...while wondering what ever happened to Reggie Miller

And just like that, it's over.

No cushion for the blow, no drawn out parting of the ways. One moment you're rushing together, headlong into destiny; the next you're standing alone, wondering how it all fell apart so fast.

Now by definition, the odds are not good going in. 96.66% of the time, it's going to turn out just like this. But it's that .33 that we live for, no? Whether you're a Warrior or a Wizard, a TrailBlazer or Timberwolf...a Magic or a Maverick. No matter where you are, each November love blooms anew. And hope. And while some affairs are doomed from the outset, for a handful there exists the real possibility of genuine bliss.

Today, I couldn't be further from bliss. As time was winding down in regulation last night, everything slowed down to a crawl. The pass to the MVP we let walk away. The dribble. The pullup three. Did any of us even need to look where it went? Could any of us have stopped ourselves from looking had we wanted to? Overtime was a formality. Then everything went to warp-speed.

Being eliminated from the playoffs is very much like death, I would imagine. When you die, that's it -- you're dead. And outside of those few closest to you, the world moves on. There will be some like me, who suffer for months on end, but the Mavericks won't be mentioned again on television, other than as part of "the Suns' path to the..." And that's the hardest part. No matter how well a team does and no matter what joy they brought, in the end, we grieve alone.

As with death, there is an afterlife. Dirk and Fin and Stack will come back next November, lace them up and make another run at it. But it won't be this run. It won't be this team.

And no matter what lies over the horizon, right now we are tied with the Atlanta Hawks, for last place.