The Return

Editors Note: Shortly after attending Game 3 of the NBA finals, the poet Homer, a die-hard Mavs fan, was given a divine revelation: That the loss, bitter though it was, had been foreordained by the gods of Olympus, who looked upon the hero Dirk with favor, yet knew he must be tested and come through the flames of a terrible trial, so that all men down to the last generation may be inspired by his story. Homer returned home that night and started a wordpress blog, so that all with access to broadband may read of Dirk’s heroic journey, in real time, as he strives for the ultimate boon. (For Part I of the poet’s tale, click here. For Part II, click here. For Part III, click here. For Part IV, click here. For Part V, click here.)

Forthwith, the tale’s conclusion:

Miami. Long gone were the days when justice flourished in the time of Crockett and Tubbs. For justice was now just a distant memory in this city. Wade and LeBron had made it their base for conspiracy and cockiness. They lied in wait. The odds were in their favor, they had the crowds on their side with the home-court advantage, the commentators predicting in their favor, the media showering them with praise and coverage. The Heat had their swagger and were showing it to the world. The victory would be theirs.

Or so they thought…

For one thing stood in their way. Not a man. Not an individual. Not a single source of skill or prowess. But a team. A team destined to bring down this terrible foe. To erase the principle of shortcuts and gallivanting and restore ideals of collective contribution, dedication, and hard work.

The Mavericks!

And at the heart of this squad was the hero Dirk. They landed in Miami with nothing on their minds but the present moment, and stayed that way until it was almost time for tipoff.

The colors of the USA were presented before the game, as they always are. The Mavs, heads bowed, hands on their chests, were the embodiment of humility and respect. LeBron, hands on his hips, slouched, with a smug look on his face, no deference displayed, represented the opposite.

Mahinmi let out a vicious war cry as the teams huddled. They lined up for tipoff and the game began. LeBron unleashed a vicious assault on the Mavs, getting Miami the early lead. Dirk responded, throwing up shot after shot, but none hit its mark. Things looked bleak. But one man entered the fray to bring Dallas ahead, the Jet! He turned the tide as he unleashed blow after blow upon the Heat. The gunslinger, Barea, made the Heat spin their heads in confusion as he penetrated their defenses and sank shot after shot.

The Mavs could not be contained! D-Steve, the Man-Beast Chandler, and Mahinmi all outplayed the Heat with their hustle. Even the Custodian, so named because he holds one of the many keys to victory, let loose with a mighty three that silenced the Miami crowd. And who can forget Matrix, the shape-shifter, as he crushed his opponents both on offense and defense. His defense had shut down LeBron all series, and this game was no exception. The legendary Kidd, cunning as always, gave the Mavs opportunities to score.

Tension ensued as a skirmish broke out, but the keepers of the law issued no harsh punishments.

The Mavs made a glorious run, the Heat, enraged, made a dazzling comeback. The Mavs grew frustrated, for where was their hero? He was playing as though he had been hit by a slump, his shots falling short. The locker room awaited as the half ended and each team filed in.

Dirk looked deep into his soul. “What is wrong? Why hath my shot deserted me?” His eyes sank and he fell into a vast void. He did not know where he was. His mind raced, the walls seemed to be taunting him, confusion and chaos surrounded his every thought. He fell to the floor and let out a cry.

Through the chaos, he saw something. Knee high socks, a headband, a smile. ‘Twas the Jet! Terry reached out to Dirk and said, “Fear not, brother. Do not let these thoughts of loss and defeat cloud your brain. For I have spoken in a dream to one of the great warriors of the past, the one the ancients call Doctor J. He inspired me with confidence and might, just as I will give you now. I didn’t put this tattoo on my arm, only to have it burned off. Remember ’06. Remember how they called you soft. How they questioned your heroism. Remember how Wade himself said you could not finish. My friend, ‘tis time to prove him wrong. Time to squash that three-headed monster. Time to bring the trophy home to our fair city of Dallas. It must be tonight. The hearts of our fans cannot take another loss. We must make tonight the Heat’s funeral and show them what a true team is capable of. Come Dirk! Rise! Fulfill your destiny!”

And with that, Dirk rose, his mind clear.

As the team emerged from the locker room to start the second half, Dirk knew that it must be tonight, that his team would not let him down, and that no matter what, he must keep shooting, keep launching the weapon that only he could wield, the high-arcing, one-legged fallaway. And so it was that, buoyed up by the support of his team, his shots did finally start to fall, especially in the fourth quarter when his team needed him the most.

As the clock wound down, the Mavs increased the pressure, sensing the beautiful symmetry of the moment. For it had been five years nearly to the day that the Heat, led by the strutting D-Wade, had stripped the Mavs of their glory on their home court in Dallas in six games, but now the same fate was to be visited upon the Heat by the very team they had defeated. The Mavs looked, one to another, and tightened the screws even further, as their fans, who were scattered throughout the Miami crowd, grew louder and louder, until at last their war cries drowned out those of the Heat fans, although, truth be told, that was a pretty low bar to clear.

