Benny Jay: Here Come The Hawks

At the bowling alley, they got the Blackhawks game on TV -- all five of them, to be exact. It's game six of the playoff series against Vancouver. If the Hawks win, they move on to the next round.

I couldn't care less. I wouldn't even be paying attention except there's a dozen or so Hawks fans hanging around the bar, making so much noise.

I stand between Bob and Pat -- two stone-cold, crazy Hawks fans. They're standing still as statues. Eyes stuck on the tube. I'm not even sure they're breathing.

I turn to Norm. "They never put the Bulls on all the TVs," I say.

"Don't hate," he says.

"I'm just saying...."

"No, you're hating...."

I watch the Hawks skate round and round and round. Truth is, Norm's right. I am hating. I know I should be happy that they're doing so well after so many dismal seasons. But, hell, I don't care about the Blackhawks. Don't know any of their players. Can't remember the name of their coach. And my not caring has turned to hate cause I'm jealous. Every one's paying attention to the Hawks and every one's forgotten about the Bulls. I mean, this is even weirder than my normal weirdness, which is pretty weird.

"I used to like the Hawks," I tell Norm.

"Yeah...."

To prove it, I sing a snatch of their ancient fight song: "Here come the Hawks, the fighting Black Hawks/take the attack and we'll back you Black Hawks...."

Norm's laughing.

"But then they dumped Bobby Hull," I say.

"That was forty years ago, dawg...."

"Yeah, but he was the Golden Jet, man -- they dumped the Golden Jet...."

"You gotta get over that shit, dawg...."

"I hope they lose...."

"Aw, that's terrible, Benny. How can you say that, dawg? That don't make no fuckin' sense. They Chicago, Benny. As long as they from the Chi, you got to be goin' for them...."

"I can't...."

"Try...."

"Okay, man -- for you...."

So I try. I really do. I ask Bob for the name of the guy who scored a goal and he says that it's Pat Kane. I ask him who's the goaltender and he tells me -- something. I don't know. The name's a jumble of vowels. When the Hawks tie the game at five, I cheer. But it's an empty cheer. I just don't care.

I'm starting to worry about Pat. He looks pale. I'm watching him watching the Hawks and I'm thinking -- so this is what I must look like when I'm watching the Bulls on TV. All hunched over, a nervous wreck. Pat's a grown man, too -- past fifty. He's wearing a team jersey with Pat Kane's name an number on the back. Man, he's got it bad -- maybe even worse than me. At least I never wear a Derrick Rose team jersey.

Bored with the game, I go to the bar and order a coke. I page through the Sun-Times that's lying on the counter. I'm looking for a story about the Bulls -- any story will do. Turn page after page. Nothing. Nothing but Hawks this and Hawks that. I don't want to hate, but....

Roar! I look up to see the Hawks have scored. They're up six to five. Folks at the bar are cheering. Except for Pat. He looks even worse than before. Lips clenched. Hands tight. Whiter than white. I recognize the symptoms. I know what he's thinking -- he's dreading the worst. He's thinking if he cheers too soon -- if he counts those proverbial chickens before they proverbially hatch -- he'll blow it for his boys. As though anything he does can ever impact the game. I can related. If it were the Bulls, I'd be thinking the same stupid thing....

"Maybe you should take a walk," I suggest to him.

"Fuck," he says.

Clearly, he's in no mood for conversation. "They're gonna win," I tell him.

"Shut the fuck up -- don't jinx `em...."

"What do you mean jinx them? I got nothing to do with them. They're up one and they're playing at home. They have the home-court advantage...."

"Ice," says Bob.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Home ice advantage -- it's hockey, not basketball, dickwad...."

"Ice, court -- whatever...."

I walk to the jukebox. The younger guys have taken it over, playing shitty `80s rock. Is it just me or did the `80s suck when it came to rock `n roll?

Another roar. Hawks score -- up two. Vancouver looks devastated.

"It's over," I tell Pat.

"Not yet," he insists.

The game ends. The bar erupts. Bob and Pat are pounding each other on the back and talking about the next big series.

