Forgive Fumbling 49er Kyle Williams? Hell No

Forgive and forget, sayeth the Lord.. Don't hold grudges. If someone does you wrong, take the high road. Forgive them. Wish them well. Extinguish that flame of hate.

Hogwash. That high-road crap doesn't work.

That's why I can't look at Kyle Williams without my blood boiling. You're probably wondering, who's he? If you're a San Francisco 49er fan, like me, you wouldn't be asking that question.  For Niner fans, Williams is infamous, heading their black lists.

He's the butter-fingered punt-returner who single-handedly ruined the team's chances to get to the Super Bowl last January, derailing an epic comeback season. He made two bone-headed fumbles in the NFC Championship game on Jan. 22 in San Francisco, paving the way for the New York Giants to win in overtime, 20-17, and move on to the Super Bowl.

Blunder #1:  Late in the fourth quarter, with the Niners nursing a 14-10 lead, he let a punt bounce off his knee, giving the Giants the ball on the SF 29. The Giants scored, took a brief lead but the Niners forced overtime. Then Williams struck again.  Blunder #2:  He fumbled a punt at the 49er 24-yard line, setting up an easy, 29-yard field goal, gift-wrapping the 20-17 victory.

What was maddening was that the Niners had been so great at avoiding mistakes. During the season, they tied an NFL record with only 10 giveaways. Even more impressive, there were zero giveaways by special teams. Williams, a 5 ft, 10-inch, 186-pound, second year-man from Arizona State, was a backup who was elevated to No. 1 punt-returner because Ted Ginn Jr. had been injured the previous week in that thrilling win over the New Orleans Saints. Clearly, inexperienced Williams crumbled under pressure. Most likely, the veteran Ginn would have maintained the special-teams' error-free record.

My problem is that I can't look at Williams and not think about those monster mistakes. Arguably, the 49ers were the NFL's best team last season, with a marvelous defense and an opportunistic offense that  scored just enough and avoided killer fumbles and picks. But those formidable units got sabotaged by that special teams' blunderer Kyle Williams.

Will Williams ever get out of my dog house? Could it be that I'll turn into a version of a neighbor I had back when I was a kid in Philadelphia. This young Italian named Rocco--I forget his last name--was a die-hard Brooklyn Dodger fan who went to New York for that famous baseball game against the Giants on Oct. 3, 1951 at the Polo Grounds. In one of the most dramatic moments in the sport's history,  the Giants' Bobby Thomson hit a ninth-inning, walk-off, three-run homer to KO the Dodgers, 5-4, and put the Giants in the World Series. It was Ralph Branca who tossed Thomson that gopher ball. From then on Jerry was haunted by that loss, hated Branca and shared his pain, again and again, with anyone who'd listen.

Am I destined to become another Jerry? I hope not. So, here goes. I forgive you, Kyle.  Forgive and forget, forgive and forget, forgive....

Damn, it's not working.

Bob Costas--That Little Weasel

First of all,  let me say how much I love the Olympics. Whenever possible, even in the middle of the night, I'm camped out in front of the TV, captivated by swimming or cycling or archery or volleyball or whatever. If it's an Olympic sport, I'm there.

But there's one drawback. As much as I love the Olympics, I actively and thoroughly loathe Bob Costas, who's the host of NBC's prime time Olympics' broadcasts. When he's on I mute the sound or change the channel. I don't look at him as a host. To me he's a pompous little weasel polluting my TV screen.

A host is supposed to be a warm, friendly presence, someone you're happy to spend time with. To me, that ain't Costas. He's totally condescending, making you feel you're lucky to be in his presence. From him you get the feeling there's a self-serving soundtrack running around in his head, featuring a line often blurted out by that braggart Ralph Kramden, played by Jackie Gleason on the 1950s' "Honeymooners" sitcom: "I'm the King and you're nothing!" Costas is one of the few guys who, when he's sitting down, you get the feeling he's strutting. He's smug, smirky and disgustingly self-satisfied.

Costas is the consummate know-it-all, the kind of guy you run from at parties, someone who knows something about everything and can't wait to let you know how much he knows. His mantra: I'm smart and you're not. He's constantly spewing facts, not to inform, but to impress.

