Michael Jordan once floated through the air like a feather, bound only loosely by gravity. He could switch hands in mid-air, relax in the stratosphere until opponents fell to the court (Craig Ehlo might remember that), or sky to floors that most players’ elevators could not visit. But in the end, as the story goes for everybody, he was mortal. He got old, lost a step and misplaced a few inches on his vertical leap, and soon he was a (bad-ish) General Manager drafting Adam Morrison with the third pick.

That’s what happens. Our heroes age and sometimes not so gracefully. Sure, we can still recognize Jordan. His face, for a time at least, was (and maybe still is) the most recognizable face in the world. But while he still facially resembles the man who terrorized Bryon Russell and kept Karl Malone from ever winning an NBA title, he can’t do what he used to do. He can’t step onto an NBA court and fadeaway J opponents to death. He can’t summons his powers to score a bucket whenever his team needs one the most. Hell, he doesn’t even play organized basketball anymore. And at risk of awakening Jordan’s inner competitive beast, I would bet my house (you know, if I owned one) that he couldn’t play for an NBA team even if he wanted to.

Just like Jordan, my grandfather Pop-Pop is one of my heroes. He’s strong and proud and tells stories that make everyone in the room laugh. He loves golf and can still perfectly remember holes he played 55 years ago. He served in the war and can still discuss every mission he flew. He recalls afternoons he spent at Fenway Park watching football games (yes, Fenway used to host football games); days he spent swimming in the (now-unswimmable) Connecticut River; nights he spent imbibing all-you-can drink drafts for five cents; and, as a former used-car salesmen, every local celebrity he sold a car to.

Pop-Pop tells one story about attending a professional golf tournament 30 or 40 years ago. He spent the morning following groups and walking the course. Later in the day, he spotted a young golfer sitting by himself.

“I didn’t know who he was, but I went over to talk to him because, hell, he was still a professional golfer,” Pop-Pop will say. “Plus, he looked like he could use someone to talk to.”

The golfer turned out to be Lee Trevino. He developed into a six-time major champion, Ryder Cup team captain, and, yes, he also played a cameo role in Happy Gilmore. Later, he would run into the brick wall of his own mortality. His signature fade would stop being so accurate, and his drives, already shorter than most great golfers, would travel even fewer yards. But when Pop-Pop met him, he was a seed waiting to blossom into a flower, an inexperienced golfer with miles of talent, a young stud a few years away from becoming a hero.

Pop-Pop was once young like the Trevino he met that day. I know only because I’ve seen pictures. One of the pictures is a newspaper clipping from when Pop-Pop arrived home after the war. The picture was accompanied by the headline “Hero on way home,” and it’s one of the few times I can see Pop-Pop before he became Pop-Pop, back when everyone called him Tom. His chiseled face was handsome and his smile was disarming and his wife was beautiful, and I imagine he could spin a great story even back then.

He had all his teeth at that time, and he did not yet have cancer to threaten his life. He did not yet have a tumor growing from his upper jaw and he did not yet need an electric contraption to carry him up stairs. He did not yet need a walker to move or a handicap-accessible bathroom to piss, and his feet were not yet permanently swollen and discolored. He did not yet spend almost all of his time sitting in the same chair, either trying to learn how to use On-Demand, chatting with my lovely grandmother, squinting his quickly-degenerating eyes to read a book, or, during the best of times, sharing stories with his children and grandchildren.

Our heroes are mortal, all of them. But they never disappear. They just change.

In the world of NCAA football, the Boston Celtics never would have reached the 2010 NBA Finals. There never would have been an epic, seven-game series between Boston and Los Angeles. Hell, the Celtics never would have made the playoffs. There’s no such thing as a playoff system in the world of NCAA football. Just a multitude of ultimately meaningless bowl games alongside one game that determines a National Champion. Even though there’s normally at least one other team (I’m looking at you, TCU) that still hasn’t lost.