Aw, hell, it looks like it's gonna be at least another two weeks of this crap. If I were a drinking man, I'd have to have another....

Benny Jay: Fit Me For A Straitjacket

I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.

As you may recall, last time I didn't watch it. This time I'll watch it but I won't care. I'm serious. I'll be indifferent. I'll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch up on "Clockers," Richard Price's novel. Every now and then I'll look up just to, you know, check on the score....

I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I'm too excited to read. I'm on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I'm telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I'm working the refs, telling them to call it both ways -- "he hacked, ref -- he hacked" -- and not just against the Bulls....

I'm alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she's sleeping....

Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he's not watching, like he's got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he's watching. I bet he just wants me to think he's not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn't care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn't want me to know that he's as big a loser as I am. But, I'm on to you, Milo. I know you're watching. Oh, yes, I know....

At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open -- and I mean, absolutely all alone -- behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him -- of all people -- open for a three?

That's it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he's one of those guys who doesn't care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I'm really not some weird guy who's obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am....

On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that's what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don't sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature....

When I get home, I think -- I'll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that's good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby' Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby -- cause he's fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him -- the big fat pig. What can I say -- it's the playoffs....

It's a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I'm Derrick Rose and I've just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we -- the Bulls -- are running away with the game. I know I need help. I'm sure there's a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby....

Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who -- no! -- is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He's open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open -- again? Noooooooo....

In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can't bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I'll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I'll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can't believe I didn't think of this before. And so I go -- in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out....

Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three -- good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime....

The Bulls score first. They score again. There's a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span....

Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston....

I jump up and down. I sing, "Go Bulls, go." A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they're finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.

"Finally, Joakim," the announcer is saying, "what about these fans?"

"Off the hook," says Joakim. "Off the hook."

If he only knew -- lord, lord, lord, if he only knew....

Letter From Milo: Baby's Dirty Little Secrets

My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.

Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn't let it go. I had to get back at her. I'd show the bitch who's who and what's what around here. The problem was that I couldn't think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.

When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, "I don't care what you write about, just don't write about our sex life."

Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I'm going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you'll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I'm going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I'll show you.

I'll never forget this one time she.... Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy's reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy's name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife's inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she.... Hold it, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I'm giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.

Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn't realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I'm a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.

I couldn't remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, "Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?"

"Why?"

"I've got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you - heh, heh - hit me with a skillet or something."

"No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop."

"Darn."

Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here's the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time.... Shit, I've got to answer the phone. Be right back.

That was Benny Jay. For those who don't know, Benny is a Bulls fan. Fan may be the wrong word. Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about Derrick Rose's inexperience, Ben Gordon's hot and cold streaks, and John Salmons's injury. Benny remembers the Bulls' glory days when Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We've got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of raised banners and Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.

Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I'm working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.

Enough's enough. It's time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha - it'll serve her right.

Wait! The phone's ringing again. Be right back.

That was Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I've used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn't pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I'll fix my wife's wagon at another time. Stay tuned.

Benny Jay: Cell Phone Play by Play

I wasn't gonna watch game one of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series. After the Bulls looked awful losing the last game of the regular season to the dreadful Toronto Raptors, I sent Milo an e-mail announcing that I was officially through with these worthless bums -- forever!

Plus, I had a track meet to attend. So I'm sitting on the aluminum bleachers of Hanson Stadium watching the 4/200 meter relay when Norm calls.

"You watching this?" he asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "How bad are we losing?"

"We're not losing -- we're winning. In Boston -- we're beating them in Boston, Benny...."

"No...."

"Yes...."

"How much?"

"Up three...."

"Oh, my God -- call me back. Keep me posted!"

A few minutes later, he calls back: "We're down one. Nine seconds left. Derrick at the line...."

"Oh, my God!"

"What?" says Daddy Dee, who's sitting next to me.

"Rose on the line," I tell him.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" says Norm.

I interpret this as a made free throw. "Bulls tied it," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Whee! Yeah!" says Norm. "Derrick Rose...."

