Memorial Day Weekend, 1985. My dad is driving us to get to his Cousin George's house where most of our family has gathered for a BBQ and game one of the NBA Finals between the Celtics and Lakers. By the time we arrive, we've been listening to Johnny Most explain the epic beatdown the C's are putting on LA since my parents were never good about time. Seemingly half of Watertown is there, eating and jabbering in Armenian and broken English. We walk into the den where everyone is watching the game, and Scott Wedman lands a three. Cousin George (or Georgik, since -ik is a favored diminutive among Armenians) excitedly tells us "Wedman [pronounced 'Veddmun'] hasn't missed yet!" Wedman would finish the game 11 for 11, as the Celtics beat the Lakers 148 - 114 in what would be known the Memorial Day Massacre.
Why tell this story? One, I love it because it encapsulates why the Celtics hold a unique place with me among Boston teams--we only spent my early years in Boston, but those were prime Bird-Parish-McHale years, and my dad's and grandparents' generations were both off the boat Armenian immigrants from Iran. The Celtics were kind of their path to Americanization--they might not be able to speak every word of the English language, but they knew that Parish was The Chief, Larry Bird was a legend, DJ could defend all five opponents (seemingly) at once, and Kurt Rambis deserved that fucking McHale clothesline. My aunt was a fanatic and would take me to the Garden often. My dad took me when he could. I had two Celtics painters caps because...well, it was the 80s. The Celtics weren't just a basketball team, they were part of what made my immigrant family Americans.
The second and more important reason I tell this story is because after getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of them in game one, the Lakers got their act together and won four of the next five to take the series in six games. I'm sure their fans were demoralized, but they clearly weren't. None of us were happy with game two on Thursday. After fits and starts in the first half, we went into the break tied. In the second half, we of course shit the bed for 24 minutes and got blown out. Much like game one in 1985, this will prove to be an aberration. The Celtics will win tonight and, as in the Miami series, not look back at game two.
8:30p EDT tip-off at Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse. ABC national broadcast. Win.
Why tell this story? One, I love it because it encapsulates why the Celtics hold a unique place with me among Boston teams--we only spent my early years in Boston, but those were prime Bird-Parish-McHale years, and my dad's and grandparents' generations were both off the boat Armenian immigrants from Iran. The Celtics were kind of their path to Americanization--they might not be able to speak every word of the English language, but they knew that Parish was The Chief, Larry Bird was a legend, DJ could defend all five opponents (seemingly) at once, and Kurt Rambis deserved that fucking McHale clothesline. My aunt was a fanatic and would take me to the Garden often. My dad took me when he could. I had two Celtics painters caps because...well, it was the 80s. The Celtics weren't just a basketball team, they were part of what made my immigrant family Americans.
The second and more important reason I tell this story is because after getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of them in game one, the Lakers got their act together and won four of the next five to take the series in six games. I'm sure their fans were demoralized, but they clearly weren't. None of us were happy with game two on Thursday. After fits and starts in the first half, we went into the break tied. In the second half, we of course shit the bed for 24 minutes and got blown out. Much like game one in 1985, this will prove to be an aberration. The Celtics will win tonight and, as in the Miami series, not look back at game two.
8:30p EDT tip-off at Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse. ABC national broadcast. Win.