World Dairy Expo

 

Attending the World Dairy Expo is like going to the zoo—except there’s only one animal, and it’s an animal with no entertainment value: the cow. The event is basically a big mixer for cows and humans. I’m about to embark on my third journey to the World Dairy Expo, traveling from Ripon to Madison in a bus, as a chaperone on a field trip. I’m on the special education support staff at the high school, and I keep getting wrangled into this experience by the FFA Club. I sheepishly try to get out of the ol’ prelude to the slaughterhouse, but the Future Farmers of America keep roping me back in. 

Actually, it’s not exactly that bad. Once we make it to the Alliant Energy Center, we get treated to plenty of exercise and fresh air—only the cardio walks take us from one cow to another, and the fresh air is polluted by their farts. Did I mention the cattle also pees and craps nonstop without doing anything interesting? 

If I may rally my attitude for real this time, I do like some aspects of the trip. The science teacher and head of FFA is a likeable young man named Mr. Billips. I’ve been involved with his Wildlife Conservation class in multiple semesters as a sort of educational co-pilot, albeit a co-pilot with little knowledge in the field. Mr. Billips and I get along even though we don’t have much in common. He side-hustles as a dairy farmer and stocks trader. My side hustles are sub custodian at the school and continental breakfast guy at Cobblestone Suites. Mr. Billips has a chess grading of about 1700, and he said that means he’s ranked at the Expert level, and he’s won chess tournaments with payouts in the four-figure range. One time I got beat in chess by Damon, a favorite kid of mine with an I.E.P. I’m pretty sure I’m only like 3-1 against Damon, putting me somewhat shy of the 1700 level, I’d imagine. Mr. Billips has a swoosh of short blond hair slicked sideways and a mustache with chin stubble. I look like the bony cousin of Bigfoot, who clawed a small hole out of my scalp, with my bushy brown beard, bald spot, and flannels.

Besides our careers in education and allegiance to the Green Bay Packers, there’s not a lot in the center of the Venn Diagram between us. Mr. Shawn P. had this day circled on his calendar with anticipation. Whereas I came close to circling it on my calendar by using it as my one Personal Day.

As I write this, it’s 7:42 a.m. I’m surrounded by dozens of teens corralled in something called the foods science lab. We’ve had a few rowdy outbursts and I’ve raised my voice twice.

“White sweatshirt! Enough with the sleeper hold!” I snapped at one point.

The bus is not on time. The wait is getting too long and we’re getting restless. White Sweatshirt is not my favorite student, but White Sweatshirt is inevitable when the wait has no end in sight.

Mr. Billips just made an announcement about permission slips at the other end of the lab. We’re on opposite sides of the Diagram with kids in between.

The bus is running late. It’s 7:50 and we are waiting indefinitely. My least favorite type of waiting.

###

It’s 8:16 and we’re leaving Ripon city limits. The bus is so crowded that some seats are packed with 3 kids. The maximum capacity sign is a liar. A few kids have to crouch in the aisle. We know the problem and we don’t have the resources to solve it. Public education!

I told the student beside me that at least it’s a sunny morning in the fall morning in the beautiful state of Wisconsin, and that after the long, long wait for the bus to arrive, I bet the worst part of the day is over. She’s a nice kid who gave me no reply.

I’m listening to The Beatles “I’ve Just Seen a Face” and enjoying the scenery. I’m seeing so many cornfields, silos, and tree leaves starting to flirt with autumn colors. We pass over a bridge leaving Markisan behind with me bopping my head to “Taxman” on earbuds.

During this calm reprieve, I’ll tell you about the time Mr. Billips and I shared a ride to a Brewers home game and back, with me behind the wheel. The head custodian at the high school set up a staff trip to the ballpark in Milwaukee. About 15 of us met in the parking lot to have an awkward group talk about carpooling. I didn’t want to seem like a mooch, so I volunteered to drive. I ended up doing just that, which wasn’t great, either. Mr. Billips was the only one who rode with me. We got to know each other better on the 90-minute drives there and back, on top of tailgating with 2 beers apiece in the parking lot.

On our way to the Brewers/ Twins game, Mr. Billips noted the sleeve of CDs tucked above the sun visor on the passengers’ seat.

“It’s not everyday that I see CDs,” he said.

“Sure. So you’re like, ‘Whoa, See deese CDs?!’” I said. “I grew up in that era. I used to have, like, 400 or 500? I don’t know—a lot. It took me a while to downsize, so now I’m down to 100 or so.”

Mr. Billips gazed at the discs, sleeve in hand now, nodding slowly.

“CDs were sort of fading out when I got to a certain age,” he said. “So, I only ever owned two. They were… What were they? Oh! The Dixie Chicks Fly and a greatest hits by George Jones.”

“Ooh, you’re not gonna find either one of those, I’m afraid,” I said. “Pick one to play! Actually, you might really like the Gram Parsons album…”

“I’ll go with Nirvana Insecticide,” he said. “Because insecticide relates to agriculture.”

“Good pick!” I said, not having the heart to correct him. As proof of Kurt Cobain’s wordplay and twisted sense of humor, the album was actually titled Incesticide.

I had enjoyed the Brewers falling to the Twins 3-0 on Star Wars Night more so than my first 2 trips to the World Dairy Expo. It’s 9:04 a.m. on my third journey and the calm has gone away, I’m sad to report. A rowdy bunch of boys at the back of the bus is disturbing the peace. I might have to raise my voice again. Bummer.

I have a deep, assertive voice tinged with anger when I snap at kids. Sometimes it even works. But I don’t have the physical stature or title to match the voice. Moreover, I dislike policing behavior. I’ll do it, but it’s not my favorite part of the job.

I scolded the kid in the seat in front of me. He talked back to Bella, a bright student who actually gives a bleep, after she told him to stop tossing around random school supplies across the aisle and better represent the FFA. The middle schooler attempted a second round of chiriping, which I shut down.

“Shut your mouth and listen to Bella!” I snapped. That did the trick.

Five minutes later, I got the kid’s name, Duncan, and we had a good conversation. I spoke with kind assurance that I didn’t necessarily hate him. The kid had a Slushy machine stand with his dad at the Farmer’s Market in downtown Fond du Lac over the summer. I told Duncan I was from Fond du Lac, and he sounded like a regular entrepreneur with that Slushy stand at the Farmer’s Market.

It’s 10:12. At some point, we got off the bus. Cow manure, everywhere. The manure is the worst in the parking lot. I’m with a small group of kids, some of whom I just met. We’ve got second row seats to look at the cows. The air-conditioning feels nice. I don’t like this experience. The Best Utters Award just went to Miss Reagan E.T. You know what? That’s actually pretty great.

The announcer is an incredibly fluid speaker. He might also be a judge. He’s a master on the mic and very knowledgeable, but I just don’t care about his expertise.

I had to stop writing in my notebook at that point. I didn’t get a chance to write again the rest of the school day, either because I had to do my job, or because I didn’t have the physical space needed to write anything on the crowded bus ride home. I had to become a version of a wandering adult leader and retire my pen.

