Manu20
06-24-2005, 11:30 PM
The 'Moment' Belongs to Duncan
By Scoop Jackson
Page 2
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=jackson/050624&num=0
SAN ANTONIO – A white Ford Excursion Limited pulled into parking lot No. 5 at the SBC Center. On one window: "TONIGHT'S THE NIGHT." On the other: "GOT CHAMPIONSHIP?"
The whip symbolized what the next three hours were about. The next year.
When the clock hit zero -- Pop and TD were champs again.
Thirty minutes before the game, Gregg Popovich stood in a locker room, looked at 12 players and told them nothing more than what he'd been telling them since they lost their last basketball game less than 48 hours ago.
"Live in the moment," he repeated. "Appreciate what's about to happen."
Pop knew the next 48 minutes would change these 12 people's lives forever.
* * * * *
This was about a situation.
The situation had nothing to do with home-court advantage, salaries, trades, CBAs, age limits, suspect refereeing, where coaches will be next year or whose legacy would be tarnished or in question.
It had come to this. It was only right that it did.
It was a situation one team loved and the other seemed to shy away from. A situation of a seventh game. A do-or-dirt nap situation. A situation that hadn't been witnessed in 11 years. A situation John Starks wishes he had back.
It was about a situation of necessity. The league and the game needed this situation, this one-game closeout. Not for ratings or public perception, but for proof. Proof that a beautiful game is not always pretty. And that sometimes, they play out like fights, like championship bouts. Not Gatti/Mayweather, no. Heavyweights. A situation like Ali/Frazier 1, when both were undefeated champs. These two were the league's last two champs.
Just as Ali/Frazier was a 14-round brawl that came down to the 15th, this was a 27-quarter series came down to the 28th. A situation that, in the end, was reduced to 12 minutes. The score equal entering the fourth quarter. The entire basketball season came down to which team could play the best 12 minutes of basketball – not which team was the best.
A situation that was only perfect.
* * * * *
This was about two teams.
Pop would have loved to see Larry Brown win ... well, not that much,
One trying to defend itself, the other needing to prove itself.
There were no giveaways. No body language reads, no eyes wide shut with fear, no twitching of nerve endings. Over the last two games, Detroit had gotten away from its offense and San Antonio was playing too much one-on-one. They both won games the other was supposed to win, and they both lost games the other was supposed to lose. The mirror image had finally found its reflection. The two best teams in the world had taken a seven-game series, turned it into a three-game series, and then turned it into a one-game saga.
One game.
And there's a theory inside the conspiracy theory inside the NBA: We'll get you to a Game 7, but once you're there …
It was about each team's taking on the personality of its coach, its city. It was about the teams being duplicates of each other, learning about each other over this two-week period, discovering things about themselves along the way.
It was about reps. How each team had to live up to its reputation or live one down. In this series, the Pistons earned one as a team that wanted a Game 7; the Spurs developed one as a team that might not be strong enough to handle a seventh game.
It was about trophies, rings, pride, commitment, loyalty, honor, love and basketball. It was not about which team was better; but instead, which wanted it more. Which deserved it more.
It was about a repeat for one and a fragmented three-peat for the other. It was about both teams forgetting the first four games of the series, because Game 7 was not about to be like any of those. It was about each team remembering what it had taken to win the last one they'd won. It was about sending a silent message to the Phoenix Suns and the Miami Heat, letting those teams know that next year will be the same.
It was about these two teams and their places in history.
It was about these two teams saving the NBA.
* * * * *
This was about two players.
Not the best players, but the most important ones.
Chauncey and Co. couldn't make it back to back.
One trying to defend his NBA Finals MVP, the other trying to prove he deserves one. Chauncey Billups and Manu Ginobili met at halfcourt before the game, knowing in the end that it was going to be about only one of them. Both had been here before – Chauncey last year, Manu last summer in Athens.
They'd both be the soul controllers. They'd both be handling the ball, exclusively, jump-starting every play. Both got two fouls early. Both coaches sat them down at the same time. Both coaches knew the second half was theirs.
