Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Ouchea

What the Hell is One Point Twenty-One Jigga-Whaaaatts?!

I'm Brendan McGuirk, and this is what I'm about.


JUMP TO LINKS AND CLIPS

When this space was launched six-and-a-half years ago under a joke of a masthead whose punchline was so opaque and insular that I was sure it would be laughed at exclusively with and by myself, I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted it to be. I just knew that puns fusing rap-lyrics with nostalgic pop-culture-citations would be key ingredients. After all, those were key ingredients to me.

I was a young writer figuring out how to publish and what I wanted to work towards. To my great fortune, I had a few platforms and spaces available to me, and I wanted 1point21jiggawhatts to be the platform I used to discuss the things that weren't appropriate for the sites where I plied my wares. Comics were my career, at that point-- I'd interned out of college at DC Comics' editorial, I had worked at Midtown Comics' highly-trafficked Times Square retail location, I'd collaborated on a comic of my own, I'd begun writing about comics semi-professionally, first at PopCultureShock, then Newsarama, Comic Foundry, and ComicsAlliance. Funnybooks were my lifelong passion, so much so that I actually tailored my undergraduate degree to their unique qualifications, focusing my Bachelor's Degree With an Individual Concentration program on Writing for Visual Media. Intentionally oblique, it was my way of saying, yes, I will pursue a higher education by writing fancy essays about Spider-Man, but I won't be naive enough to corner myself into a life where those are my sole qualifications.

So 1point21jiggawhatts would be where I wrote about the not-comics stuff I loved. Sports, music, politics; I had opinions on them all, but I lacked reps in the field, so before I could venture out to try and sell THOSE opinions to prospective editors, it would be where I proved my chops, chiefly to myself, but also maybe to them. To echo my hero and pop-culture avatar Kanye West, I wasn't really spittin' game, I was scrimmaging.

And so it was for a time. I eventually began working full-time as a web editor for my hometown tabloid, The Boston Herald. Catching onto a real-life gig in publishing meant a lot to a kid that knowingly took the risk to personally-customize his college degree, and while the news industry was a churn, I took pride in being a cog. I did this and continued to freelance and write, around the internet on comics, and on this site for other fun stuff.

Then, like probably everybody, I caught a bit of mid-twenties malaise. The day-to-day of maintaining a news website went from a lark to a grind, comics became less personally rewarding, and I didn't know what I wanted to do or be. Happiness came and went, all too often with the phases of the sports seasons.

During this time, my relationship with 1point21 began to fray. After I'd covered San Diego's Comic-Con International, the week-long show that acted as a sun the entire industry revolved around, my goals within comics seemed both tantalizingly close and further than ever before. My passion, which had been such potent fuel for so much of my education and early professional life, began to wane. I kept this site as my browser's homepage, ostensibly as a daily reminder to get back in the saddle, but really as a (very Catholic) way of punishing myself, and shaming myself for allowing so much time to slip away without attempting to re-engage with my goals. For months that became years, I would say the same static image, every time I booted up my web browser, each instance a new cutting reminder of what exactly I was not up to.

When I finally would muster up the energy to put pen to pad, all I could summon were justifications for my slacking ways. I was trying to motivate, but I instead only felt the chasm between where I was and where I intended to be widen.

As happens when one's life is fraught with corrosive doubt, the circumstances of my personal life also changed. Romantic upheaval made it much easier for me to focus the attentions of my daily life on everything but my writing, my goals, and what I could only dare to name as such after a few adult beverages; my career.

But life is long and full of opportunity. While I fell out of love, in life, with comics, with some long-held and romanticized dreams, I needed something to fill the gap. After watching all of The Wire and reading all of the Game of Thrones/ A Song of Ice and Fire series during one notably nihilistic winter, I began to pack my daily life with music. I had always been musical-- unabashedly loved Disneys and musical theater, a lifelong backup singer to whatever was playing on car stereos-- but now music was the styrofoam peanuts packing the walls of my entire waking life. I filled the silence of my days with meticulously curated mixes, and consumed more, and more diverse, music than I ever had before.

After going that way for a few months, I recognized that this played into an existing pattern. Maybe this was true of other people, but I thought back to the times that I had delved deepest into music and discovery, and realized it had always come at times of great tumult. Some of this was surely circumstantial, like when I went to college and was introduced to the world of inter-campus filesharing (long ago...), but it occurred to me that part of the purpose music had served in my life was to give me a running conversation I could participate in, even when only as a listener. It kept me engaged, even as engagement levels in other parts of my life faltered.

I started seeing more live music, making sure to experience the artists that affected me most in their optimal habitat. I started expending more and more energy on music, consuming it with great intent, sharing my discoveries with anyone who would listen, and being consumed by it. It was true love, one that reached back into the recesses of my life, but that also had an open-ended future. My uncle had been a struggling musician until joining the Knights of the Keyboard ranks himself, once upon a time. That decision led to a new life for him across the country, a book bearing his name being published, and eventually, a life-changing time as an American ex-pat in Thailand (it's both not as bad and worse than you might imagine). My sister, who had been a diva our entire lives, who could be counted on to belt out the Mariah hits at the top of her lungs with each daily shower, was blossoming as a young performer herself.

It started to seem like maybe music was going to somehow prove to be a key to whatever was to come next.

Eventually, my frustration over lack of creative output began to boil over. Then, another young American man who had once shown great promise in his field but allowed distractions to interfere with his calling, began staging a return, and announced himself ready to take back the spotlight. It was decided. My comeback would come on the coattails of a man that inspired me long ago, during another transitory era. I would write a massive exploratory piece on Justin Timberlake. It was an exercise just trivial enough to feel consequential, or perhaps vice-versa.

I took far too long and published my opus. It was an album analysis, but it was also a mission statement. I didn't want to apologize for the romanticism of my goals and dreams any longer. I had no options other than to be the guy I am-- the guy that spends 4k words discussing the ways a pop star's commercial celebrity vehicle dedicated itself to telling a meta-story about the pursuit of True Love, through anecdote, observation, and funny image juxtaposition. It made sense in my head, I had to see if it would on the page.

It was a project, I tackled it, it felt good. Then there was more down time. I knew I had gotten the ball rolling so I could get the ball rolling, but I still wasn't sure where to direct myself next. I had long since retired my standing gigs in comics, and I wasn't quite ready to go back to that world. I tooled around on other projects, losing months to trying to find a coherent take on Kanye West-- the man I consider to be the most influential artist of my lifetime-- only to find myself babbling without end.

Still, I got deeper into the world of commercial music. I started to see everyone I had always meant to see.

