When Adversity Comes in the Form of a Flopping Ginobili

It’s a tough little aftermath for Utah post Game 4: but it’s just a fact of life that the waves of sympathetic press will always be centred around whether Lebron is getting his fair share of calls, leaving virtually nothing for what was an industrious Jazz squad. I use the past tense, because as of last night, the Western Conference series is over. You had a great run Utah and this is the first time in the history of the sport I can this, but I’ll be sad to see a Jazz team go (Deron Williams, salute!)…

However, (overworked cliches, aside) the Playoffs is basketball's war of attrition. The unwritten rules go like this:

• It doesn’t matter if you are getting absolutely hosed by the refs…on your home court, even. Reminded me of a quote from another message board: "I knew it was going to be a bad night for somebody when I saw two refs with greasy heads."
  
• It doesn’t matter that your opponents will get an ungodly 25-2 free throw advantage in the fourth quarter, including what should be a record number of fouls called in the act of shooting a perimeter jumper and, just to rub it in, the refs allow offensive goaltending for the other team’s foreigners
• After enduring a most recent game with foul trouble, it doesn’t matter that Tim Duncan will never, ever get a foul called against him this time around - regardless how many times poor Paul Millsap lays prone on the ground
• And it really doesn’t seem to matter that Manu will get away with push offs, clearing-out albows and, most bizarrely, consistently indulged by the referees for only what can be considered “court theater” (how could they do that to Fish (yeah...he's 'Fish' now)...don't they remember the story about his infant daughter?)

"Ok...uh, son...you standing up now. They gave the other team three techs, already - Fin hit all of them...you hear that, son? Cuz...ummm, we kinda need the ball...so, uh...we can start playing again...son...you still with me, son!!?"

As a team, your players absolutely have to hit wide open jumpers down the stretch when you are only behind by 2 to 3 possessions’ worth of points. Especially on your home court. That’s it.

When you play the Spurs, you know it’s going to be a mental test more than anything else. It will never be pretty. The only hope for a truly competitive Final is for Detroit to man up and start playing at a high level. At the very least, you figure the Pistons will get some respect from the refs, because it’s odd witnessing this bizarre transition from special officiating treatment for the superstar to the breaks being given to the better or more established team. It’s as if that team’s track record for getting the job done or a specific player’s contextualized reputation (Bowen: supreme team defender) warrants calls or the occasional strategic no-call: so to that end, the Pistons better really step their game up, because perception appears to be an invaluable means.

I don’t think it would be out of pocket to say it seems like a whole nation of basketball fans desire the vanquishing of this precision-oriented, foul tactic using, whiney robotic-superstar led scourge that the Spurs have become. Short of anointing San Antonio as the NBA’s version of the old school Raiders (the matching colour schemes seems almost apropos), we’ll just leave it at the bad guys really do wear black.