The Greening of America

I don't always want to write about my girls. Or about my angst. Or...

Today, I give a shout out to Red Sox pitcher John Lester, who gave hope to all of us cancer survivors with his no-hitter last night. As well, my heart goes out to Ted Kennedy and his family, for the ache they must feel to have just received his diagnosis of brain cancer. If there's anybody who can flip what will most likely be a lousy prognosis on its head and kick its ass, it's Ted Kennedy.

And finally, kudos to the men in green, who stole the show on Sunday night against the Cavs, and especially to the veterans, like PJ Brown, who played clutch basketball at the age of 38 amongst much, much younger players who make much, much more money than he does. PJ, you did us mid-lifers proud. This is the first season in a long while (ok, since Bird and McHale and Parrish and DJ played their hearts out in tight little shorts) that I've bothered to watch, learn their names, and get to know the players. And, well, I'm proud of all my boys. (see, my girls aren't always center stage!). Here are my notes from the game:

First Quarter. Boy, does Kendrick Perkins sweat a lot. It’s the start of the Celts-Cavs Game 7, Sunday, and the Celts have come out strong, 14-4. Paul Pierce is on fire! Jim, the boys and I are crowded around the TV, hanging onto every shot, every dribble, every blur of green (well, okay, white, since it's a home game) to the hoop. The Garden is packed, noisy, the good Juju emanating from all those championship banners and retired jerseys hanging from the rafters. They will not lose at home—the ghosts that haunt the place won’t allow it. At this rate, all those crazy mouths and loose lips in the crowd—and we are part of it—are going to wear themselves out; I hope they pace themselves so they can go the distance. Rondo—clutch! Right at the buzzer. It’s 16-4.

I love all the basketball names…Rajon Rondo ranks up there with some of the better ones. Dominick has already decided he’s going to name his kids Amari and Rajon. Go figure.

And there’s the King, LeBron James—if he was anyone else, we’d ask about the name. LeBron? The Brawn. Well, it kind of fits. And in his case, it seems to denote some line of royalty, as if it's a given that he, so gifted with so many special talents, would be named LeBron, and not ah, well, I don't want to offend anyone, so let's just say something less peculiar. And be forewarned about insulting LeBron in any way: I've seen his Mama in action and it is clear where he gets his ah, drive from! I’ve noticed that the less LeBron is mentioned, the better the game is going for the Celtics. But as soon as they start talking up the “Superstar,” “oh, LeBron this and LeBron that…” Shuddup, already.

Kevin Garnett is more regal—in his high cheek bones and slimming goatee (as if he needs any slimming)—than LeBron James. KG is Mr. Vertical. I’d like to see him in a striped suit. And there's Cleveland's Daniel Gibson behind the bench, still sporting the black eyeliner that makes his eyes look so darn pretty (and I mean that as a compliment).

I like Ben Wallace’s crazy ‘fro better than his corn rows. As for Delonte West, he looks like a miscreant elf—the tattoos, the scrappiness, the angular jaw, chin, pointy ears, and a look of graceful toughness that belies his size. If not for the tattoos, he could fit in nicely with the cast of Lord of the Rings. The others hail from countries like Russia, Yugoslavia, Brazil, and Spain (Szczczczerbiak was born there), making this a true international team. Too bad it won’t help them any tonight.

Foul #2 on Perkins, and he is positively splashing his sweat onto the floor now. How does he even see with all that sweat cascading down his brow into his eyes?

For a lot of reasons, I prefer watching these home games— when the men in green wear their white headbands and I can tell who is who from afar. Rondo is smaller, quicker, often exploding in athletic finesse moves worthy of a gymnastics routine. Pierce, bigger than Rondo, unleashes his deceptively quick and smooth moves with a subtle duck-footed charm that would suggest a certain clumsiness, but he’s all elegance. “A thing of beauty, defensively,” indeed.

Dominick asks, “What is wrong with Sam Cassell? He’s wearing a skirt.” We love watching Sammy. But he’s not going to play much tonight.