I saw the Compton valedictorian, Kendrick Lamar. I saw schizophrenic alt-R&Ber The Weeknd. Janelle Monae, music's highest energy performer. Ascended NYC throwback Joey Bada$$ and TDE conspiracy theorist Ab-Soul. I saw the artist that makes me most sentimental, John Legend, and the one that makes me most inspired and engaged, Kanye West. Maybe all I was doing was seeing a bunch of music I already knew I liked, but I was thinking about it all an awful lot, and sorting out how to best give those thoughts shape and life.

I took some time off my Yeezus-feedback loop to try something different, and more finite. And I found that, with the work I was doing, even the parts that weren't seeing the light of day, I was feeling better about my dexterity and capacity. I was getting the reps in, finally, and coming to terms with some of the things I felt had held be back in the past-- namely my willingness to seek out help from those who would offer it.

One of the luxuries afforded to me during my time away from "working," was a role in the wonderful community that sprang forth from, of all places, my neighborhood sports bar. As the son of a relatively well-known local bartender, I had spent a good deal of my formative years in some of Boston and Cambridge's better-known bars, but Parlor Sports was the first place that I dared call my own. Close with the staff and the regulars, I was made to feel free to be my obnoxious, outspoken self, because in a place where everyone's an asshole with an opinion, nobody needs to feel badly about it.

A friend I knew through the bar had recently come to some notoriety for work he did for MIT's Sloan Sports Analytics Conference. He had encouraged me to find my way into that conference, as it was a real hotbed for the major sports leagues and teams, the sports industrial complex surrounding those leagues, the statistics and analytics community, and the sports bloggers' community. It promised to be a cool place to be.

I finally crossed streams and pitched to editors at my day job. The Herald would cover the Sloan Conference. The first day was a general overview of the event (and me being blown away), the second day was about the competitive nature of the games, and the event itself, and shit, I dunno, maybe sports overall.




It was a very exciting experience, but not entirely a new one. It was broader, but in my life as a comics-guy, I'd covered plenty of industry conventions. Nothing could be more intimidating than my first time working San Diego's Comic-Con International. I thought back on that as I settled into the media room that first day of Sloan, regaining my bearings after so long away from this kind of work, where I was truly engaged. San Diego's a huge convention in comics, and covering it had been a personal milestone, but it was one that had come in 2009. I hadn't made it back, but as I pulled up desk space I wasn't thinking about how long it had been in between, I was thinking how grateful I was that I had the experience, and could reasonably assume I would be able to write something coherent about my time there.

You know, I don't know if what I wrote about those two days was totally coherent. It felt great to do, either way. Sports, and the way we talk about sports, and how talking about them intelligently can help discussion in other intellectual arenas, are all passions of mine. Writing words down about what it was like there felt very, very good.

Opportunities beget opportunities. One of the things I had written for this space caught the eye of an old friend and editor who wanted to know if I was available to write some stuff about some comics again. For a while I had felt like I wasn't able to do that, write about comics with conviction and perspective, but now it felt different. Comics weren't going to threaten to take over my world, but there was certainly room for them to be part of it.

Best Shots Review: Thor #18, 
Jason Aaron & Das Pastoras,
Marvel; Newsarama
I am an unyielding sentimentalist, and wrote my first comics' review in some time on Thor, because Thor is my idol. I love Thor so outwardly that it's a punchline, but the thing is, I think humbling one's arrogance is a valuable lesson, and that's what Thor's about. More macro, I like superhero stories largely because the best of them are about being your best self, and how that is the clearest path to happiness. I'd love to have a hammer I could pick up each day that assured me I was worthy to carry it; I could know if and when my worth began slipping. If Mjonlir represents anything to me, it's assurance. Coming back to comics by talking about a story where my favorite character acted like an asshole couldn't have been any more perfect.




Best Shots Review: Fatale #20, 
Ed Brubaker & Sean Phillips, 
Image; Newsarama
One of the nice things about coming back to comics after being out of the cycle for a bit was I had a clean sheet to freshly discuss some long-running stories, like Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips' Fatale. Theirs is a creative partnership that really any serious comics' fans are well-versed in, but they've retained their magic on each project, taking new risks on new stories. I was thrilled to sink my teeth into the work of such masterful storytellers.



Opportunity begets opportunity. Micheal Christmas, a young rapper I'd written about for an experimental piece was going to be playing a gig the night before Sloan, just on the heels of his mixtape release. He was an act that you could reasonably say I was stanning, and I thought it would be an interesting show for the Herald to cover, as there isn't often a local rap act that attracts the daily's eye. I approached our music writer, who very graciously extended the invitation that I contribute to his Herald blog space with some live concert reviews.




Best Shots Review: The Auteur #1, Rick 
Spears, James Callahan & Luigi Anderson, 
Oni Press; Newsarama

Rick Spears was a guy whose grungy, punk-rock work I followed pretty closely in my New York days, but I'd lost track of his stuff. The Auteur, with James Callahan, is a total riot, I couldn't get over how many ideas were jumping around each page.

I was also pretty happy that I felt like I'd found something worthwhile to say about a book with something worthwhile to say, which was very satisfying.




Best Shots Review: All-New X-Men #24
Brian Bendis, Stuart Immonen von 
Grawbadger & Gracia, 
Marvel; Newsarama
It wasn't going to be long after I got back into writing about comics before I got re-acquainted with probably my favorite comicbook writer, Brian Michael Bendis. He had taken over the X-Men franchise, as he once had The Avengers, and I was completely in the dark about it. I gorged on the two ongoing series he had been penning for over a year, not stopping until I caught up with this then-current issue.

As a result of the gorging, I opted to react to the series as a whole, and the direction I thought the X-Men's world was being led in. I loved how unabashedly comic-booky the story was, where characters were meeting their past/future selves in hopes of learning the most valuable lessons. The best X-Men stories are the most over-the-top ones, and I was impressed at the stories' scope, especially to read as a whole.




Best Shots: She-Hulk # 2, Charles Soule,
Javier Pulido & Muntsa Vicente, 
Marvel; Newsarama
As Marvel has become a behemoth entertainment brand, they have taken some of their sub-top-tier titles out of the megaplexes, where the summer blockbusters play, and moved them into the independent movie houses, where it's cooler to bring a date.

She-Hulk is a quirky book, and I'm totally not above saying that a girl about a hyper-competent professional woman has "broad appeal." Because I am a pig (albeit a well-intentioned one).




I'm psyched to talk comics, and music too, but really what gets me going is the shit that I love. I love being inspired by great art, which can be pretty easily traced back to one of my first creative loves, Jim Henson's Muppets. Of course, I am not the only person born between 1970 and 1990 to have been inspired by Kermit and the gang, so when I heard that someone that had written a book about how to make money through the pursuit of their dreams was delivering a lecture on her findings, I really had to know more.

