Lunch with Pat Donnelly. Part 2
Ya know, me Ma used ladel ‘ere; she ran the joint, brought most of the cheddar home; the old man, he played the odds—usually lost!”
If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.
NBA teams down 0–3 in a best-of-seven series are 0–150 in coming back to win. Not a cause for optimism. Can the ‘Tics break the curse?
The Celtics made a start, at least, taking out Game 4 at Miami’s Kaseya Center 116–99. Solid defence, forced turnovers, and greater productivity from their starters helped to stop Miami’s momentum. This is after Coach Joe Mazzulla shouldered much of the blame for an abject loss in game 3, where the Celtics turned in a game of unforced turnovers, missed shots, technical fouls, open-prison defence, and incessant whinging at the officials. It all led to a 128–102 drubbing.
Mazzulla said, “I just didn’t have ‘em ready to play; I should have. Whatever it was, I had to get them in a better place. That’s on me—I think they’re doing everything they can—I didn’t execute the right game plan. It’s on me to be better so they can play better.”
Honourable, but a little bit ridiculous if truth be told. Mazzulla’s trump card, Jayson Tatum, was ice-cold again with just 14 points, a bunch of missed three-pointers and several turnovers. Jaylen Brown was equally frigid on a no-show night for the starters.
And what did ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly think?
Last time out, we left Pat sitting at Mul’s diner bar with a mug of tar-black American coffee and breakfast on the way. It went something like this:
“What’s up, kid? Watta you doin’ here? I thought ya only liked the bars!” Pat said mischievously.
“Well, Pat, I’m actually here looking for you and wondering where you’ve been.”
“That’s a story, kid. Those fackin’ Celtics, I tell ya, something’s up.”
At this point, the Celtics were 2-3 down and had to play Game 6 in Miami. They did have momentum; however, back-to-back wins on the road were unlikely—and, unlikely is just how Pat likes to roll.
Before we get to the basketball, I wanted to check if everything was good with Pat. After all, I had never seen him without a beer or using a knife and fork before!
Pat disliked food, especially healthy options, and only occasionally tolerated diner food. I was curious about Pat’s order.
“Kid, I don’t do suppah, right? Breakfast I tolerate, usually ‘ere, the scran is pretty sweet. Ya know me Ma used ladel ‘ere; she ran the joint, brought most of the cheddar home; the old man, he played the odds—usually lost!” Never went to Shirley, though!” Pat laughed.
Pat’s father was a union worker, and if you don’t get the Southie speak, his mother worked in the diner.
“What did ya say?” His noggin’ wasn’t on today.
“Ahh, I just wondered what you ordered,” I replied.
“The usual, kid. Plain Omelette, bacon on the side, and pancakes, King’s ransom, know what I’m sayin’?
Pat’s food was out pronto. The patrons knew him, although he gave little back in acknowledgment. It might be shyness.
To be sure, though, if he ate the ‘king’s ransom’ every day of it, it might be ‘big’ over ‘slim’—three full plates filled the counter.
My food followed, and we sat in relative silence working our way through the various plates—they clearly like to keep the dishwashers busy at Mul’s! I finished what I was going to eat, ahead of Pat, which gave me some time to formulate the Celtics dialogue.
Pat beat me to the punch, “Wat you reckon, kid? Fill the gap?” The black pudding and beans were good. “Absolutely, Pat, the food was great.” “And da eggs, wat yeh call that, messed-up?” “No, Pat, we call that scrambled.” “Ya not wrong there, kid!” “Fackin’ scrambled eggs, what next!”
And to the basketball.
“Pat, you mentioned you thought there was something wrong with the Celtics?” “What was that?” I offered, with a dose of circumspection.
Pat took a swig from his “caw-fee” and leaned in closer.
“You know what kills me, kid? I told ‘em, I told ‘em too many times to focus on their fackin’ defence. But, like the broads, they don’t listen. They ‘fink it’s all about scoring points—the three-doosers. Well, lemme tell ya, you can’t win games without solid defence, ‘specially when you’ve got that Butler dude pulling all kinda tricks. And, don’t get me started on Caleb Martin; he’s cutting us up into confetti!”