I do recall the gist of the second half of the field trip. Just when I was really starting to savor the cow name Miss Reagan E.T., a high-school boy pointed out that what we were watching was boring.

“Boring?” I said. “Well, that’s your opinion, Kado. Do the rest of you guys feel that way?”

The 5 Ripon boys in my row turned and nodded, a few effusively.

“Alright, fine,” I said. “I guess it’s time to roam around.”

Kado stood up excitedly, extending his lanky frame.

“We can go to the booths and get answers for our packets!”

“Packets?” I said as Kado flailed a pair of papers stapled together. “Oh, that’s right—there are packets involved. Good call, Kado. You lead the way.”

Roaming proved to be the right choice. Our group went from one booth to another in the arena. Friendly reps from utter industry titans like Afimilk, ABS Global, and Pioneer Seeds US had quizzes prepared for the kids, along with mini versions of games like Plinco, Wheel of Fortune, and cornhole. The boys had to earn their keychains, fanny packs, and squishy cow fidgets with right answers, with little help in the field of agriculture from yours truly. The candy was a free enticement at most of the booths, so the boys loaded up on bags of Skittles and mini Crunch Bars.

I didn’t learn much about cattle and how to milk them and I still can’t hear the word “cropdusting” without giggling about farts, but I did remember the names of the boys—Theo, Kado, AJ, Hatcher, and Clay—and we even struck up a wisecracking rapport. Maybe I still do maintain that nutrients enrich the soil in a process known as sorcery, but my stewardship at the World Dairy Expo part 3 was at least passable.

At noon, everyone from Ripon High School reconvened at a hard-to-miss landmark outside the arena. The head-count Mr. Billips did was fast and true. Then he got out his camera-phone and beckoned the kids to pose beside the giant, rotating globe near the picnic tables.

With the picture taken, we returned to the bus, with me reminding the kids to watch out for all the cow crap in the Godforsaken parking lot. Before we got back to Ripon, we were taking a detour to the Culver’s in Beaver Dam.

Mr. Billips has a few traditions in his class. Shortly after the bell rings, he reads a joke from a book of soul-crushingly bad dad jokes. He concludes most classes by quoting Mr. Rogers, of Neighborhood fame, by telling the students, “Please remember that you’re important to me, and I love you just the way you are.” Mr. B. is also known to ask the kids to share their “Roses and Thorns,” meaning the good and bad things they’ve experienced as of late. For instance, Bella might give to the University of Steven’s Point for accepting her application. Or Trey might give a thorn to Damon for making him gag on a silent-but-deadly release of gas in Advisory.

The next day in Mr. B.’s class, I was to give a thorn to the bus ride back to school, with students nodding in agreement. If you recall the prediction I made to the kid who had no reply in the morning, I had bet that the worst part of the day was over. It wasn’t. The low point, fittingly, was on the floor.

As our group packed back into the bus, somehow every poor soul had even less personal space. In a twist of cognitive dissonance, it seemed like somehow the bus had fewer seats, and we had more students with wider butts. Did Miss Frizzle herself cast a magic spell on our oblong mode transportation, to teach us a lesson about the inverse relationship between density of bodies and comfort? Nope! Our bus driver was a bald eagle of a man with a mustache who simmered with rage and shouted at children with the vitriol of someone scalded with acid.

The bus driver had a great amount of anger for the teen who reached his hand out the window, and no sympathy for our body-mass-to-furniture ratio. Four kids had no choice but to sit on the floor at this point. I was sharing a seat with 2 students. My left butt cheek was the lucky one, whereas my right cheek was hovering twitchingly over the aisle. I felt the pain of a 43-year-old baseball catcher who was never allowed to stand. This unsupported crouch became a pain in the obvious as well as my hamstring muscles several minutes before the bus rolled mercifully into the Culver’s parking lot.

I was as cranky as our bus driver when we disembarked. Seeking some kind of an oasis from the hurt, I quickly hobbled to the front of the restaurant to make sure this Culver’s had a front patio. Adirondack chairs with marble tables and umbrellas greeted me on that warm September afternoon. I had found hope, because I sensed I could be alone and quiet and restored by sunshine, away from too many people and too much noise for a short time.

I speed-hobbled to the side entrance, where the long line of field trippers reached its end outside the glass doors of the restaurant. A junior with a mop of curly hair and a penchant for snark let out one of his reverberating belches.

“Excuse you, Mr. O.,” he said with that snark I just told you about.

I no-sold it.

“Kyler, look, I need to chill by myself on the patio. If anyone is looking for me, tell them that.”

Just as I turned to walk away, I saw Kyler nodding at me in a moment of somber understanding.

“Yeah, I got you, Mr. O,” Kyler said.

Suddenly I was proud of this belching teen as I retreated to my concrete sanctuary. I treated my frustration to fresh air, relative quiet, and the absence of people. My battery did not fully recharge, but I felt like I had restored enough to make it home.

Eventually and before it was too late, I went inside and ordered cheese curds and an Orange Crush at the counter. In a restaurant packed with our field trippers, plus a number of patrons who were not expecting to co-mingle at the ketchup pump with three-dozen teenagers, I sat at a small table with a few coworkers and students from Special Ed.

Mrs. Yarborough sensed I’d been bothered.

“You OK, Nick?” she asked.

I told her about the bus ride, then shrugged, and finished with a statement both cliched and true.

“This too shall pass,” I said.

I was the lone soul from the Special Ed. group who rode on the overcrowded bus. The others rode on the undercrowded bus. Early that morning when we were boarding, Mr. Billips had wondered out loud over the tedious revving of the engine if we should unload a handful of our crew onto the other bus. This act of balance made sense to me, but for unknown reasons, we proceeded with imbalance. One bus was a claustrophobic’s nightmare. The other had a number of empty seats.

On the last leg of the journey, from the Culver’s in Beaver Dam to Ripon High School, we felt the clutches tighten on the claustrophobic’s nightmare.

With too many bodies, not enough seats, and perhaps even less willingness to share that precious leather, 5 or 6 students sat in the aisle, curled up in cannonball poses, gripping their knees. The bald eagle-man behind the wheel glowered in his rearview mirror. That bus driver was all scorn, no sympathy.

In solidarity with Bella, I joined her and the other outcasts on the floor. I suppose that means the aisle was clotted with a number of people that was either 6 or 7. Dammit, I hate that cosmic joke.

I spent about 40 minutes curled up with my knees just below my chin on the floor of that magic-less school bus. This brand of discomfort was easier on my hamstrings, worse on my back. I bonded a bit with Bella and a few other sardines.

“Oof, my foot wants to fall asleep,” I said. With great strain, I shifted my body weight. “No way, Lefty. If I gotta be conscious for this pain, then so do you!”

Bella flashed her pearly-white smile.

“Well, at least you don’t have to go to work right after school,” she said. “I’ll be limping around the farm like a buck with an arrow in the thigh.”

