Celtics: Go for Tourist Diversions

All right, Miss B., take a letter to the Boston Celtics. Have them deliver it in person but don’t wait for an answer. But hurry. I have a feeling they’re not going to be around long:

Dear Celtics,

Welcome to Los Angeles and the NBA playoff finals at the Forum. There are a few things you might want to pack. Sweaters, for instance.

I don’t know how to break this to you guys used to playing in the Boston Garden, but we have a newfangled thing out here called air conditioning. They’ll probably never believe it back there on Beacon Hill, but they even have it in houses out here in the West. Break it gently to those Boston Garden people. You know how they all think we brag a lot out here.

Tell them we’ve got movies that talk, cars that start without a crank and lights that work without kerosene, too. Tell them Coolidge isn’t President, either, and that the east-west railroad is all hooked up and John Wayne has secured Arizona for us.

I mean, I know New England is shut off from the rest of the world, but the thought of a public arena without air conditioning makes you wonder if they know Lincoln is dead.

I don’t think you’re going to have much fun out here. I suppose you’ll pass up Disneyland and Rodeo Drive and the Universal Studio tour. Most visiting teams do. They hunker down in monasteries or something, which is a pity.

Why don’t you guys just bring cameras and flowered shirts and plantation hats and just try to have a good time? See if you can get on “Wheel of Fortune,” or at least get in to look at Vanna White.

What I’m trying to say is, you’re not going to have much fun on the basketball court. Like, I’ve seen you guys. If ever I saw a living CARE poster, you’re it. You look like a death march, not a team. I’ve seen better lineups in Lourdes. You guys look like you just left a train wreck. Or Valley Forge.

You know what you guys remind me of? One of those old World War I dogfight movies where the plane is held together by spit and baling wire and the guns are jammed and the tail shot off and the second lieutenant says to the commander, “My God, sir, you’re not going to send a boy up against the Red Baron in that!”

I figure that’s the Celtics. The kid’s last flight. I mean, I’m not so sure you could beat the Lakers running. It’s for damn sure you can’t beat them limping.

Frankly, I don’t know how you beat Milwaukee and Detroit, neither of which is ever going to be mistaken for the Lakers.

Don’t get me wrong. Nobody is ever going to say Larry Bird would be just another basketball player if he weren’t white. And by the way, is that what Larry Bird is? It seems to us, Larry has gone beyond white. Larry is not white, he’s transparent. He is the only man I’ve ever seen who appears to be made out of glass. If he takes that uniform off, he disappears.

But, nobody on the Lakers is going to say Larry Bird isn’t a great player, whatever color he is. He’s only colorless in the flesh. Saying that Larry Bird is just another player is like saying Mount Everest is just a pile of dirt.

The thing is, we’ve got a player who may be better. And you can see him all right. Because he’s always got this big smile on his face. He always looks as if he’s having a ball. That’s because he’s having the ball.

The ball comes with Magic Johnson. And it’s like Wyatt Earp with a gun--big trouble for anybody in his way.

I won’t comment on the crude remarks of some of your fans. One of them, noting that Magic led the league in assists, but trailed Bird in other flashier statistics, was churlish enough to sneer, “What’s an assist?”

Well, fair enough, Celtics. Now it’s our turn. “What’s a turnover?”

No, I don’t think you can walk the ball up the court against the Lakers. I would suggest you guys get roller skates.

You see, the Lakers play this kind of game where you think there are 10 of them. By the third quarter, they seem to be coming at you through the windows, dropping down from a skylight.

You’ll find out what an assist is, all right. It’s a pass that seems to come right out of the sky or under four pairs of legs right into the arms of whichever guy is open right under the basket. And you will recognize Magic Johnson, all right. He’s the guy with the four arms.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is not to be confused with Bill Laimbeer, either. I don’t think you’re going to find anyone clubbing him to the floor. If anyone tries it, I would suggest you all take cover. The next sound you hear may be the end of the world.

So, why not come out, fellows? Have a good time, see the movie people, get a few autographs. And by the way, what appears to be a pile of old clothes at courtside will be actor Jack Nicholson and his gang. Don’t ask for his autograph. His opinion of the Boston Celtics, like most of his movies, is rated R.

Not mine. I’m just sorry for your guys. I don’t like to see puppies on ice floes, kittens stranded in trees, orphanages on fire, motorcycles in heavy traffic.

And I don’t like to watch a lion eat. I may pass up this natural disaster--or just go watch tapes of interrogations in Lubianka prison instead.