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NBA Finals: No feelings for you!

Maybe it’s that Father’s Day is nearly upon us, but there’s one memory about watching a sporting event with my Pop that used to really bunge my boxers: when he’d watch but wouldn’t root. (“Son, I’m just hoping for a competitive game…”)

Really?! Can you watch a sporting event and not have a rooting interest? Sit down on the couch or in a bleacher seat and not pull for either team? I mean, isn’t that what separates the game experience from watching the symphony, for example?

If so, then this NBA Finals matchup is quickly becoming yet another example of how I’m morphing into my father. Heck, after two games, I might as well have a ticket to the opera.

Oh, I’m watching and appreciating the NBA Finals. In fact, I consider it appointment viewing. One of the few viewing experiences left that I deem above and beyond the DVR.

But if you hooked up a heart monitor, I’d need the paddles. Ask me to feel something for either the Heat or the Spurs – I’d flat line. (“Clear!”)

Simply put, I still can’t bring myself to pull for the Heat or Spurs. In Miami, they assembled a dream team. As opposed to being built and earned through acumen and sweat equity, the Heat were more colluded, conspired and premeditated. Where’s the true accomplishment in that?

As for the Spurs, well, residing here in the A-Z the past two decades guarantees automatic apathy, if not outright disgust. That goes unsaid, right?

I mean, cheering for San Antonio would be akin to cheering for the IRS. What? Would you actually pull for either one to take more from us? No chance.

So, again, I just can’t do it. Cheer, that is. Team LeBron versus Team Antiquated is compelling theater, no doubt. (Note: you ever notice how when the Spurs win — they’re “veterans.” When the Spurs lose, their roster is comprised of “old guys.”)

It’s like when you were a kid at the dinner table and Mom orders you to make a choice: eat the cauliflower or the Brussels Sprouts. “Period, young man!”

Alas, incapable of making a choice, you just stare at the dinner plate in horror. And stare. And stare…