8901230116
DETROIT FREE PRESS
890601
Thursday, June 01, 1989
METRO FINAL
1D
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL CHASER EDITION 1D
Copyright (c) 1989, Detroit Free Press
PISTONS CAN SEE LA, 94-85
ON VJ DAY, DETROIT FINDS ITS LONG-LOST
SHOOTING TOUCH
He was a breath of cool air in a stuffy closet. A splash of water in a
sun-baked desert. Vinnie Johnson was doing something most of his Pistons
teammates had suddenly found nearly impossible -- hitting his shots. Hitting?
Try insisting. He would not take "no good" for an answer. He rose like destiny
over any defender, in his face, in his skin, didn't matter how close, didn't
matter if the guy ate onions and garlic for dinner. Vinnie wanted it. The
Pistons needed it.
Cook, baby.
"You know me," Johnson said, smiling, after the Pistons knocked off
Chicago, 94-85, to take a 3-2 lead in these Eastern Conference finals, thanks
largely to Johnson's fourth- quarter explosion. "If I get hot, I want the
ball, and this team gets it to you."
Gets it? They would have air-expressed it with a note, "Please. Be our
guest. Please. We said please." This, remember, is a team that was shooting
barely over 40 percent for this series. And the Pistons came out cold once
again in Game 5. How badly did the Pistons need a hot hand? As badly as a
kite needs wind. As badly as a cake needs flour. As badly Rob Lowe needs a
good lawyer. Hey. Detroit was in danger of being renamed The Gang That
Couldn't Shoot Straight.
But, (after an initial burst from Mark Aguirre) along came Vinnie, down the
stretch, finally cutting through the sheath that had seemed to swallow the
Pistons basket throughout this series. Around a screen and up in the air,
body bent like a crowbar, shoot it, score! Over a big man, leaning in, hands
in his face, score! Into Michael Jordan, up in the air, shake and bake, score!
"This was a big game, a real big game for us," Johnson said, sweat still
dripping down his skin minutes after his 22-point performance came to an end.
"They closed us off in the first half, and we needed somebody to get hot.
Just happened to be me."
The only thing missing was the yellow scarf and the bugle. If Vinnie
Johnson wasn't the cavalry, I don't know what is.
It was like a replay of the first four games," said a weary Chuck Daly
afterwards. "Every shot was contested. Every loose ball was contested. There
was dogged defense. And we fell behind early."
Behind? Yes. In front of the home crowd, the Pistons were like a sprinter
suddenly discovering he has but one shoe.
Here was a first half that was as ugly as it was dull. Nobody had to worry
about free pizzas for high scoring on this night. The Pistons picked up their
poor shooting from the opening whistle: Joe Dumars wide open -- in and out;
Aguirre wide open -- off the glass; Isiah Thomas wide open -- off the front
of the rim. Wait a minute. This was the Palace, wasn't it? Home? A cleansing
rinse after the filthy loud pair of games in Chicago?
Maybe it was. But the Pistons offense looked like it was playing here for
the first time. So inept were they in the first quarter, that Chicago coach
Doug Collins took Michael Jordan out with 5:08 left, figuring, "Hey, we
already have an eight-point lead. As long as they can't shoot, might as well
rest my superstar."
Even more astounding? The remaining cast of Jordainaires -- who by
themselves, have as much appeal as the group that backed Elvis -- not only
held the lead, but expanded it to 10 points. The Pistons finished the first
quarter with 22 field- goal attempts -- and just six baskets. Hey. Take us
back to Chicago. At least there was the foreign arena excuse.
Here were the lowlights: John Salley stealing the ball from Michael Jordan,
racing downcourt, only to clumsily drive the lane, leaping too soon, heaving
an awkward miss; Johnson following and tossing a lay-up smack into the rim;
Isiah down the baseline, bumping into Jordan, and getting called for
traveling. Rick Mahorn getting whistled for everything he touched. Slap the
ball away? SHRIEK! Foul. Poke a pass away? SHRIEK! Foul.
But you know the Pistons' battle cry: Defense. And so, even as their shots
did not fall, they kept the lid on Michael Jordan, limiting his shots. On the
night, he would take just eight, score just 18 points. (Afterwards there was
a bit of a heated exchange between Collins and the media, with Collins
questioning why the media was critical of Jordan's low-scoring night. "What do
you want him to do?" Collins said. "Shoot against three guys? You guys are
amazing. When he scores 46 points you call him a one-man team, when he only
takes eight shots you call him the highest paid decoy in the league.")
The Pistons had their own worries. They needed to break ahead before Jordan
rediscovered his game. Enter, finally, Aguirre, in the third quarter, with
eight quick points. He seemed to be saying "Look guys. remember how it's done.
Eyes on the basket. Flick the wrists . . . "
And then, of course, there was Vinnie.
Pistons fans had been waiting for an explosion like this from the guy
they call "Hoo" (as in "Hoooo, Baby!"). He had not enjoyed a good series to
this point. But there he was Wednesday, back to his old tricks, driving around
screens, throwing impossible shots at the net and watching them swish.
And finally, his inspiration took. James Edwards came alive underneath,
slammed in a basket. Joe Dumars rediscovered his shot with some cat-like
drives. Dennis Rodman was all over the place, grabbing every rebound (he had
all 10 Piston rebounds in the fourth quarter).
So the Pistons did what they had to do, defended the home turf, and now
they go back to Chicago for Game 6. They seemed to get comfortable at the end
of that fourth quarter, familiar with the shots of Johnson and Dumars and
those Rodman Rebounds. Perhaps that will carry over into Chicago Stadium.
Just the same, if I were Chuck Daly I would kill all the air-conditioning
in Vinnie's house, wrap him in a rubber suit, and make him carry a portable
heat lamp. Cook, baby. The Pistons are one win away from the rainbow.
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