When he does interviews you get the sense he's not trying to illuminate or get information out of his subject, but to call attention to himself. His questions are overly long, switching the spotlight to guess-who? So it's not about the interviewee, it's about Costas.

One of Costas' problems, clearly, is that he's short and hates being short. He's a walking Napoleon complex, elbowing his way through life, trying to prove he's as good as anybody, despite his lack of height. Randy's Newman's caustic classic, "Short People," was written about pompous little runts like him. There's nothing wrong with being short, unless it turns you into an insufferable blowhard.

Costas is Hollywood fake. He's a plastic-surgery nightmare, a poster boy for what you look like when your face has been under the knife too often--a male Joan Rivers. No blemishes or lines. But also no expression. He just turned 60 but from that all-dark, no-highlights hair, you'd never know it.

Sources I know at NBC say Costas is generally disliked. People don't like working with him because of his haughty attitude. Apparently Matt Lauer, the top "Today" host, isn't a Costas fan.

As I'm ending this, I'm humming the nasty "Short People" lyrics (it's one of the all time clever songs, by the way), with visions of The Weasel dancing in my head. Adding my own personal touch to the chorus: "Don't want no Costas 'round here."

Joe Paterno's Statue Speaks Out.

Penn State coach Joe Paterno isn't really dead.

Check out that statue of him outside of Beaver Stadium, the one many people want removed in the wake of the molestation scandal that put pedophile and former Penn State assistant coach Jerry Sandusky behind bars forever and soiled the image of Paterno and the great football program the late coach spent decades building. One of four administrators accused in the Freeh report of covering up Sandusky's crimes, Paterno, once a god, is now, to many, a villain, a criminal.

Listen carefully near the statue and you'll hear the coach chattering away....

"This isn't the way it was supposed to be. People who walk by looking at this statue were supposed to love me, respect me, to be sorry I'm dead, to wish I'd be around forever. All of them--everybody who walked by--used to think that. Now some of them think good thoughts about me but some of them hate me. They walk by and don't even look at me. They're disgusted with me. I hear what they're saying.

"They say I knew what Sandusky was doing to kids and I didn't do anything to stop it. They're saying I covered up what was happening, that I tried to bury it. They're saying I didn't care about those kids. But I did. I love kids. But I told people what Sandusky was doing.. I didn't condone it. He did a bad thing. He needed help. I thought he was getting it. What's important is that he stopped the bad things he was doing.  It's not my job to be a shrink or a policeman. My job was to be the football coach. My job was to protect the football program in any way I could and that's what I did.

"It used to be just a joy to watch people walk by. Now it's painful sometimes. It hurts so much sometimes. Look at the way that woman and those kids are looking at me. They're sneering at me. That kills me. They think I'm some kind of monster. Hey, you people. I'm not a bad guy.

"Remember what I did for this school. When people think of Penn State they think of football. I built that image. I brought in millions of dollars, helped so many people, helped so many kids grow into fine adults.
I did all that through football.

"My job was football. I did what I did to help the football program. A scandal would have hurt the program. I knew that. Look what's happened since everybody found out about Sandusky. It's killed Penn State. People look at the school differently. Nobody is proud to come from Penn State. Instead, they're embarrassed. I hear people talking..It breaks my heart. After all I did...

"Here come some people who're on my side. I see them a lot. They're smiling at me. Nice to see you again. Come back soon. Here come some more of my friends. So nice to see you. Keep telling people about the good things I did.

"I hear people talking about getting rid of this statue. They can't. They just can't. It's like home. It's part of me, part of Penn State. They can't do that. My people will stop that, I know it. How can you think of Penn State football and not think of me? This stadium wouldn't mean what it means if it wasn't for me.  I want people to remember me, to remember the good things I did, to honor the old coach.. I helped build this school, you know. Penn State is Joe Paterno. Joe Paterno is Penn State. God,  I love this school.