I interpret this as another made free throw. "Bulls up one," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Celtics call time out," says Norm. "I'll call you back...."

A few minutes later, my cell phone vibrates. "Yeah?" I say.

"Damn," says Norm.

"No," I say.

"What happened?" asks Daddy Dee.

"Noah fouled Pierce with two seconds left," says Norm.

"No!" I say.

"Yes!" says Norm.

"Damn!" I say.

"What?" asks Daddy Dee.

I fill him in: "Noah fouled Pierce. Two seconds left. Pierce on the line. If he makes `em both, the Bulls lose...."

"Tied," says Norm.

"He made the first," I tell Daddy Dee.

"He missed," screams Norm. "He missed! The Truth missed, Benny!"

"Overtime," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Keep me posted," I tell Norm.

My phone vibrates -- Norm again: "We're up two in the OT...."

"Just stay on the line," I say. "I can't take this anymore. I need the play by play...."

"Okay, Rose has the ball," says Norm. "No. Agh! Ugh! Man...."

"What? What? What?"

"Agh!"

From the anguished tone of his wail, I gather something bad has occurred.

My phone vibrates. It's my sister. "Hold on, Norm -- I got another call. I'll put you on hold." I switch to my sister. "Are you watching this?" she asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "But I got my friend on the other line giving me the play by play. What's going on?"

"Well, there's three minutes and four seconds left and the Bulls have the ball. Now it's three minutes and three seconds, three minutes and two seconds, three minutes and one second...."

"Stop counting down the time -- tell me what's going on!"

"Three minutes left...."

Oh, brother. I love her dearly, but she's the absolute worst at play by play. I switch back to Norm. Apparently, he never knew I had him on hold cause he's in the middle of yelling: "Damn, Benny...."

I'm just about bellowing: "What? Is it good? Is it bad? What? What?"

"You got to calm down," Daddy Dee tells me.

"Tyrus hit a jumper -- Bulls up one," says Norm. "Celtics call time out. They got a last chance!"

"Call me back," I say.

I watch the runners. I hunch over and remind myself to stay calm. I'm surrounded by people and I don't want them to think that I'm any weirder than they probably already think I am. I cross my fingers. I actually cross my fingers. I have officially lost my freaking mind.

The phone vibrates. It's Norm. He has this tone of wondrous satisfaction: "We won, Benny...."

"Yeah?"

"Thirty-six points and eleven assists for Derrick Rose, Benny. I told you, dawg -- Dee Rose is the real deal...."

The phone vibrates. It's my sister. "They did it; they did it," she says.

"I know, I know...."

The phone vibrates. It's Young Ralph: "Did you see this?"

"No, I was at a track meet...."

"Tyrus Thomas won it with a jumper -- Tyrus Thomas!"

Daddy Dee's phone rings. It's his son, Jordan. "Yeah, I know," I hear Daddy Dee saying. "Hold it." He tells me: "Jordan says the Bulls are gonna sweep `em!"

All around me I heard the sounds of people officially jumping on the Bulls bandwagon, as calls come in telling people the unbelievable news: Bulls win! Bulls win!

My phone vibrates. It's Milo: "Did you see this?"

"No, I'm at a track meet. But I heard."

He can't resist. He says: "Why would you care, Benny? I thought you were through with the Bulls -- remember?"

Ha, ha, ha. Funny man -- a regular George Carlin. As the gun goes off for the start of another race, I tell him: "Well, Milo, I guess I changed my mind."

Benny Jay: Life With Me

My wife and I are eating dinner in the bar of a restaurant that's got the corner TV turned to the Bulls game.

I'm talking with my wife, sneaking peaks at the game and eating a hamburger. All at once! Talk about multi-tasking.

The only trouble is that these two guys are sitting between me and the TV. They're wearing secret smiles and are leaning over the table so their heads are close together like they're sharing some delightfully intimate conversation. Right away I suspect their enjoying some sort of illicit rendezvous.

Not that I care -- really. But I can tell they're a little uneasy with me staring their way. Every time they look up they see me looking at them. Only I'm not looking at them. I'm looking at the Bulls -- who are losing, by the way. Can't this team ever win a game!