The final minutes of the game were drifting away. The Mavs had given themselves a devastating lead, and the Miami Heat began to crumble. No shots fell for them. Their disloyal fans abandoned them, bored with the losing performance. And the so called ‘dynasty’ slipped through their fingers. Wade and LeBron saw the wrongs they had committed flashing before their eyes. Their spirits gave out and they were reduced to nothing.

And yet just as the clock hit zero, and the ultimate boon was achieved, Dirk vaulted the scorers’ table and vanished into the depths of the Miami Arena. The celebration was beginning, but where was our hero? The ancient wise men have said, “The returning hero, to complete his adventure, must survive the impact of the world.” Was the impact too much for Dirk? Would he re-emerge from the depths in time to receive his trophies and honors? Where was Dirk?

Deep in a secluded bower, beneath the city of Miami, the hero had descended, for it is true that the weight which had suddenly been lifted had left him disoriented, like a diver coming up from a great depth who suddenly hits the surface of the ocean. And it is true that he did not know whether he could face the world now that he had achieved his ultimate triumph, for throughout his career he had been called a soft player, and at this moment he wanted no one to see his tears.

And yet, through blurry eyes, he saw a vision that came forth and rested a hand on his shoulder.  He squinted, because he could not believe what he was seeing.

“David? David Hasselhoff?”

“Yes, my son,” the vision spoke. “It is I, star of Knight Rider, traveling troubadour, and possessor of the golden voice.”

“David, what am I to do? Here I have accomplished everything I ever dreamed of. My team and my city await my return. And yet I am paralyzed, to overcome by emotion to seize the ultimate boon and bring enlightenment to my legions of fans.”

“My son, I experienced the same thing when ‘Looking for Freedom’ reached number 1 on the German pop charts. Do what I did. Pour libations to the gods, surround yourself with maidens richly endowed with heavenly gifts, and cover yourself with the honor you so richly deserve. Now is your time. Go share it with all of those who believed.”

And so it was that Dirk returned to the smoke-filled battlefield, received all the honors and accolades that he had earned, and celebrated a hard-fought victory in the city of Miami. As he linked arms with Cuban, Carlisle, Kidd, Terry, Matrix, and all of his beloved teammates, he thought of the long journey that had taken him from a tiny hamlet in faraway Deutschland, through the tutelage of Geschwinder, across the threshold of the NBA, into the belly of the whale in 2006, down the road of trials, and now here, to this stage, the ultimate boon and sweet victory. And as he reflected on his vision of Hasselhoff, those familiar lyrics filled his ears again:

I’ve been lookin’ for freedom,
I’ve been lookin’ so long.
I’ve been lookin’ for freedom,
Still the search goes on.

I’ve been lookin’ for freedom,
Since I left my home town.
I’ve been lookin’ for freedom,
Still it can’t be found.

Except that for Dirk, the search was over. He had found his freedom to live, and it was something that no one would ever be able to take away.

THE END

The Ultimate Boon, Part II: The Comeback

Editors Note: Shortly after attending Game 3 of the NBA finals, the poet Homer, a die-hard Mavs fan, was given a divine revelation: That the loss, bitter though it was, had been foreordained by the gods of Olympus, who looked upon the hero Dirk with favor, yet knew he must be tested and come through the flames of a terrible trial, so that all men down to the last generation may be inspired by his story. Homer returned home that night and started a wordpress blog, so that all with access to broadband may read of Dirk’s heroic journey, in real time, as he strives for the ultimate boon. (For Part I of the poet’s tale, click here. For Part II, click here. For Part III, click here. For Part IV, click here.)

Forthwith, Part V of the Poet’s tale:

And the thunder god’s rage grew.

For the Heat took Game 3, wrested it from the Mavs grasp. Though the Mavs fought hard, making it a close game ‘til the final seconds, ‘twas not enough. Though they made smart plays, such as the wily Kidd making the extra pass, or Barea finding his three-point stroke, the thunder god would not let them win. Once again, in the final seconds of the game, Zeus inhabited the body of the hapless Bosh, who up until that point had shot a pitiful 6-17, and guided his stroke so that the ball splashed through the net instead of clanking iron. Bosh, through his one good eye, looked as surprised as anyone.

As Dirk tried to make the game-tying shot, mighty Zeus guided it off its mark. His eyes pierced Dirk, as he exclaimed, “Foolish mortal! Don’t you realize? This is the Heat’s championship, and you are getting in the way. They are the favored team, not only by me, but by everyone. You will never win!”

Dirk shouted back, “Zeus! I am not afraid! We have come too far and we will take this championship, despite your wishes.” But he knew he must try to remove the thunder god’s rage from the court.

Dirk knew there was only one man who could calm the mighty Zeus, and that was Zeus’s son, the Great Cuban. Twice before, Dirk had to confront this powerful man. After his free agency before the 2010-2011 season, he asked him, “My dear Cuban, I remember when I was but a rookie, and it was you, you who helped me stay in this NBA. And I have fought with all my heart for this team, the Mavericks. But now the time has  come when I may either stay or go, and I must ask, are you still committed to winning championships?” Cuban responded, “My boy, I ask nothing more than for your best effort, and I will provide this team with whatever it needs.” Satisfied, Dirk’s loyalty didn’t waiver and  he re-signed.