"Oh, no. Here come those guys again. They're here a lot, standing here and talking to people walking by and telling them what a rotten person I am. They keep saying a lot of lives were ruined by Sandusky because I was thinking about football first. They won't let that go. They don't understand. Aww, here it comes. No, no,  don't spit on me, don't spit on me. I'm Joe Paterno. You idiots!

"Here come some of my people. That's right, you tell those idiots that Joe Paterno is a good man. Tell them this statue should stay right where it is. Tell them I built this stadium, Tell them I'm a good man,. Tell them, tell them, tell them....






.

Jerry Sandusky--A Closeted Gay?

"It takes one to know one," said Larry R., referring to Jerry Sandusky, the former Penn State coach who'll be spending the rest of his life in prison for years of sexually abusing young boys. "He was a hard-core closet case, one of those real tortured guys. I'm sure of it. I have a feel for that because that's what I was. I actually felt sorry for him at one time. That was before all the horror stories came out."

Now partially out of the closet, Larry, who's 36, lives not far from the Penn State campus and works in the university's administration department. In Los Angeles recently, where he's open about being gay, he was visiting friends. When you reveal you're from Penn State, the conversation invariably turns to  Sandusky. Larry, though, had an interesting perspective on him.
 
On being gay in the town of State College, Pa.:
"It's a small town with a Midwestern mentality. It's not the best place to be gay. Some people are open about being gay, but you're placed in this gay box. It's OK if you're gay but it's better if you're not. Some people treat you differently when they know you're gay. If you're looking to get ahead, it's easier if you're straight. My friends know I'm gay but the people at my office don't know it. I prefer it that way."

On Sandusky:
"A lot of my friends suspected he was in the closet. When you're gay you have a sense of who else is. There are a lot of people on the Penn State campus who are in the closet. Closet cases can spot each other. But it's your business if you want to be in the closet. You don't butt in other people's business. We knew he had a family. We were guessing his family didn't know. But, again, that's his business. I had many dealings with him over the years. He was always nice and friendly, a real likable guy. But he was also a tortured soul, aching inside. It's part of being in the closet."

On being a closeted gay and a pedophile:
"I know being a pedophile and liking young boys doesn't necessarily mean you're gay. You can be straight and prey on young boys. Since Sandusky is married with a family, he's probably bisexual. But he's also a closeted gay. With him, my gaydar was screaming.

On gays and the Penn State sports department:
"There are closet gays in the sports department. I know enough people in the gay community back there to know that's the truth. There's one I know for sure, a football player. I know his boyfriend. But he wants to keep it a secret. That's his business."
   
On the closeted gays' perspective:
"I know there's a notion that gays think everybody is in the closet, that everybody is secretly gay. Sometimes you're wrong about people you think are in the closet. Your gaydar could be off. But most of the time I'm right. Me and my friends weren't wrong about Sandusky."

On Sandusky's dark side:

"I remember having drinks with some guys a few years ago and we started talking about him. One of the guys has a gay father--a closeted gay--who died some years ago and never really came out. It was really sad. He said his father was a Scoutmaster, working with young boys. He said his father was never accused of anything but he always wondered if his father did anything bad and just was never caught.

"We started talking about Sandusky because we knew he had that foundation helping young boys. We were joking about him playing around with those kids like it was something that would never happen. Just because you're in the closet and you work with young boys you don't have to be a pedophile. We joked about Sandusky a few times. I know, really sick jokes. Who knew he was really a monster?"

What Legendary Black Athletes Do Wrong

There's nothing more pitiful than a legendary athlete lingering in a sport years too long, well after the remarkable skills, once second to none, have eroded. It's painful watching some former great, deep in decline, performing below average.

When the struggling, failing icon is black, it's particularly disturbing to the black community. Some of the good will created by the icon is invariably chipped away by this ugly final chapter.

This athlete rose to become one of the all-time greats, garnering respect, paving the way for other people of color, making all blacks proud. Ideally, this icon should leave the sport with dignity, when the skills haven't gone too far south. But avoid that undignified exit.

