2008 NBA Finals Mete Out Poetic Justice

Christopher Columbus should have landed in New York City.  Elvis should still be alive.  Babe Ruth should never have been traded to the Yankees.

So it should be that the Boston Celtics rack up their 17th NBA world championship at home, delivered in person to their faithful Celtic clan.

Where better to lock up their Pierce-Garnett-Allen-led NBA crown than in front of their own fans, in their own city, in their own arena?  Not in front of Jack Nicholson et al.

Doc Rivers, Boston's bulldog coach, had a noble thought in wanting to wrap up the title in Sunday's fifth game in LA.  For his suffering dad's sake, on Father's Day.

That would have been sweet.

But fate intervened.

Call it poetic justice.

We were in Boston last week, Cambridge to be exact, shepherding my wife's mom to a world-renowned ophthalmologist to see if he could solve her sudden blindness.

I made a wrong turn and wound up across the majestic Charles River on the Boston side.

Lost.  I sought a member of Boston's finest.  After several blocks, I spotted a Boston street cop.  He was nice and open, but very direct.

"How do we get back to Cambridge?" I asked innocently.

"I can tell you all about Boston, but I don't know anything about Cambridge," was his forthright and immediate reply.

Boston is its own destination.  It is its own city, a destination-city.   It is Beantown.  Just like the Cheers bar, everyone knows it's name.

Therefore, it's only deserving the 2008 championship be earned and delivered in person.  Not by satellite TV.  Not by remote cable images.  But in person.

From the hallowed halls of Harvard to the Green Monster, it's the fat lady who will have the last laugh.  In Boston.

It's poetic justice.