There have been three – the Miami-Oklahoma City FFinals from last year, the Cavaliers-Spurs debacle in 2007 (swallowed whistle by the refs as Bruce Bowen intentionally fouled LeBron on a game-tying 3-pointer just before the buzzer in Game 3), and the 2000 Lakers-Pacers series that made Austin Croshere a very, very rich man.
I have nothing against San Antonio, but the been there, done that factor comes into play in a big way.
You know what will happen if the Spurs win? An army of pickup trucks will descend upon downtown, all the drivers honking their horns, and the cacophony will not relent until dawn. The weather will be soupy and swampy, and it’ll only get muggier for those who dare to descend upon the Riverwalk, where bacteria breed like algae and uninitiated members of the media corps make the mistake of ordering food that will have them retching two hours later and vowing never to descend upon that swilly, stenchy canal for the rest of their lives.
Don’t get me wrong. I like the Spurs. I like what they represent, I like interviewing Gregg Popovich, Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker – and even Tim Duncan, who once gave me a great story about classic cars.
But I have my own classic car, and I want to motor my way down to Memphis on June 6.
I want John Hollinger vs. Donnie Walsh.
I want Bob Kravitz vs. Geoff Calkins.
I want a shrimp cocktail at St. Elmo’s in Indianapolis, the best shrimp cocktail in the world if you enjoy a horseradish moment. I want a plate of steak and green beans at the Beale Street diner. I want my live music to be played by a guitarist, not a DJ.
I want to write about Martin Luther King Jr., who met his unfortunate end in Memphis.
I want to write about Larry Bird, and why he has gone missing.
I need a break from LeBron, from Timmy, from comparing heat to humidity. I need a steady diet of Waffle House. I need a drive through the cotton fields of Mississippi, with a stop for fried chicken along the way, to go play blackjack in Tunica.
I need a road trip, which means tonight and Monday I need the Grizzlies, and tomorrow I need the Pacers.
And then maybe, just maybe, I can ask Hugo to take me back to 1985. The jukeboxes were good back then, too.
It is only a dream at this stage. But dreams sometimes come true.
So for the rest of the weekend, I’ll break the sportswriters’ coda and I’ll root openly – albeit in the privacy of my own living room.
Go Memphis!
Go Indiana!
Grizzlies vs. Pacers would not be the worst NBA Finals ever. To me, it would be the best.
Chris Sheridan is publisher and editor-in-chief of SheridanHoops.com. Follow him on Twitter.