This is an issue now because there's a black icon in trouble--tennis star Venus Williams. She and her sister Serena weren't the first big black tennis stars. That honor belongs to Althea Gibson, who won six Grand Slam singles titles in the second half of the 1950s, and Arthur Ashe, the lone black American male to win a Grand Slam singles title. One of the best female tennis players ever, Venus will be forever remembered as a key figure in bringing a black-American presence to a predominately white sport.

No question though, the 32-year-old, five-time Wimbledon champ, who's suffering from a rare, energy-sapping auto-immune disease, should retire. But she's still hanging on, a mere shell of the old Venus. Watching her performance last week at Wimbledon was distressing. She was knocked out by a nobody, 79th-ranked Elena Vesnina, in the first round. Williams couldn't move. She was late getting to balls and when she reached them her returns were underpowered, old-lady-like. Vesnina was consistently fooling Williams and on a few rallies was even cruelly toying with her. In the old days, Williams would have polished off this pesky wannabe in two sets, barely breaking a sweat.

She's following in the footsteps of some other blacks who waited way too long to retire. Center-fielder Willie Mays, one of the top 10 baseball players ever and one of the sport's first black superstars, should have quit when he was traded by the San Francisco Giants to the New York Mets in 1972. But, then in his early 40s, his speed and skills a fraction of what they used to be, he played a year and a half with the Mets. I recall seeing Mays, then in it for the money, play several times. In the outfield, the gazelle had turned into a lumbering moose. It was sad.

So were the final years of the great heavyweight champion Joe Louis. Though his prime years were in the 1930s through the mid-1940s, he was still boxing in the 1950s, hampered by slowed reflexes. To pay a huge IRS debt Louis, whose last serious fight was his loss to Rocky Marciano in 1951, kept fighting--and taking beatings. Even more humiliating, he resorted to wrestling matches from the 1950s through 1972. I actually saw one of those matches in the mid 1960s. It wasn't pretty. Talk about depressing.

So was seeing O.J. Simpson, a raging egomanaic who wouldn't admit he was finished, in his last year, 1979, when his speed was long gone. By then Simpson, whose best years were in Buffalo, was telegraphing his cuts and was too slow to turn corners. In his final game, as a San Francisco 49er (he started as a JC star in San Francisco), with Bill Walsh as coach, Simpson never even got to play. What a way for one the sport's all-time top five runners to conclude his career.

Arguably the best basketball player ever, Michael Jordan stayed one year too long, a year that was at times cringe-worthy. On the heels of all that Chicago Bulls glory, he played two years with the lame Washington Wizards. That final year tarnished his image somewhat. Driven by ego, not a need for money, Jordan, whose 40-year-old legs were largely dead, refused to believe he wasn't good enough to play any more. That year he was, at best, average and, more often, far less than that. He definitely wasn't close to the Jordan we'd come to admire.

I fear there's another casualty just around the bend--golf superstar Tiger Woods. Without Tiger, who's part black, golf would still be considered a white sport. Like Williams he's help bring an invaluable black presence to his sport. Though he's rallied somewhat this year--winning another tournament Sunday--aging Tiger's skills are slipping. In a few years, I can see Tiger, a tenacious competitor, his millions meaning nothing, drastically skidding down hill, struggling to make the cut in tournaments, embarrassing himself but refusing to retire. His identity is so glued to golf that, for him quitting, I predict, will be a messy trauma. Hope I'm wrong.

The problem with all these athletes is that their egos, critical in their drive to greatness, are still in overdrive when their careers are nearly over. Their bodies can't do it any more but their minds tune out this message. It's tough for them to accept performance declines, that the spotlight won't be on them any more, that it's time to retire and begin the next phase of their lives.

In these bleak moments, when common sense is often on hiatus, what's low on their prority list is being a symbol of black America. They're not thinking that a graceful final chapter would add gloss to their legacy and really make the black community proud. Do you think Mays had his status as a black symbol in mind when he was stumbling around the outfield as ancient member of the New York Mets?

Hopefully Venus Williams, who has plenty of money and doesn't need the bucks, comes to her senses soon--for her own good and the good of the black community. Venus, please retire before you become the tennis world's equavalent of Willie Mays.