“You work on a farm?” I asked.

“A deer farm,” she said. “Rush Canyon Ranch.”

“Y’all got any 30-Point Bucks?”

“More than 30!” Bella said. “We have a 46-point buck!”

“I just said ‘30-Point Buck’ because of this old song from the ‘90s. By Da Yoopers…”

“Yeah, we know about ‘Da Tirty Point Buck,’ Mr. O!” Bella said with a laugh.

As proof, a few sardines nearby joined in the chorus of Da Yoopers’ greatest hit, singing, “Did ya see da tirty pointer/ Did ya see da tirty pointer?”

The chorus was disrupted by the wheelman, who was livid.

“DON’T REACH YOUR HAND OUT THE WINDOW!!” he snapped, turning his scowl momentarily to someone at the back of the bus.

His outburst made us all quiet and uneasy for a minute. I thought about how my dad very rarely shouted like that, but the odds were, some of the students weren’t as lucky, and we’d heard the shout of our fuming wheelman a handful of times. His rage was tiresome, at best.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the culprit who kept teasing his forearm out the window was White Sweatshirt kid. I’d shouted at him too, and I expect many future shouts to come his way.

We entered the city limits of Ripon with my sense of humor running on fumes. Our transport rolled into the parking lot with me contemplating how loud I’d be groaning when I was finally free to stand up. I stepped off that bus wincing and limping, going straight to where I had parked my car.

I slipped into the driver’s seat and snagged a fresh T-shirt from a hanger on the passenger’s side. It was my white Nirvana shirt with a red collar. A rainbow arch shaped the top half of a smiley face with a red tongue and red X’s for dead eyes. It was 2:50 pm on the Tuesday of Homecoming week. We had only 15 minutes before the final bell, but it mattered to me to be a part of Band Shirt Day.

On my walk from the west entrance to my home base in Special Ed., I got 2 compliments about the shirt. Imagine what I could’ve achieved without the World Dairy Expo.

Our group was winding down by watching a show on the Smartboard. Quite honestly, it was The Magic School Bus. Mr. Lucas, Mrs. Yarborough and I traded bus stories. Their ride was a bit bumpy. I won at storytelling at the end of the day.

The final bell sounded. I had to have a word with Mr. Billips at the other end of the school.

I saw him chatting with a fellow science teacher, seated on cushy lounge chairs outside of Biology.

“Hello, Mr. O,” Mr. Billips said.

“Hey, Mr. B.,” I said. “You gotta try harder than that to get me to quit.”

I don’t think this playful jab landed the way I thought it would. I’ve been told I can be passive-aggressive when I fail at humor. I knelt down to be closer to eye-level with the seated science guys.

“Look, that was way too crowded,” I continued. “The ratio of kids to seats was not good. I’m not taking this up with city hall or anything, but can we do better next time?”

“Well, it was a little crowded…”

“A little?” I cut in. “Shawn, I had to sit on the floor. I wasn’t the only one.”

The other teacher peered through his glasses, back and forth between Mr. B and I, staying impartial with his arms crossed.

“It was an experience you’ll never forget, right?”

“Yes. And we’ve got to learn from it. It’s both."

“Well, we might not have an extra 500 bucks lying around to rent another bus for the day.”

“It’s got to be safe, Shawn,” I said. “I don’t know the specifics, but it’s got to be safer than that.”

He turned his head, scratched his head, and paused.

“We’ll see,” he said.

He looked back at me with a wry smile.

“So, do you think you’ll be joining us again next year?”

I returned his wry brand of smile.

“Two words, man,” I said. “Personal Day.”

Snet Pot (Read It Backwards Like Redrum)

 

When I Say Top, You Say 10

 

Tens Comma Top

 

1/6/21

I posted this on January 6th, 2021. I stand by it. He didn't get impeached. He got elected a second time. He's a 34-time convicted felon. Now, compared to 5 years ago, more evidence exists that shows he's a rapist and a pedophile. His lies are countless. It doesn't matter. Americans still picked him to be our president a second time. I have family members who have bought his merchandise. I like to think we were raised right... It's all so embarrassing and hopeless, trying to get through to those people about him and what he stands for.  

The last few sentences of Stephen King's apocalyptic novel The Stand are haunting. I'll paraphrase...

"Do people learn?" 

...

"I don't know. I just, don't know." 

It was an open-ended question for me until I saw the American people give him power again. This time, with a revenge complex, and a determination to surround himself exclusively with ass-kissers and enablers. 

And now, my answer is no. 

Cheering for Losers

When it occurred to me that I liked basketball, it wasn’t because of stars like Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, or the dueling dynasties of the Lakers and Celtics. It wasn’t because of the soaring icon in the Windy City, either. At age 7, my fandom began with the Detroit Pistons, mostly because they had cool T-shirts.

The Pistons defeated the Blazers in five games to win their second straight title on June 14th, 1990. The Finals clincher was a 92-90 nailbiter. Portland had the lead much of the game, but Vinnie “The Microwave” Johnson came off Detroit’s bench and–as his name suggests– he quickly got hot. The backup guard netted every point in a crucial 9-0 scoring run in the 4th quarter, and despite smothering defense by the Blazers’ Jerome Kersey, the Microwave swished a jumper to give Detroit a two-point lead with less than a second on the clock. 

The Pistons celebrated with the Larry O’Brien Trophy. They elated in the locker room and dowsed each other with champagne. The Microwave was an unlikely hero. I toasted the champs with an A&W root beer float in my PJs, thinking I was a straight up mac daddy for putting my faith in the winning team. 

Knowing what I know now, I would have poured a second cup, scooped another ball of ice cream. I would’ve shot more balled-up socks into the round laundry basket as I counted the seconds down to one in honor of The Microwave. 

I would’ve begged my mom and dad a little more for that Bad Boys T-shirt. I wanted to rep the oversized cartoon heads and ripped muscles of Thomas, Dumars, Rodman, and Microwave in my wardrobe, and I should’ve been more vocal about that. 

The Pistons were dubbed the Bad Boys because of their bruising defense and adversarial style of play. They didn’t mind being disliked because they weren’t the Lakers, Celtics, or surging Bulls; in fact, they thrived on that dislike. The Pistons were the defiant, contrarian team. They were rude and downright hostile to the stars of the opposition. Their brand of hoops had less in common with finesse than it did with a crime scene. But they could also torch you with outside shooting. Isaiah Thomas was ahead of his time binging three-pointers in big games. If you were in a different jersey, they did whatever it took to step on your throat. 

But when you’re known for stepping on throats, that’s sure to piss people off. And some of those folks will swear revenge. In fact, the Pistons pissed off probably the most talented and driven athlete in the world. His name was Michael Jordan, and he wanted revenge.

 

            1991– Bulls over Lakers: This is where my losing streak began. Here I got into the nasty habit of cheering against the best player on the court. Heck, I was also damn opposed to the best duo on the court, more often than not. Personal taste aside, that’s no way to cheer for winners.

