1966

     An uncontroversial opinion: Jimi Hendrix is the greatest rock n roll guitarist there ever was (and probably ever will be). For a period in my teen years the studio albums were on repeat, I wore the t-shirt until it faded and started ripping at the armpits, I continue to cherish the otherworldly aspect of his image, yet until now I was almost completely unaware of Hendrix's early life, as seen in Charles R. Cross's biography, Room Full of Mirrors (2005). Growing up in Seattle in the middle of the 20th century, he endured practically everything that could stunt or extinguish a life: Desperately poor, often not knowing where his next meal would come from. Two alcoholic parents. The early death of his mother (his father forbid him from attending the funeral). A broken family. Frequent moves from one place to another. Academic problems that eventually forced him to drop out of high school. An instance of sexual abuse. Racism. Without music, he once said, he would have ended up in prison, a fate he avoided the first time by joining the military and the second by luck, a fate his own brother didn't avoid. Although he had his dreams and ambitions, and the physical advantage of long fingers, it's not so much that he was uniquely tough or naturally talented. He didn't vow to get out any way, any how, and just happen to use music for that purpose. It was obsession that saved him. He strummed a broom until the straw came off. His first real guitar was an acoustic with one string someone was about to toss into the garbage. He strapped it to his back and, with cardboard in his shoe to cover up a hole, wandered around town pursuing the sound of musicians rehearsing. They let him stay and shared a tip or two. A boarder at his home was a blues fan and shared her records with him. At her husband's urging, Hendrix's father reluctantly bought him a cheap electric guitar, no amp, but refused to let him play lefthanded (something about the devil) or practice too much (due to the threat he might seize the instrument and return it, Hendrix found a place outside of home to store it). From then on, the instrument was almost never out of his hands. As in: Practicing before bed. Sleeping with the guitar on his chest. Waking up and resuming practice. Practicing on the way to a gig. Practicing on the way from a gig. Going to the movies with it and strumming through the film. His drug taking would begin with amphetamines to stay up longer, to wring out even more practice time from the day. And, for the entirety of his life, 27 years, he barely took a rest. 

After pretending to be gay to get himself discharged from the Air Force, he stood outside Fort Campbell on the Tennessee/Kentucky border with hundreds of dollars in his pocket from unused leave. He went into a jazz bar and got drunk. Hours later he found himself with $16, not enough for bus fare. He thought better of calling home for the money and instead snuck back onto the base he'd just successfully escaped to sleep in his old bunk. And he stole the guitar he'd sold, possibly to prove to his superiors that he'd truly descended into madness, to a fellow soldier. To survive, he began living as he would for years: couchsurfing, or staying with women he met in clubs for as long as they would have him. He never held down one day job. From Nashville to Vancouver to the theaters, bars, pool halls, and BBQ joints that made up the Chitlin Circuit. Hendrix learned to play blindfolded, behind his back, and with his teeth. During this part of the book onward, a dazzling parade of cameos commences (though not every encounter is pleasant): Sam Cooke. Otis Redding. Curtis Mayfield. Tommy Chong. Bobby Womack. 

He turned 21 the day before John F. Kennedy was assassinated. A month later he moved to New York.

