Who can ask for anything more? This is why we get up in the morning. It's not for the French Toast. It's not for the freshly crisp copy of the Nation waiting for you at the end of the brick-pavers. MoveOn.Lebron. The Conference Finals are here. And I, ladies and gentlemen, could not be more enthusiastic. Greg Popovich, the military man. Phil Jackson, the hippie. This, ladies and gentleman, is the 60s. This is the culture war. I will wear this tie-dye, Mr. Walton. I don't care if you pay my tuition. And a One. Two. Three. Four. What are we fighting for? The ring. The glory. The legend. How can you not watch? Dale Ellis, the sharpshooter of Najaf. And Kobe Bryant, a man, a morality play. I smell a trap. The full-throated hands of Lindsay Hunter balanced by the hungry feet of the rookie Randell Stuckey. And the Boston Celtics. Oh. The Boston Celtics. Those were the days. Stephen A. Smith, have you even ever heard of a man I affectionately call Larry Bird? Kevin McHale. Greg Kite. Now, that, was a Big Three. Germany, Italy, Japan, now, that, was an axis.