And neither, it seems, is Tony Allen. He’s nearly out of sight. Perhaps it’s backlash from the teddy bear story that recently broke. (If you missed it, he was asked what he’d bring on a deserted island, and he answered: “My teddy bear, my wife, and my baby.” Sweet.)

The other Allen, Ray, who has not been without his own difficulties, takes LeBron out, and goes back to chewing his gum with that slightly cockeyed, sardonic half grimace-half smile of his. Rondo wears his headband snug down over his ears, like an elf, another elf. Love the tall white socks, James Posey. 16-12: Hey, what happened to our lead?

Eddie House, another dude in white headband and high socks, runs around in hot pursuit of his guy on D. House, fairly riotous to watch, moves with purpose, a real predator. KG’s bald pate grows ever more slippery as he pursues those rebounds. The tall glass of water makes the tough shot, but after the first quarter, its 18-13, the Celtics’ lead upset by a 9-0 run by the Cavs. Blah!

At the break, Coach Brown of the Cavs says his guys have got to “box out” more. Funny to hear that even at this level—and it doesn’t get much better than this—the players are still told to “box out” by their coaches. Not too complicated, just box the dude out.

Second quarter. Eddie House sure is energetic. He is so fired up he’s got steam coming out of his ears, jetting out of his heels, lighting up his sneakers, and sending sparks out to all his teammates. Let’s get it goin’! Paul Pierce is benefiting from all the good Juju, making his moves to spin to the hoop. One of the announcers certainly has a way with words (don’t they all). About Paul Pierce, he says, “If he’p doesn’t come, it’s time to dance.” And dance he does.

Leon Powe dishes a terrible attempt at a foul shot, and another, and…finally sinks one. You’d think that given how tall these guys are, how much practice they get in, and how much they’re paid, that they’d sink every single stinking foul shot they take.

Wally Szcerbiack misses the 3—glad to see the icicles still hanging from his fingertips. Cold! Don’t want him to get hot.

House brings down the house—with a lovely basket—and some crowd-pumping shenanigans on the floor. Just what the Celts need—a spirited energizer—to turn LeBron James and the Cavs on their heads and spin them ‘round and ‘round until they puke (or lose).

(at commercial breaks, we often switch to watch Red Sox baseball. Wow! What a contrast! And the crowd looks so excited! (not) There’s absolutely nothin’ going on, which is why the announcers, especially on radio, spend the whole game talking about ridiculous, irrelevant, inane things. "Gee, did you happen to catch the sale at Bob’s Furniture over the weekend?").

This seems to be a particularly long time out break—more like a mini spa treatment, the way they take their plush seats, have fresh towels tossed to them and cups of water handed over. Here, let me mop your brow, Kendrick. The thing is, you can’t really see who is pampering these giants. House elves? (Rondo and West?) Poof!

Eddie House misses. LeBron leans in and drives, Get outta the way! Blocking foul, to the line. Paul Pierce threads through the crowd, mercilessly. He is in every sense the glue that holds this team together. Delante West fires it in. PJ Brown fouls Joe Brown, oops, is he thinking out there? He looks stunned. Kevin Garnett, and his big, beautiful almond shaped brown eyes, grabs another rebound. Good for you, Posey, though I can’t remember what you did.

What hustle by House!! He’s playing like a fifth grader trying to impress some girl on the sideline. Enthusiasm! Diving for the ball! Bet he’ll feel it on his knees later tonight.

I’ve just noticed that the headband brigade all wears their headbands directly snug over their ears. Better fashion statement than some of those tattoos out there. Jim on House: “His arm is like a coloring book.”

Rondo and Allen are on the bench, Rondo’s head is all covered up, his big doe eyes peeking out from under his towel, and Allen is sporting his sideways sneer. There’s a youth basketball struggle for the ball on the floor—House, the renegade fifth grader, and West, the miscreant elf. It gets physical, and no one is letting go of the ball, despite the whistle. “Go back to the bench, guys.” Personally, I like the emotion. The crowd loves it. “Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!” This is great stuff, and the banners are swaying in the breeze generated by Eddie House's spunk alone.

