(Today I watched game 6 of the 2008 NBA finals - Celtics 131 Lakers 92 - on DVD. With the Celtics eliminated from this years playoffs, I needed it. I also re-read an email I sent to my Celtic-loving friends last June 18 after the Green won their record 17th title. With that championship, Boston now leads Los Angeles 17-9. That's right, Minneapolis has 5. Here's the email.)
Hello again my hoop-loving friends,
This morning I find myself in exactly the same place I found myself the morning after the Red Sox beat the Yankees in 2004, and, a week later, after they beat the Cardinals for their first World Series title of my life time. I’m preparing my breakfast as I listen to WEEI recapping our beloved Celtics’ 17th NBA championship victory and it hits me. I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Tears pool in my eyes and it’s like a pressure valve has been released. A twenty-two year wait is over. A forty-three year-old man stands in his kitchen and lets it out. It’s like Paul Pierce, the newest indisputable great Celtic said after game 4, "...just watin’ to exhale." We were all waiting with you, Paul. I stand there wondering, Why? Why does it mean so much to us? It just does...
It Means So Much...
All the screaming at the TV. All the late-night phone calls. All the "What the hell are they thinking?!" outbursts. All the second-guessing. All the comparisons. The ups and downs. The daring to hope. The urges to give up on them. The sleepless nights after both wins and losses. The satisfaction in seeing Kevin Garnett embrace Celtic past in the form of the greatest winner in team sports history, Bill Russell.
It Means So Much...
Just as the ‘04 Red Sox did by beating the Yankees 10-3 in game 7, these Celtics rewarded us, after damn near killing us, with a complete annihilation of their arch enemy and national darling Lakers with a thrashing so complete and fulfilling it left no doubt as to who was the better TEAM was. You can have you’re Best Player On The_______ (fill in your own stupid galactical euphimism here). Remember the line by Brain Dennehy in Rambo, "The best man lost, and he doesn’t like it!" Sometimes the victory is enhanced by who you beat. So long Phil, Kobe and the rest of you Lakers.
It Means So Much...
There will never be an NBA like the one we knew in the 1980's. But, in many ways this championship means just as much as those ones did. It’s about perspective. It’s about having been able to witness something spectacular and wanting to witness it again. It’s about bringing three amazingly unselfish players together in a league that rewards selfishness. It’s about bringing three supremely driven athletes to the right situation on the most appropriate team to accomplish what each so dearly lacked. It’s about the satisfaction of seeing those three, along with their heavily maligned coach and the best supporting cast in the league, renew the greatest tradition in basketball. As Larry Bird once pointed out (I’m paraphrasing here) "When you get to Boston, they look at you like you’re just another player if you haven’t won a championship."
It Means So Much...
I believe special mention should go out to Sky Bar and Mr Fio. I’ve always followed the NBA and I’ve always followed the Celtics, even during the crap years. But Sky Bar and Mr Fio FOLLOWED them with the devotion of a dog-lover caring for a two-legged mongrel. Way to go, guys. I admire your dedication.
It Means So Much...
I’d forgotten what an excruciating grind the NBA playoffs are. And to see this team play it’s best in the clinching game of the finals was worth all the late nights and frustration when they weren’t at their best. To see Kevin Garnett play that monster game we were all waiting for him to play. To see Ray Allen set records from 3-point land after Moe Howard Odom poked him in the eye. To see series MVP Paul Pierce play a terrific all-around game. To see Rajon Rondo flying all over the court. To see the bench contribute like they did. To see the clueless looks on Kobe’s and Phil’s faces; grab your seating assignments and boarding passes, guys, no parade this year on whatever planet Kobe’s the greatest on. It was a near-perfect performance - the biggest blowout in a finals-clinching game.
It Means So Much...
I remember a Bob Ryan column written during the idiocy when people were trying to name the Patriots a dynasty for winning three Super Bowl titles. He pointed out that the Ming Dynasty lasted nearly 300 years. Anyway, he went on to argue that there are really only three "sports dynasties"; The New York Yankees; The Montreal Canadiens; and your Boston Celtics. The biggest problem with the Celtics, he wrote, was that, unlike the Yankees (2000) and the Canadiens (1993) they hadn’t renewed their dynasty in such a long time. Well now they have. And it means so much.
It Means So Much...
Mike Sr and Mike Jr, you two have had perhaps the best nine months any two sports fans could have. And it is only through my love for you that I can feel good for you since your Giants kept my Patriots from giving me the best nine months ever. Michael, your son is growing-up at the rate of one championship per season - I know you know, that’s pretty special.
It Means So Much...
So, I thank you, Danny Ainge, Doc Rivers, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, Kendrick Perkins, Rajon Rondo, Leon Powe, James Posey, Glen Davis, Eddie House, Tony Allen, Brian Skalabrine, Scott Pollard, PJ Brown, San Cassell, and Gabe Pruitt for bringing it back.
