Even the Mavericks’ eventual victory seemed to me a grim thing hammered out of Teutonic ambition on a dark mountainside. As unsmiling as anything from Wagner, this was the championship Ring Cycle, with Dirk Nowitzki gripped in the irons of Fate, hollow-eyed and mad with fever, hauling Wotan and Brünnhilde and Dwyane Wade up and down the court for eternity.
One of the great Finals series in memory, it made plenty of people happy — but seemed itself to be made entirely of ambitions born from unhappiness.
LeBron James was only a footnote in that larger epic. A cautionary aside. A stage direction. The vampire press will get that wrong, too.
Haha.