I dealt with a very serious conflict during this Finals series.

Since I was a wee little munchkin, I’ve loved the Lakers. Loved that they always won, loved Magic Johnson’s smile, loved the logo, loved that they were the glamour club of the league. I was excited to see them make the Finals. Ecstatic, even.

But, as the Finals wore on, I came to realise I was secretly rooting for the Celtics. I had succumbed to the eccentric charms of a team stacked with maniacs. Rasheed and his constant whining, comical tummy fat, and poor attitude. Rajon and his dull-eyed killer stare and ability to weave to the hoop at will. Big Baby and his ranting and saliva. And, of course, Kevin and his creepy intensity. 

I struggled throughout the Finals, my heart pulling me one way, my head the other. ‘I can’t betray my Lakers,’ I thought. ‘They’re my boys. My team.’  

But fuck it. I didn’t grow up in Los Angeles. Never even been there. I love the sport of basketball more than I like the Lake Show.

In the end, I’m happy Kobe got that 5th chip. Ron’s demented post-game interview reaffirmed just how much I like the man. Fisher crying almost got me a little teary. It’s nice that the team I’ve rooted for since the 4th grade just went back-to-back.

But my heart can’t lie. I wanted to see the Celtics win. That oddball group of wrong-headed goons, spastic whiners, and cold-hearted killers. 

(Three Bs).