OKC's James Harden Chokes in Finals

The main reason the Oklahoma City Thunder lost the NBA crown to the Miami Heat? That's easy. Point the finger at James Harden. Quite simply, he choked. How else can you say it?

OKC needed him and Harden, for the most part, was rattled and played badly. Named Sixth Man of the Year, he averaged 16.8 points a game during the season and belongs in the lower half of the list of the NBA's top 20 players. Without him, OKC doesn't whip the seemingly unbeatable San Antonio Spurs to reach the Finals. The team needed that kind of high-level performance from him in the Finals, but didn't get it, or anything close to it.

In most of the five Finals games, the Thunder's booming big three--Kevin Durant, Russell Westbrook and Harden--was just the big two. Word is leaking out,  from sources close to two of the players, that Harden, normally a team player, was in me-me mode, sulking because he wasn't getting the ball enough. The word was that Harden didn't appreciate Westbrook's ball-hogging and, in the locker room, made that very clear.

When the media wasn't around, report the sources, things got ugly. Harden was grumbling and grousing and, in general, acting like a jerk. OKC 's two veterans with NBA Championship rings, Derek Fisher and Kendrick Perkins, tried to soothe Harden and change his sullen attitude. But it didn't work. Harden wouldn't listen. Feeling he was frozen out of the offense, Harden was in a funk and played like it most of the time.

The Thunder won the first game---its lone victory--despite Harden being MIA. OKC really needed him in that crucial fourth game, but Harden played lousy on offense, scoring just 8 points, on 2 for 10 shooting. Also in the debit column, he had four turnovers and was in foul trouble by the third quarter. Though he did lead the team in rebounds, with 10, that wasn't much help. OKC needed his offense and it wasn't there.

There was a reason Harden became less of a factor in the OKC offense in the Finals. He kept missing open shots, even short ones. Why keep passing the ball to someone who's clanking shots? On big stage, under pressure, Harden simply didn't deliver.

In Harden's defense, you can single out something that, quite possibly, took him out of his game. He had the misfortune of being handed an impossible defensive assignment--LeBron James. For 6-5, 220-pound Harden it was a nightmare trying to stop 6-8, 260-pound James. You could say he expended so much energy on defending James that, when Harden was on offense, he was often running on empty.

The perception, though, is that Harden choked. His surly attitude in the bleak Finals didn't help. Harden's behavior, say the sources, left a sour taste in his teammates' mouths. They can forgive his performance but not his attitude. Come next season, he has some major repair work to do.

Damn That Roger Clemens

Doesn't it gall you when some obviously guilty person cleverly navigates the system and goes free?
So maybe you, like me, are irritated that nothing has happened to Roger Clemens.

In his 24-year-career, he was unquestionably a great pitcher, winning a record seven Cy Young awards, striking out over 4,000 batters, with a remarkable 3.12 earned-run average. No way he did all that without a juice boost. When he was 40 he was pitching like he was 30. Did he use steroids? Of course. Guilty. Case closed.

He was outed, about 4 1/2 years ago, in the famous Mitchell Report, baseball's investigation into steroid use. Of course, Clemens denied these charges. Lying to the media is no big deal but fibbing to Congress is a felony. After he denied these charges in a Congressional hearing in 2008 the feds, not believing the denials, went after him, dragging him into court, charging lying to Congress and obstruction of justice.

Last Monday, the jury acquitted Clemens of all charges, proclaiming there wasn't enough evidence to convict him.

What the hell?

This is the second time Clemens weaseled out of these charges. The first time, last summer, the case fell apart because of a prosecutoral blunder, when the jury saw evidence that was inadmissible. The prosecutors were crucified by the media, who claimed even rookie attorneys wouldn't make such a boneheaded mistake.

But the retrial, which ended Monday, also failed. This time the case, largely based on the testimony of two witnesses, crumbled because one of the witnesses, Clemens' close friend, pitcher Andy Pettitte, essentially changed his story. Pettitte said his memory of a key conversation with Clemens a dozen years ago was foggy. That left trainer Brian McNamee, who's credibility is shaky, as the primary witness. With reasonable doubt clouding the testimony of both witnesses, Clemens skated free again.

