It isn’t the Yankees-Red Sox in the 2004 ALCS, but it’s close.  And almost all of the blame of the Los Angeles Lakers collapse in the first round of the Western Conference playoffs should fall precipitously – and directly – on the shoulders of Kobe Bryant.

Showered with praise when he wins – as they did, despite the mugging of Phoenix Suns guard Steve Nash at the end of Game 4, in three of the first four contests – the Lakers superstar should also get the majority of the blame when they lose.

Valiant though he was in both Games 5 and 6 – distributing in the former, taking over the latter – when the Lakers needed him most, in Game 7 he, to put it politely, demurred.  Pressed for a Jordanesque performance, a virtuoso show that would bring him closer to the sacred level to which he undoubtedly aspires, Kobe Bryant instead was invisible. 

Contrarians would remark that Bryant scored 23 of his team’s first 45 points.  But not taking a shot until over four minutes were gone in the second half?  And both – yes, just two – shots in the third quarter from three point range?  At least his lone shot in the fourth quarter was a regular field goal (which he missed). 

In all fairness, he did hit a free throw in the second half – on a technical foul.  No matter how you spin it, Bryant’s performance was hardly an apt – or even comparable – imitation of Michael Jordan’s eminence.

No, this historic choke – Los Angeles is only the eighth team in the NBA history to suffer such an indignation – should be remembered as such.  Above all, it should be a check on the incredibly healthy ego of Kobe Bryant.  Turns out winning championships is a lot tougher without another Hall of Famer on the team. 

Same goes for Phil Jackson.  Impressive as him leading this team to the postseason was, his record of never losing a playoff series when having a lead and his 14-0 record in the first round, can also be due as much to the presence of Michael Jordan and both Shaq and Kobe on every other one of his postseason squads, as it is to his sage teachings.

And, though I thought so at the time, please do not ever underestimate the impact of the clothesline.  Raja Bell’s turned around the entire series.  And with the Los Angeles Clippers next on the playoff docket, expect Arizona and Texas to be the two states vying to represent the West – and face the state of Michigan – in the NBA Finals.

. . .

As refreshing as these NBA Playoffs have been (my moneyed playoff pool – for the first time – is not the only reason I am watching all the games), nothing compares to the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

And though I am saddened by my Detroit Red Wings exiting the grand stage again too early, the grit, determination, and heart that every game is contested with, should be required viewing for all kids interested in competing in sports – of any kind.

Although scores of examples abound from every game of this je ne sais quoi – the New York Rangers ghastly showing notwithstanding – two from tonight best exemplifies this benevolent truism.

The unfortunately named Carolina Hurricanes, the second seed in the East but very light on playoff experience, had just surrendered the go-ahead-goal to the New Jersey Devils – the most postseason savvy squad still playing – with just 20 seconds left in regulation. 

The silence at the RBC Center was palpable.  OLN crews scoured a crowd whose fans – every single last one of them – looked as if they had just found their cat Fluffy run over by the neighbor’s car.

Yet head coach Peter Laviolette – the same gent who helmed the men’s United States Olympic team in Torino – didn’t use his time out.  Instead, he pulled his netminder immediately, and told his charges to go get that goal back.

Thanks to a fortuitous bit of luck (the Devil’s John Madden so cleanly won the faceoff that the puck flew back deep into his own defensive zone), some yeoman work in the corners, and a perfectly placed backhanded pass from Justin Williams to Eric Staal in the slot, the ‘Canes tied it at 2 with just 3 seconds remaining in regulation.  Carolina then won it in overtime.

In the late game, up 1-0 midway through the contest, not only were the San Jose Sharks down two men, but two of their three penalty killers had lost their sticks.  What ensued for the next minute was a pristine mélange of guts, courage, and what – with all the broken lumber on the ice – appeared to be a bargain-basement yard sale.  Only after a smattering of shots on goal, at least another five gone wide, a Shark blocked a shot with his body, and – sans stick – pushed the puck out of the zone with his glove.  Amazing.

. . .

The 132nd Run for the Roses reconfirmed my belief that no event in sport is more unpredictable, gratifying, and thrilling.  And this praise despite the fact that for the first time since 1995-96 when Thunder Gulch and Grindstone won the Derby, I failed to pick the winner for two consecutive years.  In fact, from Silver Charm in ’97 through the ebullient Smarty Jones two years ago, I only missed one winner – Monarcho and his lightening quick 1:59.97 – in those eight years.

But I digress.  In the deepest and many argue the most talented field in at least a decade, the unbeaten Barboro registered the widest victory – 6 ½ lengths – in 60 years, when Assault beat his nearest competitor by eight lengths in 1946.  Such an impressive feat has understandably had proponents already talking Triple Crown; after all, not even immortals Citation, Secretariat, Seattle Slew, or Affirmed – the last winner of the Derby, Preakness and Belmont Stakes in 1978 – even came close to such a dominating victory.

When the dust settles in New York five weeks hence, look for Barboro to retire undefeated – and become the newest addition into the pantheon of premier ponies.

Originally from Madison, Wisconsin, Nicholas Jon Wood – after a recent emigration from Boston – currently lives in our nation’s capital.  When not an integral participant in interstate commerce, he fails to pay tolls, usually goes the speed limit, and never drives angry.

He can be reached via email at nicholas.wood@atomicsportsmedia.com.