After an hour of fruitlessly typing sentence after sentence, and trying to come up with a coherent thought, a logical game plan, or some more sage advice, all I’m left with is batshit lunacy.  I don’t have the basketball IQ to dissect the Spurs game plan or suggest adjustments for Los Suns.  I don’t have the blind faith to simply blurt out "The darkest hour is just before dawn, guys!  An injured, cornered animal is the most dangerous kind!  The Spurs need to watch out!  We’re gonna do this!  Woo hoo!"  Conversely, I’m not ready to throw in the towel.  I refuse to give up on this team. 

They’ve been outcoached, outgunned, outmanned and outrun so far in this series.  There is no logical reason to think they will not get run out of the building on their own court today.  But they are my beloved Purple Gang, the only alleigiance outside of  family and country that I’ve held steadfastly for my entire life.

So, what will I do?  I will put on my purple and orange fatigues and march on.  Pickett’s charge or Sherman’s march?  Don’t know.  Don’t care.  My Suns, right or wrong.  It’s gameday.  And for at least 2 and half more hours, I’ve got to believe.

So I’m burning a little incense and offering a prayer not just to the spirits of Kevin Johnson, Charles Barkley, Tom Chambers, Alvan Adams, Paul Westphal, Walter Davis, Cotton Fitzsimmons, Connie Hawkins, Jerry Colangelo, Joe Proski and Dick Van Arsdale, but to Mark West, Eddie Johnson, T.R. Dunn, Jeff Cook, Kyle Macy, Alvin Scott, Nick Vanos, Larry Nance, Danny Ainge, James Edwards, Gar Heard, and Maurice Lucas and scores of others.  I’m invoking history in the name of making history, or at least extending the season by one more game.  I’m not ready to go home yet. 

Say your prayers, Suns fans.  It’s all we’ve got.