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 was present when Eddy Curry’s career began to fall apart.

In the summer of 2008, the Knicks held training camp at my school, Skidmore College. As a player on Skidmore’s basketball team, I was one of a handful of people allowed to watch the training camp. Mike D’Antoni had just been hired in New York, Allan Houston was attempting an ill-fated comeback, Stephon Marbury’s head bore the mark of his sneaker company, Nate Robinson half-assed a number of drills, David Lee saw the Skidmore volleyball team and remarked that spandex were what he missed most about college, Jerome James asked my buddy to fetch him a sandwich during the middle of practice, Zach Randolph grabbed rebounds like a vacuum and consistently exhibited the excitement of a pre-schooler meeting his favorite television character, Quentin Richardson told me the Knicks would be lucky to make the playoffs, and Eddy Curry never practiced once.

There were rumors that Curry was going to practice every day. He was sick, I heard once. He just needed to lose a few pounds, I heard another time. My buddy saw him working out in the Skidmore weight room. “But he just kind of chilled. And he looked even fatter than before,” my buddy said. Now, those reports would elicit a duh. But then, Curry was coming off a 13-point, five-rebound 2007-’08 season. He had slowed severely since the ’06-’07 year and clearly gained a bra size or two, but he was still a productive player.

He was productive, that is, until D’Antoni’s first training camp arrived and Curry became a ghost, a rumor, a no-show and ultimately, one of the worst insults a player can be labeled, an expiring contract. There would be similar rumors for the remainder of Curry’s remaining three years with the Knicks — he’s almost ready, he’s working out hard, he’ll play soon — but he would play only ten games during the next three seasons, earning $31 million for all his hard work. His fully guaranteed six year, $60 million contract finally ran out at the end of last season. But it could still be one of the reasons the NBA lockout continues.

Guaranteed contracts have reportedly become a sticking point in the NBA’s labor negotiations. Before Game 4 of this year’s NBA Finals, according to the Washington Post’s Mike Wise, a number of owners met with approximately a dozen players and the topic of guaranteed contracts was broached.

As usual, Mark Cuban offered his two cents.

“When we had Tariq Abdul-Wahad, he didn’t seem to want to train, didn’t really want to practice — he really was interested in a lot of things besides basketball,” Cuban said. Cuban then complained about Abdul-Wahad’s guaranteed six year, $40 million contract. “And I’m stuck with that,” Cuban said. Even if Abdul Wahad spent all of his time eating cannolis and drinking mimosas.

A lawyer for the players union then mentioned that J.J. Barea made only $1 million per season. “How about that?” he said. “You’re getting a bargain in a guy like J.J. Barea.”

That was when David Stern spoke.

“All right, you want to go tit for tat, I’ll go tit for tat,” Stern said. “I’ll see you J.J. Barea and raise you Eddy Curry.”

The owners, Wise writes, “are sick of paying premiums for damaged goods.”

And the players union, of course, does not want guaranteed contracts to die. Sure, Eddy Curry didn’t deserve $60 million to buy all the Krispy Kremes he desired. But the Knicks signed him to that contract in the first place, and the players contend they should honor the contract.  For players who have a ten-year career span — if they’re both good and lucky — guaranteed money would be a major concession in the negotiations.

Players Association Vice President Maurice Evans briefly mentioned guaranteed contracts in an interview with Sports Illustrated’s Sam Amick.

“The deal we’ve been offered would so drastically alter the game as we know it today,” Evans said. “The offers have been so pathetic that it’s hard to even talk about it when we’re informing the guys. We’re $7.6 billion apart [over the life of the proposed deal].

“Again, when you realize all the components that they’re trying to take away, and trying to take out of the [collective bargaining agreement] that’s already in effect — the guaranteed contracts, grandfathering in [contracts], the [salary-cap] exceptions, Larry Bird [rights]. You and I have already talked about this many times, but [players] are really starting to get it and they’re willing to sit out for as long as necessary to get us a fair deal.”

Evans is not thrilled, to say the least, about the owners’ last proposal.

“It’s not my job to critique [David Stern's] salary,” said Evans. “I want him to make money. That’s the whole point is we want everyone to make money.

“But he’s the one who wants everyone to suffer losses. … The guy tells us it’s the recession and all these different things, yet they want to experience all the growth over the next 10 years while we experience none. When you look at it that way, it’s extremely disappointing.”

The players are ready to negotiate, Evans said. They will make more concessions. But they are willing to miss this whole year or more if the owner’s do not meet them halfway.

Meanwhile, for the first time since before he arrived at Skidmore College, Eddy Curry has become more than a rumor, more than an expiring contract, more than a gigantic waste of soft hands and nimble feet and impressive touch. He’s now ammunition for the owners. Ammunition for Stern. A $60 million warning that guaranteed contracts can go frighteningly wrong.

I care that Jeff Green traveled to the White House to meet with a crew of wounded veterans called the Wounded Warriors. It’s a kind gesture from Green and obviously a wonderful cause. Green should be commended for his work in the community, and especially because he offered his time to soldiers who risked their lives for our country, soldiers who now need wheelchairs to play basketball.

