March 9, 2010 Sports

An audience with the king

Weathering a storm for a riveting Celtics game

by Steven Myers

The Weather Network sounded a warning siren. A wicked “nor’easter” was on its way. You’d think the Second Coming was here, but in fairness to fearmongers, blizzard’s aren’t nature’s fashion craze these days.

We were headed towards the storm’s eye and nothing would stop us. Our destination was the Bohsten Gahden. And we even ignored its new name, the TD Bank-Fleet Center.
King James, the basketball version, was coming to Beantown.

Somewhere between Randolph and Lebanon, Vt. our rental car—whose make, model and colour has been washed from my memory—entered a winter vortex.

Our car slipped and smashed into the metal embankment. The left turn signal was crushed, my knee destroyed the gas cap lever, the steering wheel bruised my ribs, the car 360’d. But our destination remained Boston. We rolled on.

We parked in Sullivan Square for $4, and hopped an inbound orange line two stops to North Station. My 14-year-old, Jacob, fished out pocket change for a middle-aged squatter looking for a nip of vodka. Teenagers reward honesty.

After a Philly cheesesteak sandwich at Quincy Market and a cold walk in the rain, we scored two tuques from a street vendor: one Red Sox, one Celtics, five bucks a piece. A steal compared to the $20 you pay inside the Fleet Center where the Gahden loses its name.
We tried sneaking into the game early, but Tea Party authorities smelled our Mark Twain trickery. We were doing a “documentary” on the squirrel-paced pit crew transforming Bruins ice into parquet Celtics floor. Oh well. We watched the lights change on the big train scoreboard instead and wound up beside a Quebec family, a mother of two wondering out loud why the Bruins were yellow when the Red Sox were red and the Celtics green.
“Good question,” I countered. This was America, after all. Strangers talk to each other, especially when they happen to be Canadian. We fell silent for a few moments, silent together. All of us deep in thought. We realized the Boston colours make no sense when considering three Montreal sports teams once upon a time modelled red, white and blue, and the same for Pittsburgh in their yellow and black.

There was a lineup before tip-off. Two Celtics fanatics wearing green tilted hats atop their shaved heads stole the show, one outfitted in Pierce jersey and the other Garnett. They bantered with a caped LeBron impersonator, and it was all NBA love except the young naysayer in front of us.

“Great,” she squealed to her mother. “Just what we need, more white rappers.”

That’s exactly what we need, I thought, more Beastie Boys. She was wearing an Eddie House jersey. The Celts released the long-distance shooter last week. What did she know anyway?
We were Crow-bound, section 320, row 2, upper deck, but the long walk was postponed. We raced to the front row for the pre-game shoot-around/LeBron close-up. He never showed up, but the Cavs’ Jamario Moon spent the entire 45-minute session playing ‘round-the-world and sank 28 mid-range jumpers in a row. That’s why reserve players make millions. Moon tossed balls to fans with $800 courtside seats and waited for their return pass-assist. And that’s why $800 seats are such a good deal.

The authorities booted us to where we belonged, but upper deck cheapies do have advantages. They are loud and unsupervised. Boston speak is a paradoxical mix of confidence and disbelief, a consequence of countless Red Sox tragedies. And the sound….oh, that New England accent.

The lights are turned off. A pre-recorded Garnett scream echoes throughout the building. Fans become fanatics. We are a smart race, us humans. But give me some Celtics noise. It’s better than the Louvre.

And Celtics rants can be sarcastic (“Go on Shaq, take yah shot. Take it all day!”), insulting (“How does it feel, LeBron, to be Rondo’ed?) and just plain nasty (“LeBron, you 6’8” bitch! You primadonna, you get all the calls!”).

The Celtics dominated the first three quarters and then LeBron played ring around the Celtics with Mo Williams, who drained three consecutive three-pointers. In a matter of minutes, the Cavs transformed a deficit into a 20-point lead. The King scored 30, grabbed double-figure rebounds and chased down a ball heading for the seats, his momentum taking him atop a press table where he balanced himself and paused to scan the sell-out crowd.

The King had arrived.