And thank you to my hoop-loving friends, Michael, Mike Sr, Sky Bar, Mike Grenier, and Brendan on The West Coast for celebrating this great team with me, because as we all know...
...It Means So Much...
-Jeff
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Way Leaves Fall
(a short short story written in the format of http://www.sixsentences.blogspot.com/ -
Six Sentences uses a paragraph format. Six consecutive sentences. No poems, no bullets. The title of your piece should be no longer than 36 characters, including spaces (because 6x6=36). )
Vincent D’Angelo stood in the picture window, hands on hips, watching his four sons rake the lawn. Occasionally, he knocked on the glass to point out things that weren’t to his liking. The children tried to ignore him, and hoped he wouldn’t catch them laughing; they knew they couldn’t please him, and this was how they rebelled. Driven by fear that his children were growing up lazy without appreciation for the rewards of a job well-done, Vincent felt he was failing as a father. After dragging the bags of leaves to the curb, the children joined their parents for a dinner eaten in silence. In the days ahead, neighbors would stop to observe Vincent’s perfect, leaf-free lawn, for they had kids of their own, and would admonish them, "Why can’t you be more like the D’Angelo children?"
Six Sentences uses a paragraph format. Six consecutive sentences. No poems, no bullets. The title of your piece should be no longer than 36 characters, including spaces (because 6x6=36). )
Vincent D’Angelo stood in the picture window, hands on hips, watching his four sons rake the lawn. Occasionally, he knocked on the glass to point out things that weren’t to his liking. The children tried to ignore him, and hoped he wouldn’t catch them laughing; they knew they couldn’t please him, and this was how they rebelled. Driven by fear that his children were growing up lazy without appreciation for the rewards of a job well-done, Vincent felt he was failing as a father. After dragging the bags of leaves to the curb, the children joined their parents for a dinner eaten in silence. In the days ahead, neighbors would stop to observe Vincent’s perfect, leaf-free lawn, for they had kids of their own, and would admonish them, "Why can’t you be more like the D’Angelo children?"
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Story at 11:00
(A foray into fiction. I entered this essay in the Writer's Digest "your Story" contest. The prompt was "A 20-something man sits in a taxi in front of his parents’ house, trying to find the strength to tell them that he (fill in the blank)." Of the more than 1,100 entries, mine was not among the 5 finalists. I tell myself that 6th place is not so bad. You're allowed 750 words.)
10:57. Street lamps cast doubt on a tree-lined residential avenue. A taxi cab idles at the curb. From the backseat, a 20-something man with a thousand-mile stare contemplates the dusky glow emanating from a first floor picture window. They’re settling in now; drawn like moths to the TV’s emissions, he in his jaundiced tee-shirt, she with a never-to-be-finished crossword in her lap. An ever-widening 3-foot chasm between them. They never were too comfortable with each other. At least not that he’d witnessed.
In exactly 3 minutes, she’ll set aside the crossword and he’ll crack another warm Lowenbrau for their nightly ritual, the 11 o’clock news. He can still hear his mother’s clichéd "oohs" and "aahs" whenever footage of a burning house or crumpled car played on the screen, and his father growling, "They’re all crooks," in reaction to disgraced political or religious figures.
What have they been saying lately?
The main story - the murders of four young couples - has been gaining momentum for three months. Do they notice the similarities? Childless newlyweds. The men, prematurely balding; the women blonde and curvy. All arranged the same way, sitting side-by-side in their livingrooms, hands entwined, life drawn out. The experts call it a "signature"; the way a killer arranges the bodies. Rumor has it the 8th precinct refers to him as The Sitting Room Strangler.
Are they close to figuring out how he chooses his victims?
He envisions the closet in the front hallway, can still smell the old shoe leather and plastic raincoats. That’s where they put him, their only child, whenever he made a mistake: spilled a drink, spoke out of turn, did nothing at all. Once, they left him there all night, too terrified even to come out and use the bathroom. There was no lock, but he dared not escape before his sentence was up. The next morning his father opened the door a crack then padded silently down the hallway. No explanations. Ever.
One day, the boy stashed a small flashlight amongst the debris under the shoe rack. That night, he flipped the edge of the carpet to prevent light from escaping under the door and quietly fished through the items in his cell, stopping when he found an old string-bound photo album. Blonde bangs fell away from his forehead as he flipped the pages. Niagara Falls, an old station wagon, pictures of his parents before he was born, all held flimsily in place with black adhesive photo corners. One picture in particular held his attention: they were sitting on a couch, smiling, pinkies hooked in an obvious gesture of affection. He was mesmerized. He’d never seen them smile or touch one another.
He spent most of his time inside under the dim glow studying the picture: evidence of their deliberate withholding. Sometimes he’d hear their muffled voices raised in disagreement, other times he could make out faint squeaks and groans from the bedroom down the hall. He figured they were touching then. But there was no happiness like in the picture. An acute agitation began to penetrate his otherwise calcified psyche.