His first girlfriend there, Lithofayne Pridgeon, felt her only competition for his attention was his guitar. He won an amateur competition at the Apollo. He met the Isley Brothers and watched the Beatles's first appearance on Ed Sullivan with them. They hired him. He toured with the group and recorded some singles. But tiring of how strict they were, and how little seen he was in their revue-style setup, he joined another tour. During a break in Memphis, he paid a visit to Stax Records to meet guitar hero Steve Cropper. A secretary informed him and he told her to tell the guy he was busy recording. When he was finished, the secretary told him the guy was still waiting. He'd sat there all day. Hendrix was surprised to discover Cropper was white. He mentioned he played a little guitar himself and listed some of his recordings. The admiration, it turned out, was mutual. Hendrix lost track of all the groups he supported. He joined Little Richard's band and angered him by wearing a satin shirt. "I am the only Little Richard! I am the King of Rock and Roll, and I am the only one allowed to be pretty. Take that shirt off!" (That's one of the cleaner Little Richard stories.) To get off the road, he focused on becoming a studio musician. He signed a contract without reading it and got out of it only because the label fell apart. He joined a band with a pimp as a front man. He signed another contract without reading it which would cause legal problems for him in the future. He recorded a bad song with Jayne Mansfield. Back on the road, with a racially integrated group, in the South, the musicians weren't allowed to leave the backstage area for breaks. He told friends about a dream he had that the year 1966 would change his life. But he was still going hungry. He had no protection against the New York cold. And once again he had a hole in his shoe. He joined another band in Harlem and shocked his fellow musicians with how fast he learned their material. Gigs didn't pay enough. He began dating a prostitute, Diana Carpenter, and they shared their dreams and dark personal histories. One day he came home to find a john choking her. He saved her. She became pregnant with his child. He insisted she stop working the streets and attempted to support them on his earnings from music but eventually they resorted to theft to get by. A store owner caught them and chased them with a baseball bat for several blocks. Without saying anything, Carpenter went back to the streets. When Hendrix found out, he beat her. Carpenter was arrested by an undercover cop and, since she was underage, she was given the choice of jail or a bus ticket home to her parents. She took the ticket and, at home, gave birth to a daughter. Since Hendrix had no fixed address, she lost hope of contacting him. Another prostitute he dated bought him a guitar. She introduced him to an influence on his look and stage act, The Spider King, who brought the limbo to the USA. Playing a show to a near-empty room, Hendrix was spotted by Keith Richards's then-girlfriend, a model named Linda Keith. She invited him to her table to share a drink with her and her friends. They stayed for the rest of his show and later that evening, hanging out at her place, she offered him acid. He declined but said he'd like to experiment with LSD if she had any. He took it, looked in a mirror, and thought he was Marilyn Monroe. 

Jimi insisted to close intimates that he played colors, not notes, and that he "saw" the music in his head as he played it. His description of his creative process has an eerie similarity to what Dr. [Albert Hoffman, who discovered lysergic acid diethylamide] wrote about his own first acid trip: "Every acoustic perception...became transformed into optical perceptions."

Keith also played him an album he hadn't heard yet, Blonde on Blonde. Hendrix, always careful to style his hair properly, took out the curlers he kept in his guitar case and curled his hair in front of her as he spoke freely about his disappointing career. She played him rare records from Keith Richards's personal collection. They put Blonde on Blonde on again. Hendrix started playing along to it, admitting he didn't have his own guitar. She resolved to go out and get him one. Hendrix visited Greenwich Village. In Harlem he was an alien but the Village crowd accepted him. He went to the Cafe Wha?, where Bob Dylan played years earlier, for an open mike and afterward the manager invited him to return. For whatever reason, Hendrix left his guitar there and the next night, when he found that it was gone, had to borrow one. It was righthanded. Without hesitation, he flipped it upside down and played it that way. He was invited to return. He met strangers in a music shop and formed a group. This time he would be the leader. They played mostly covers, remade as Hendrix songs: Wilson Pickett, The Troggs, Howlin Wolf, Dylan. He played around with electronic devices to alter his guitar sound. Other guitarists started showing up to watch his rehearsals. Getting thoroughly outplayed provoked mixed feelings. Linda Keith wasn't sure about getting romantic with Hendrix. She once walked in on him in bed with seven women. She decided he wasn't one for monogamy. Still, she worked to promote him to powerful industry figures she knew, out of sheer enthusiasm for his skills. The Rolling Stones's manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, attended a show and passed. Seymour Stein of Sire Records passed. The Stones came to a show and only Richards paid close attention: What was his girlfriend doing with this Hendrix guy? (Presumably he didn't know that Keith had borrowed a guitar of his without asking and Hendrix smashed it.) So things weren't looking good until Chas Chandler, bassist for the Animals, attended a show and discovered what Keith and Hendrix's small fanbase at the cafe had. Spilling a milkshake on himself, Chandler thought: "He's the best guitarist I've ever heard." He introduced himself to Hendrix and they talked business. Chandler, who was on the verge of leaving the popular group and going into management, suggested he take his act to England. They parted with a plan.

