I know I buried the NBA playoffs a few weeks back, but I want to exhume the corpse in order to give it a proper autopsy. Except by autopsy I mean scorn and ridicule.
Listen, I really, really like the NBA. Why that is any more, I'm not exactly sure, but I wanted to give these Finals one last chance. Too many people had said that Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili weren't boring, that the Spurs play the "right" way, that the Cavs questionable offense was offset by their tenacious defense. Plus, you know, LEBRON. So I tuned in.
I'm not a basketball genius, but I know a little. I can appreciate it the same way I can art: I know enough to tell the difference between a Picasso and a Monet, a Jasper
James Johns (pre-coffee typo) from a Jackson Pollock. More importantly, I can tell by looking whether something's good or something's shit. And I can say with resolute authority that Game 3 was shit. Utter shit. All different kinds of shit mixed in a shitty shit cocktail. The lowest scoring Finals game since the advent of the shot clock doesn't begin to describe how awful that was to watch.
I suppose somebody won last night, and I suspect it was the team led by the guy that tore up the T-Birds' ride in Grease. But it sure as hell wasn't the fans. The few of us that tuned in were all witnesses to crap.