Dirk had to approach him again during playoff time. He said, “Great Cuban, no one respects what you’ve done for the team like I do. And yet, ‘tis best to let the players fight it out on the court, spilling sweat and blood, testing skill and might. I implore you, do not make this a battle of newsmen, cameras, and businessmen. Let us bring glory upon ourselves, not news commentary.” Cuban, wise and with a good heart, knew the hero spoke truth, and took a vow of silence that surprised everyone and was to last throughout the playoffs.

Now, Dirk had to approach the owner of his team for a third time. He entered the grand office, and looked at Cuban, sitting in the rolly-chair made of gold. “My friend, mine eyes have seen the very eyes of the thunder god himself, that lightning-wielding king of gods. For now, he is angered, and if he comes back in full power, I do not know how much longer we can hold out against him. I beg of you, ask this god, your father, to grant us passage into his realm of mercy.”

Cuban, his heart aching for the aging hero, spoke, “It shall be done. I will venture to the top of Olympus myself to calm this storm.” And with that, he sped to his motor chariot and was off.

The clouds surrounding Mt. Olympus were dark and stormy when Cuban arrived, for the thunder god was in a horrible mood. For one thing, his beloved Greece had fallen into disrepair and become something of a punchline over its inability to manage its debt. Nor was mighty Zeus immune to this problem, because, well, you try paying the bills for thousands of mistresses. On top of all that, the thunder god was torn about the NBA Finals. Truth be told, he admired the one they call Dirk, yet he could not overcome his rage at the Mavs’ rough treatment of his beloved OKC Thunder and the way their fourth-quarter dominance had called into question the crunch-time prowess of young Kevin Durant.

Cuban climbed Olympus until he had reached the point beyond which no mortal can climb, at which point he called to the thunder god, “Father, I demand an audience with the one Olympian who has so cruelly turned his back on my beloved Mavs.”

Zeus recognized at once the voice of his impudent son, and he hurled a thunder bolt over Cuban’s head as a warning shot. The bolt hit the mountainside and started an avalanche that threatened to send Cuban tumbling to the bottom of the craggy peak. Yet Cuban, always so enamored of new gadgetry, was sporting a kick-ass jet pack, and he dodged the avalanche and rocketed even further up the mountain, coming dangerously close to the boundary line from which no mortal returns.

“Hear me out, mighty father, for I have a solid case. It is a case built around one word: hubris. Look upon my team and judge us by our actions. Have you ever had a more humble servant than Dirk? A less flashy coach than Carlisle? A more stoic veteran than the one the ancients call J-Kidd? And look upon me! I have kept my mouth shut for these entire playoffs. Do you know how hard that’s been?”

And indeed, these words did make Zeus reconsider, for he knew well what an insufferable trash-talker his beloved son could be.

Cuban continued: “Now look upon these Miami Heat. Have ever you seen a more arrogant band of puffed-up popinjays? Not even those strutting Titans, the ones that you and your brave brothers and sisters cast into Tartarus, were more full of themselves. I mean, have you seen what they wear to their press conferences? D-Wade wears a corsage, like he’s king of the prom or something.”

Zeus knew that his son had made an airtight case, and he didn’t even need to be reminded of the hideous celebration that the Heat threw for themselves before they had even won a single game. He also knew that the Mavs were an older team, that their ability to dominate the younger Thunder in the future would be limited by age, and that they had probably done the Thunder a favor by giving them a taste of postseason disappointment, the better to motivate them to train and get better and succeed in the future.

“My son, you are right. The hubris of these sons of Miami is absolutely intolerable. No longer shall I intervene on their behalf. If they think they’re so freaking good, let’s see them prove it on their own.”

And so, Zeus removed himself from the Finals, making haste to the distant shores of some island to feast on wine and women, promising not to aid either team, and making all the deathless gods swear a binding oath that they too would not interfere. The fate of the Mavs and the Heat were now in their hands alone.

But Zeus, before he had made the promise, had already sent disease and infection upon the hero Dirk, as a last attempt to give the Heat the advantage. In Game 4, the hero suffered illness and plague. Yet his veteran teammates surrounded him and lifted him up, with courageous performances from the man-beast Chandler and the one they call Matrix, and with his teammates stepping up and Zeus no longer tilting the battlefield, Dirk was able to spin in a game-winning lay-up with 14 seconds left, and Jet was able to hit two clutch free throws to ice the game.

Meanwhile, it was starting to dawn on LeBron and D-Wade that they had covered themselves in shame, LeBron by scoring only 8 points, and Wade by missing a critical free throw and committing a late-game turnover. When they returned to their hotel that night, LeBron stood on the balcony, looking over Dallas, the land of his enemies, and pondered his life, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes. Wade spoke, “LeBron, why in tears? Like a girl, a baby, crying after her mother. Let this defeat not get to your head, we still have a job to do. When we return to Miami we will show the world our power.”

LeBron gathered himself and spoke: “This city, loves its hero so. He is like a god to them. I wanted to be a god, I thought winning championships would give me that status. But look now, this championship is slipping away from us, and whose hero am I? I turned my back on my homeland, who loved me dearly, and came to Miami, where nobody even cares about basketball, and they would rather cavort at Miami Fashion Week than show up and cheer hard for their team every night. I am but a mercenary, wandering, scrounging for championships.”

