I strolled through the arcade between the Quincy Market building and the South Market and took a seat next to the bronze statue of the bald guy with the cigar wedged into the fist of his right hand.
"What a night," I said to myself, staring across the brick walkway.
"No fooling. I had this thing all lit up when we were up by 24, then those damn Lakers came back and cut it to 2."
I looked around. I felt like Ray Kinsella walking through his cornfield, or Dorothy after she heard the voice of the scarecrow. Was this the statue talking. Was it really the voice of the Celtic godfather?
"That you, Red?" I asked the statue.
"Yeah," he said. "Thanks for stopping by. Larry Bird teased me when this statue was dedicated - saying I'd be here all alone with pigeons sitting on my head - and he was right. There's people here all day long, taking pictures, girls sitting in my lap, all that stuff. But at night it gets pretty lonely."
"Wow," I said, shaking my head, no longer noticing how much I was sweating in the humid darkness. "It's good to talk with you again, Red. We've all been thinking about how great it would be if you had lived to see this. I mean, they dedicated the season to you last year and only won 24 games. Now this. A chance for a championship. Against the Lakers. You've got to be loving this."
"You bet your ass I'm loving it. It's been a long, long time. We never really recovered after the Len Bias thing, you know. Then Reggie died and that weasel Pitino came in and took me off the masthead and Stern put the screws to us to make sure we stayed down as long as possible. It hasn't been easy, I'll tell you."
He was rolling. It seemed like a good time to ask a Phil Jackson question. Asking Red about Jackson was always like asking Don Zimmer about Glenn Ordway.
"Did you hear Jackson complaining about the officials tonight?" I ventured.
