapping on the gym floor echo in the empty building. Steve Kerr, still on the injured list, moves easily around the arch shooting threes. Another injured Spur, rookie Derrick Dial, plays a spirited game of one-on-one with Jerome Kersey. Seldom-used Felton Spencer, palming the ball as casually as I'd hold a peanut, shoots free throws.

Hanging from the dropped wall is the impressive array of San Antonio Spur division and conference championship banners: 11 in all. Dead in the center is the Spurs' reason for being, the jet black with white trim World Championship flag from the last year of the millennium.

Now at the end of another long season, little resembles last year for the beleaguered World Champs. After a franchise-best 14-3 start, the team stumbled into an unmapped wooded marsh where quicksand and sinkholes were many. In midseason they lurched through an 11-12 stretch. The season has been an injury-riddled nightmare. It began moments after the Knicks were wiped off the floor last June, with the news that Sean Elliott, in need of a new kidney, might never play again. If you don't believe luck plays a significant part in the success of a professional sports team, consider this. In the 1998-99 season, when the Spurs blitzed the league, starters missed only four games due to injury. This year, starters have missed 100 games. And that 100th might be the most damaging of all. Last week MVP Tim Duncan suffered a "slight" meniscus tear to his left knee, and his status is now obscured behind a solid wall of official spin control.

And there's more. The Alamodome, always one of the toughest places for road teams to win, has lost its edge. The Spurs' home record is a mediocre ninth in the league. And their defensive dominance has slipped noticeably.

It was with this dark foreknowledge that I went to San Antonio to witness the last days of this short dynasty. After a thorough whipping by the Jazz, I'd write a tidy death notice on the league's oldest team. The Spurs, however, refuse to cooperate.

For the second time in a week I personally witness the Spurs hammer-whip another of the West's elite teams. Last Sunday at the Staples Center, they beat the Shaqless Lakers by a handy 20. Tonight, without Duncan, they dismantle a sluggish, uninterested Jazz by 23. The reason: the rediscovery of a long lost leader: David (The Admiral) Robinson.

Isn't it odd that in his 10th year, the notably talented, but heretofore blasé, above-the-fray naval officer should metamorphize into the natural leader Spur fans always expected him to be? But the role of Spur leader is, in itself, an odd thing. They seem to have a different "heart and soul" every year. For a few years it was Avery Johnson. Last year it was A.J. and tough, grizzled Mario Elie. This season Avery's been feuding with management and Mario's been silent. Nature abhors a vacuum. Robinson's quietly taken over.

Early in the first period, David scores on a wicked, fist-pumping, tomahawk stuff. The crowd goes crazy. His teammates are, suddenly, everywhere -- clogging Jazz passing lanes, forcing un-Jazz-like passes, running the break like the Spurs of old. Taking Robinson's lead, his teammates eschew jump shots, taking the ball deep into the interior of Utah's defense. Elliott, healthy and aggressive, follows the Admiral inside. Soon, everyone is running at Malone and anybody else the Jazz put in the paint. In the second quarter, Robinson receives the ball above the free-throw line and spins right -- where he leaves Malone -- then left, achieving air around the stripe. A monster slam leads quickly to another defensive feeding frenzy.

No superstar in the league gets less respect from officials than the courtly Admiral. Veteran ref Dick Bavetta calls touchy-feely fouls two and three within a minute on an incredulous, semi-enraged Robinson. These are calls he'd never make against Malone (or even Kobe), but they're par for the court against David. Still, on this night, only the officials dampen the spark of No. 50.

This is all well and good for San Antonio. Still, even my wife's cat Mela understands that the Spurs go nowhere without Silent Tim. Skeptical of the team's waffling, I checked with my own personal orthopedic surgeon, who's repaired every part of my body over 20 years, Dr. Ed Lewis. Doc Lewis, who specializes in sports medicine, says Duncan probably has a "grade B" tear, and with rest and good fortune really could be healthy (or healthy enough, anyway) for the playoffs.

So I'm putting away my shovel. Tossing dirt on the defending champ's coffin is extremely premature. Like the Houston Rockets a few years back, this club is easy to overlook in the glittery, star-packed West. But the Admiral and Duncan provide matchup nightmares for any team in the league. And the team seems to be jelling at the perfect time.

I'll be surprised if L.A. doesn't win the West, but not shocked to see the Spurs defending their championship in June.No