The Bill Simmons column following Bulls/Cs Game 6 was a little Rick Reilly for my taste, but it gave us the best perspective on this epic series:
I don’t even care what happens after Game 7; we can’t beat the LeBrons anyway. This is our NBA Finals. Right here.
This series has moved beyond the Larry O’Brien trophy. This is beyond the NBA Playoffs. This is beyond professional sports. This is beyond basketball.
This series has become the 16-year-old version of me and my best friend Joel (aka “Cools”) starting our ninth game of 1-on-1 at 1:45 am on school night on a blacktop court under a street light because neither one of us is going home until this is settled
But it can’t be settled. It will never be settled.
With me and Joel, someone always won each game. But there was never a winner. Eventually, we had to stop playing, but nobody ever claimed victory. Just like the Celtics, Cools was certainly better than me on paper and, yes, he would win 60 out of every 100 games. But there wasn’t a single thing either of us could do that the other one didn’t know was coming. Sure, he could cross me up and stick dagger pull-ups from the free-throw line whenever he wanted as if I was John Salmons and he was Paul Pierce, but his smug arrogance would disappear completely when I would bust a deep fadeaway in his grill as if I was Ben Gordon.
Sure, deep down I knew he was better than me and that his game was more refined, but you know what? I just ended the game on an ill-advised jumper that you couldn’t stop. So I’m grabbing my nuts and yelling out “Next.”
But I ain’t tired. And neither is he.
So check the goddamn ball.
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