The Bulls swept my Bad Boys in the Eastern Conference Finals. Isaiah and the Boys were sore losers too. Instead of shaking hands with the victorious Bulls in the customary show of sportsmanship, the sullen Pistons walked back to the locker room before time expired on the clock. (It’s safe to say that Jordan took that personally.) We won’t hear from Detroit for a while.

The Lakers took a game one thriller in Chicago to give me false hope. I wanted to see Magic Johnson win another title. Air Jordan was the most prolific scorer in the Milky Way Galaxy, but he was a bit of a ballhog. I’ve always preferred the players who show more versatility in the stats. If Jordan led all scorers with, say, 42 points, I was someone who pointed out, “Yeah, but he only had 2 assists and 4 rebounds. Magic had another triple-double.”

My argument was that a player with an unselfish, all-around game benefits his team more than a ballhog does. This stance sounds good in theory, but in reality, Michael Jordan was much better than any of my piddling theories. He was a bit of a ballhog, but he was also the greatest player in a decade loaded with basketball talent. Both statements are true.

Speaking of elite ’90s roundballers, small forward Scottie Pippen was a 7-time All-Star, 10-time selection to the All-Defensive Team, and a two-time Olympic gold medalist. The Hall of Famer would’ve been the alpha on most NBA squads. On the Bulls, he was an astonishing sidekick to Jordan.

So, what happened after the Lake Show topped Chicago 93-91 in game 1 of the Finals? Well, the Bulls won 4 in a row to clinch it. Jordan was the leading scorer in games 2, 3 and 4, then Pippen scored 32 points to Jordan’s 30 in game 5 to stick a dagger in the heart of the Showtime dynasty. There was no Hollywood ending for James Worthy, “Big Smooth” Sam Perkins, “Lord” Byron Scott, and Magic.

As for the Bulls, they were just getting started. And so was my losing streak.

1992– Bulls over Blazers: The Blazers returned to the Finals, and this time, I was on their side. Clyde “The Glide” Drexler and Terry Porter composed my favorite backcourt tandem, and Buck Williams was out there wrecking rims in cool, big-ass goggles. Portland finished with a record of 57-25. The problem was, MJ and Pippen were solidly in their prime. Actually, there was more than one problem. Jordan had arguably his strongest season. The Bulls finished with a superior 67-15 record. Plus, Chicago had complementary players like power forward Horace Grant and guards BJ Armstrong and John Paxson.

I watched one of these games at my friend Willy’s house. We cheered for Portland. A year or 2 later, NBA Jam was released on home consoles and our go-to duo was Clyde the Glide and Terry P. Michael Jordan wasn’t in NBA Jam. His name and likeness were so valuable that he opted out of the Players Association’s licensing deal. Gaming companies like Midway and Acclaim had to negotiate with him personally, and Jordan’s price was too steep. Including Jordan in NBA Jam would’ve been so expensive that the popular game would’ve struggled to make a profit.

He was absent from NBA Jam, but MJ sure as hell made an appearance in game 1 of the ‘92 Finals. The man drilled six 3-pointers in the first half, gave TV nation a photogenic shrug in celebration, and led the Bulls in scoring en route to a blowout win. Portland at least made it interesting with wins in games 2 and 4, but Chicago was a machine. The Bulls repeated as champions as I sulked in back-to-back fashion.

    1993– Bulls over Suns: When Charles Barkley got traded to Phoenix in the summer of ’92, I put my faith in the Suns as the team that would put an end to the Bulls’ title reign. I was sick of Air Jordan and Pip winning everything. Have I mentioned that Phil Jackson was their coach? I wasn’t a fan of Coach Phil, either. They all seemed too perfect and ultra-confident to be real. As the losing streak shows, I suppose, I’ve always been more drawn to flaws.

Sir Charles was a malcontent in Philadelphia, and finally the 76ers traded the All-Star forward to a Suns squad that had a sick backcourt of Kevin Johnson and “Thunder” Dan Majerle. The Suns went scorched Earth on the Western Conference. They won 14 straight games in December. On my 10th birthday in March, a friend gave me a Barkley jersey after we had pizza at Shakey’s. When the playoffs arrived in early May, the Suns had finished with a 62-20 record. They had the NBA’s best record, in fact—even better than the Bulls’ mark of 57-25. Did I mention Cedric Ceballos was pretty cool too? Dude could jump out of the gym.

Anyway, Chicago still had its stellar core of Air Jordan, Pip, Horace and BJ. But 57 wins was slightly underwhelming by their high standards, and the public was finding out that MJ had a serious gambling problem. Barkley was named the league MVP, averaging 25.6 points, 12 rebounds and 5 assists a game. The Suns had a deep bench with capable white guys Tom Chambers and Danny Ainge. I liked my chances of cheering for a winner this time.

Only, you guessed it, the Suns fell to the Bulls in 6 games. Air Jordan earned Finals MVP. He boasted 41 points per game to go along with 8.5 boards and—as if he took offense to me calling his game selfish–he actually passed the ball with an average of 6.3 assists.

With this latest triumph, the Bulls won the title—in the words of Manager Monty Burns—not once, not twice, but thrice. MJ had as many rings as his frenemy Larry Bird, and one more ring than his nemesis Isaiah Thomas. The Bulls had surpassed the mere repeat of the Pistons that preceded them with a threepeat.

All of these achievements are legit, but kid me still could have sniped at Air Jordan by referencing The Simpsons again: “Oh yeah, MJ? Well, youuuu have a gambling problem!”

1994– Rockets over Knicks: They were the unquestioned rulers of the NBA, but storm clouds were forming around Chicago, and Jordan was the main reason. His greatness notwithstanding, we began to see signs of a rich, powerful, famous, charming man overdoing it. To be kind, MJ was burning the candle at both ends, under a lot of pressure to perform. He just needed a mental health break in an era where men rarely put it in those words. To be critical, he was a gambling addict, running up debts, drama, and distractions.

Tragedy was a factor too. Jordan’s father James was gunned down in a carjacking on July 23rd, 1993, just a month after seeing his son win a third title. It was a senseless, heinous act of violence. An embattled MJ announced his retirement from basketball in October, citing a lack of desire and the realization that he had done it all. Then, in a strange glitch in the matrix that we’ve all sort of accepted, he pursued a career in baseball but never made it to the Majors. If I’m being sarcastic, this is the last we’ll hear from Michael Jordan in this story.

The day Jordan retired, I was thrilled. I shot hoops in the Olig family driveway on a sunny late afternoon in the fall, daydreaming about watching a Knicks/ Suns Finals. I’d be happy to see either team win it all.

Fast forward several months, and my preseason prediction turned out to be half–right. The Knicks were tired of being a punching bag for the Bulls, and with the biggest bully on the block busy batting .203 for the Birmingham freaking Barons, Patrick Ewing and the crew finally got a measure of revenge by eliminating the Jordanless Bulls in the postseason.

