Something broke in me last night. I couldn't believe that starting lineup. I still care, thus the numerous "Fuck you's" to everyone in 601 Biscayne. But I saw earlier than most fans, even some cognoscenti, the relentless, perpetual mediocrity into which the "Heat" franchise had fallen and settled post-LeBron. The Old Man, Pat Riley, last landed a Whale
sixteen years ago. The Whale got away, or was driven off,
twelve years ago. No Whales since. No Whale, No Tale.
What's broken can be fixed. I don't think I can lose my fandom. But my interest, my attention, my emotional investment, my hope broke last night. Those too can be repaired, but not without expert intervention. Change is what is needed. The Old Man is not going to get his Whale. Giannis Antetokounmpo is not going to beach on the shores of Biscayne Bay. Neither change nor Whales will come as long as the Old Man is at sea chasing his Whale.