8701250268
DETROIT FREE PRESS
870521
Thursday, May 21, 1987
METRO FINAL
1E
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
PISTONS, CELTS START SERIES TONIGHT (JUST PLAY ALONG)
BOSTON -- I vote we make the logical decision here. I vote we do the only
decent thing.
I vote we forget Game 1 ever happened.
"Great series starting tonight," I say, as I sit in the coffee shop across
from Boston Garden. "Two great teams, meeting for the Eastern Conference
title. Yes, sir. Should be a heck of a series."
"What about Game 1?" says a man next to me.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Game 1? Tuesday night?"
"This is Game 1. Tonight. Thursday."
"What about Tuesday? What about the Boston Garden? What about that Game 1?"
"Beg your pardon?"
Tuesday night? What Tuesday night? He must be confused. Tuesday night,
Isiah Thomas was home watching television with his wife. Tuesday night, Adrian
Dantley went to the movies. Tuesday night, Chuck Daly curled up with a good
book. I think it was "Iacocca." Or maybe "Yeager." I'm not sure.
And Wednesday morning the Pistons arrived here. They had a positive
workout. And now they are ready for a tough sev-- uh, six-game series. A very
tough six-game series. Yes, yes.
"No, no," says the Boston person. "I saw it. Tuesday night. At the Garden.
Game 1. The Celtics won, 104-91. The Pistons looked terrible. There were air
balls, and technical fouls, and standing around, and more technical fouls.
And then Boston won and everybody went home. I saw it. I swear."
"What is in that food you're eating?" I ask.
Isiah 6-for-24? Oh, right
Air balls? Did he say air balls? Terrible? Who played terrible? Detroit?
No. They weren't here, I told you. Now, maybe somebody else came in wearing
their uniforms. I don't know. There are a lot of crazy people out there.
"Tell me something," I say, as my breakfast arrives. "What did Isiah
Thomas, the Pistons' star guard, the guy who had his sneakers immortalized in
the Atlanta series -- what did he do in this Game 1 of yours?"
"He shot 6-for-24," comes the answer.
"Sure he did," I say, nodding my head slowly. "Uh, could you pass the syrup
please?"
Come now. Nobody named Isiah shoots 6-for-24. Even guys named Seth can
shoot 6-for-24. Who is kidding whom here? I suppose Adrian Dantley only shot
four free throws. I suppose the Pistons just raced back and forth throwing up
bricks, as if they had nothing better to do.
"They did!" says the Boston person. "I saw Rick Mahorn and John Salley and
Joe Dumars . . . "
"Listen, fellah," I say. "Joe Dumars went bowling Tuesday night. John
Salley was buying records. Rick Mahorn was the guest speaker at a new Weight
Watchers clinic in West Bloomfield."
"Tuesday night?" he says.
"Tuesday night," I say. "Pass the butter."
Honestly. Some people don't know when to leave bad enough alone. The game
to which he refers would be a terrible way to start a series such as this, a
series between a fresh, talented, hungry Detroit team and a grizzled,
wounded, proud team from Boston. A series such as that should feature
precision shooting, masterful passing, high percentages all around.
"Tell me," I ask, reaching for the sugar. "You say Robert Parish, the guy
with the terribly sore ankle, scored 31 points? You say Kevin McHale, the guy
with the terribly sore foot, scored 21 points? What about Larry Bird? The one
Celtic who's healthy? How did Larry Bird do in this game of yours?"
"He shot 7-for-22," comes the answer.
"Sure he did," I say, nodding slowly.
Jerry Sichting? Sure, sure
Here is your choice. Reality as it is or reality as it should be. A stale
beginning or a fresh beginning. When artists mess up, they throw out the
canvas. When accountants spill ink, they just take out a new balance sheet.
What would a sane person choose here? Compassion and beauty or cold truth and
an ugly, ugly basketball game?
"Look," I say. "If this all truly happened, just as you say, then who was
the player of the game? Who was the guy the radio stations interviewed when
it was over? Who got the gift certificate? Tell me that. Just tell me who got
the gift certificate as player of the game?"
"Jerry Sichting," he whispers.
I choke on my pancakes.
No. Sorry. I vote for compassion. I vote for beauty. I vote for tonight,
8:30, Game 1 of this soon-to-be-incredible Eastern Conference final.
Best of six.
"Wait a minute," says the Boston voice. "There's no such thing as a
six-game series. How do you win a six-game series? What if each team wins
three? What do you do then?"
"Well, then you go to a Game 7," I say.
"You mean Game 8," he says.
"Whatever," I say.
COLUMN;PLAYOFFS;BASKETBALL;DPISTONS;HUMOR;Pistons