this is way too much, I need a moment

6:00 am. The sun had risen. Birds were chirping. I had been up for nearly three hours, glued to the screen, not wanting to roll over or scratch my nose in fear that I would a) disrupt my decent internet connection or b) disrupt the force that enables you, sports fan, to influence the outcome of a game 7,000 miles away. I hadn't even made coffee. I had eaten a few frenzied mentos in a panic in the third quarter and now my breath tasted vaguely of orange and sleep.
Watching professional basketball in a place seven hours ahead of the east coast requires a frightening level of commitment. This was an important game, not only because the Celtics-that-everyone-gave-up-on could potentially make to the Finals by beating the soul-less Heat (I bet Perk was thrilled/terrified at the prospect) but because it might be the last time to see ALL DAY RAY RAY in that brilliant green. I had to watch it all. I had to be there.
Armed with espn radio, gamecast and an arsenal of illegal streaming options (espn3, some guy filming espn in his living room, etc.), I tuned in at 3:42am, just in time to catch a Ray Allen three. It was an auspicious start. There were moments of elation. There were moments of despair. There were absolutely beautiful shots and Rondo gems and there were terrifying this-is-what-we-are-up-against LeBlocks that knocked the wind out of you. The first half was glorious. Everyone was on fire. Ray kept knocking 'em down. And then we got tired. Or they dug deep and found some frightening motivation in the fear/arrogance nexus. I don't know what happened. Sometimes all of my windows would just freeze and I would be there, in silence, frantically clicking back and forth to try and see what was going on. It was no use. It got away. Something that had gone from certain to possible to impossible to absolutely not to they'll give it a try to trust that ol' Celtics pride to they should do this to they'd better do this to they'll never do this to HEY THIS MIGHT HAPPEN...just didn't.

And the worst part is that you simply like watching them play. All you want to do is spend time with them. It's a routine. It's something to think about. In the post-season, it's that manic all-or-nothing obsession. You can't make any plans because of games. You notice little things night to night: consistencies, inconsistencies, shoe laces. You wake up at 3am. It's exhausting. And then, head in your hands, it's over. You can no longer do the thing you wanted to do. There is no way to watch them anymore. You never, ever appreciated it when you had it. The screen goes black, the gamecast stops updating and it's 6:30am. You're sitting there, in your Ray Allen t-shirt that you slept in, sunlight streaming through the window, your lap hot from your computer, tears welling up because it's gone. And all you want is for it to be 3:42am again, when anything was possible.