duncan228
05-11-2009, 03:04 PM
Everyone, and with good reason, hates Celtics and their smug fans (http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2009/writers/norman_chad/05/10/Chad.Celtics/index.html)
Norman Chad
As we await the inevitable Kobe-LeBron clash -- as you know, these things are determined by the NBA before the season even begins; heck, I have the memo right in front of me -- let us consider why everyone (I know) still hates the Celtics.
If you're unfortunate enough to be as old as Couch Slouch is -- which means growing up in the 1960s, stumbling through college in the '70s, getting married and divorced in the '80s and getting married and divorced again in the '90s -- then you qualify as a First Generation Celtics Hater.
The recent Celtics renaissance has been bothersome, worsened by other Boston-area championship runs by the Patriots and the Red Sox. And the Larry Bird era before that was equally tough on reasonable, David Stern-fearing souls. But nothing was more horrific and horrifying than the original Red Auerbach dynastic reign.
I am still scarred from a childhood of watching the Celtics get call after call and win title after title; the only benefit was that it prepared me for an adulthood of watching Duke games.
For years, any deciding game of a Celtics playoff series was virtually scripted. They felt like Harlem Globetrotters-Washington Generals games, minus the bucket of confetti.
Auerbach didn't pay off the referees, he simply had them "relocated" if they didn't comply.
Here are three largely factual Celtics facts:
• They never lost a Game 7 at Boston Garden on a Sunday.
• There was not a traveling call on a Celtic in the postseason between 1957 and 1986.
• In Game 5 against the Bulls last month, Ray Allen became the first Celtic to foul out of a playoff contest since Satch Sanders in 1966.*
*When I was 10, I watched a Celtics-76ers playoff game in which Bailey Howell committed eight -- no, make that NINE -- personal fouls before they even considered disqualifying him. But the officials conferred with Auerbach, and Howell remained in the game.
(Column Intermission: How could the Nuggets trade Allen Iverson and still lead the league in tattoos? The Pepsi Center has more Baroque drawings than the Louvre; Stanford offers an art history course that solely studies Chris Andersen's right arm.)
As for the current, unsavory Celtics, I excuse the coach, Doc Rivers, who was a terrific analyst on TNT and is a class act on the bench. I excuse no one else.
The Big Three -- Ray Allen, Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce -- play the game right, but I'm tired of seeing Garnett in his Big & Tall Men's Shop suit standing on the sidelines chest-bumping teammates.
I don't like Kendrick Perkins; I don't know why.
Eddie House wears his socks too high, for my tastes. I also wouldn't mind if, just one time after hitting a three-pointer, he didn't go frolicking back down court like he just won the lottery.
Big Baby Davis is, well, a big baby.
Stephon Marbury is a walking, trash-talking billboard for underachieving pro-athlete dysfunction.
Brian Scalabrine -- didn't he used to be on "Saved By The Bell"?
Then there's Ragin' Rajon Rondo, emerging as a top point guard and a top punk artist. In the Bulls series, he stuck out his leg to trip Kirk Hinrich in Game 5, smacked Brad Miller across the mouth later in Game 5 and flung Hinrich into the scorer's table in Game 6. A friend of mine excused each act as "borderline dirty." Feh! Before becoming a Celtic, I believe Rondo was a bagman in the John Dillinger gang.
All of it is made worse by the too passionate, too smug New England fan base. I used to fear running into know-it-all New Yorkers, now I duck my head around the corner to make sure there are no Celtic jerseys within sight. It's reached the point where I will not walk into a Boston-area sports bar without headphones and a musket.
Here's hoping that the Magic is in the process of taking Non-Celtics Nation out of our misery. I need a lot of rest before Tom Brady's epic autumnal return.
P.S. I will give up one of my stepchildren to anyone who can keep the Red Sox out of the playoffs.
Norman Chad
As we await the inevitable Kobe-LeBron clash -- as you know, these things are determined by the NBA before the season even begins; heck, I have the memo right in front of me -- let us consider why everyone (I know) still hates the Celtics.
If you're unfortunate enough to be as old as Couch Slouch is -- which means growing up in the 1960s, stumbling through college in the '70s, getting married and divorced in the '80s and getting married and divorced again in the '90s -- then you qualify as a First Generation Celtics Hater.
The recent Celtics renaissance has been bothersome, worsened by other Boston-area championship runs by the Patriots and the Red Sox. And the Larry Bird era before that was equally tough on reasonable, David Stern-fearing souls. But nothing was more horrific and horrifying than the original Red Auerbach dynastic reign.
I am still scarred from a childhood of watching the Celtics get call after call and win title after title; the only benefit was that it prepared me for an adulthood of watching Duke games.
For years, any deciding game of a Celtics playoff series was virtually scripted. They felt like Harlem Globetrotters-Washington Generals games, minus the bucket of confetti.
Auerbach didn't pay off the referees, he simply had them "relocated" if they didn't comply.
Here are three largely factual Celtics facts:
• They never lost a Game 7 at Boston Garden on a Sunday.
• There was not a traveling call on a Celtic in the postseason between 1957 and 1986.
• In Game 5 against the Bulls last month, Ray Allen became the first Celtic to foul out of a playoff contest since Satch Sanders in 1966.*
*When I was 10, I watched a Celtics-76ers playoff game in which Bailey Howell committed eight -- no, make that NINE -- personal fouls before they even considered disqualifying him. But the officials conferred with Auerbach, and Howell remained in the game.
(Column Intermission: How could the Nuggets trade Allen Iverson and still lead the league in tattoos? The Pepsi Center has more Baroque drawings than the Louvre; Stanford offers an art history course that solely studies Chris Andersen's right arm.)
As for the current, unsavory Celtics, I excuse the coach, Doc Rivers, who was a terrific analyst on TNT and is a class act on the bench. I excuse no one else.
The Big Three -- Ray Allen, Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce -- play the game right, but I'm tired of seeing Garnett in his Big & Tall Men's Shop suit standing on the sidelines chest-bumping teammates.
I don't like Kendrick Perkins; I don't know why.
Eddie House wears his socks too high, for my tastes. I also wouldn't mind if, just one time after hitting a three-pointer, he didn't go frolicking back down court like he just won the lottery.
Big Baby Davis is, well, a big baby.
Stephon Marbury is a walking, trash-talking billboard for underachieving pro-athlete dysfunction.
Brian Scalabrine -- didn't he used to be on "Saved By The Bell"?
Then there's Ragin' Rajon Rondo, emerging as a top point guard and a top punk artist. In the Bulls series, he stuck out his leg to trip Kirk Hinrich in Game 5, smacked Brad Miller across the mouth later in Game 5 and flung Hinrich into the scorer's table in Game 6. A friend of mine excused each act as "borderline dirty." Feh! Before becoming a Celtic, I believe Rondo was a bagman in the John Dillinger gang.
All of it is made worse by the too passionate, too smug New England fan base. I used to fear running into know-it-all New Yorkers, now I duck my head around the corner to make sure there are no Celtic jerseys within sight. It's reached the point where I will not walk into a Boston-area sports bar without headphones and a musket.
Here's hoping that the Magic is in the process of taking Non-Celtics Nation out of our misery. I need a lot of rest before Tom Brady's epic autumnal return.
P.S. I will give up one of my stepchildren to anyone who can keep the Red Sox out of the playoffs.