“Oh dear LeBron, speak not this way,” said Wade. “You forget that I am here with you, and together we shall take control of the NBA and monopolize championships like we intended. There will be no room for underdogs, like these Mavs. You must believe in that.”

“I suppose…”

And then Bosh entered and knelt before Wade, “My lord, perhaps… perhaps we should speak about the rest of the team in our press conferences, and give credit where it’s due. After all, we are a team. And the world looks unfavorably upon us when we refer to the rest of our team as our supporting cast. They feel alienated already by the pep rally held in our honor before the season.”

“You! Don’t speak to me of credit! We are the reason for the Heat’s success. No one else! It is we three who have brought glory to this Miami team. Right LeBron?”

LeBron remained silent.

Wade continued. “Heed the words that were spoken at the pep rally: Miami is my house. ‘Tis LeBron’s kingdom. And it is your pit, Bosh.”

Bosh spoke, “Master, could I perhaps have more than a pit? After all…”

D-Wade cut him off: “You’re lucky to get that! Now get out of my sight! But wait… fetch me a sparkling water.” Bosh stood, bowed, and begrudgingly left.

“D-Wade, we must rest.” LeBron spoke, “You are right, we have a job to do. I will bring ruin upon the hero Dirk and make this title mine… ours.”

The next day, the bitter LeBron and D-Wade had regained their obnoxious swagger, and on the way back to their lockers after shootaround, they mocked Dirk’s illness with fake coughing and girlish giggles. But these antics would come back to haunt them, for in Game 5, the Mavs fiery arrows, which had missed their mark in previous games, showered death upon the Heat from the land of three.

Despite his words, LeBron once again vanished in the fourth quarter, for his teammates looked around and yet some spell had rendered him invisible. And the one time he appeared from the ether and threatened to seize the advantage with an and-one, lo there was the man-beast Tyson Chandler bravely taking the charge, and the Whistling Furies rewarded Chandler’s courage and gave the Mavs the ball.  The one they call Jet sank the dagger deep into the heart of every Heat player with an impossible three-pointer right in LeBron’s face. J-Kidd clinched the game with another three. Nothing could save the Heat from the Mavericks’ murderous rain.

The victory brought Dallas within one victory of the ultimate boon. But to get it, they were left with no choice but to venture into the lion’s den to defeat their foe. Game 6 and possibly Game 7 loomed across the Gulf like a glowering hurricane,  yet the Mavs knew that whatever happened, it was their time to win.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Ultimate Boon, Part I: The Thunder God’s Revenge

Editors Note: Shortly after attending Game 3 of the NBA finals, the poet Homer, a die-hard Mavs fan, was given a divine revelation: That the loss, bitter though it was, had been foreordained by the gods of Olympus, who looked upon the hero Dirk with favor, yet knew he must be tested and come through the flames of a terrible trial, so that all men down to the last generation may be inspired by his story. Homer returned home that night and started a wordpress blog, so that all with access to broadband may read of Dirk’s heroic journey, in real time, as he strives for the ultimate boon. (For Part I of the poet’s tale, click here. For Part II, click here. For Part III, click here.)

Forthwith, Part IV of the Poet’s tale:

And so the Mavs made the journey ‘cross the Gulf  in their airships to the city of Miami, whose patron goddess was Vice, a fitting patron too for the Heat. Just a short while before Game 1, the Mavs rested in their locker room. They knew the series would try the very souls that lay within them. For the Heat were more powerful than they could possibly imagine. The young prodigy LeBron, strong as an ox, with quickness and speed surrounding his every movement. The forward Bosh, also blessed with youth, would also prove to be a challenging foe. And their leader, Wade, quick and nimble, with great prowess as a guard, an all-purpose player. There were others too. Bibby, a shooter. Haslem, a post threat. Juwan, could provide key plays.

The Mavs were disheartened, for they were in a foreign land, the commentators and media were making predictions against them and they knew they did not have what the Heat did: youth. But Kidd, who could make a deaf man hear his voice without raising the volume, spoke with Athena-blessed words, “We’re a veteran ball club and we understand what it takes to win. When you have a veteran ball club, you might be older, people might think you’re slower but you have to use your wisdom and knowledge to win ball games and that’s where we feel we have an advantage.”

And with that, the Mavs gained their courage back, outfitted themselves in their blue road armor, and marched out to the court. They faced their enemy, and saw the fire in the enemy’s eyes. They harnessed everything they had in them, and fought hard for the first half. But there was another force besides the Heat working against them, for on Mt. Olympus, trouble brewed for the Mavs.

Zeus, the mighty thunder god, spoke to himself, “Those Mavericks, a fitting name for such untamed beasts, how dare they defy me by beating my precious OKC Thunder. If one thing is for certain, the Mavs shall not win this title.” Though the goddess Athena, who favored the Mavs, pleaded with him, Zeus’s mind was made up. And throughout the second half, he made sure the Heat would gain a glorious victory.

Oh tragedy! The Mavs left the court in sorrow and shame. Were the commentators right? Would this be a sweep for Miami? These were the questions that plagued their minds. Even Dirk’s heart filled with woe. But the fighting spirit was still there, and he spoke, “Keep your heads up, men, we won’t go down without a fight.”