The Animals tour concluded and Chandler was back in New York to follow the plan and take his prospect to his home country. Hendrix had to be tracked down over several days. He wavered. He needed papers. These were obtained. Finally, he came to think that he could survive there as he had in the US. He landed in Heathrow Airport on September 24th, 1966.

Earlier in the year, doing research on the right John Coltrane biography to read, a critic somewhere suggested that the problem with jazz biographers is that, in ecstasy over the music, they tend to try matching language with subject by writing jazzy. Charles R. Cross doesn't try to write psychedelic rock n roll. He's the sober attentive journalist: no 20-minute verbal drum solos, just the facts. It's a lucid account with one minor but notable structural misstep. The common approaches to introducing a biography are either to begin from the beginning or with a representative scene from later in life as prologue. Or something else significant about the figure. Instead Cross starts awkwardly with an unrepresentative scene that builds to a mildly amusing punchline. Nowhere else does he go to such lengths for the broad gag, to the book's benefit. 

As for the latter half of Room Full of Mirrors, no less absorbing than the former, the reader learns, among other things, the origins of a cliché, one of the first I was ever aware of as a young music fan: the sex, drugs, and rock n roll lifestyle. Hendrix was one of its first casualties. 

Showtime

     The book telling the complete story of the Warriors dynasty can't be written just yet. (No ending.) Until that day comes, I study NBA history before Golden State's rise, starting with one of the two teams that has won more championships, a lot more, the Lakers, which is the subject of Jeff Pearlman's Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty of the 1980s (2014). Of all the books I've read this year, it easily ranks dead last in fluency:

"And yet, egos are egos, and NBA stars rarely lack them."

"Brown, Rambis's close friend and classmate from Santa Clara University, was not kidding. This wasn't a joke, a gag, a prank, an effort to embarrass an old chum."

"The pass was both lazy and awful, and Boston's center stepped in for the steal."

"For most of the decade, the Rockets had played Joe Perry to the Lakers' Steven Tyler."

"[Michael Cooper] obsessed over [Larry] Bird's moves, over his thinking, over his patterns and tendencies. If a Celtic game was televised, Cooper watched, his eyes glued to number 33. He looked toward nights against Boston as one would a wedding."

"[Kareem Abdul-Jabbar] was the league's all-time scorer, and perhaps the nation's most recognizable figure. Yet trying to understand his moods and quirks and oddities was as simple as dressing a porcupine in a t-shirt."

"Riley's motivational speeches - delivered in high-pitched, desperate tones - fell upon tin ears."

Pearlman makes some curious structural decisions, such as titling a chapter "The Unlikely Head Coach" and spending about half of it giving background on a player. And that player who doesn't have his own origin chapter is a notable named Earvin "Magic" Johnson. I'm looking for a writer that can bring the reader into the game but his on-court scenes don't measure up. Now, with all that out of the way, I didn't put the book down even during my long walks to and from work. Passable writing on rich material.

My first discovery is a book on its own: the tragic story of Jack McKinney, an exceptional basketball strategist who pioneered the famous Lakers offensive system that would prove to be so lethal and crowd-pleasing. Pearlman covers his career, up to when he's named head coach of a team led by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and a promising rookie, Magic Johnson. He seems to have the perfect combination of personality and knowledge to succeed. But, early in the season, he gets into a freak bicycle accident and suffers severe head trauma. His assistant steps in temporarily, then permanently. Employing his playbook, the Lakers would go on to win the championship that very season. And McKinney would never return and never be the same (he died in 2018). Behind the glitz, a ghost. By starting off with Coach McKinney, Pearlman ensures that he isn't a footnote in Showtime.

