It was hugely elating to see Nate Robinson lead the Chicago Bulls to an exciting triple overtime victory the other day. Not just because Robinson is an exciting player when he gets hot, dominating a group of defenders who are all a foot taller than him. It was also nostalgic. I was reminded of the Celtics’ playoff run in 2010 when Robinson and Glen “Big Baby” Davis put on their “Shrek & Donkey” show, combining for 36 points to win Game 4 against the Lakers. The Celtics would lose in the 7th game of that Finals, of course, that year but it was an exciting season, leading a conclusion befitting the philosophy of “The Big Three” that won the championship in 08. In some ways that game 7 was the first of a certain kind of “out of gas” loss which has characterized this great era of the Celtics and has now, finally come to an end in 2013. The Celtics won this afternoon, using every bit of energy and luck they had to stave off elimination in the first round of the playoffs to the New York Knicks. It’s a foregone conclusion the Knicks will win this series: they are simply better than the old, scrappy C’s and right now, I think, have a good chance of taking on NBA overlords The Miami Heat. I have no idea what the Celtics will do for next year but I would guess we won’t see KG starting for them next year and that Paul Pierce will finish out his career, in a more limited role, as a Celtic. I’m not going to speak ill of Boston’s role players or chime in with the usual old man stuff that KG and Pierce will be subject to. Right now, I just want to say what a pleasure it was to cheer for this team, how happy it has been to see the Celtics contend and to see them play in a style which embodies the hard felt notion of “Celtic Pride” as the hallmark of the franchise.
No one wants to live in fear. I’ve always been scared of saying the wrong thing. I don’t sleep well. I never have. But each time I tell another person, I feel stronger and sleep a little more soundly. It takes an enormous amount of energy to guard such a big secret. I’ve endured years of misery and gone to enormous lengths to live a lie. I was certain that my world would fall apart if anyone knew. And yet when I acknowledged my sexuality I felt whole for the first time. I still had the same sense of humor, I still had the same mannerisms and my friends still had my back.
When Kenyon Martin hits the ground the place erupts. The hedge fund managers and venture capitalists and Broadway producers go bananas, whooping, stretching out their arms, high-fiving strangers in nearby expensive seats. Kenyon Martin, on the ground, moves towards them, shouts something. Shouts it up to the rafters. His teammates on the bench leap and yelp, wave towels. Marv Albert, at the broadcast table, is hung up between the first and second syllables of the word “rejected.” Spike Lee approves.
“The odd thing about our fair city is the animosity between the two franchises’ fanbases. This is not to say that there aren’t others like myself that cheer for both teams equally and are feeling the strain of cheering for two (potentially) successful teams. However, there has been a noticeable increase in a divide between the two franchises. In St. Louis, for example, the Cardinals’ Twitter account sent congratulations to the Blues for clinching a playoff spot. The Blues, conversely, sent condolences on the passing of Cardinals great Stan Musial. No such congratulations were sent the Leafs’ way (it should be noted that this only extends to the franchises themselves, the players of the respective teams have been much more vocal and cross-sport appreciating). This has extended to the fans at games as well. At a recent Jays game a fan was kicked out of the stadium for attempting to start a “Kadri’s better” chant as well as the standard “go Leafs go” as the Jays were losing once again. There were countless “let’s go Blue Jays” chants at Leaf games earlier in the season when the team was struggling as well.”
“It was a public assembly, and proof that (despite the city’s numerous religious venues) Fenway is Boston’s present-day cathedral. After 101 years, in which memories and loyalty have been handed down for decades, the park has grown into a place of worship, its very walls and stories sparking mass veneration. For many Bostonians and New Englanders, this was the best place for comfort and stability to be found. After all, what is more comforting, in its recollection of summers past, than green grass and sunshine? In Fenway, then, the normal could be remembered once again.”
this is our fucking city
“On Marathon Monday I posted a picture on Instagram taken from the overpass on the bridge at the intersection of Massachusetts and Commonwealth Avenues. It shows a group of determined runners, their backs to the camera, hoofing it up hill toward Copley Plaza under a beautiful blue sky with the Hancock Tower framed in the upper right hand corner of the photo. Two minutes before posting the photo I had stood near Newbury Street and watched a crowd of thousands erupt into joyous applause as a runner lifted his hands to pump up the crowd and then spontaneously did a perfect cartwheel. My caption reads: “The best day of the year in Boston. A dude just did a cartwheel two blocks from the finish line.” It was 1:15 p.m.”
Her original teeth, yellowed and worn down from a lifetime of grinding through the stress of eight hour workouts, had been deemed detrimental to her marketability. The decision to undergo elective surgery so close to the games was risky, but Milton, her manager, gave it the green light after Crest came on board as a sponsor.
I have a set of daggers for farmland made sacred,
towns obsessed with the exploits of their children,
cities powerless to pour gasoline on wheat fields
of retrogress, blaming the horse for her broken fetlock—
I celebrate the jockey who says, Shoot me too.
I was the one riding her. He locked on her teary eye,
second-thought, took his option to carry on. So he lied.
She trusted him. How quickly he stopped being my hero.