seconds," you say.
"Not until I
finish my shopping, pay the bill and pick up the car," I say.
The game rolls
into the final moments. I hit a jumper from the coiled garden hose as A.C.
Green. You make a steal near the kettle-drum barbecue grill and complete the
layup as Jerry Sichting, off the bench. I muscle home a layup as Kurt Rambis.
You begin to argue as Danny Ainge. I am the Lakers. You are the Celtics. Boston
Garden is exploding.
A win here means
not only the title but also all that goes with it. A château in France. An
expensive car with a romantic name. An agent. A French poodle. Money for
nothing. Chicks for free. Or maybe it simply means a chance to gloat for an
afternoon until the next game. Whatever. A workout.
"Goaltending," you say.
really," I reply.
"Charging," you say.
"Blocking," I reply.
"Continuation," you say.
the shot," I say.