I don’t give a good God damn what happened in the first three games, and I don’t care if your feelings are hurt. Tommorrow you go to war. And Tommorrow you fight for this series, if you have any slice of fight in you.
You need to know that the sideline is sacred. When you step across it, you represent yourself, your teammates, your organization, your fans and friends and family and everything else you hold dear.
You need to know that when you step across that sideline you join the battle, young soldier, and that the men on the other side join you. There will be no quarter asked and none given. It will be war out there.
You need to know that the space inside that line is reserved for warriors. There is no convenient escape. Tommorrow you go hand to hand, and fist to fist if it takes it, and you demonstrate—right here, before God and everybody—that you have the heart of the warrior, that you are willing to die for your own and to destroy that of the enemy.
Tommorrow the stinking and fouled streets of the Riverwalk run red with the blood of our putrid and despicable opponents from the south. Tommorrow we march, one and all, into their fouled and stinking grounds and dismiss the victims as the pitiful carrion they could only wish to be. Tommorrow we take their heads as trophies and piss on their remains.
Tommorrow it is war. Tommorrow we stake our righteous claim.
Mavs Spurs, Let's get it on.
This is not a friendly affair. This is WAR.
Let's Go Mavs!