Its the playoffs.

After reading Scoop Jackson’s article on Kevin Garnett earlier today, I am fully entrenched in Scoop mode. That is something for which I will never apologize.

Scoop Jackson has always been one of the best. His words. Have soul. Periods, no lack. Confused? Read this. Artistry. Beauty. In writing. Picture says. One thousand words. No picture. His words. At his best.

Scoop Jackson. Misunderstood. Changed. ESPN. Love. Hate. Respect. Admire. Inspire. Basketball. Poetry. Words. Bleed meaning. Bleed love. Hope. Drama. Crash. Burn. Rise up. Phoenix. Not the city. Describe Garnett. Enlightened. Joyful. Wish it didn’t end.

Kevin Garnett hasn’t been himself. Old man. Old soul. Grinding season. Peaks. Valleys. Injury. Psychology. Fewer minutes. Lesser stats. Ray Allen, Garnett’s the same. “Ain’t nothing changed.” Garnett explains. “Playing on one leg.” Still productive. Not the same. Big numbers. No more. Big effort. Still there. Dragging a leg. Profanities. All the time. Rashard Lewis. Kris Humphries. Matt Bonner. Lateral movement, not so much. Decline of a legend. Build on a dream. Leg getting better.

Meet the rest of the Celtics. Starters. On them, nobody else. Paul Pierce. Up. Down. “Best shooter in the world.” “Best player in the world.” Self-proclaimed. Slump. Star. Needed. Nightly. Rondo. Seize the reigns. Go-to guy. Ready. Not sure. Free throw line. Three-point arc. Drive. Dish. Command. Lead. Ray Allen. Jesus Shuttlesworth. 51. Chicago Bulls. Houdini. Orlando Magic. J.J. Redick. Shut down. Playoff time. Crunch time. Sharp-shooter. Ice in veins. Perkins. All-star? Decline. Decent. Not great. Defensive stopper. Dwight Howard, you too. Layups. Keep ball up. Not down. Block shots. Frown. Scowl, more like. Always, scowl.

Bench. To support, not let down. Tony Allen. Improved. Defense. Turnovers. Calmed down. Foul, three-point shooter. Charge, fast break. Trust. No. Maybe never. Marquis Daniels. Sixth man. Point guard. Versatile. Necessary. Disappear. Disappoint. Underachieve. Splinters. Michael Finley. 37. Grandfather. AARP. Surprise. Splash. Swish. Buckets. Defense, maybe not. Nate Robinson. Immature. Gunner. Gun-shy. Rotation, no. Eddie House, miss you. Bill Walker, you too. Rasheed Wallace. Disaster. Bad influence. Weakside rotations, not Sheed. Ball don’t lie. Gut don’t either. Three-year contract. Head. Shoot. Gun, not basketball. Glen Davis. Big Baby, think not. Friend’s face, Glen’s fist. Broken bones, broken season. Salvaged, with hustle. Midrange jumper, not this year. Get blocked, too often. Shelden Williams looming. Scal, not so much. Gaffney, Lafayette. Unknown.

Doc Rivers. Retirement. Family. Extension. Season. Up. down. Frustration. Regret. Glory days, not now. Gary Washburn. Cliques in locker room, Doc says no. Danny Ainge. Rebuild. Stay intact. Big contracts. Tough to move. One trade. Three stars. One championship. So far. Probably ever. Maybe later. Not now. Maybe.

A city lacks hope. Boston. Worried. City, not team. Playoffs, they’re here. The switch. Maybe. Age. Old. Desire. Not there. First-round exit. Banner 18. Anywhere. Anytime. Road wins. Home losses. Beat Cavs. Lose to Nets. Blowouts. Both ways. Cavs. Magic. Hawks. Too fast. Too quick. Too good. Celtics. Washed up. Something to prove. Opportunity knocks. Rebounding drops. Turnovers rise. Losses. Bad losses. Embarrassment. Again. Again. Again.

But the playoffs have finally come. Dwyane Wade. Up first. 40 points. Per game. Nightmares. Double teams. No supporting cast. No chance. Beasley. Don’t scare me. Arroyo. Please. O’Neal. Corpse. Spoelstra. Yes. Wright. No. Haslem. Maybe.

Whispers. Shouts. Truth, not Pierce. Celtics. Too old. Washed up. Not enough. Transition necessary. Road warriors. Home bums. Inconsistent. Unable. Clinging to, thin hopes. ’95 Rockets. ’69 Celtics. Playoffs start. Second season. Win? Compete? Will find out. First-round exit, possible. Beat anyone. Or lose.

The dream. Still there. Flip the switch. Win the crown. Championship. Banner 18.  Parade. Floats. Confetti. T-Shirts. Hats. Rings. Champions. 2010. Euphoria

Pinch self. Wake up. Cold sweat. Reality. Nightmares. Not happening. I don’t think.

Still, maybe.