Friday, March 02, 2007
So sad I could puke
By SG2.0
So I'd say 72.3 percent of the reason I moved out to the West Coast in the first place was to finally be able to fulfill my lifelong dream of watching the Celtics battle the Lakers in Los Angeles.
Now I truly do expect quite a few shoulder shrugs here. I mean this once great rivalry is about as dead as Alan Thicke's career.
It hasn't truly mattered since about 1990 (un-coincidentally the year that I started watching the NBA) and has gotten so lackluster that a few "wiggers" in attendance at the TD BankNorth Garden last month, started chanting "MVP! ... MVP! ... MVP!" for Kobe Bryant of all people.
Yes Kobe Bryant. You know that guy that is the LAKERS best player. Not to mention he makes Jeff Gilooly and Joey Buttafuoco look like "Co-Husbands of the Year" by comparison.
Now I'm sure the "people" chanting those horrific words that ugly night in Boston were nothing more than 16-year-old posers from the 'burbs of Massachusetts that openly root for people like Shawne Merriman, Ray Lewis, Kobe, LeBron and Jeter because they enjoy how their jersey's look and they're quote, unquote "nasty dude!!!"
I like to call this type of behavior the "Penny Hardaway Effect."
And you know the types that suffer from this hideous disease.
They're the soul-less kids in your neighborhood that always think whoever's ass Stuart Scott kisses that night on SportsCenter will pan out into the next Michael Jordan.
They're also, ironically, the kids that like to cheer against the home team when they're down. Yup, those kids.
The type of kids that use their spare time to attempt to pick up girls outside (and in) Dunkin' Donuts and then think they're bad asses because they peel out of a 8,000 square foot parking lot with a grand total of 2 cars, 1 dog and a lamp post in it at 10:30 on a Friday night.
Ya THOSE kids.
But guess what. I DIDN'T have them on my mind while driving North on the So Cal 5 last Friday afternoon. That would have been a waste of everyone's time.
Unfortunately I was thinking about a different blow to the greatest franchise in NBA history.
"D.J." had died a day earlier and with him went yet another part of the Celtic mystique.
I was always taught that those Celtic teams of the 1980s were invincible. That they were immortal.
That '86 team in particular, was always engraved in my mind as to what a starting line-up should look like.
They were the measuring stick.
Chief at center.
McHale at power forward.
Bird at small forward.
Ainge at the two-guard.
D.J. at point.
Though I don't remember watching one game of that magical 1986 season live (I was four years old at the time); that line-up was, for better or worse, my bible.
During a drunken haze one night before Game 1 of the 2002 Eastern Conference Finals, my buddy Spring Chicken was witness to me hugging a toilet bowl at 2 in the morning and sadly explaining why I hadn't fallen in love with Paul Pierce, Antoine Walker and Kenny Anderson yet.
I told him ... well, slurred to him, in my best Anna Nicole impersonation, that the '86 team had a personality. That '86 team would have no trouble punching Bill Laimbeer in the face. That '86 team would have no trouble talking major trash with 2:00 left in a do-or-die Game 7.
They exuded a wonderful arrogance that will never be matched.
And I, unfairly, judged this "new breed" of Celtics against them.
It was then and there that I began feeding that friggin' porcelain bowl a lethal dose of buffalo chicken, bleu cheese and cheap tequila.
But it wasn't your ordinary post-party puke fest. No-No.
This one was special.
This one was a puke for the ages.
This one was for nostalgia purposes only.
This one was for "the line-up."
In between each upheaval, I would shout out, in a musical, rythmical tone, the names of each member.
"The line-up" never sounded so good.
In my best Celtics PA announcer voice (unfortunately the guy that is now the PA announcer at Boston College basketball games), I began:
"Annnnnnd Nowwwww, aahhhhh inter-o-du-sing ahhhh the Boston Celtics!
(Blood Curdling PUKE!)
"At ahhh guard from ahhh BYU, ahh num-ber forty-four ahhhhh Danny Ainge!"
(Quick puke followed by a woman-like, "excuse me" burp)
"The forward from ahhh Minnesota, ahh numba thirty-two ahhhh Kevin Mc-Halllllllle!
(Violent aftershock Puke. It stung the nostrils)
"At the other guard from ahhh Pepperdine, ahhh num-ber threeeeee, Den-NIS Johnson!
(Calming puke)
"From Centenary. At Center! ahhhh numba double zerooooooo-----RRRRobert Parish?!
(Climatic Puke)
"And the other forward, from ahhh Indiana State, ahhhh number thirty-threeeee Larrrrr-EEEE Bird!!!!!!!!!
...
"The trainer is Ray Melchiore, the assistant coaches Chris Ford and Jimmy Rodg----"
Oh. Sorry.
You still there?
Anyway, I guess the point I'm futily attempting to make is that odd things lie in the recesses of your brain. In most cases, they're something that mean something to you.
For better or worse, "the lineup" meant something to me.
And it will never be the same again.
RIP DJ.
