By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
I've been duped. Pickpocketed. Gutted.
Turns out there isn't a Santa Claus. The CueCat didn't revolutionize the Internet. I've yet to sprout even one hair from my palm.
And, worst of all, the Dallas Mavericks haven't changed their culture. Despite tweaking coaches and role players and logos and arenas and amassing a trip to the NBA Finals one year and 67 wins the next, they are still a team that lives and dies on the fadeaway jumper of a 7-foot German.
Which is good. But, as evidenced by last week's humiliating loss in the first round of the NBA Playoffs, not nearly good enough.
In the wake of Dallas' stunning dismissal by the 8th-seeded Golden State Warriors, I'd like to present a clear, calm synopsis rooted in faith that the sky isn't falling. But who am I kidding? My thoughts—like yours—are swirling aimlessly, violently, like the tree limbs strewn by recent storms.
Never have I been so speechless. With so much to get off my chest.
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