That's one of his admirable structural and narrative decisions. And though he hits a bum note tonewise from time to time, for the most part he handles every kind of story that presents itself well. There are the details and anecdotes: A player who regularly raids the team supply closet for whatever he can find, whether he has any use for it or not. A player who has a reputation for doing things like packing two left shoes. A player who, after losing in the Finals, goes to the opposing team's locker room and shakes everyone's hand, congratulating even the bench players who got no playing time by name. A general manager who hates speaking engagements, accepts one, and gives the money to the underling who suggested it. A player whose last name is "Brickowski." A journalist whose last name is "Bonk." There are types: The super stars. The stars. The goons. The crafty vets. The firstround draft picks that fall far short of expectations. The unheralded players fighting to hold on to a spot who develop into good players who develop into essential parts of the lineup. And he makes an effort to balance his depictions, despite how some ultimately come out by book's end. No amount of effort can save certain people from the numerous irrefutable, distasteful facts of their own behavior. A lesson underscored by the book: Winning does not actually heal all, and reaching the highest pinnacle in your art or field will not automatically grant you forgiveness and love. 

("One must die well loved - if one can.")

Pearlman doesn't examine the Xs and Os of the sport. To those who want to learn more about balling but don't know what I mean by "Xs and Os": this book is for you. But Pearlman does explore awkward or unpleasant areas the people he interviews, and perhaps certain fans, may not care to. Example: One of the unanticipated, undersung benefits of keeping up with today's NBA basketball for me is inspiration to stay fit. The chunky man dunks on no one (not on the basketball court, anyway). Conditioning to compete with the best of the best in the world is demanding enough as it is. Throwing hard drugs into the mix would seem unthinkable but the amount of use in the league back then is significant enough to warrant probing. Some former players deny everything. Some, as part of The Forum Club/party lifestyle, admit to dabbling occasionally.... And one former Lakers player and recovering addict, Spencer Haywood, claims the vast majority of the league was using cocaine. Whatever the case, it comes up again and again. Haywood was dropped from the team when he became unable to get through a practice without nodding off and nearly carried out a plan to murder his coach before his mom, suspicious of the change in his voice over the phone, uncovered his secret and talked him out of it. The Celtics selected a rookie, Len Bias, who died of an overdose before he got to play for them. Another example: Risky sex and the role of women.

The book goes deepest showing how a championship basketball organization is constructed and manages to remain at or near the top for more than a decade. An offense based largely around one player, even if he's a future hall-of-famer with a practically unguardable shot, doesn't work. The Lakers get another future hall-of-famer and the show begins. But winning fosters egos that distract and cause tension. And the coaching can falter. And players clash with other players and staff. And players don't fit with each other. And draft picks go nowhere. And regrettable trades are made. And age sets in. And bodies break down. And you're hit with bad luck. Showtime is about what every contending team is up against, every season. And it's about how a team can get through all of it, season after season.

Two by Hiroko Oyamada

     I don't view the kind of absurdly inessential jobs Hiroko Oyamada's narrators describe in her novella, The Factory (2013), translated from the Japanese by David Boyd (2019), as a looming threat, now or in the future. Consider the shit job. Granted, some traits overlap - forced contact with disagreeable coworkers, deadening work, unfulfilled potential, lost time. But then pick up your shovel and start adding to that dung heap: pay that's never remunerative, that never meets the definition of a living wage, however one chooses to define the term, whether the work is essential or not. (To say the least. Those unaware of what a "subminimum wage" is are hereby encouraged to look it up.) A dead end that, at best, leads to other dead ends. High stress. Higher than average risk of physical injury. At a company that likely doesn't care about your health and safety one way or another. In the US, health care linked to employment, with other obstacles thrown in before one finally receives coverage, which nevertheless may not be accepted at a health care provider. Also in this category would be gig work, innovative for combining most or all of the above with instability. Another threat: Automation that renders jobs obsolete before new jobs can be found to replace them, leaving a sizeable number of people out on the street or dependent on the state for survival. Compared to these, a sinecure that includes housing in a more or less clean, safe area doesn't sound nearly as bad (or as common).

