Disappearing around the point with his Leica
A stealth figure picking a path between the rocks
Ocean water lapping against the stones
Fading sunlight glistening over the waves
Reclining on a beach chair with my toes buried in the sand
and the gentle July breeze tousling my hair
Writing with a pen in my orange journal and
looking up to watch a young couple embracing in the distance
while a lone fisherman is casting out to sea.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Banner 17
After landing in LA, we barely had time for a clothing change before speeding to the Staples Center. Traffic is always intense in LA, but the few hours preceding Game 4 of the Finals only amplified the pressure. After a check of our driver, our van and our passes, we were permitted to drive right under the stadium. With our credentials swinging around our necks, we could walk by the Lakers’ locker room and venture into the Celtics’ green room where we grabbed a burrito, bottled water, and a few words with Danny Ainge. He was pensive, but hopeful.
We hurried through the tunnel and found our seats five rows up behind the Celtics’ bench. Dressed in green, white and black, we were a vocal group outnumbered by the throngs clad in yellow, gold and purple. Down early by as many as 24 points, we felt deflated, and stopped shouting. But as the third quarter turn around began to build, we were back on our feet and the Lakers’ fans were hushed. We winced when Perkins left with his injured shoulder, but continued cheering for Paul, Ray, KG, Rondo, Posey and PJ. At the Beverly Wilshire, members of the Celtics’ staff, ownership and some players found spots in the bar at the front of the hotel. That celebration was the first glimmer of things to come, of the possibility that we could go all the way.
Coming off of a dramatic win, the weekend was euphoric. We rode rental bikes along the beach in Santa Monica, strolled and shopped on Rodeo Drive, and dined on sushi and sake. To pull off the unimaginable Sunday night in Game 5, seemed too good to be true. But we knew that the trophy was in the house, the commissioner was there, and the media presence had increased to frenetic proportions. The Celtics fought back hard, but Kobe was on his game. The champagne remained corked, the party room was cancelled, and we were on a red-eye back to Boston.
Waiting all day Tuesday for Game 6 was difficult. Who could concentrate? My father who had taken me to games as a child and had always been an ardent fan, e-mailed me during the afternoon. I should relax he wrote, because we would win. My husband suggested that we dress for success. He chose his Celtics’ tie and his new Filene’s Basement linen blazer. I decided on a white blouse, black slacks and a green shawl. It was June 17th, we were ahead three games to two, and we were intent on raising Banner 17 to the rafters. My son and my nephew were on a train from New York that broke down just past Providence. They were prepared to hire a taxi. They joked about running all the way to Boston, but the train was on its way in time for them to see the tip off.
The Garden was packed with people and excitement. At the half, we were given wristbands that would allow us onto the parquet after the final buzzer. But we were too superstitious to put them on. We would wait until the fourth quarter. Not far into the fourth quarter, the game was over. Our starters sat down amidst wild cheering. The meteoric success of the 2007-2008 season was stunning. Tearfully I hugged and kissed my husband before he climbed up onto the podium. This was something we had lived for six seasons, attending most home games and sometimes going on the road. Representing the Celtics’ Women’s Group, I had enjoyed reading to kids in hospitals and schools. This year, our involvement with the team had consumed our spring, our minds and our spirits.
When Doc came onto the floor, I embraced him. I found myself sandwiched between KG and a photographer. Sweaty, large bodies were packed in everywhere. It seemed that I was up to only their knees. In the locker room, music thumped while beer and champagne were sprayed over everyone. As news cameras recorded each moment, I felt blessed to be surrounded by my children. This could easily be a once in a lifetime experience.
A few days later at the Garden, I boarded Duck Boat #12 and threw my green shawl and bag onto an empty seat. Soon it was clear that the vehicle would be overloaded with players, their families, and members of the ownership group. I checked in with Ray Allen’s wife who was dealing with her baby’s recent diagnosis of diabetes. I shared with her that I am familiar with how upsetting it is to have a child hospitalized and restrained with tubes coming out of him, that I am certain that her son will grow up to be big and strong. She took my hand and thanked me. I stuffed my shawl and bag under a seat and made my way up to the uncovered, standing room only section of the boat. My daughter and her toddler son were right behind me. We squished in next to my husband. After greeting all of us, Ray perched himself atop the duck boat and adjusted his aviator sunglasses. The deafening roar of the crowd lining Causeway Street was beyond anything that any of us had anticipated.
I kicked off my heels and climbed onto the roof to sit between Scalabrine and my grandson. While clutching my grandson’s tee shirt to make sure he was stable, I turned to Scal and said: “Can you believe this?” He shook his head in amazement and placed a cigar between his lips. The masses of people, sometimes as many as forty deep on the street or hanging out of skyscraper windows or on top of rooftops, continued all the way through City Hall Plaza, past Boston Common, Copley Square, and on to Prudential Center. Green and white confetti rained down on us. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders. Business people attired in impeccably tailored suits and construction workers wearing hard hats applauded while youngsters held placards praising their favorite players and scrambled to catch the #20 jerseys that Ray tossed their way. Almost everyone displayed at least one green accessory or piece of green clothing. We clapped for these devoted fans and waved at them along the whole route. Many had probably stuck by this team through several tough years. In any case, the adults hadn’t seen a championship for over twenty years. Nearby was a flatbed truck filled with Celtics’ Legends and their wives: the Heinsohns, the Whites and the Cousys. When my husband cheered for Tommy, he noticed us and saluted by tipping his cap.
