Our thesis had a lot more oomph a week ago when we originally planned on writing it and they were sitting at 43-16, a mere game or so away from the suddenly spry East's top seed, but, lack of dramatic effect or not, the Miami Heat are, by far, the most disappointing team in the National Basketball Association. That sentiment is pretty common place these days but, for us, it's not for the standard reasons.
It's not because they're 3-11 against the other "elite" teams in the League (Spurs, Celtics, Mavericks, Bulls, Lakers, and Magic).
It's not because they're 2-13 in games decided by 5 points of less against winning teams.
It's not because they're 1-for-14 in potential game-tying or game-winning situations in the final 10 seconds of games.
It's not because they've lost 4 whole games in a row.
And it's not because the sky is falling and grown men, who's ego, hubris and all the other things that are supposed to make them immune to such outward signs of concern, are crying in the locker room.
And it's not even because they have 2 of the 3 best players in the league and should be better than 43-20.
No, it's because, they've made the game of basketball ugly. We never thought it possible that a team with two of the best passers and play makers alive could, in a cloud of isolations, terrible 3 pointers and wayward layups, made the league's most interesting team completely and utterly unwatchable. But that's exactly what has happened and to fans of basketball who see the game as something more than numbers and win/loss records, that's the biggest sin of all.
(We'll for the most part spare Mr. Bosh the indignity of blame in this particular critique (his play is a big enough indignity itself), his declination does make us wonder, with the benefit of complete hindsight, whether someone else, say Amare Stoudemire, wouldn't have been a better fir for this particular team. You can bet your asbestos that STAT wouldn't have gone 8 minutes of anything without attempting a shot.)
Even before the season and before their apparent crisis of confidence, even the most optimistic of fans would have been forced to admit that the Heat had real issues to address before they could truly be considered a contender but those concerns were tangible, like who would get the ball and crunch time and how they would defend dominant interior players. We're more concerned with aesthetics.
See, when players of this caliber come together and elicit such legitimate emotion, be it excitement, anger or even fear, they're measured, not by wins and losses or championships but by something greater - the beauty of the game. They're measured against what they could be, against the "What If". They're measured against our imaginations. Sure, ugly teams can win but beautiful teams capture more than just titles and we had once hoped that this year would be the beginning of a process in which the Heat could achieve both. They might not raise a banner but they surely would raise the game.
Basketball is often compared to improvisational jazz because, when the players are in sync, the unplanned, spontaneous movements of individuals converges into something that rivals even the most meticulously planned piece. That was going to be the Heat, at least in our minds. All the fanfare, fireworks and nicknames (The Heatles, Eric Spoelstra and the Miami Shit Machine) was just white noise as we imagined peerless individual performers coming together to make something memorable - LeBron tearing down a rebound and pushing the ball up court contemplating whether to dish to Wade screaming down the wing or leave it for Bosh trailing the play. They were going to be Magic, Michael and Kevin playing together on some fantasy team. Every cut would end in a dunk, every jumper an open 3. LeBron might average a triple double, Wade might lead the league in scoring, Bosh would prove he was a winning player. LeBron and Wade would become the sporting Lennon-McCartney, covering the others' weakness and lifting their Ringos - to heights they never thought they could reach. The whole becoming something so much more than its parts. They'd be something more than basketball, a traveling road show, Cirque du Soleil without the small men in spandex.
All this gave us hope that, as a younger generation of basketball fans we could see our own version of Jogo Bonito and understand how teams like the 1970 Knicks, the 1977 Blazers and the 1986 Celtics still hold an almost mythical esteem by those who saw them play. It went beyond winning, it was artistry, basketball as an almost religious experience. We didn't have to be a Heat fan to wish for something special.
Of course, that's not what we've gotten, not in the least. Instead of a collective ascension, we've been treated to a collective drain. Instead of lifting themselves to new heights, they've succeeded only in dragging each other down - Wade more than LeBron, Bosh most of all. The numbers may remain, but the flair, the excitement, the sense of wonder, is gone. Instead of defenses scrambling to contain them, it's the Heat scrambling to keep up. No pass leads to a dunk, every jumper is a contested 3 and everything just feels ... forced. In the rare moments when things do click, it comes on the break when athleticism and instincts trump skill and decision making and the players, are for a brief moment, free to be themselves and create lasting memories with otherworldly dunks and full court lobs. But those moments are few and far between and too often give way to the blown leads and a lack of urgency that have sullied the Heat's inaugural season like the proverbial zit on the pretty girl's face.
Maybe the carrot of winning and the chance at immortality isn't enough to overcome the ego, the insecurity, the need to be the man and make the ball something to be shared rather than coveted. Or maybe these stars weren't prepared for the expectations of winning. Whatever the reason, and even if at some point, they figure it out and win one, two, or even three titles, if that triumph comes through brute force rather than artistry, it will always feel like an opportunity lost. We'll always be disappointed that they fell short of what we imagined the could be.
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