The Beginning...

Just for the record, I am not psychic.

I claim no kind of clairvoyance of any kind.

I am not one of the Tarot-savvy, nor do I suffer from any mind-bending IMAX 3-D premonitions, and I do not possess a crystal ball. I don’t even have a Magic-8 Ball and, depending upon which of the small assortment of people closest to me that you might solicit, I may not have anything even remotely resembling a ball of any kind anywhere near my personage.

No, I am not psychic. But, I can tell you this with a certainty:

The Boston Celtics are going to win the next two games at The Garden and then they’re going to go on to win the series against the Miami Heat.

That’s right. You’re not suffering from a sudden case of dyslexia or RLI (Restless Eye Syndrome, of course!) and I am not high on anything except life (remember, nothing even resembling a ball…).

It’s true. I am completely sane and sober. And I am telling you that the Celtics are going to win the series. 

I know this because I saw the sign, sitting as clear as day in all its shaky, grizzled glory right outside of those hallowed halls of Celtic greatness.

I am talking, of course, about the Celt-Opossum.

But, allow me to backtrack for a moment…

I, like many of you, awakened yesterday morning under the spell of that succulent mix of clumsy and stupid irritability that is bred from the combination of a prime-time (or, as I like to call it, Pajama Time!) game featuring your favorite team that stretches into an overtime game that they have no business losing (or even BEING in overtime after having been up by 15 points in the first half!), only they were given the business playing 5 against 7, and they wound up losing. 

Anyway, so I woke up this morning…stumbled around the apartment trying to dress with my eyes half-closed and eat-sleep my breakfast before hitting the air and complaining about the unfairness of it all, all the way to work.

As I was making my way past The Garden dodging text-zombies and wondering how much more ugly and boring this building is going to look after the “Big 4” become the “Big One-Plus-14,” a (Sugar) ray of light rolled down from the heavens and illuminated this otherworldly symbol, this being who is surely represents a sign from above that the Celtics have been playing the most exquisitely and devastatingly precise game of Rope-A-Dope since the days of Muhammad Ali.

I beheld, The Celt-Opossum.

There he (or she…I didn’t get that close…again, nothing resembling a ball ANYWHERE….) was, sitting perched atop the fence below The Garden majestically (okay, self-esteemlessly) waiting to assure passersby that all would be right in Celtic-Land once again.

Surely this is a sign that the Celtics merely wanted to begin the series at home and, so, lured the unsuspecting Miami Heat into their web (or den, or garbage can…or whatever these crazy things sleep in) and are even now rubbing their hands (and tails) in anticipation of the thumping they will deliver to those mouth-guard-chewing, karate-kicking LeBrondrathals from South Beach.

And when the final blow is struck and the Big Four deliver us to yet another Finals, the Awesome Possum will be anointed the next great Celtic Masscot!

No, I am not psychic, but I know what I saw and I know what’s coming.

The Celtics are not done. Not by a long shot. Not if the Celt-Opossum has anything to say about it.

“Anything is Possumbleeeeeee!!!”