A Vision

A beleaguered Boston fan base files into the TD Banknorth Garden. The guys in green have been shocked once at home by the upstart Bulls, and dropped two more at the United Center, where the masses chant Rose like the name of a god or a beloved leader. Now, Game 7. The team’s old, tired, dinged up. You couldn’t even find Ray Allen on the court if it weren’t for his polished dome, he’s been playing so poorly. Pierce is wilting under the weight of Big Baby and the rest of the team, and Rondo’s can’t keep up with Rose. Their defense has been exposed, and the few Bulls fans in the stadium, aware of the danger of home teams in game seven, are relieved: at least they don’t have to worry about KG, shelved by a knee injury. Now, the final forty-eight minutes, and somebody’s offseason begins today. The crowd’s anxious, ill at ease as the lights drop and the green lasers scribe shamrocks and gaelic knots on the floor.* Your starting lineups.

Rondo, Allen, Pierce, Perkins all jog under the white light of the kliegs, still in their warmups, slap hands and bounce on their toes. Just Big Baby left.

“At forward, 6′11″…” wait, what did he say? Big Baby’s 6′9″ in lifts. “From Farragut Academy,” the crowd explodes, you can hardly hear the announcer finish, “#5, KG, Kevin… Gaaaar-NEEETT!!” Pandemonium in the stands, a roiling sea of the Boston faithful, their hands are raised high, and there he is, stalking to center court.

Vinny Del Negro rakes a hand through his immaculate hair.

—

Don’t put it past them, people. Ainge’s heart attack’s a trick, too!

*I suspect there is no druidic imagery employed in Celtic pregames, but bear with me, here. It’s just a vision.