The ad copy mentions that The Factory was based on Oyamada's experience working in a car plant. But it isn't fiction created entirely out of raw experience. And that's what drew me in, not the social criticism but a workplace, lived-in yet warped. Three narrators start from how they became employed at The Factory and take the reader through daily life on the job. The company has a prestigious reputation, though most of its staff members, as a cost-saving measure, are kept as contractors. Education and background aren't relevant. Tasks are simple or menial. Or pointless. The feel of such a workplace is unexaggerated: Awkwardness. Boredom. Weariness. Hostility (the narrators, mainly). Detachment (no close relationships among them, romantic or otherwise). And it's a world unto itself, located on a large tract of land that boasts such amenities as living spaces and restaurants. Management is cagey, workers hardly provided with guidance on their jobs, much less informed about what the company does.

They all go along to get along. One must collect a paycheck somehow. 

The Factory describes routines, which is to say it has circular rather than forward motion. But dread gathers in the background: unidentified creatures, the Forest Pantser. Since almost all information about The Factory is withheld, there's mystery by default. It brings the reader to an ending that's predictably, not uniquely, strange (and slightly heavy-handed). The novel isn't quite potent enough in form or substance to stand on its own but it did make me wonder how Oyamada would develop her method in later works. Soon after I picked up the second novella of hers translated into English, again by David Boyd, The Hole (2014, 2020).

Another unsubtle metaphor. Nevertheless the novella is an improvement over her first. Since it begins with a woman who does a job reminiscent of those seen in The Factory, it's as if the first bleeds into the second, or as if the second represents an alternate path from approximately the same starting point. Asa, the lone narrator, is also a contractor who appears to have no chance of becoming an employee of the company she works for and advancing. Employees get generous bonuses. Contractors get meager bonuses. (How bout never hearing mention of the word, "bonus." Instead, to take one example, would you like some expired food? Does your landlord accept payment in the form of expired food? We thank you for your contribution, here's garbage.) But unlike her earlier narrators, she's married. She and her husband get an offer they can't refuse from his mother to live in a house in the country rent free. It's next door to hers. Asa leaves her job and the couple moves in. 

This happens early in the novella. From there, it examines the unemployed domestic life. The sun doesn't go down on the first day before Asa gets bored. Another disagreement: I'd be among those who would never get bored of free time and could easily find productive uses for it (as well as fun unproductive uses for it). For Asa, a nap is a good way to kill time, not a good way to replenish your energy to better use waking hours. She's a healthy adult, younger than I am,  and the library is too far away for her, 30 minutes, about the same distance from where I'm sitting to my local library. That's a perfect pairing: exercise and illumination, by book and environment. Like Asa's part of Japan, it's sweltering in Bloomingdale, New Jersey. If you must, reduce the number of trips by checking out several books at once. But I did find less to argue with about the loss of free movement. She has no car of her own and there's no public transportation. And in a place without public transportation, job opportunities are scarce and, I'd bet, neither well paid nor interesting. She's not in contact with anyone her age. And her husband works late. (Oyamada captures marital chilliness with a single recurring detail: Her husband almost never looks away from his phone.) 

Asa is isolated and pretty much housebound. Without work, and feeling guilty about even turning on the AC without collecting a paycheck - but then why save money if it means torturous deprivation? - a feeling of oppression comes over her. Strange things begin to seep into her daily life, heat and fatigue, boredom and lonely rudderlessness blurring real and unreal. It's then that she falls into a hole in the ground, "a trap made just for me."

Somewhere in the middle of what follows, reference is made to Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. Usually referred to as one work, as it is here, "Alice in Wonderland." I must take the time to marvel and pay tribute: A universal classic if there ever was one. Unforgettable situation, images, characters. Truly dreamlike fiction that speaks to children and adults, generation after generation. Invulnerable to screen adaptation. Outrageousness never to be outdone. Pure kick on the page to be continually rediscovered.

