Game Time: Sixers 121, Bulls 99

There have been several surprise teams this season, including Houston, New Orleans, and the Lakers. But over the last seven weeks, no team has been more of a surprise than the Sixers. Their tip-to-buzzer rout of the Bulls was Philly's 19th win in its last 24 games.

Let's take a close-up look at what's going on:

Defense

This is where it starts for the Sixers, and for most winning teams.

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"Bleep you, &*($@!)!!" was Whittaker's response. Then he waved his hands, challenging me, beckoning me to approach him.

"Come over here and do something about it!"

And I couldn't take it anymore. The game. The CBA. My life. "YOU BLEEPING BLEEP!" Some last vestige of self-control snapped, leaving me wild and bellowing, a wounded beast suddenly turning on the hunter, charging downcourt, out of my mind with rage, intent on obliterating Whittaker, who moved to hide behind his bench players. I think I could have actually killed him.

But thankfully one of the referees, Jim Kinney, grabbed me in a bear hug from behind, pinning my arms and swooping me off my feet.

"It ain't worth it, Charley," he said in my ear. "Calm down. It ain't worth it."

"It is! I'm gonna kill the bleep!"

Slowly, Jim increased the pressure on my chest so that I had to gasp for breath.

"It ain't worth it."

He literally carried me toward the baseline, where the desperate need to breathe, to inhale, to lie down, suddenly overrode my anger.

"I'm OK," I said. "Thanks, Jim. I'm OK. Let me down."

He released me gently.

"I have to call a couple of T's," he said, almost apologizing. "You're ejected."

"I understand. I'm OK."

So I walked slowly off the court, the fans in an uproar behind me, hurling abuse, paper cups and crumpled newspapers as I entered the tunnel that led to the basement staircase, thinking, hoping, that this fiasco would motivate my players for our next game. Then, just as I reached the top of the stairs, gathering my body for the rhythmic descent into the basement, a hand seized my right forearm.

"What?"

It was a cop. About 5-foot-8, a solid 170 pounds, wearing his play-hat with its shiny black brim, a badge on his hat, a badge on his chest. The nameplate above his right breast pocket said, "G. Murray." His eyes were gray, almost colorless. There was an oversized six-shooter strapped to his waist.

Now, his other hand locked onto my forearm.

"Let's go," he said.

The force of his grip nearly tilted me headlong down the steps, and he had to yank me back to right my balance.

"I'm going," I said, then shook him loose. "Get the bleep off me. This has nothing to do with you."

He clutched at me again, and I repeated, "Get the bleep off me."

When we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he pushed the small of my back, propelling me toward the locker room.

"Get away, leave me alone."

Then he shoved me into the locker room and slammed the door behind me.

I proceeded to kick every dented, rusty locker in the narrow room. Right then, at that moment, everything that had happened was someone else's fault. Palie's. Whittaker's. Murray the mini-cop. I was the outraged innocent.

But then I realized that I was thirsty, so I ventured into the hallway to find a water fountain. And that's when all hell broke loose.