Green With Excitement

I realize commentary on the Celtics have little accompanied this blog. I've maybe mentioned the C's a handful of times in two years. One of those years gave me little to mention, though I did. Then was accused of jinxing which I think I may have. Regardless, this morning I am elated.

I grew up on the Red Sox and Celtics. More than I have ever played baseball, I have played basketball. Never organized, not always well -- but played at it's basic level. For the most part I have romanticized baseball in my pseudo-Updike-ian ways with an occasional longing to be A. Bartlett Giamatti. But basketball I have left alone and I am not sure why. Deny me not this truth in the presence of such a dearth: on my list of sports, basketball is #2 with a #1 ranking in sports to play (this list is made-up with little standards for ranking; in fact, I may have just made it up this morning to accommodate this post).

The only DVDs I own and have ever asked for involve the complete history of the Boston Celtics (complete with Classic Games) and Larry Bird's DVD (complete with Classic Games of which the 'Nique-Bird is included -- and trust me, having watched this game several times, the Pierce-LeBron thing wasn't even close). I have, in effect, re-imagined my childhood -- reconstructed it based on the Big Three, of whom whose greatness and passion and beauty I was too young to fully grasp and appreciate.

Consider the previous as evidence for my love of basketball and the Celtics despite my lack of "posting" on it. And allow we to wax for a moment another reason why I may not have mentioned it with such frequency.

Basketball is an individual sport. As much as I resemble and embody Bird and Magic's style of play, I recognize it is inherently individual. Baseball requires someone else to throw you the ball and you to hit it and another opposing player to not catch it. Football needs the help of several players to advance the ball and score. But all the goals in basketball are the sole responsibility of the person with the ball. Sure, cutting and picking and rebounding from teammates help in the long run. Yet it's simplest contribution to the glory of sport is the satisfaction only the individual can take when the ball goes through the hoop. At it's core, it is of the individual only. And when this is the case, not much can be said because it's post-modern, it's relative. It matters not what I can suppose or state, it matters only what you, the person with the ball, can effort.

I love basketball. Love scoring. Love passing. Love rebounding. Love getting bothered about a bad call. Love taking jumpers by myself in the gym. Practicing foul shots. Pretending there's three seconds on the clock. Thinking Bird or Jordan has given me the ball and suggested I might be the best in a moment, for a moment. I love basketball. I play it with Isaac's plastic balls and a makeshift hoop in the yard. With socks and the hamper. With trash and the trash can. And there's always a satisfaction when it goes in, a determination to make it go if I miss -- even if what I am throwing away is a dirty diaper.

So for the Celtics, my beloved and followed and pretended-upon Celtics, to make the Finals... To hit shots when they need to... To make passes and play defense when it's all of everything a player can give...Well, it is a joy reserved for those who have ever made a shot. A pleasure this morning that only a person who has ever rolled the leather through his hands and felt, if only for a second or two or three, that all time was about to expire and it was all up to you.

So here we go. Beat L.A.. Rebound. Play defense. Don't be too awed by Kobe -- leave that to the fans. And when the ball goes in the hoop or trash can or bucket or child's bed, love the game you are playing.

Go Celtics.

Alternate Version: How Isaac Got That Nasty Cut On His Neck

We walked along as steadily as a toddler allows. The road giving way to speed in places, treachery in others where the rocks jutted and mud, well, did whatever it is that mud does. Clump? Either way, the going, for the most part, was not easy. The woods of Maine piled high pines and maples on either side of our hike towards the "Monkey Bridge". As slow going as it was, Isaac was relentless in his pursuit of other family members ahead, and the greenery growing just off the beaten path. More often than not, as if he sensed danger or intrigue in the woods, he would be caught several steps into the underbrush. His sense of bravery showed itself early in those moments. A harbinger of the hero he would become.

Suddenly, out of the bark and wood to the right 100 yards down the path came charging a bear. At this point, Isaac and I were leading the way. I had run ahead with him on my shoulders and was just returning his little legs to the uneven terrain when the bear approached at an alarming rate. My initial reaction was to run, to grab Isaac and run. Isaac's initial reaction was also to run. But like his approach to squirrels, birds and dogs, it was to run towards the oncoming animal. Run he did, matching in proportion only the throbbing speed of the bear.

His courage and legs were aligned as they propelled him magnificently to the beast. He added the hand gesture he had recently learned: pointing. All this together threw the creature into a tailspin and it ceased his steady approach. In fact, it was the bear that froze as Isaac neared. In an unexplainable way, I was unable to catch up to Isaac. Either fear leadened my legs, or his courage emboldened his and he remained out of my grasp, out of my reach, and his actions beyond my worst of nightmares.

