Good riddance to the Heat's conceit

It's euphoria in anti-Heat land as the Dallas Mavericks exorcised years of playoff demons in defeating the Miami Heat 105-95 in the sixth and final game (June 12) of the 2011 NBA Finals. In doing so, I can rest more easily knowing they prevented South Beach from securing the first of the seven or eight championships LeBron James and Dwyane Wade eagerly guaranteed.

It must have seemed like a daunting task for the Mavericks. As brilliantly as they played in dispatching the Portland Trail Blazers, Los Angeles Lakers, and the Oklahoma City Thunder, the Miami Heat seemed to present a considerable step up in class. As we discovered, it was only LeBron's arrogance and Wade's haughtiness that cast the Heat in such reverential light. I took the bait as well but should have known -- always beware those who can't wait to announce their own skill, their own genius.

I was influenced by the "take my talents to South Beach" charade. There was one powerful point in the ABC broadcast during the fourth quarter. It transpired when the game, the series, the season, and credibility were all slipping away from the champions of Dade County. First, the network replayed LeBron's "South Beach" comments, and then the video of the team's preposterously self-absorbed pre-coronation/pep rally/ celebration that marked the union of the triumvirate. It was appalling. I knew it occurred but hadn't seen it replayed in a while. The poignancy of the moment was palpable. I had seen their inexorable excessive preening when things were going well this year, and had forgotten the genesis of it -- that laughable, theatrical event with the three stooges center stage. I hated them all the more for the last several minutes of Game 6.

I am grateful the Mavericks ignored their prepared histrionics and contested them without awe. It's not often in sports, or in life, that the pompous and pretentious get their due.

Thank you, Dirk.

I have been a New York Knicks fan since the days of Howie Komives and Walt Bellamy, when I regularly boarded the IRT Subway at 180th Street in the Bronx for a trip to the Garden to see my heroes. Since the last championship in 1973, I have alternately yearned and suffered, hoped and lamented -- I've waited long enough.