Clemens is acting all innocent. Don't believe him. He's as guilty of using steroids as Barry Bonds, who also juiced and escaped penalty. Sources of mine tied to underground steroid sales named Clemens back in the late 90s as a frequent user. No question he's a juicer. How else could he maintain such a high level of excellence for so many years? He's human, not from Krypton.

So Clemens gets away with it, thumbing his nose at justice. Not much we can do about it, though.

Clemens has never been a favorite of mine. He always seemed like an arrogant, selfish jerk. Souces of mine that are close to guys who've played with him confirm that he's a jerk, an egotistical diva who abused his teammates. When a good guy cheats the system, you don't feel too bad about it. But when a jackass does it....

Damn that Clemens.

A few months ago, a source close to the Yankees told me it was an open secret that Pettitte would change his testimony. Some speculated it was a payoff. Others said it was blackmail, that Clemens had something on Pettitte. But the word was that Pettitte's backtracking would severely damage the federal case. Foolishly I didn't believe any of it.

Damn that Clemens.

Tiger Not Done Yet

I know, I know. I've buried Tiger Woods many times, proclaiming him dead--Tiger, R.I.P.--when he struggled in tournaments that, in the old days, he would have won or at least come close to winning. He used to swagger, now he staggers.

A case of premature burial? Could be.

I've reconsidered.  I'm not so sure he's finished, In the next  year or two, he just might muster up every ounce of quality golf inside him, and win another major--something he hasn't done in four years. Not that it looks great for him. Age and injuries, naturally, are his enemies. He's 36--a creaky 36--roaming courses on bad knees. And he's still fiddling with his stroke. Listening to some knowledgeable golfers analyze Tiger, they go on and on about what's wrong with his swing, which is a maze of glitches.

You saw all sides of Tiger in last weekend's U.S. Open at San Francisco's Olympic Club, a notoriously treacherous course mined with obstacles, where golfers battle fog, winds and brutal slopes. In the first two rounds there were flashes of the Tiger of old. Early Saturday, he had a share of the lead. But suddenly he morphed into the Tiger of today, tumbling down the board, racking up a 75 and a four-over total. On Sunday, beginning with a barrage of bogeys, he was out of contention early, ending any chance of winning his first major since claiming the U.S. Open title at Torrey Pines in 2008. He finished a disappointing 21st.

Tiger's real problem is consistency. When he was king of the hill, through nearly all of last decade, you could count on him to win a major or two every year or at least be a major threat to win every one. Now, in a given tournament, the rotten rounds outweigh the good ones.

One thing is in Tiger's favor. There aren't any other golfers out there who are hogging the titles. True,
Tiger is no longer consistent, but who else is?. Every major is won by a different golfer. The shine-and-flounder syndrome rules. Somebody will win a major and then have trouble making the cut in other tournaments. Look at this U.S. Open. The world's No. 1 golfer, Luke Donald, didn't even make the cut. Neither did the defending champ, heralded young Rory McIlroy. Nor did Masters' champ Bubba Watson. Hall of Famer Phil Mickelson was a disaster, barely escaping a last-place finish. Overall the field is stronger than it was last decade, but there don't seem to be any budding Tigers for Tiger to worry about.

Tiger is still capable. Remember that day last March, at the Honda Classic in Florida, when he shot a miraculous closing round of 62, nearly catching McIlroy, who won by two. Still, though, his grip on the mental part of the game is shaky. We don't see that iron-willed, laser-focused Tiger all that often.

Maybe we should give Tiger the benefit of the doubt. One day, possibly at a major, he'll string together four killer rounds. It may be a long shot but there's enough solid evidence pointing in that direction.

Several friends, real golf fanatics, have wagered a few thousand each that Tiger will win a major by his 38th birthday. Though not betting the big bucks, I'm siding with them.

Bosh Factor Raises the Heat

All of a sudden, the NBA Finals, with the Miami Heat facing the Oklahoma City Thunder, doesn't look like a Thunder stroll.

