The Detroit Pistons are older, wiser, crinkled and wrinkled with experience. They frown, they sigh, they issue stern commandments. Throttle back, son. Stay to the right. Keep it under the limit. And turn that damn radio down.

So now a soft April dusk is closing in and we are inside a cavernous, raucous arena in the upper Midwest, and the Sixers and Pistons are locked in a battle of wills. At stake is the pace at which this game is to be played, which will determine not only the outcome of Game 1, but every other game in this playoff series as well.

Go-go-go versus no-no-no.

Will the exuberant Sixers be able to turn the floor of the Palace into a drag strip? Or will the Pistons pat them on the head, force it into the grind-grind-grind, clock-melting, half-court combat that is the staple of playoff baskets, and then send them off to bed and warm milk? Nice try, sonny.

These Sixers rose from the ashes in February and with a thunderous rush turned a lost season into one of the nicest surprises to happen along in our town in years.

But now they are out in the deep water. In the euphoria of making the postseason, it is easy to forget that the playoffs are a whole different breed of sneakers. So do these Sixers swallow hard at the sight of all the bright lights and play in an overwhelmed fog? Or do they come out sassy and flashy and open with a stiff punch to the Pistons' chops?

The answer is a punch. Or, rather, a breakout thunder dunk by Thaddeus Young on the very first play, and then a bristling put-back by Young, whose elevator goes to the top floor.

Samuel Dalembert, who is an enigma of sorts, stunningly talented but still evolving, makes a three-point play, and Willie Green slashes aggressively into the no-man's-land that is the paint, and the Sixers do not look at all awed or intimidated.

If there is a game for the winning in this series, the first one is the one, because Detroit is playing without its customary ferocity, and perhaps has taken the Sixers for something to be disposed of, no more than flicking lint off Navy blue.

The Sixers are up by half a dozen early on, and then somewhere along about the 10-minute mark of the first quarter, the Pistons rouse themselves. Or, rather, Rasheed Wallace rouses himself.

Such a pyrotechnic talent and such a tumultuous personality. He seems tormented by hidden demons, and sometimes they take over at inopportune moments and skate him to the very edge.

There he is posting up, backing down the helpless defender, curling across the middle, lingering out on the far boundary of Threeville, and swishing over-the-rainbow jump shots. And there he is, long arms telescoping to the wingspan of a pterodactyl, snatching rebound after rebound, then swatting away shot after shot.

And, oh my, there he is also, at it with one of the officials, barking at some perceived injustice. The problem is, he won't let it go. It is an unwinnable argument. And he knows that because he has been in so many of them before, but he just can't let it go. He is a dog worrying at a bone. Sure enough, his persistence earns him the inevitable technical foul.

And then, he turns it back on. He pours in bucket after bucket, and he is serenaded by the Howler Monkey noise of an impassioned crowd: "Sheed . . . Sheed . . . Sheed." The Pistons open a 15-point lead.

You look at the man next to you and say, somberly: "Blowout coming."

Ah, fool that you are, you have once again discounted the exuberance and resiliency of youth. These 76ers, impudent pups, come back from the far banks of the netherworld and, with six minutes and a tick to play, actually take the lead. Andre Miller, whose job is to feed others, feeds himself. He has 20, and it's not over yet.

The Pistons play the trolley song - clang, clang, clang. They miss free throws, they miss layups. The Sixers have them back on their heels.

"I thought we were a little nervous at the start, trying to speed the game up," said coach Maurice Cheeks. "The second half, I thought we settled down."

And so they did. Down 15 but undaunted. It was not a new experience for them.

What the Sixers have done best this season is hang around. Most nights they give themselves a chance. Now, inside the first minute of the first game of the first round, they clutch a three-point lead. Who'd have thought?

No way they could win by three, right? Right. They win by four, instead.

They beat the team that had the second-best record in all of the NBA. The Pistons were 36 games over .500 in the regular season. The Sixers were two games under .500.

That math doesn't add up, does it?

Which, of course, goes to the very core of its appeal.