Monday, May 21, 2007
It’s Not About Sports…It’s about the Celtics
By SG2.0
Tuesday night, a ping pong ball will determine whether or not I go into deep depression.
I agree that saying such things is not healthy and that I may make A.J. Soprano look like a happy-go-lucky lad by comparison.
But to think, a plastic ball bouncing the wrong way, or the right way, will have a direct effect on the next 10 years of my life.
When you care about something so deeply, it is no longer a sport. Right now, the Celtics measly 38.7 percent chance at landing a top two pick is driving me insane and consuming my life.
I will likely never meet David Stern, but if, per chance, that were to happen one day, I would have no qualms about clobbering him in the face, Parish on Laimbeer-style, followed by me promptly strapping Bret Hart’s sharp-shooter on him … simply due to the way I feel at this very moment.
I’m sure fans of the San Antonio Spurs, Utah Jazz, Cleveland Cavs and Detroit Pistons have knots in the stomachs right now. Afterall, their teams are just a few wins away from hoisting the Larry O’Brien Trophy.
But Tuesday night at approximately 8:32 p.m. ET, their nerves will pale in comparison to mine. Tuesday night is my NBA Playoffs, my Super Bowl, my World Series, all wrapped into a matter of minutes.
Tuesday night is 10 years worth of rooting, crying, drinking, screaming and cursing.
And it’s all so wrong.
In my mind, the Curse of the Bambino is now a fairy tale from long, long ago. It is ancient news and the franchise that once owned that miserable title is now more obsessed with selling pink hats to 22-year-old girls and opening up bars that sell $8.50 draft beers instead of focusing on the game itself.
Nonetheless, that franchise is extremely relevant in the world of sports.
This is all so unfair.
Boston’s newest curse is 100%, Grade A, real-life crap. It is the drama that Shakespeare never conceived.
It is a curse mired in cocaine, ghosts of past glory and above all else, bad management.
The Curse of Len Bias is the one that took down an athletic Roman Empire.
Given the number of years it took them to win 16 World Championships, the Boston Celtics are the greatest franchise in the history of American sport.
I, a self-proclaimed Celtics fan first and foremost, am 25 years old.
I was raised to think the Celtics would always win, even though when I first started paying attention, Larry Bird’s back was crumbling just as quick as the franchise itself.
John Bagley, Dino Radja, Dee Brown, Brian Shaw, Reggie Lewis, Xavier McDaniel, Eric Montross, Acie Earl, Sherman Douglas, Pervis Ellison, Dominique Wilkins, Antoine Walker, Ron Mercer, Travis Knight, Eric Williams, Bruce Bowen, Tony Battie and Paul Pierce were my guys.
But they were, however, no match for The Curse of Len Bias.
My first sports memory was watching Roger Clemens don eye black and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shoelaces against the Oakland Athletics in 1990.
My second memory was watching the Detroit Pistons beat the Celtics four games to two in the 1991 Playoffs and crying.
My third involved an injured Larry Bird hitting an off-balance three pointer, that in actuality should have been called a two, with seconds remaining against the Portland Trail Blazers in 1992.
My fourth involved me skipping an important minor league baseball game to watch Bird smash his head against the Parquet floor, only to return and destroy the Chuck Person-led Pacers as a pre-sexually deviant Marv Albert screamed over the NBC airwaves in exuberance.
Unfortunately, I would not have any confidence about the Celtics again until 1997, when a used car salesman that had more charisma than a supposed offspring of a John Fitzgerald Kennedy and a Julius Caesar made everyone believe the curse was nonsense and that he could restore the Empire to its former glory.
His name was Richard Anthony Pitino IV (The middle name and Roman numerals are used for dramatic effect and to protect the innocent).
This new emperor (and yes, I believe he actually thought of himself as an emperor after the way he stole the “President” title away from the franchise’s patriarch) even peddled books to his plebians.
I was a Pitino plebian.
The New York Times’ best seller, “Success is a Choice” made you believe you could jump off the Tobin Bridge and survive.
It was manipulative and I enjoyed every single page of it.
It was my gospel, my saving grace.
But 10 years later, come to find out, success is not a choice.
Success is luck. And success is only granted to those with the right ping pong ball.
San Antonio had the right ping pong ball that day in 1997. A decade later, they have three World Championships.
A decade later, the Celtics do not matter.
My dad, who taught me to believe in the Celtics, couldn’t rattle off the C’s starting five from this past year if his life depended on it.
It’s all Patriots, all the time for him and thousands of other middle aged guys from Massachusetts.
Whenever I speak with someone from Boston in that age range, it’s always, “man those days were fun,” or “It’s a shame we won’t see that again” when talking about the Celtics.
I can tell they are kind of afraid to admit that they don’t know much about the C’s anymore. But then again, they are older and wiser and know when and when not to care.
I am nieve.
I am hungry.
I want my own “old days.”
I believe basketball is the greatest sport on the planet when it is played the right way. I believe those days could return and I could now actually appreciate them.
The Boston Celtics deserve to be on top once again.
The Boston Celtics deserve to be relevant once again.
The Boston Celtics deserve to own the City of Boston once again.
Tuesday night will determine whether or not this dream comes true.
As I sit here drinking a warm Miller Lite and listening to “I Ain’t Missing You at All” by the immortal John Waite, I can envision a day when I tell my son about the greatest franchise in the history of American sport.
I can envision talking about how the Curse of Len Bias was broken.
I can envision talking about May 22, 2007 and how everything was reversed with the bounce of a ping pong ball.
“I was a nervous wreck that night, kid … But it wasn’t about something as meaningless as sports … It was about the Celtics.”