That’s enough MJ mentions. We need to talk about a new character who fostered my losing streak. Hakeem Olajuwon was the leader of the Houston Rockets. Nicknamed the Dream, Olajuwon was a dominant center who was named the league MVP in 1994. The Nigerian-born Dream was powerful but quick, fundamentally sound, a virtuoso on offense and defense, and by all accounts, a humble star of Muslim faith. He was hard to dislike, but somehow I found a way. 

The Knicks were my team in the East because Ewing and Starks was my go-to NBA Jam duo when I played alone. Plus, their uniforms were blue, my favorite color—and you can’t spell “Knickerbockers” without my name. The Rockets stood in the way of ending my losing streak at 3.

The series went the full 7 games, but that was overshadowed by the breaking news that kept interrupting game 5. Hall of Fame running back turned broadcaster/ Nordberg in The Naked Gun/ all-around rascal OJ Simpson. The Juice was being charged for the murder of his ex-wife and her friend, and with his former teammate Al Cowlings behind the wheel of a white Ford Bronco, OJ fled from the law. We’d see Robert Horry chase down a fast-breaking Anthony Mason and foul him hard to send him to the line, followed by an update from anchor Tom Brokaw.

“Reports abound that OJ now has a gun pressed to his own head, and he’s telling police he wants to see his mother.”

    It was a stranger-than-fiction fever dream. The Knicks prevailed in game 5, but went on to drop the next 2. The Knicks have never won the title in my lifetime and at some point in time I changed my fandom to the Milwaukee Bucks. The Rockets lifted the Larry O’Brien Trophy as my bad mojo outlasted the Bulls’ threepeat.

    1995- Rockets over Magic: The Rockets returned to the Finals, so let me tell you about Houston’s supporting cast around Olajuwon. They had a solid backcourt of Vernon “Mad Max” Maxwell and Kenny “The Jet” Smith; both were capable three-point shooters. Forward Robert Horry would chip in with about 10 points a game, and they had depth with guards like upstart Sam Cassell and veteran Mario Elie. 

    Midway through the season, Houston traded for Clyde Drexler, whom you may recall from the ’92 Finals. Surprisingly, the team failed to hit its stride despite the production of The Dream and The Glide. They made the playoffs as the 6th seed. In the postseason, though, they reignited. Houston upset Utah, Phoenix and San Antonio to win the West. In the Finals, they met the Orlando Magic.

Shaquile O’Neal was a phenom. At 23, in just his third season, he averaged almost 30 points a game and took second in MVP voting. Shaq was also a charismatic showman who rapped and appeared in movies, commercials, and his own outlandish fighting fame called Shaq Fu.

Shaq was joined by fellow 23-year-old dynamo Anferne “Penny” Hardaway. Penny was named to the All-NBA team in his second season. Before Shaq with Kobe in LA, his partnership with Penny had the ingredients for greatness. Aided by sharpshooters Nick Anderson and Dennis “3D” Scott, the Magic had the talent to put together a dynasty. But we don’t live in that timeline.

I share a March 6th birthday with Shaq and a first name with guard Nick Anderson. The latter gave Nicks everywhere a bad name when he shockingly missed 4 straight free throws very late in the 4th quarter. Kenny Smith drilled a 3 to send it to overtime, where the Rockets prevailed by 2 points tipped in by the Dream with less than half a second on the clock. Ouch.

The Magic fizzled. The team didn’t overcome that meltdown. Orlando got swept. I was 0 for my last 5 as an NBA fan.'

Now, I didn’t mention this, but Michael Jordan had returned in March of 1995. He sent out a fax that read: “I’m back.” The catch was, he was a little rusty, and weirdly wearing #45 instead of #23. The Magic actually beat the Bulls in the Eastern Conference semifinals, lest you sneeze at my claim that the Magic had dynastic potential.

In ’96, Jordan was 100% rededicated to basketball. He changed his number back to 23. Gulp.

1996– Bulls over Sonics: The legend came back. I booed, but it didn’t matter. Let’s talk about Michael Jordan, the Bulls, their return to the top, and my bitterness.

Scottie Pippen was still in Chicago, and he hadn’t even come close to losing a step. Aside from Pip, the roster was a lot different. Still loaded, but a lot different.

Journeyman Ron Harper found his niche with the Bulls, running point and playing stifling defense. Six-foot-ten Toni Kukoc was dubbed the Croatian Sensation. He was a big man who could shoot and pass. Kukoc was named the league’s 6th Man of the Year in ’96. Steve Kerr was a masterful outside shooter. But Chicago’s biggest add was probably the weirdo who rarely scored a bucket, the hard-partying eccentric who made a huge impact on every game despite rarely handling the basketball: Dennis Rodman.

Nicknamed The Worm, Rodman led the league in rebounds per game 7 seasons in a row, from 1991-1998. The power forward was also an elite defender. This version of the Bulls had impeccable defense and the NBA’s #1 scoring threat. The ’96 Bulls won 72 games to just 10 losses. So, which bunch of losers did I pick to win this time? (Rechecks notes.) Why, the Seattle Supersonics, that’s who.

Gary Payton and Shawn Kemp gave Seattle a tandem that almost rivaled MJ and Pip. Dubbed the Glove and the Reign Man, the Sonics’ duo had the advantage of youth if not experience. Their highlight reel was unmatched, anyway. SportsCenter was packed with clips of a nifty steal by the Glove, an ankle-breaking crossover in transition, and an alley oop lob to the Reign Man for a thunderous dunk.

What’s more, Seattle’s supporting cast was almost on par with Chicago’s. Small forward Detlef Schrempf was a low key All-Star, guard Hersey Hawkins could shoot the lights out, and Sam “Big Smooth” Perkins was a candidate for 6th Man of the Year. The Sonics finished with a record of 64-18, a mark that was second only to the Bulls that season, and the team swept the Rockets and ousted the Jazz en route to the Finals. They had swagger, reason to believe, and everything to prove against the Bulls.

Chicago won games 1, 2, and 3. Seattle didn’t get off to a great start, middle, or near-ending. The Sonics did battle back to avoid the sweep in game 4. They continued to fight off elimination on their home court with a game 5 win. In game 6 in Chicago, though, they met the inevitable. Chicago 87, Seattle 75 to clinch it. The Bulls won their fourth title in six years, but it wasn’t like they were about to three-peat a second time… Right?

1997- Bulls over Jazz: My temporary cheering for the Jazz was forced. At this point in the losing streak, I was all in when it came to rooting hopelessly against the un-beat-a-Bulls. Sure, I respected the pick-and-roll game of the legendary pair of John Stockton and Karl Malone. I may have even experimented with them in NBA Jam. But I didn’t match the vibes of the Jazz. I was an alternative rock kid. 

