Sports Are Dumb And I’m Mad They Affect Me So Much

Sort of a twisted hybrid of an NBA Finals Preview and a whiny confession

The Boston Celtics caused me multiple instances of social embarrassment in the spring of 2022.

See, the thing is: I can’t really miss an important game. I can’t. I don’t have it in me. I try to grow up, I try to get over this, but I can’t. If the Celtics are deep in the playoffs, I could be at a press conference where the first alien to land on our planet announces what he thinks of us, and what his superintelligent civilization has in store for us, and I would be nervously checking my phone and tapping my foot impatiently, begging Xor’Zarx to get to the point so I can find a sports bar and at least catch the second half live.

In May 2022 the Celtics were playing the Milwaukee Bucks in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. During that series, my friend Molly got married in Detroit. A lot of my high school friends were there, including some I hadn’t seen in years. The sorta rehearsal dinner — much looser and more fun than that — was held the night before at a great brewery. The catering was tasty Indian food, which went really well with the beer.

That same night, the Celtics, having just days prior blown Game 5 at home in heartbreaking fashion — YOU HAVE TO GRAB THAT REBOUND — were playing 250 miles to the west of me, in Milwaukee. The Bucks were up 3–2, meaning if the Celtics lost, that was it — they were done. Suffice it to say I was that asshole trying both to celebrate with Molly and her then-fiancé and my friends while keeping a close eye on the game (what better way to show you care about the people around you than obsessively checking your phone?). I came to a compromise with myself: I’d Uber back to the hotel for the second half of the game, and then meet up with everyone wherever they went out after the brewery.

I’m ashamed to say this, but I’m glad I made that choice, and I can’t imagine having chosen differently. It was an incredibly nerve-racking but inspiring game from the perspective of a Celtics fan. Jayson Tatum, then a mere 24 years old, ended up putting up a legendary performance, scoring 46 in a game when his team absolutely needed him at his best. As my high school friends enjoyed a perfect spring evening of catching up and celebrating our friend’s impending nuptials, I was alone in my hotel, standing in front of the big TV (too nervous to sit), periodically jumping up and down like an idiot as it became clear the Celtics would prevail.

Tatum’s heroics meant there would be a decisive Game 7 back in Boston. Because I’m a nerd, I changed my flight out of Detroit after the wedding (which was lovely!) from New York to Boston. My dad, who had two tickets, picked me up and we headed straight to dinner and then to Game 7.

The Celtics won and it was incredible to be in the building. Then they won an exceptionally tense and grueling Eastern Conference Finals against the Miami Heat, despite doing everything possible to blow Game 7 in Miami. That meant they were on to the NBA Finals against the terrifying Golden State Warriors and Steph Curry, a truly transcendental player.

Soon the Celtics were, astonishingly, up 2–1 in that series. This was it: they really had a chance to win a title, despite their youth, and despite the fact that they were playing such a juggernaut of a team.

Game 4 was set for June 10. If the Celtics won it, they’d be up 3-1, meaning barring a very rare sort of collapse, they’d win the championship. That same night, my friend Matt had his bachelor dinner in Brooklyn. We went to Bamonte’s, a very old-school Italian place in Williamsburg (multiple Sopranos scenes were filmed there, including this very memorable and bloody one), and it was delicious. I ate and drank way too much and had a good time with a group of guys I mostly didn’t know. But I was open with Matt all along. Beforehand, probably over text, I said something like: Matt, I’m such an asshole, but I’m going to have to bail early on the dinner to watch the second half of this game at a bar. I will rejoin you guys at whatever bar you end up after. I suck. Again: I’m sorry. Again: I suck.