I felt as if I had been stabbed in the chest with a nine inch steak knife. I felt as if my dream-babe girlfriend dumped me for a vagabond tramp. I felt as if I showed up for school, not realizing I was only in my underwear. It was that serious, that deep, that heart-wrenching. It was the worst feeling of my life, the worst moment of my life, and I wasn’t even eight years old yet.

Sometimes, when I am alone and depressed, I watch the highlights to plunge myself further into the darkest abyss. I continue to cringe and cry as I watch my skin tense and writhe with the pain caused by the infamy of this former feeling creeping back inside my skeleton.

I’ve told myself, “respect the game” or “at least you got to witness greatness”, but it never does justice. Sometimes I dream of what could have been or would have been, if Deloris and James never created that son of theirs. None of these thoughts satisfy, only leaving a pour soul famished and in desperate need.

Sometimes, late at night, I even toss and turn within my sheets unwillingly allowing “The Shot” to be on replay in my mind. Did he push off? Did he just make a play? Was it Malone’s fault? Was it Bryons? Or did we just have to freaking play against the freaking greatest freaking basketball player to ever freaking play the game and his name was Micheal freaking Jordan? Freaking.

You must know what I am talking about now, and just like picking at a bristly scab or listening to talk radio, to review and renew all the grief and misery, here is the video. Not to remember, but to once more feel and experience the pain. I don’t show it because I love you, I do it because I am bitter.

But let me tell you, if I were in attendance that fateful June 14th day in 1998, this is what I would’ve done.

I would’ve been sitting court side, as I usually do but never have, and with two minutes to go, pulled out all my ammunition. As Jordan raced the length of the hardwood to sneak  behind Mr. Malone, I’d release the pigeons, element of surprise you see, and let them fly, disrupt, and poop all over the court. If that didn’t work, I’d whip out a duck call, stand on my seat, and never breathe for air again until His Airness himself came into the stands and pulled it from my mouth.

If by chance, Jordan did steal the ball and commenced to pace down the Delta Center with a Spalding ball grazing back and forth in his palms, I would have to revert to Plan B. Borrowing a costume from any Halloween outlet store, I’d don a teacup, or something of the sorts, and distract the heck out of Jordan’s periphials. Maybe I’d wear a neon green unitard, maybe I’d wear a red, white, and  blue speedo, maybe I would just wear a gorilla suit. I would come prepared for the best and the worst, knowing that if Jordan looked at me, he would be more disgusted than when he decided to play for the Wizards.

If, and it’s a big if, my apparel wasn’t enough, I would’ve thrown my popcorn and soda to my neighbor, and sprinted down onto the court. I wouldn’t want to harm anyone, mind you, but I would just help poor Bryon out. Double team. Hang from MJ’s arm. Pull down his pants. Ask for his autograph. Something, anything.

Obviously, time would not be stopped, no security guards would chase after me or interfere, but my plan would work. We would win that game 86-85, even the series, and I’d pack my bags to go do it all over again in Chicago for Game 7.

Soon thereafter, the Utah Jazz would be NBA Champions for the first time. I’m sure of it.