Dear Paul and Kevin,
I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling this morning. The fact that Ainge went ahead and did it last night — blew up the Boston Celtics — is hard enough for a fan like me to stomach. Like any other C’s partisan with two eyes and a heart, I long ago fell in love with you both. Paul: Our relationship was epic, stormy, spotty, often bittersweet. But it revealed itself, in the end, to be triumphant and true. Kevin: I’ve known you for only six years. Six years! Can you believe it? It feels like forever. And that’s because, in that time, you taught me it doesn’t actually have to take decades for an unbreakable bond to take root; sometimes, it only takes the span of a few emphatic forehead blows to a thinly padded stanchion. And so the fact that you won’t be retiring as Celtics is something I’ll have to process for a bit.
But for you, this is real life. I presume the two of you, at some point last night, huddled together and conjointly decided whether Kevin would waive his no-trade clause and allow this to happen. Surely, you wanted to stay in Boston; surely, you knew doing so might have been detrimental to both yourselves and the team. You didn’t want it to end this way. But you knew it had to. And now here come the particulars: calling the movers, figuring out new school districts for the kids, saying good-bye to friends who’d become as close as family.
Amid all that hullabaloo, as you make your move to Brooklyn, I’d like to try simplify one thing for you: Would you like to come and live with me?
Now, of course, this wouldn’t have to be a permanent thing. It’s more like, while you’re sorting yourself out, you could crash for a while. I live, with my younger brother, in the Prospect Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn. And we are, according to Google Maps, just a 19-minute walk from Barclays Center. A gypsy cab would get us there in a mere eight. If you get bicycles, ooh, forget about it: We’d zoom over there in no time, laughing like schoolchildren the whole way. Which, by the way, I do recommend. Biking is not only healthful, it’s a great way to get around the neighborhood, and it’ll help you fit right in with your new bearded habitués here in Brooklyn, New York. We can have the fixie vs. single-speed conversation later.
You can have our beds, or take the couch, whatever you prefer. The couch is a black pleather Ikea hand-me-down, but in pretty good condition. While the previous owner’s puppy had torn a hole in one of the cushions, we’ve recently upholstered using some duct tape and an old “Free Drama and Cannon” T-shirt, and that’s been holding up surprisingly well.
We’ve also got a replica 2008 World Champions banner hanging in the kitchen, dodgily framed photos of both Mr. Larry Bird and Mr. Bill Russell, and an expansive selection of Celtics T-shirts from which to choose for a wistful, nostalgically comforting sleepwear experience. Hey, who wants dibs on my “I Hate Danny Ainge”?! Jk, jk.
I could give you a tour of the neighborhood, immediately revealing all the greatest spots to cop artisanal cheeses, homemade pickles, freshly picked kale, and the like. (I don’t want to give away all my secrets, but let’s just say Brooklyn Larder has a speck and mozzarella sandwich you’d just about murder a man for.) And there are all kinds of activities we could do! Did you know that Brooklyn’s public pools just opened for the summer season yesterday? Let me tell you: a bike down to the Red Hook pool for a quick dip, followed by a hearty platter of pupusas, is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Conveniently I have many friends in the area. My buddy Nitasha could tell you all about which Battlestar Galactica episodes are the best to watch. My buddy David could teach you the rudimentary techniques of David Lynch–approved transcendental meditation. You’d have a new friend group in no time! Oh, and we have a medium-ish sized flat-screen TV, DVR, and a Nintendo 64 with Mario Kart, NFL Blitz, Star Wars: Shadows of the Empire, Star Wars Episode I: Racer, Starfox, Cruisin’ USA, Zelda, and Diddy Kong Racing. (OK, and 1080 Snowboarding but, honestly, that game kind of blows.) We also have one A/C unit and one box fan. It’s pretty old and rickety but, hey, they make these things to last.
I know what you’re thinking: “Amos, we’re incredibly rich adults. We can live anywhere we want. Bloomberg’d probably rent us the head of the Statue of Liberty if we cut the check. While your offer is gentle and kind — truly, a touching gesture, and a high-water mark for human civility in the 21st century — why in the hell would we want to live with you?” And to that I say: Guys, yes, your beautiful new Cobble Hill penthouse apartment, with its steam room and sauna and herb garden on the balcony overlooking the East River, will manage to be both tasteful and lavish. But it’ll be a house. Move in with me? You’re getting a home.
P.S. The only stipulation is if JET comes over, he’s not allowed to do the airplane dance in the house. Too many breakable figurines.