Detroit Free Press

SAN ANTONIO - They took every stone the devil could throw, and they caught the last one and threw it back in his face. It took history. It took belief. It took desperation in every dribble. But mostly it took hope, and with every Pistons achievement - every Rip Hamilton jumper, every Rasheed Wallace put-back, every Ben Wallace block, every Chauncey Billups three-pointer - there was hope. They were supposed to die, because that's what teams do when faced with silly odds. But here they were at the end, heading off the floor with one more game to play.Dead men walking.

You don't leave him alone. You never leave him alone. But there he was, alone, at his favorite killer spot, the three-point line, Rasheed Wallace had gotten snookered, and by the time Tayshaun Prince went charging toward the killer, like a man trying to save a dog from a speeding bus, it was too late. The killer lined it up. The killer got it in his sights. The killer fired. The killer hit.

Thursday was some night for Lindsey Hunter at the Palace. He was draining baskets from the corner, from the key, down the lane, off the glass. He was dishing assists and shaking defenders, stepping up past flying bodies and firing away. He had a team-high 17 points, and his younger teammates spurred him on, slapping each other the way kids do when they see their father take the joystick on a video game."Old man, you still got it," Richard Hamilton told him.

This was the moment that said it all: Tayshaun Prince, holding the ball, alone on the wing with Manu Ginobili, the early god of these NBA Finals. And Ginobili stuck a big, old Argentinean hand in front of Tayshaun's eyes. Block his vision? That schoolyard trick? Tayshaun shook his head, then shook his shoulders, then shook his torso and his feet - Elvis getting ready to rock - and then he shook off Ginobili as surely as a Labrador shakes off a bath. Whoosh. He blew right past him for a two-handed slam.

Behind every good man, there's a woman counting his rebounds. And Chanda Wallace didn't like the numbers. She doesn't, as a rule, give a lot of basketball advice (I guess if your husband, Ben, is the NBA's defensive player of the year, how much is needed?), but she knows her man. She knows the signs. And as any wife will tell you, one of those signs "is when he doesn't get 10 rebounds. That's when I get concerned."So Chanda sat Ben down after the first game of these NBA Finals against the Spurs, in which the Pistons were beaten soundly.

In basketball, somewhere between heaven and hell lies heart. The Pistons wore their hearts on their bare, muscled arms Tuesday night, and, as a result, they are a bit farther from the warm spot this morning. They began like a cornered animal, they ended like a runaway lion. Call it ferocity, call it focus. Or call it fate. Because when Stevie Wonder does the national anthem, does Detroit have any choice but to win?They just called to say it's not over.

So I'm down at the make-believe doctor's office, sitting in the waiting area, and Richard Hamilton happens to be in the examining room. And the door is slightly ajar."Doc, you gotta help me.""What's the problem, Rip?""It's kind of embarrassing. I need something removed.""What is it? A polyp? A mole?""This.""Oh, my. That's an entire person.""I know. They call it Bruce Bowen. It won't come off.""Have you tried the normal methods?"

CNN was born 25 years ago this month. It was a simple yet awesome invention, the brainchild of Ted Turner, who saw a world of satellites and cable and got the idea for a 24-hour news channel. Turner is a man who often asks "Why not?" rather than "Why?"Therein lies our difference.