Being a sports fan is a funny thing.
It’s like being on an emotional roller coaster ride. (Well, for most sports fans. Sorry, Orioles fans. For you guys it’s more like being stuck in that one bumper car that doesn’t work and is being tormented by all other cars.) Every loss can ruin your day as much as a win can save it.
So with every game you watch you attach yourself more and more to that team. You feel like you know the players. You feel a sort of special connection. You’re the first one to notice when something is wrong with your guys and the last one to leave the arena or your TV screen when things do go astray.
In short, being a sports fan takes a lot of effort. It takes a lot out of you.
You go to the games, you watch them on TV, or online. You read box scores and sift through copious amounts of news and analysis on your team and their opponents. You become almost like a scout, a part of the staff or better a part of the team.
And while all that might take a toll on your body — Personally I feel like I have shortened my lifespan about 2-3 years following these 2010 NBA playoffs. Take all the sleep deprivation and all those “near-heart-attack-Oh-my-Lord-that -was-close!-moments” during the games and what you earn is a heart the size of a melon and arteries that are more clogged than a high school toilet. And don’t even get me started on all the unhealthy food you put into your body while watching games. Heck, I probably ate more cereal this month alone than Tony the Tiger ever did. — and your mind — With wins and losses prompting mood swings that are about as inexplicable to bystanders as Ron Artest’s behavior at post game interviews. — you always hope and sometimes even know that in the end it will be all worth it.
Uhmm, or not.
My wounds are still fresh so take this with a grain of salt, but in my opinion the worst possible feeling you can experience as a sports fan is losing a championship. It’s like running a marathon and cramping up ten feet before the finish line. Yes you made it far, but you didn’t make it. (If that makes sense.) It’s the sports equivalent of enduring foreplay with your spouse only to get blown off once you’re ready to get to the main course. It’s horrible. Like Ricky Bobby once said: “If you ain’t first, you’re last, son! Oh yeah and eff the Lakers!”
Ok, I made the second part up, but you get my point: Losing sucks. While losing over a period of time sucks even more, after a while you just get used to it and accept it. But losing a championship, when you already have your hopes raised into dwindling heights only to have them crushed by the cruel thunderbolt of fate, sucks more than Jenna Haze. (Hey, nobody said this is going to be pretty. I am still in mourning, anger and disbelief mode all at the same time. And if I have to have one more Laker fan tell me that coming in second isn’t bad either, I might elbow him in the face Dwight Howard-style.)
But wait, we’re getting ahead of us. Let’s take a walk back on memory lane and see how everything started:
After losing 7 of their last 10 regular season games and setting a record for most blown fourth quarter leads in a regular season (Phil Jackson that “word that rhymes with crick” even used that stat during a timeout in Game 5) there was little to no hope entering the playoffs. Even as Doc Rivers and the rest of the team stuck to their mantra. (I am paraphrasing here so stay with me: “We are great if we’re all healthy so just wait till we get in the playoffs and kick some ass.”)
And amazingly enough they did just that. I had them as a first round out (and I’m even one of the more optimistic fans out there), but they proved just about everybody wrong when they made quick work of the lowly Heat in 5. (A team that should just rename itself “The Wades” already. After all why stop at changing Dade County to Wade County!? Go the whole nine yards, will ya!)
Even though Wade put on a staggering performance, hitting shots that seemed to defy every physics law there is, the Celtics were too much for Miami. They even got some of that ‘08 swagger back when Quentin Richardson got into a tussle with KG. By all means it was no convincing performance by the team in green, but they were just getting started.
Next up was Cleveland, a team that was primed once again to meet the Lakers in the Finals, but the C’s were not in the mood to roll over in front of the “King”.(That’s right I put that in quotation marks! Maybe Skip Bayless was right all these years.) Of course with all the front runners out there, just about every NBA expert had the C’s go out against the Cavs. (Not me by the way, I was even going to write a post titled “Why the Celtics will win”, but I ran out of time and never was able to finish it. What you don’t believe me? How dare you? I swear I was going to write that! Why does no one believe me?)
And then Game 2 happened.
Then the Rondo triple double happened.
Then the “Who is that wearing Nr.23 and what they do with LeBron?” game happened.
