A guest post by excellent blogger and friend of the Brofamily,  Timothy Varner of 48 Minutes of Hell.

The Bulls and Celtics have given birth to one of the best series of my lifetime. It’s the best series this decade, having moved ahead of the previous co-champs, Lakers-Kings (2002) and Spurs-Mavs (2006). Taken together, they represent the NBA at its finest. They remind me that my justification for watching basketball is no different than my justification for taking in a Kandinsky. Art is art.

Sometimes the art for art’s sake stuff can be a hard pill to swallow. Yet there comes a time when the capitalists stop protesting Diego Rivera.  My time came during the 2006 Western Conference Semifinals. I’m a Spurs guy. But sometime during Game 6, all my silver and black bled out. I wanted the Spurs to win. I did. But I wanted the Spurs to win more because I wanted a Game 7 than because I wanted them to win Game 7. There is a difference. The fact of Game 7 was somehow more important to me than the result of Game 7.  All I cared about was getting one more game of the same mind-bending intensity and heroic play the first 6 had provided.  By the end of Game 7, with the Spurs battling back from 20 down behind the power that is Manu Ginobili and Tim Duncan’s epic 41 and 15, I almost didn’t care when Ginobili fouled away the series–and, we all know this to be true, a championship. I blasphemed my team at the final buzzer. I smiled. It was a series for T.S. Eliot to hate. The game ended with a bang.  I smiled because the final 2 minutes were the measure of all that came before. By the end of the series, my love for the Spurs had been swallowed up by my love for basketball. All that is loyal lost to all that is lovely.

The 2002 Western Conference Finals between the Kings and Lakers more closely approximates my feelings about the current Bulls-Celtics series. Loyalty is a needed nuisance. But sometimes its nice to exist without the fanatical yearning within. My wife and I had just married. She wasn’t a basketball fan. But I swear that she became an addict as the final 8 seconds tick-tocked an ending to Game 5. During Game 6 she learned to yell at the television, cursing the cathode wall that separated the refs from her pleas for justice. Game 7 had all the drama of a tumultuous romance, and was every bit as enjoyable. It was a love letter from a man to the woman who tried to kill him. 19 leads. 16 ties. Overtime. Lakers win in Sactown. Captivating. Breathtaking. Beautiful.

So I’ve learned something over the years, and it’s this: the beauty of basketball transcends the politics of basketball.  On Saturday, stop cheering and learn to love.

Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,

Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;

The game is tied, 123-123.  Rondo grabs a rebound and bring the ball up court. He crosses halfcourt with 50.4 seconds on the game clock, 18 on the shot clock.

Pierce jogs behind him, slowly drifting to the block as Davis comes up to take the ball just to the right of the top of the key. Allen has Hinrich blanketing him on the right wing, Sclabrine is ready as ever to catch and shoot if his man, Joakim Noah drifts away.

As Davis gets the ball, Allen swerves left then right to set an off the ball pick for Pierce. Pierce sheds Salmons and clears around Davis who drives right and hands the ball of to Pierce on the right wing. Pierce has a half second where he’s got a pull up jumper, but he just doesn’t have the lift to get it up past Salmons, who is closing. He drives toward the key.

Noah seeing Pierce has freed himself slides over to the left block. Rose is watching Pierce but has one arm on Rondo to track him on the baseline.

Pierce gets to the circle beneath the free throw line with Salmons closing from Behind. By this point, Miller has shrugged off Davis and is going to prevent Pierce from getting to the hoop. Pierce sees this and diverts his path.

Pierce believes all the Bulls will focus on stopping his drive. But Noah, as always, is consistently hyper-active, and pretty much runs around with his arms either straight up, or in this case, straight out.

Just as Pierce turns to deliver the ball to a wide open Scalabrine, spotted up in the corner, Noah bursts in front of the pass, which was pretty well telegraphed. Pierce isn’t squared up the basket and turning at the hip for the pass, he’s turned directly towards Scal, and tries to force it through with a chest pass. Noah’s hand bats it away. Pierce grabs at Noah, but the detonator’s already been pushed. Pierce is dead at this point and he doesn’t even know it.

It falls right in front of Noah, and he races to grab it. He gets possession with about 38 seconds left on the clock. Pierce tries to catch up to Noah but A. Noah’s got the stride of gazelle or an antelope or a grasshopper or something and B. Pierce has nothing left. You can see it. He’s trying to get past the exhaustion and not finding it. As Noah reaches the lane hep icks up his dribble and extends for the dunk.

Pierce is laboring behind him, and for some unknown reason, tries to block a guy who’s younger, taller, and faster than him and has a step on him. Pierce extends his arm across Noah’s body, and spreads his fingers, either to try and reach a ball that is nowhere close to his hand or hit Noah’s face, which is rapidly ascending while Pierce is starting to decline in his jump. That’s how high Noah jumped, and how short Pierce’s leap was. When contact is made, the ball is a good six inches above Pierce’s hand and Pierce’s head is below Noah’s shoulder mid-jump.

Noah absorbs the contact and turns into the rim. Noah finishes, the crowd roars, Pierce leans over in exhaustion, frustration, and disappointment.

Fin.

Let’s all just take a moment and be thankful for a world where we get to enjoy games of sport like that. Let’s just take a brief second and recognize that in a time of despair, uncertainty, and fear, we can all find something to distract ourselves that is both inspiring and freaking awesome.

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