DATELINE: TUESDAY NIGHT
Wow. That really got out of a hand in a hurry. I mean, that jumped up a notch.
I congratulate KG, Paul Pierce, Ray Allen, and the rest of the Celtics, who endured more than their fair share of career sacrifice and hard knocks (a story that wasn’t covered nearly enough) en route to their first championship hardware. When it comes to a group of guys who deserved one, I can’t imagine more worthy characters than your “big three” (and big ups to Gabe Pruitt and Brian Scalabrine — my USC boys).
While I’ll back my Lakers to the grave, the fact of the matter is that night in and night out in this series, the clover-emblazoned dudes from Beantown clearly wanted it more and deserve to now hoist the hardware (and quite honestly, I’d be sickened if the Lakers played the way they did in Game 6 and got to keep playing in this series).
If there was any doubt — which I’m pretty sure last night erased — you were the better team in this series, end of story. And I take NOTHING away from the Celtics players and Doc Rivers (who I, like most Celtic fans, was more-than-vocal in trashing earlier in his career).
But second, and perhaps more importantly — exhibiting what will inevitably be more class than any of you will muster tonight, tomorrow, or any of the days to follow — I wish you Celtic fans (and happy bandwagon hoppers) all congrats.
Fortunately for me, being the good friends/easy foils that you are, you will all provide my consolation in spades: giddily prancing around, playing that role of lovable loser who hasn’t sipped from the sweet cup of victory in 14 (whoops — tequila-infused math) 22 years.
I’m sure I’ll field a fleet of emails and IMs before noon EST — all of which will effectively illustrate just how long it’s been since you’ve laid down beside the sweet lady championship, bearing an eerie similarity to the boisterous taunts of a context-lacking frat bro coming off a disarmingly loud night with a slump buster.
And like the friends of that desperate, Carell-esque virgin, I’ll tell you just how truly proud I am that you managed to finally secure that conquest.
(Of course, while I humor your emboldened gloating — shellfish in hair, reeking of desperation — I’ll quietly savor it all, reminded just how fortunate I am to have been there to witness a back-to-back championship (complete with a hug from Cheech after we beat the Pistons in game 7) first-hand, and then following it up with a big fat Shaq/Kobe-era three-peat. If only you all could have lived through the Russell era to know how good that felt.)
Does it hurt? Sure it does. Like salt in a tendon-reaching wound. Getting this close with a team that everyone picked to be in the bottom half of the conference burns like hell. If you had been to the Finals anytime since Reagan was President, I’d attempt to put it in context for you. But alas, I’ll have to let you estimate what one-fifth of the embarrassment of an undefeated football team choking in the Super Bowl feels like to give you remotely accurate perspective on what I’m feeling at the moment.
Congrats again, Celtics.
(This is as gracious as I get. Savor the flavor, it won’t last long.)
