From Bill Simmons:
I measure excruciating losses by the amount of time I walk my dog afterward. That's my ritual. My team gets crushed, I walk it off. The walks usuallylast for 15-20 minutes. The walk after Game 6 lasted for hours. I think I ended up in Compton.
At one point, Rufus just stopped. He had enough. It was like 9:45 at night. We were in the middle of nowhere. We were like 250 blocks from my house. I thinkwe were on the same street where Ricky Baker got gunned down in "Boyz n the Hood." Rufus planted his furry butt on a sidewalk and stared me down.
"I'm not going back until you explain to me why Doc put Tony Allen in the game," I told him.
He kept staring at me.
"We were up by five," I said. "We had scored on like 10 straight possessions. We were humming. They couldn't stop us. The series wasover."
More staring.
"Two and a half minutes left and we have the ball. Again, they can't stop us. So Doc brings in our worst player -- our least intelligent player,our most ineffective player, the master of the fantastic drive/missed layup -- and takes out Big Baby when he was our second-best player tonight? And allbecause Chicago went small? SO WE'RE REACTING TO A DESPERATION COACHING MOVE BY VINNY DEL NEGRO!!!!! REALLY, THAT'S WHAT WE DID?????????"
More staring, coupled with some panting.
"And then, Tony ends up missing back-to-back shots and Chicago ties the game???? And it goes three overtimes and we lose because we make two straightthrees with our toes on the line, then a WNBA player dunked on Paul Pierce, then we went to a guy shooting 4 for 47 on the deciding play when we have the bestclutch shooter in the league and he had 51 points?"
At this point, I honestly expected Rufus to say something. Everything was in play: Even talking dogs. We had just watched a first-round series that featuredfive of the six games come down to the final play. Four of those games went into overtime. One went into double OT. One went into triple OT. It's thewildest first-round series ever played. Whatever happens in Game 7, we will remember it as the most incredible matchup in NBA playoff history.
Derrick Rose took the superstar training wheels off. Rajon Rondo turned into Isiah, The Sequel: Just as talented, just as hated, just as nasty. Ben Gordonand Kendrick Perkins turned into Andrew Toney and Robert Parish. The great Ray Allen became a minus-130 favorite in the "Reggie Miller versus RayAllen" argument and might have to change his name to "The Great Ray Allen." Paul Pierce added to his legacy and sullied it a little at the sametime. Brad Miller made the Faces Hall of Fame and the Dorkiest White Guy Celebrations Hall of Fame. John Salmons and Glen Davis put themselves on the map asbona-fide NBA players. Kirk Hinrich redeemed his career. Stephon Marbury destroyed what was left of his career. Doc Rivers and Vinny Del Negro inspired theirplayers and undermined them at the same time.
There were so many great plays and shots and moments that they have blurred together. I've watched every second of this series and cannot remember howmany clutch shots Ray Allen nailed over the past five games. The number might be nine. The number might be 15. The number might be 23. I couldn't tell you.They have all morphed into one superduper clutch Ray Allen shot -- the man flying off a screen, lulling his defender to sleep, then springing for his shot withperfect form. He is the greatest pure shooter I have ever seen. Ever. Not since Bird has anyone given me the feeling, "We might be down three, but we areabsolutely tying this game."
I watched every moment of this series and can't remember how many times Derrick Rose wheeled into the lane, spun one way or the other and either scoopedin a layup or a floating one-hander. He does it again and again and again. He does it whenever he wants. Thank god Vinny hasn't noticed. I have never seena better athlete play point guard. It wasn't that he blocked Rondo's game-winning shot in Game 6 as much as how beautiful the play itself was: Rosesniffing out the move, mirroring everything Rondo did, then jumping like a frog and swatting the shot as cleanly as you can swat a shot. A perfect basketballplay. That's what it was.
There are many great things about sports, but here's one of the best: You never know when two teams will click. I used a boxing analogy in my columnafter Game 2 and it still stands. Styles make fights and styles make playoff series. Has to be a constant tug between young and old, unstoppable and stoppable,physical and finesse, experience and inexperience, fast and slow, big and small, stupid and smart. You need guys continually rising to the occasion and pushingthemselves to a level they didn't know they had. You need two teams (or fighters) hugging each other after and thinking to themselves, "Thank you. Youbrought the best of me. Thank you."
