Last Call For The Miami Heat
In the end, the Miami Heat — so full of bluster, dance moves, promise and pyrotechnics last July — went out with not so much a whimper (because even that takes effort), but more of a shrug, in a 105–95 loss. And as their aged, largely silent fans shuffled to the parking lot, heading home to face an uncertain off-season of oppressive heat and 5:30 dinners, they were probably wondering: We paid so much money for this?
LeBron “Coma-Toast” James has another one of his textbook Finals games, largely invisible in its most crucial moments, content with setting up people named Mario Chalmers, Juwan Howard and Udonis Haslem to shoulder the burden that he is being paid to. After a first quarter in which he hit several key jumpers and began to look like his normal, dominant self, James retreated back into his shell, like a turtle at a honey badger convention. Had he not been wearing that white headband, cleverly coordinated with the T-shirts the fans were sporting, I would have had trouble picking him out of the crowd. He finished the game with 21–6–4, but averaged just over three points in the fourth quarters of the Finals’ six games. Not three shots, three points.
Uncharacteristically, Dwyane Wade was another underperforming mega-bazillionaire last night, regularly turning the ball over, and driving into untenable positions on the baseline and kicking it out, not to James, who was somewhere beyond the arc covering his eyes, but to… Eddie House? Still, his performance during the series will be remembered not for Game Six, but for the way it established that the Heat is his team and that he is one of the NBA’s three best players.
The only member of the Heat who could hold his head high was Chris Bosh, and not just because it appears to be five sizes smaller than his frame, but because he played with effort and zeal on both ends. It’s ironic that the guy who was seen as the “okay, you can come, too” in the deal, was the one that came to play. The fact that he was visibly sobbing as he headed into the locker room afterward was sad, and not in a pathetic way. At least he looked like he cared. Beyond that, he was the only member of the big three that didn’t appear overwhelmed at the end, when the players, each reluctant to shoot, were running a variation of the Princeton offense, minus the back cuts. What was clear was that no one, besides for Mario Chalmers, wanted to shoot the ball.
Even for someone as craven as me (and I mean that in the nicest sense), it was sad to see just how completely the Miami Heat capitulated to a visiting team, especially when their fans were expecting a multitude of NBA titles. And let’s face it: they aren’t getting any younger. (My apologies to the guy who keeps writing in, wondering why I make fun of the Heat fan base. My answer: Because I have eyes and they work.)
They had been beaten, at home, so thoroughly, that just before the half, when a guy on the Mavericks whose last name I had thought was Tahini, hit a wobbly elbowed mid-range jumper to take a 53–51 lead, I texted my friend and said, “Well, this one’s over.” You could just tell. Eventual Finals MVP Dirk Nowitzki had two points by then, on awful shooting, and his team was still winning. Jason Terry was positively heroic, scoring 27 points and beating defenders, including James, off the dribble. JJ Barea had 15, Shawn Marion had 12, and Jason Kidd and Deshawn Stevenson had 9 apiece. Brian Cardinal spelled Tyson Chandler for 12 minutes and had some pretty violent fouls and drew a charge, chipping in 3 points.
And even when the Heat and Mavericks were trading runs in the first half, it seemed like the fight had gone out of the Heat. It took six games, but Dallas managed to do something the rest of the league had been unable to: shut the Heat up.
During a postgame press conference, filled with inappropriate questions (sample: “Guys, and I don’t mean this with any disrespect at all, but did you two choke?”), LeBron James and Dwyane Wade were asked to make some sense of what had just transpired. Of the two, Wade was more thoughtful, talking about how well the Mavericks played and expressing confidence that his team would eventually get over the hump.
James, who seemed indifferent (“No, it doesn’t bother me that everyone roots against me. Not at all.”), actually suggested — and I’m paraphrasing here — that everyone who booed him was a loser with a crummy life and when they are done pointing out the obvious — that he, again, shrunk in the Finals — they will return to their awful, miserable existences, while he will still be a multimillionaire in South Beach. It was a brief glimpse into his world — a world that for the foreseeable future, thankfully, does not include any nifty dance moves or a parade. And the Heat did have a really cool parade planned, in case you were wondering.
Tony Gervino is a New York City-based editor and writer obsessed with honing his bio to make him sound quirky. He can also be found here.
Photo of Jason Terry celebrating in Miami last night via Terrence J.