The speaker had written a book titled Make Art Make Money after coming to some notoriety for a piece she'd published on the integrity-challenging resurrection of the Muppets franchise. It was exactly the sort of thing I was eager to both hitch my wagon to, and give a little extra shine. I did everything short of dedicate the piece to the lovers, the dreamers, and me. 

Best Shots Review: Rocket Girl #4,
Brandon Montclare, Amy Reeder, 
Image; Newsarama
Rocket Girl was made by some of my dearest friends in comics. Amy is one of the best people you can do karaoke with, and it's to Brandon, who I worked with at DC, I owe my first byline. 

They also made a fantastic comic. Knowing the two of them, I wonder how much time they spent focusing on heady concepts like "the nature of grown-ups through the eyes of children," when they could just talk about how to make awesome things happen on the page, but they're both very smart, so I wouldn't put both past them. Covering this book restored some of my feelings of community within the world that I'd lived in for so long, but felt very far away. It was quite literally inspiring.




I felt like, if there was anything that the Herald didn't cover as in-depth as it might, it was rap music. Hip-hop has been the dominant cultural force of the late 20th century and early 21st, but in some respects it still fights for recognition and respect.


Donald Glover's stage presence as Childish Gambino impressed, but what got me was the ambition of his show, taking on things like the impact of the Internet, American Blackness, and identity, all while carrying the stage and dropping some of the most intricately-wrought bars you'd ever heard.

Something I wanted to avoid in my comics' coverage was gravitating towards the same stories, titles, and creators I'd read forever. I didn't want to neglect the work of fresh creators whose work I hadn't already been exposed to. There's an exposure/ Shutter pun to be be made, but we're above that.



Best Shots Review: Batman #30, Snyder,
Capullo, Miki & Plascencia,
DC; Newsarama
Sometimes, though, you've gotta dance with the girl that brung ya, and with me, that means superheroes. Batmans was in the middle of another origin reboot, part of a line-wide continuity reset by DC Comics (a decision I was, at best, ambivalent over), and I was happily surprised to discover that not all change was bad.

I think diversifying the sorts of art I was inspecting and discussing was what led me to look at this book as an artifact of Batman the multimedia entity. Cracking the cultural code of Batman as a pop star was the beginning of shape the way I saw all forms of modern-day iconoclasts.



Speaking of iconoclasts, for my money, Black Dynamite might be the greatest hero of the 21st century. Well, he or Django Freeman, anyway, and it's no coincidence that both are retroactive 21st century historic insertions. Like Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds, they allow us to re-align history's injustices in accordance with the values of today, or at least through its satirical prism.


I'm probably, y'know, a feminist. Although describing myself that way kind of makes me feel like a self-justifying contestant on I Know Black People. All I can really say is I grew up in a world of women, and I'm, y'know, down with the struggle.

There was no getting around the familial femininity of the Haim show, so I didn't. Which meant writing a bunch about the girls' hair. I'm also curious if they lifted a phrasing from a favorite movie on a favorite song of theirs.


Brian K. Vaughan tells big stories, but intimate ones. Along with artist Fiona Staples, Saga is a huge tale of culture and community and family and humanity. It's a grounded story about, like, space-wizards and fairies making babies and royal robots and murderous bounty-hunters. Above all else, it's a story you never see coming.


I don't have the same energy to dive into the hype-machine of multi-part,  mega-event storytelling that I once did, but I thought there were some interesting choices being made on Jason Aaron and Mike Deodato's Original Sin, that set it apart from many of its contemporary stories.


"Wu Tang is for the children. We teach the children."

That's what ODB said at the 1998 Grammys, and sixteen years later, we can say history proved Dirt McGirt correct. I think the followers of Tyler, the Creator and Odd Future are the very kids that ODB had in mind, who flout authority and that hold originality as the value above all else.


For all the progressive energy of our society, there's still some detritus to be cleared up. I think Sex Criminals is an important book, in the way it both treates sex and mental health.


The opportunity to cover the massive JAY Z, Beyoncé On The Run tour was an exciting uptick in scope. I was eager to see two legends hold the stage. Beyoncé is a figure that has long-fascinated me, largely because she soaks up the bandwidth of so many women, so her performance was something I looked forward to reacting to. Jay Z had never been my favorite rapper, but now I was an occasional-rap-writer, with the chance to see what the biggest institution in rap had to offer.

I don't think I was naive. I saw the commerce driving the collaborative event, and said as much. Still, I did want to believe in that perfect love story, anyway. With the divorce rumors now reaching critical levels, I feel like they had me fooled. Cliché, cliché, cliché...


I like to think of myself as a curious guy. Sure, I was once the kind of kid that would say "I listen to every kind of music, except for country," but we can grow, and change, can't we? I sure hope so. Anyway, Southern Bastards, the South, and the flavor of places.

Something about covering the Jay Z and Beyoncé show made me look at the work I was doing differently. Maybe I wasn't faking it anymore, and maybe I hadn't even been faking it before, even if I thought I had. Ever a reflective guy, a new book came out from an old favorite creator, which got me reminiscing to the last time he'd put out a comic.

I dug up my four-year-old review of the Scott Pilgrim finale, and was pleasantly surprised to learn I did not hate what I had written. And because I am not a subtle writer, or person, really, I could remember back to the state of my personal life when I had written it. I decided I was proud of the piece, and proud of my progress.

My prideful acceptance turned out to be fortuitous, and very thematically relevant to Bryan Lee O'Malley's Seconds graphic novel.


Eventually, of course, things came full circle. An opportunity arose to review the live show of someone I had seen perform a million years ago, in another life...

Seeing Justin Timberlake perform during the FutureSexLoveSounds tour at Madison Square Garden was one of the last things I did as a New York resident, in 2007. I brought the woman I was dating, she was a big fan and it was meant to be a big gesture, and left the show a full-on convert. Two months later, both the city and the girl had broken up with me. I bought into that Justin record so hard that it was okay, that I lived it, adopting some of its glamour to see how it fit, and what powers it may grant. Which was silly but fine, and gave that album a deep and lasting personal resonance.

This time I got to go as a professional, and bring my sister, the diva, and I was once again in awe. He fulfilled that show's promise. I was less starstruck, though, because this time I was more fascinated by the mechanics of what he was doing, and why. I somehow failed to mention his "constituency" in my presidential-flavored piece on the show, which haunts me, but it was very clear why he has remained a beloved personality; because he really wants to be beloved. And hey, game recognize game.

You know who's great? Mom. 

I'm among the many blessed with a great mom. She had me young, so I got to see her drive herself through an early career, her higher education, and was witness to her overcoming incredible hardships. She's my hero. She's Wonder Woman, to me.

