The year was 2007, and I sat squished alongside five friends in my buddy’s single dorm room. The seating arrangements could have been (much) better: sitting six people into a Skidmore College single is like fitting 17 in a Toyota Corolla. But I was in New York, I didn’t get Fox Sports New England, and my buddy Harry was the only person I knew who shelled out enough money for the cable package that included NBA TV. I wanted to, needed to, watch the new-look Celtics open preseason against the Toronto Raptors in Italy.

The C’s had just suffered through “The Gerald Green Year,” a youth movement of sorts that — combined with Paul Pierce’s injury-riddled campaign — left the Celtics with the NBA’s worst record, Doc Rivers with a bulls-eye on his back that columnists regularly took aim at, and fans with a “please lose as many games as possible so we can select either Greg Oden or Kevin Durant” mentality. When the NBA Draft lottery came and the Celtics were granted the fifth pick, I pondered my options. I could …

1) change allegiances and become a fan of some other team — ANY other team that wasn’t destined for failed season after failed season. But that really wasn’t an option, because, really, what kind of fan switches teams?

2) continue my existence as a miserable Celtics fan, blame Sebastian Telfair for everything bad that happened in life (“my keys got lost — screw you Telfair, you overhyped, underachieving son of a bitch!”), ask God daily why he ever mustered the cruelty to place Green, Telfair, Tony Allen and Wally Szczerbiak on the same team, and fall asleep each night muttering, “Allan Ray. Seriously?”

Or

3) talk myself into fully embracing Yi Jianlian, who Danny Ainge was reportedly enamored with at the No. 5 pick.

I chose the third choice. A seven-foot tall Chinese dude with soft touch and decent athleticism? Forget Durant and Oden! Yi’s the future of basketball! The Celtics got lucky to fall to the No. 5 pick!

FML.

The events that took place following the Draft lottery can only be described as stunning. The Celtics traded for Ray Allen on draft night, turning from laughing stock to “hmm, that team might be fun to watch” literally overnight. Rumors about the C’s acquiring Kevin Garnett shortly followed. I checked into HoopsHype 759 times per day from the computer where I worked at the local swimming pool. On the umpteenth day of The Garnett Watch, HoopsHype afforded me some ridiculously good news, which can only be judged by my reaction: in front of 75 kids, 15 mothers, three hot mothers and my boss, I loudly screamed “F*** YEAH” at the top of my lungs. I almost got fired, but who cares about a job in a time like that? The Celtics had just paired Kevin Garnett with Ray Allen and Paul Pierce. Thank you, Kevin McHale. Would you like chopsticks with your pu-pu platter?

The Celtics quickly became the hottest ticket around town, but it’s important not to forget: there were serious question marks about whether they could contend in year one of the Big Three era. Ray Allen was 32 years old and coming off double ankle surgery. Paul Pierce had just finished his own injury-prone season. Kevin Garnett was still one of the five or six best basketball players in the world, but could the three of them really carry Rajon Rondo and Kendrick Perkins on their backs? Remember, at that stage, neither Rondo or Perk had accomplished anything in their NBA lives. We knew very little about them. Rondo was young, uber-athletic and showed flashes of unadulterated brilliance, but lest we forget, he spent his rookie year backing up Telfair. And I assure you, it’s never a good sign when your team’s starting point guard was known as “Sebastian Telfair’s backup” just months ago. Perk was hulking, he frowned a lot and he had worked hard during his early years to cut a load of baby fat. But his offensive game was less complete than my latest Rubik’s cube, and it was difficult to calculate his defensive capacity. For so long, his defensive acumen had been hidden alongside young, immature teammates with nary a clue about how to play defense.

I really just used the word nary. But I digress.

For the first time, packed into the tiny dorm room, surrounded by the hot stench of my friends’ body odor, I saw the new-look Celtics in action. A few truths were immediately evident: Kevin Garnett looked odd wearing anything besides Minnesota Timberwolves colors, but he treated even preseason games like the NBA Finals. Ray Allen shot like a goddess, even when he missed, and also has enormous calves. James Posey would help everything, so much, even when he didn’t score. Eddie House had a quicker release than a virgin on his first time. But mostly, I watched and marveled at one thing: in the Celtics offense, the ball moved from side to side like a crowd’s eyes at Wimbledon. Back and forth, forth and back, the Celtics moved the ball like a Pete Carril Princeton team. You could never tell that two of the Big Three had recently been ball-stopping superstars with the basketball constantly in their hands. On this team, surrounded by so much talent, everyone wanted to keep everyone else happy. Maybe even too much so. The C’s passed up a few open shots to make the extra pass. But that was a trivial matter that more practice time would take care of. After watching Gerald Green for the previous year, this was like updating from Soulja Boy to Tupac.