The Mavs came out for Game 2, determined to win, but Zeus made them trail behind the entire game. Dirk’s left hand also made the battle tougher, for it was weak with injury. The Heat sank shot after shot, their players taunting and showboating, thinking the sweet aroma of victory had filled their noses already. D-Wade, with 7 minutes to go in the fourth quarter, made a dazzling three-point shot, giving the Heat a 15-point lead. Wade left his arms up as he taunted the Mavs, and made the Miami crowd rejoice.

Dirk, the mighty hero, shouted to the Heavens, “Father Zeus! Why do you torment us so? Have we not suffered enough? Was it not to your satisfaction that we lost in 2006 to this very team? No team can come back from this deficit. Hath never been done. Why do you continue in your cruel ways?” Dirk seemed beaten. But his friend and ally, Kidd, approached: “Dirk, fear not, for this game be not over. In my years, I have made the long trek to the finals, many a time, I have fought in every kind of game imaginable and seen loss after loss. Do I lose heart? No. There are but 7 minutes left in this game, which to me is the same as 7 lifetimes. Never forget, we are a veteran ball club!”

And with that, Dirk’s spirits soared, and Athena set his uniform ablaze. The rest of the Mavs team found their lost spirits as well, and vowed to win this game.

And the game raged on, but the Mavs made a 17-2 run to tie the game, Miami was stunned. They thought they had it won, but their egos got in the way of their playing as the Mavs wrested glory from their fingers.

And now, the Mavs had the ball, Kidd passed to Dirk, the hero, and Dirk faced the three headed monster, each one issuing a taunt. Wade, most outspoken of them all, said “Ha!  Dirk, you are nothing more than giant oaf, you don’t possess the proper skills to compete with the likes of me.”

“You! Would to god I had struck you down 5 years ago, but alas! The gods cast their lots, and determined you would arise victorious. But hear me now, oh prince of Miami, I tell you! Nothing today will stop our path to victory. Not the gods, not the Heat, not your precious triumvirate. This day is ours, and no one shall take it from us. Take this, you worthless cowards!”

And with that Dirk  launched a high-arcing shot from the land of 3, sinking it and putting the Mavs ahead 93-90. They had taken the lead, but that blasted Chalmers, famed for his three-shooting capabilities from his college days, hit a long shot for Miami, again tying the game. Can the Mavs really pull it off? People questioned. But the Mavs’ minds remained clear, and victory was their only thought.

Kidd brought the ball up and crossed the half-court line. With less than 10 seconds, he passed to Dirk, who was guarded by Bosh. As Zeus looked down, he exclaimed, “I have given the Heat everything they needed to win this game and still this Dirk defies me. I will show him my true power!” And with that he seized control of Bosh for he knew Bosh was incapable of so many things, let alone guarding Dirk. Dirk saw the lightning in Bosh’s eyes, and knew that he was not playing against mortal man, but against a god. He remained steadfast, and with a lightning-fast spin move, sped past the king of gods, and with wounded hand the godlike Dirk did sink the game-winning shot.

Zeus was stunned as he fled the court in terror, not even paying attention to the last-ditch shot by Wade, which missed its mark. Wade fell to the ground and looked up to the sky, his pleading eyes full of disbelief that Zeus had forsaken him, but the Whistling Furies just assumed he was flopping for a call as usual.

The Mavs had claimed Game 2 as a victory and they returned to their glorious land of Dallas, determined to make this series theirs. But deep in Dirk’s soul, stormclouds began to gather, for he knew that unless the Mavs reclaimed favor with the lord of lightning, that more trouble lay ahead.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Initiation, Part II: The Playoffs

Editors Note: Shortly after attending Game 3 of the NBA finals, the poet Homer, a die-hard Mavs fan, was given a divine revelation: That the loss, bitter though it was, had been foreordained by the gods of Olympus, who looked upon the hero Dirk with favor, yet knew he must be tested and come through the flames of a terrible trial, so that all men down to the last generation may be inspired by his story. Homer returned home that night and started a wordpress blog, so that all with access to broadband may read of Dirk’s heroic journey, in real time, as he strives for the ultimate boon. (For Part I of the poet’s tale, click here. For Part II, click here.)

Forthwith, Part III of the Poet’s tale:

The first round was plagued by struggle and hardships. Though Dallas took the 2-0 lead, the team representing the city of Portland, those Blazers of the Trail, would fight back. Their stature was like that of mountains, and they charged back into the fray to win two games, evening the score. In the second of these, the wraith-like warrior B-Roy, who had been left for dead, sprang back to life and erased an overwhelming Maverick advantage. His shots rang death in the ears of Mavs fans everywhere, especially those who had lived through the Road of Trials.

The media, those rumor spreading fiends, would say, “O, ‘tis the classic Mavs let down, they shan’t win this series.” But those classic Mavs would soon turn the tide. The players came together, and swore a binding oath, they would not be kept from proceeding to the Finals. They poured libations to the basketball gods and with that, they took back what was rightfully theirs, and squashed the Trailblazers’ hopes of the title.

