Three figurines of Larry Bird rest just to the right of where I’m sitting. Next to them is The Boston Globe’s commemorative section of his retirement, along with a March 3, 1986, Sports Illustrated cover that says “The Living Legend,” as well as a Wheaties box featuring Larry, Red Auerbach, Bob Cousy, K.C. Jones, John Havlicek and Jo Jo White.
At age 12, I went to the Johnny Most basketball camp in Nashua, N.H., where I got two free Celtics tickets for winning a camp-wide free-throw contest. I also infuriated Johnny by scoring 52 points in a scrimmage with his son, Lester, guarding me. “C’mon Les, pick ’em up and lay ’em down against this kid,” Johnny yelled from the stands with his famous, cigarette-stained voice.
At age 19, I was too nervous to go into a friend’s house to watch Game 7 of the 1984 NBA Finals between the Celts and L.A. Lakers, believing it would be a jinx. So, in a dark parking lot, I stretched my 6-foot-5 self into the backseat of a Volkswagen Bug and tried not to attract attention to myself, occasionally flicking on the radio to get the score.
When the Celts beat the Lakers, I ran into the house yelling at the top of my lungs and was immediately drenched in champagne that my friends had somehow dyed green.
On Tuesday night, the Celts beat the Lakers again for banner No. 17.
This time, I watched the game at a friend’s house and wasn’t nervous for a second. But it wasn’t because the C’s drubbed the Fakers by 39. It was, I realized, because I just didn’t care all that much.
When the game was over, I found myself only giving the lamest of high-fives to my buddy Bob. I guess I’ve gotten old and jaded.
Or maybe not. I got all choked up when the Red Sox won the last two World Series, and I’m still not over the Pats blowing the Super Bowl.
Somewhere between that night in the VW and Tuesday, the NBA, the Celtics and I drifted apart. And I think that has happened to a lot of former hoops junkies like me. The NBA — with its prima donna players, overcoaching, overofficiating, bricklayer shooting and ESPNization of the sport — lost guys like me.
Some of the loss of interest is natural. You get older, and you realize that Kevin Garnett making a jump shot isn’t as important as what kind of health care your kid has.
But the NBA of today still seems alien to the one I grew up loving. I hope I get the interest back. And, if I do, I’ll find a bigger car to hide out in next time.
