Thursday, June 14, 2007 Sayson: From playoffs hell to basketball heaven By Homer Sayson Second Overtime
CLEVELAND—LeBron James and the Cavs haven’t totally drowned yet, but they’re hopelessly wet. Just like the Titanic, sunk and submerged beyond salvaging.
With a 6-foot-9 length and a 248-pound might that accompany his nimbleness, it is easy to conceive LeBron having a collection of NBA titles before his brilliant career slows down to a canter in a decade or so from now.
But before the 22-year-old superstar gets his first innocent kiss of the Larry O’Brien trophy, he needs to pay his dues. Just like Michael Jordan did with Detroit, Magic Johnson with the Celtics, and Shaq with the Rockets.
The Spurs have endured more heartaches than Kris Aquino, but they’ve survived.
Do you remember 2004 when Tim Duncan and company lost to the Lakers in a series that was decided by a Derek Fisher 3 with .04 seconds left to play in Game 5?
And do you remember last year, when Dirk Nowitzki and his band of Mavericks from Dallas had the audacity to beat the Spurs on the road in Game 7 of the West Conference semifinals?
Pints of silver and black Spurs had been spilled, buckets of Texas tears shed. But it’s all fully paid.
So it’s time for these Spurs, time to collect. Time to resurrect from playoffs hell to basketball heaven.
And how sweet it is. Four championships in nine years.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking: It’ ain’t over yet. The Spurs are just up 3-0, not 4-0.
Listen, people. Game 4 tomorrow is only a formality. The Cavs will show up at the Quicken Loans Arena, yes, but exhausted physically and mentally, they will only beg for the Spurs to deliver one more wallop and end all this misery.
BEVY OF GUARDS. While waiting for an NBA associate to hand me a printed copy of Game 3’s final box score at the inner sanctum of The Q, LeBron James, surrounded by a bevy of security guards, passed by me.
He wore lily white pants, an oversized eyewear ala Lindsay Lohan, and a tennis sweater than was as soft as his whisper. He talked about his struggles against the Spurs, the difficulty of beating proven veterans, etc.
I wanted to cry for LeBron. But I didn’t. He’s only 22. His time will come.
I did feel sorry for Daniel Gibson. He was, deservedly, thrown into the starting lineup in lieu of the injured Larry Hughes, who was as useful as a busted light bulb.
But with all the great expectations perched on his tender 21-year-old shoulders, Gibson melted, making just 1 of 10 shots including 0-for-5 beyond the arc.
Gibson kept smiling through his missed shots, like a boxer laughing at a solid right hand that just clocked him. But deep inside, there probably lie a tormented soul.
But hey, Gibson is a rookie. If he puts this failure in a positive light, it could breed the seeds of success.
I felt most sorry for the 20, 562 Cavs fans who packed The Q last night. They paid hard-earned money to be there. Paid for hope to show up in Game 3. But it was all just a cruel tease. The Spurs were too good. Much, much too good.
Maligned for being supposedly boring, Tim Duncan delighted me with his post-up moves and dexterity on defense. Allegedly a terrible free throw shooter, he calmly nailed two late in the game, pushing the Spurs ahead at 69-65 and slowly putting this series to bed.
Manu wasn’t the whirling dervish that he normally is, but he killed the Cavs’ last stand with a pair of free throws that forced the Cavs to make a long 3 with five seconds to go.
And Tony Parker, the luckiest man in the word. He scored with Eva Longoria and can score at will against the Cavs. He had 17 last night, capped by a 3 with one minute to go. That 3 was the kiss of death.
I have a hotel reservation until Monday morning, the morning after Game 5. But I’m packing my bags soon. There will be no Game 5.
