Adrian Dantley came spinning out of yet another basket, a beautiful fast break, and he got the foul, the crowd went wild, and he whirled toward the Detroit bench on bended knee, made a fist, and ooooh, ooooh, was he actually going to . . . smile? Well. Almost. What do you want? Miracles? A smile from Master Scowl was the only thing missing in this grab bag of gestures that was Detroit’s 122-104 playoff win at the Silverdome.
“We won’t have a very long practice today. Just long enough to throw up.”
–Chuck Daly, Friday morning Adrian Dantley had his feet up on the seat. Bill Laimbeer was asleep with his mouth open. Rick Mahorn sat with headphones over his ears.
“Hey, if I were somebody else, looking at me? I’d think I was an a——, too.”
— Bill Laimbeer
BOSTON — Wait. Don’t tell me. You hate his guts. He’s a stiff, a boor, a spoiled brat, an actor, a loudmouth; he can’t jump, he can’t block shots, he runs like a pregnant deer, his nose is pointy, and, when he high-fives, it looks like party time at nerd training camp.
“Who cares?” says Bill Laimbeer, sitting across the breakfast table. He reaches over with one of those long arms. “I’m gonna have some of your grapes. Thanks.”
BOSTON — I vote we make the logical decision here. I vote we do the only decent thing.
I vote we forget Game 1 ever happened.
“Great series starting tonight,” I say, as I sit in the coffee shop across from Boston Garden. “Two great teams, meeting for the Eastern Conference title. Yes, sir. Should be a heck of a series.”
“What about Game 1?” says a man next to me.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Game 1? Tuesday night?”
“This is Game 1. Tonight. Thursday.”
“What about Tuesday? What about the Boston Garden? What about that Game 1?”
“Beg your pardon?”
BOSTON — As the fourth quarter was about to begin Tuesday night, Pistons center Bill Laimbeer leaned into his team’s huddle, sweat dripping from his chin, and yelled, “We can still win this thing! Come on! Come on!”
You can understand his reminder. Up to that point, the Pistons had played as if victory was not on the menu in this venue.
The game was lost, the season was over, the plane was taking the Red Wings home. It was after midnight. I glanced around. Here was Gilbert Delorme, the defenseman, sitting behind me, saying nothing. Here was Shawn Burr, the center, sitting in front of me, his eyes red from weeping. Here were Dave Lewis, Glen Hanlon, Mike O’Connell and Adam Oates, sitting across from me, dealing cards in a silent game.
EDMONTON — Melt the ice. This remarkable season is finally over. The Red Wings went down the way they had come up, fighting, scratching, clawing, overachieving, playing better than anyone had dreamed, playing within inches of greatness, within a breath of a miracle. But still a breath away.
Over? Over.
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