Editor’s note: This is the next chapter of a book I’m writing this summer. You can read the previous chapters here: The Preface. Chapter 1. Chapter 2.

As always, I will keep the site updated with Celtics news. But since it’s the offseason (damn it) and news is slower than Michael Sweetney’s metabolism, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to share some of my personal story.

– Jay

*****

When you’re beginning the first day of second grade, you worry about the important things: do my New Balance sneakers look good with my Umbro shorts? Did any girls get cuter over the summer, even if I don’t have the courage to talk to them no matter what? My mom packed string cheese and Hi-C Ecto Cooler for snack, right? Is my desk near any of my friends? Do I have any food stuck in my teeth?

So when I saw James Chen for the first time, wearing a backpack with Chinese symbols on it, donning some strange combination of clothes that was more Samurai warrior than suburban Massachusetts second grader, head and shoulders taller than every other second grader and even the third and fourth graders, being walked into class by his parents, who seemed tall enough that they could reach up and burn their fingers on the sun, I was too preoccupied to understand that I had just caught a glimpse of my first best friend.

If I had met James later in life, we never would have become friends. Not because I became less open-minded in the coming years, but because later in life, you become content with your own group of friends, your own life. James moved to Longmeadow without knowing a single word of English. The seven-year old me saw that as something intriguing, something new and exciting, something that made me eager to invite James to my house and to help him develop his English skills and to embrace him as my friend. The current me would have seen James’s choppy (at best) English and seen it as a barrier keeping us from becoming friends, then went back to my own familiar group of friends to drink a few beers and play a round of golf.

But I was seven years old then, and James, with his Chinese speech, Chinese snacks and Chinese clothes, was the most interesting person I had ever met. It took less than a week for me to invite him over my house. He still couldn’t speak but he could write fluently, and my mom brought a chalk easel for him to spell his thoughts. On that easel, I learned that James and I had more in common than I thought. At the risk of making James sound like a stereotype, he excelled at math and was more driven to succeed than any student in my class. I would later grow into a teacher’s worst nightmare – a lazy underachiever always prepared with a wise-ass quip (one teacher used to make me stand in a chalk circle at the back of the classroom, with my back facing the class and my nose at the wall) – but in second grade, I was like James, smart and driven, the type of student who made a teacher’s job simple. More importantly to our friendship, of course, James shared my love of basketball. His father had played for the Chinese National Basketball Team and James loved the sound of ball snapping through net, that beautiful symphony, as much as I did. So we put the easel aside and brought a couple basketballs out of the garage to shoot around.

Not to sound corny, but, well, I’m about to sound corny: when we shot around that day, the first time I shared a basketball court with my new best friend James Chen, we both spoke the same language. I’ve heard people say you can learn more about someone while shooting around for half an hour than you can by speaking to them for an entire day. Maybe that’s true, maybe not, but shooting does offer a window into a person’s personality. If both rebounds bounce in the same spot, does the person rebound his own first and let you get yours? Or does he rebound your ball first, pass it to you, then chase after his own? Does he say thanks when you rebound his misses? Chide himself after missing shots? The answers to those questions might not define a person’s character. But they mean something.

James was tall, a Sequoia tree compared to me, but his jump shot floated toward the rim like a feather dropped from above. He did not say thanks after I rebounded his misses, but that’s because he still did not speak a word of English. When my rebounds dropped anywhere in his vicinity, James chased them down. His passes hit me right in the fingertips, the seams already lined up for my shots. James was well-schooled by his basketball-playing father, I could tell instantly. He could also shoot. A center by height, a point guard by desire, James let fly with outside shots that did not even wake the net as they fell through. When James missed, he muttered to himself. I could not understand what he was saying, since it was in Chinese, but from the tone I knew he hated missing shots. This interesting kid, this new Chinese boy, my first best friend, my team’s next starting center, was a fierce competitor.

He was also a smart competitor. In second grade, I still played in-town basketball, the same league my team had won the season before. The league had a rule about coaches: if two or more parents decided to coach together, their sons would all be on the same team. Naturally, since winning and losing is supposed to mean nothing at that age, assistant coaches almost always had All-Star sons. The rule was only one of the league’s odd ones, another being that there were no traveling violation calls. Because his services were a package deal with his son, there was almost a full-fledged steel-caged match to recruit Mr. Chen as an assistant coach. He couldn’t commit any time whatsoever to coaching and probably wouldn’t even be able to attend any games, but his son was a 5’6 second grader with range to the three-point arc  – thus, Mr. Chen became the most prized recruit in town. Eventually, he chose to coach my team. I think Mr. Chen decided to coach my team (and I say the term coach in its loosest fashion) because I was his son’s best friend in town. Or maybe it was the fully-loaded Lexus and mysterious duffle bag filled with $30,000 that changed his mind. One way or the other, James became my teammate.