And finally “Where suddenly being in the Eastern Conference Finals” happened.
Waiting for the Cinderellas in green was a Magic team that had put up gaudy numbers through two rounds by abusing the bottom feeders of the playoffs. They were an upset ready to happen.
The Celtics, still blossoming in the role of the underdog (a role that is always easier than that of the favorite — no pressure, nobody-believes-in us-factor and nothing to lose and everything to gain), took it to the Magic early and often. They went up 3-0 against Orlando, dismantling them on their own home court twice in the process. Those first three games were highlighted by Vince Carter gagging like Jen…uhm let’s not go too far here, after all kids might be reading this…, Dwight Howard throwing elbows left and right like nobody’s business (even lulled Big Baby to sleep once) and Rashard Lewis MIA-ing (Scroll down to playoffs and check out his numbers against Boston. H-O-R-R-E-N-D-O-U-S!) so badly that it prompted me to check if he wasn’t smiling down from some milk carton. The C’s would eventually wrap it up in 6, but not before letting the Magic stay alive long enough that even I was getting nervous they might write history on the wrong end and become the first NBA team to blow a 3-0 lead.
But after the dust settled I finally came to grips with what had happened. My team was in the NBA Finals for the second time in three years. Now they even had a chance to go up against their biggest arch rival, a team that every Celtics fan despises, and deny them the trophy one more time.
It was a run that was too good to be true. You had the canny vets who wanted to cement their place in history with one more ring — Pierce, Garnett, R. Allen. You had the young guns who were finally on par with and in some cases even better than the vaunted Big Three — Rondo, Perkins. And finally you had this rag-tag group of characters, players that had been labeled as headcases and uncoachable in the past — Wallace, players that had never been in a winning environment — Robinson, and players that still wanted and needed to proved that they belonged on this team — Davis, T. Allen. (And then you had Sheldon Williams, but let’s not get into that or else I might write some things I might regret.)
And you had all of them playing as a true team. The starters we’re rooting on the bench players. The bench players taking pressure off the starters by putting up solid numbers and displaying great defensive effort. No bitching at teammates, no stink-eyes directed at teammates, no complaining about playing time, no nothing. It seemed like we had caught lightning in a bottle. The right cast of players, showing up at precisely the right time, with the right coach to guide them and the right system for their talents.
Everything was all right in Celtic country.
But then the C’s got clobbered in Game 1. It seemed like all the analysts had been right. “The Lakers have too much length. They have too many weapons for Boston too handle. The Celtics are old. Yada yada yada” even though my confidence was shaken I knew better than to put too much weight on one game. I wouldn’t overreact like everybody else.
So I put on my green lucky Red Sox shirt (Which I hadn’t washed all throughout the playoffs. Needless to say I watched most of the games alone.) and anxiously awaited Game 2, more than happy to watch it at a normal time on a regular TV instead of keeping myself awake with so much Red Bull and coffee pulsating through my venes that it might be illegal , crammed in front of my tiny computer at 3 a.m. in the morning. (During the NBA Finals I visited relatives in Florida. Thus explaining the lack of posts. Forgive me loyal readers and spam bots.)
And boy, oh boy, my lucky T-shirt and Ray Allen had come to play. Jesus Shuttlesworth had prompted Mike Breen to seven “BANGs” in the first half alone by scorching the Lakers from behind the arc. It was one of those games where you knew something special was happening and you were becoming part of history in the process. He only made one more in the second half, nevertheless breaking the Finals record for most threes in a game. The Celts would hang on to win it, but they let the Lakers hang around even though Allen had a record-setting-night. I should have seen the red flags right there, but I was blinded by loyalty and still believing. Especially now that the series shifted back to Boston with both teams tied.
Game 3 was a different story though. The C’s looked sloppy and undetermined. The defense was spotty and so was the effort. Nevertheless they were in it till the end, but nobody was able to make shots for the Celtics and so the Lakers took Game 3 for the 2-1 lead.
While my nervousness was rising I still had this weird confidence that the Celtics would win Game 4. Maybe it was just wishing, but I couldn’t picture this team going out easily. It just didn’t fit. Not for this team. Not this season.