Again, not too subtle, at least in theory. But I enjoyed Oyamada's variation - spare, boiled, drowsy, closer to the everyday. And when Asa comes back from Wonderland, the final image the reader of The Hole is left with has surprising poignancy. The trap isn't just hers after all. 

Excellent Women

     Put two people together and something will eventually cause friction between them. Once it does, one weighs the bad, weighs the good, and decides to accept, or tolerate, speak up in hopes of promoting change, or make an escape. This is probably obvious to most, not all. Mildred Lathbury, the narrator of Barbara Pym's early novel Excellent Women (1952), is beginning to think she's destined to be a drab lonely spinster. Her comic style provides one clue as to how it came to be. In her world, no one is quite desirable. Outwardly she remains polite and can be counted on to lend a helping hand whenever someone needs it. Everyone needs it and she hardly complains. Good old reliable Mildred. But she doesn't like Helena Napier. She doesn't like Allegra Gray. Winifred Malory is simple. Julian Malory does nothing for her. Dora Caldicote is irritating (and she insists on wearing that brown dress). William Caldicote is a gossip. Everard Bone has a gruff manner. Rocky Napier is superficial. Don't get her started on her past schoolmates. And she's unsparing of herself too. Her observations produce tart lines and consoling laughter from a comfortable distance, the bad at best negating the good, leaving her where she started, nowhere with anyone. She's the sort of person who can't get past the fact of human imperfection. I think of a scene from Seinfeld. At the coffee shop, George listens as Jerry details yet another silly cause for a breakup. Then, fed up with his own quibbles, he runs both hands through his hair and says with a sigh: "What kind of lives are these?" Not the kind conducive to romance.

For all her awareness of her faults, Lathbury doesn't face a similar realization. (Jerry learns nothing because that's the joke: "no hugging, no learning.") Awareness doesn't inevitably lead to forgiveness. Hyperawareness of faults or "faults" is antithetical to forgiveness. But then again, our narrator doesn't always quibble. At a planning meeting for a church function, she overhears an exchange:

"Really, Mr. Mallett, it's a good thing your wife isn't here," said Miss Statham indignantly. "Whatever would she think to hear you talking like that?"

"My good lady leaves the thinking to me," said Mr. Mallett, amid laughter from the men.

Later that same day, as the discussion winds down, she notes another separation between the genders.

The men went on smoking and chatting while we gathered the cups together and struggled to fill the heavy urn between us. They belonged to the generation that does not think of helping with domestic tasks.

Nor does Lathbury have routine contact with men besides these, in church, at work, or anywhere else. Another reason for persistent loneliness: few options to get excited about.

Lathbury is dismissive of her own physical appearance and taste in clothes, notices when she blends among other "excellent women," doesn't seem to have a record of getting approached by eligible bachelors. A third reason: the intriguing stranger from outside her routine never materializes and says hey. And a fourth: A disappointment so traumatic one loses years, decades to fear of a repeat of The Incident. 

Together these form an imposing barrier to companionship. In presenting the situation, alongside such mundane problems as an uninspired meal or a shared bathroom or flowers that wilt upon turning around, Pym is as true to the melancholy in it as the comedy. But, whether as a concession to an audience demanding to go out on some uplift or in eagerness to rescue her character, she wraps up the book with a forced resolution. It isn't happy, precisely, but pat. I've known seemingly mismatched couples bonded together mysteriously and tenuously. It's hard to believe Mildred Lathbury, so skeptical and satirical, so exacting in her estimation of others (and rather unimpressed by her findings), and protective of her humble bit of independence, would settle for a mismatch so willingly, then suggest it'll last without a better explanation. Suddenly the fog breaks and the reader gets celestial choir and strings, technicolor Hollywood. Did Pym really want to end the novel like this? Excellent Women is good enough that I'd track down at least another of hers to see.

