Based on a compilation of various definitions for “Purgatory,” it’s best described by yours truly as a heavenly green-room designed for the purpose of expunging one of their sins prior to their graduation to “the big show.” In other words, a somewhat painstaking pregame prior to the Super Bowl, World Series or Stanley Cup of the after-life…whatever that may be based on your beliefs.
As contender after contender fell before our eyes, it became more evident with every loss that we were destined for a torturous face-off between two of the NBA’s lesser-liked franchises. Sure, such a statement may be subjective and may be equally presumptive based on my individual bias’, but few will go to bat for the residence of LeBron James’ “talents,” and a slightly greater few would line up behind the franchise merely fortunate enough to pick 2nd behind your Portland Trail Blazers nearly 5 years ago. After all, a wound is a wound, and salt in said wound is like…well…salt in a wound (There’s a reason such a saying exists). Watching Oklahoma City in a position to win a title and likely in a position to win not 3, not 4, not 5, not 6, not 7 championships during a decade LeBron said he and his brethren would own, is salt in a Greg Oden-less, Brandon Roy-less, and playoff-less run for a franchise that deserved better.
The Trail Blazers and their fans suffered through nearly a decade of yellow Hummers, pit bulls, and Sprite cans. “Both teams played hard” and “CTC.” And galactically stupid behavior from players like Isaiah Rider and Bonzi Wells…and Rasheed Wallace…and Darius Miles…and Zach Randolph…and Ruben Patterson…and Qyntel Woods…and even Damon Stoudamire, who later rehabilitated his image via a public p*** test, community enhancement work, and an apparent effort to do better. While hard times are certainly not found solely in the Rose City, it’s hard to argue with the torment recently imposed upon “Rip City” inhabitants in the middle of the presumed championship window which was slammed vigorously on the fingers of a franchise thought to have paid its dues, and Oklahoma City’s success is a heartless reminder of what could’ve been.
The NBA Championship is supposed to be a celebration of sorts for fans put through the rigors of an inarguably uninspired 82-game season (66 this year due to the infamous work-stoppage). Four rounds, sixteen teams, and effort seen far too infrequently during the 6 months leading-up to the chase for the Larry O’Brien Trophy, is meant to be the mouth watering cherry on top of a luke-warm, half-melted, freezer-burned sundae which David Stern and his pocket full of owners happily serve up, in an effort to line their pockets with the disposable income of a bulk of fans whose income is likely not disposable at all. But watching the Heat and Thunder duke it out for the crown jewel of the National Basketball Association is akin to proving your significant other wrong; despite winning, in the end it still feels like a loss.
I don’t want to see LeBron James celebrate. Maybe that makes me a petty, vindictive SOB, incapable of turning the page and wallowing in other’s self-defeat, but I’m “old school” enough to understand the level of hatred I have for all things self-promotion. I loathe the guy who holds his follow-through after a successful three-pointer, backpedals down the court, and nods with that “I’m sexy and I know it” look written proudly across his face. I despise talent manifested by means of a high rate of shots, a low percentage of shooting, and a SportsCenter highlight package with so little direct affect on the game, Mark Madsen thinks they’re irrelevant. And Miami fans? Los Angeles Kings fans are less bandwagonee. I refuse to love a team with unsurpassed love for itself, and Miami in this case epitomizes that team. Sure, LeBron James is a helluva player, Dwayne Wade as well, and Chris Bosh has and likely will be a perennial all-star in years to come, but I can’t get past “The Decision,” the parade which followed, and the notion that those three guys wanted to do the easy way, what they couldn’t do the way most are required.
And the Thunder? Due to the aforementioned, one might think that Oklahoma City – and more specifically Kevin Durant – , by default, would fall into favor with “Miami haters” like myself, but in spite of Durant’s “all-business” attitude, Russell Westbrook’s youthful exuberance, and the Thunder’s “team” mentality, I can’t get past the Seattle aspect, the Oden component, and sentiment that this team “did it right,” while our team “screwed it up.” If that makes me jaded, so be it, but I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t look at OKC and think of what could’ve been, and I wouldn’t be a Portland Trail Blazer fan if that thought didn’t make me a bit queezy.
If this is purgatory for fans like myself, Dante suggests I’m at the doorstep of paradise as I know it. Near are players meeting or exceeding expectations, teams ascending to bigger and better things, and instances such as Bowie, Oden and even Jordan and Durant will likely soon be forgotten. I won’t be reading things like this, writing things like this, or worrying about things like this for the better part of the remainder of my years, and Portland no longer will be the butt of jokes pertaining to the sh** end of the stick. Let’s hope he’s right, because I’m exhausted from this endless run of bad luck, and this NBA Finals isn’t making it any easier.
Enjoy the Finals, or in my case…try and survive it.
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