I want to tell them that I don't care about their rendezvous. It's just that they're in my line of vision so I can't watch the Bulls game without looking like I'm watching them. I wish they weren't sitting there. As a matter of fact, I have half a mind to ask them to switch tables....

Suddenly, I feel one of those uncontrollable urges that comes over me from time to time to have a conversation -- any conversation -- about the Bulls. So I ask my wife: "Who's your favorite Bull?"

I can tell she's thinking it over. She's probably trying to remember the name of one -- just one -- player so she can answer the question.

Finally, she says: "Noah."

I'm impressed! Joakim Noah. What an esoteric choice.

"Why?" I ask.

"I like his hair," she says.

Ah, yes -- the curly, shoulder-length hippie look.

"Okay," I say, "who's your second-favorite Bull?"

Pause.

"I don't like the Italian...."

"The Italian?"

"Yeah, you know -- Noce or whatever...."

"You mean, Andres Nocioni?"

"Yes, him. He plays too frantically...."

Now I'm really excited. I mean, even though she didn't answer my question, it's like we're actually having a real conversation about the Bulls.

"Well, he's Argentinian, not Italian. And he doesn't play for the Bulls anymore -- they traded him to Sacramento. But, okay, you don't like him. But who's your second favorite Bull?"

Long pause. I mean, five seconds at least. Then she says: "That new guy -- from Chicago...."

"What's his name?"

"I forget...."

"I'll give you a hint -- it's a flower...."

She's looking at the menu. Then she looks up and says: "Should I get dessert?"

The abrupt change of topic catches me by surprise. "What?" I ask.

"Should I get dessert?"

"Nah, we got cookies at home...."

I figure we've exhausted all she's got to say about the Bulls for the night. So I go back to trying to avoid eye contact with the guys at the next table, while sneaking looks at the game.

We pay the bill and gather our coats.

"Rose," she says.

"Huh?"

"Derrick Rose -- that's my second favorite Bull...."

Benny Jay: Dinner With Dad

For my wife's birthday, we eat at an Italian restaurant.

My father's feeling good. Apparently, he drank a scotch (or two) at home before he got here, where he orders a Manhattan. That makes two drinks -- or three -- but who's counting.

My wife's drinking a Cosmopolitan, my mother got a Manhattan, and my sister's sipping wine. I'm nursing a beer. In a family of serious drinkers, I'm known as the wimp.

It's noisy in the restaurant. We have to speak up to be heard.

Two guys walk in. My sister leans toward me. "Isn't that Eddie Arruza?" she says.

"Who?"

"Eddie Arruza -- the TV guy from Channel 11...."

I act like I'm too cool to care about a TV personality: "I dunno...."

She's annoyed: "You didn't look...."

My father orders a second Manhattan. My wife mentions that we recently saw "Macbeth." My father starts quoting Lady Macbeth -- at 83, he's got this amazing ability to quote from songs, plays and poems: "I have given suck, and know how tender `tis to lose the babe that milks me; I would while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums and dashed the brains out...."

He gets really loud when he gets to the part about nipples, boneless gums and dashed-out- brains.

My sister tells him he's talking too loud.

"What did you say?" he says.

"You're being obnoxious," she says.

He puts his hand behind his ear, like he's straining to hear her: "What was that word?"

"Obnoxious...."

"Oh," he says. "Obnoxious. Say it clearly: Ob-nox-ious...."

"Stop yelling," she says.

"I'm not yelling...."

"You're talking too loud...."

"I don't yell -- I project. There's a difference."

Emily, the waitress, stops by to say hello. She's a voice major at Northwestern University. She tells us she'll be performing in an upcoming student opera production.

"Will you be singing, `Una Furtiva Lagrima'?" asks my dad.

She smiles. Months ago she played the role of Adina in a student production of "The Elixir of Love." Adina doesn't sing "Una Furtiva Lagrima," and my father knows it. But it doesn't matter -- cause he enjoys asking her that question.