(Baseball break—hey, look, the grass is growing, yahoo! Terry Francona spits a big wad onto the dirt. The batter adjusts his glove, Nomar style. The catcher gives a few signals. The pitcher winds up, strike three. Replay, now, from two different angles, because, really, what else is there to show? Commercial--Yao Min, square headed man, asks for help with earthquake relief in China. We are glad that the NBA cares)

House, KG, Kendrick, Posey and Pierce take the floor. Three headbands, two tall socks. 35-25. LeBron hits a three. He’s looking restrained, not celebratory, despite his stinging shot. I think this means the Celtics will win.

El Capitan Pierce makes two careful, thoughtful shots at the free throw line. What else would you expect from him?

Why doesn’t Ben Wallace ever shoot? He’s always wide open for the shot and dishes it off to somebody else. (I’ve just been told that he’s not a shooter. How these guys make it to the NBA without being everything is beyond me).

(Best part of watching the Sox is Manny. Last time: catches deep fly ball off wall, high fives a guy in the crowd, throws it in to get the guy on first)

Hey, it’s a Larry Bird flashback. Look at those shorts! Short and tight. What I wouldn’t give to see today’s match up played in that old gear.

Uh-oh, James is down, a big grimace on his face (He had stepped out of bounds before the foul, by the way). He clutches his shoulder, working it. As he pushes himself up to his feet, his arms looked as if they’ve been engraved.

22 points for Pierce after this three. Luke predicts 50 on the game for the man they call The Truth.

KG steals the ball—runs like the Bone Man (and if you don’t know who that is then you should check out the beautiful picture book about the Native American Moduc tale of the same name by Michael McCurdy) until Wholesome Wally takes him out, and he goes down hard. Ray Allen—hurrah!—finally takes it in for a basket. Dom heads up to find his Ray Allen jersey.

24 for PP, 24 for the rest of the team. Steal—another fragrant foul (Pavlovic grabbed his arm and tossed him)—and Pierce careens into a camera man. He’s hurt. Hip? Knee? Upper thigh? Scowling, he gets up. I wonder how the camera man is doing. PP exits the first half a few seconds early.

Who’s the guy in the suit slapping everyone on the butt as they head toward the locker room? Do they know him?

Third Quarter. After getting dinner going during the half, I flick it back on to find that the TV is stuck on Sponge Bob and the clicker is nowhere in sight. There are worse scenarios, but not many. By the time I find it, and switch over to the game, there’s been a travel call on the big guy, Ilgauskas. With 8:03 left in the third quarter, the score rests at 52-49. Here’s three more for the unstoppable Pierce. But where’s the moxie, guys? They’ve come out flat.

I’m stuck on Ben Wallace’s hair. It’s like a chunky foam sculpture, a not-so-carefully groomed shrub, a hilarious nod to Buckwheat’s timeless do. Whatever it is, it’s original.

Garnett—sweet drive! 50-55. James, Pierce, James, trading shots, then: a missed floater, and a turnover by the Cavs. Pierce hits for his 33rd. Time out. They’re starting to talk about LeBron too much. “Superstar, superstar, superstar.” Blahblahblah.

Hey! Ben Wallace just got a basket! (of course, he was fed at the rim, but to his credit, it did go in). Must have been all the talk about his coif. Rondo hits, and a minute later, the ball slams off his foot and out. But then, the Cavs turn it over again, Boston’s ball. Foul. PJ to the line. Yeah, PJ! He’s coming through. Are you aware of how old PJ Brown is? The man is my hero. It’s 65-58. Are we having fun yet?

James misses, Rondo misses. When Rondo makes a mistake, he looks so worried, like his mom is going to yell at him or something. It's the eyes. Relax, Rajon! Loose ball foul on Wallace, and he’s mad, again. I wouldn’t mess with his hair. Pierce escapes the double team. PJ for another two! (FYI, He’s only four years younger than I am, exactly, too, seeing as his birthday is my very same birthday, October 14, just four years earlier, and apparently, four years makes a very big difference because I surely could not be motoring myself about the floor the way he is).