Our team (the blue team) advanced to the semifinals, and we were the clear favorites. But everything fell apart on a Saturday morning. My whole family attended the semifinals, most of them sipping Dunkin Donuts coffee – when they weren’t screaming at the refs, at least. In my second year, I had stopped shaking like a massage chair every time I scored a bucket. I had grown too cool for that. Instead, after every make, I grinned like I had just met Santa Claus. But that day, I didn’t do much grinning and neither did my teammates.

We were a star-studded team, the cream of the crop, the Larry Bird-Kevin McHale-Robert Parish Boston Celtics playing against a bunch of teams that were more like the Beno Udrih-Omri Casspi-Tyreke Evans Sacramento Kings. But some days, the ball just doesn’t fall, and that Saturday was one of those days. The game went back and forth, brick after brick, turnover after turnover, like a “Tony Allen’s Greatest Bloopers” clip. Eventually my team fell behind by one point. I don’t remember the exact score, but it couldn’t have been much more than 16-15. We fouled the other team with five seconds left, and we needed a miss. It came, and James corralled the rebound. In a flash of brilliance, perhaps the most intelligent play a seven-year old ever made, James remembered the “no traveling violations” rule.

In five seconds or less, James needed to drain a shot to win the game and send us to the finals, where we would have been favorites again. When he calculated the fastest route to the other hoop, he realized dribbling would have only wasted time. The refs didn’t call traveling anyway, so James cradled the ball in his right arm and took off as quickly as he could. He sprinted for the other hoop, all 5’6 of him, his jet black hair standing at attention, opponents trying to keep up, their heads at his shoulders, necks craned up watching this Asian blur pass them by. I watched, stunned, as James carried the ball like a football player, high-stepping his way to the other end. His decision to forego dribbling wasn’t just wise, it was brilliant. In less than five seconds he sprinted downcourt, made a layup, and then celebrated like only a child could, jumping up and down and waving his arms in the air, like a pogo stick flagging down a cab. A few years later, James would learn the Walker Wiggle while rooting for the Celtics and his celebrations would become more choreographed.  But then, Walker was still at Kentucky and when James celebrated, he just looked like a man in extreme distress. Not that it mattered. The blue team had won, James and I had prevailed.

But in that moment while James celebrated, while the other team started wailing, while my aunts, uncles, mom and dad all stood and cheered on the sideline, spilling only a little bit of their Dunkin Donuts coffee, the two referees convened at mid-court.

“Traveling,” one of them said after a few moments.

“There’s no such thing as traveling in this league!” shouted my coach. “We won! We won!”

Winning didn’t matter at that age, remember?

“The traveling rule was made for kids who can’t dribble,” replied one of the refs. “Not for the most skilled player in the league. The basket doesn’t count.”

And with that, two referees wiped away the most intelligent play a second-grader ever made. James cried. He could have dribbled if he wanted to. He could have still made the shot. I walked over and gave my best friend a hug.

A few years later, James and I began our own business. We sold basketball cards online at a website called Courtside Cards. James created the website himself. He was 11 years old.

We were positive the website would make us millions, and two months after we created it, I received my very first pay check. It was for 31 cents. The check came in the mail. James’s father had gotten a job as a professor at Towson State, and the Chens had moved to Baltimore.

It was time to find a new best friend.

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.

When I was in college, I once (and by once, I mean “far too often”) decided not to study for a final exam. I would walk into the classroom on the day of the test, still trying to convince myself I could do okay. “Well, I’ve gone to every class this semester, so I probably picked some things up just by being there,” I would think. “Plus, I’m a little smarter than I look, I’m a decent bullshitter, and, umm, I’m pretty sure this professor likes me.” But no matter how many times I tried to tell myself the test wouldn’t be too bad, I walked into the final accompanied by a sense of impending doom.

Or, the same feeling I got whenever Tony Allen stepped onto the court wearing a Boston Celtics uniform. Allen returns to Boston tonight as a Memphis Grizzly, which seems as good a time as ever to rehash my feelings toward him. That is, if there’s ever a good time to discuss flicking off Doc Rivers every time Allen subbed into a game, or my intense desire to throw my television set out the nearest window, or knowing—just knowing—Allen was about to make the dumbest basketball play earth has ever seen. Remember that time Allen received death threats in Chicago? I’m almost positive they weren’t from me.

