17 and other thoughts

The Celtics were well on their way to raising the team's 17th banner no later than the middle of the second quarter, when the team did their best to break the spirit of the Lakers. For the green and white it wasn't a game, it was a statement. It was a statement to all the pundits that believed that the Lakers were a better team than the Celtics. It was an emphatic "in your face" to those who said the Lakers were deeper, those who said they had a better bench, those who said players like The Big Ticket was more Gar-not than Garnett.

There may have been no play that represented the desire of the Celtics old-timers better than the one Kevin Garnett had as time waned in the first half.

Late in the second, Garnett got knocked to the ground, and as he was falling, put a fastball off the glass and through the hoop. He finished the three point play. It was indicative of how more Boston wanted the game. It was part of a 26-6 run to close out the second quarter and put the team up by 23. It was shortly after the Celtics went ahead and started to get cutesy with the ball.

It appears they learned their lesson, forcing 11 turnovers in the first half.

For the first time in the post-season, the Celtics seemed to know how to stick the knife in.

By five minutes left in the third, the team was up by 30.

This wasn't a game. It wasn't a court. It was the slab in a morgue, and the Celtics forensic scientists dissecting the corpse that was the vaunted and heavily favored Laker team coming into the Finals.

By the fourth quarter the Boston was playing the part of doctor, while Los Angeles played...well...dead. Boston looked like they were playing a pick-up game in the yard while the Lakers looked miserable.

It was a celebration. A celebration for the lifers like PJ Brown, Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, and Paul Pierce - all guys in their 30's, all guys that never got close to a ring. Now they all have 'em. They are part of a basketball legacy that accounts for more than 27 percent of the league's championships. And they were put together by a guy who was part of the last championship back in 1986.

For Boston fans it represented the region's sixth professional championship in the last seven seasons, spanning three sports. Joining the Patriots with three and the Red Sox with two, the Celtics have become the latest to earn the duck-boat parade through the canyons of downtown.

Somewhere Red Auerbach is smiling and smoking a cigar.

The Number Two -

Earlier in the evening Jon Lester continued his crusade to be considered among the Red Sox top pitchers and their top youngster. Lester, now 6-3 with a 3.18 ERA, dominated the Phillies for seven innings one day after Bartolo Colon was smoked for four runs in four innings, and the team lost a laugher to Philadelphia.

In his last six starts, Lester is 4-1, has pitched 39.1 innings and given up nine earned runs for a 2.06 ERA. That's not just good - that's a team's ace.

To put into perspective what Lester is doing - particularly in relation to the proposed Santana trade.

Lester is in his third season, has already started 16 games and logged more than 96 innings. Santana in his third season operated as both reliever and starter, and still only logged a total of 12 more innings than what Lester has already done before the All-Star break. In Santana's 27 appearances, he knocked out a 2.99 ERA and an 8-6 record. Lester's numbers compare favorably - and he's doing more for the team.

On a pace to have 18 more starts this season, should Lester keep pitching like this, he will win between 15 and 20 games and log 200 innings.

It's a long season and anything can happen, but until the Dice-man returns, the younger of Boston's cancer survivors is the team's ace.

Can't say I saw that coming.

One final pitching note -

Is it just me, or did the Sox jump on the first available excuse as quickly as possible to put Bartolo Colon back on the shelf (possibly saving him for the stretch run), in order to see whether or not Justin Masterson is for real?

Powe-etry in motion

With apologies to Edgar Allen, who was born in Boston in 1809...

Once upon a playoffs dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious story of champions past,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on my parquet floor.
`'Tis someone off the bench,' I muttered, `dribbling on my parquet floor -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the hot, hot June,
And each separate air conditioner cooled upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my sports columns' surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Celtics of Yore -
For the rare and radiant Celtics whom the angels named the Big Three of Yore -
Champions here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each basketball short
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some Laker entreating a post-season win on my parquet floor -
Some Phil Jackson entreating the refs on my parquet floor; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Doc,' said I, `Mr. Rivers, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and through playoffs you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the finals door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Kobe was there, and little more.

Deep into that player peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming of championships Celtics fans ceased to dream before
But the home-court advantage was unbroken, and the Celtics gave no token,
And the only words there spoken was the whispered words, `one more!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, `one more!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped Three like those of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made they; not a minute stopped or stayed they;
But, with mien of lord, perched above rim on my parquet floor -
Perched by a bust of Russell just above my parquet floor -
Perched, and stood, and nothing more.

Then this ebony Three beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance they wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Garnett grim and Allen - stars wandering from other franchise's shores -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Playoff shore!'
Quoth the Three, `champions...evermore.'

Much I marveled these lanky Celtics to hear discourse so plainly,
Though their answer held little meaning – until they win the final four;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Bird on his parquet floor -
Bird or Pierce above the backboard rim above the parquet floor,
With such a cry as `champions...evermore'

But the Russell, sitting lonely on the placid bench, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a uniform fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other champions have flown before -
On the morrow they will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then he said of the Lakers, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only what came before,
Caught from some unhappy fanbase whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till in the cellar the fanbase bore -
Till the dirges of our hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "champions...Never-nevermore."'

But the Celtics still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the big screen TV on the floor;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous Three of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous Three of yore
Meant in croaking `champions...evermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the players whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the TV-light gloated o'er,
But whose bright, wide-screen with the TV-light gloating o'er,
The Lakers' press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Auerbach whose foot-falls shuffled on the parquet floor.
`Coach,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - with those players he has sent thee
Rivers - Rivers recalls fondly our memories of the parquet floor!
Quaff, oh quaff in the Garden seats, and recall the glories of the parquet floor!'
Quoth the Russell, `Lakers...Nevermore.'

`Jackson!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if coach or devil! -
Whether Laker sent, or the playoffs tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Celtic team enchanted -
In this Garden by Pierce and Powe haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in LA? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Russell, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if coach or devil!
By that official that bends above us - by that hoop we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Arena,
Celtics clasp a sainted trophy somewhere away from their parquet floor -
Clasp a seventeenth radiant trophy, maybe on their parquet floor?'
Quoth the Rajon, `champions...evermore.'

`Be those words our sign of parting, Phil or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Nation's Pacific shore!
Leave no purple sock as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my dreams of winning unbroken! - quit the bench on the parquet floor!
Take thy team from out my Hub, and take thy Lakers from off my door!'
Quoth the Celtics, `Nevermore.'

And the Jackson, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the bench, of the refs complaining sitting by my parquet floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – Champions again and forevermore!

Now that I have posted this, the boys in green better win.