Michael Ventre

“It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp.”

I know what you’re asking yourself right now: Where is he going with this? How is he going to deftly connect that preposterous song to Game 7 between the Pistons and Cavaliers?

Oh, ye of little faith. Sit back and be patient.

When it was announced back in March at the 78^th Annual Academy Awards that the hip-hop group Three 6 Mafia won the Oscar for Best Song, a collective giggle went out across the globe. After all, this wasn’t exactly Barbra Streisand’s “The Way We Were.” Personally, although I thought the song was amusing, I didn’t consider it to be Oscar bait. It didn’t even seem like the kind of number card-carrying gangsta rappers would allow on their iPods.

But when the members of the Three 6 Mafia rushed onto the stage to accept their statuette,  my opinion changed drastically, because I was struck by how much fun they were having. At an event where stodgy and reverent is the tone of choice, where recipients either weep about how overwhelmed they are by the honor, or read a shopping list of people deserving of thanks, here were some guys brimming with joy and exuberance.

They didn’t do what everybody expected. They let it fly and savored every second.

Now do you see the connection?

The Cleveland Cavaliers are the Three 6 Mafia. The Detroit Pistons are the multiple nominees with the stolid expressions who are so used to being in this position that they’ve lost all enthusiasm for the process because they fully expect to be handed a trophy.

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That’s why I’m rooting for the Cavaliers on Sunday. I want them to pull off the colossal upset of the team picked by many — including this scribe — to win the NBA title. I want to see LeBron James and his teammates wallowing in glee and reveling in their unexpected achievement.

I want to see passion rewarded. I want to see complacency punished.

What has jumped out from this Eastern semifinal series is just how blasé the Pistons have appeared. They almost reflect the “what, us worry?” attitude of the automobile executives from the city they represent. I half expect Flip Saunders to replace his bench with 12 leather club chairs and ottomans.

On paper, this shouldn’t even be close. The Pistons are supposed to have the best starting five in basketball. The Pistons won a championship two years ago, and failed to do so last season because they fell short in a Game 7 on the road.

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Meanwhile, the Cavaliers are led by a 21-year-old, haven’t been in the playoffs since 1998, haven’t reached the conference semis since 1993 and are mentioned in the same breath with the NBA Finals as often as William Hung is mentioned along with the great tenors.

Yet the Cavs are the hungry ones. The Cavs are the ones playing as if they won’t be denied. The Pistons appear stricken by the malady that usually only afflicts defending champions, which is characterized by severe mental fatigue from fending off challenges.

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The problem, of course, is that they’re not defending champs. They should be the ones with the ferocious appetites. They should be storming through these playoffs spouting the old Moses Malone mantra of “Fo’, fo’, fo’.” (Note: Top-seeded teams have to play an extra best-of-seven series now rather than getting a first-round bye like they did in ’83, so add one “fo’.”)

There is one clear explanation for why the Pistons have had such a difficult time with the Cavaliers thus far: The Cavs have played with heart and determination. But there is no apparent reason for why the Pistons themselves have not equaled or exceeded Cleveland’s zealousness.

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