In all fairness, I’m too harsh on Allen. He brought positives with him, too. He was tough as nails, the type of guy you definitely don’t want to fight on a team airplane (I’m looking at you, O.J. Mayo). He would defend the other team’s best player every time he stepped on the court, and do at least a reasonable job. At just 6’4, he possessed the quickness, strength, pitbull mentality and versatility to limit Lebron James, Kobe Bryant or Derrick Rose. He was a pest, and he never backed down. Last season, he even became somewhat reliable. It was like watching the girlfriend who always used to cheat on you settle down. No matter how long she remains good to you, you always feel she’s on the verge of making another unfathomable mistake. Okay, maybe that’s not the best example. If you get cheated on that much, just dump the bitch. But what I’m trying to say is that Allen finally settled into his role last year. By the end of the season, when I saw him crying after The Game That Must Not Be Named, I almost liked the guy. Almost.

Alright, I’ve reached (and surpassed) my “Tony Allen compliment” quota. As a Celtics fan, I lived through watching Antoine Walker’s “I only take so many three-pointers because there are no four-pointers” shot selection. I experienced Rasheed Wallace, who never seemed to care about anything except launching ill-advised shots and complaining to any referee within shouting distance. I watched Brett Szabo, Marty Conlon, Gerald Green, Sebastian Telfair, and Vin Baker embarrassing the greatest franchise in basketball history. Yet Tony Allen was the one player who brought me the most frustration. And nobody was close.

Allen didn’t just make mistakes; he made impossibly dumb plays at the worst times imaginable. If the Celtics were tied in the final possession of a game, it seemed like there was a 90% chance Allen would commit a charge. If the Celtics were ahead by two points in the final possession, it seemed like there was a 90% chance Allen would foul a three-point shooter. There wasn’t actually a 90% chance of either of those things happening, of course. But it felt like there was. If my words don’t make sense, you weren’t a Celtics fan during the Tony Allen era. Allen didn’t just walk on the verge of destruction—he constantly rode a bike across a tightrope three miles above the ground.

The Celtics failed to sign Allen this offseason, and it’s tough to tell whether they really tried to. Danny Ainge said they wanted Allen back, but he signed in Memphis for a marginal contract (three years, $10 million) that the Celtics probably could have outbid if they really wanted to.

By all accounts, Allen’s been great this year for Memphis. He’s cut down his turnovers, continued his impressive defense, and remained a difference-maker because of his energy, athleticism and toughness. The Grizzlies blog Three Shades of Blue even wrote after a recent win, “Tony Allen. This guy, right now, is the undisputed leader of the Grizzlies.” Weird, I know. But with the way Allen’s played (combined with the way he played last year), it’s easy to look back and wonder why the Celtics didn’t re-sign him. Then again, watching games is a lot more relaxing now that he’s gone.

All things considered, should we boo Allen tonight, or do we cheer him? I know my answer. As moronically dumb as Allen could be on a basketball court, we never had to worry about his effort. He bounced in and out of Doc Rivers’ rotation but never complained, and even spent most of his bench time excitedly waving a towel in support of his teammates. When he cried after The Game That Must Not Be Named, it wasn’t just because he came so close to winning an NBA title and lost. It was because he’d bought in entirely to Doc’s plan, because he loved his teammates, and because he cared desperately about the Boston Celtics. Tony Allen, though he made a vein appear in my forehead where I never knew one existed, played his ass off.

So I will cheer Allen, loudly. And then I’ll thank my lucky stars that the next time he rides his bike across a tightrope, I won’t be rooting for his team.

Head-body, head-body, head-body. That’s what Micky Ward, or at least Mark Wahlberg playing Mickey Ward, preached would take down opposing fighters.

I’m not sure if Tony Allen used the head-body, head body technique. But it sure sounds like he beat the living bejesus out of O.J. Mayo. (TrueHoop)

Allen, regarded as one of the toughest guys in the league, tried to avoid a confrontation, but Mayo trash-talked Allen for roughly 15 minutes, criticizing his game, bragging about how he was a better basketball player than Allen, about how he was a lottery pick.

Allen was especially bothered by Mayo’s chatter because they have a friendly relationship. Zach Randolph tried to play peacemaker, telling Mayo to stop ribbing Allen, but to no avail.

Finally, Allen had enough and struck Mayo in the face. He then landed a succession of blows to Mayo’s eye, mouth, shoulder and the side of his head. Mayo was able to get off a swing, but Allen ducked to avoid it and then clocked Mayo once more for good measure.

As Apollo Creed said to the young upstart Rocky Balboa, “Ain’t gonna’ be no rematch.”

What the report failed to mention was that TA took a quick break to foul a three-point shooter and overdribble in the paint.

P.S. – Whenever Zach Randolph plays peacemaker, you know you’ve got some serious issues.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that a teammate fought Tony Allen. Hell, if I were his teammate I’d want to fight him too. The only surprise was that the fight didn’t come after a moronic turnover or a fouled three-point shooter; it came after a game of “Boo-Rah,” the same card game that ended in Gilbert Arenas’ gun play.

