I've just finished watching a barnburner of a game between the Pistons and San Antonio. (Alas, San Antonio won in overtime by a point.) I caught the last quarter or so after getting into Toleod around eleven; I flipped between the basketball game and a discussion on Charlie Rose on North Korea, because I'm dorky that way.

But it got me to thinking about when I wouldn't miss a minute of the NBA finals for anything. When no one would. The 1991, 1992, 1993, '96, '97 and '98 finals.

You, of course, know who I'm talking about.

But it wasn't just Michael Jordan. He was the raison d'etre for the finals being so big, but it was the whole atmosphere. The Zen of Phil Jackson. The always-awesome, always lump-in-your-throat inducing intros of Bob Costas. (How he kept coming up with new and different ones, I'll never know.) That cool theme music of the NBA on NBC. The lights in Chicago Stadium going out.

"Aaaaaand nowwwww...the starting lineup for your Chicago Bulls..." Ray Clay, over the song "Sirius." That song still gives me goosebumps, and makes me want to turn the lights out.

And, of course, there was Michael Jordan. Who always pulled out the right move at the right time. Who made it look easy, and made it fun to watch. Who ended it one June night with one last dose of magic, barely looking as he sunk the winning shot. What a way to go out.

It couldn't last. But, wow, what memories.