At that point, watching NBA TV in that crowded, hot room, I still had no idea where the Big Three era would lead me. I didn’t know the Celtics would forge so quickly and rattle off 66 regular season wins, more than any team (1985-86, 67 wins) but one in Celtics history. I didn’t know they would struggle to beat the Hawks, barely nudge past a locked-in Lebron, find their inner playoff warrior against the Pistons and embarrass the Lakers in Game 6 to take home the franchise’s 17th title. I didn’t know “Anytthhinngggg isssss posssssiiibblllleeeee.” I didn’t know the slew of what-ifs that would follow in the coming years. What if Garnett didn’t get hurt? What if Perk never tore his ACL? What if Danny Ainge never traded for Jeff Green, or Rajon Rondo never dislocated his elbow? I didn’t know how joyful it would be to root for this Celtics team, even in the playoff losses, always so valiant and selfless and inspired, even if certain regular season games — especially the second night of back-to-backs — have been frightful to observe. I didn’t know Paul Pierce’s transformation into a mature man would finish. I didn’t know Rajon Rondo would blossom into one of the league’s most exciting, creative players, and also one of its most confounding. I didn’t know just how nice it would be to watch Ray Allen spot up on the wing in transition. I didn’t know Eddie House would become one of my favorite Celtics ever, James Posey’s hugs would be etched into my memory forever, or that Perkins — with his jaw that always seems set for war — would prove his worth and then some. I didn’t know losing to the Lakers in Game 7 would hurt so bad. I didn’t know I would come to love Tony Allen, even if I still hated him half the time. I didn’t know Stephon Marbury would be so strange, Glen Davis would make me feel the entire spectrum of human emotions, and Sam Cassell would never, ever stop shooting ill-advised shots. I didn’t know P.J. Brown would play such a crucial role in the only Celtics championship of my lifetime.

I didn’t know four years later, the NBA lockout would threaten to bring the Big Three era to a close without us seeing it through to the end. This glorious era that began when the Celtics got screwed in the NBA lottery might have just one season left. For the love of Scott Pollard, let us — let me — enjoy it.

I’m busy today with other, work-related, things — yes, a couple people have actually been dumb enough to employ me — but I still need to address Paul Pierce’s birthday. Jermaine O’Neal and Doc Rivers (not to mention Cowboys owner Jerry Jones, whose team hopefully loses this Sunday) were also born on October 13, but Pierce holds a place in my heart above even Doc.

So on the 34th anniversary of Pierce’s birth, I’d like to remind everyone how far Pierce has come. Back when Pierce butted heads with coaches, spatted with teammates, lost his cool at the worst times and occasionally went to press conferences with a bandage over his head — back when Bob Ryan called Pierce’s flagrant foul against Jamaal Tinsley in a 2005 playoff game against Indiana “the single most unforgivable, untimely, stupid, and flat-out selfish on-court act in the history of the Celtics” – who ever would have expected Pierce to grow into a selfless teammate, a true leader, and one of the few NBA superstars who cared enough to represent the players union at labor negotiations?

Sure, Pierce still settles for occasional ill-advised stepback jumpers at the end of close games. He sometimes takes a few plays off, I wish he would rebound more consistently, and his ability to grow facial hair leaves a lot to be desired. But he’s come 180 degrees from that day against Indiana, from the time when it was semi-reasonable for Celtics fans to hope Pierce would be traded. He was immature, a little bit of a gunner, a loose cannon. And now he’s matured into Paul Pierce, The Captain, the star who reshaped his game for the good of his team, the Celtic who grew in Boston perhaps more than any other.

I’ve written about my favorite Pierce moment before, but let me do it once more. It isn’t a game-winning shot. It isn’t him holding up a trophy. It isn’t him scoring 38 points and out-dueling Kobe Bryant in the ’08 Finals.

Against the Cleveland Cavaliers in Game Seven of the Eastern Conference Semifinals that same year, Pierce toed the foul line with 7.9 seconds left. The Celtics led 95-92 and realistically would seal the win if Pierce made one of two foul shots. Pierce had already scored 39 points and held his own in a mano-a-mano matchup against Lebron James. Just one make, and his Celtics would head to the Eastern Conference Finals to play the Detroit Pistons. The TD Garden crowd waited anxiously.

