8701260642 DETROIT FREE PRESS 870529 Friday, May 29, 1987 METRO FINAL CHASER

SPT

1D MITCH ALBOM SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION PAGE 1D Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press NOBODY DIES ON THIS NIGHT The floor was thumping, the house was screaming, dying, waiting for a sign, an assurance, and here came Isiah Thomas, grabbing a fourth-quarter pass and turning his back and bouncing it blindly to Dennis Rodman on the baseline. Look out. Rodman rose like destiny and slammed the thing through and hung on the rim, it seemed like forever, hanging with the same sweat-soaked determination that the Pistons used to hang in this crazy playoff series, which now has one hot, bloody showdown left. Nobody dies tonight. The message was written all over the Pistons' faces Thursday, dripping from their chins in untamed sweat. Nobody dies. Through the first quarter, and halftime, and the broiling seesaw of the third and fourth periods. And finally, finally, it was on the scoreboard, Detroit 113, Boston, 105. One more game. Nobody dies tonight. "When did you realize how much you didn't want your season to end?" someone asked Vinnie Johnson, who found his groove in that back-breaking fourth quarter, scoring 12 points. "When did you say, 'I'm not going home?' " "I said it when I showed up here," he said. When he showed up. Was there a choice? Only the Pistons had their grave prepared when Game 6 of this Eastern Conference final began Thursday night. This morning there are two holes dug, and the TV crews are setting up in Boston Garden for Game 7. Nobody dies tonight. This was a tractor pull, a marathon run in August-like heat. It was 83 degrees on the court, that was just standing still, and by the national anthem, everybody was soaked. Then they started playing. How hot? How loud? "This was like one of those summer league games," said Rick Mahorn, who simply took over the backboards in that final period, pulling down 10, leering and sneering with each possession. "It was like a hot gym where you play all night and you just sweat." "You looked like you wanted to squeeze the air out of the ball whenever you got it,"' someone said. "If I could have I guess I would have, " he said, sighing. "But the air was out of me." How hot? How tiring? The players dripped wherever they went, from the elbows, the chins, the fingers, drops of determination all over the Silverdome floor. But they would not stop. Here was Isiah Thomas launching jumper after jumper and chasing his rebounds and launching again. Here was Adrian Dantley spinning to the hoop, didn't matter who was on him. Here was every Piston humping, chasing, blocking, running as if the last lights of their lives were the ones in the Silverdome rafters. Don't you dare shut them off. And so for every basket by Boston's Larry Bird -- who was simply born for nights like this -- the Pistons came back, heaving and sweating. Over and over. Until it was over. The fourth quarter began with a tiny one-point Detroit lead but Vinnie Johnson hit a leaner, and Isiah hit a banker and Vinnie another and then Rodman's hang-till-you-drop, and forget it. "We couldn't celebrate until that point," Rodman said later, "but when I hot that dunk I said bleeeeeeeeeep!" Nobody dies tonight. Remember that this was the first time since last May that the Pistons faced the end of their season, stared it down, saw the ugliness of summer vacation. Before the game, Thomas had sat with his shirt unbuttoned, answering questions about the way things might tun out. "Have you given any thought to what would happen if you lose tonight?" he was asked. "No," he said softly. "Why not?" He shrugged. "There's just no way in hell we're gonna lose tonight." No way in hell. Forget that they were cheered like war heroes every time they hit a jump shot. Forget the home nets, and the home music. Forget the absence of Robert Parish and K.C. Jones for the Celtics. Consider the circumstances after Game 5, which Larry Bird stole in a last-second slice of Garden magic to give the Celtics a 3-2 lead. The Pistons came home loaded like bellhops, with enough emotional baggage to trip them a hundred ways. First they had to forget about Tuesday. Wipe it out. See it as an accident instead of destiny. And then they had to forget about Saturday. Game 7. The finale. Back in the haunted mansion on Causeway Street. There was no time for such thoughts. No time for anything. If the Pistons allowed a moment's ponder of past or future, their present was over. "I haven't slept in two days on account of that game (5)," said Dantley afterward. But whatever demons remained, he shut them out until the final buzzer. "You know," said Dantley, who has been a huge part of the Pistons' success since coming over from Utah, "this has been the most fun year I've had in my career. I've been on TV more times in one season than in seven years in Utah. I like it here, and the Detroit Pistons. I realized that in that fourth quarter. I definitely didn't want this season to end." From Dantley, that's almost a love sonnet. So score one for determination, for growing up, a hot slice of history for a franchise that has never gone this far. In that final glorious period the Pistons simply turned it up until defeat was behind them, until the Boston Celtics said, "Enough, we're pooped," until Bird (35 points) finally exhaled, and Danny Ainge and Dennis Johnson started missing and finally, all Detroit had to worry about was making the plane. Nobody dies tonight. "Game 7 is gonna be fun in Boston," said Bill Laimbeer. "This was the tough one, emotionally and physically." Fun? A Pistons- Celtics game? Well. Whatever. Now it is down to where it should be. One game. One chance. The raft these two teams have sailed since May 19 sinks on Saturday. And somebody has to go down with it. "Two teams, 48 minutes, the best wins," said Thomas, leaning back by his locker and smiling. Can you wait?