After OKC, in the cozy confines of Chesapeake Energy Arena, scorched the Heat in the opening game, 105-94, it looked like Miami was cooked. What else can you conclude when a team slips behind by 13 and then roars back to win easily, leaving the befuddled opponent in the dust? Also, OKC had just polished off the San Antonio Spurs, who appeared to be the best team in the playoffs.

The consensus was that OKC, which apparently took the Heat's best shot  in the opener, would cruise at home in the second game. We were getting used to the Thunder format. They'd get off to their usual lazy start before waking up in the second half and going on a tear. Favored by five in game 2, OKC did, as expected, struggle early, trailing in the first quarter 18-2, missing 11 of its first 12 shots.  After falling into that hole, there was the Thunder's typical, furious fourth-quarter rally. This time, though, it flamed out in the final seconds, with the Heat winning a thriller, 100-96.   .

What happened?

Three things. First of all,  Chris Bosh played one of the best playoff games of his career, grabbing 15 rebounds, staking his claim on the middle, which he had timidly surrendered to the Thunder big men in the first game. LeBron James, with 32 points, and Dwayne Wade, with 24, took all the bows for that second-game win, but Bosh was the big difference. In the first game he wasn't a factor in the middle, scoring his mild ten points from the outside and getting bounced around in the paint. In that opening game, it seemed like Bosh, just back after missing three weeks with an abdominal strain, was still ailing,  On Thursday, though, he was a terror. His play in the middle created scoring opportunities for James and Wade.

Other keys to the Heat win. Rocked by the OKC fastbreak in the first game, for 24 points, Miami defended it much better in game two, allowing only four fastbreak points through the first three quarters. Also the Heat, normally a 73% free-throw shooting team, hit 22 out of 25, with James hitting all 12 of his shots, including a critical pair with 7.1 seconds left. Without that dead-eye free-throw shooting, Miami doesn't win.

What happens tonight in Miami? With Bosh playing well and Miami seemingly at full strength, the Heat doesn't look like a pushover any more. Favored by four, Miami, with home-court advantage, does have a slight edge. But the Thunder is a good road team but better, though, during the season, than in these playoffs. Overall, OKC is still the superior team and more likely to emerge as the NBA champ. But, to win, it must cure its first-quarter doldrums.

So who wins tonight? Flip a coin--too many plus factors on each side

Heat In Trouble

The Miami Heat is in big trouble. This team can't win the NBA title. The way they looked in that game 1 loss on Tuesday, in Oklahoma City's Chesapeake Energy Arena, they'll be lucky to win a game against the Thunder.

Yes, the Heat did come out strong, jumping out to a 13-point lead in the first half of Tuesday's game. But that meant nothing. Thunder watchers know the team is notoriously slow-starting, playing tentatively in the first half. In this case, since this was OKC's first NBA Finals game, jitters were a factor. In the second half, though, OKC did what it usually does--bury the opposition.

The Heat didn't hold back, blasting the Thunder, full ammunition. The Heat's biggest gun, LeBron James, had the best scoring NBA Finals game of his career, with 30. Dwyane Wade added 19. Mario Chalmers and Shane Battier combined for 29 points. Chris Bosh added 10. But all that firepower wasn't nearly enough. The Thunder's Kevin Durant exploded for 36 points. Right behind him was Russell Westbrook with 27 points and 11 assists. But nobody else had a great game. James Harden scored only 5 and Serge Ibaka didn't block a shot. Nick Collison, though, did get 10 boards. While this was, overall, a subpar Thunder game, OKC still rolled over the Heat. 105-94. Imagine what will happen if the Heat plays well. You know Harden, after that lousy effort, is due for a big game.

The Heat is limited by health problems. Mainly, Wade is very quietly ailing. He's not saying what's wrong but, according to insiders, he's far from 100%. Bosh isn't fully healed either. He's playing outside, shooting jumpers, rather than roaming the middle, where's he most effective. James can't do it by himself. Wade and Bosh have to seriously amp up their games. So do the role players.

 A ferocious effort by the Heat might win the team a game or two at home. But Miami whipping the Thunder, an excellent road team, and winning the NBA title in this seven-game series, just isn't going to happen.