It’s easy: Greg Ostertag. Having to share a name with this doofus is enough to make my blood boil.
To me, Greg Ostertag is the Utah Jazz version of Baby Huey. A schlubby halfwit who lives in his parents’ basement, can’t hold a job and puts his name on the orange juice he didn’t pay for. It’s a damn good thing for him he ended up being 7-foot-2.
He was supposed to be the final piece to the championship puzzle. A hulking big man who could protect the rim, snag rebounds by the dozen and score down on the low block. Instead, he was a lump of flesh that never came close to reaching his potential. Sure, he had some decent games against Hakeem Olajuwon and swatted his fair share of shots, but he was still a colossal disappointment.
What irritates me most is that with some genuine hard work and effort, Ostertag could’ve been super solid. But he wasn’t willing to put in that work. This is compounded when you think about him sharing a frontcourt with Karl Malone—one of the hardest working players in league history. A man whose workouts were as Herculean as they were legendary.
Ostertag put himself and his laziness before the team and in doing so brought the organization down a few pegs. I’m not going to pin all the blame for the Jazz’s misfortunes on him, but a large chunk of the blame has to be placed on his flabby shoulders.
Few things make me more disgusted than when someone has every resource to improve and grow, but refuses to do so. I truly believe that, had Ostertag applied himself, to reach even a Bill Laimbeer level of play, the statues in front of the ESA would have championship rings adorning their fingers.