"I'm not a tenor," she says. Which is what she usually says.

"What's the name of that song?" I ask my father.

"Una Furtiva Lagrima -- a furtive tear," says my father. He explains that in the opera a young man is afraid of women so he drinks a bottle of wine -- the elixir of love -- that emboldens him. His eyes filling with tears, my father starts singing: "Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suio spunto...."

"Dad, stop," says my sister. "You're too loud...."

It's true. He's very loud. But no one seems to notice. 'Cause it's so loud in the restaurant.

I make my way to the bathroom. I see the man my sister thinks is Eddie Arruza. I don't want my sister to know I'm looking, yet I'm curious. Is it him? I sneak a quick look. But his head is down and I can't be sure.

On the way back, I sneak another look. But it's dark in the restaurant. I keep looking. Don't see where I'm going. Oops, I walk into a waiter. "Sorry," I say, "my fault...."

Back at the table, my father, well into his third drink, is back to Lady Macbeth and her nipples.

We drive to my parent's house to give my wife her presents. My dad builds a fire. My sister puts on a CD of big band songs. Frank Sinatra's singing with Tommy Dorsey.

Sitting on the sofa, watching the fire, I suddenly remember -- the Bulls are playing the Mavericks and it's on TV. I look at my watch. The game must be nearly over. I wonder who won. I sneak out of the living room and into the side room where they keep their TV. I turn on the set, but keep the volume low. My father can't stand the sound of sports on TV.

Perfect timing. There's about three seconds left in regulation. The score's tied. Derrick Rose has the ball. He cuts by his man. Drives to the basket. Jumps. Turns. Shoots. Off the rim! Overtime. "No," I wail. "Where's the foul...."

I turn off the TV. No sense in watching. I just know they'll lose. Damn!

I return to the living room. My wife and my mother -- who's beyond 80 -- are dancing the jitterbug to Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." My mom's leading. She twirls my wife, like they're Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

"Overtime," I announce. Like anyone cares.

I watch my mom dance with my wife. You never grow old in my father's house.

Benny Jay: Beating The Cold

(authored Thursday, January 16, 2008)

I get a call from Big Jeff, an old friend, who says he's got a ticket for me and my younger daughter for tonight's Bulls-Cavs game

So we drive south on Ashland, and hook up with Jeff and his son, Sammy, who's even bigger than Jeff, at the Billy Goat's on Madison Street. And we march through the Siberian freeze to the United Center. Only, like a dummy, I don't fully button my jacket. So there's this tiny piece of my ear exposed to the cold. And it stings like it's on fire. And I'm wondering how long can three blocks really be?

As we climb to the nose-bleed seats in the upper balcony, Jeff and I agree it will only be a quarter - maybe two - before the Cavs, who have the best record in the NBA, put the Bulls away. We predict LeBron James will score forty - at least - and the only Bull worth watching will be Derrick Rose....

But to our surprise, the Bulls come back after the Cavs break out strong, and it's with Kirk Hinrich -- just back from injury -- leading the charge. Not Rose -- he's on the bench. They're down two at half and tied after three, and it's back and forth in the fourth. And Tyrus Thomas -- that's right, Tyrus Freaking Thomas -- blocks LeBron's shot. Then he blocks another. The Bulls fall behind, but Rose hits two free throws to bring them back. And LeBron, covered tightly by Luol Deng, settles for a long jumper at the buzzer -- he should drive, but I think he doesn't want to go anywhere near Tyrus -- and the shot rims out.

In the overtime, Rose takes over. He races by Cavalier guards, drives the lane, draws the interior defenders and kicks a bullet pass to Deng, wide open in the corner. Bang -- Deng buries the three. And then they do the same play again a few moments later. Only this time Deng's shot bounces off the rim, flies in the air, and falls through the net. Hey, sometimes even the Bulls get lucky.

The walk back to Billy Goat's doesn't seem like a hike through the Arctic. The wind's not so strong. Sammy says he thinks it actually got a little warmer. I say it just feels that way 'cause my boys beat the best team in the NBA....