Not, that, y'know, she's a warrior princess or whatever, but she is tall, and does have dark hair. And loved Linda Carter. And studied a lot of Greek civilization stuff at Wellesley. Waitaminute maybe we're onto something... 

Anyway it's kind of commonly held among the comics' community that Wonder Woman does not quite get the popular or commercial recognition she deserves, but the current iteration by Brian Azzarello and Cliff Chiang has really done the character justice. It's smart, it's nimble, and it's feminist without even a hint of politics to it. It's self-evident, which is a testament to creators that know how important tone is to the receptiveness of audiences. Of course, the two will soon depart the series, which means it's all the more important to celebrate it while it lasts. Wonder Woman deserves to be made proud.

The best part of this year's work has been looking forward to it. Conversations that I started here, at 1point21jiggawhatts, in an empty room, have migrated to more populous rooms, which means the experiment worked in part, at the very least. I find, though, that what's been rewarding about the work discussed above is not that more people are listening to the discussion, but that I'm more satisfied with what's being said. The work still isn't quite the shape I want it to be, but it's demonstrably closer than it was, just by existing. 

There's excitement on the horizon, as well. This weekend, I get to see my boy John Legend for the second time in the year, this time with an opportunity to share my thoughts on it, and to share the show as well. Drake & Lil Wayne could happen in a few weeks, Sam Smith a few weeks after that. Opportunity begets opportunity, as does community, as does commitment.

This is the part of this conversation where I wonder if how much vanity is required to even have it. I've always hated the idea of being self-obsessed, because there's so much other awesome shit to obsess about. So I've gotta just hope that it's more the former than the latter, or better yet, believe it. 

Belief is a funny thing. Funny actually requires a good deal of belief, too; belief that a reference will be mutually understood, or that someone will hear the humor of your punchline. Sure, there's a little bit of fear, anxiety and uncertainty, but pack enough belief and no one need know the difference.

-Brendan P. McGuirk
August 7, 2014
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Friday, May 27, 2011

Boston, the Bruins and Me


Falling Hard



The beauty of sports is that they encourage polygamy. A marriage to one club in no way precludes a fan from a full and total commitment to anther club that bears the same city on its uniform. Seasons bleed into one another so that when one organization breaks your heart, another one is there to begin the mending process.

Over the past decade, the frenzied successes by New England sports teams have not just been an exercise in speed dating, but speed marriages, speed child births, speed anniversaries, and yes, hyper-accelerated heartbreaks. In the past 10 years, Boston teams have played in 13 conference finals, the play-in games that come before championship bouts, winning 9 of them, and have brought home 6 titles overall thus far. It's remarkable, unprecedented, and, frankly, still not enough.

Because nowadays, to be a Boston fan is to want them all. People can classify this as a positive, as the fan base is informed and passionate, or negative, in that some sense of entitlement might have fostered through the embarrassment of riches, but that sort of judgment sort of misses the point.

Boston fans have honed an eye for what it takes to win titles in sports, so when a team comes up short, we have a good idea why it happened, and when they pull through with trophies and rings, we make sure to appreciate it in its fullest.

The Patriots broke the modern championship seal, and went on to set the standard in excellence.

The Red Sox romantically broke curses amidst high drama that spanned generations.

The Celtics restored a revered brand to its grand pedigree almost overnight, reminding fans that, truly, anything was possible.

The Revolution, well, they existed.

But what to make of the Boston Bruins? What is the modern legacy for the team that faces a do-or-die Game 7 at home with a trip to the Stanley Cup playoffs on the line?

They're the only heartbreak left in town, with their last Cup win coming in 1972, and their last appearance in the series over twenty years ago. They were once the class of the town. Number Four Bobby Orr is as beloved as any sports hero. Their status as part of the NHL's Original Six gives them cache and authenticity in a league where franchises are sometimes perceived as disconnected from the sport and the foreigners that are paid to play it. After years of mismanagement and disappointment, their fans are as embittered and fatalistic as they come. They have all the makings of the highest drama sports have to offer.

The Journey

But sports don't take place in a vacuum. Every fan finds their own unique relationships with teams, sports, and seasons. Sports forge communal bonds, help us demarcate time in our lives, and do it dealing out equal parts ecstasy and agony. So when the Bruins play tonight, whether it makes sense or not, lives will be changed. And not just those of the players and coaches.

When the Patriots won their first Super Bowl, I was (nominally) a high school football player. I was actually, as mascot coincidence would have it, a Patriot. I watched the professional team alongside the same young men whom I watched play Friday nights from the sidelines. I would say I had about the same impact on the outcomes of both.

When the Red Sox made their run, which began when a 2003 team that seemed destined to break curses lost in as devastating a fashion as the city had ever seen, only to carry over its successes and baggage to the next year, ending with 2004's greatest-comeback-ever-seen to the same opponents, I was a student among a massive state university fraternity that first mourned, then celebrated as one. I literally fell in love during that first run to the World Series, and perhaps fittingly that love ran its course almost to the day that the Red Sox won their second championship of the 21st century.

When the Celtics decimated the Lakers for their title, I was a returned citizen to the city's urbane streets. I had been living in another city since graduation, but came home just like the NBA's Larry O'Brien trophy. Boston was no longer somewhere to be visited on weekends or for occasions, its city streets and squares were home.

Retrospectively, those titles have given my life structure. They feed into my own personal narrative, as I am sure they feed into others', (mine maybe more-so; I am somewhat obsessed). But I am still in no way sure what to make of these Bruins.

We've casually dated before, these Bruins and me. We went on low-pressure coffee dates in 2004, as I watched Joe Thornton and Sergei Samsanov's squad underachieve. They were given the same opportunity for a stake in my heart as every other team, but when the rubber hit the road, I, like all other Bruins fans, die-hard or budding potential ones, was left feeling like a burnt skidmark.

Iron cast doubt

Everybody loses in sports. But no matter what any cliché says, how you lose really does matter. When the Red Sox lost, it felt fated, as if it were part of the franchise's core identity. When the Patriots lost, after building a huge reservoir of successes to draw from, there was nearly always a clear explanation to their losses, because it was evident that all things being equal they were always the better team to take the field. With the Celtics, their storied history was so far back in the rear view that it was almost accepted that they would never reach that level again, so instead fans could kick back and watch the athletes' potential grow without expectation.

But what were we to think of the Black and Gold Spokes? What is their modern legacy?

That 2004 team was upset in 7 games by their most bitter rivals, the Montreal Canadiens. When they next qualified for the playoffs, in 2008, they were once again matched up against the hated Habs, and while this time the B's played the role of the underdog, they still fell in that seventh game. The next year they opened once again against Montreal, only this time they swept their way to victory in 4 games. This was thoroughly cathartic until they again lost in a game 7, the very next round, and this time on the Garden's home ice to a hockey team from Carolina. Because everyone knows all the best hockey is played south of the Mason Dixon.