The first shot wasn’t one of Pierce’s best. Maybe a little overeager, he put more power behind the shot than he would have liked. It hit the back rim hard, and had no chance to fall through the hoop. But it bounced straight up, then fell straight down. Later, Pierce would say the ghost of Red Auerbach guided it through the rim.

The free throw was good, the Celtics were moving on, and Paul Pierce stood at the foul line, his face adorned with a smile so big, so wide, so genuine, that it could only come from someone who treaded water in defeat for so long, someone who cherished every second of his team’s revival because he knew how badly it beat where he came from, because he knew how difficult championship opportunities can be to come by.

Happy birthday, Truth. We love you, my man, even if you’re locked out.

Did you think the NBA actually wanted to preserve its full season? Think again. All the labor discussions to this point were barely even posturing.

“I’m convinced that this was just all part of the plan,” Billy Hunter told Ken Berger after the NBA canceled the first two weeks of its regular season. Great. Glad you guys made an honest effort. I’m really happy to be such a big fan, now. Really. Let me just go extend my season tickets for another year.

Oh, yeah. I can’t afford season tickets. I make $10 an hour or $50 per story, depending on which job I’m working, meaning I make about $350 per week, or $18,200 per year, or a mere $455,404 less than the lowest-paid NBA player, or approximately $1.5 billion less than Dan Gilbert’s worth. I live in my parents’ basement, and sometimes, I drink water at bars because I don’t have any money. But really, I’d love to buy NBA season tickets if I could. These guys definitely deserve my cash.

The lost regular season games were “pre-ordained,” one source told Berger. “All of this could have been solved so easily with any amount of effort,” the person said. The NBA has canceled two weeks of the regular season without any negotiating effort whatsoever, without any thoughts about the fans, and oh, yeah, by the way, when the league comes back, please buy NBA League Pass and tickets and merchandise because the NBA needs your support.

Peace sign up, index finger down. Think about it if you don’t get it right away.

Admittedly, sadly, I’ll be on the front line of NBA fans as soon as the lockout ends. I’m addicted. I’ll be the one watching NBA League Pass until the wee hours of the morning because the Timberwolves seem ridiculously entertaining. I’ll be the one wearing my Celtics shirt, rocking my Celtics hat, donning my NBA socks and sagging my Celtics shorts with a shamrock on them. But if I want to get David Stern in a steel cage match and give him the People’s Elbow until he cries uncle — and I’m the biggest NBA fan this side of Clipper Darrell — imagine what Joe Schmo who watches twelve games a year thinks.

We are missing games because millionaires and billionaires cannot properly split the largest revenues in NBA history. We are here because 22 nitwit owners can’t make money despite the aforementioned revenue records. We are here because dysfunctional owners like Glen Taylor want a system that allows dysfunctional franchises to compete. We are here because NBA players are the highest-paid of all professional athletes and want to preserve that status. We are here because David Stern told Billy Hunter two years ago that his owners needed a slew of concessions, and Billy Hunter effectively told him, “Go f*** yourself. We’ll miss one or two years before we give up that much.” We are here because this lockout was always destined to extend into the season, because these millionaires and billionaires don’t make enough money as it is.

“We made, in our view, concession after concession,” Stern said. Ah, yes. You never stopped offering more, Stern. You’re like Santa Claus, just bringing your sack of gifts around and offering presents to the players daily. I’m surprised you haven’t been sainted yet.

Seriously, Stern, take your “concessions” and shove them you know where. You want concessions? Check out the stadium workers losing hours. Look at the Boston Celtics ballboy who uses tips from the players to help pay his way through college. Hell, you can even take the case of the 24-year old blogger who doesn’t have enough money to move out of his parents house, but will take one week’s paycheck to attend a game at the Boston Garden.

If I wasn’t such an addict, I’d turn on the NBA right now. So go, Joe Schmo, go now, go before the NBA can reach its fat, grimy hands into your pocket one more time, and never look back.

The NBA will have the option to postpone, rather than cancel, the first two weeks of the regular season if progress is made on the collective bargaining front today but no deal can be reached, according to Adrian Wojarowski.

“How could postponement of season work?” he tweeted. “Nov 15 tip; more back to backs, make ups at end of reg season; shorter layoffs between playoff games.”