Stockton led the league in assists 8 straight seasons and I loved that about his game, but the man had the personality of a cedar scented candle. I was used to delighting in charisma—in the form of Barkley, Shaq, Penny, Glove and Reignman—before the inevitable defeat. Stockton couldn’t even dunk, bless his heart. And as for Karl Malone, the Mailman had the vibe of a surly hunter/ fisherman, best-case observation. To be unkind, he was a corny bumpkin who pretentiously said sentences like, “Karl Malone is gonna do what’s best for Karl Malone.” Then he’d mean mug the camera and spit tobacco into a Gatorade cup.

Stockton and Malone were nearing their mid-30s, and so was Utah’s third option, shooting guard Jeff Hornacek. The Jazz didn’t even have the youth advantage over the battle-tested Bulls. Chicago protected home court to go up 2-0 in the series. Utah put up a fight with 2 wins in Salt Lake City, but then the Jazz dropped a pivotal game 5 at home. MJ famously had the flu in this contest. The night before the game, it’s rumored that the pizza delivered to MJ’s hotel room had been laced to give food poisoning to the Jazz nemesis. Jordan was ravaged by vomiting, diarrhea, and a fever leading up to tipoff. The legend overcame the illness, of course, and dropped 38 points to spite the Jazz, the state of Utah, and their wicked pizza parlors. 

The Bulls prevailed in game 6 at home to win their 5th title of the decade. They treated their fans to a rowdy celebration at the United Center. I’d seen this movie before, and I was to see it once more. 

1998– Bulls over Jazz: If you like repetition with no surprises whatsoever, this NBA Finals was for you. Both rosters were 99% identical to what they were in the previous Finals. The Bulls won the series in 6 games–-again. Chicago completed their second three-peat in 8 years. My losing streak climbed to 8. Air Jordan added to his legacy with another hero moment—but he was a heel to me, never a babyface. 

That wrestling lingo leads me to a tangent about the WCW pay-per-view event Bash at the Beach ‘98. Not long after the Finals, Karl Malone of the Jazz and Dennis Rodman of the Bulls entered a wrestling storyline. In the feud, Malone teamed with babyface Diamond Dallas Page, while Dennis “Rod the Bod” aka “Rodzilla” Rodman paired with the heelish Hollywood Hulk Hogan. The feud culminated in the main event of the July pay-per-view, which saw the cheating baddies come out on top in a high-profile yet hard-to-watch 24-minute spectacle.

Even in this scripted, predetermined, cash-grabbing format, I was enough of a sucker to cheer, however lukewarmly, for the Mailman. He was paired with my favorite wrestler at the time, DDP, master of the Diamond Cutter. And Malone did the job and put the other guys over again. I wanted to see him pinned for good after a Scorpion Death Drop at that point, but Malone was not to lose his retirement match for another 6 years. 

1999– Spurs over Knicks: The landscape of the NBA was drastically different in this lockdown-shortened season. Air Jordan retired a second time. Pippen wanted out, too. He was traded to the Rockets, who paid him handsomely. The Bulls cashed out with 6 titles. A quarter–century later, you could say they’re still rebuilding. 

With a juggernaut gone, star players aging close to retirement, and other stars still too raw and unpolished, the league had found itself in a power vacuum. The ongoing labor dispute between the owners and the players union caused further consternation. When an agreement was reached in the winter, the season was reduced to 50 games and fans grew discontent. 

In this nonsensical, wide-open season in which even I had to wonder if the NBA needed Jordan to thrive, three teams tied for the best record in the East: Miami, Orlando, and Indiana. None of these 33-17 teams made it to the Finals. Orlando got bounced in the first round by Philly and their blossoming phenom Allen Iverson. One-seeded Miami was upset by the 8th seed, who went on to knock out Atlanta and Indiana en route to the Finals, because nothing made sense in the East without MJ. 

That eighth-seeded squad was a familiar sentimental-fave of mine: the New York Knicks. My man John Starks was gone, but I sure liked the backcourt of smooth-shooting Allan Houston and Heisman winner/ pass-happy point guard Charlie Ward. Larry “Grand-ma-ma” Johnson added 12 points per game at power forward, and when he was healthy, aging center Patrick Ewing was still leading the team in scoring. 

These Knicks also made a few clever moves after the lockout had been resolved. They traded for Marcus Camby–a young, athletic, lanky big man. Also notably, and more controversially, the Knicks acquired troubled but electric Latrell Sprewell from the Warriors. When I say “troubled,” that’s code for “he choked and punched his coach and got suspended for most of the 1997 season. But I was sorta partial to the Knicks, as I said, so I was open to a redemption arc that saw Spree inject new life into the Big Apple’s scoring attack.

The West was repped by San Antonio. The Spurs took a more conventional path to the Finals as the #1 seed. Already we can see a flaw in my plan to cheer for the eighth seeded team with a 27-23 record instead of the heavily favored team that went 37-13 in the regular season. The Bulls were out of the title picture, but that didn’t stop me from cheering for the underdogs.

     As for the over-dogs, San Antonio was led by a potent pair of big men—veteran All-Star David “The Admiral” Robinson and Tim “The Big Fundamental” Duncan, who had already emerged as an elite player in just his second NBA season. Both are Hall of Famers. The supporting cast featured Sean Elliott as a capable third option, well-tenured snipers and multiple ring-holders Mario Elie and Steve Kerr, and the undersized yet feisty Avery Johnson running point.

     The Spurs won the series in five games. This one was an underwhelming blur. Young Duncan was exceptional and deserving of Finals MVP honors. The Knicks let me down again as my losing skid extended to nine. This bizarre season marked a moment in time when the NBA was between dynasties. As you might have guessed, I was not a fan of the upcoming dynasty.

    If I had to find a positive at this stage of the skid, I guess I’m glad Latrell Sprewell didn’t choke anyone in the Finals. That’s a nice silver lining. Way to control yourself, man.

     2000- Lakers over Pacers: Nicknamed the Zen Master because his leadership was flavored with meditation, mindfulness and yoga, Phil Jackson left the Bulls after the Last Dance of ’98. Jackson took a year off, then landed on his feet by signing to be the Head Coach of the Los Angeles Lakers. Instead of Jordan and Pip, Jackson inherited the duo of Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant. I didn’t know this at the time, but those 4 legends would combine to win a total of 21 titles. Coach Jackson ended up with 10 rings. Safe to say, LA was set up for success. And I didn’t like it one bit.

I smelled an emerging juggernaut, one that would be coddled by the masses, ambushed by bandwagon jumpers with loose morals, and it made my stomach turn. Heck, at the risk of further spoilers, my tummy would end up doing three full revolutions because of the damn Lakers.

Entering his 4th season in the pros, Kobe “Black Mamba” Bryant was becoming the heir apparent to Air Jordan. Comparisons to Michael abounded for the 21-year-old shooting guard. Both had maximum talent and work ethic. They were obsessively driven competitors who could explode to the rim, create their own shots and score an abundance of buckets from anywhere on the court. As for Shaq, Mr. Fu was named the league’s Most Valuable Player. He averaged a robust 29.7 points and 13.6 rebounds and 3 blocks a game. Like that team from the Windy City, Coach Phil had a foundation of 2 of the top 10 players in the league. The feeling of deja vu for me didn’t end there.

