A Chicago Bulls Fan Jumps on the Boston Bandwagon

As a Bulls fan, I have learned to hate the Boston Celtics.

I hate that they always manage to execute down the stretch. I hate the, "Are you kidding me, you crazy bastard?" look Doc Rivers gives the officials every time the whistle blows.

I hate the way Rajon Rondo gets away with murder on one end of the floor and writhes around like a gunshot victim every time he absorbs the slightest bit of contact on the other. I hate the way Glen Davis bounces around like a morbidly obese Energizer Bunny after he converts a big play.

I hate it when Kevin Garnett—a long-time favorite of mine—drops a round of celebratory f-bombs from the bench. I hate Paul Pierce's sideburns and Kendrick Perkins' chin beard. I hate that Stephon Marbury has the logo of his "Starbury" shoe line tattooed on the side of his own freakin' head.

I hate the Celtics in ways that never crossed my mind before this series began.

And I'm rooting hard for them to go all the way.

Call it a marriage of contempt and respect. Call it a desire to be beaten by the best. Call it straight-up laziness—like it or not, I've become intimately familiar with the C's roster, and hate to see my new-found and otherwise useless expertise on Brian Scalabrine's game go to waste.

Sure, I still get riled up at the sight of Ray Allen's abnormally shiny skull, and wouldn't mind if someone punched Rondo in the mouth.

But if I didn't get to see the Bulls dispatch this collection of green-and-white clad antagonists, I certainly don't want to sit back and watch another team enjoy the satisfaction of doing so.

The Celtics may be the bad guys, but after trading body blows with the Bulls for two weeks, they're my bad guys.

I like yelling for Rivers to get T'd up every time he starts yapping at referees. I like calling for someone to level Rondo every time he floats to the basket untouched. I like watching Marbury, a career chucker, looking petrified to shoot. I like taking cheap shots at Davis' midriff, to say nothing of his hybrid crew cut-mohawk.

Take those little joys away from me, and I'll be a very unhappy camper.

It's also terribly disappointing to watch an opponent go to every length to rip your heart out, then roll over and die for the next challenger. If Orlando stomps Boston in four or fives games in the next round, the epic series the Bulls and Celtics just wrapped up will look like a clash of pretenders, a battle of two teams matched in mediocrity.

The longer Boston lasts, the more confidence the Bulls can draw from their seven-game duel with the defending champs. If the Celtics topple the Magic and give Cleveland a scare—or even defy the odds and sneak into the Finals—Chicago can enter the 2009-'10 season with the swagger that comes from pushing the best to the brink.

The next time the Bulls and Celtics meet, I'll be calling for blood. I'll boo the television without mercy. I'll hope for a blowout, a brawl, or both. I'll cheer for Chicago to take Boston down with a vengeance.

Until then, count me in Boston's corner. There's so much about these Celtics that I love to hate.