This was a young team, it was said, whose stock was on the rise and whose best days were ahead. But while sports narratives are often predictable, they are not always linear.

But with the 2009-2010 team, the Bruins committed one of the greatest atrocities imaginable for a sports team.

For Boston fans, there was only one 3-0 series comeback that mattered. In 2004, the battered Red Sox lost Game 3 of the ALCS by an eery score of 19-8, putting them in an 0-3 hole against the indomitable Yankees. But then, in Game 4, Millar drew a walk, Roberts stole a base, Mueller singled off the most dominant pitcher of modern times, and before anyone knew what happened the Red Sox had won 4 straight games. It was pure, unadulterated sports euphoria. The Comeback for Boston, the Choke for New York.

Well, in 2010, the Bruins sullied 3-0. In the second round, against the Philadelphia Flyers, the Bruins won the first three games of the series. Not only did they have a 3-0 lead, but by the time the Flyers had won three straight of their own and the series was forced to a climactic Game 7, once again to be held at the Garden, the Bruins thrice struck first and took a 3-0 lead in that game.

And they lost.

Now 3-0 was a set of numbers that cut Boston fans both ways. Sure, it wasn't as iconic a loss as the win was for the Red Sox, but it was still there, haunting a team that had fought so hard to earn respect in a town where attention where attention was easily diffused.

There were no shortage of valid reasons the Bruins lost that series the way they did. A young team, a younger netminder, injuries to both bodies and brains, but ultimately, sports are a results-oriented business where final scores dictate final narratives. Yearly sports almanacs don't lie. The Bruins choked. By every definition

Redemption and attention

There are real monetary benefits to be had in Boston's sports market. Perform well, and people will notice. Sports television is a monster industry in this town, across media platforms new and old. Networks use teams and sports to compete with one another. Sports personalities stake out their territory and defend it like wild animals. Sports are about the games, presumably, but even when those are done there is huge money to be made in talking about the ways and wherefores of each result, because in this town when people say “everyone has an opinion,” it really means everyone.

Beyond that, attending games is a huge premium. Ticket scalping has gone from city streets to web markets, transforming the secondary market to a legitimate enterprise somewhere along the way.

So again, it pays to be good.

Fans are passionate enough to watch, listen, and pay for entry, but that passion can also breed hostility. You have our attention, the logic seems to go, so don't fucking blow it.

Well, the Bruins finally have everyone's attention.

After last year's ugliness, it was going to take some work to get back in this town's favor. Bruins fans felt like a spouse betrayed, they were open to reconciliation, but trust would need to be earned before it was given freely.

After an up-and-down regular season, the Bruins were once again pitted against the Canadiens to open these Stanley Cup playoffs. They hosted the series, and once again, before anyone could catch their breath, they were down 0-2 headed up to Canada. It looked like it would be a short run this year.

But the Bruins battled. They won the two games in Montreal, then took Game 5 in Boston, and after dropping their first chance to close out on away ice, and after surrendering a tying goal in the final moments of the latest Game 7 at the Garden, they took the game and the series on an electric overtime goal. Finally, after the last three seasons had ended in Game 7 losses, with the last two coming at the Garden, the B's had broken through.

With one albatross off the team's back, they packed up and headed to Philadelphia. Even when the Bruins won their first three games against the Flyers, ambient anxiety remained. They'd choked away control of a series to these guys before. Throughout the regular season management had cited that the team had made the second round of the playoffs for the past three years as evidence of its successes, but fans could only lament the inability to advance deeper, and if this year didn't end with demonstrable progress, heads would roll.

But the Bruins did sweep, which, again, in the tidy world of sports' narratives, perfectly forgave the sins of the previous year. Mission Accomplished. Sort of.

And this is where Boston's string of successes returns to the fore. The Bruins are playing deeper into the playoffs than they have in almost 20 years. They are playing later into the calendar year than they ever have before. The Celtics' season ended earlier and more abruptly than anyone would have expected, the Red Sox have underachieved, and the Patriots are mired in the NFL's obtuse lockout. That the Bruins have even booked another night of drama at the Garden should be enough. We should be grateful to even be given the opportunity to root for someone, anyone, with stakes this high at this point in the summer.

But being happy to be there is for losers. The Hub won't have it.

There is a team in Vancouver that is waiting to find out who will be its dance partner in this year's Stanley Cup Finals.

There is a 37-year-old goalie who has spent a lifetime trying to earn his respect. He has made the save of a lifetime, but unless he makes a few more, it will fall to the annals of history as another great moment that was not quite iconic.

There's a Norris Award winner who has been deemed an underachiever for most of his professional life almost exclusively because of the impossible expectations set by his 6' 9” frame.

There is an alternate captain that has been forced to fight concussions throughout his career.

There's a coach looking for a trump card to play against those who doubt his acumen and ability.

There's a forty-something looking for the icing on the cake of his Hall of Fame career.

There's a 19 year old top pick desperate to prove he is more than a flash in the pan.

There's a power play that is dangerously close to writing the wrong side of history.

There are these and a million more stories, all at stake, all on the line tonight. There are old men who care only for hockey who want that last return to the Finals. There are kids who will learn how to be a fan. There are blowhards that are eager to say “I told you so,” no matter the outcome. There are the selfish masses that want the final gem to be added to Boston's crown of champions. There are people that will fall in love, people that will find faith, people that break dishes, people that gamble, people who riot, and people who will do nothing more than read tomorrow's newspaper with a little more interest.

All of this hinges on a win or a loss. A break of the puck. A lapse, an opportunity capitalized or squandered, a hit made or missed.

I'm not sure what a win or a loss will mean to me. It will depend, I suppose, on how it goes. But I know it will mean something to me.

I look back on the teams I have committed myself to for the last decade, and I regret nothing. I got as much as I gave. Even the teams that failed, even the ones that choked, even the ones that left me in tears, I think, in the moment, and as I look back, I loved them all equally.

Maybe you think sports matter too much to Boston. Maybe you look at us and wonder why we put so much energy into things we can't control. But we know better. We know that by watching, we are in control. We know our attentive eyes can, in fact, change the outcome of games.

We've seen it.

Go get 'em, boys.

-Brendan McGuirk, Professional Boston Fan
5-27-2011
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Saturday, May 30, 2009

May Showers


Big Shots rain down on the NBA... and 'nets.



May's a mercurial month. In New England after April, it isn't so much that winter ends, it's that summer begins- unpredictably- and then goes back to being winter for a day. Then that reverses. And so on and so on until eventually the cold days aren't that cold, and the warm days are uncomfortably warm, and that's when it's June.