Guard Ron Harper joined his former coach in LA. Not a player with a similar game; I mean the exact same guy—Ron freaking Harper. He reunited with Zen Master to run point and play smothering defense. Harper was 36, so he split minutes with the younger Derek Fisher. Fish would go down as a good-not-great player from the supporting cast of NBA champions. Like the Bulls, the Lakers had plenty of those guys, such as Rick Fox, Robert Horry, and AC Green.

Finally, the Lakers had Glen Rice, a legit 3-time All-Star forward who could rip three-pointers. Rice was on the wrong side of 30 and he wanted a ring. Who stood in the way of Rice and his teammates in the 2000 Finals?

The Indiana Pacers, that’s who. Led by Reggie Miller, the most stone-cold long-distance shooter in league history until Steph Curry showed up, the Pacers finished with a 56-26 record, good for the first seed in the East. Jalen Rose balled out too; the small forward out of Michigan averaged about 18 points, 5 rebounds and 4 assists per game. Power forward Dale Davis made his sole appearance in an All-Star game, scoring and rebounding in double figures on a regular basis. Even Rik Smits wanted to give me false hope; the aging 7-foot-4 center was still good for like 13 points a night.

I vibed with this team from Indiana more so than I did with the Utah Jazz, but less than I did with the prior season’s Knicks, who were a pretty fluky squad to make the Finals. So I was rooting for the Pacers to shock the world, but I was no longer a kid who believed in Santa Claus, pro wrestling, or anyone on the Pacers having a chance in hell of stopping Shaq.

The Lakers won the title in six games. Shaq scored the most points in every game except for game 3, when he tied with Miller’s total of 33. Shaq “The Diesel” Fu was named the Finals MVP. I was begrudgingly somewhat happy that my birthday buddy had won a title, but I wished he had stayed in Orlando to win it alongside Penny. Accepting a golden Hummer stuffed with cash from the Lakers seemed like a sellout move to a kid who dabbled in punk rock. I had my principles, I suppose, as well as a losing streak that had reached 10.

2001- Lakers over 76ers: The Lakers returned to the Finals, obviously, and much of their roster was the same, with a few exceptions. Glen Rice was dealt to the Knicks. Coach Phil reunited with Horace Grant, another role player with three rings from their time together in Chicago.

Those were minor changes, though. The bottom line was that Shaq and Kobe were still dominant; in fact, Kobe was notably improving. Mamba’s points per game climbed from 22.5 the year prior to 28.5 in 2001.

LA faced Philadelphia in the Finals. The series coincided with my graduation from high school. The boy who had toasted the Pistons with a root beer float was now a man, I guess you could say. My June b-ball slide lasted a decade of my childhood. Why would I hope for success against Shaq, Mamba, and Zen Master?

My hope was personified by Allen Iverson. Standing at six-foot-one, The Answer was brash, tough-as-nails, and defiant—just like one of the Bad Boys from my youth. Iverson was undersized, but he’d throw hands against a charging rhino. 2001 was probably the pinnacle of his Hall of Fame career. The Answer led the NBA in point per game (31.1) as well as steals, and won the MVP award in a league where 165-pounders almost never do that.

My hope was mitigated by The Answer’s supporting cast. With names like Eric Snow and George Lynch getting a lot of minutes, Philly had perhaps the weakest roster of the losers in my losing streak. The 76ers acquired All-Star center Dikembe Mutombo at the trade deadline, but he was 35 and past his prime. He was still a very good rim protector, but Shaq was an absolute monster to guard in the Finals.

In game 1 at the Staples Center, Shaq obliterated the Sixers frontcourt as he slammed home 44 points. Incredibly, he was outscored by Iverson, who dropped 48 points on LA. He added 6 assists, 5 steals and 5 rebounds in the winning effort. Philly stole game 1 in LA with a 107-101 stunner.

So what happened after the Sixers went up one-oh in the series? They dropped 4 straight—duh. The Lakers hoisted the Larry O’Brien Trophy on Philly’s home court after a 108-96 loss in game 5.

That summer, I took a moment out of my busy schedule of drinking keg beer and going on space cruises to roll my eyes at the Lakers. Led by Coach Zen “Phil Jackson” Master and 2 transcendent talents, I was nonplussed about this impending threepeat. I get the funny feeling I’ve mentioned deja vu before.

2002- Lakers over Nets: We’re familiar with the Lakers, so let me tell you about the plucky babyfaces who replaced the Sixers as Eastern Conference champs: the New Jersey Nets.

I liked the Nets’ alpha about as much as I did Iverson. Point guard Jason Kidd had the eclectic game that I admired. Like Magic Johnson before him, he could score, rebound, and assist—Kidd was a constant threat to notch a triple-double. He had a knack for stealing the rock as well.

Compared to Iverson and his motley crew, Kidd had better players around him, too. Forwards Kenyon Martin and Keith Van Horn and shooting guard Kerry Kittles were in their athletic primes, scoring 14 or 15 points per game. Small forward Richard Jefferson added depth and finished second in Rookie of the Year voting. The Nets played with unselfish chemistry en route to a 52-30 record, the best record in the East.

Did they have a prayer in the Finals against the dreaded Lake Show? Of course not. The Nets were swept. They were defenseless against Shaq, who scored 36.3 points per game to go along with 12.3 rebounds. I let out a single, soft “boo” as the Lakers completed their threepeat. Diesel O’Neal was named Finals MVP—in the words of Coach Monty Burns—not once, not twice, but thrice!

I spoke ill about the 2001 Sixers aside from AI, but at least that team won a game against the titans of LA in the Finals. These Nets got battered by a broom-wielding Shaq without a single hope spot.

Ladies, are you attracted to dudes who cheered for the losing team in the NBA Finals at least 12 times in a row? Then I’d like to name drop a bonafide stud muffin: Me! 

2003- Spurs over Nets- I was a bit mentally and emotionally checked out by this point in the skid, but I vaguely recall seeing the Finals preview and deciding, “Hmm, not the Spurs again.” With a shrug, and a half-hearted murmur, I said, “Go Nets, I guess.” 

I was 20 years old and had just finished my sophomore year at UW-Oshkosh. My celebrity crushes had gone from Tiffany Amber-Thiessen to Teri Hatcher to Alecia Silverstone to Elizabeth Hurley to Cameron Diaz to Kirsten Dunst. My home consoles had changed from Nintendo to Super Nintendo to Nintendo 64 to Playstation 2. I was burning daylight on my life during this skid, folks. 

The Nets roster was mostly the same. Kidd was still an elite point guard flanked by the likes of Kenyon “K-Mart” Martin, Kerry Kittles, and Richard Jefferson. Keith Van Horn was gone, but they were fine without him. Jefferson offered a younger upgrade at small forward. What the Nets needed was a low-post presence who could challenge the Spurs big men Tim Duncan and David Robinson. What they had was a committee of the halfway decent Jason Collins and an older, more injury-prone version of Dikembe Mutombo. RIP Mount Mutombo, but at 36, he wasn’t the same force on defense. 