Needless to say, such a development would give the rest of the NBA a head start over the Boston Celtics. The Cs are already the Tony Romos of the NBA regular season, prone to breaking down at inopportune times. If David Stern compresses the season, adds extra back-to-backs and decreases layoffs between playoff games, the Celtics (8-11 on the second night of back-to-backs last season) stand to be harmed more than any other team.

If Wyc Grousbeck is listening, he should beg David Stern — bribe him if you have to, Wyc (wink, wink) — not to postpone the start of the regular season. The old, creaky Celtics might still be able to compete this season. But the prospect of facing additional back-to-back games and shorter postseason layoffs likely makes Kevin Garnett’s knee twinge in anticipation.

(This column was fueled by a piece Adrian Wojnarowski wrote yesterday about Kevin Garnett’s unselfishness during this lockout. It’s a great read, so go read it.)

Let Kevin Garnett be unselfish. Let him rally his colleagues and urge them not to cave into the league’s demands, even though Garnett personally would benefit if the players caved. Let him rally the union in solidarity and lead his peers into a better deal, even if that means missing games. Let him care more about the NBA’s future than his own self-interest. Let him risk $21.2 million so Avery Bradley, JaJuan Johnson and Jimmer Fredette can receive fair contracts a few years from now. Let Garnett do all that, and respect him for it.

But I’m not joining him. I want the lockout to end and I wanted it to end three months ago. Not just for me, for NBA fans everywhere, for the success of my website, for Tuesday nights when I’d rather not watch baseball, for mornings I would prefer not to view a top ten plays filled with hockey saves and only hockey saves, or for the hoards of NBA employees whose jobs have been slashed because millionaires and billionaires won’t settle on a labor deal. I certainly want the lockout to end for all the previous reasons. But I also want the lockout to end for the Boston Celtics.

One last chance. That’s been a repeating chorus for years now, but this year, that chorus makes more sense than ever. The Celtics looked older than ever while losing to the Miami Heat. Garnett and Ray Allen have one year left on their contracts. The Celtics have only three players signed beyond the upcoming season. Danny Ainge will have many more reasons to blow up the Big Three nucleus after this year than he will have to keep the nucleus together for 2012 and beyond.

All of which means we might have just one more year to watch Ray Allen spot up on the perimeter, his legs bent, ready to spring from the floor, his eyes set on the rim, his body squared perfectly toward his target, the flawless cock of his wrist and the follow through covered in gold and the resulting swish. We might have just one more year to watch Rajon Rondo run the pick-and-roll with Garnett, to see Garnett knowingly slip the pick, bee-line for the rim and rise to catch Rondo’s pass, floating down from the rafters so Garnett can secure it and slam it into the hoop. Or to watch Garnett pound his chest and mutter a stream of obscenities directed to nobody and everybody all at once, to watch his eyes that could stare a hole straight through the Great Wall of China, to see his focus and determination and know he wants to win more than many people want anything at all. Or to watch Garnett and Paul Pierce’s joint press conferences, the way they play off each other like they were best friends since childhood. Or to watch Allen interviewed at his locker, always impeccably dressed, always willing to answer questions longer than anyone else, as classy as a top-notch country club. Or to see the C’s in the playoffs, bloody and battered, fighting desperately to outlast a younger, fresher team, and knowing, win or lose, this is a Celtics team to have pride in.

A year from now, the Celtics organization could be almost anywhere. Rebuilding around Rajon Rondo with young players and draft picks. Hoping Jeff Green pans out. Following Dwight Howard to the NBA Finals. Trying to relive the glory days after resigning Garnett and Allen to smaller contracts. The Celtics’ future is cloudier and less predictable than a lightning storm.

Yet Wyc Grousbeck is reportedly one of the hard-line owners willing to risk this entire season. Garnett is clamoring for players to hold out until they get the right deal. Pierce is joining Garnett at the meetings and likely echoing his sentiments. I get why they’re doing it — Grousbeck wants more money, Garnett and Pierce want to ensure the fair treatment of NBA players for years to come.

But if Garnett isn’t going to be selfish, I will. I want this lockout to end. For the Boston Celtics, and yes, of course, for me.

Think about Kevin Garnett, and what do you envision?

