8901250072
DETROIT FREE PRESS
890614
Wednesday, June 14, 1989
METRO FINAL
1A
Photo Color STEVEN R. NICKERSON
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL CHASER EDITION, Page 1A
Copyright (c) 1989, Detroit Free Press
NOT BAD, BOYS!
PISTONS SWEEP LAKERS FOR FIRST TITLE
INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- In the end, there would be no denying them; they wanted
this more than life itself. No more waiting. No more excuses. The Pistons were
storming the throne room, grabbing the basketball, stealing it, owning it,
banking it off glass, slamming it through the rim, counting the seconds until
destiny lifted her veil and gave them that sweet long- awaited kiss, right on
the lips.
One-two-three-four.
Champions.
"BAAAAD BOYS, BAAAAD BOYS," they sang, arm in arm on the bench, as the
Pistons swept the Los Angeles Lakers in four games with a 105-97 victory
Tuesday night. "WE'RE THE BAAAD BOYS!"
Who in Detroit will ever forget? Our first NBA champions? Here was the
moment we had awaited forever, since the team was a laugh, since the roof
collapsed on their arena, since the aura of champions used to leave them
paralyzed. Not anymore.
Instead, on this magic night, against the defending world champions, it was
captain Isiah Thomas down the middle like a bullet, driving and flipping and
passing every Laker en route to a lay-up. And it was James Edwards, the symbol
of bench strength, towering over the opponents, blocking shots, slamming in
baskets so hard it brought tears to your eyes. And it was Joe Dumars, sudden
hero, proving that Bad Boys can be good, shooting and driving and finally,
when that buzzer sounded, finding a camera to say, "I'm going to Disney
World!" although, to tell the truth, after this, Disney World will be a
letdown.
One-two-three-four.
Champions.
What a moment! At the buzzer, Isiah was in tears, how long he had waited!
John Salley was singing and laughing. They were watching in desperation, they
were watching in unbridled glee back home, where 21,000 filled the Palace to
watch the game on television. How long had we waited? That's how long,
America.
Champions.
And how fitting an end. Here in Game 4 was a finale that symbolized their
long rise to the top -- a climb from the very bottom. The Pistons were swamped
early by a tenacious Lakers team, they were scratched, clawed, bloodied;
Michael Cooper threw punches at Rick Mahorn, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar threw elbows
at Rick Mahorn -- and suddenly the Lakers were miles ahead, a 16-point lead in
the second quarter.
But live and learn. These are no longer green kids, no longer awe-struck by
Lakers or Celtics, they are playoff veterans, every sweaty inch of them. And
so they came back: Isiah, little big man, rising over Abdul-Jabbar to strip a
rebound; Bill Laimbeer driving in for a breakaway lay-up (a breakaway?
Laimbeer?); Dumars, rising like destiny, banking a shot off the glass from a
ridiculous angle, in it went, and the foul, thank you. Slowly the Lakers lead
was peeled away, like unneeded skin, the Pistons were being hatched as world
beaters, one basket, one game, one delicious moment at a time.
One-two-three-four.
Champions.
A sweep? Who would have predicted a sweep? Even the pundits who cite the
Lakers injuries can't find fault with perfection. Play four, win four. The
Pistons survived everything the NBA could throw at them -- the Central
Division, Michael Jordan, the referees, James Worthy -- and finally,
wonderfully, they were hugging and crying and swinging like Christmas. Dennis
Rodman had his hands so high, it seemed his arms would pop their sockets. Mark
Aguirre had his hands on his head, spinning in circles, as if to say, "Can it
be real?" They were one delicious pile at mid-court, never letting go, never
letting go.
One-two-three-four.
Champions.
How great, finally, for these Pistons players who, in the three-year climb
to this mountain, have endured everything from Celtic leprechauns to Jack
Nicholson. How great for the centers: Laimbeer, everybody's villain, but a guy
who proved that slow and earthbound can still get a ring; and Edwards, the
oldest guy on the team, who began his career under the tutelage of
Abdul-Jabbar, and won a ring in Abdul-Jabbar's farewell performance.
For the forwards: Mahorn, who had to watch much of last year's finals on
his stomach, now standing upright, waving and slamming his big body in
unbridled glee; and Aguirre, a supposed head-case who found that less can
indeed be more, because he now, as a role player, has what he never achieved
as a point-scorer in Dallas: a championship.
For the X-factors: Rodman and Salley. Their very arrival three years ago
signaled the final touches of this championship blueprint. There they were
Tuesday night, Rodman trying courageously to play through painful back spasms,
Salley called upon early, responding with a slam, a jumper. How fitting that
they have both matured just in time to grab the brass ring. Dennis, of
course, will probably hang from it. Salley will turn it into a commercial.