At age thirteen, he was let out of the closet for good. At seventeen, he left home. And at nineteen, his therapist told him his obsessions were making it impossible for him to individuate.
"Strangulation is an up-close and personal way to kill someone," the lead investigator said during last night’s newscast. "This demonstrates rage. We believe the killer uses a belt of some kind, possibly from a trench or raincoat." He adds that there’s a witness who saw a man fleeing the most recent victims’ residence. A composite sketch will be released shortly.
"Come on, son, what’s it gonna be?"
The cab driver’s voice, his use of the word son, catches the 20-something man in the gut as a flush of red burns his ears. He regards the driver’s overworked eyes in the rearview then looks back at the house. What will they see when the sketch appears at the top of the newscast? Probably nothing. The TV is their way out. Things that upset their comfortable disorder are pushed aside and locked away. He’s certain they’ll never put it together, and as much as he wants them to know, he can’t find the strength to tell his parents that he, their only child, is a serial killer.
"Nevermind," he tells the cab driver, "It’s after 11:00 now. They don’t like being interrupted while they watch the news."
10:57. Street lamps cast doubt on a tree-lined residential avenue. A taxi cab idles at the curb. From the backseat, a 20-something man with a thousand-mile stare contemplates the dusky glow emanating from a first floor picture window. They’re settling in now; drawn like moths to the TV’s emissions, he in his jaundiced tee-shirt, she with a never-to-be-finished crossword in her lap. An ever-widening 3-foot chasm between them. They never were too comfortable with each other. At least not that he’d witnessed.
In exactly 3 minutes, she’ll set aside the crossword and he’ll crack another warm Lowenbrau for their nightly ritual, the 11 o’clock news. He can still hear his mother’s clichéd "oohs" and "aahs" whenever footage of a burning house or crumpled car played on the screen, and his father growling, "They’re all crooks," in reaction to disgraced political or religious figures.
What have they been saying lately?
The main story - the murders of four young couples - has been gaining momentum for three months. Do they notice the similarities? Childless newlyweds. The men, prematurely balding; the women blonde and curvy. All arranged the same way, sitting side-by-side in their livingrooms, hands entwined, life drawn out. The experts call it a "signature"; the way a killer arranges the bodies. Rumor has it the 8th precinct refers to him as The Sitting Room Strangler.
Are they close to figuring out how he chooses his victims?
He envisions the closet in the front hallway, can still smell the old shoe leather and plastic raincoats. That’s where they put him, their only child, whenever he made a mistake: spilled a drink, spoke out of turn, did nothing at all. Once, they left him there all night, too terrified even to come out and use the bathroom. There was no lock, but he dared not escape before his sentence was up. The next morning his father opened the door a crack then padded silently down the hallway. No explanations. Ever.
One day, the boy stashed a small flashlight amongst the debris under the shoe rack. That night, he flipped the edge of the carpet to prevent light from escaping under the door and quietly fished through the items in his cell, stopping when he found an old string-bound photo album. Blonde bangs fell away from his forehead as he flipped the pages. Niagara Falls, an old station wagon, pictures of his parents before he was born, all held flimsily in place with black adhesive photo corners. One picture in particular held his attention: they were sitting on a couch, smiling, pinkies hooked in an obvious gesture of affection. He was mesmerized. He’d never seen them smile or touch one another.
He spent most of his time inside under the dim glow studying the picture: evidence of their deliberate withholding. Sometimes he’d hear their muffled voices raised in disagreement, other times he could make out faint squeaks and groans from the bedroom down the hall. He figured they were touching then. But there was no happiness like in the picture. An acute agitation began to penetrate his otherwise calcified psyche.
At age thirteen, he was let out of the closet for good. At seventeen, he left home. And at nineteen, his therapist told him his obsessions were making it impossible for him to individuate.
"Strangulation is an up-close and personal way to kill someone," the lead investigator said during last night’s newscast. "This demonstrates rage. We believe the killer uses a belt of some kind, possibly from a trench or raincoat." He adds that there’s a witness who saw a man fleeing the most recent victims’ residence. A composite sketch will be released shortly.
"Come on, son, what’s it gonna be?"
The cab driver’s voice, his use of the word son, catches the 20-something man in the gut as a flush of red burns his ears. He regards the driver’s overworked eyes in the rearview then looks back at the house. What will they see when the sketch appears at the top of the newscast? Probably nothing. The TV is their way out. Things that upset their comfortable disorder are pushed aside and locked away. He’s certain they’ll never put it together, and as much as he wants them to know, he can’t find the strength to tell his parents that he, their only child, is a serial killer.
"Nevermind," he tells the cab driver, "It’s after 11:00 now. They don’t like being interrupted while they watch the news."
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