But when it comes to rooting for basketball players (programming note: I’m going to sound quite cold-hearted in three… two… one…), I root for their athletic prowess and on-court mentality, not the extent of their community service. Hell, sometimes I don’t even need a reason to root for one player or root against another one. Cheering for sports teams and players can become confusing.

Producing on the court or on the field is the best way to earn praise. That’s why Albert Haynesworth has a chance to become a Gillette fan favorite, even though the former Pro Bowl defensive lineman is, by all accounts, a king-sized dunce. Judging by my Facebook feed, Chad Ochocinco has already become a fan favorite, the oversized personality with a smile as quick as his first step, even though he comes to Foxboro with a reputation as a locker room distraction. Manny Ramirez was a king in Boston until his oddities began to outweigh his fierce bat, Rajon Rondo’s a king although the Celtics once nearly traded him for behavioral issues, and fans could always overlook Glen Davis’s quirkiness until his production started to dwindle.

Then there’s Kevin Garnett, who could commit five or six murders and still be on my A-list of players to root for. I would even root for Garnett if he possessed all the talent of Mikki Moore, because Garnett plays the game like a lion would — you know, if lions could play basketball. Hell, he plays the game like Nicky Santoro.

Santoro was the muscle man in Casino. Watching that movie last night for the first time (I fell asleep in the middle of it, so don’t spoil anything — yes, I feel a little bit like my father when I pass out during the middle of a movie, and no, that’s never a good thing), I was taken aback when Santoro stabbed someone to death (or close to it) with a pen (I think), all because the person had called Santoro’s friend Ace Rothstein an asshole. I can’t quite envision Garnett stabbing someone to death with a pen (he prefers the ball-tap method of violence), but when Rothstein began to describe Santoro, I kept thinking of Number Five.

“You beat Nicky with fists, he comes back with a bat,” said Rothstein. “You beat him with a knife, he comes back with a gun. And if you beat him with a gun, you better kill him, because he’ll keep coming back and back until one of you is dead.”

Delonte West lives by the Nicky Santoro rules, too, and I don’t say that to open a discussion about his gun charges. I meant to say that West plays basketball by the Nicky Santoro rules. Celtics fans immediately forgave the lefty for his crimes, for allegedly meeting Lebron James’s mother for entertainment purposes (how’s that for a euphemism?), and for missing three quarters of the season due to injury. We forgave Delonte for all his past digressions because we knew that when Dwyane Wade beat Delonte with his fists during the playoffs, Delonte would come back with a bat. The bat might not always connect, but if Delonte goes down, he goes down swinging (pun intended). He’s no J.D. Drew.

As you already knew, choosing players to root for can be a complicated process. I liked Scal because he was goofy and I disliked Andrew DeClerq for the same reason. I liked Stephon Marbury because he was interesting and outspoken, but Sam Cassell’s personality bothered me to no end. I disliked Nate Robinson for his “whenever and wherever” shot selection, but I still hold a soft spot in my heart for Antoine Walker. I loathed Tony Allen because he took too many chances and I was lukewarm on Marquis Daniels because he didn’t take enough.

Maybe I should like Jeff Green because he helps wounded soldiers, and I definitely admire what he did. But when it comes to rooting for sports figures, I prefer Nicky Santoro to Mother Teresa. Or sometimes, I just prefer Scal.

While Isiah Thomas spends his days devising the perfect plan to convince Donnie Walsh that signing Kwame Brown for $66 million over six years is the next step to building a winner, I figured now would be as good a time as ever to make a few recommendations for the next person the Knicks should hire. Read more »

(Watch this highlight tape. It’s 100% worth it.)

I don’t know why I still feel compelled to blog about Stephon Marbury news. I really don’t. I guess it’s just because he’s an interesting guy who used to be an NBA All-Star but now loves U-Streaming, eating vaseline and selling his company for a single dollar.

But I am sad to say Marbury will not be taking his talents to the NBA next season. He re-signed in China with the team he played for last season.

Also, about that report that said Marbury turned down a chance to play for the Heat? Bogus, says Marbury, and I have no choice but to believe him. After all, why in the world would the Miami Heat ever want Stephon Marbury?

The Miami Heat told Stephon Marbury they wanted him… and he wasn’t interested?

Stephon Marbury said Friday he is still looking for a chance to play in China again though the Miami Heat showed interests in signing the point guard.

The fomer NBA All-Star guard said the Heat contacted him through the player association of the NBA before LeBron James announced he would join in Miami on a live televesion show.

“I’ll wait and see what’ll happen,” Marbury said during an interview with local media at the tom.com.

“They (the Heat) wanted a point guard. But I don’t think a point guard would do much in the team as they’ve already had the Three Guys (Dwyane Wade, LeBron James and Chris Bosh).”

Let’s see. You can either a) stay in your home country, play with two of the game’s top three players and have a very realistic shot at an NBA championship, or b) return to China, where you get paid $25,000 a month and would once in a while get the chance to watch two of the game’s top three players on TV. It’s an easy decision, right? I mean, China in a landslide. It’s easier to average 12 dimes and 3 assists there.