According to reports, Allen beat O.J. Mayo pretty easily. Which means that, since Allen entered the NBA, two nights ago marked the first time he contributed to a win. I only kid, folks. Though watching Tony Allen caused my hair to gray and my blood to boil, he actually did contribute to a fair amount of wins. A fair amount of losses, too. And a fair amount of heart attacks.

Speaking of Tony Allen, I had a conversation that related to him yesterday. I watched a high school game my friend was coaching, and one of his players was confusing. Why was he so confusing? Well, he worked harder than anybody else on the floor. That was obvious. He was one of those kids with a million-dollar motor. But he was just dumb. He shot when he should have passed, passed when he should have shot, and was never in the right spot on the floor. He tallied a lot of points and rebounds, mostly because he worked harder than everybody else. But he also single-handedly destroyed everything the team was trying to accomplish.

So my friend asked me, “What do you think about Confusing Player X?”

I responded merely, “The Tony Allen conundrum.”

“The Tony Allen conundrum?”

“Yup. You’re going to want to kill Confusing Player X thirty times per game. But does what he offer your team help more than it hurts? If so, play him. If not, sit him on the bench.”

“I have no idea whether he helps more than he hurts, though.”

“I know. Me neither. Thus, the Tony Allen conundrum.”

Speaking of Allen, please read this article’s title: “Tony Allen is becoming unlikely Memphis Grizzlies hero.”

I guess you’re a hero when you punch O.J. Mayo in the face, then step into his position and miss five layups, but somehow still come away 19 points, three steals, two blocks, a game-saving three-pointer, and half a Walker Wiggle. Yes, half a Walker wiggle.

Back to where I started, I’m not at all surprised T.A. fought a teammate. It was bound to happen sometime. And I’m not at all surprised T.A. beat the piss out of his teammate, either. If you could only use one word to describe Tony Allen (and “turnover-prone,” heart-attack-inducing,” “out-of-control,” and “entirely-erratic” weren’t allowed), it would be scrappy, or tough.

Whether you like Tony Allen or hate him, you have no choice but to admire his grit. And to acknowledge the Tony Allen conundrum.

I can’t help it. I still have pent-up anger directed toward Tony Allen. I guess that’s what happens when a player spends the majority of six years inducing near-heart attacks.

Allen’s latest bad decision was his choice to sign in Memphis this offseason. Even though he presumably knew the Celtics offered a better chance to contend, Allen felt overshadowed in Boston. Behind Paul Pierce and Ray Allen, Tony Allen never felt he received a chance to shine. Plus, Danny Ainge didn’t show enough interest in him, didn’t show him enough love. The Grizzlies clearly wanted Allen more during free agency, according to Allen himself.

Howdaya like him now, Memphis? Before the season, even Allen’s own coach questioned his choice to relocate to Memphis. Then Allen received a DNP-CD last night, the first of his Grizzlies career. Before that, Ronald Tillery of the Memphis Commercial Appeal wrote a sentence that will likely have Celtics fans nodding their heads. “Tony Allen,” Tillery wrote, “brought in to be a defensive stopper, seems to be focused more on scoring and has played a bit out of control on both ends.”

Tony Allen, out of control? Who woulda thunk it?

Even Acie Law, Allen’s teammate, expressed disappointment in Allen. “”I could do a whole lot better,” Law said as he discussed the bench’s slow start, before adding, “Tony could give us a little more.”

Allen, for his part, says he just wants to be a mentor.

“I am trying to prepare them to be good players, the best player they can be,’’ Allen told the Boston Globe, causing me to shudder at the thought of Tony Allen, mentor. “I attack them on the offensive end (editor’s note — read: turn the ball over) and the defensive end (editor’s note — read: foul three-point shooters). But everything is to get them better.’’

To be fair, Allen WAS a lot better last year. He developed a valuable role as a defensive stopper and energy man. This offseason, I even thought it might be a good idea for the Celtics to re-sign Allen, if only because the Celtics had mostly veteran minimum contracts to offer outsiders.

But even when Allen was playing well, I held my breath when he entered the game. Even when he made nice plays, I wondered when his next blunder would give me another headache. Even when he played his best, there was always the thought that everything was going to come swiftly tumbling apart. And I haven’t yet brought up his jumper, which — even a few months later — continues to give young Bostonians nightmares.

Still, Allen doesn’t know why Ainge let him leave Boston with little resistance.

“I miss those guys, but as far as [free agency], if [Ainge] wanted me, he would have did what he had to do to get me,’’ Allen told the Globe. “Obviously, it didn’t work out. Why he didn’t reach out and make me a priority, you’d have to ask him. I don’t know.”

Or you could just ask me, Tony. I bet I know why Ainge didn’t make you a priority. On second thought, you probably shouldn’t ask me. My response would probably hurt even more than that DNP-CD.