All across the Magic City this Thursday night, pots are getting wrecked by spoons, more car horns are getting leaned on than rush hour on the Dolphin and every half-decent bar is passing around shots of Jameson in honor of Bron Bron. Your Miami Heat are 2012 NBA Champions.
We'll keep this post updated with the best stories and photos of fans doing The Turiaf all over town tonight. Where were you when the Heat clinched a ring?
These guys were at Finnegans Two on Lincoln Road, where a crowd spilled out onto the pedestrian mall and merged with the game-watchers at Hofbrauhaus and Polar Bar. All night long, "Let's Go Heat" chants were reverberating down the sidewalk -- and damned if David Caruso (Mr. CSI Miami himself) didn't stumble by halfway through and wave at the crowd. (At least we were all pretty sure it was him.)
Here's the reaction when the horn sounded:
Here are some other highlights from the SoBe crowd:
Finally, here are two fans so excited they decided a celebratory sidewalk hump was in order:
Everybody likes to talk shit about how Heat fans are aloof scenesters who show up to games with unlit cigars in their mouths and sit on their hands. But at the Flanigans in Surfside -- a completely unremarkable establishment in one of the county's most staid cities -- was fucking raucous in the last quarter when it became certain that the Heat were going to close it out.
The bartender was ringing his little bell like some crazed hunchback. Mike Miller got a wild ovation when he left the game. Everybody was chanting "Harden" as if trying to make James Harden cry. And speaking of getting verklempt, we spotted a 22-year-old guy man named Felix Quintana crying into his $3 whiskey in a corner booth.
"The last time they won," Quintana tearfully explained of the Heat, "I was sixteen. Sixteen, bro!" (Felix, there are some 104-year-old Chicago Cubs fans who would like a word with you.)
But Exhibit A for the awesomeness of real Heat fans was about ten blocks south on Harding Avenue. That's Marquis Red who's banging a skillet with a metal spoon, and his wife Myra Vialis drinking champagne and smoking Kools, and their neighbor who kept saying "Fuck yeah!", and her dog.
"Wake the fuck up!" Red yelled as he banged his pan. "I think LeBron grew up tonight," he told us. "What I call this was one of the most Magic Johnson-y performances in history."
His wife chimed in, her Costa Rican accent thick: "When Mike Miller got it going like that, that was it."
"Tonight, it's this!" Red yelled, banging his pan as a bus drives past. The driver gives him a thumbs up. How fucking anti-aloof scenester is that?
-- Gus Garcia-Roberts
Hialeah is, in brief, completely bananas right now. Here is a brief text update of the situation from staffer Francisco Alvarado:
I'm banging pots with half of Hialeah on W 49th Street. Banged my pot so hard the handle broke. Dudes with conga drums, guiros and maracas providing a little salsa flavor to the mix. Shirtless dudes dancing w buxom young girls sweating up a storm. Kids on the hoods and roofs holding up homemade championship banners. People taking shots of rum and tequila. People have taken over the street, cars can't get through. Pure bedlam. Go Heat!
Moments later came this brief update:
Motorcycle cops trying to clear the street. Crowd won't let 'em. The crowd won.
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