'Slim' Pat Donnelly on the Celtics chances
We find Pat in the North End's Sullivan's Tap Room after a resounding game seven win over the 76ers. As is the norm, Pat remains candid in his review!
TD Garden, the famed home of the Boston Celtics, sits geographically closer to the North End than South Boston, yet its symbolic significance transcends mere proximity. True, popular culture has promoted rivalries between the two neighbourhoods, with evidence found on the large screen. My loyalties lay—with little foundation—in South Boston (Southie). ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly is an influencer!
Harnessing their fabled legacy, the Celtics have transcended the troubled streets of North and South Boston, bypassing territorial loyalties and nurturing a tangible sense of unity and fellowship that surpasses neighbourhood conflict.
A paraphrased quote might say, "Workers of Boston unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains."
Be sure, Bostonians will unite behind the green and white as they aim to take down the Erik Spoelstra-led Miami Heat. And, we have an inside man in ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly
SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.
Before we get to Pat—I found him at Sullivan’s Tap Room—a quick recap of Game 7, in case you missed it?
After rallying to defeat the Philadelphia 76ers in Game 6, so fighting off elimination, the Boston Celtics showcased their championship credentials with a resounding home court 112-88 victory.
Jayson Tatum (JT) fuelled a third-quarter surge that saw the Celtics open an unassailable lead, eventually leading to the blowout. The 33–10 quarter floored the 76ers, with Tatum dropping a cool 51 points for the game after a frigid performance in Game 6.
Sullivan's Tap Room, conveniently situated just across the street from TD Garden, is a treasured pre- and post-game haunt for Celtics fans. Its lively atmosphere and wide selection of cold brews make it an ideal spot to dissect and discuss basketball.
As is the norm with finding Pat, proximity to his previous location is the key to discovery. I decided Sullivan's would be my first stop.
The bar was busy, to be expected, I suppose, and there seemed to be no available bar stools and no sign of Pat. My gaze shifted to the back tables, not normally a place to find Pat, and there he was, I must say, looking a little smug.
I wandered over to say hi. "Hello, how’s the noggin tonight, Pat?"
"Ahh, much better. Was a bit egged after that OT loss, tho; threw that one down the dunny! What brings ya here, kid?" Pat sounded pretty level for him, and I believe that might have been the first question Pat asked of me!
"I just wanted to check in with you, talk some Celtics, and have a beer—maybe a whiskey!" I said this with an air of optimism.
"Sounds good to me," Pat said. "Lemme get us a round of talls and a coupla firewaters for the side." "Ur starting to get it, kid!"
"Ere you go, kid." Pat sat the four drinks down on the table. "This’ll straighten you out. And, listen, don’t go dallying on ‘em like ur reading one of ya books in the friggin’ parlour! We're not long in this joint; time's a-tickin', kid." Southie was calling.
Note to myself: the key tonight was swift drinking and rapid-fire questions that wouldn't agitate Pat. Small talk was the devil to Pat, still, I was determined to break through his tough-as-teak exterior. Getting his read on where the Celtics are at was paramount in my thoughts.
I decided to dive straight in. "Hey Pat, how come it took the Celtics seven games to get past the 76ers?"
"Looka here, kid, you don’t ‘hey’ me; a little more ‘spect for ya buddy, Pat. Got it?" So much for not agitating him!
I offered up a retreat of sorts: "Apologies, Pat, do you think the Celtics could have taken care of business in less than seven?"
It was a measured response that came back over the net.
"Kid, the 76’rs are good. Embiid, Harden, and Maxey—they all ball. And our boys are wet still, learning ropes—get what I mean? Playoffs are tuff; it’s just what the men in green needed—seven games of hustle. Look at JT (Jayson Tatum), he’s a pisser comin’ down the stretch and rates ‘emself best in the world. Na, we’re talking!"
Pat was referring to Tatum’s infamous self-inflammatory quote, which was originally taken out of context. “Humbly, I'm one of the best basketball players in the world.”
I felt like Pat was warming up—basketball chat and drinking!
I decided to shift the conversation to the upcoming Conference final and asked Pat about his take on the Miami Heat. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Pat leant back with a mischievous glint in his eyes and took another gulp of his tall.
"Ah, the Heat," he sniggered. "They think they can mess with our ‘Tics, huh? Well, lemme tell ya, kid, ain't gonna let 'em. We bring intensity from the get-go. Shut down those shooters; keep 'em honest. And don't start me on that Jimmy Butler fella. Gotta fit ‘im like a glove; make sure he pulls no tricks."
