I smell pain and fear....

Even during this hiatus, as the battle shifts from Houston to Dallas, I want to fight, yell and scream. The blood continues to boil and I want complete victory.

In Game 1, we came out with a vicious flurry, suffocating defense for which the Mavs had no answer. Yes, they answered briefly as they had to, but we were too much, too many.

Too much Harden being confident in his MVP status, not forcing the action, trusting his teammates, making the pocket pass and hockey assist. Too much Terry, leading the opening assault with ice in his veins, refusing to cede to old age, refusing to fade into that good night, throwing himself into the breach once more.

Too much from TJones, young legs fronting Dirk, wearing him down, grinding out rebounds, relishing the chance to play the game that was taken away from him most of the year. Too much Brewer and Ariza, too long, wiry, focused and tough, impregnable wall of arms and will. And though shackled for much of the fight, too much Dwight. Too big, too singularly focused, too foreboding a presence to challenge. Game 1 was complete control and domination.

In Game 2, their general brought misdirection and summoned illusionists. Zone defense, arms flying at the hint of contact. Fat point guards masquerading as NBA players, midgets relentlessly dribbling the ball all over the court, haggard Germans flinging hair, arms and bricks, big guys flailing about as if made of paper mâché. And for some time it worked.

Easy jabs that we missed and missed. Uncharacteristic stumbles and uneven rhythm. But we were always in control, always the better team. In the end, we were once again too much, too many. Too resolved to relent and too strong in mind and body. Too many pocket passes, too many alley-oops, thunderous dunks, back cuts. A laser focused, relentless barrage for the knockout. Redemption for the insults in Detroit and across the country. Release from the shackles of Game 1 and injuries that took the regular season. Complete domination in the end. All the while, Harden is smiling, eyes blazing, stirring the smoke. He knows what we have, what we have done. He knows what he has yet to unleash. He smells fear, pain and dispair.

Dallas sits on their stool, bloodied from the fight, weary in the legs, and unsteady in the mind. Pride keeps them upright and their spirit is not defeated. Not yet. They will come out for more because they must. They will hope against hope for a different outcome. But though they will not admit it to each other, when they sit alone, there is doubt and fear. Their minds whisper, "They are too much, too many."

The deathblow awaits in Game 3.

The funeral awaits in Game 4.