The poetical don't last
It's amazing that the Heat got so thoroughly dishonored in the first two games of the Finals that now, like a retarded child gasping for air in the elementary school's general population, they are rewarded simply for not pissing themselves. Congratulations to a team that made it is this far. . .for actually playing like they belonged here. Joy unto the Lord for their willingness to prove that they can indeed occasionally make a free throw. Huzzah, ye before the tabernacle, for the right to witness them make this a remotely competitive series. Who would ever have dared dream that, yes, Shaquille O'Neal or Dwyane Wade could be capable of marking a game as his own?
I apologize if I prematurely compared this Heat team to the '04 Lakers. Tonight, they resembled nothing if not this season's Pistons—dicking around and ignoring their own excellence until they had absolutely no choice. The Mavs' ability to contain Wade lies somewhere between his woes in Dallas and this evening's game of a lifetime. And don't look now, but Shaq is now officially just the world's meatiest "big body."
I was about the officially jump off the Heat Media Bias watch, but then it occurred to me: this series has probably already lost a decent portion of its casual audience. If Breen and Hubie were laying it on a bit thick when it came to the emotional pull of the Heat, it probably came out of a need to prop them up and make sure this win counted double in the KEEP WATCHING department. Keep the heart tuned in and eager even if the head remains skeptical.
And finally, I would not be revealing this were I not in a positively shitty mood after that game: not to pile on Redick, but a reliable female undergrad source at Duke has told me that it is a well-known fact that he likes to piss on the ladies. It's pretty much understood if he takes you home. Despite this, however, said source was somewhat tempted by his pure-shooting wiles when approached by him at a bar (picture is as cheap and easy as this rumor-mongering):