3 and DA: Notes on the 2021-2022 NBA Finals

Game 1:

I couldn't watch the game as it aired but caught it later on NBA.com. The problem is that the site plasters the final score everywhere. So I knew how it ended before I watched. And it was a Warriors L, at home. Not a confidence-shaking L, though. All went right for three quarters. Steph Curry started the night making history. Jayson Tatum was largely held in check offensively. But the Celtics came back in the 4th quarter, their role players hitting 3 after 3. Down by double digits, they ended up winning by double digits. Mark Jackson, part of the play-by-play crew, had the key comment of the night. Marcus Smart is filmed coaching his teammates on the sideline. Jackson applauds his leadership and advice. As a coach he'd heard other players attempt to do the same and was forced to step in: "Forget everything he just said." How are the Warriors going to respond?

Game 2:

In the run-up to the game, photos appear online of trash cans outside Chase Center outfitted with cutouts of hall-of-famer, analyst, and Warriors hater, I guess, Charles Barkley's face, his mouth the hole. They read: "Chuck It." 8 pm, game time: I was able to secure the TV. Miguel joined me, providing some good D against our rampaging baby nephew, Emiliano, so I could eat and drink undisturbed and get some open looks. Hours before I accidentally left the beer out. Would it be cold by tipoff? And who are you going to stop? The stars or the role players? The Warriors forced turnovers and shut down those role players. Jayson Tatum got his offense going, at least from 3, but it wasn't enough. Gary Payton II made his return after a 10-game absence due to an arm injury. Play of the night: Jordan Poole following up a 3 with a buzzer-beating halfcourt 3. ("OOOH!" We clapped and threw a blanket over the baby.) The response to game 1 was a near-blowout W. Three Celtics starters combined for 6 points. The momentum of the series has shifted, those Barkley trash cans are overflowing. We're tied up heading East, to Boston.

Game 3:

Jayson Tatum played through an arm injury, which flared up early on, and still got his star numbers. Jaylen Brown got his star numbers. The greenhaired Marcus Smart made up for a bad game 2 with a good game 3. The Warriors had to play catch up. And they did. The 3rd quarter Warriors made their predicted push and took the lead. Briefly. As experts raised doubts, Klay Thompson had a big night. Once more Steph Curry played like the soon-to-be Finals MVP. Then came the 4th quarter. Turnover after turnover - the phrase "dangerous pass" stung me - the Celtics kept getting second and third chances. And Curry, chasing down a loose ball, hurt his foot after Al Horford landed on top of it. (And the Celtics got that loose ball!) I've become a connoisseur of the slow zoom-in on sadness and defeat at the end of NBA games, typically of the bench realizing that an L is imminent. Unfortunately it was the Warriors who got the slow zoom-in. On the other side: An ear-to-ear grin on Jayson Tatum's face. I choose to forget the statistic presented at the end of the game of how many teams go on to win it all after winning game 3. Steph Curry says he's playing in game 4. But I anticipate his support will have to fill the void. Let's go, Warriors.

Game 4:

Or Steph Curry can go for 40-plus points and make more history. Robert Williams III is the biggest man on the court and plays like it - blocks and lobs, blocks and lobs. Health doesn't seem to be holding him back now. I groaned as the Celtics got to the free throw line possession after possession. The team looked steady if not scary (except perhaps in the 4th quarter, when there were signs of desperation after minutes without a single basket). Even that seems like too much to say about the green guys. This was Curry's game. Miguel doesn't watch basketball but by the end he was standing too. At one point he asked: "How does he do that? That step back?" I had no explanation but: "That's what he does. He's the greatest 3-point shooter of all time." Inwardly I reminded myself: that's not hyperbole. I've already been satisfied with how he's played. Recovering from injury, there was uncertainty about whether the kitchen would be open. He answered by serving dinner, seconds, dessert. My personal favorite play of the night: Curry dropping Marcus Smart, dancing around Williams III to make the floater. Klay Thompson had another good game, Miguel rightly impressed by that catch-and-shoot. On defense and offense, Andrew Wiggins has been a relief (a double-double, with a career-high in rebounds). ...Even Draymond Green's mom went public on his practically nonexistent offense. What's important is that Celtics fans started filing out of the arena early and the series is tied at 2 apiece as we head back West. The Warriors have an excellent record at home, home court advantage, and Steph Curry. And I watched every minute of his game as it happened, kids.

