Ok, let’s play a game.
Name for me the best thing that could have happened to the NBA.
Need time?
No, it’s not a Durant/Oden one-two punch for the next fifteen years, though I am mightily giddy about that.
No, it’s not Kobe in New York. Or Kobe in Chicago. Or Kobe in Madrid. Or Kobe on Neptune.
And no, it’s not Steve Kerr running the Suns, though I’ve never been more scared of a thin and wiry little white dude since Charles Manson went behind bars.
(Insert Jeopardy’s beep-beep-beep of death here.)
It’s Lebron’s leveling up to the NBA Finals. Like you didn’t know.
Let me take you back: Chicago, 1991. A couple young, feisty, and athletic boys in red and white have been making some noise in the Eastern Conference. They had the talent, but it was understood the world over that they didn’t have the figurehead, the leadership, the extra-something that it took to put their mark on the league and tote off the Larry O’Brian. Every year, they went into Detroit. Every year they took them deep. And every year they lost.
Assertion #1: Michael Jordan would not have surpassed the Dominique Wilkins-level notoriety had they not whupped Detroit in that series in 1991. That was the game that gave the Bulls the belief, the confidence, and the strength that, when combined with their substantial athletic talent, swayed the balance of power for the next decade in the NBA. No longer were they just good ballplayers. With intelligence and confidence, they were the assassins of the hardwood.
Michael was 29. Lebron is 22. Time’s up, folks. Take your seats and enjoy the show.
* * *
Not to say that Lebron will win six rings. Most say that he will leave 2007 in less than six Finals games and ringless. And who am I to discount them? I’m just another thin and wiry little white dude.
The 2007 Spurs are a mighty team, and represent the apex of the NBA pantheon for the last 5 years. Any one of them is capable of going off for 30 on any given day, including Popovich. They are the machine, inducing fouls and getting under the other team’s skin like the game was tailored for them. Unshakable, unflappable, efficient.
Just like the Lakers of 1991. Near-unbeatable, heavily favored, and with an end-of-prime superstar.
Assertion #2: The Cavs will bring this to 7 games. There is no one on the Spurs who can stop this Lebron. The Now Lebron.
Lebron 2.0.
Remember what happened last year against the Mavs? How the obviously better team was taken down by the raging bull that was Wade? The Heat had no business winning that thing, but Wade turned that all around with a plethora of flailing drives and mid-range jumpers. Sound familiar?
And guess what? Lebron is better than My Five Dwayne Wade.
Lebron will get the calls. The Bruce Bowen face will come out. Duncan will go into foul trouble from too many weak-side helps, because Lebron is stronger than Duncan. Witness: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0GiPPR_pG8
Think Duncan remembers that one? I think he sees it whenever he closes his eyes.
* * *
When I picture David Stern, I imagine him buried deep in the cockles of the Stu Jackson Memorial Warehouses. Surrounding him are steep walls of boxes, containing the shattered remains of several NBA franchises. They are barely visible in the light of the one naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling. They read: Willis Reed’s Limp Increaser. Directions to Len Bias’ Covert Hideout. The Real Darko Milicic.
The location is guarded at all times. By a team of timberwolves, grizzly bears, and velociraptors.
Stern’s desk is long and deep, with an enormous throne that scales as high as the ceiling. Below the one scratchy thirteen-inch television screen sits thirty joysticks, one for each team. (The Celtics’ one is made of ivory, and is by far the oldest and most worn. The one for the Clippers never worked, but Stern has never touched that one.) With the slightest motion of his aged and liver-spotted hands, he can control the ball in any NBA game, and the destiny of anyone in the organization.
To his right, a ticker scrolls the stock of every NBA player, to the second. The receipt-like paper rolls are everywhere, nearly obscuring the head of the original Phoenix Go-Rilla and the case that holds Larry Bird’s mustache and mullett.
On Thursday, David Stern poured himself a glass of Johnny Walker Blue Label, mixed in some Pixie Dust and Peyote, and crafted the future of Lebron James.
The Savior.
On Thursday, David Stern poured himself a glass of Johnny Walker Blue Label, mixed in some Pixie Dust and Peyote, and crafted the future of Lebron James.
The Savior.
The Chosen One.
The Future of the NBA.
Assertion #3: David Stern has rigged the NBA Finals. The Cleveland Cavaliers will win the 2007 NBA Championship in seven, Lebron sealing the game with free-throws.
Millions of lives will become instantly better for it. Including yours.
* * *
* * *
I would now like to offer my personal apology to Jake Appleman.
He said the Cavs could handle the Pistons. He said, "Take my word for it." He was confidant and unwavering.
I disagreed, and I was wrong.
Coming into the second round, I didn't think the Cleve Crew had the mojo, the tenacity, the general F-you mentality that it takes to come out of the East. The kind of attitude you put an Eminem song to on a mixed tape: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yF-NDUmZPsY
Detroit had it. Hell, between Rip, Rasheed, and Webber, I thought they were going to out-cuss everyone to the championship. I mean, Chauncey Billups is so ragged that he reminds me of one of those city squirrells. You know, the ones missing hunks of their ears, no fluff in their tail, that look like they haven't seen a quality tree their whole lives?
Give me your damn nut. That's Chanucey. That's Detroit.
But the change came when Mr. 2-for-14 Larry Hughes turned gimp, vaulting Boobie Gibson into the lineup. (How the HELL did he get that name? I feel like I am in a Guiness commercial. Boobie Gibson? Brilliant!) He was the X factor that every team is looking for, but the Cavs forgot he was there.
How did this happen? Gimmie three steps gimmie three steps mister.
- Draft-day drop. After a sub-par end to his college career and his lack of a real PG or SG label, he fell. Hard. Cleveland called his name, but he was obviously behind at least 3 in the guard spot. Result: Anger. Vendiction. Gilbert Arenas syndrome.
- 'Da Bench. He was buried all year, watching Hughes' atrocious shooting and headband-tossing from the best seat in the house.
- 'Da Chance. Biggest stage. Nothing expected from him, so little pressure. Wide-open looks, being fed like a baby by a doubled Lebron. Result? 5-for-5 from 3 point land.
He will play the J.R. Smith role for a while, possibly lighting up for more than 20 once during this Finals. But what happens when Hughes, with his enormous contract, demands his time back? You're on the clock, Mike Brown.
Anyways, I am sorry for doubting you, Jake.
Never again.
* * *
Finally, I know I've been bowing before Lebron the whole post.
But do you want to see another Detroit/San Antonio Finals? Cuz you didn't watch last time. And if you did, it wasn't too enjoyable, was it?
This time, you're getting your money's worth. Trust me. Cavs in seven.
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