Rondo goes flying—and West, with his big neck tattoo making him seem somehow off balance (in fact, he seems downright burdened by his tattoos), goes to the line.

Ray Allen misses (again), but West hits his. Ray sits, wishes he had Tony Allen’s teddy bear for comfort, no doubt. The big Brazilian Varejao misses his free throw, goes one for two. Varejao and James slap Pierce silly, James pokes Pierce in the eye. Yeah, those were ALL fouls, LeBron.

LeBron this, LeBron that. If given the chance, I think the announcers would sleep with LeBron, they seem to love him so much. But here's the thing--even at this point in the game, with James and Pierce trading baskets, they are not so much going shot to shot, or mano a mano, as some would like to say, but team to team. And Pierce, who has fought long and hard over the years during some grim times with the club to get to this point, plays within the context of being a multi-faceted team player, with an eye out, always, for the pass, and well, James plays as if the world has always been arranged for him--here ya go, take it to the hoop, LeBron--and despite his experience, he is still young and unseasoned compared to the time-tested Pierce.

After three quarters, Pierce has 35 points, and the score perches precariously at 73-68. Celts up by FIVE.

Boy, does Doc Rivers need to rest his voice.

Fourth quarter. Turnover to open fourth quarter. Tighten up the ship, boys. Oh, gee, another foul for James. We need KG back in the game. But how come he didn’t go to college?

These are games I usually don’t watch—too scary! Foul on Posey (James is too fast and too strong to not foul when he comes through the crowd). “Bull-shit, Bull-shit.” The crowd doesn’t like the call. And then, later, “Let’s go Celtics!” Now back to the “Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit.” I feel like I’m at a Williams-Amherst game. All we need now is “Cleveland Sucks! Cleveland Sucks!”

KG back in. Rondo with a beauty. Ah, youth. Turnover by Cavs. Ha-ha. Eddie House is getting it going. “Take advantage of your moment.”

Someone’s gotta bring West down. He scares me. Pierce loses ball, shit. James to the point, shoots for three, NOPE. Wallace fouls KG. Wallace is pissed, again. Do these NBA players ever admit to their fouls? They all seem to have the same I-didn’t-do-it-no-fair! reaction, throwing their hands up in the air, putting on that “Whaaaa?” look on their face, and mouthing “no way,” or “that’s bullshit,” or worse, much worse.

The guy in the music booth is pumping up the crowd. In the first quarter, he did it with Boston’s own Aerosmith spitting out Walk this Way; in the fourth, it’s the theme from Rocky, and it’s working for Pierce, who sinks yet another. 79-72.

PJ Brown is coming through off the bench, igniting the crowd, who has jumped to their feet to scream their obscenities, only to be silenced by a 3 by LeBron. Don’t give LeBron any more vitamin water! You know, PJ Brown is old enough to be LeBron’s father. Ever think of that?

James and Pierce are trading 3’s, then James misses his—what a ball hog, someone else should have taken that shot—then goes after Pierce, blatantly grabbing his jersey (the classic Crap! I missed my shot! Now watch me do something stupid! move), but somehow the refs miss it—and LeBron slips out of it, unscathed. Curses! Stop that man!! 4:22 left. #4 on James. Should be #5. He should be O-U-T.

KG! Celts by 5. Long possession, good at-bat. The crowd appears as a sea of emerald green. Pierce at 39, James at 42.

There are lots of guys with four fouls. But what color hair does Delonte West have? Is it reddish? Why I am so captivated by everyone’s hair? Ray Allen looks so sad on the bench. PJ=clutch!! Then takes out the big man, ooops. Gawd, the free throws are killing us. 2:35 left, which could mean 15 minutes more. I love how time on the clock is so relative, can be stretched to near infinity in games that are taut with suspense and excitement. James steals, dunks, his embossed arms flying, pumping. Celts by 1. Just one!! Crap.