He came within yards of the creature, who remained locked in its spot of mud and rock. He, as he had been taught, made the sound of a bear. It was not loud but it was sure. Like a child he knew he was looking at a bear and knew the sound of that bear, but knew not, like us adults, the menacing and imposing will of it. The bear cocked his head and growled low and broken. It backed up a step, as if to run or leap or attack or cower. Isaac growled confidently again, the sound carrying out past his pointed finger to the hairy ears. The bear cowered for sure, but not before he extended his paw and claw like his foe. Then, with a mere flick of its frame, it reached and scratched Isaac beneath his chin before bounding off back into the forest. Isaac pointed and growled some more bearing the scar of his courage with a child-like obliviousness. It was a bear to him. To us it was fear, danger, death, and sheer terror. To him, it was a bear.

It is a three inch long laceration. A flesh wound only. But in the incision courage seeps out.

***This did not actually happen. True, we went on a hike in Maine over the weekend to the "Monkey Bridge" (a mere two steel cables over a creek) and we did walk through forests with the "threat" of bears (?). But we did not see any. Did not see any tracks or hear any noises resembling that of any creature (although Nate thinks he was tracking a deer). Isaac actually did cut his neck though. But it happened when he fell in a field of flowers -- wild flowers -- but flowers nonetheless.***

The Similes Of Children

Heard this at Church yesterday:

Child: I really like food. My favorite kind-a food is Chipotle Rice. (eyes widen) I love Chipotle Rice.

Adult: Do you love Chipotle Rice like you love your mother?

Child: (thinks for a moment; confused) No. I love it like I love Chipotle Rice.

And here's the reason I love children. We see them as misunderstanding the question. Silly children, we think. But we are misunderstanding the answer. Things are that simple. Each experience and delight, each pleasure and pain is contingent on and comparable to nothing else. It is it's very own experience. Everything, it seems to us they are foolishly saying in their naivete, is "the greatest ever". But to kids, getting a hit in a baseball game is as awesome and cool and memorable as just that. Getting a "A" is as successful as getting an "A".

As adults, in our vast "experience", we compare everything that happens to us to other things that have happened to us or to others like us. We categorize enjoyment so as not to be too overjoyed. We categorize pain so that we may illustrate our "perspective". We long to be mature in the end. To live out Aristotle's Golden Mean. And we are limiting the moments of our lives in the end. Nothing can ever be the greatest, we reason, for that has passed us by. "This was great, but not as good as that one time 5 years ago."

But one day, I think I'd like to sit down with some Chipotle Rice. I'd like to just get a hit. I'd like to just, with utter simplicity and detachment, be awed and overwhelmed and overjoyed without comparison.

To possess the spirit and similes of children.

The Grocery Store: What I Would Say To LeBron James If I Ran Into Him There

Wow. LeBron. You're pretty incredible. Pretty. Incredible. However, here's a couple of things to keep in mind (a la Kurt Vonnegut, but not really):

Commit to playing defense. You're an average defender. You can easily be above average. Like you worked on that mid-range jumper last off-season, work on defense this off-season.

Keep working on that shooting. It's getting better. And when you're on, you're on. But keep at it. You can only get better.

I've never seen a player like you. I've followed basketball since before you were born, and there's not been another player like you. And your passion is unmatched. You love this game. Remember that.

Stop whining. No disrespect intended. You get away with a lot offensively and defensively. Travels. Double-dribbles. Reach-ins. Fouls. Take the foul. You do it occasionally. Do it all the time.

Love the way you walked off the court yesterday. No congratulating the Celtics in the post-game. You stormed off. I've only ever seen Larry Bird do that. You'll get ripped for sportsmanship. But the bottom line is you play to win. Don't EVER take losing lightly. Take it personally. Keep doing exactly what you did.

I've never seen a player like you. I've followed basketball since before you were born, and there's not been another player like you. And your passion is unmatched. You love this game. Remember that.

Whatever happens in the next couple of years, don't play the game for the money. You will be the best player ever. Easily. But the game is such you'll need just a little bit of help at times. Keep that in mind. Let them pay you, but let them be able to pay other players to help you too. You'll make your money and legend in the end.

You are an incredible basketball player. I love watching you play. I will never question you're enthusiasm for the game. Never question your passion. But don't ever give me the opportunity too. Don't ever let up. Don't ever forget you are playing a game you've loved your entire life. Don't let that reality slip from your eyes or your heart. Play to win and play to play the game.

You will be the best. Make no mistake. You will be the best. Don't stop though, even when you are.

