There are things television teaches you if you’re really watching. You learn from Mike Ehrmantraut in Breaking Bad that there are no half measures. You learn from Burgess Meredith in The Twilight Zone that all the time in the world doesn’t matter if your glasses are broken and the people are gone. And you learn from Captain Kirk — or rather, two Captain Kirks — that a leader split in half is no leader at all.
(Speaking of Kirk, his namesake here at MMB wrote his story the same day I wrote mine, we didn’t talk about this until after each was done. We’re not done talking about this and won’t be until the Mavericks actually fire Nico.)
That’s the episode I keep thinking about. “The Enemy Within,” from the original Star Trek. A transporter malfunction splits Captain Kirk into two beings: one calm, rational, kind — and the other impulsive, angry, passionate. For a while, it seems obvious who the real captain is. But as the episode unfolds, it becomes clear: neither half is sufficient. It’s the integration that makes a leader. The wholeness. The courage to face the dark and wield it responsibly.
Which brings me to Nico Harrison.
The Mavericks’ general manager has, over these past few years, revealed something deeply unsettling. Not in a headline-grabbing, scandalous way. But in the way he responds to adversity, to questions, to obvious failings. He doesn’t process. He spins. He doesn’t lead. He reframes. Always with a smile. Always too polished.
And in doing so, he’s become a danger to the very future he’s been miraculously gifted.
Let’s talk about the timeline.
In a closed-door media roundtable in April — no cameras allowed — Harrison was asked about the Mavericks’ training staff. This, after a year riddled with injuries, missed games, and visible player wear. His response? Full-throated defense. No introspection. No acknowledgment of failure. When reporters gently suggested concerns, he brushed them off as “negativity.” A saccharine Jiu-Jitsu move, flipping critique into forced optimism.
Weeks later? He fired them.
Gone: Dionne Calhoun, 21-year veteran and head trainer. Gone: Keith Belton, whose controversial methods did Dereck Lively II’s stress fracture no favors. This wasn’t nuance. This was contradiction.
And it wasn’t the first.
Let’s not forget: this is the GM who traded Luka Dončić — a generational star who just turned 26 — for a crumbling Anthony Davis and a future wrapped in hope and branding. A GM so tethered to his Nike past, to names instead of nows, that he bet the franchise on friendships. On ghosts of greatness.
Irving. Davis. Names that rang out in 2016. But it’s 2025 now, and both are teetering on the far side of elite. One is coming off an ACL tear. The other spends a painful amount of time in street clothes rather than on the court. You don’t build around that. You gamble around that — and lose.
And yet, even after the miracle — the 1.8% odds that landed the Mavericks the #1 pick and a path to Cooper Flagg — Nico cannot be trusted to steward that future.
Because he doesn’t carry both halves.
As Spock tells Kirk in the sickbay:
“Judging from my observations, Captain, you’re rapidly losing the power of decision. We have here an unusual opportunity to appraise the human mind… We see indications that it’s [your] negative side which makes [you] strong… Your negative side removed from you, the power of command begins to elude you.”
And McCoy, the soul of the crew, reminds them both:
“You have your intellect, Jim. You can fight with that!”
But Kirk, wounded and withering, responds:
“For how long?”
Nico, by contrast, amputates that dark half. He performs strength but avoids command. He reframes every flaw instead of owning it. He spins when he should lead.
He only shows us the light. The curated. The cheerful. But the dark — the hard conversations, the public accountability, the unflinching leadership? It’s absent. Excised. Like Kirk without his other half, he becomes indecisive, disconnected, unable to confront reality.
You don’t lead like that. You perform like that.
And that’s the tragedy.
The Mavericks have their miracle. But miracles need shepherds. They need leaders who aren’t split down the middle, pretending the missing half doesn’t matter.
This isn’t personal. I don’t wish ill on Nico Harrison or his family. I don’t need him run out of town by a pitchfork-wielding mob. But I do need him to go — for the sake of the franchise. Go sell sneakers. Go consult. Go anywhere but here.
Because until ownership makes the hard call, Dallas will remain hostage to Harrison’s hologram — all positivity, no presence.
Lucky. But lost.