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I hate the Celtics right now.
In fact, they're killing me.
I'm a writer. And they're giving me NO story lines. None.
I can't call anyone out for suddenly looking out for themselves, because no one is "going rogue" and gunning up too many shots. I can't bemoan the handling of our "aging" stars because the coaching staff is doing a great job managing their minutes. I can't bang on the bench because there's barely a drop-off when the bench is in the game.
Maybe I need to be a little clearer with the Celtics. I'm lazy. I want story lines served up on a platter like a Rajon Rondo alley-oop. I don't have time to go into a perfectly stable locker room with a bunch of happy-yet-motivated guys and look for something that might not be there. I don't have the energy to sit in a practice that's executed with military precision, but maintains the loose atmosphere befitting a defending champion. And I really don't have the creative capacity to twist, misconstrue, and misinterpret benign comments just to fill this space.
I'm the Maytag repair man of sports writers. I'm looking at the machine, and everything is working like it should. What good does that do me? It looks like I'm going to have to take an extreme step. I'm going to have to peel myself off my couch, dust off the Dorito crumbs, and head into Boston.
Yes, I'm going to have to go watch a game in person. I'm going to have to go sit there, listen to the Celtics get introduced as "World Champions," and witness what's going on up close. I have no choice.
And if they don't give me anything more to write about, then I guess I'm just going to have to grab a beer, relax, and soak in a great atmosphere.
How can a writer live like that?
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