Ah, but the next round, this would be a great battle, so they said. The Mighty Lakers, the defending champions, led by the prodigy Kobe and coached by Phil Jackson, breaker of Rodman, who long ago coached the Great One, would surely be a true test of the Mavs’ courage. For in Game 1, the Lakers seemed to have defeated the Mavs with a crippling lead. But the Mavs fought back, their fighting blood roused, and issued a sound defeat to the sons of Los Angeles.

This comeback paved the way for the Mavs to defeat the Lakers yet again on their home field of battle, yet the doubters said, “Surely the Mavs will never be able to conquer Kobe, the deadly serpent, once the Gorgon Pau Gasol returns to the fire-breathing form that has defined him in playoffs past.” Only one, the ancient warrior Barkley, who had become a skilled augur and joined the great ones at the Turner Network Temple, handed down a prophecy: “The Mavericks will beat LA, because no one on that team can guard the one they call Dirk. So sayeth the Round Mound of Rebound. So shall it be.”

The Round Mound would prove to be a greater soothsayer than anyone could have predicted. The Mavs, beloved of heaven, were blessed by the archer gods in Game 4, and their shooters rained death on the Lakers for quarter after quarter. The little gunslinger, Barea, darted in and out of the Lakers defense like a daring charioteer, until the beast-like Bynum, his heart black with rage, struck him down from mid-air with a devastating cheap shot. Yet Barea rose from the ground and sank his free throws as the Whistling Furies drove the disgraced Bynum from the field of battle.

So it was that the Mavs swept the Lakers up like the waves of Poseidon. They were getting closer to their destiny. But the Thunder god’s team from Oklahoma still stood in their way.

The Thunder came raging at them like unleashed minotaurs. But the Mavs themselves unleashed a beast within, and met the Thunder in the brutal melee. The Thunder, the rising power in the West, brought much offense to bear, and KD and Westbrook made a dazzling array of shots that dizzied the Mavs. But the Mavs kept their cool, they did pray to the basketball gods for their shots to fall true, and the gods heard their prayer, for in Game 4, the Mavs looked to be defeated, yet the hero Dirk would not let it be so. It was here that his secret weapon, the unguardable one-legged fallaway, a weapon that only he could wield, would become even more legendary, as one arcing shot after another rained death upon the plains of Oklahoma, and the mighty Thunder were suddenly put to rout and ran in all directions like frightened cows and chickens.

It was thus that the Mavs earned their way to the Finals, and embarked on the last step on the road to glory.

But in the East, the deadly Heat’s power grew stronger and stronger, as they too conquered their opponents one after the other. The scrappy 76ers, the mighty veteran Celtics, and even the young Bulls lead by the rising hero Rose all fell before the unholy trinity that the Heat had formed. With victory over the last, the Heat gained entry to the Finals as well, and were pronounced to be the ones who would emerge victorious, due to their stacked lineup of superstars. Aside from Barkley, reader of dreams, who by this time had become known to Dallas fans as Seer Charles, all predicted that Miami would be the favorite, playing in their own territory for 4 of the 7 games. The quest would not be easy, and the Mavs would face trials and labors, the likes of which have not been seen since Hercules.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Initiation, Part I

Editors Note: Shortly after attending Game 3 of the NBA finals, the poet Homer, a die-hard Mavs fan, was given a divine revelation: That the loss, bitter though it was, had been foreordained by the gods of Olympus, who looked upon the hero Dirk with favor, yet knew he must be tested and come through the flames of a terrible trial, so that all men down to the last generation may be inspired by his story. Homer returned home that night and started a wordpress blog, so that all with access to broadband may read of Dirk’s heroic journey, in real time, as he strives for the ultimate boon. (For Part I of the poet’s tale, click here.)

Forthwith, Part II of the Poet’s tale:

The Mavs would continue to venture to the playoffs, falling short each time, knocked out in the first round thrice. None of these was more painful for Dirk than the first, against the Warriors of Golden State, led by the one they call Nellie, whose odd habits included transforming forwards into point guards and bathing with his dog. Nellie had once led the Mavs and proclaimed the greatness of Dirk before all of the gods, but he lost favor with godlike Cuban and was sent into exile.

Vengeance would be his, though, for as leader of the Warriors Nellie would use his knowledge of the Mavs’ tactics to outflank and outmaneuver his successor, the Mavs leader known as the Little General. Dirk’s pain at the loss was doubled, for this was the year he was to win glory as the most valuable player of all, and yet it was not his fate to accept this trophy on the field of post-season battle, but to accept it meekly in the wake of a humiliating defeat. The loss would lead Dirk to depart on a vision quest to the enchanted lands near the bottom of the world, drifting out to sea for days, chasing the ghost of Crocodile Dundee, listening to the teachings of mentor Geschwindner, and wondering whether fate would ever allow him to claim the glory that life had once promised.

Dirk returned from his vision quest determined to forge ahead, but unsure of where his journey would take him. The Mavs tried to return to the ultimate battlefield, to no avail. Cuban scoured the earth for warriors worthy of donning the blue and silver. Throughout all this, Dirk did not go without his share of personal woe. He seemed to find the embrace of love in a woman, asking her to be his wife. It was not to be, though, for she turned out to be a Calypso in disguise, and Dirk was only freed from her enchantments when she was apprehended for crimes of fraud and violating probation.