By SG2.0
Tuesday night, a ping pong ball will determine whether or not I go into deep depression.
I agree that saying such things is not healthy and that I may make A.J. Soprano look like a happy-go-lucky lad by comparison.
But to think, a plastic ball bouncing the wrong way, or the right way, will have a direct effect on the next 10 years of my life.
When you care about something so deeply, it is no longer a sport. Right now, the Celtics measly 38.7 percent chance at landing a top two pick is driving me insane and consuming my life.
I will likely never meet David Stern, but if, per chance, that were to happen one day, I would have no qualms about clobbering him in the face, Parish on Laimbeer-style, followed by me promptly strapping Bret Hart’s sharp-shooter on him … simply due to the way I feel at this very moment.
I’m sure fans of the San Antonio Spurs, Utah Jazz, Cleveland Cavs and Detroit Pistons have knots in the stomachs right now. Afterall, their teams are just a few wins away from hoisting the Larry O’Brien Trophy.
But Tuesday night at approximately 8:32 p.m. ET, their nerves will pale in comparison to mine. Tuesday night is my NBA Playoffs, my Super Bowl, my World Series, all wrapped into a matter of minutes.
Tuesday night is 10 years worth of rooting, crying, drinking, screaming and cursing.
And it’s all so wrong.
In my mind, the Curse of the Bambino is now a fairy tale from long, long ago. It is ancient news and the franchise that once owned that miserable title is now more obsessed with selling pink hats to 22-year-old girls and opening up bars that sell $8.50 draft beers instead of focusing on the game itself.
Nonetheless, that franchise is extremely relevant in the world of sports.
This is all so unfair.
Boston’s newest curse is 100%, Grade A, real-life crap. It is the drama that Shakespeare never conceived.
It is a curse mired in cocaine, ghosts of past glory and above all else, bad management.
The Curse of Len Bias is the one that took down an athletic Roman Empire.
Given the number of years it took them to win 16 World Championships, the Boston Celtics are the greatest franchise in the history of American sport.
I, a self-proclaimed Celtics fan first and foremost, am 25 years old.
I was raised to think the Celtics would always win, even though when I first started paying attention, Larry Bird’s back was crumbling just as quick as the franchise itself.
John Bagley, Dino Radja, Dee Brown, Brian Shaw, Reggie Lewis, Xavier McDaniel, Eric Montross, Acie Earl, Sherman Douglas, Pervis Ellison, Dominique Wilkins, Antoine Walker, Ron Mercer, Travis Knight, Eric Williams, Bruce Bowen, Tony Battie and Paul Pierce were my guys.
But they were, however, no match for The Curse of Len Bias.
My first sports memory was watching Roger Clemens don eye black and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shoelaces against the Oakland Athletics in 1990.
My second memory was watching the Detroit Pistons beat the Celtics four games to two in the 1991 Playoffs and crying.
My third involved an injured Larry Bird hitting an off-balance three pointer, that in actuality should have been called a two, with seconds remaining against the Portland Trail Blazers in 1992.
My fourth involved me skipping an important minor league baseball game to watch Bird smash his head against the Parquet floor, only to return and destroy the Chuck Person-led Pacers as a pre-sexually deviant Marv Albert screamed over the NBC airwaves in exuberance.
Unfortunately, I would not have any confidence about the Celtics again until 1997, when a used car salesman that had more charisma than a supposed offspring of a John Fitzgerald Kennedy and a Julius Caesar made everyone believe the curse was nonsense and that he could restore the Empire to its former glory.
His name was Richard Anthony Pitino IV (The middle name and Roman numerals are used for dramatic effect and to protect the innocent).
This new emperor (and yes, I believe he actually thought of himself as an emperor after the way he stole the “President” title away from the franchise’s patriarch) even peddled books to his plebians.
I was a Pitino plebian.
The New York Times’ best seller, “Success is a Choice” made you believe you could jump off the Tobin Bridge and survive.
It was manipulative and I enjoyed every single page of it.
It was my gospel, my saving grace.
But 10 years later, come to find out, success is not a choice.
Success is luck. And success is only granted to those with the right ping pong ball.
San Antonio had the right ping pong ball that day in 1997. A decade later, they have three World Championships.
A decade later, the Celtics do not matter.
My dad, who taught me to believe in the Celtics, couldn’t rattle off the C’s starting five from this past year if his life depended on it.
It’s all Patriots, all the time for him and thousands of other middle aged guys from Massachusetts.
Whenever I speak with someone from Boston in that age range, it’s always, “man those days were fun,” or “It’s a shame we won’t see that again” when talking about the Celtics.
I can tell they are kind of afraid to admit that they don’t know much about the C’s anymore. But then again, they are older and wiser and know when and when not to care.
I am nieve.
I am hungry.
I want my own “old days.”
I believe basketball is the greatest sport on the planet when it is played the right way. I believe those days could return and I could now actually appreciate them.
The Boston Celtics deserve to be on top once again.
The Boston Celtics deserve to be relevant once again.
The Boston Celtics deserve to own the City of Boston once again.
Tuesday night will determine whether or not this dream comes true.
As I sit here drinking a warm Miller Lite and listening to “I Ain’t Missing You at All” by the immortal John Waite, I can envision a day when I tell my son about the greatest franchise in the history of American sport.
I can envision talking about how the Curse of Len Bias was broken.
I can envision talking about May 22, 2007 and how everything was reversed with the bounce of a ping pong ball.
“I was a nervous wreck that night, kid … But it wasn’t about something as meaningless as sports … It was about the Celtics.”