It's also a month of note because the NBA playoffs happen then. For the most part, I've watched basketball intently for every night of the last month. It's been exciting and exhausting. Combined with a relatively slow month of comics it led to a lot of frenetic in-game Twittering, but not much substance. In any case but it's time for some links. Afterwards I'm going to vent about sports. Because that's what I do.

I try not to spotlight the same creators too often, as I think the gets who don't get the pub need the spotlight more, but with Geoff Johns, I can't help myself. He's just really good at teasing out plot points over just long enough for them to be impossibly urgent and drawn-out. He's a trade-friendly evolution of Chris Claremont, only instead of the X-Corner of Marvel he has the entire DCU at his fingertips. The way Legion of Three Worlds is streamlining that mythos while interplaying with current continuity is fascinating. Plus, George Perez is no joke. I mean, I make no bones about it, I'm a sucker for both these guys' work, and I am a sucker for Johns' take on the Conner Kent Superboy. Before that issue I was totally ambivalent about Adventure Comics, now it can't come soon enough. Like I said, I'm a sucker.

Despite my primary specialty in comics' critique, within the medium I try to be as "general interest," as I can. Adam Beechen and Trevor Hairsine's Killapalooza, with a super-group ripped from Behind the Music that moonlights as hired mercenaries, was a fun example of this. I really think anybody who spent an hour of their life watching the saga of Journey, or the trials of Jon Bon Jovi's hair, would like this book. It's just funny.

Another general-interest comicbook was the Spider-Man: The Short Halloween one- shot by Saturday Night Live cast members and writers Bill Hader and Seth Myers. I knew Hader was a comics' guy, he's been at conventions and used to frequent a store I worked at, and I think SNL is as good as it's been in my lifetime right now, so I was happy to spotlight their issue. It didn't disappoint, but it didn't "wow," me either. Based on merit alone, I'm not sure this book would warrant a follow-up assignment. It's not that the story is bad, but Spider-Man could be replaced by just about any costumed hero in this story, and it would be no different. The sales might tip the scales, though, and I wouldn't be against seeing more from the pair, or Kevin Maguire. I would only hope they get a little more into Spider-Man, and let the situational humor grow from there.




After working for Laura Hudson on the too-beautiful-for-this-world Comic Foundry magazine, she was kind enough to invite me to do a piece for her newest venture Comics Alliance. I'd stalled a bit to try and find the right angle to tackle for my first CA foray, but when Archie Comics announced Archie's marriage, I knew what I had to do. Due to the peculiarities of my fundamental being, I decided I would make the case for Veronica over Betty. Now, when the nuptials were first announced, Archie Comics hid the identity of Archie's bride, but by the time I'd written my piece it had been revealed to be in accordance with my preferences. Now, I suffer no delusions that this story will be told and Archie will go on married to Veronica, or that Betty won't crash the party somehow, but I'm pretty pleased with the case I made for Archie's bachelorhood. Now, as far as in real life choosing between the good girl and the bad, I don't know if I believe my case. But then, if it were as easy a choice as everyone would like to believe it wouldn't be such a classic love-triangle. Or maybe I just like to pick fights. Who even knows.


So that's what's been up in comics. But the thing that has dominated my life, again, have been a playoffs so addictive the FDA might have to get involved. Despite the ongoing drama of the piss-poor officiating, it has been a season of athletic studs taking teams on their backs' and seeing how far they can go. As a guy who likes comics, I'll say it; 'Melo, Superman, Kobe and LeBron have been downright superheroic.

Despite my rambling last post, I'm more than just a homer with regards to sports. It really sucked to see the Celtics loose how in the fashion that they did, but these playoffs were worth the price of admission. And as much as it sucked to see the Magic beat the Celtics in Game 1, it was worth it to see them in Game 5's late-surging win. It was especially gratifying for me, because Stephon Marbury had his two best games in green those games.



Starbury, like Corey Dillon, and Randy Moss before him, is the classic example of the media-driven "athlete as a bad-boy," malcontent that this town absolutely loathes until they prove themselves to be productive. Everybody hated Randy Moss when he got to New England. He was going to be a step slow, they said, and he would disrupt the proven team chemistry. Dillon too. He was the Bengals' all-time rushing leader when we got him for practically nothing. Dillon won a Super Bowl and Moss set the record for receiving TDs in a record-setting offense. They became heroes, but began as villains.

Well Marbury had the full rap sheet- from a trade-demanding early career, to an embarrassing sexual testimony in a harassment case, and ultimately a season-long benching. Now, I'm not saying that he didn't have his share of responsibility in all of this, but he was a productive player, making a lot of money while sitting on the bench. It was a dysfunctional move for a dysfunctional organization. And this was after the slate was supposed to have been wiped clean with new management. Well whatever, he was cut loose eventually and wanted to sign with the Celtics, as they had become the strongest team of veterans in the NBA. It had been the Pistons before, but this was now the organization, along with San Antonio, that productive veterans wanted to be a part of. After a year out of pro basketball Marbury was rusty, but also humbled.

It showed. He was really trying to be a team player in a way unlike ever before in his career. He was doing it to the detriment of his own game, and what the team wanted out of him. But he was trying. This was a guy who'd averaged over 7 assists a game for his career, but was playing 40 minutes a game. He was out there for maybe 15 minutes a game now. He just couldn't get right. It was a hard combination of not having the legs to be the explosive scorer he was used to being while also trying to relearn his killer instinct. Everyone was waiting for him to have an impactful [that's not a word, but I can't get over how many people use it, so I'm going with it here] game where he went for 2+. He had a handful of big shots in games, but the big game? Didn't happen.

Game 1 teased it. The Celtics, after going down big at the half, got themselves within a Ray Allen three of winning that game and who was there to thank? My man, @StaryburyMarbury. He'd had a crazy streak in the third where he just couldn't miss, and it was the energy that got them, not the win, but the hunger for that game back. It wasn't much of a legacy, but it was the game people had been waiting for.



Until Game 5. The Celtics were down again, late, and Steph kicked it into gear. He had 12 in the fourth quarter, and this time Ray's big three sunk, and the Celtics won the game. It was a huge game, it gave the Celtics a 3-2 advantage in the best of seven series, and was as close as the Celtics got to defending their 2007-08 Championship. The C's lost Game 6 in Orlando in a game they just gave away, an Game 7 at home in a game they didn't show up for. The team had been eking out wins without their low-post foundation and defensive x-factor Kevin Garnett, but each one had been a titanic struggle, and in Game 7 it finally showed. In fact, it probably showed in Game 6 when the team let slip away a fourth quarter lead of their own. But they'd battled valiantly, and as reward were spared the embarrassment of getting their asses handed to them by LeBron and the Cavaliers.

