A Sweet Thing

The third quarter is only three minutes old, and as I changed my clothes it hit me: I know who is going to win this game, this series, this championship. I have never seen the Spurs play as badly as they're playing tonight. Never. The collective effort by the starting five lacks heart, drive and energy. Listening to Hubie Brown minute after minute getting a hard on over the Pistons isn't helping, either. But why would he have anything nice to say about the Spurs? There isn't anything to say. At least not yet, with 6:18 left in the third quarter. But wait... Tim Duncan just completed a rare three-point play, finished off by an even rarer made free throw. And Manu Ginobli just drove to the basket and scored a seemingly easy lay-up -- the kind he did during Games 1 and 2. This offensive output completes a 7-0 run by the Spurs. In the last 30 seconds, they have shown more desire to win this thing than they did during the entire last four games... I'm reading an amazing book. Poisonwood Bible. Barbara Kingsolver conducts a clinic in writing with her prose. In voice. Dialogue. Description. The tastes, smells, heat, pace of Africa proliferate each sequence. When I read it on the train, I have to be careful not to miss my stop. Similarly, when I read in the minutes before work in front of my building over coffee and a clove, I have to be careful not to be late. It was in this space yesterday morning when a woman nervously approached me. "Do you have a light? I'm sorry to interrupt your concentration." "Sure," I said, reaching into my pocket to retrieve my lighter, which was lost among my pocket fodder. "Have you ever read Poisonwood Bible?" "What's that?" She was digging through one of her two bags for something while she waited for me, hoping to avoid the interaction I had just initiated. "Poisonwood Bible."  "Oh. Poison- yes. Barbara Kinglover."  "Solver," I said under my breath but loud enough to register my correction with the literary universe.  "Yeah, that's a great one," she said moving toward the light I put in front of her cigarette. "I've read a few of hers. Bean Tree and- yeah, she's a great writer. Thanks for the light." "Sure. Take care." The third quarter was amazing. Duncan came out of his coma with bank shots and free throws and blocked shots and .... Up by two at the beginning of the fourth. I was in a daze all day yesterday. I hadn't slept much. Four hours at most. But I made it through the day, reading, reading, reading. And I read some more. Kingsolver. Engrossed, I was, on the train, ignoring the uninterested commuters, the stop announcements. And it was in this Kingsolver daze I walked the two blocks to my house. As I crossed Fifth Ave. and Union St., I noticed a car -- a Honda or Toyota (they're all the same to me now since leaving the car culture of California). It was hanging out in the lane a bit, though not an excruciating amount. But it was enough to block traffic in the event of a two-lane congestion going opposite directions. It looked abandoned, because the glare of the light off the windows concealed the heads of the three women inside. As I passed the car, I wondered why they weren't making any effort to move it. One more step and I took my headphones off and walked toward the car. "Do you need me to help you push this out of the way?" They looked at each other confusedly and then said that would be nice of me. "Ok." I walked around the back of the car and over to the driver's seat. "I'm gonna need you to get out of the car," I said to all three in no particular direction. The driver didn't move much; she only looked at me waiting for her special instructions. Tim Duncan shoots from the perimeter with a finesse like he's been shooting from there since birth. A Detroit bucket soon gives way to a Ginobli three. With 2:46 left in the fourth quarter, the Spurs are sitting with their biggest lead of the game. "I'm gonna need you to put the car in neutral and release the parking break if it's set." She obeyed and then sat there. "And I'm gonna need you to get out of the car." With the car now void of the women's weight, I bent over, pack on my back, and with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the dash, I pushed the car slowly the four feet it needed to go to be out of the way. I turned to look at the back of the car and the three women were standing behind it, although I couldn't tell if they were helping. "Is that good? Is it out of the way?" "Yeah." They all looked at each other and then at the curb to try to contribute to my good deed. "That should be ok." "Does it need to be closer?" "No, that's fine." 1:50 left in the fourth quarter. Spurs up by six. Charge on Rip. 1:31 left. The SBC Center is loud. Hubie Brown is still talking about the Pistons and he now ranks right up there with Bill Walton in my book of commentators that should be muted. The women got back in the car. The driver, on her way back down to her seat, took a glance at my chest to see what sex she was dealing with. "Thank you." "No problem. Have a good night." Can the Spurs maintain this lead? Will Tim make these freethrows? One made. One missed. 1:01 remaining. My stomach is in my throat. It's churning the way it churns when a girl says, "I can't do this anymore." My hands are shaking. I have to pace. "Get a stop." BRUCEBOWENBLOCKSTHETHREEMANUGINOBLISCORESALAYUP!!!!!!! Nice shot, Rasheed. Four-point lead. 22.1 seconds. Manu freethrow. Five-point lead. Manu freethrow. Six-point lead. I gotta pace. 18 seconds... The Spurs found themselves after the beginning of the third quarter tonight. They found the game, their game, which they lost somewhere on the flight to Detroit last week. Horry freethrows made. Eight-point lead. Ginobli runnin' away. Seven seconds left. Fouled. One freethrow. Pop is pissed! Two freethrows. IT'S OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And to the sound of Queen, the Spurs are being pounded lightly with confetti. And there's David Robinson. It's over. It's over. I can breathe again. Thank you, San Antonio. I've loved you since I was 14. I'll love you till I die.