Here I am only 21, 22, 23, or 24 years of age depending on what day it is and I currently have the heart of 73 year old. Why should I, how could I have such at dated vital organ at such a tender age? Three simple letters, an acronym to be exact; NBA. Everyone that knows me can attest to the fact that I breathe sports. Football, of course, is my first love and is pretty much irreplaceable. Watching football, playing football or even talking about football does something to me. Even here and now, thinking about football in all of it's brutal glory excites me more than she ever has (Its just a joke sweetheart....well actually it isn't). Anywhom I'm not here to talk about football, although it is quite refreshing and I could do it for 17,000 more words, I'm here to reprimand the entire Eastern Confernce of the NBA.
I must preface this tale by establishing the fact that I am a die-hard Miami Heat fan-atic. The 2009 edition of the Heat were a story in themselves. We went from lottery to playoff participant in less than one calendar year. I'm still a bit salty about losing to the freakin' Atlanta Hawks in the playoffs though. My only consolation for the defeat is seeing the Hawks swept by The Clevland 'Lebrons'. While the Heat was losing to the Hawks, The Magic was slugging it out with The Sixers, The Celts were struggling with the Baby Bulls and The Lebrons were sweeping the Pistons. On to round two. As mentioned before the Hawks were sent fishing by the Lebrons, and the defending champs were being bounced by the upstart Magic. Once the conference finals began so did my cardiac episodes.
Dwight Howard versus Lebron James. I thought the series was going to be an extremely competitive one. It didn't disappoint. Game one was decided by a missed Mo Williams jumper with one second left and who can forget Lebron's prayer being answered at the buzzer. Orlando took the next two, Clevland won the next out of shear desperation and of course The Magic closed things out in Game 6. All I could think of at the end of that game was MasterCard. Front row tickets to a conference finals game $865, hot dog and beer $15, Lebron James' face as blue and white confetti fell upon his shoulders...Priceless.
On to the heartache, heartbreak and near heart attacks. Four games into the 2009 NBA finals and I have aged forty-six years. I'm a homer so of course I am rooting for the Magic to win their first title in franchise history as opposed to the Lakers winning their 89th title. Game one was an aberration and the anti-indicator of what was to come. Game two made a chain-smoker of me. How in the blue hell do you miss the perfect opportunity to steal a game in L.A., Mr. Courtney Lee. Granted, it was a tough shot, but dammit Rook you need to make that shot. Game two saw Overtime number one of the series and also saw the Magic folded under the pressure of a big game under the bright lights of Staples. It wasn't just a loss though. It was more like a death. They'd won the game with two minutes left in regulation, then they lost it with forty seconds left, then they won it again and with the buzzer sounding missed layup by the rook, they inevitably lost it once more. I never knew that playing a game vicariously through professional athletes could cause such internal turmoil.
After Game 2, I was in dire need of a break. I took the off day and got in a bit of rehab. I soaked in the hot tub and cooled down in the ice tub. My joints were aching and my throat was sore. Who knew basketball was so taxing on the body. All these reconstructive measures just after watching a game, I can only imagine what the players had to go through. I'm patched up and ready for Game 3. Back in Orlando and I knew we were going to take this one. Although the game was very much in doubt most of the way, but the crowd fed off the team and the team fed of the crowd. Game 4 is when the fuckery reared it's ugly head once more. I'll spare you all the play by play, but all need be said is that there was another overtime. Different venue, different circumstance, but the same eventual outcome. That got damned Derek Fisher. He's got to be at least forty-eight by now and he's still making big shots. The strange thing about my emotion during these finals is that I am not a Kobe hater. I'm not even a Laker hater. I actually love them both, it's just that for some reason rooting for the underdog is so much more fun than putting your money on the favorite. As fun as this all may be, I really don't know how much more of it I can realistically take. Excitement has no bounds, but an individuals blood pressure does. After the end of this playoff season the NBA needs to consider a slogan modification. Instead of 'Where Amazing Happens' they need to consider 'Where cardiac arrest happens' or 'Where Unexpected Visits to the ER Happen'.
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