Last night, the Bulls won against the Heat, 96-86 in overtime, despite Derrick Rose’s worst professional game. Miami still has no true big man. Tom Thibodeau outcoached Erik Spoelstra in the manner Beyonce would better Sweet Brown in a beauty contest. Meanwhile, LeBron James and myself are beginning to resemble the real life versions of Charlie Brown. We get so close to kicking the football (the mountaintop), but Lucy (that would be the rest of you good for nothing heathens) move the pigskin right when we get there. And before I realize what’s going on, I’m looking up at the sky wondering where the hell it all went wrong.
With Boston getting stronger by the minute, Chicago all but clinching the top spot last night in their 96-86 overtime win and the Knicks not exactly someone you want to see first round, I understand my place in the grand scheme that is the march to the postseason. I sold my soul in 1998 to see Michael Jordan get his sixth ring. Subsequently, I’ve been on a pro sports championship drought ever since. In the coming weeks, I will deliver what I hope to be my magnum opus; a post which may or may not tug at the very essence of human emotion and fandom (i.e. you’ll probably point and laugh at me, but whatever). I’m at a weird juncture in my sports life (well, basketball) where everything looms in the balance of this postseason. My integrity, my credibility, my sanity.
That missed free throw at the end of regulation is going to eat at me all weekend. Tins – 0. The world – 5,621,489,120,362,740. “Oh, brother.” – (c) Charlie B.