I'm really grateful to have seen the Celtics last win as champions, because they really played like it in that win. And Steph led the charge. Who knows if he'll resign, or even be a productive NBA player going forward, but following his success with vested interest is one of those unique rewards offered by following sports. Given the consequences they engender, there are countless narratives to be enjoyed. And who doesn't enjoy a good tale of redemption.



The Magic have turned out to be great foils for the Cavaliers, which anyone who had looked at their head-to-head record was saying before the series, and given the decisive 3-1 lead they took the other night, they should be heavily expected to advance to the NBA Finals. But as long as the Cavs still have the best player in the series, never mind the best player in the game, I still expect LeBron to take the next 2 wins and advance to his second Finals appearance.

Because, I mean, Kobe's waiting there. He had to fight through West Baltimore's finest Carmelo Anthony, the forgotten dark prince of King James' draft class, and Conference Finals mainstay Chauncey Billups, and the rest of George Karl's rejuvenated Nuggets. It took the Lakers 6 games, but they did it. We can't have just half of those Kobe/ LeBron puppets playing for the trophy, and Dwight Howard is too damn big to be a puppet, so LeBron has to make it. Every real NBA fan wants it to happen. We want this argument settled. We don't care who's better; Pau Gasol or Dwight Howard. This is an MVP thang.

In any case, we'll see. It's been a monumentally memorable postseason, thanks in no small part to this guy's TNT video-



Back to your regularly scheduled programming:
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Monday, May 4, 2009

So Amazing

The 2009 NBA Playoffs are in Full Effect, and I'm not gonna make it


There's nothing like the playoffs.

Finally, that 7 game Bulls/ Celtics series is over, and I'm drenched with sweat. I never want to gamble again. And I definitely never want to bet on a game I care about. My heart can't take it.

I'm not a man of great means, but I manage to make the time for things that matter to me. Such things, as one might imagine, as comicbooks and playoff games. Real fans go to playoff games. I'm sorry, but if you enjoy one of the major American sports like baseball or basketball, you make a point to go to games. After a few years, though, memories regular season games blend together into larger, amorphous impressions of the specific season and era of the team. This is probably a factor of thousands of hours spent watching Sportscenter, and millions of printed words read covering daily gamers, (not to mention talk radio, or... dare I say... blogs). The memories are just hard to hold onto.

Not so with playoff games.




I can rattle off the specifics of every playoff game I've been to in my life. As a beer vendor, I bore witness to the 2003-04 Patriots beating the co-League MVPs in consecutive weeks; first outlasting Steve McNair and the Titans in a game played with a windchill of -10°, then the next week seeing Ty Law absolutely decimate Peyton Manning while securing a Super Bowl berth. That AFC Championship was probably the most significant sporting event I've ever attended, for a couple reasons. One- it was the first, biggest ballgame at the House that Drew Bledsoe Built, Gillette Stadium. New England will never host a Super Bowl, not until some mad scientist invents an effective weather control device, so while I can imagine Gillette hosting other AFC Championship, there won't be another first one. And Ty Law won't pick off Peyton Manning three times.



There was a weirder reason this back-to-back week of games was significant, too. At the Titans game I worked the lower level, right at the 50 yard line, (which was incredible and I totally don't mean to gloat). It was remarkable that people were still drinking at this game. I mean, scientifically speaking alcohol lowers your body temperature, but realistically speaking there's no way anyone can stand sitting outside in subzero temperatures on a January night in Foxborogh unless they're drunk. Anyway I'm in this prime serving area getting people wasted while watching at the snaps, and I go back to the service bar to reload my tray. I'm on my way back when a tall guy with a goatee asks me for a drink. I'd been told pretty sternly to ID everyone I served, and being the son of a bartender, wasn't one to shirk the duty, except I knew this guy. I looked up, and it's Tim Wakefield.

Which would have been the coolest moment in my life, except for one thing-


It was January 11th, 2004. The last time I'd seen Wake was October 16th, 2003. No one blamed Tim Wakefield for being on the losing end of that Game 7 of the Red Sox/ Yankees ALCS. In fact, he had a pretty good chance of being named Series MVP if they won that game. He shouldn't have been in the game until Mariano Rivera was out, but then again, Grady Little was not necessarily blessed with a well-timed hook. Nevertheless, the last time I'd seen Tim Wakefield was at the climactic moment of the greatest heartbreak of my young life, and there he was buying a beer from me at the very next playoff game in the New England area, just taking it in as a fan, and enjoying the Boston sports scene. Tim Wakefield is the fucking man.

Earlier that October I'd gone to my first ever Red Sox playoff game. It was Game 4 of the 2003 ALDS against the Oakland A's, and the Red Sox didn't stand a chance. They didn't stand a chance all series, incidentally, after having gone down 0-2 in the best of 5 series. As would become customary in the coming years, the Sox would battle back with the hearts of champions. They won Game 3 with a dramatic Trot Nixon home run, and if they could take Game 4, they'd have Pedro Martinez ready for Game 5. But now it was Tim Hudson, who would place 4th in Cy Young voting that year, (just one place behind Pedro) squaring off against the 12-9 5.15 ERA soon-to-be professional bowler John Burkett. Again, the Sox didn't stand a chance.

Or they shouldn't have. Weird word had gotten out that day. There were rumors that Hudson had gotten into a bar fight the night before. He might have bashed a guy with his guitar like El Kabong. Either way he was out of the game after an inning, and it was on John Burkett to nip and tuck that whole game, going 5 1/3 without, as I can remember, a single swinging strike. I can't remember if that was even true, but it sure felt that way, 'cuz that guy pitched the game of his life. I mean, he still gave up 4 runs, but it was the game of his life.



Wakefield came in and mopped up for a few innings, (of course) and David Ortiz had his first signature playoff hit with a huge double off Keith Foulke in the 8th. They won the game, and looked like favorites going against the Yankees in the ALCS. That didn't happen, but I still hold to this day that it was coming back from that 0-2 deficit to that A's team that gave that team the gumption it needed to pull back from the 0-3 hole they'd dig themselves in the 2004 ALCS. So to me, even though it was just a game where a couple junkballers tried to keep it tight, it is just about the most important Sox game I'd been to in my life.


Or it was. Last year I went to Game 4 of the ALDS against the Angels, and Jed Lowrie drove in Jason Bay in the 9th inning to close out the series. Jon Lester was awesome, and it was probably the most exciting baseball game I've been to in my life.

