So last night the Celtics crushed the Lakers and took their 17th title. I am delighted.
As I watched the celebration late last night, it took me back to the Eighties, when I lived in Boston and was a Celtics fanatic. I remember two nights before my college graduation in 1985, when I went over to the Charles Hotel where my roommate John Lightfoot’s parents were staying, to watch a game in the Finals of that season (we lost that year, FYI). We hated the Lakers: they had the telegenic “Magic” Johnson as their star; they had the fancy-shmancy “Showtime” fast break offense; they had all the celebs like Jack Nicholson; they were the glamour boys. We had an ugly slow white guy named Larry Bird (and an even uglier white guy named Kevin McHale, who bore a startling resemblance to the Addams’ Family Lurch) as our star; we had a grinding, boring defense that was totally unexciting; and, in the pre Matt Damon/Ben Affleck/Mark Wahlberg days, our biggest celebrity in Boston was Julia Child.
But as much as I loved the Celtics, I was always a little uncomfortable with the faint whiff of racism behind the Eighties Lakers-Celtics rivalry. It felt sometimes to me like some of my fellow Bostonians rooted for our team because it was the white team. But last night I saw folks in the Garden go crazy for an all black Celtics team, one that played just as boring a style of defensive play as my heroes in the Eighties, one that lacked the glamour of the Lakers still, but one that seemed just as loved and embraced by the Boston of 2008 as their predecessors had been by the Boston of the Eighties. The only color that seemed to matter was green.
This time, I could cheer without reservation.




