A brunch continuance with 'Slim' Pat Donnelly
And a miracle in Miami.
Or was it a miracle?
After all, we had agreed that someone would break this 0–3 spell sometime soon. Wait, why not now? It’s just bloody hard to buy into one’s own optimism.
Why? Because, the Boston Celtics are proving tough to read!
In fact, they’re impossible to figure out, whether you rest your head on a Southie pillow, or live on a different continent! They’re harder to pick than a crooked nose.
In the last offering—Game 6— they dominated Miami for three quarters, seemingly in control at both ends of the court—as they did in games 4 and 5 after slipping to a 0–3 deficit. Then, again, the Celtics' wheels started spinning, Jimmy Butler warmed up, and it all came down to an excruciating 2.9 seconds!
I won’t bore you with what happened—it was extraordinary, though, from both teams. But we have to say, Derrick White, you bloody ripper. A buzzer-beat rebound put-back silenced the Miami crowd (including Diddy) and sent his Celtics to the brink of the promised land. A 150-game curse is about to be broken—or will it?
Enter our friend, the protagonist of all this uncertainty and, arguably, the star of the show. ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly.
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Last time out, we left Pat sat at Mul’s diner bar with a mug of tar-black American coffee and breakfast on the way. It went something like this:
"What's up, kid? Watta you doin’ here? I thought ya only liked the bars!" Pat said mischievously.
"Well, Pat, I’m actually here looking for you and wondering where you’ve been."
"That’s a story, kid. Those fackin’ Celtics, I tell ya, something's up."
At this point, the Celtics were 2-3 down and had to play Game 6 in Miami. They did have momentum; however, back-to-back wins on the road were unlikely—and, unlikely is just how Pat likes to roll.
Before I got to the basketball, I wanted to check if everything was good with Pat. After all, I had never seen him without a beer or using a knife and fork before!
If you remember back to version one of Pat Donnelly, you might remember me saying Pat's mother had worked in the local diner.
"His father was a union worker, and his mother worked at the local diner."
Pat disliked food, especially healthy options, and only occasionally tolerated diner food. I was curious about Pat's order.
"Kid, I don’t do suppah, right? Breakfast I tolerate, usually ‘ere, the scran is pretty sweet. Ya know me Ma used ladel ‘ere; she ran the joint, brought most of the cheddar home; the old man played the odds—usually lost!" Never went to Shirley, though!" Pat laughed.
"What did ya say?" His noggin’ wasn’t on today.
“Ahh, I just wondered what you ordered.” I replied.
"The usual, kid. Omelette, bacon on the side, and pancakes, King’s ransom, know what I’m sayin’?
No sooner had Pat finished talking; than his food came out. If he ate the 'king's ransom' every day of the week, we might replace the ‘slim’ with ‘big’! Three full plates filled the counter.
My scran followed soon after and we sat in relative silence working our way through the various plates—they clearly like to keep the dishwashers busy at Mul’s! I finished what I was going to eat ahead of Pat, which gave me some time to formulate my Celtics dialogue.
Straight after Pat had finished he jumped into the role of food critic.
"Wat you reckon, kid? Fill the gap?" I had enjoyed the black pudding and beans. "Absolutely, Pat, the food was great."
"Why ya leaving some then? You have a feline at home." I presumed he meant cats. "No, I travel too much for that kind of thing. No room left, Pat."
"Ahh, get it, kid. My scran hit the spot, perfect." Pat appeared content; now it was time to get down to business.
"Pat, you mentioned you thought there was something wrong with the Celtics?" "What was that?" I inquired.
Pat took a swig from his American coffee and leant in closer. "You know what kills me, kid? I told 'em, I told 'em too many times to focus on their fackin’ defence. But, like the felines, they don't listen. They presume it's all about scoring points—the three-buckets. Well, lemme tell ya, you can't win games without solid defence, ‘specially when you've got that Butler dude pulling all kinda tricks. And, don’t get me started on Caleb Martin; he cutting us up like confetti!"
I nodded agreeingly, knowing that Pat would be on the money. "So, where have you been hiding, Pat? "I haven't seen you around lately."
Pat sniggered, his eyes twinkling playfully. "Ah, ya know, kid, there’s times a man needs a break—not a Shirley break though!" Pat roared with laughter. He went on, "Southie's damn crowded with all these newbie places poppin' up. Can't even recognise the old ‘hood anymore." "Makes ya wanna barf everywhere; just needed some Pat time, know what I’m sayin’"
If that was an answer, so be it. Although I could not disagree when you see the changing landscape of Southie. The knarly charm was being strangled by a new modern demographic of residents and retailers.
"I agree, Pat; the place is changing; and in too much of a hurry, like a stubborn teenager." "Ya damn right, kid," Pat replied.
Pat smirked, a whimsical look in his eyes. "Mul's is a damn institution, though. Been comin’ here since I was a bairn. Still the best breakfast around. Stick ya fancy brunch crap in the trunk—with the wise guys, just good ol' breakfast and lunch." Pat added.
After a short pause to not sip American coffee, I got back on the bike.
"So, Pat, what's your take on the Celtics' chances in Game 8?" I asked, hoping to get something other than how important defence is!
He wiped his mouth clear of the black tar coffee and leant in like a post-up power forward.
"Well, kid, we’ve seen the green haul ‘emselves off the floor before, and no doubting there in a tough spot. The talent’s there; the will is also. They gotta know the ‘hood has their backs; play like it’s a damn pick-up game down the local courts. No Game 7 if they can’t pull off the heist. It’s gotta be a miracle in Miami, kid. Ya, know what am sayin’?"
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I nodded, always impressed by Pat's passion. "You're right, Pat. They need to play with freedom; process over outcome." I held my breath; that sounded way too technical and covert. Nothing came back, so I continued. "Boston deserves a championship team." I’m not sure on what grounds I am qualified to make such a statement. Anyway, I just did.
Pat kind of smiled. "Ya friggin’ right, kid. This ‘ere is a sports town to the core. We bleed green for the Celts. We truly believe there’s unfinished business."
Pat finished his coffee, I just stared at mine wishing for it to disappear. There was a clatter of dishes out back, more food was being ordered and fresh scran was appearing. As we got up to leave, Pat slapped me on the back; maybe a sign of Southie comradeship!
"Thanks for finding me, kid. Good to have someone to talk Celtics with. Here’s hopin’ the boys bring Game 7 back to Boston. I wanna see Butler and Martin with me own peepers; Smart will fit them both with straight-jackets. Mark those words, kid!"
I smiled and shook his hand with renewed optimism. "No problem, Pat. It's always good to chat with you, my friend. Take care, and I'll see you after Game 7." "Sully’s Tap Room?"
"You damn right, kid. Ya starting to get the caper, know what I’m sayin?" Pat laughed for the last time.
As I walked back to the T, I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of hope for the Celtics. If there was one person who believed in them, it was ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly, the Southie local with a heart as big as Boston itself.
And maybe, just maybe, his unwavering faith would inspire the team to break the dreaded 0–3 spell.
As always, thank you for being here.