When one would do something, the other would do something similar. The game would be determined by one of them, if not won by one of them.
Manu turned the ball over to Chauncey with 8:32 left in the third and the Spurs down 44-39.
After Chauncey's first turnover minutes later, Manu grabbed an offensive board and went coast-to-coast; Spurs down 48-46.
Manu dunks; Chauncey hits two free throws; score tied 55-55.
Chauncey scores with 3:25 left (69-65, Spurs); Manu hits a 3 with 2:57 to go (72-65).
Chauncey, turnaround jumper (72-68); Manu, down the lane, layup (75-68).
They paralleled each other. Possession for possession. A battle royale, until …
CB fouled Manu. Manu hit both, then backpedaled downcourt with his arms raised.
The crowd started chanting, "MVP! MVP! MVP!"
The same chant Chauncey heard … last year.
* * * * *
It was about a moment.
It was about the moment when it was all over and he sat there drenched in orange label Vueve, with a championship trophy on one side and an MVP on the other.
It was about getting past the recent moments that got him to this. Making others swallow words that were written and spoken about his "character," his "legacy," and how "he didn't want it" when the game was on the line.
But Tim Duncan did what he always does in the end: He remained true to himself. And didn't pay attention to anything anyone else said about him. Including me.
In the end, when he came off the court and went backstage to address the world, the first person he'd see would be Ben Wallace, who gave him a hug and went up to the podium and said: "[Tim] put his team on his shoulders and carried them. That's what great players do."
Twenty-five points, 11 rebounds. Five of six from the line.
Make that two rings for Argentina's finest.
Redemption.
The next moment took me to him.
"Scoop!" he says, MVP trophy in hand, when he sees me a few feet in front of him. I embrace him.
"Congrats, man," I say to him as he bends down to hug back. I put my hand on the back of his head. Pass on these words: "You did your thing. I'm proud of you. Enjoy it."
We release, and he looks straight at me. He has a look of relief that you had to be there to comprehend. He cracks a small smile and says, "I will … oh, I will."
It is his moment.
It is, as his coach told him, about living in that moment.
By Scoop Jackson
Page 2
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=jackson/050624&num=0
SAN ANTONIO – A white Ford Excursion Limited pulled into parking lot No. 5 at the SBC Center. On one window: "TONIGHT'S THE NIGHT." On the other: "GOT CHAMPIONSHIP?"
The whip symbolized what the next three hours were about. The next year.
When the clock hit zero -- Pop and TD were champs again.
Thirty minutes before the game, Gregg Popovich stood in a locker room, looked at 12 players and told them nothing more than what he'd been telling them since they lost their last basketball game less than 48 hours ago.
"Live in the moment," he repeated. "Appreciate what's about to happen."
Pop knew the next 48 minutes would change these 12 people's lives forever.
* * * * *
This was about a situation.
The situation had nothing to do with home-court advantage, salaries, trades, CBAs, age limits, suspect refereeing, where coaches will be next year or whose legacy would be tarnished or in question.
It had come to this. It was only right that it did.
It was a situation one team loved and the other seemed to shy away from. A situation of a seventh game. A do-or-dirt nap situation. A situation that hadn't been witnessed in 11 years. A situation John Starks wishes he had back.
It was about a situation of necessity. The league and the game needed this situation, this one-game closeout. Not for ratings or public perception, but for proof. Proof that a beautiful game is not always pretty. And that sometimes, they play out like fights, like championship bouts. Not Gatti/Mayweather, no. Heavyweights. A situation like Ali/Frazier 1, when both were undefeated champs. These two were the league's last two champs.
Just as Ali/Frazier was a 14-round brawl that came down to the 15th, this was a 27-quarter series came down to the 28th. A situation that, in the end, was reduced to 12 minutes. The score equal entering the fourth quarter. The entire basketball season came down to which team could play the best 12 minutes of basketball – not which team was the best.
A situation that was only perfect.
* * * * *
This was about two teams.
Pop would have loved to see Larry Brown win ... well, not that much,
One trying to defend itself, the other needing to prove itself.