It was a dogfight. Not pretty, but competitive and close. These were two even teams, clawing and fighting for a W. Then Kobe went off in the third. Shot after shot went in, one more ridiculous than the other. But then Big Baby went crazy. I mean literally insane. (I am 96% sure they had to hose him down after-wards.) Grabbing rebounds in traffic, tipping balls in and hustling up and down the court. He even gave us the best unintentional comedy clip of these Finals when he scored, got fouled and screamed at the top of his lungs while drooling … well … like a Big Baby. The Celtics hung on to the lead, with Doc Rivers trusting his bench and leaving them in about as long as you can leave them in without getting lynched by the crowd and evened the series at two apiece. It was on.
Then everything went the C’s way in Game 5. Pierce put on a showcase performance. Rondo had plays that made you hold your breath. Garnett came through. It was just a sound all around performance by a team that was on the verge of winning it all.
I thought we had it. I simply couldn’t picture the Celtics losing two in a row. I somewhat anticipated the Game 6 loss. It was a classic letdown performance. Vintage 2010 Celtics. They had one against the Cavs (Game 3) and one against the Magic (Game 5). Games where you think you just have to show up and cash in the W.
Still I ignored all those red flags. I just had this strange feeling that this was a team of destiny. Even though the Celtics were without Perkins, I could still hear Doc Rivers in the back of my mind: “This starting lineup has never lost a series.” A statement so staggering, so captivating and above all so true! (In hindsight it still holds true. Perkins wasn’t there and he might have been more valuable than all of us could’ve ever imagined. I just ignored it. Maybe I wanted to ignore it. But we are getting ahead of ourselves again.)
We had come too far to let it slip through.
Or so I thought.
My recollections of June 17th 2010 are about as cloudy as those of February 3rd 2008. The two worst losses in my life as a sports fan.
Fast forward to the closing minutes: The Celtics had possessed a double digit lead and had given it away, because they weren’t able to make baskets for 5 solid minutes. I don’t have to look this stuff up. It’s etched into my mind forever like “Always look both ways before you cross the street” or “Don’t run with scissors”.
The Lakers were up by two possessions late. Then Shed hits a three. Artest answers with a trey (aka. the Dagger). Then Allen from the corner with three. Kobe bricks one and then…
… the most important rebound of the ballgame …
…ends up in Gasol’s hands.
Bryant gets fouled and makes both freebies.
There is still enough time left.
Then Rondo gets a rebound off an Allen miss and hits a miraculous three. My exact thoughts at that point were: ” If Rondo of all people makes a three, in the clutch no less, there is no way we can lose this game. We just can’t!” I was still hopeful, but in retrospect maybe it was less hopefulness and more refusal to succumb to reality. (Like that, huh!? I didn’t take psychology in high school for nothing.)
There are 16.2 seconds left. My hands are shaking. I am still in “Don’t-stop-believing-mode”. I just can’t let go. Every sense of objectivity is already out the window.
LA for the inbound after a timeout. If this miracle is going to happen for Boston then they steal the ball right here. Pictures of Bird stealing the ball and the legendary call that goes with it flash through my mind.
But no. Not for me. Not here. Not now. I don’t get a “Bird-steals-the-ball-moment”.
Vucjacic gets the inbound and goes to the line. He is as ice cold as winter in Austria. This is the last stand right here.
First one. Money. Second one. In the bank.
That’s game.
An emptiness that I only knew from February 3rd 2008 suddenly overcomes me. I let my guard down. But there was no going back once I hoped on the hope-train. I rode it and it crashed. Went up in flames just like KG’s, Allen’s and Pierce’s dreams of a second ring.
A golden opportunity (literally) missed. A Cinderella story with no Happy End.
In one word: harsh.
Which brings us full circle to that worst feeling in sports.
Losing a championship.
Eventually I’ll get over it, but it will remain a dark stain on my still relatively clean slate of fandom. LA won. Deservedly. They played better, smarter and hustled more when it matter most.
A tough pill to swallow.
BUT…
Just let the record show, that not Andrew Bynum, not Phil Jackson and certainly not Kobe Bryant won the Lakers their 16th championship, but that a lunatic from Queens bridge sealed the deal for LA.
So chew on that Los Angeles!