It’s been a grueling spring for the Boston Celtics on the road to the NBA Finals. We are tired, we have faced adversity, we are staying up past our bedtimes.
It may seem a little odd to say “we,” but I am a role player, doing my bit from home here in West Lebanon. Google tells me it is 124.3 miles to the Boston Garden, not too far for the boys to benefit from my coaching from my comfy chair.
“PASS THE BALL,” I urge Jayson Tatum, who is immensely talented but not as unstoppable as he may think he is. He sometimes dribbles the ball six, seven eight times, feinting, bobbing, weaving, doing a two-step and the Lindy, then hops backward and throws up a 3-pointer. The shot has a degree of difficulty equal to that of an Olympic diver descending through a hoop of fire and just out of the reach of sharks.
His coach, Ime Udoka, who looks like an authority figure, arms folded in a steely pose, agrees with me that passing in search of better shots is a swell idea. He has chided Tatum — as have I — for throwing his hands in the air like a spoiled brat when he feels the referees have missed a foul call against the brutes who maul him like rampaging bears.
The NBA refs are doing the best they can, despite vision problems, attention deficits, spatial awareness challenges and poor self-esteem resulting from the scorn of fans on both sides.
We have endured a lot in this playoff run. For starters, there almost wasn’t one. The Celtics had a poor first half of the season, until Udoka persuaded them to follow his game plan instead of whatever random things the players were cooking up on their own. Just as members of an orchestra have to work together — it wouldn’t do to have the woodwinds playing Faure’s Requiem, the strings Ode to Joy and the brass Who Let the Dogs Out? — a basketball squad must be a team. As others have pointed out, there is no “i” in team. For that matter, there is no b, c, d, f, g and so on.
Anyway, the Celtics started playing stout defense and passed the ball, often. They made a remarkable turnaround and soared into the playoffs with high hopes.
Other key players include Jaylen Brown, who has a sweet jump shot but sometimes dribbles the ball off his feet like a bench-warmer on the middle school jayvee, and Marcus Smart, a whirling dervish of a defensive specialist. He puts life and limb in danger as he crashes into chairs, floors and opposing players. He leads the league in OSHA violations.
Then there is Robert “Time Lord” Williams, a shot blocker who leaps like he has trampolines in his sneakers. Alas, he has a delicate frame, and I have to worry about injury — his, not mine. At 69, this is a major distraction as I am supposed to pay full attention to my own aches and pains.
Other notables include Grant Williams, who has a sturdy build and a motor mouth, Al Horford, who is calm and productive even though he is 85 years old in basketball years, and Derrick White, a midseason acquisition who shows up for all the games, remarkable for someone unprepared for Boston traffic patterns. Half the roads don’t lead anywhere, which is why the population of the city has stagnated.
Also of note is Peyton Pritchard, vertically challenged at 6-foot-1, a dwarf tree among the sequoias. He has become an excellent long-range shooter by practicing 24 hours a day six days a week, limiting rest to one off-day. Soon he will hit a 3-pointer from South Boston, or New Hampshire.
To reach the finals we — there I go again — have defeated the Brooklyn Nets, Milwaukee Bucks and Miami Heat. Brooklyn had Kyrie Irving, who is a magician with the basketball and a crackpot off the court. Milwaukee featured Giannis Antetokounmpo, who smashed into defenders like an old-time fullback. Miami had Kyle Lowry, who drew fouls by flopping in a way I’ve seen only at SeaWorld, at the seal show.
He’s not the only bad actor. Unfortunately, victims of personal fouls play it for all it’s worth in the NBA. Sometimes they writhe in anguish on the floor, like a death scene at the Metropolitan Opera House.
No matter; the losers are at home watching us in the finals, the Celtics and me. Since some of the games start at 9 p.m. I am going one-on-one against Hypnos, the Greek god of slumber. I try to be there for my team, but it’s hard.
There is no “i” in sleep, but there is in dozing.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.