My Dentist: A Character Sketch

Short. Hovering around 5 feet tall. Salt and pepper hair. Thin. Early 50s. Small hands and eyes. Impeccably ironed scrubs with turtlenecks on underneath. Dark, thick black glasses with a device that gives her singular, zoomed-in vision attached. When she looks at you, she tilts her head down, not up and therefore cannot avoid looking through the device. Anecdotes and thoughts are only complete in her head, yet they make sense if you listen carefully and casually. She is a woman of many details but wastes no time with them. Her humor is simple, straightforward, but has to be thought about to be found funny. It must be placed directly back against the gait and posture and tone of this woman. She is passionate about her job, loves dentistry. Leads well, her employees speak openly of their frustration with her antics and her personality and incomplete complete thoughts illustrating a lack of fear towards her meaning she's a good boss. And she's very good at what she does. Honest with her patients, genuine as well. She's also a little crazy and it comes through in the pitch of her voice, in its pace and delivery which feels a hair too fast and high for most conversation.

I hate the dentist office. Despise anything that involves cleaning the mouth: brushing teeth, flossing. I cannot be in the same room with another person who is brushing their teeth. Cringing doesn't surmise the physical reaction I have. I cannot brush Isaac's three teeth. I cannot watch a movie where someone is brushing their teeth. I simply cannot. But I like going to this dentist. She is a character I find infinitely interesting. A case study.

Watching people more efficiently is a task I've sought to do more of of late. And there are some strikingly different and overwhelmingly fascinating characters at work in this world around us. From the man with the golden voice who works at the gas station to the woman slowly and distractedly making my sandwich. Asking why another person is doing as they do and watching, trying to figure out why it is so, is a new thing for me. But I find we are all mostly alike in some ways and vastly different in others. We are all characters.

A Ballgame

Tonight there's a little boy in Cincinnati who will see his first ever baseball game. He'll leave the hospital in plenty of time to get to his heightened view of the goings on. They'll take him by wheelchair through the hospital halls and sterilized wings and out into a world that has not done him any favors. The firefighters, working on their own, will transport him like they do so very often after it seems he's gotten better and been able to go home. They'll make sure he'll get there in time to see the game.

He's learned a lot about the game in the past few weeks. His doctor has taught him everything he now knows. Though, for the doctor, he's had to relearn it himself. There were RBIs, homeruns, ERA, hits, singles, doubles, pitch counts, stolen bases, bunts, sacrifices, curveballs, fastballs and outs. There was a lot to learn for both of them, but they managed together. I know the doctor never forgot these things, never forgot the smell of the stadium, the way the ball sounds on the bat, or how to root for the home team -- I've been to a game with him. We were among the few standing when Pena hit that homerun over the right field wall in a losing effort. There are few better teachers of the game than him. Not spoiled by BABIP, OBP, SLG and a host of other acronyms that do much to increase my enjoyment of the game. There's just a bat, a ball, a glove and a game so great it's actually a wish for his patient. A wish. I wish for good health, we wish for good health; this boy wishes to see a baseball game.

This little boy, young and sick, will see the game from the owner's box, ensuring his health will keep him there for nine innings even if the players he now loves let him down. He'll watch pitch after pitch and ask question after question and eat hot dog after hot dog. His new Reds jersey will never shine brighter, nor ever be worn with so much pride by another soul in this world.

He'll get there in time to see the game. He'll watch baseball tonight. So will the doctor. So will thousands of other people. They'll see the same pitch, the same strike, the same hit, the same win. But they won't have the perspective he'll have. They won't look at the homerun, the single, the out like he will. They won't count the RBI's and the K's like he will, like he's been taught how to. We don't have the perspective he has. Baseball. For the first time.

Common Sense: Common Sense

I'm getting tired of this expression. Especially in the political realm. I'm not sure who's appealing to Common Sense in all things issue related: The Common Sense Medical Plan! But Common Sense tells me someone certainly is. It's the typical, oversimplified nonsense I expect from politicians.

I'm all for Common Sense. Indeed, we could all benefit more if people used Common Sense a little more generously than they/we do. But when it comes to politicians, to people who run governments, is Common Sense all we're missing and therefore all we need to right any sinking ship?

Common Sense tells me if my car won't start and the gas gauge is on empty: I need more gas! What Common Sense does not tell me, and here's the inherent issue with the expression and application, is that my car will then start. There could be a host of other problems that keep the car from starting. Bad gaskets (whatever those are), lose spark plugs (non-sparking spark plugs?), a bad hose (these are all things in cars right?) could all be reason. Heck, the car might not even have an engine. Common Sense allows you to diagnose, not treat.

So I see these adds that appeal to, in their nuanced, subtle ways, Common Sense tells us if we all could have cheap, affordable, government provided health care, everything would be better. for all of us. No. Common Sense tells us only that it would make sense, for everyone to have health care, not that it would be a panacea for the ironically ailing industry. Or, in the interest of unbias, that drilling in ANWAR will alleviate the gas crunch forever.

We need leaders who know cars. Who know that the car needing gas is just one approach to making sure it's up and running. Give me your platform of vague and nuance and Common Sense, of promises enough to fill a tank. But it's going to take more than a sense of the common to fix problems. It will need that, but you're going to have to know a lot more than how to fill up the tank if you want my vote.