With the media commenting, and that wicked goddess Rumor spreading, the universe tried to slow Dirk’s path and distract him by dulling his will and giving him personal issues. Though no man can say for sure what went on during these trying times in the mind of the hero, it is clear that Dirk, duty-bound and humble, would not allow himself to stray from his destined path to victory.

Meanwhile, trouble was brewing across many oceans in the strange lands of the Orient. For it was there, at games held to honor Olympus, that the man called LeBron James, who the people believed to be the next chosen one after Air Jordan, had begun to discuss a deal with D-Wade, prince of Miami, and Bosh, a warrior from the North.

They believed, with their youth still in hand, that they could short-cut the system and gain access to a quick road to winning championships, a selfish ploy, one that Jordan and the one called Magic would criticize. For one must stick with one’s team as heroes of old have done. LeBron kept this ghastly secret from his people before announcing it on the televisions across all nations. His self-proclaimed royalty ceased to exist as he turned toward the dark avenues of foul play and traded in the shining armor of the warrior to become but one head of an unholy three-headed beast.

And so this evil force grew stronger and prepared for the 2010-2011 season, putting on a rally to shamefully showboat their team and glorify themselves by ursurping the Oracle and predicting the amount of championships they would win, even before they had played a single minute of basketball together.

Dirk, meanwhile, had in the past returned to Germany to play basketball during the long days of summer, putting additional wear and tear on his mortal form. This was not to be this time, though. For the winds of fate spoke to him, and they said to him, “This is your time Dirk.” And so the hero stayed in the land of the Americas, further honing his skills and restoring his strength for the upcoming season.

And so he reached an apotheosis: “If there ever was a time, it is now. We shall emerge victorious this time.” And he surveyed his team, an alliance of truly worthy warriors, there were 14 of them, a collection of brave souls, equal in bravery to Dirk, and each with his own set of skills. And Dirk smiled on this squad and all the others who made it up, and knew they were destined for great things. They would conquer city after city throughout their regular season.

And the season raged on, and the heroes met the challenges they faced.

The one the ancients call J-Kidd was unmatched in cunning and wits. Gifted by Hermes himself, he saw plays happen in slow motion, and his unselfishness allowed the Mavs to lead the offensive efforts against their opponents.

And then there was the Jet, his precision rivaled the archer god’s, and his presence commanded crowds of thousands, making them stand up and cheer for their legendary Mavs.

Barea could split a defense with his fleetness of foot, and his own aggressive defense often made the game into a wrestling match.

DeShawn, or as Dirk called him, D-Steve, possessed powers in shooting and wore vicious war paint that could make a defender shy away in terror.

And Tyson Chandler, when he plays, cannot be distinguished from the wild boar on the hunt.

The unfortunate loss of Butler and Beaubois to injury would be a devastating blow, but the two’s perseverance would motivate the rest of their brothers on the battlefield, and Haywood would pick up the slack to provide tremendous big-man assistance. The Mavs would also acquire the sniper Peja, delivering clutch three-pointers to assist the Mavs.

Jones, Mihinmi, and Brewer, though still young compared to the rest of this veteran ball club, would be the best teammates they could be.

But there was another who roamed the fields of play. A shape-shifter without a home. He had returned from the underworld of the Suns, those ghost players, and found his way to Dallas. His skills were unmatched, and he possessed the exceptional trait of having worn the enemy’s skin, for his long journey back from the lands beyond had included a brief stint playing with D-Wade and the Heat, before their descent into darkness. They called him Matrix.

This team fought hard, won victory after victory, and laid siege to town after town, led along the way by the one they call Carlisle, a man who had won fame not only for his coaching skills, but also for his stony countenance, which was so unmovable by mirth that on one occasion the Gorgon known simply as Birdman turned him into stone and no one realized it for several days. Fortunately Athena, goddess of wisdom, looked upon him with favor and undid the curse just in time for the playoffs – the ultimate quest.

Many doubted that the Mavs would make it out of the first round, and loud were their voices, but the veteran ball club, like the ancient mariners who served under brave Odysseus, trained themselves to tune out the sirens’ call to failure.

Instead, they set their sights on the ultimate boon and plunged into the brutal eye of combat.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Departure

Editors Note: Shortly after attending Game 3 of the NBA finals, the poet Homer, a die-hard Mavs fan, was given a divine revelation: That the loss, bitter though it was, had been foreordained by the gods of Olympus, who looked upon the hero Dirk with favor, yet knew he must be tested and come through the flames of a terrible trial, so that all men down to the last generation may be inspired by his story. Homer returned home that night and started a wordpress blog, so that all with access to broadband may read of Dirk’s heroic journey, in real time, as he strives for the ultimate boon. Forthwith, Part I of the poet’s tale.

Sing, O Muse of loyal hero, the rock, who has seen defeat time and again since he made his way from the outside world of Deutschland. Speak of the trials he faced, the suffering he has seen, the friends and teammates who have aided him, and the glory he has sought to win for his fair city of Dallas. Speak of the betrayal of LeBron, and the reign of the dastardly triumvirate D-Wade has formed. And finally, speak of the band that has come forth to challenge this foe and restore the ideals that once were present in the profession of basketball. The Mavericks.