And then, of course, there are the guards. Where would the Pistons be
without them in this series? Isiah's gamesmanship, his direction, his
confidence, coupled with Dumars' deadeye shooting, his gluey defense -- and of
course Vinnie Johnson's lava-flow offense.
Be honest. When these three are cooking, is there a better backcourt
anywhere in basketball? Anywhere in this decade? And how fitting that, for all
the years that Thomas had to carry this team, he finally reached the end of
the rainbow by holding the door for Dumars, his quiet, less-noticed backcourt
mate, who upped his game and collected the MVP honors. Beautiful. Isiah has
always said the team will win this title, not him. The Pistons proved it.
And Dumars? What a series! Shooting on the run, on the jump, off the
dribble, the high delicious arching shots that drop through like daggers. His
steady hand brought Detroit back from the pits Tuesday night -- as it had led
them, really, all series. MVP? You betcha.
So swamped was Joe with sudden media requests and phone calls that he
missed the chance to meet his TV idol, Redd Foxx, at a movie shoot Monday
night. "I couldn't get out. He sent me a photo instead," Dumars said. "It was
inscribed 'To Joe -- You Big Dummy,' just like he used to say on 'Sanford and
Son.' I've never felt so good having someone call me a dummy before."
Funny. Joe missed his chance to meet the big star because suddenly, he has
become one himself.
Champions.
And how about the coach, Daddy Rich, Chuck Daly? How long has he waited for
this? His whole life? He had never won a championship of any kind as a head
coach -- not in high school, college, the pros. He knew he had a first-class
roster, but he remained self-effacing and tight-lipped all season, convinced,
it seemed, that if he allowed even the slightest show of optimism, God would
strike him down for being cocky. When the buzzer finally sounded Tuesday
night, the veneer finally cracked, he grinned, he smiled. He smiled?
See, Chuck? Easy as one-two-three . . .
. . . four.
Champions.
Nationally they will be writing about the Pistons as the New Kings in Town,
but in Detroit people know this has been stewing for nearly a year. The
Pistons probably deserved to win the crown last season, but life and referees
and injuries are not always fair. So a last-second shot by Dumars clanged off
the backboard; there went Game 6. And a final three-point attempt by an
injured Thomas was swallowed in a flood of cheering fans; there went Game 7.
And there went the dream.
"From the time we showed up in training camp this season," Thomas said
before Tuesday's finale, "we wanted to start the finals. We wanted to pick up
where we left off. It was like we didn't even want to play the regular season,
let's just get to the finish."
Now they have done it.
One-two-three-four.
Injuries? Forget about injuries, Lakers or Pistons. Asterisks? There is no
need for asterisks. Sure, it would have been better if Magic Johnson were
healthy and took part in all the games. Sure, it would have been better if
Byron Scott had played. Sure, sure, and so what? Wouldas and couldas are
worthless now, just as they were worthless last year, when a gimpy-ankled
Thomas had to struggle through Game 7 and watch his dreams dashed on the
rocks.
A word here, however, for the Lakers. They played valiantly, with pride.
Missing their starting backcourt, they played Tuesday like the champions they
are, bursting out like a wounded tiger, clawing and swiping, grabbing a
16-point lead, surrendering every ounce of desire before finally surrendering
the keys to the kingdom.
History will only weep that Abdul-Jabbar could not have exited in a more
noble fashion than a four-game sweep. But he is a sportsman, and all sportsmen
know that time will catch you eventually. He bowed out to a younger team, and
that is probably the way it should be.
Besides, all you critics, what more can you ask for? Four games were
needed, four games were captured. The Pistons did it with with a blowout in
Game 1 (when Magic was healthy, remember?), with a shoot-out-the-lights night
by Dumars in Game 2 (and some help from a missed James Worthy free throw in
the final seconds), with a courageous taming of the Laker beast in La-La Land
in Game 3, and with the final sword through the Showtime back in Game 4, a
come- from-behind, hang-around-till- they-tire victory, 48 minutes and a sweet
lick of destiny.
That's all she wrote.
Remember this picture: That happy pile, arm in arm, singing of the Bad
Boys, a team for the ages. Here's to a team of aggressive, sweaty, funny,
spirited, driving, leaping and finally dancing basketball heroes, who learned
this night that you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes,
you get what you deserve. Bad Boys, Best Boys, you know the rest, Boys:
One-two-three-four.
Champions.
CUTLINE:
Rebounding Tuesday against A.C. Green of the Lakers, center Bill Laimbeer
expresses the determination typical of the Pistons' championship season.
DPISTONS; BASKETBALL;COLUMN;Pistons