Game 5:

Okay, this is more like what I thought would happen to Curry in game 4. Changing shoes at halftime had no effect. 0 of 9 on 3s, which ends his 133 playoff game streak of hitting at least one. Modest scoring overall, for him. Damn. We got served a snack for dinner. And yet the Warriors got another W, comfortably, at home. Let's keep those sweet Boston turnovers coming. Tatum and Brown have had good games but no great games. Fittingly, my favorite plays came from three different Warriors: Three seconds left before the end of the 3rd quarter. Jordan Poole makes another buzzer-beating 3, getting the ball out of his hand with .1 seconds left on the clock. Golden State takes the lead. Klay Thompson sees an opportunity to create some space by launching Marcus Smart across the floor and makes a 3. And Andrew Wiggins, hero of the game, with the dunk. Also, his defense isn't necessarily the kind of thing that fits easily on the highlight reel but his tenacity, contests, right on Tatum without fouling, were on display all night, as they have been throughout the series. His time with the Timberwolves is often mentioned (and criticized) but it makes hardly any impression on me. I've only known him as a Warrior. Now he and the rest of the team are one win away.... 

A noteworthy detail about our time in between the action (baby): I'm watching the playoffs on television. There are commercials for Pizza Hut, commercials for All State Insurance. The usual. Then there are various commercials promoting cryptocurrency. For a while I've made it a point to learn very little about it. Always sounds like a hustle. My bet was that if I held out long enough, maybe it'd go away soon and cease taking up what scant mental space it already does. The reason it matters now - besides the recent crash that wiped out $2 trillion dollars of its value, besides the fact that crypto money is being poured into elections (one more special interest cutting checks in exchange for favorable legislation), besides the warnings about its environmental impact (something that affects everyone, investor or not) - is that some of the most famous basketball players, Curry included, have appeared in them, giving their endorsement. Did they get paid in crypto or US dollars? Anyway, as another one of these commercials urged viewers to take part in the revolution, I looked up from Montaigne, Miguel opened his eyes, and we laughed. You want to stick to basketball but then you get sold a revolution in losing your shirt by the stars of that sport.

Turn on the TV at the start of Game 6: crypto!

Game 6:

Steph Curry makes a 3. The Celtics call time out. Mark Jackson narrates as Curry points to his finger for a now humbled Boston crowd: "Steph Curry says: 'Put a ring on it.'" Before the game, ESPN analyst and former Celtics player Kendrick Perkins predicted Curry would be made a non-factor. He goes for 30-plus points (with crucial steals and blocks thrown in for good measure). Al Horford, after successive games without much to offer on offense, got hot in the 3rd quarter. Robert Williams III continued to devastate with blocks. Jaylen Brown had 30-plus points himself, albeit quietly. But otherwise, the Celtics didn't look nearly aggressive enough to force a game 7. And the flopping was egregious at times. Meanwhile, the Warriors made a run that hasn't been achieved in 50 years (21-0) and never relinquished control of the game. Those sweet turnovers did in fact keep coming. And I enjoyed every single one. Part of me thought the Warriors would get the final W of the series at home. But around the 3rd quarter I decided they were going to close out tonight. Again: Boston fans could be seen filing out early. And again: I enjoyed it. After the game ended, I told Miguel about the player, Kent Bazemore, who declined more money from the Warriors this season to join the Lakers. His reason: a chance to win a ring. This Warriors dynasty now has its fourth championship. Coach Steve Kerr now has 9 in total, as a player and coach. Curry has a Finals MVP to add to his résumé. Dancing, hugging, tears, photos, a crowded stage, shouting, champagne, "holy cannoli!," a Mexican flag, a Canadian flag, gold, champagne, goggles, night night....

My 2021-2022 postseason journey has ended in thee W. Feeling a little sore, actually. Congratulations, Warriors. WOO!