(Jim Mora’s take on the subject: Playoffs? You’re talking ’bout the playoffs? You kidding me? Playoffs???? I just hope we can win the AdvoCare v100 Independence Bowl!)

Imagine if last year’s Butler Bulldogs had been confined to a lesser postseason competition because their strength of schedule didn’t match up. Imagine if Hickory High never played for the state championship because their enrollment wasn’t large enough; if there was no NCAA tournament for Jimmy Valvano’s 1983 North Carolina St. Wolfpack; if George Mason had championed the Colonial Athletic Association but had been forced to play in the GoDaddy.com Bowl rather than improbably marching to the Final Four; if Rudy Ruettiger had never been able to play for Notre Dame because he didn’t reach height requirements; if last year’s Celtics never reached the Finals because John Hollinger’s odds determined they shouldn’t.

Wouldn’t you find a problem with that? Wouldn’t you?

The BCS kills the underdog. By refusing to add a postseason tournament, the NCAA football committee (or whoever makes these decisions) drowns Cinderellas before they can even stand.

The most memorable sports moments occur unexpectedly. I can still see Dikembe Mutombo after his eight-seeded Devner Nuggets took down the first-seeded Seattle SuperSonics (sorry, Seattle). Laying on the floor, holding a ball over his head and screaming with joy, Mutombo displayed all that is right in the oft-corrupt world of sports. For that day, Mutombo could dream about winning an NBA championship. He could revel in his win (which wouldn’t have happened in the BCS, because the Sonics would have already made the championship) and look forward to moving on in the playoffs.

In retrospect, the Nuggets’ win meant little. They lost to the Utah Jazz in round two and never came close to winning a title. But the point is, they could dream about winning the championship. They weren’t subjected to finishing the regular season and then playing in the Beef O’Brady’s Bowl. The NBA postseason means something, as it should, and even teams who underwhelm during the regular season (or, in the case of NCAA basketball, play lesser competition) have a chance to shock the world. Even teams who earn the eighth seed can dream.

I know basketball’s a different sport than football, and I know the NBA is a professional league which isn’t run by the NCAA. But imagine if the Celtics’ had ended the 2009-2010 regular season against the Milwaukee Bucks and then played a single postseason game against the Miami Heat. Imagine if that game was for nothing more than bragging rights and a sack of cash. Let’s call the hypothetical Heat-Celtics postseason affair “The New Era Pinstripe” Bowl.

Wouldn’t that have really sucked?

Yup, that's Linas Kleiza.

Lithuanian’s love their basketball. Absolutely love it. (Toronto Star)

They come by the thousands always, with their gold, red and green flags and their drums and their uniforms and their songs and their chants.

And their passion.

First and foremost, their passion. They are as recognizable to the global basketball community as any player has ever been. The wildly enthusiastic Lithuanian fans follow their team and the sport with a fervor possibly unmatched in any sport anywhere.

It is, in many ways, what defines the nation.

“Basketball is the most important thing in Lithuania, more than anything else,” said Maurizio Gherardini, a long-time follower of the international game and now managing director of Canada’s national teams. “Basketball is not only the sport, basketball is life philosophy, it’s religion. They are all basketball people, they know the game, they are all coaches, they are all players, you feel and smell basketball everywhere. So every time you have an international competition, you have thousands of Lithuanians coming, wherever the competition is.

“It’s not just sport . . . it’s a country that found a way to present itself to the rest of the world from it.”

My parents never told me that I’m Lithuanian, but is there really any doubt? Basketball isn’t only a sport to me; it’s a life philosophy, it’s religion. I feel and smell it everywhere. It is the way I choose to present myself to the world.

Basketball is the best sport in the world, but it’s also far more than that. Cheers to Lithuania for understanding.

P.S. – Lithuania might be my favorite country now, but maybe it wants to rethink how it defines its nation. I’m a big fan of defining yourself with basketball, but when the best player in your entire country is Linas Kleiza it’s probably time for Plan B.