We love sports for the simple reason that we never know when this will happen. It rarely does. We watch a lot of crummy games. We watch sporting events thathad potential to be great and weren't. We watch sporting events that almost made it, but one dumb thing happened to screw it up: A foul at the wrong time,a penalty, a two-base error, whatever. We keep watching. We keep hoping. And when everything clicks, it's blissful. I am hearing from people whohaven't e-mailed me in years. Readers are sending me 700-word e-mails. The thing that keeps jumping out: Even fans without rooting interests have gottenswept up in this series. How can you not?
Think of all the crap we deal with as fans. "Bulls-Celtics 2009" explains why we put up with every story about Clemens and Bonds and Michael Vickand Terrell Owens and everyone else who conspires to make sports less fun. On the same day of Game 6, a story broke that Alex Rodriguez allegedly used humangrowth hormones. The story was digested and consumed in the same predictably brief cycle: Mainstream Web sites and blogs and message boards and sports radiofirst, then "PTI" and "Around the Horn," then "SportsCenter," then newspapers and magazines. You can either throw yourself intothat cycle or look the other way. I am getting older. I just want to watch sports. I have trained myself to look the other way. This stuff clutters my brain,and not in a good way. I just want to watch sports. I just want to watch sports.
So yeah, that's why Celtics-Bulls meant something to me -- just like Warriors-Mavs meant something two years ago. My team won the title last year.I'm only one year into a five-year grace period. I thought I was playing with house money. I never imagined a 2009 Celtics series would matter this much tome. I never imagined being that crestfallen after a Round 1 defeat. When Noah stole the ball from Pierce and dunked on him, I threw a tantrum like a littlekid. I screamed out a slew of F-bombs. I ran outside my house and screamed some more. How could the 2008 Finals MVP commit such a dumb foul? He had five!Didn't he know he had five???? And what's worse than a Jo-No celebration at the expense of your own team? I screamed and screamed and screamed. Thatplay ripped my heart out.
At the same time, I'm glad I still care. I'm glad it still matters. I will always appreciate this 2009 Bulls team because they did the impossible:They made a fan base that just won a title care even MORE about their own team. Last season barely matters right now. All that matters is winning the mostincredible playoff series ever played. I don't even care what happens after Game 7 -- we can't beat the LeBrons anyway. This is our NBA Finals. Righthere. The Celtics fans feel that way, and so do the Bulls fans. I can promise you.
I thought about all of these things during my marathon walk. And this, too: When I was 6, my father took me to the greatest basketball game ever played:Game 5 of the 1976 Finals. I slept through the second half, the first overtime and most of the second overtime before waking up for Havlicek's runningbanker. I can still see it. Happened right in front of us. The Celtics won that one in three overtimes. Thirty-three years later (ironic number), they playedanother three-OT classic and lost. I was a little boy for the first one; for the second one, I watched most of it with my little boy. He had no idea what wasgoing on. When he's older, I'm going to tell him that he did.
Sports keeps moving. You get older. You pass the love down to your kids. You think you will care less ... and you don't. The Tony Allen sub killed me.The Pierce foul killed me. The Rose block killed me. Two toe-on-the-line 3-pointers ... I can't stop thinking about it. Add everything up and that'show I ended up 500 blocks from my house fretting about Game 7 and rehashing everything that happened in the other six.
By the time we returned to my house, Rufus was dragging like Ray Allen at the end of that third overtime. I felt bad for him. He looked at me like he wasthinking, "Please Lord, never again." He demolished his first bowl of water in 2.34 seconds. He demolished the second one in 5.67 seconds. Then hepassed out. He might not wake up until tomorrow.
I don't have the heart to tell him that another marathon walk might be looming on Saturday night. My best-case scenario would be the Celtics winning inquintuple-OT, followed by Ray Allen and Ben Gordon collapsing into each other's arms like Apollo and Rocky as Allen says, "Ain't gonna be norematch." My worst-case scenario would be grabbing Rufus' leash with a frown and rubbery legs. Either way, I am prepared for anything: KG pulling aWillis Reed, Jordan and Bird showing up, Rondo hitting John Salmons with a chair, Doc running the series-deciding play for Tony Allen, Kevin Harlan's headflying off his body, Tim Thomas experiencing a human emotion, you name it. That's the best thing about this series: Anything is possible. The ceilinghasn't just been removed, it's been obliterated.
Call it Game 7, call it Round 15, call it whatever you want. Just remember to call it the greatest first-round series ever played. I hope and pray itdoesn't end with me walking.