A Celtics Blogger Christmas Carol: The Final Chapter
By Kevin Henkin
“So you don’t talk, huh?” I said to the Ghost of Christmas Future, who took the form of injured rookie superstar-in-waiting Greg Oden. “Still grouchy about the whole derailed rookie season?”
He shook his head and pointed to the crowded Dunkin Donuts in front of us on the corner of State and Broad Streets in downtown Boston. He led us to the back of the long line and we waited there behind a couple of boisterous college students.
The tall one in front of me held up a couple of printed pages and said to his friend, “Did you read his latest garbage today?” Peering over his shoulder, I couldn’t help but notice my name at the top of the page.
His buddy, a short heavy-set guy with a thick goatee, nodded emphatically.
The tall guy said, “Let me read this part out loud.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Know this. If you have some change left over from your holiday shopping, Kay Hanley’s Fluffy Pink Slippers just might be the finest female solo effort this side of Emmylou Harris’ Chamomile Unicorns. And oh yes, John Hiatt joins in on a couple of tracks. Trust me, It’s exactly as fun as it sounds.”
His friend snatched the printouts, crumpled them up and threw them in the trash bin. “Why do you even bother reading him anymore?”
“I still read him because he used to be good but now he just bothers me. Does he honestly think we care about some old reporter dude’s music recommendations? It’s like asking my dad what his favorite Fratellis songs are. Besides, he’s supposed to be covering basketball. I just want him to tell me about the Celtics because after all, he has media access to them and I don’t, so he’s supposed to know more about them than I do. But no, he thinks he’s transcended all that and gets to waste my time blabbing about some old lady musicians. Kay Hanley? Emmylou Harris? Unicorns? I mean, why not just head up a new Lilith Fair and write about that?”
Horrified at my own future material, and at the possibility of another Lilith Fair, it took me a moment to snap out of shock and realize that the ghost had transported us to another location.
We were sitting in the open dugout of a softball field, joined on the bench by a group of men and women in the mid-thirties. Their side was up and they were all shooting the breeze while waiting for their turn at bat. During a lull in the conversation, one of the women mentioned my name and asked the man sitting next to her if he’d read my latest column.
“Wait, was that the one where he did the whole city comparison thing between San Antonio and Boston because they’re in the NBA finals together? You know, ‘We have baked beans and they have refried beans. We have Good Will Hunting and they have The Alamo’? Man, talk about lazy and putrid.”
“No, no, not that one,” she said. “It was the one where he calls everyone who has the nerve to disagree with him a blowhard and insinuates they don’t know the first thing about basketball.”
“I don’t know. The guy is known as a basketball guru in these parts.”
“Great,” she said, rolling her eyes, “which was fine when he still wrote primarily about professional basketball. Now he seems to avoid the topic at all costs, except every once in a while, he’ll show up to cover a game and then write a piece that talks down to us reader serfs like he’s the almighty authority of the NBA. Does he know more about basketball than I do? Yes. Even so, I guarantee you I’ve watched more Celtics games than he has this year.”
I tugged on the big ghost’s sleeve. “Please, I’ve heard enough,” I said. “Take me back to my place. I can’t bear to hear anymore.”
He looked at me and wagged his finger very slowly in my face.
“That’s Mutombo’s cool move,” I said. “Get your own.”
Ignoring me, he snapped his fingers and we were transported to the break room high up in one of the big towers downtown.
As if on cue, a bald smarmy guy wearing suspenders held up a printout and said “Anyone want to read this?
“Who wrote it?” someone said.
The smarmy guy answered with my name.
A derisive series of “No thanks” comments made their way around the table but he wasn’t deterred. “You know what was the worst part of it today?”
The replies came fast and furious.
“Let me guess. Did he go into further detail about his sore knee? Fascinating!”
“Or his phone conversations with his wise and amusing father?”
“Or about how he runs one mile every single day? Like I care!”
“Or name-dropping about his brushes with B-List celebrities? ‘Last week, I was standing in line at Starbucks behind Eliza Dushku. Trust me, she’s even hotter in person.’ Thanks, Ed Murrow. I needed you to tell me that Eliza Dushku is hot. In the middle of a basketball column, no less.”
“Or more Saved by the Bell References?”
“See, I don’t get that. Wasn’t he in his twenties when that show was on? I mean, wasn’t Saved by the Bell clearly geared towards early teens? Jeez, how embarrassing.”
“Enough!” I pleaded, but they couldn’t hear me so they continued ripping me to shreds. When I couldn’t listen any longer, I took the big ghost by the hand and dragged him out to the hallway. “So you’re saying I’m going to become an amalgam of the worst qualities of all the prominent Boston sportswriters?” I said. “Please tell me it’s not true. Please! It can’t become true!”
He gave me an evasive shrug.
I sulked against the wall and held my head in despair until I stumbled upon the biggest epiphany of my life. “Wait a minute,” I said. “This is only the future of what might be, right? I can still change things, can’t I?”
The ghost gave me a solemn nod.
“Ha ha, yes! I can still avoid becoming what I despise! Woo hoo!” Leaning my head back into the break room, I said, “Merry Christmas, you jerks! I hate every single one of you! Ho, ho, ho!”
And with that, my imagined future fell away and I suddenly awoke in my old recliner. The room was bathed in light from the television, on which Game 7 of the 1984 finals remained playing on a constant loop. The game was the middle of the second quarter and Tommy Heinsohn was announcing with Dick Stockton on CBS. Tommy was trying his best to sound impartial, and failing miserably at it. We all knew who he was rooting for anyway. I had to smile.
At my desk, I found an unopened box of Crunch ‘n Munch wrapped with a bow. I tossed it in the trash, sat down at my computer and began writing a new column. It began as follows:
“The future of the Boston Celtics remains unwritten. Nonetheless, if we’ve learned anything thus far, it’s that they belong right in the middle of the discussion of who might still be playing this upcoming June. Let’s examine a few key reasons why…”
THE END
