Just come clean LeBron. We all saw your fantastic performance in game three against the Pistons Saturday night. We all saw you come up huge and carry your team on those broad young shoulders of yours with all the maturity of a guy who has been in the league fifteen years. In the post-game interviews you talked about trusting your teammates and the game plan coach Brown drew up in practice being the keys to your success. But that has nothing to do with why you were able to get through a stern test against the best team in the NBA. If you won't tell the people what carried you through, then by God I will. It all has to do with two inspiring little words that usually mean the difference between winning and losing:

Jock Jams

That's right, it's about the music. Do you think your favorite athletes, your gridiron gods, your hardwood heroes, would continue to rise to the occasion without those gloriously redundant tunes we hear in every blasted stadium and arena throughout the country? Those thirty second sound bites that rally the masses into dumb ecstasy? Their transformative powers alter our DNA, turning us all into rhythm-less, jelly-kneed jackasses, bent on willing our team to victory, without regard to how stupid we look or the safety of those around us.

Yes I'm speaking of  you, 17-year-old chubby guy with the blow-up Oakland A's hammer doing the running man in the aisle next to me. I'm talking to you, 65-year-old grandfather of eleven shaking your varicose-riddled booty to the latest Sean Paul jam. I'm talking to you, dyslexic guy who seems unable to remember that C follows M in that Village People arena favorite. You are the Jock Jam personified; the embodiment of the hypnotic power Chumbawumba has over all of us.

Just once I'd like to see some honesty in the post-game on-field interview. It should sound something like this:

5'6" Sideline Reporter in Men's Warehouse Suit: You guys looked like you were out of it early in the fourth quarter. How were you able to bounce back?

Sweaty, Victorious Clich