I haven’t always been a basketball fan. In fact, I haven’t been a devotee of the game for very long at all.
It all started in 2007, when three of the most talented ballers in the NBA sacrificed part of themselves to come together for one final run in the twilight of their careers. It was all so perfect. Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, Ray Allen—they could have cared less about the numbers, the accolades, or the glory. They. Just. Wanted. To. Win.
Pre 2007 I wasn’t interested in basketball—I was a football man through and through. Basketball was always the sport on the peripheral, hiding in the background as the New England Patriots racked up titles and owned the decade.
My grandfather loved basketball, and he loved the Celtics. He used to brush his teeth before every game because he thought it was good luck. He watched the Bird era, the Russell era, the Cowens era—otherwise known as the greatest era in human history. My only regret is not growing up with my new-found passion for the game so I could enjoy the special moments watching those dreadful Celtic teams of the early 2000’s and late 90’s.
Everything changed in 2007, when Danny Ainge grew two coconut sized balls and stole Ray Allen from Seattle. He then traded nearly his whole team for Kevin Garnett. It remains the largest trade in league history. And after trading Kendrick Perkins several months ago, Ainge’s balls remain unnaturally large.
Brand me with the dreaded “band-wagoner” moniker all you want, I don’t care. Some earned their basketball-watching chops witnessing the magic of Larry Bird or Magic Johnson. Others learned how the game was played from those 1979 Portland Trailblazers or the 72 win Chicago Bulls juggernaut. I absorbed great basketball by watching Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, and Paul Pierce converge together and sacrifice personal numbers for victories. I had the pleasure of observing Garnett’s unreal help defense; Paul Pierce’s slow but sure offensive game, and Ray Allen’s buttery jump shot. I watched everyone make the right pass, everyone commit to excellent defense.
These Boston Celtics taught me basketball, and for that I am forever indebted.
As of May 12, 2011 the future of the Boston Celtics is very much in flux. Will Doc Rivers return? He said he would in the heat of the moment after a rough game five collapse. Will any of the big three retire, as old as they are? What of Jeff Green and Glen Davis—two promising young players headed towards free agency?
Boston may tweak the roster or they may decide to completely rebuild—no one knows. But I can say with confidence that the “big 3” era is slowly, reluctantly, grinding to a halt. Kevin Garnett can’t bring it every game—even with a night’s rest. Paul Pierce isn’t the offensive force he used to be. The title window isn’t shut, but Rajon Rondo’s foot is the only thing keeping it open. The cruel reality of this Miami series is that a healthy Rondo may have been the difference.
I don’t think this is farewell—I hope not—but if it is, thanks guys. Thanks for showing me how it’s done, thanks for fostering a love that will last a lifetime (cue corny Zale’s commercial). Thanks to Boston’s big three, I know how the game is supposed to be played. I can die knowing I’ve seen team basketball at its zenith.
If you’ll excuse me, I have a shrine to build.
Richard, are you graduating this year, or do you have more college left? If you have more college to go, you should get a cool brainless summer job (may I recommend pool cleaner) and intern at a local newspaper. You can build a following, and they will follow you to Blitzwish when you start classes again. If you are graduating, you ought to try to pursue writing, at least for a few years. You tell great stories, and make sports more personal. I look forward to your spin on baseball.
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