There were no giveaways. No body language reads, no eyes wide shut with fear, no twitching of nerve endings. Over the last two games, Detroit had gotten away from its offense and San Antonio was playing too much one-on-one. They both won games the other was supposed to win, and they both lost games the other was supposed to lose. The mirror image had finally found its reflection. The two best teams in the world had taken a seven-game series, turned it into a three-game series, and then turned it into a one-game saga.
One game.
And there's a theory inside the conspiracy theory inside the NBA: We'll get you to a Game 7, but once you're there …
It was about each team's taking on the personality of its coach, its city. It was about the teams being duplicates of each other, learning about each other over this two-week period, discovering things about themselves along the way.
It was about reps. How each team had to live up to its reputation or live one down. In this series, the Pistons earned one as a team that wanted a Game 7; the Spurs developed one as a team that might not be strong enough to handle a seventh game.
It was about trophies, rings, pride, commitment, loyalty, honor, love and basketball. It was not about which team was better; but instead, which wanted it more. Which deserved it more.
It was about a repeat for one and a fragmented three-peat for the other. It was about both teams forgetting the first four games of the series, because Game 7 was not about to be like any of those. It was about each team remembering what it had taken to win the last one they'd won. It was about sending a silent message to the Phoenix Suns and the Miami Heat, letting those teams know that next year will be the same.
It was about these two teams and their places in history.
It was about these two teams saving the NBA.
* * * * *
This was about two players.
Not the best players, but the most important ones.
Chauncey and Co. couldn't make it back to back.
One trying to defend his NBA Finals MVP, the other trying to prove he deserves one. Chauncey Billups and Manu Ginobili met at halfcourt before the game, knowing in the end that it was going to be about only one of them. Both had been here before – Chauncey last year, Manu last summer in Athens.
They'd both be the soul controllers. They'd both be handling the ball, exclusively, jump-starting every play. Both got two fouls early. Both coaches sat them down at the same time. Both coaches knew the second half was theirs.
When one would do something, the other would do something similar. The game would be determined by one of them, if not won by one of them.
Manu turned the ball over to Chauncey with 8:32 left in the third and the Spurs down 44-39.
After Chauncey's first turnover minutes later, Manu grabbed an offensive board and went coast-to-coast; Spurs down 48-46.
Manu dunks; Chauncey hits two free throws; score tied 55-55.
Chauncey scores with 3:25 left (69-65, Spurs); Manu hits a 3 with 2:57 to go (72-65).
Chauncey, turnaround jumper (72-68); Manu, down the lane, layup (75-68).
They paralleled each other. Possession for possession. A battle royale, until …
CB fouled Manu. Manu hit both, then backpedaled downcourt with his arms raised.
The crowd started chanting, "MVP! MVP! MVP!"
The same chant Chauncey heard … last year.
* * * * *
It was about a moment.
It was about the moment when it was all over and he sat there drenched in orange label Vueve, with a championship trophy on one side and an MVP on the other.
It was about getting past the recent moments that got him to this. Making others swallow words that were written and spoken about his "character," his "legacy," and how "he didn't want it" when the game was on the line.
But Tim Duncan did what he always does in the end: He remained true to himself. And didn't pay attention to anything anyone else said about him. Including me.
In the end, when he came off the court and went backstage to address the world, the first person he'd see would be Ben Wallace, who gave him a hug and went up to the podium and said: "[Tim] put his team on his shoulders and carried them. That's what great players do."
Twenty-five points, 11 rebounds. Five of six from the line.
Make that two rings for Argentina's finest.
Redemption.
The next moment took me to him.
"Scoop!" he says, MVP trophy in hand, when he sees me a few feet in front of him. I embrace him.
"Congrats, man," I say to him as he bends down to hug back. I put my hand on the back of his head. Pass on these words: "You did your thing. I'm proud of you. Enjoy it."
We release, and he looks straight at me. He has a look of relief that you had to be there to comprehend. He cracks a small smile and says, "I will … oh, I will."
It is his moment.
It is, as his coach told him, about living in that moment.