KG misses, we groan. James misses, PJ gets the clutch rebound, and hits for 2! 91-88!! We go ape. Definitely not dog. Ape. Oooo—oooo!

Sammy greets PJ with open arms at the time out break. We love Sammy.

Is PJ Brown really a veteran? Luke assures me he is. He’s playing like a man possessed, like a man who has young bones and joints and muscles, and very definitely not a body that is just four years younger than my old, sore, cranky one. Lucky bastard. 1:19. West misses a three, there’s a botched rebound, and a jump ball (and a real jumper, too, no possession arrow shit like they do in youth) with Posey and Ilgauskas, the Cavs’ biggest, whitest, baldest man—Pierce positions himself perfectly and jumps on the loose ball, calls a time out just in time, and chest bumps his way to the bench. 58 seconds.

Pierce, KG, Eddie House, PJ Brown, Ray Allen take the floor for the final minute. KG misses his jumper, LeBron drops his shoulder and charges like a bull, but can’t finish it. The Cavs have to foul Ray Allen, who just may be able to redeem himself with his foul shooting prowess here—makes both, yep. 33 out of 34, 91% on the season. 18.8 seconds left.

The ABC sports camera scans the crowd, lands on the pitiful homemade sign Another Banner Coming. These guys need Harold and George of Captain Underpants fame to spice up their signs.

LeBron takes it in, draws the foul, but it doesn’t go! Misses the first—crowd is happily, deliriously, joyfully aghast—makes the second, 93-89, 16.3 seconds left.

For these last seconds, they play a new game—no more basketball, it’s FOUL-BALL! Eddie House gets fouled. Uh-oh, he hasn’t taken a free throw since the regular season, will it go? Ah, no need to worry, he makes both.

Pierce shows us he’s human, leaves Pavolovic unattended to sink a three, then gets fouled, 7.9 seconds. His first foul shot hits the rim, and for the crowd—at home and at the Garden—time is stopped, and we suck in our breath, steel ourselves for the possibility that we will be disappointed, and watch as the ball bounces straight up and, then, as this great suspension of time finally ends, goes in. The crowd goes crazy, and Pierce smiles and laughs out loud his own palpable relief. The moment is priceless. 97-92. 7.9 seconds.

Jim and the boys are shouting. “IT’S ALL OVER!” and “WARM UP THE BUS!” I’m teetering on the edge of my cushion, watching the final seconds of pure chaos unravel as James misses, Pavlovic rebounds, House rebounds...Eddie House has the ball! and shoots it up to the rafters. It’s over. Sweet relief. I can breathe again. King James has been dethroned. He leaves without shaking anyone's hands. The guys on the bench engulf their teammates in hugs. Sammy Cassell's big smiles say it all--Hey, that was great! And I didn't have to play at all! I got to watch the whole thing from the bench!

I love that the Celtics won. I love that they won at home in such exciting fashion. I love that Paul Pierce had such a great game, and had such a stellar support cast from folks like PJ Brown, who more than earned his $226,650 annual salary in those fourth quarter minutes he played. I love that Paul Pierce’s 41 points were worth so much more than LeBron James’ 45, in terms of his own ability to involve the whole five on the floor, make those connections, see the whole court, make those passes, share the ball, and dance when no help is coming. We can learn a lot from this team in green—who promotes teamwork and hard work above all else, who’s not afraid to sweat (Kendrick), makes no room for Superstars, only Team Players, extends hands to the downtrodden (there’s nothing I like better than to see someone help someone up, especially if the person has just blown them over, and there’s nothing worse than ignoring someone on the floor whom you’ve put there), and shows emotion, whether fear or pride or relief or joy.

This cast of characters spills out of the pages of the very best fairy tales, fighting ogres and giants and miscreant elves as they make their way through the land of the recently deposed King James on their way to the happy ending they all deserve. This is a team, after all, led by The Truth. 'Nuff said.

Detroit, you're going DOWN. (Sorry, Blair :))