My Mavs beaten by team of scrubs

Editor's Note: This is the fifth in a series of postcards that Daily Princetonian sports staff writers wrote about their experiences in the wide world of sports this summer. Keep reading through the next few weeks for more dispatches from across the country and around the world.

DALLAS, TX. - "We Believe, We Believe!" I sang to myself as I drove towards my friend's lovely 50-inch flat-screen television. The time didn't matter, the date didn't matter — what was important, was this: that night was the night of fateful Game Six.

I was trying to get the feeling right for the evening, because, as all hardcore sports fans know, taking even the smallest of measures can accomplish a great deal. Gone was my "Nowitzness" t-shirt, worn every game night since Game Three. Gone was my bubbling confidence, my cocky, know-it-all nature that told me the Miami Heat was nothing but a sorry Eastern Conference excuse for a basketball team.

To be blunt, I had to get it back. And so I wore the clothes that I wore the night of Game Two. I played the right music, I ate at the right joint. And, just like the Red Hot Chili Peppers tune "We Believe" said, I believed. I still do.

It wasn't enough.

I watched as my beloved Dallas Mavericks came out with a vengeance, setting Dirk Nowitzki up for one of those beautiful step-back fadeaway jumpers at the top of the key. He didn't disappoint either, and when the net swished, I felt that things would right themselves on that evening.

We were cruising, yet at the end of the half we were only up by a few. I was unsettled; how did Dwyane Wade pull that one over my eyes? The situation was eerily reminiscent to that of Game Three, when the Mavs hung in there for the first half, then rolled to a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter.

Unfortunately, history failed to repeat itself. No miraculous comeback materialized at the end of the fourth, with the Mavs trailing by three, the ball in Jason Terry's hands after Wade missed two crucial free throws to seal the deal.

It wasn't meant to be. Terry's desperate attempt at the buzzer clanked off the rim, the Heat jumped in unison and my worst nightmare was realized: A team of scrubs undid the all-star cast of talent assembled in those green and blue uniforms.

Most people laugh when I say this, but it's true — I was depressed for about the next three weeks. At first, I was angry. I mean, how did Wade get so many foul shots? Then I just became upset and disappointed, unable to come to grips not only with my team's horrific loss but also the fashion in which we lost. It got me thinking — why did we really lose? The question plagued me throughout the summer.

I think I have found the answer.

I must contend that something is amiss in basketball nation. The Heat had a playmaker, but the wrong kind of playmaker. The numbers don't lie — look at the number of foul shots that Wade took. Ninety-seven over a six-game series, with 75 makes means an average of 12.5 points per game off of foul shots. And, by the way, one of Wade's first NBA records will be the number of foul shots attempted over a six-game playoff series. Yep, that's right, 97 is the most ever (and almost 50 more than he took in any other six-game series in the playoffs). As a team, the Heat took 207 foul shots to Mavericks' 155.

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Not that it's Wade's fault — he did what he had to do to win, and for that, I admire him. What's really wrong is the NBA's philosophy on how games are played. These days, having a guy who can drive into the lane, throw up a circus shot and draw minor contact is more important than a guy who can knock down open jumpers.

That's not right, and that's why I got depressed about the NBA playoffs. Basketball has increasingly become about isolation plays and raw athleticism, not the teamwork and fundamental skills that it was supposedly built on.

Look at the Americans' three-point shooting against Greece in the World Championships: 32 percent. It was consistently sub-par, a result that has to be altogether more unsettling because of what we learned in our performance at the 2004 Athens Olympics. We couldn't shoot the ball then, and when it came down to it, we couldn't really shoot the ball this time either. When the United States finally ran into a quality team that was well-coached and had sufficient talent to challenge them, the team couldn't make shots. Not even with Carmelo Anthony, Dwyane Wade and King James on the floor at once. The face of U.S. basketball got stuffed.

Which brings me to my point about the NBA finals. Do I think the Heat were the best team? Nope. Did they deserve to win? Yes. Did the Heat win by playing the game the way it's supposed to be played? No.

If you call Jordan to mind, you conjure up images of his amazing shots—not his reckless drives into the lane whereupon he hopelessly throws the ball up at the glass. You think about his pull-up buzzer-beater with a 100-degree fever against the Utah Jazz to force a Game Seven, not his drive that ends with a layup bouncing harmlessly against the backboard and a whistle call.

The Mavs have only themselves to blame, and it's clear that they lost control of the series at the end of Game Three. But I firmly believe that the Mavericks should have won the pivotal Game Five. What people won't remember is the amazing fadeaway jumper that Nowitzki drained, with ice pulsing in his veins. What they will remember is Wade's circus shot after drawing minimal contact underneath the basket, netting him not a bucket but two free throws for the win.

Give Wade credit, he made the free throws. But he didn't make the shot. The saying goes, let the players decide the game, not the refs.

The NBA needs to realize, and quickly, that we've lost sight of how to play our own game. Unless we want our performance in the Beijing Olympics to mirror our dismal defeat in Athens, we need to change the way we promote and view the game. And it can start right here at home, with the NBA.

Can it be done? Sure. Will it? I can't say for certain.

But I believe.