As Johnny Drama, arms raised triumphantly, would declare, “VICTORY!” The Boston Celtics are your 2007-2008 NBA champions. Until I have my first child, I can’t imagine another event topping this evening. Tonight's clinching game six was by all accounts a massacre, one I finally started enjoying midway through the third quarter, when I realized there was no way the Lakers were coming back. Not coincidentally, that was also the moment I stopped drinking. I didn't want this moment clouded in a blurry fog. Surrounded by good friends, all long-suffering Celtics fans, we jumped and screamed after each Ray Allen trey, every Kevin Garnett turnaround, and every Kobe Bryant turnover.
We cheered Rajon Rondo’s best all-around game of the postseason. We applauded P.J. Brown, Leon Powe and Big Baby Davis hitting the glass, James Posey and Eddie House knocking down 23 footers, and Kendrick Perkins deflecting Laker shots into the stands. I even let out a non hostile cry for coach Doc Rivers, who finally earned my trust. But most of all we cheered Paul Pierce, the captain. When he was handed the finals MVP trophy, I pulled my #34 t-shirt like the cool kids do and saluted "The Truth." Having endured a decade of false promises, botched trades, and hundreds of losses, I felt an unspoken kingship had formed between us. Nobody wanted this more.
With less than a minute left in regulation, my friends and I lit our victory cigars in a classy tribute to the late Red Auerbach, an act that was encouraged by Celtic ownership. When an usher approached to yell at our row for smoking, it was to no avail. Tonight belonged to the fans, as we puffed away in unison. Speaking of Red, it was fitting that the Celtics were the team standing in Phil Jackson's way of winning a record-setting tenth title. That smug, psycho-babble spewing moron can go to his grave knowing that the triangle offense couldn't touch us. We counted down the final seconds like Al Michaels in 1980 ("Do you believe in miracles? Yes!") This time last year the C’s were watching the finals from home after compiling the second worst record in the league. On June 17th, 2008, the green captured number 17 (how nice is that symmetry?) at home. It marks one of the greatest single-season turnarounds in the history of sports. Triggered by a selfless offense and the most suffocating D since the mid-90s Bulls, the C’s pounced on the overmatched Lakers.
I couldn’t help feeling for Kobe a little. He obviously bought into the hype, convinced he was going to get his own vindication by leading his team to the title. But his supporting cast was exposed against Boston. The Lakers second and third best players, Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom, didn’t show up in game six. Credit the opposing defense, but great players are supposed to overcome that. They didn’t, leaving Kobe to fend for himself against a team prepared to counter his every move. The old NBA adage is that the best players win. Only problem was, Kobe wasn’t the best player in this series. Both Pierce and Garnett were each at a minimum, his equals. Seeing KG lose control of his emotions during post-game interviews, I was reminded that character and leadership often mark the difference between a supreme talent and a champion. That same selflessness Garnett was criticized for during much of the playoff run rubbed off on his teammates at the perfect time. His performance, combined with Allen’s lights out shooting from beyond the arc, propelled the Celtics in a night that seemed positively euphoric.
When Queen’s celebratory anthem “We are the Champions” roared from the Garden sound system and confetti flew from the rafters, my eyes came close to watering. Game six was emblematic of the Celtic dominance throughout the finals. In truth, the only game the Lakers were truly the better team was game three in L.A. I can now state confidently that the Lakers peaked against the Spurs in the Western Conference finals. Contrastingly, the Celtics saved their best for last and actually seemed to improve with each passing round. The regular season had been their warm-up act, a precursor to a 26 game second season in which they’d rediscover themselves in each subsequent round. Credit Rivers and the players for overcoming adversity and staying focused in their quest for the real prize. With an opportunity to put their final stamp on the campaign, Boston went out and destroyed the visitors by an unfathomable 39 points, or one more than the total scored by the four Laker starters not named Kobe. It was a performance nobody in New England will soon forget.
About 25 minutes after the final buzzer had sounded, we made our way down to the roomy court side seats that only the Jack Nicholsons of the world can afford. On Causeway Street, high fives were exchanged, while only the most cynical police officers refused to smile. Some of them even posed for pictures with the rowdy, enthusiastic crowd. Eventually due to safety concerns, they formed a line and directed us around every street corner in downtown Boston. It took forever to get a cab, as we were rerouted at least a half-dozen times. But I didn’t care. Everywhere I looked there were smiling strangers in green. Some were white, some were black, some were thin, several were fat, many were smashed, and others held kids high on their shoulders. However, any differences proved irrelevant, because on this night we all became one. I think Pierce would agree.
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