As a freshman in high school, I was cut from my junior varsity basketball team. I had come to preseason with naive varsity hopes, still seeing myself as an enormous eighth-grader who scored on post-ups and offensive rebounds instead of as an undersized high-schooler who couldn't dribble. I was very happy when I made the "JV-1" squad, and felt I played quite well when our coach (who, I feel obliged to mention, knew nothing about basketball and shaved his legs for amateur cycling purposes years before Lance Armstrong's yellow bracelets) played me. I blocked shots, rebounded well, and put in occasional points in limited minutes. Apparently, Coach Smoothgams didn't see it that way.

I found out I had been cut, not because he took me aside and told me, but when the JV-2 coach came up to me before practice and said, "You're with us today." Although it was truly a blessing in disguise (my new coach knew his stuff, played me every game, stressed fundamentals, and got us all in the best shape of our lives), I don't think I'll ever forget the humiliation of being cut without the courtesy of a conversation.

The next year brought a brand new coaching staff (which, I admit, left me feeling vindicated). Although it was clear by this point that I was done growing and would remain undersized and ill-dribbling, I managed to regain JV-1 status, maintain said status for the entire season, and even spent many practices with the varsity squad, trying to outmuscle our centers as they practiced their offensive moves in the post.

Junior year, I made the team.

I practiced with the varsity squad, and on game days would "swing" (i.e. suit up for the J.V. game as well as the following varsity match-up). In a preseason varsity tournament against other small, ethnically homogenous private schools with terrible basketball teams, I played a key part in a close win by taking a charge late in the fourth quarter. The next day, I sat on the bench for the entire game and watched my teammates win the tournament. I didn't play in a varsity game for the rest of the year, except when we played a squad from the local juvenile detention center's high school and Coach started me as an insult to several players who he felt had not given an adequate effort in the preceding game.

I hadn't expected to play much varsity ball (I was undersized and couldn't dribble, after all) but on nights when we were losing by 35 with three minutes in the fourth quarter, when the other team hadn't played its starters since the end of the first half, and while I was still wearing my warm-ups, I felt the humiliation of being cut all over again. At the end of the season, in a mix of righteous indignation and recognition that I'd gone as far as my limited skills would allow, I decided that, in lieu of playing sports senior year, I would focus that energy and those hours on theatre.

For me, the real story of last Tuesday's deciding NBA finals game wasn't Dwyane Wade (although his speed off the dribble, his durability, his control in the air, and his grace under pressure more than qualify him for all the hype he's been receiving). It wasn't the officiating (although the refs sent Wade to the line at key moments in two consecutive fourth quarters for fouls that, in one case simply did not occur, and in the second was more properly assigned to Wade himself). It wasn't Shaq vs. Nowitzki (the two hardly ever matched up against one another, Nowitzki put up solid numbers in game 6 but was slowed by the Heat's second-half zone, and Shaq scored only 9 points in the final game and had his greatest impact as the anchor of said zone rather than as an individual superstar). It wasn't even rookie coach and Coach of the Year Avery Johnson vs. slick-haired, half-windsored, won-four-with-Magic-and-Kareem-and-came-damn-close-with-Ewing Pat Riley (although the little guy never found a way to consistently beat the old man's second-half defensive scheme). For me, it came down to the Heat's role players, especially Antoine Walker and Alonzo Mourning.

Like just about everyone else, I first came to know Antoine Walker as half of a promising, but ultimately disappointing Boston Celtics backcourt. In my mind, Paul Pierce was the athletic guy who could drive to the rim, and Walker was the slightly overweight guy who threw up threes every time he touched the damn ball. Celtics fans and management came to agree with me, and twice shipped Walker elsewhere.

Tuesday night, however, brought a different Walker. Sure, he threw up six threes and missed them all, but he also (gasp) consistently made the right pass, and played like the small forward he was built to be instead of the two-guard we'd come to know him as. He had a strong inside presence, especially on the boards, and finished with 14 points, 11 rebounds, 2 assists, as well as a steal and a block.

Walker's contributions were especially valuable in the third quarter when the Heat took charge of the game's tempo, curbed their tendency toward turnovers, and shut Nowitzki, Howard, and Terry out of the paint. No one was more impressive in this stretch than reserve center Alonzo Mourning, whose efforts were highlighted by several athletic and demoralizing shot blocks.

Mourning, as befit a Georgetown center, was once one of the game's dominant big men. A debilitating kidney disease, however, forced him to drastically reduce his playing time, and ultimately to "retire" from professional basketball in order to receive a kidney transplant. Healthy at last, Mourning returned to the league and the Heat, not as a star, but as a role-player, the guy that Pat Riley went to when he needed to give Shaq a rest or manage O'Neal's fouls.

Last Tuesday night, Mourning was the ultimate sixth man. In just 14 minutes, he managed 8 points, an astounding 5 blocks, and 6 rebounds (consider that Shaq had 9 points, 12 rebounds, and a single block with double the playing time). Most importantly, however, 'Zo blocked shots when his team needed them most, stopping several scoring streaks and effectively killing every Maverick attempt to regain the momentum of the first quarter.

Earlier this spring, my team, the Denver Nuggets, devolved into a very strange soap opera and was eliminated in the first round of the playoffs for the third consecutive year, so I didn't have stakes in either of the teams playing for this year's championship. By the fourth quarter on Tuesday, though, I was rooting for the Mavs. Part of it was that I was sick of the biased officiating. Part of it was hoping the series would go to seven games. Part of it was the great fast-break show the Mavs put on in the first quarter, and part of it was an undersized, ill-dribbling twenty-something feeling jealous.

After almost a year in my new city, armed only with headshots, a trade paper, a small collection of proven audition material, and an ever-growing list of contacts and colleagues, I can safely say that my "career" is advancing. Slowly. And with plenty of setbacks. Money is tight, temp jobs are boring, and most auditions are (and always will be) followed by a rejection. Watching two players like Walker and Mourning recover from seemingly mortal setbacks, evaluate their weaknesses, and find potency despite decreased visibility as role-players and champions is certainly inspiring. At the same time, watching them on Tuesday reminded me of my basketball setbacks, of a battle I lost, of a time my skills were inadequate to my ambitions, and I'd prefer not to be reminded of that right now.

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