This thing is over and you know it so don’t try to ruin my King LeBron James coronation. I don’t care Dwyane Wade’s been flying at the rim like our new alpha dog and it’s only the fourth quarter of game two. We’re up one game zip and by fifteen points with seven minutes left and our speed, quickness, and athleticism are overwhelming these aged and timid Dallas Mavericks.
Look at the seven-foot German, Dirk Nowitzki. He’s afraid of us and so are his old-guy teammates Jason Kidd, Jason Terry, and Shawn Marion. Tyson Chandler’s tall and young but a career underachiever and five-foot-ten-at-most J.J. Barea never will be a big-time player. Terry gets hot on jumpers for awhile and Kidd and Marion score to slice our lead to four but I’m not really worried. Did you see me crush the Boston Celtics and the Chicago Bulls in previous playoff rounds? The fourth quarter is mine. Nowitzki hits a jumper and I miss two three-pointers before he hits a left-hand layup and a three-pointer to put those guys up by three before we tie it. Now I’m sure we’ll win. We’re at home. The Mavericks will choke. Nowitzki can’t get to the basket, not all the way, and again uses his left hand to kiss the ball off the board. It’s disgusting, a non-athlete tying the series at one.
Three days later we storm into Dallas and win game three by two points and know we’ll get at least one of the next two in their house. With ten minutes left we’re in control by nine and sissy Nowitzki is sniffling and complaining about a sinus infection. He’s only scored eleven points and won’t do much in the crunch. I’m confident of that but he keeps scoring, ten down the stretch, including a layup with fourteen seconds to play, and grabs five rebounds in the quarter while I can’t figure out that stifling Dallas zone defense and am reluctant to shoot and frequently miss when I do, and this series is even.
Before game five, following the shoot around, Dwyane Wade and I send little Dirk a message: as cameras roll we giggle and sniffle while pulling our shirts up over our noses. That’ll shake him up and keep us relaxed. And it sort of works. I get a triple double, seventeen points along with ten rebounds and assists. But how do the critics respond? They call my triple-double weak and irrelevant. Folks, there’s no such thing as a bad triple-double. Dirk Nowitzki doesn’t get one though he does score twenty-nine points, including eight in the fourth quarter, and our bombardier opponents nail thirteen three-pointers to our eight, a fifteen-point advantage. Pipsqueak Barea and old man Kidd combine for seven of ten from downtown. God must love them. Meanwhile, I score but two in the fourth and have a late-game sequence of missed jumper, offensive charge, turnover, and missed jumper as we lose and trail two games to three.
None of that’s going to matter. We’re going home to South Beach where the Miami Heat are devastating and I’m ready to play two historic games that’ll win the title for us. Nowitzki starts bricking jumpers and hits only one of twelve before half yet we still trail by two. The second half can be brilliant but Dallas keeps throwing in radar-guided threes, eleven for the game to our seven, more than the victory margin that I sometimes try to erase with hot-potato passes instead of drives at the rim. Sometimes I’d rather anyone shoot but me. I don’t know why that is but don’t care because I’m still King James and next year will definitely get my first ring.