Probably a scowl, certainly some profanity, a proclivity for midrange jumpers and, less so now than in his prime, a low-post game that more often than not consisted of A) a rip-through move and subsequent drive to the hoop, or B) Garnett’s patented “plant two feet, catch the ball, pivot either way, fade away from the hoop, and shoot over a defender who can’t possibly defend Garnett’s length or high release point.” There’s also Garnett’s willingness to defend, his length that allows him to cover big men, his quickness that allows (or maybe allowed is a more appropriate term now) him to switch onto guards in pick-and-roll situations, his court awareness that turned him into one of the greatest help defenders of all time. And if you think long enough, you’ll inevitably come to Garnett’s unselfishness, his ability to facilitate offense without always calling his own number, his willingness to hit an open teammate combined with the vision to find one.

Think about Blake Griffin, and your mind’s picture is probably less developed. You’ll see a man, or is he a machine, rising from the hardwood, climbing high into the night sky, scaling buildings and Mozgovs and Kia cars to ultimately slam home dunks, 214 of them during his rookie year, more than any human not named Dwight Howard. You’ll see a playful smile and muscles that ripple. You’ll see the potential to conquer the world and the youthfulness to believe anything is possible. If you observe Griffin closely, if you can remember to get past the initial shock factor, if you can for a few seconds stop thinking about Griffin’s dunks, you’ll also see an advanced basketball acumen which sets Griffin apart from all other young pogo sticks in the league.

It’s this intellect, the aspect of Griffin’s game most overshadowed by his “when do you think he’ll come down from there?” athleticism, that leads ESPN Insider’s Tom Haberstroh to compare Griffin and Garnett.

Your collective thoughts: wait, what?

The comparison is difficult to swallow. Garnett is marked by finesse; Griffin is just as likely to run through a defender as he is to soar over one. Garnett relies mostly on his midrange jumper and has been deadly from that range for decades; Griffin is very willing to shoot midrange jumpers but not nearly as capable of making them as Garnett. Garnett is and always has been a reluctant scorer; Griffin already exhibits more of a willingness to dominate the scoring column. But mostly, the comparison fails in one area:

Garnett is one of the greatest defenders ever. Griffin’s team was three points worse defensively whenever he stepped on the court.

Haberstroh does admit his comparison only works to a certain extent:

But to appreciate Griffin’s candidacy as Garnett’s successor, you have to look past the dunks. Ignore the Timofey Mozgov posterization. Put aside the fact that he leaped over an automobile and put a ball through a basket that stood 10 feet off the ground, if you can.

Because to fully appreciate why Griffin ranks as the most qualified contemporary to perform an uncanny Garnett impression, you have to consider Griffin’s softer side: his passing. The list of active players who can drop a nightly 20 points and 10 boards is longer than Joakim Noah’s gnarly mane. But dig deeper and you’ll discover that Griffin resembles Garnett because they mirror each other beyond the standard measuring sticks applied to big men.

Do you know who led the Los Angeles Clippers in assists last season? That distinction belongs to Griffin, a power forward who stands 6-9 and weighs 250 pounds. The 22-year-old plays with his head up, unlike most big men who become a black hole once the ball is entered into the post. Griffin features enough handle and quickness to keep defenders from hounding him out on the high post. It is there in the high post where he flaunts Garnett’s unique versatility. …

But that’s not to say that Griffin already sees eye-to-eye with the early 2000s version of KG. Remember, Garnett has long been the best defending power forward in the game and has a trophy to show for it. Last season, the Clippers were three points worse defensively per 100 possessions with Griffin on the court, which isn’t a crime, but it’s not small potatoes, either.

Griffin has a way to go defensively before we can start projecting him to supplant Garnett in the first-team All-Defensive team, but he’s right on track to compete with him everywhere else. In some respects, he’s already there.

Sure, Griffin’s offensive numbers compare favorably to a 21-year old Garnett, but Garnett’s greatness could never be explained solely by offensive numbers. If it could, Zach Randolph would have obtained All-Star status long ago, and Carlos Boozer and David Lee would actually deserve their ginormous contracts.

Like a young Garnett, Griffin is a double-double machine with the court vision of a much smaller player. In 2004, so was Brad Miller.

All tongue-in-cheek Brad Miller references aside, I understand why Haberstroh made the comparison. Griffin has Garnett’s ability to control games without scoring every possession, and his assist numbers, for a 21-year old power forward, or any power forward for that matter, are gaudy. But until Griffin becomes a real defensive asset — and I’m not saying he won’t, just that he’s not even close now — the comparison holds very little value. Remember, defense is half the game.