Pat continued, the audience now growing.
Butler, ya gotta fit him like a damn glove. He’s one tricky roller; gotta friggin’ r’spect im.” “What we do? Let ‘im run the damn floor like he’s one uv us. I don’t get it for a minute.”
I nodded agreeingly, knowing that Pat would be on the money.
Pat’s no dummy when it comes to the basketball caper. The Heat have turned the tables on the Celtics. Showing more heart and belief. Their defence has been exactly what Pat asked of the Celtics; their hustle and speed have lapped their more fancied opponents. And as for Jimmy Butler, I have to agree with Pat, he’s run the show from start to finish!
A change of tack.
“So, where have you been hiding, Pat? “I haven’t seen you around lately.”
Pat sniggered, his eyes rolling. “Ah, ya know, kid, there’s times a man needs a break—not a Shirley break though!” Pat bellowed with laughter. He went on, “Southie’s damn crowded with all these newbie places poppin’ up. Can’t even recognise the old ‘hood anymore.” “Makes ya wanna barf everywhere; just needed some Pat time, know what I’m sayin’” “Not Shirley time, tho, hahaha.” “Stay away from the big-house, kid!”
“I agree, Pat; the place is changing, and in too much of a hurry, like a stubborn teenager.” “Ya damn right, kid,” Pat replied. Kudos from an icon to a blow-in, a heady nod there!
Pat smirked, a whimsical look in his eyes. “Mul’s is a damn institution, though. Been comin’ here since I was a bairn. Still the best breakfast around. Stick ya fancy brunch crap in the trunk—with the wise guys, just good ol’ breakfast and lunch.” Pat added.
Not wanting to discredit his newfound appreciation of food, I went back to basketball and game 6 in Miami. “So, Pat, what’s your take on the Celtics’ chances in Game 6?”
He wiped his mouth clear of the black tar coffee and leaned in like a post-up forward.
“Well, kid, we’ve seen the green haul ‘emselves off the floor before, and no doubting there in a tough spot. The talent’s there; the will is also. They gotta know the ‘hood has their backs; play like it’s a damn pick-up game down the local courts. No Game 7 if they can’t pull off the heist. It’s gotta be a miracle in Miami, kid. Ya, know what am sayin’?”
I nodded, continually impressed by Pat’s passion. “You’re right, Pat. They need to play with freedom; process over outcome.” I held my breath; that sounded way too technical. Nothing came back, I continued. “Boston deserves a championship team.” I’m not sure on what grounds I am qualified to make such a statement. Anyway, I did.
Pat smiled without conviction. “Ya friggin’ right, kid. This ‘ere is a sports town to the core. We bleed green for the Celts. We truly believe there’s unfinished business.”
Pat finished his coffee, and I just stared at mine, wishing for it to evaporate. There was a clatter of dishes out back, more food being ordered, and fresh scran appearing. As we got up to leave, Pat slapped me on the back; maybe a sign of Southie comradeship!
“Thanks for finding me, kid. Good to have someone to talk Celtics with. Here’s hopin’ the boys bring Game 7 back to Boston. I wanna see Butler and Martin with me own peepers; Smart will fit them both with straight-jackets. Mark those words, kid!”
I smiled and shook his hand with renewed optimism. “No problem, Pat. It’s always good to chat with you, my friend. Take care, and I’ll see you after Game 7.” “Sully’s Tap Room?”
“You damn right, kid. Ya starting to get the caper, know what I’m sayin?” Pat laughed for the last time.
As I walked back to the train, I couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of hope for the Celtics and Pat. If there was one person who believed in them, it was ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly, the Southie local with a heart as big as Boston itself.
And maybe, just maybe, his unwavering faith would inspire the team to break the dreaded 0–3 curse. The ride back to Beverly was a good one, even if the views couldn’t quite match what I felt inside.
Nick
