Dirk's rough night

The Miami Heat took game four of the NBA Finals against Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavericks last night in pretty convincing fashion, beating them by 24. I was initially going to write that the Heat "pile-drived" the Mavs, but I realized that was what Jerry Stackhouse tried to do to Shaq.

So what changed in this series? Three days ago--heck, through 7/8 of game three--the Mavs looked unbeatable. They transformed from a splendid basketball juggernaut into the Washington Generals in the span of about 4.5 quarters.

What happened? Is home field advantage really that powerful?

Yep. I blame room service.

You might have noticed that Dirk Nowitzki played like crap last night. You might have also noticed that he shot an Antoine Walkeresque 2-14 from the floor. (This is the kind of statistically-devoted box-score checking that we here at RallyKiller are known for). And if you were paying attention in the days leading up to the game, you probably heard him griping repeatedly, and to several different media outlets, about the late night he had after their game three choke job. Apparently the Miami hotel's service staff wasn't quite up to par.

"Obviously, last night wasn't easy to sleep on. It didn't help that the room service took about three hours," said Dirk, who no doubt ordered a pint of ice cream to wallow in.

Two days after the room service debacle, Dirk had his miserable performance. The Mavs came out a bit awkward and faded down the stretch, scoring just seven points in the fourth quarter. Weary from a late night bereft of Ben & Jerry's? I have no doubt.

The room service man is the real hero of this game. I can picture the bellhop assigned to deliver the food: he's 19 years old, his greasy blonde hair is matted under a jaunty little hat, and he's got a James Posey jersey on underneath his hotel uniform.

NBA players use pseudonyms when they check into hotels, but when our little bellhop sees an order from "Dirk Hasslehoff" (staying next door to "Asonjay Errytay") he knows what he needs to do. His entire tip--nay, his very minimum-wage job--may ride on delivering this food, but that pales in comparison to the Heat. Goddammit, his team's season is on the line.

So our hero plays some Game Boy, takes a nap, and then finally delivers Dirk's food three hours late, interruping him as he miserably watches tape of the German soccer team rallying over Costa Rica (now there's a team that can finish a game). By this point, the seven-foot, bearded Maverick is frustrated, hungry, and certainly in no condition to rebound for game four.

The outcome was already decided.

Oh, and Dirk? There's a "special topping" on the rum raisin.