He leant in closer still—I’m nervous now—continuing, "Ya know the key, kid?” Pat sounded and looked as serious as I had seen him.
“It’s a belief thing. Ya gotta believe in this team; everyone from Southie to this shithole, they’ll leave it all on the court, them ‘tics. You mark those words, kid."
“Pat, I’m with you on this one.” I replied.
Backing up a little, I wanted Pat to detail how the Celtics might handle Jimmy Butler.
"Jimmy Butler, Pat. Like you say, he’s tricky. Who’s likely to take care of him?"
A pause ensued, then a two-pronged drinking stop, with a loud throat-clear to finish.
"Pisser question, kid."
"It goes like this: I don't need no crystal ball ta know who’s taking care of Butler. Marcus Smart is a goddamn horse, both 'nds of the court. He got some heart, kid; he’ll babysit ur man Butler, be sure of that!" He added, "We've got the grit, heart, and talent to beat any team in this biddy lookin’ league. This ain’t going to fackin’ Chelsea, kid!"
Now I’m confused. “This ain’t going to fackin’ Chelsea, kid!" Apparently it’s a locals thing; nobody wants to go to Chelsea!
Enjoying the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward to another.
It was my hook—that’s Australian for turn-at-the-bar! “What will you have, Pat?" I asked, trying to play it oh so cool.
"Get me a tall and a Makers to keep it company, kid," Pat replied, his tone returning to the gruff and no-nonsense vibe.
"Coming up, sir," I replied, my manner now gaining confidence. I turned quickly to the bartender, placing the order and already formulating my next question.
"Cut that fackin' sir stuff out, kid. How many times do you need tellin'?" Pat snapped, his Southie accent dripping in irritation.
"Sorry, Pat," I stammered, trying to regain my composure. "I'll remember for next time." “Might not be another time at this rate, kid.” he replied.
Pat proceeded to grumble something unintelligible, clearly unimpressed with my apology. I quickly fetched the drinks, hoping to salvage the conversation.
"Here you go, Pat," I said, trying to sound confident, as I handed him his drinks. "Enjoy. Here's to a Celtics championship run!" I exclaimed, raising my glass in a toast.
Pat glanced my way with a hint of scepticism, his ruddy face hiding any sign of approval or disapproval. He quickly raised one of his glasses, clinking it firmly against my offering. At least that was progress, of sorts. Taking a swipe of his drink, he finally cut to the chase.
"Celtics championship, huh? Every damn fan wants that," Pat muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of suspicion and cautious optimism. "Let me tell ya, kid, it ain't gonna be no walk in the park."
Taking a chance, I leant in, eager to hear more. “So, what will it take for the Celtics to come out on top?" I ventured, bracing for the reply!
Pat took another swipe at the tall, his gaze scanning the room for any infidels, or maybe he was searching for the right words. Finally, he caught my eye.
"Fackin’ defence, we gotta step it up, starting now. Clean the boards and pickpocket the guards, like they do up at Shirley!" Pat roared with laughter. This was the first time I’ve heard him laugh at his own work.
He continued, "We gotta play both courts, half and full. Marcus Smart is our Donny Trump; we want ‘im to run the fackin’ D thing."
I innocently interjected, "Where’s Shirley, Pat?"
"It’s where that damn Donny Trump should be!" Again, Pat roared with congratulatory laughter. "Oh, yeah, I get it; nice lines, Pat." I offered it up meekly.
He wasn’t finished. "Stop other teams scoring; you almost there, kid. The keys to the damn Championship right there, kid."
Clearly, Pat’s fondness—I nearly said love— for the Celtics is unwavering, no doubt forged over 40 years of watching legends like Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, and Paul Pierce. However, the North End held little significance for him; it might as well have been in Alaska. His heart belonged to Southie. Paying lip service to the other side of town was merely a nod of respect to the Celtics.
Our conversation, for now, was coming to an end. The tall and the Makers were all but gone, and it was evident he was not long for Sullivan’s. The pull of Southie was tugging hard at his strings.
Game 1 of the Eastern Conference finals kicks off in Boston Wednesday night local time. Pat has a ticket and will be making the trip to TD Garden. I’m expecting to find him in Sullivan’s post-game. My drinking boots will be on, and there will be no calling him sir! We should have a great time throughout the Finals series.
As always, thank you for being here.
Brilliant writing Nick