We hurried through the tunnel and found our seats five rows up behind the Celtics’ bench. Dressed in green, white and black, we were a vocal group outnumbered by the throngs clad in yellow, gold and purple. Down early by as many as 24 points, we felt deflated, and stopped shouting. But as the third quarter turn around began to build, we were back on our feet and the Lakers’ fans were hushed. We winced when Perkins left with his injured shoulder, but continued cheering for Paul, Ray, KG, Rondo, Posey and PJ. At the Beverly Wilshire, members of the Celtics’ staff, ownership and some players found spots in the bar at the front of the hotel. That celebration was the first glimmer of things to come, of the possibility that we could go all the way.
Coming off of a dramatic win, the weekend was euphoric. We rode rental bikes along the beach in Santa Monica, strolled and shopped on Rodeo Drive, and dined on sushi and sake. To pull off the unimaginable Sunday night in Game 5, seemed too good to be true. But we knew that the trophy was in the house, the commissioner was there, and the media presence had increased to frenetic proportions. The Celtics fought back hard, but Kobe was on his game. The champagne remained corked, the party room was cancelled, and we were on a red-eye back to Boston.
Waiting all day Tuesday for Game 6 was difficult. Who could concentrate? My father who had taken me to games as a child and had always been an ardent fan, e-mailed me during the afternoon. I should relax he wrote, because we would win. My husband suggested that we dress for success. He chose his Celtics’ tie and his new Filene’s Basement linen blazer. I decided on a white blouse, black slacks and a green shawl. It was June 17th, we were ahead three games to two, and we were intent on raising Banner 17 to the rafters. My son and my nephew were on a train from New York that broke down just past Providence. They were prepared to hire a taxi. They joked about running all the way to Boston, but the train was on its way in time for them to see the tip off.
The Garden was packed with people and excitement. At the half, we were given wristbands that would allow us onto the parquet after the final buzzer. But we were too superstitious to put them on. We would wait until the fourth quarter. Not far into the fourth quarter, the game was over. Our starters sat down amidst wild cheering. The meteoric success of the 2007-2008 season was stunning. Tearfully I hugged and kissed my husband before he climbed up onto the podium. This was something we had lived for six seasons, attending most home games and sometimes going on the road. Representing the Celtics’ Women’s Group, I had enjoyed reading to kids in hospitals and schools. This year, our involvement with the team had consumed our spring, our minds and our spirits.
When Doc came onto the floor, I embraced him. I found myself sandwiched between KG and a photographer. Sweaty, large bodies were packed in everywhere. It seemed that I was up to only their knees. In the locker room, music thumped while beer and champagne were sprayed over everyone. As news cameras recorded each moment, I felt blessed to be surrounded by my children. This could easily be a once in a lifetime experience.
A few days later at the Garden, I boarded Duck Boat #12 and threw my green shawl and bag onto an empty seat. Soon it was clear that the vehicle would be overloaded with players, their families, and members of the ownership group. I checked in with Ray Allen’s wife who was dealing with her baby’s recent diagnosis of diabetes. I shared with her that I am familiar with how upsetting it is to have a child hospitalized and restrained with tubes coming out of him, that I am certain that her son will grow up to be big and strong. She took my hand and thanked me. I stuffed my shawl and bag under a seat and made my way up to the uncovered, standing room only section of the boat. My daughter and her toddler son were right behind me. We squished in next to my husband. After greeting all of us, Ray perched himself atop the duck boat and adjusted his aviator sunglasses. The deafening roar of the crowd lining Causeway Street was beyond anything that any of us had anticipated.
I kicked off my heels and climbed onto the roof to sit between Scalabrine and my grandson. While clutching my grandson’s tee shirt to make sure he was stable, I turned to Scal and said: “Can you believe this?” He shook his head in amazement and placed a cigar between his lips. The masses of people, sometimes as many as forty deep on the street or hanging out of skyscraper windows or on top of rooftops, continued all the way through City Hall Plaza, past Boston Common, Copley Square, and on to Prudential Center. Green and white confetti rained down on us. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders. Business people attired in impeccably tailored suits and construction workers wearing hard hats applauded while youngsters held placards praising their favorite players and scrambled to catch the #20 jerseys that Ray tossed their way. Almost everyone displayed at least one green accessory or piece of green clothing. We clapped for these devoted fans and waved at them along the whole route. Many had probably stuck by this team through several tough years. In any case, the adults hadn’t seen a championship for over twenty years. Nearby was a flatbed truck filled with Celtics’ Legends and their wives: the Heinsohns, the Whites and the Cousys. When my husband cheered for Tommy, he noticed us and saluted by tipping his cap.
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