Speak of the triumphant return of the legendary Kidd, the most cunning of them all, whose guard abilities are worthy of the gods. And of the man Jet, whose clutch shots and crowd-pleasing nature go unmatched. Forget not the man-beast Tyson Chandler, the ultimate big man, nor the shape-shifter they call Matrix, whose skills and tenacity make men tremble. And the little one, Barea, the gunslinger whose scrappiness and quickness leave men baffled. DeShawn, whose power when harnessed shines like Helios. The specialist, Peja, the 3-point hero. Caron, Beaubois, and Haywood, the injured warriors who inspire the team still with their ferocious attitudes. And remember the one they call Custodian, who blinds men with his ability.

But first, speak again of the immovable object, who has remained on the courts of Dallas, who travelled from the East to bring balance back to the sport of basketball.

His story begins 32 years ago, born into a family of renowned athleticism, was the boy whom the people would come to know as Dirk. Blessed by the gods with unmatched skill, though he was teased by his fellow tennis and handball players for his stature, a traumatic childhood event that would lead him to his eventual calling to basketball.

His heroic exploits in the art of basketball in Germany came to be recognized by his eventual mentor, the unorthodox Geschwindner, who would come to mold the boy into a well-rounded player and warrior. Geschwindner knew the boy was destined for greater things, and he spoke, “You must now decide whether you want to play against the best in the world or just stay a local hero in Germany. If you choose latter, we will stop training immediately, because nobody can prevent that anymore. But if you want to play against the best, we have to train on a daily basis.”

The boy, presented with this ultimatum, travelled to the mountains and contemplated for two rotations of Gaia, and spoke, “If I hold out here and I lay siege to German Basketball, then family, friends, and familiarity may comfort me, but if I venture West, my journey home is gone, but my glory never dies.”

And so it began. Training everyday and battling his German counterparts, he became ready to cross the first threshold, though worthy guardians awaited him on his journey to the NBA and would not make it easy for him to gain respect and approval.

Dirk, still in his rowdy teen years, entered the “Hoops Heroes” tournament, a sporting contest held in honor of the goddess Nike. This rite of passage was Dirk’s first encounter with NBA talent, and legends from the Age of Michael and Magic sought to defeat him.

Barkley and Pippen, seasoned warriors, looked to destroy him. But Dirk, the people’s champion, rose to the challenge and outplayed Barkley, staging a grand slam dunk over him. Barkley exclaimed, “The boy is a genius. If he wants to enter the NBA, he can call me.” And so passage was granted to the young Dirk, as he had properly displayed his skill and prowess and his ability to contend in the Association of National Basketball.

Drafted to the glorious Mavs and playing through the snow, wind and rain with them, Dirk had taken the first steps to his ultimate goal. But doubt would soon consume Dirk’s mind, for after his first year entering the Americas and playing a season, he pondered moving back to the land of Germania, for he had suffered his worst statistical season to date. This was due to the greedy king who ruled over the Mavs, Ross Perot II, whose goal was to wring wealth from the Mavs, rather than to pursue glory or victory in their names. Dirk wanted more. He wanted the golden trophy and ring that all athletes strive for. He decided that the NBA was not his path.

But the fates had a different plan for Dirk, and sent one man to turn the tide: Cuban. A mysterious figure who had traveled to the land of Dallas disguised as a simple fan, he soon revealed his true supernatural powers by journeying deep into Dot-Com, a giant bubble that lured men to their deaths by hypnotizing them with illusory visions of wealth. Scores of thousands of men were crushed when the enchanted bubble collapsed, yet Cuban used preternatural cunning and guile to escape from the bubble’s hungry maw with magnificent treasures.

Now possessed of a vast fortune, Cuban revealed his true nature, a man like a god, born of a freaky liaison between Zeus and Bea Arthur. Cuban vanquished the wicked Perot II and offered a new agenda to Dirk. His words had wings as he said, “Boy, your destiny lies not in the land of your ancestors, land of great warriors such as Arminius and Detlef Schempf. Stay with me and I promise, we shall bring glory upon Dallas and its inhabitants, cementing ourselves in the records for eternity.” And so Dirk’s destiny was drawn, and he would continue on the quest he set out to achieve.

The battles raged on, and the Mavs suffered hardships and defeat, with the devastating loss of the warrior and close friend of Dirk’s, known as Nash. Even though Nash returned from the underworld and exacted vengeance as the leader of a team of fiery ghosts known as the Suns of Less Than Seven Seconds, that is a tale for another time. The disheartened Mavs forged ahead, and eventually made it for the first time to the NBA Finals in the year 2006.

There, they would stand off against the deadly players of the Miami Heat, the most formidable of which was the young D-Wade, still pure and not yet corrupted. The Mavs struck true, gaining the 2-0 advantage, but would soon realize they had not embarked on the road to victory, but entered into the belly of the whale. For the Heat unleashed blow after blow, making a comeback blessed by Zeus himself, and aided by the Whistling Furies. The walls closed in on the Mavs, and defeat consumed the horizon. D-Wade would take the trophy that year, and Dirk and his Mavs would have to make the long journey home, beaten and stripped of their glory.

And so began their road of trials.

TO BE CONTINUED…