Thunder, dust, Heat, and ash in the atmosphere under a blood red moon. Battle of the Elements: The NBA Finals should be a dangerous thing of beauty to watch!

The easy breezy Lakes of old have dried up.  They have come up empty.  Fruitless and barren as the dry ground.  Spurs are rusting by the side of the road.  Discarded like a set of dull Clippers.  Those who have lost Pace have been Nixed in a matter of New York minutes.  “Bless me lucky charms,” even the luck of the Irish could not save them.

As black clouds gather like a threat from above, in rolls the Thunder.  On the stealthy feet of young lions, the Thunder has come a-roaring—to the pure ecstasy of a certain swelling sea of “fans.”

Introducing the 2012 Eastern Conference Champions! The 2012 Larry O’Brien Championship trophy never looked so good.

Still, as those rabid fake fans foam at the mouth for a savior from the heat—let’s just keep it real—from LeBron James, the Heat yet rises.

Despite best forecasts for or against the Heat’s duration, relief from the stress and intensity of the Finals remains beyond the horizon.  Out of sight like the sun.  

But fans, east and west, even fake fans, all know. 

Not for long.

Introducing the 2012 Western Conference Champions!

Full of dung and false loyalty, once again the spokespeople for Hatorade in their sweaty discomfort will kneel courtside among true fans of the west.  They will kneel bar side, wrath kindled and easily provoked.  With false confidence, one after the other, they will swig Tuesday and Thursday’s two-dollar draft specials. 

But look closely. 

Watch them dab OKC-like—I mean, OCD-like—at their leaky foreheads, fingers and eyes crossed, silently praying—nay, pleading with their unholy gods—that promotion blows in from The Almighty West.

Hate is worse for you than it is for LeBron.

When promotion comes neither from the east, nor from the west, but from above, those of us who are true fans—east and west—who have come to praise the victor—will lift not the heel, but our hands to rejoice in the true spirit of competition.

Remember the true spirit of competition?  When fake fans didn’t spit down fluorescent Hatorade on a true baller like a hard rain just for the fun of hatin’ . . . for the singular trespass of a glaring moment of self-pride . . . ad infinitum?

Good thing LeBron James, as a black male, is used to organized and institutionalized hate and abandonment by both father and angry former “owner”; can you believe that Cleveland and a remnant of fake fans all over the country are still holding a grudge?  To the king’s credit, anyone else would have already committed suicide by bridge.  You know how cowards do.

D. Wade: "You hear that?" King James: "Just a little thunder. I wouldn't worry about it."

So let it rain!  Let the Thunder boom in the heavens!  Let the Heat and humidity make their ferocious climb!  Let the hot and unstable winds of change rage!  Hail, let the hate reign!  When the Heat rises again, the souls of all haters will melt within them as suddenly as a power outage. 

Like a pudding pop.

So who will calm the storm?  Quiet the rumbling noise?  Basketball’s anointed LeBron James, Dwyane Wade, Chris Bosh?

Both seeking their first ring.

Who will finally still the throbbing waves of Heat?  Are you the spoiler of a thing of beauty, Kevin Durant? 

Who knows?

But I can hardly wait to see if Destiny will turn an unforgiving cold shoulder to the king. 

Or just maybe She will pour out her contempt upon the fresh young princes—leaving them twisting in the wind, only to wind them back toward the dust of the Oklahoma wilderness like a thundering herd driven out of the way.

You know who I got!  Who you got?