I know what I'm not doing Thursday night: watching ABC's lame-ass, over-promoted Master of Champions. And because the Mavs weren't as mature or as mentally invincible as they tricked us into thinking for nine months, I also won't be watching Game 7 of the NBA Finals. The Mavs' complete collapse from a 2-0 series lead and 89-76 Game 3 lead has to be one of the biggest busts in sports history, but I'll be damned if I'm spending time looking that shit up. Too painful. Too similar to one of our patented North Dallas plastic surgeries--something's gone awry. Everything's big, beautiful and perky in the hospital, but by the time we got 'em home, it's all turned into nothing more than a deflated, dripping mess.
Dirk deferred, Jason Terry missed 11 straight shots, and the Mavs lost close games, big leads, their poise and, in the end, a series they should've won. With their top 10 players under 31 and all but Terry under contract, the Mavs seemed positioned for more runs at a title. But, damn, will they ever have a better shot? It all started unraveling midway through the fourth quarter of Game 3 in Miami, of course. Up 13, the Mavs were giddy. And don't believe this "15 strong" nonsense from by Heat coach Pat Riley. At that point his team was sulking, and his fans were either booing or filing out of the AmericanAirlines Arena, resigned to their 0-3 hole. The details of what followed are too grim for a semi-family blog, but it you dare to review the beginning of the end it's all here. P.S. Training camp begins in 93 days. --Richie Whitt
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