The ball careened off the rim and into the hands of Pietrus, another clutch jumper missed by Kobe Bryant.

Magic, 87. Lakers, 82. 1:02 left.

By all indications, the Lakers were done. They were visibly weary and deflated from battling the Orlando Magic. The 17k+ packed inside of Amway Arena. The whistles, or non-whistles, of Bennett Salvatore, Mike Callahan and Scott Foster. The mounting pressure of not having won a Finals game away from Staples Center since 2002.

This was supposed to be the defining moment for the Orlando Magic.

Let’s say I’m an ABC executive. I walk onto the 63rd floor of my office building on a rainy Friday morning. I reach deep inside myself and find the goodwill to utter a few shallow good mornings to the cubed peons that do all the work so I can drive a different colored Porsche every day of the week. I pass by my secretary’s desk, who I shamelessly hired over hundreds of qualified applicants. Sure, she can’t read and her favorite word is like, but I’m 70 and senile, this is as good as it gets for me.

Right before I open the door to my 2,000 square foot office, she pops a bubble and says, “Hey sir, umm, like, GM; and, like, here’s a list thingy that I was totally supposed to give you.” I grab the piece of paper and it says this: