A Night at the Boston Garden

When one Crimson reporter finally found himself with a courtside seat at a Celtics game, he was fulfilling a childhood dream. These are his notes from....

Last year, I went to a Phish concert in the Boston Garden. In the middle of the show, Trey Anastasio, Phish's lead guitarist and lead singer said that as a boy, he had always dreamed of playing for the Bruins. Now he realized that this was probably as close as he would get to playing in the Garden.

I, too, grew up in Boston. But unlike Trey, I wanted to play for the Celtics. I watched all three of the Celtics' '80s championships. I still have every Sports Illustrated with Larry Bird on the cover. But when I got cut from my high school basketball team, I came to realize that donning Celtic Green was dream that would never be fulfilled.

But Friday night, I sat courtside at the Garden press table. I got into the Celtics locker room. I saw Robert Parish naked.

As Trey said, that's probably as close as I'll come.

***

Five years ago, I stopped watching Celtics games. Bird missed two free throws in an away game against the 76ers, and Dr. J hit a three pointer at the buzzer to win it. I spent eight straight hours shooting free throws in my driveway.

I couldn't sleep nights, and finally entered therapy. My therapist and I both agreed that I should stop watching games.

Still, when my father offered me tickets to Friday night's Celtics-Bucks game, I couldn't refuse.

I've had strange luck as a reporter at the Garden. I got a press pass to a Grateful Dead concert last year and got to take pictures from the press pit. So before I left for the game, I grabbed my Crimson press pass. Maybe I'll get to go down by the court during halftime, I thought.

But when the game started, and I was up in the third balcony, I noticed the empty seats at the press table. Who would care if I joined the writers at courtside? Who indeed?

So at 8:32 of the first quarter, I was sitting next to Channel 5 sportscaster Mike Dowling. What follows are excerpts from my reporter's notebook.

***

There's a tendency among reporters who aren't well known in their field to always look angry--they're not the people making news and they're not even the people good at covering the people making news, so they have lots of time left over to harbor resentments and practice scowling.

The guy from Fox's Channel 25 next to me has perfected this. He kicked me out of my first seat, although he looks like he should be as happy as I am to be here. He's short and slimy, wearing an ugly pair of stonewashed jeans and a sweatshirt. At least I'm dressed like a reporter--I have my blue pin striped blazer, clashing vest and paisley shirt.

Anyway. I'm here. My breathing slows down, and I realize things look a lot different from courtside. John Barry, a Bucks rookie, checks into the game, and I can see the pain on his face as he gets booed. He looks like he might cry. Barry was the Celtics' first-round draft pick, and was traded to the Bucks before he ever played a game for in Celtics Green.

The Garden faithful have not taken kindly to him.

The guy from Fox just got a friend--another reporter type, who brings along some sandwiches and two cups of soda. I'm no longer feeling quite so confident--can they arrest me for this sort of thing? Impersonating a hack? Mr. Fix and his friend are talking about the NCAA tournament, and fox Man is leaning back, eating his sandwich, much more in his element. I'm beginning to sweat.

A blond woman from Sportschannel just sat down on the other side of me--now, there are no seats left. She seems to know everyone else here. In fact, everyone seems to know everyone else. Except for me.

***

A Celtics flunky comes within seconds of the beginning of the second quarter to give us breakdown of the first quarter. Things are getting more serious: the photographers are running around while the reporters are taking notes, exchanging knowing glances and trading stories.

By 4:12 of the second quarter, I've calmed down--but only a little. Can the people sitting around me read my writing? Can I read it? The half begins to wind down, and just as I begin to think that I'm being paranoid, Mike Dowling asks me if I'm actually from Channel 4. Before I can answer, the Bucks' Eric Murdock hits a three-pointer at the buzzer. Dowling is distracted, then he starts talking to someone else. I'm saved, at least momentarily.

Halftime. Someone comes down to the press table and asks who wants to participate in the Boys and Girls Club Celebrity Shoot-Out. I wonder what would happen if I offered to do it. I let Mike Dowling do it instead. He and his partner sink 22 free-throws in a minute to tie Dallas Cow-boy quarterback Steve Beuerlein and his partner, who's shooting at the other end. The Boys and girls Club gets some money. Everyone's happy.

***

It's 8:35 of the third quarter. I look around me at the Garden faithful, and remember that I did invite a friend to the game. Poor Pete. I can barely make him out, slouching down, surrounded by fat men and their children.

With 7:30 left in the third quarter, Parish steals the ball and antelopes it into the basket. He's not especially graceful. It's a close game: 76-75, Bucks.

At 2:45 of the third quarter, my pen runs out, just as I was trying to figure out if my fellow sportscasters were as interested in me as I was in them.

The last thing I have written down is: "Is my presence here not as exciting to everyone around me as I might expect? Does anyone even care?"

I sweat away, penless.

***

At 4:09 of the fourth quarter, my anxiety is becoming unbearable and obvious to everyone. The blond from Sportschannel takes pity and offers me one of her extra pens.

I am back in action.

My new pen is from the Salt Lake City Marriott. (When did the Celtics last play the Jazz...?) The journalists are becoming more partisan. Is this allowed? I got booted from the dead show for cheering.

The blond offered to let me see her notes, but as she glanced at mine, she said she wasn't sure we were working on the same type of story. Indeed. She has things like "3 sec-violation - Lohaus." I have paranoid ravings and incoherent exclamations.

The Celtics look tired. Sherman Douglas finally comes back in with 21 seconds left. Too late. The Celtics lose, 115-109.

***

At the this point, I thought why not just go home? But I wanted it all. I followed the teams off the court, down the runway and into the locker room.

I interviewed Bucks Coach Mike Dunleavy. (He didn't know when the last time the Bucks won in the garden).

I interviewed Fred Roberts, a former Celtics forward who now plays for the Bucks. (He didn't remember getting his hair cut next to me when he used to play for the Celtics.) And then I made my way into the Celtics locker room.

I knew I would be surprised, but I didn't know that all the players would be naked. Xavier McDaniel was surrounded by reporters, talking about a lack of protection under the basket without even a towel to cover his privates. Robert Parish came out of the shower, sat down, and was interviewed for TV. Naked. I assume they only showed him from the waist up.

I was dumbfounded. My composure finally fell apart. I didn't know how to react, and just then a security guard asked to see my press pass. For the first time all night, my makeshift Crimson cut-out didn't wash.

***

But I had done it. I had made it into the Celtics locker room. I had walked across the parquet floor. I had seen Robert Parish naked. It's as close as I'll ever come to my childhood macho fantasies of running around with sweaty men.

Yesterday morning, I saw my therapist.