Word Processor of the Gods

(Back sooner than I had thought. I'm unpredictable like that. Let's get married.)

A former comic book junkie, I always loved the cover blurbs Marvel used to put on issues such as X-Men, Thor, and the like; such powerfully bold rhetorical questions and announcements as What Price, Power?, Enter: Havoc, and Mjolnir Broken!. Perhaps those blurbs had too big an effect on me, because I regularly find the running thoughts in my head following their influence. For instance, on Friday I was on my way home from work and decided to enter a convenience store to grab a snack. Then it hit me like the spasmodic face of Bill Bixby before he turned into Lou Ferrigno. I saw a tuna sandwich; just your everyday, convenience store, tuna sandwich. But that didn't stop the inward shout of "Enter: Tuna Sandwhich!" from escaping the ether and breaking into my conscious thought. More specifically to the point I'm going to make, last Saturday, after getting half-settled and screwing together a faux mahogany bookcase which proved to be more troublesome than a faux mahogany bookcase has any right to be, my mind vomited forth the declaration "Bookcase Assembled!" followed by the addendum "...But At What Cost?" I didn't say that out loud, of course (there lies a thin line between eccentricity and outright madness, for sure; and I'm close to the other side, but not close enough. Yet), but the body tends to betray the mind, and someone very close to me commented on my maniacal expression. I smoothed it over as a bout of indigestion, and that was that. I hoped.

Then, I got to thinking about the Miami Heat and their subpar-as-fuck season. Never one to shy away from wonky analogies, the 2006 Heat championship run now reminds me of something I saw on the Discovery Channel a few weeks back. Forgive my lack of hard facts and research, but there was this guy, a mid-thirties Scandanavian dude, who decided he was going to run a marathon on the Arctic Circle in only his underwear. Bless his manic heart, he did it, too. But at what cost? The program never said, but it hinted that the flaxen-bearded bloke would likely lose all of his toes. When confronted with that possible result, the Scandanavian still believed it was worth it.

But was it? Certainly, I don't know the guy's name. Hell, I don't even know if he really is A) Scandanavian, or B) flaxen-haired, because I was eating pizza at the time and my dog was whining for it, and that's pretty distracting, I'm sure you'll agree. Has he been in a Nike commercial? If the answer's no, sorry, flaxen-haired Scandinavian, you lost your toes for a moment of glory which no one but you will remember.

So, was the 2006 Heat championship worth it? Pat Riley basically made Van Gundy the Thomas Becket to his King Henry II, overhauled much of the previous year's roster, signed a pair of ne'er-do-wells in Jason Williams and Antoine Walker, and somehow, made it work. And that was the beauty of it, because no one believed it would. In the aftermath of the San Antonio Spurs' four championships, so much has been written about the importance of team chemistry that it's sickening, and the 2006 championship is, sadly (mistakenly) percieved as a fluke.

It wasn't a fluke the same way nothing in sports ever is. It was a conclusion. A conclusion disliked by many because it didn't fit the plot of the story -- and predictions -- that was the 2005-2006 NBA season. To many, it was a horribly ineffective plot twist. Sorry, but sometimes life goes that way. Unscripted.

Where I take umbrage with Riles's bold gamble, though, is that he actually thought that shit would work again after a disappointing season, the cocky old man. Furthermore, I take umbrage with the stupid part of me (the Sports and Women part of my brain) for believing it. To be honest, I'm not unconvinced that he's gone a little crazy. Fuck that, a lot. He made moves which caused a stir, they worked, and then he became all "I could sign fucking Ricky Davis, Smush Parker and Marc Blount and make this shit work. BECAUSE I'M THAT GOOD." I know how it feels, Pat. I've been there.

More foresightful moves could have birthed a dynasty, but Pat wasn't about that. Pat was riding a thoroughbred on its last legs, a chariot losing its wheels. Pat was looking out for Pat, and he achieved what Larry Brown (who?) could only pretend to try to do: play a villian who appears a savior.

Pat Riley, Antichrist?

Although the Heat are the laughing stock of the Eastern Conference, I'm confident Riles isn't too much troubled over the fact. He's got redemption under his belt, and, like love, that's worth a whole lot. Frankly, Pat Riley can...I don't want to say it...

go to Hell.

Superman's dead, Flash is becoming Barry Allen (and notinagoodway), and here we stand, before a precipice. Sink or swim, ride or die, spit or swallow. The future of the Miami Heat rests upon one man:



(Was it worth it? Definitely. And then some. Pat, I'm not mad atcha. Free Dwyane.)