I've been to countless games, but it is the ones with tangible consequences that really illicit the starkest memories. Last year, I basically moved back to Boston just in time to see the new-look Boston Celtics come together. I was living in Brooklyn when the monumental trades were made, and I remember going from just confused by the Ray Allen trade, to indescribably elated at the Kevin Garnett trade. I tried to explain it to my non-basketball loving friends; it was like going to bed with one team, and waking up with a completely different one. Everything about them was different, from the style of play to their League- relevance, to their viability as a champion. I didn't want to move back when I did, but knowing that I was going to be able to watch this unprecedented season was an acceptable silver lining. The New Big Three didn't disappoint, delivering the most dominant regular season I'd ever watched in total. They made me see basketball differently. I went to a couple games, and eagerly awaited the playoffs.

I wanted to be smart. I wouldn't blow my load on the first round matchup against the feeble Hawks. No, I'd wait for the prospect of seeing my beloved Celtics take on the most electrifying athlete of my generation in LeBron James. THAT would be a worthy thing to pay for, I was sure.

The Celtics famously struggled in that first round, but despite the series going 7 games, there was never any doubt to who was the better team. They advanced, and awaited the Cavaliers.

I got tickets to Game 1 of the series. It was the most intense game of my life. I love all the sports I love, but basketball gets my blood pressure up in a different way. It's just so high adrenaline. It is also a sport that can be officiated somewhat subjectively, which is not necessarily healthy for someone who argues as vociferously as I.

It was the ugliest games I watched in my entire life. But it was a win.


LeBron had my favorite double-double of all time with 12 points and 10 turnovers. Paul Pierce and Ray Allen combined for 4 points. In fact, Ray finished scoreless! It was like a Bizarro- playoff game. The only guy who played like a superstar was the Big Ticket himself, who scored 28. The game ended 76-72, but the only number that mattered, trite though it might have been, was the Celtics' 1-0 lead.

The Celtics went on to become champions. I didn't get to any more games, because as I said, I am not a man of great means, and as soon as the Celtics beat the Cavaliers in a Game 7 showdown classic between Paul Pierce and LeBron James the Celtics became the hottest ticket in town. I didn't have any regrets, but I did feel a little cheated, in that I think I ended up at the only game of the entire postseason that didn't have 1 highlight for the end-of-season reel.

This season, I was determined to not make the same mistake. As the season drew to a close, I held off on even going to a few games, thinking myself wise and prudent in my waiting for the playoffs. Kevin Garnett would be back by playoff time, and there were sure to be more than enough games to catch then. Two nights before the season ended, I made my decision to buy tickets to Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals, the second round. This, I assumed, is when the playoffs would really start.

The morning after I bought my tickets, the news came out. Kevin Garnett would be out for the playoffs in their entirety. It was like someone punched me in the stomach, stood me up, punched me in the balls, then took my wallet, and then slept with my girlfriend. It sucked.

It sucked for all the obvious reasons. It sucked because it was evident that we would not have an honest shot at defending our title, first against the Cavaliers, then against the Lakers. It robbed us of our opportunity to get in the way of the LeBron/ Kobe 2009 Finals that have seemed so inevitable to everyone who was sleeping on the Celtics. It sucked because you knew there were only so many years for this team to play together, and all the sudden this year wouldn't be one of them. It sucked because the team had worked so hard to keep the ship afloat in KG's absence, and it seemed almost unfair to ask them to continue to shoulder both the load and the expectations without their true superstar, and defensive tone-setter. And it fucking sucked because, dude, I had already paid for the tickets!

Buying tickets that early, you're not really buying tickets. Regular box-office tickets don't go on sale until the team officially qualifies, and the game is scheduled. But if you're too anxious to wait, you can use online auction services to buy seats from season-ticket holders who are guaranteed their tickets. Sure, you pay at a markup, but it's worth it to assure yourself of the seat.

Well when KG was out, the second round didn't seem like such a sure thing. In fact, it seemed like a goal. Not for the team themselves, of course, but for me. Just make it the one round, don't make me look like an asshole! I felt guilty just feeling the way I did. And that was before the series even started.



Then it went on to be the greatest playoff series anyone can remember. It didn't win a championship, although it did star a team with championship heart and pedigree. It truly was a phenomenal series, not only for the longevity of it and the unprecedented overtimes, but for the remarkable shots that were hit. Ben Gordon got as hot as anyone's ever seen anyone. Derrick Rose hit leaner after leaner in traffic. Kirk Hinrich hit tough, deep threes. Rondo hit some jumpers, and damn near averaged a triple double on creaky ankles. Paul Pierce, who struggled uncharacteristically from the line, won a game all by himself, working himself to his spot and sinking make after make. Glen Davis showed himself to be a legitimate big in the NBA, mixing in-traffic layups with a nice, consistent midrange game. Kendrick Perkins was a beast, and again, no one seemed to notice. Where Ben Gordon got hot as a pure shooter, Ray Allen elevated his game and showed the difference between a hot shooter and a great one. After a tough Game 1, Ray was unstoppable. He showed the world what willed greatness looked like. It was an unforgettable series.



And it damn near killed me.

I felt like I was in the same boat as Danny Ainge. I had the biggest vested interest a fan could have in a series without owning it like Mark Cuban, or having your house put up as collateral on a bet. All I wanted was for the series to end, and it had to be the longest, most grueling, up and down series there ever was.

By the time we got to Game 7, I was spent. After sinking money into those seats, I'd effectively gambled on the games. I didn't stand to win anything, really, or at least anything I hadn't already bought. But I did stand to lose. It was an impossible situation. In the end, going into that last game, I just prayed that the team be champions for one more night. One more display of greatness, and I'd be content. Of course, this had to echo what they were feeling going into that game. Not the 'being content' part, of course, but it was evident through the way they played that they were not going out like punks under any circumstances. They played the Bulls long enough, and hard enough, and eventually those impossible shots Ben Gordon and Derrick Rose kept hitting started rimming out, and the better team prevailed.

Now I get my Round 2 game. The team is limping, of course, with Rajon nursing maybe both his ankles, Pierce barely able to jump off the ground, KG looking dapper in suits, and Leon Powe's career in jeopardy after another major knee issue. The Magic are coming to town fresh off a few days rest, hoping to legitimize themselves as title contenders against what's left of the champs. I think the series will be pretty easy to predict- if the Magic can shoot over 43% on threes for the series, they'll at least take it 7 games, if not take the series. They are not the same kind of threat as the Bulls, because they are not the same fast-break team, and they don't have the athleticism to wear down the Celtics like Chicago did. Perkins should make for a good matchup against Dwight Howard, provided they get called evenly on fouls. Turkoglu and Pierce have had some good matchups, and while the Celtics don't have an answer for Rashard Lewis, the Magic don't have an answer for Ray Allen.

I get to go and see it, and be a part of the experience myself. I can't be any more honest in saying, it's all I ever wanted.

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