8701260644
DETROIT FREE PRESS
870529
Friday, May 29, 1987
METRO FINAL
1D
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL CHASER EDITION PAGE 1D
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
NOBODY DIES ON THIS NIGHT
The floor was thumping, the house was dancing, screaming, dying, waiting
for a sign, an assurance, and here came Isiah Thomas, grabbing a pass and
turning his back and bouncing it to Dennis Rodman on the baseline. And
Rodman rose like destiny and slammed the thing through and hung on the rim
with same sweat-soaked determination the Pistons have found to hang on to this
crazy series. That was the sign. The Silverdome went insane.
Nobody dies tonight. It was written all over the Pistons' faces. It was
dripping from their chins in untamed sweat. And finally, finally, it was on
the scoreboard, 113-105. One more game? One more game. Only the Pistons had
their graves dug when Round 6 of this Eastern Conference final began in a
sweltering Silverdome Thursday night, but when the final buzzer sounded, there
were two holes dug and two groups going back to Boston.
Nobody dies tonight. This was a tractor pull, a marathon run in August
heat. It was 83 degrees on the court, and that was just standing still, and
before the national anthem was sung, everybody was soaked. And then they
started playing.
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 trying and chasing and
blocking and 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
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 lead but Vinnie Johnson hit a leaner, and Isiah
hit a banker and forget it, the message was clear. Nobody dies tonight.
One more game. 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."
A few lockers over, Adrian Dantley sat down and mumbled something about
practice "tomorrow at 12:30."
"See?" said Isiah. "I'm not the only one who feels that way."
No way in hell. Forget that they were cheered like war heroes everytime
they hit a jump shot. Forget the home nets, and the home music. Forget all
that home stuff. Big win? Big win.
Consider the circumstances after Game 5, which Larry Bird stole in a
last-second slice of Garden magic. 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.
Instead they did right, they focused their attention exactly where it
belonged. They blinked through the sweat and never looked elsewhere. Everybody
does their thing. Adrian Dantley spun to the basket. Again and again. Isiah
Thomas drove the lane. Rick Mahorn bumped and grunted and became a rebounding
machine when they needed him most -- the fourth quarter. Do what you have to.
Nobody dies tonight. Was there ever a bigger game here? Was there ever a
hotter game here? This was baking basketball. Steaming. It was a night when
you couldn't wait to get out of your clothes, a night when you'd consider a
crew cut if it would help you cool off. Before six minutes had elapsed in the
game, Joe Dumars whipped a pass inside to a wide-open Bill Laimbeer and the
ball hit his sweat-soaked palms and squished out of bounds. Hot? Hey. This is
basketball in late May. This is when the best teams play. It's hot.
The sweat was sweet. Nobody complained. can you imagine how hot it gets
now? One more? One more. How long have we been on this Pistons-Celtics train?
A week? two weeks? A month? "It does feel like we've been going back and
forth between here and Boston forever," sighed Thomas. But that is the way
great series go.
So score one for determination, for growing up, 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, and all they could see was the airport.
Nobody dies tonight.
So 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. That is the way it should be.
Can you wait?
COLUMN