In less than five hours the Eastern Conference Finals may very well be over.
Without getting into all the bloody details of LeBron James’ recent triumph over humanity, we’ve got nothing left to do but sit, wait, and pray.
Like hurricane victims stranded on the roofs of their homes, basketball fans around the world are trapped, terrified and intimidated of what they’ve just born witness to, all the while inherently amazed that such an outrageous act of God could even happen in the first place.
And like those victims stranded on their homes, there’s no going back. We’re left to ride out the storm, reminded of our own mortality.
Game 6 throws down tonight, in Cleveland, at 8:30 pm.
Somewhere, as I type this, Chauncey Billups and Richard Hamilton exchange eye contact, they know what they have to do.
At the other side of the room Rasheed Wallace is stretching his face muscles, prepping for the emotional epic that’s to come.
Meanwhile Chris Webber sits in isolation, staring at a worn piece of paper with nothing but an image of the Larry O’Brien, he folds it, tucks it away in his wallet, adjusts his headband and leaves the room.
Down the hall in a dimly lit office, Tayshaun Prince lies on an oversized couch as psychologists poke and pry at his brain, desperate to unlock the chamber that has engulfed his confidence.
Like the scene in Independence Day when Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum fly into the alien mothership, the mood is somber and the world is anxious.
The time has come.
So which will prevail, the Detroit Pistons or LeBron’s destiny?