Whereas Duncan was the reigning league MVP and in his mid-20s, Robinson was playing his farewell tour at age 37. The Admiral’s minutes and production fell, but San Antonio had a ton of talent to pick up the slack. Guards Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili were emerging stars who were just getting warmed up. Including Coach Gregg Popovich, this San Antonio squad now has five Hall of Famers. 

Bruce Bowen played suffocating defense. Malik Rose had a sneaky-good career. Stephen “Captain Jack” Jackson was good for about 12 points a game. This team was sick. They even had an aging three-point specialist named… (checks notes) Steve Kerr was still playing?! Son of a bitch!

New Jersey had a better showing than they did the previous June, winning game 2 in San Antonio by a bucket and besting the Spurs at home 77-76 in game 4. With the series tied at 2, you guessed it, the team I wanted to win dropped back-to-back games to lose the NBA Finals. 

I had gone cheering for losers 13 times in a row.  

2004- Pistons over Lakers: The streak ended! After a baker’s dozen straight unlucky defeats that could’ve happened to anyone, victory returned to the place where I last saw it: Detroit. My prolonged struggle was bookended by Pistons title winners. Go figure. 

The ghost of Jimmy Naismith finally showed me mercy. I was also gifted with an interesting storyline to complete this project. 

The Lakers had reached the summit of NBA greatness, and with that success came bloated egos. Shaq and Kobe were butting heads, as 2 alphas who strutted through the same locker room for several years may do. The pair of stars were bickering. Shaq accused Kobe of being a selfish teammate, while Kobe took shots at Shaq’s work ethic. Countless other digs went back and forth. By ‘04, not even the Zen Master could transmit healing vibes to appease the clash of egos.

LA lost supremacy in the West to San Antonio in ’03. In a daring move to return to the Finals the next season, this team bursting with talent and egos added old talent and huge egos. The Lakers signed a couple of aging legends still chasing that elusive ring: point guard Gary Payton and power forward Karl Malone. Gary Glove was 35, Mailman Malone was 40. Both were cool with riding the coattails of the younger Shaq and Kobe, but they both brought needy egos to a team chemistry that was already combustible with egos. The Lakers had followed the Bulls formula of surrounding 2 basketball unicorns with a number of good role players who damn well knew their roles… now they were deviating from that formula. 

However, this team went 56-26 in the regular season, good for the 2-seed in the West. The Lakers bested Yao Ming and the Rockets in the first round, then more impressively, they knocked out the Spurs in the conference semi-finals. Then they beat the #1 seeded Timberwolves who were led by the great Kevin Garnett. The bloated ego Lakers made it all the way to the Finals and they beat the Spurs along the way, so what the hell did I know? As I write this, Shaq, Kobe, Malone, and Payton are Hall of Famers who combined for 56 All-Star appearances. Malone and Payton were old, but they weren’t dead. They could still play basketball at a high level. So, what chance in hell did I have as I cheered against this juggernaut with a 30-ton jock strap? 

The Detroit Pistons featured one of the most idyllic starting fives of all-time. Ben Wallace played center. Big Ben was the runnerup for Defensive Player of the Year. He averaged 12.5 rebounds and 3 blocks per game, and he chipped in 9 or 10 points. 

Power forward Rasheed Wallace, unrelated to Ben, found his way to Detroit via trade in February. Leading up to the postseason run, he scored 13.7 points a contest to go along with 7 boards. 

Small forward Tayshaun Prince was known for his plastering defensive effort and high shooting-percentage. The lanky second-year starter scored about 10 points a contest. 

Shooting guard Rip Hamilton led Detroit in scoring with 17.6 PPG. He was tough, athletic, energized, and unselfish. He shared these traits with his teammates in ‘05.

Rounding out the starting five, point guard Chaucey Billups led the team in assists and three point shooting while averaging 16.9 points a game. He was nicknamed “Mr. Big Shot” because he wanted the ball in those do-or-die moments when the only way to win was to swish a buzzer beater. 

Veterans Lindsey Hunter and Corliss “Big Nasty” Williamson get a shoutout for providing depth, and because I like to say “Big Nasty.” 

Detroit was coached by the pride of Brooklyn, New York, Larry “Little General” Brown. The General had been in command of NBA squads since the mid-’70s. Before Detroit, Brown had gigs in Denver, New Jersey, San Antonio, LA, and Philly—but had never won a championship. As for Brown’s coaching counterpart, Jackson had 9 rings and zero losses in the Finals at this point in time. 

You’re damn right I wanted Phil Jackson to fail for a change. After the lulling, autopilot letdown of the prior season’s finale, I was pretty psyched for the good guys to upset the heelish divas in these Finals. Just before tip-off of game 1, I may have even gestured at Detroit’s starting 5 onscreen and demanded, “Win this one for Lil’ General!” 

Big Ben, Sheed, Tay, Rip, and Mr. Big Shot must’ve heard me from 2 time zones away on the west coast, my voice piercing through the commotion in the Staples Center the night of June 6th, 2004. Mailman Malone shot like garbage in game 1, going 2-for-9 shooting to my delight as the Pistons prevailed 87-75. Detroit put on a masterclass of team defense. 

The Lakers bounced back to take game 2. Screw this game!

Game 3 saw the Lakers wondering if they could win a pro basketball matchup by scoring only 68 points. Sorry fellas, it doesn’t work that way since they invented this doodad called the shot clock. Detroit’s D was exceptional again and the Lakers were reeling. Rip Hamilton led all scorers with 31 points. 

In game 4, it seems the Pistons felt sorry for the Lakers, so they generously allowed them to score 80 points to see what would happen. Well, Detroit still prevailed, 88-80. Shaq made a woeful four of his 11 free throws, which was poor timing for his notorious Achilles heel to flare up. Sheed and Chauncey combined for 49 points as the fans at the Palace of Auburn Hills went home happy.

On June 15th, 2004, my Finals losing streak came to an end at 13 as the Pistons bested the Lakers 100-87. All five Detroit starters scored in double figures in another showcase of glorious team basketball. Mailman Malone was too banged up to compete. Basketball Reference describes his game 5 efforts in the boxscore with the 3 words “Did Not Dress.” Gary Glove scored two lousy points in almost 31 minutes on the floor. Shaq missed 10 of his 16 free throws because that was something he never got good at. It’s a safe bet that Kobe was pissed.

But I was the opposite of pissed. How would I describe my mood? Peacefully free of piss? Hey, I don’t call myself a wordsmith for nothing.

    Thanks for letting me get these 7,000-plus words out of my head—the words about the NBA Finals, I mean. Extra thanks to the Detroit Pistons. I don’t root for you anymore, I don’t plan on cheering for you again, and stop beating my Bucks, but your teams taught me that when we persevere, no matter how long it takes, everybody can find redemption.

    Everybody but Karl Malone.