The Heat's First Spark
by Jason Feifer

They called him the Spin Doctor, and he did spin: in the paint, behind the arc, in press conferences while explaining the night's loss. From 1988 to 1994, Rony Seikaly was the Miami Heat's Lebanese center, a man fans loved because they had to. He wasn't particularly graceful, but he had statistics on his side: Guys passed him the ball and he took a lot of shots. Some of them went in.

I was in middle school during Seikaly's heyday with the Heat, long before fans would have the pleasure of their team employing Shaquille O'Neal. It was a time of awkward waltzing, as fans tried staying in step with a bumbling team, watching it stride and stumble to a brand-new song. But I loved it all the same. While the team was rarely elegant back then, they more than made up for it in character.

One night, my dad and I were in attendance when, early in the game, Rony fouled an opponent hard. The man fell down and stayed down, although we knew it was an act. Punch one of these guys in the face in a bar, and he'll rip your head off. Poke him in the shoulder on the court and he tumbles helplessly to the ground, and then pushes himself into a slide like a bar mitzvah DJ. The ruse is intended to fool a referee into calling a foul on the opposing player, and amazingly, it works. Rony was handed a technical foul, and we booed our disapproval.

But Rony had another word for it: "Bullshit."

He yelled it at the ref, and was rewarded with a second technical foul, which guaranteed his ejection from the game. I hadn't heard Rony, but I heard what followed. It started with about 20 fans and grew quickly and exponentially. "Bull-shit! Bull-shit!" The crowd meant it. People were angry. They cheered half-heartedly when the arena's big screens urged them to chant "De-fense," but this was hardly a sanctioned cheer of the National Basketball Association. "Bull-shit! Bull-shit!" I must have been 11 or 12, far too young for my dad to accept those words from my mouth, but there it was, engulfing sections at a time, people throwing their hands in the air to emphasize the two syllables of this harsh truth. "Bull-shit! Bull-shit!"

I hesitated and looked over at my dad for some sort of guidance, but saw him as amused as I was. So then it came out of me, more like a tepid statement than a chant: "Bullshit." People kept chanting. I tried again, this time with emphasis: "Bullshit!" Again, no repercussions. I knew my dad didn't care, but I was waiting for some mystical force to set in, to ignite over the taboo I had broken. I was a well-behaved kid. Well trained. These words simply weren't spoken, let alone screamed into a sea of people who might look at me disapprovingly were I the only one doing it. But here we were, thousands of us, janitors and doctors and grade school teachers, all in total agreement that there is only one word we need here. One word we crave. "Bullshit!" I screamed. "Bullshit!" I didn't give a damn what happened to Rony. This was liberation.

On the car ride home, I tested my newfound freedom. "Man, that call against Rony was bullshit," I said.

"All right, that's enough," my dad said.

I don't think he meant it.

At the time, despite the depression of five-game losing streaks, men like Seikaly might have been a better fit in Miami than someone like Shaq. The Heat was the town's second professional sports team, and game by game, people were building a relationship with it. Seikaly was someone approachable and fallible, a real human to feel connected to — even if that connection meant insulting him on talk radio. Shaq can be put up on a pedestal and worshipped from afar, but Seikaly and his ilk gave people a way to ease into the Heat, to make it their own.

Today's team doesn't give us that experience, although it's not that Heat fans will complain — myself included. The novelty of a basketball team wore off years ago, and was replaced with an impatience for success. When Seikaly was traded away, no tears were shed. When Glen Rice was traded for Alonzo Mourning, our allegiances changed quickly. When Shaq signed on, we dropped all grudges. We became hungrier, more demanding. Playtime was over.

In the process, though, we traded personalities for talent. Now it feels like there are strangers in my bedroom — hard-working and able strangers, sure, but they make me feel less comfortable there. It's the nature of the game, I suppose, and impossible to truly begrudge. Fans don't want to stay losers forever. But all the same, the team in Heat jerseys that may win this year's championship are guys I don't know. They're people I cheer on, but can't feel close to. And while I want them for their skills, I feel a win this year would be more about Rony Seikaly than Dwyane Wade. He's who brought people to this team. He's who made it personal.

Of course, Wade might say that's bullshit.

E-mail Jason Feifer at jason at happyscrappy dot com.