You will be missed.
By SG2.0
So I'd say 72.3 percent of the reason I moved out to the West Coast in the first place was to finally be able to fulfill my lifelong dream of watching the Celtics battle the Lakers in Los Angeles.
Now I truly do expect quite a few shoulder shrugs here. I mean this once great rivalry is about as dead as Alan Thicke's career.
It hasn't truly mattered since about 1990 (un-coincidentally the year that I started watching the NBA) and has gotten so lackluster that a few "wiggers" in attendance at the TD BankNorth Garden last month, started chanting "MVP! ... MVP! ... MVP!" for Kobe Bryant of all people.
Yes Kobe Bryant. You know that guy that is the LAKERS best player. Not to mention he makes Jeff Gilooly and Joey Buttafuoco look like "Co-Husbands of the Year" by comparison.
Now I'm sure the "people" chanting those horrific words that ugly night in Boston were nothing more than 16-year-old posers from the 'burbs of Massachusetts that openly root for people like Shawne Merriman, Ray Lewis, Kobe, LeBron and Jeter because they enjoy how their jersey's look and they're quote, unquote "nasty dude!!!"
I like to call this type of behavior the "Penny Hardaway Effect."
And you know the types that suffer from this hideous disease.
They're the soul-less kids in your neighborhood that always think whoever's ass Stuart Scott kisses that night on SportsCenter will pan out into the next Michael Jordan.
They're also, ironically, the kids that like to cheer against the home team when they're down. Yup, those kids.
The type of kids that use their spare time to attempt to pick up girls outside (and in) Dunkin' Donuts and then think they're bad asses because they peel out of a 8,000 square foot parking lot with a grand total of 2 cars, 1 dog and a lamp post in it at 10:30 on a Friday night.
Ya THOSE kids.
But guess what. I DIDN'T have them on my mind while driving North on the So Cal 5 last Friday afternoon. That would have been a waste of everyone's time.
Unfortunately I was thinking about a different blow to the greatest franchise in NBA history.
"D.J." had died a day earlier and with him went yet another part of the Celtic mystique.
I was always taught that those Celtic teams of the 1980s were invincible. That they were immortal.
That '86 team in particular, was always engraved in my mind as to what a starting line-up should look like.
They were the measuring stick.
Chief at center.
McHale at power forward.
Bird at small forward.
Ainge at the two-guard.
D.J. at point.
Though I don't remember watching one game of that magical 1986 season live (I was four years old at the time); that line-up was, for better or worse, my bible.
During a drunken haze one night before Game 1 of the 2002 Eastern Conference Finals, my buddy Spring Chicken was witness to me hugging a toilet bowl at 2 in the morning and sadly explaining why I hadn't fallen in love with Paul Pierce, Antoine Walker and Kenny Anderson yet.
I told him ... well, slurred to him, in my best Anna Nicole impersonation, that the '86 team had a personality. That '86 team would have no trouble punching Bill Laimbeer in the face. That '86 team would have no trouble talking major trash with 2:00 left in a do-or-die Game 7.
They exuded a wonderful arrogance that will never be matched.
And I, unfairly, judged this "new breed" of Celtics against them.
It was then and there that I began feeding that friggin' porcelain bowl a lethal dose of buffalo chicken, bleu cheese and cheap tequila.
But it wasn't your ordinary post-party puke fest. No-No.
This one was special.
This one was a puke for the ages.
This one was for nostalgia purposes only.
This one was for "the line-up."
In between each upheaval, I would shout out, in a musical, rythmical tone, the names of each member.
"The line-up" never sounded so good.
In my best Celtics PA announcer voice (unfortunately the guy that is now the PA announcer at Boston College basketball games), I began:
"Annnnnnd Nowwwww, aahhhhh inter-o-du-sing ahhhh the Boston Celtics!
(Blood Curdling PUKE!)
"At ahhh guard from ahhh BYU, ahh num-ber forty-four ahhhhh Danny Ainge!"
(Quick puke followed by a woman-like, "excuse me" burp)
"The forward from ahhh Minnesota, ahh numba thirty-two ahhhh Kevin Mc-Halllllllle!
(Violent aftershock Puke. It stung the nostrils)
"At the other guard from ahhh Pepperdine, ahhh num-ber threeeeee, Den-NIS Johnson!
(Calming puke)
"From Centenary. At Center! ahhhh numba double zerooooooo-----RRRRobert Parish?!
(Climatic Puke)
"And the other forward, from ahhh Indiana State, ahhhh number thirty-threeeee Larrrrr-EEEE Bird!!!!!!!!!
...
"The trainer is Ray Melchiore, the assistant coaches Chris Ford and Jimmy Rodg----"
Oh. Sorry.
You still there?
Anyway, I guess the point I'm futily attempting to make is that odd things lie in the recesses of your brain. In most cases, they're something that mean something to you.
For better or worse, "the lineup" meant something to me.
And it will never be the same again.
RIP DJ.
You will be missed.
