A Celtics Blogger Christmas Carol: Chapter 2

By Kevin Henkin

The cast of the 1984 NBA Champion Boston Celtics faded away in front of us. They were replaced by the likes of Dino Radja, Xavier McDaniel, Rick Fox, Kevin Gamble and Sherman Douglas. Robert Parish sat on the bench, aging in dog years before our very eyes. Alas, by that point, the days of The Big Three were officially over. Also gone were about a quarter of the fans and most of the noise. The place was so quiet that you could actually hear some of the players shouting on the court and the squeaks of their sneakers. Douglas brought the ball up court and squeezed the ball into Dino Radja on the block. The big man double-faked, fooling no one, then dribbled the ball off his foot and out of bounds. After a television timeout, Acie Earl came into the game for Radja. The fan sitting next to me shouted a string of profanities about Earl and various members of his family.

“Don’t worry,” I said to the distraught fan. “Acie Earl will be out of the league inside of four years.”

“Oh, is that right, Nostradamus?” The fan chugged the rest of his beer and flicked the empty cup over the railing. “I love your pajamas, by the way. Did your mommy forget to dress you this morning?”

I tugged on the ghost’s sleeve. “I’ve seen enough of these horrible things. Get me out of here.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid there’s more to see,” he said as he snapped his fingers. Instantly, we were transported to another place. It was a newer place, although the parquet floor remained in front of us. The new building certainly smelled better but was otherwise soulless. Down below, M.L. Carr strolled along the sidelines like a friendly mayor, pretending to coach his team to victory. On the floor were Alton Lister, Antoine Walker, Todd Day, Greg Minor and Dana Barros. In a listless half court set, Barros passed off to Antoine Walker, who dribbled the ball up to his nipples on the way to the basket and threw up a desperation heave in traffic. After the shot inexplicably fell through the net, Walker complained to the nearest official about the lack of a foul call, then hooted and wiggled while the opposing team pushed the ball hard up the floor. It was the third quarter and the Celtics were losing by twenty.

“Why must you torture me, ghost? What have I done to deserve witnessing such evil?”

“Evil?” he snorted, his eyes alight with mischief. “I’ll show you some true evil.”

With a snap of his fingers, the happy-go-lucky M.L. Carr faded away, replaced by a stark raving lunatic named Rick Pitino. The diminutive tyrant was screaming at the top of his lungs at Paul Pierce, acting as if Pierce had just set fire to his Gucci loafers. Accompanying Pierce on the court were Walker, Ron Mercer, Tony Battie and Kenny Anderson. Among other notables on the bench were Vitaly Potapenko, Walter McCarty, Dwayne Schintzius and Bruce Bowen. Next to them was Jim O’Brien, who appeared to be on the verge of sleep. If there was a common theme among all of them, it was of agitated disinterest. After enduring more verbal abuse, Pierce sagged on defense and allowed his man a clear path to the basket. Pitino erupted and frantically gestured for a timeout, flailing his arms around like a man with a raccoon in his pants. The team moped back to the huddle.

“You know what’s funny?” I said to the ghost. “When they replace Mercer with Eric Williams, this will basically be the same team that O’Brien took to the Eastern Conference Finals a couple years later. But Pitino had to make it all about him. That was probably the best thing O’Brien ever did. He turned the team over to Walker and Pierce, empowered them, gave them responsibility. Without that, they never would have brought the defensive effort that they did for him.”

“Don’t forget about the mid-season trade the brought in Tony Delk and Rodney Rogers,” said the ghost. “Without that trade, they don’t go as deep. On the flipside, without that trade, they don’t lose Joe Johnson.”

“Even so, it was a special year.”

He looked at me for a moment. “Special? You’re a tad romantic about the 2002 playoff team, don’t you think?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? They were within two games of the Finals. If Pierce made that freebie in Game 4, they just might have advanced.”

“Where they would have been trounced by the Lakers.”

“What’s your point?”

“I just wonder why you fret and complain so much about the Celtics as presently constituted while you choose to celebrate a team that had a snowball’s chance in Hades of contending for a championship, as if 2002 should be included in the category of The Good Old Days. These are the Boston Celtics, friend. Unlike their hockey counterparts, they don’t raise banners for conference titles.”

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s just get this over with. Bring on the eighteen game losing streak and be done with it, you rotten ghost.”

“So be it,” he said as he snapped his fingers.

All things being equal, watching the group of young wayward Celtics was preferable to anything involving Pitino so I sat back and tried to enjoy it as best as I could, snatching and chugging the beer from the guy sitting next to me after he insulted my snowman pajamas again. The Celtics held a tenuous lead throughout the second half until the Pistons woke up with two minutes left and Chauncey Billups took over the game.

“Remember him?” the Ghost said.

In unison, we said, “Why can’t we get guys like that?” We sounded like morons.

As the final seconds ticked off the clock, fans moped out. The name Greg Oden was mentioned by quite a few of them.

“Are we done here?” I said.

“Indeed.” With that, we were transported back to my dark, chilly little living room.

“You will be visited by two more ghosts this evening-”

“No, no, no,” I interjected. “Save the ghosts. I learned my lesson, right? I’ll stop nitpicking about the team and keep things in perspective. I’ll stop my fond remembrances of 2002. I’ll enjoy the ride along the road to potential playoff glory, okay? See? I’m a quick learner.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s still more you need to see and learn,” he said. “At two o’clock, you’ll be visited by the Ghost of Christmas Present. And if you’re as quick a learner as you say, you’ll ditch the pajamas.” With that, he loaded up his snacks and left, walking through the same door from which he entered.

I was just changing into a pair of jeans and a pullover fleece when I heard more knocking at the front door. Checking my watch, I saw that it was still only 1:46 a.m. After peering through the peep hole, I stepped back and said, “I don’t believe this.”

Without waiting for me to open the door, Commissioner David Stern strode straight through it and into my apartment.

“What?” he said. “You were expecting someone else? You think I’m going to allow coverage of my present NBA without personally checking into it first? Grow up, son. Now, I have a table booked for us. You have fifteen minutes of my time. Let’s get going.”

To be continued…