A King Gone, But Not Forgotten

I've always believed nothing good would ever come out of Dallas. It's the town where J.R. cheated Bobby out of Ewing Oil, the former home of Stars winger Sean Avery and his "sloppy seconds" comments. T.O. showered himself with popcorn in Dallas while never winning a single playoff game. A-Rod went there as one of sports' freshest young faces back in 2001, only to come out the lip-glossing, unwritten-rules-breaker everyone not wearing pinstriped pajamas loves to hate on. JFK went there in 1963 and never came out at all.

Dallas, of course, is also home to the Mavericks, formerly one of the NBA's biggest postseason busts of all-time.

When the Mavs blew a 23-point lead in their opening round series in Portland back on April 23, it was no real surprise. After all, they'd lost three first-round series in the past four years, including once as the Western Conference top seed. The count was about to go to four in five years. No big deal. It wasn't like June was missing out on anything. But then, something happened.

The Mavs' hearts grew three sizes after that day.

Dirk Nowitzki & Co. returned home and won, then closed out the Trailblazers in six. They swept the Lakers and took the Thunder in five, including one comeback win from 15 points down inside of five minutes to play. And Sunday night, the Mavs did the basketball world a service, knocking out everyone's newest villains, LeBron James and the Miami Heat. Oh yeah, they won their first NBA championship in the process.

So, as self-righteous owner Mark Cuban stood at the podium wearing his championship cap and berating viewers for not believing in his basketball team, I had to admit he was right. Sure, we doubted his team. We had every right to.

The Mavericks' reversal of their perennial postseason underachievement was as unexpected as the Grinch coming upon the true meaning of Christmas there on Mount Crumpett after 53 years of buzz-killing the yuletide. Not to mention that the Heat at times looked as invincible in these playoffs as any champion in the post-M.J. era. As their apparent invincibility grew, so too did their obvious cockiness, which made their fall all the sweeter. And funnier, at least in Cleveland.

Something good has finally come out of Dallas.

Or has it?

Maybe not, if you're a Celtics or Lakers fan. Age is closing the window on your championship-contending opportunities with each passing day. Los Angeles may have a few more runs if Kobe Bryant's battle-worn body can hold up, but Boston is nearly out of gas. An extra-motivated Heat squad come October will be as welcome as Anthony Weiner at the next Democratic fund-raiser.

For that matter, the Bulls, Grizzlies, and Thunder, whose time is rapidly approaching, may have all been better suited if the Heat just had their way with the Mavs and been done with it. All the "not one, not two, not three..." multiple-championship delusions aside, Miami's appetite would have been satisfied and it is easier to get around a sleeping bear than a hungry one.

But America's jubilance this week is less about staving off a Heat dynasty than it is about denying the King his throne. Talk shows and blogs are savoring LeBron James' fourth quarter disappearing acts, while the rest of us hold hands with our Cleveland brethren and sing a round of Kumbaya. It's gotten personal, and it's not even our fight.

Here's the other thing for me: despite living in New England, I like LeBron. He had me long before his conciliatory comments toward the Celtics after eliminating them in the second round back in May. Granted, in looking around, I don't see many on my side of this, but I'm okay with being a contrarian.

James has never gone into the crowd to punch a fan. He's never used a gun on a teammate to shake him down for gambling debts, nor has he paid off a plaintiff accusing him of rape. His only crime against society is wanting to get away from Lake Erie, and I'm not sure when having Cleveland's back became the right thing to do for the rest of us. I've been there twice and each time the cabbie couldn't get me back to the airport fast enough.

Plenty will say it's not about dissing Cleveland, it's about quitting on his team, of not coming through in the clutch. If that were the case, why were the Celtics and Bulls sitting in their living rooms Sunday night like the rest of us? Despite what Scottie Pippen thinks, LeBron may not be M.J, but he is also not the Gay Girl In Damascus fraud many are contending, either.

Nowadays it's hard to find a more scrutinized athlete not named Tiger, and he did bring a lot of this on himself. Nevertheless, between handlers who arranged The Decision, and all his fretting every spring over which friend may be tapping his mother or girlfriend, it's as if someone close enough got the bright idea of tagging James with a 'Kick Me' sign while pretending to slap him on the back.

Of course, the problem with tagging a 'Kick Me' sign onto the back of someone with a 250-pound, 6'8" frame who also doubles as the best basketball player in the world is that one day he's going to find it there. And then he's going to remember this week, when the dissing and the hating and the jokes (he can't make change for a buck because he doesn't have a fourth quarter) went into overdrive. And when he does, I hope the next game is on national television.

Maybe then, LeBron haters out there will conclude what I did many years ago: nothing good ever comes out of Dallas. Even in victory.