Mea Culpa, Mea Idiot, Mea Sorry, Celtics

It's been a long thirteen days.

Two weeks ago, in some kind of chemically imbalanced stupor, I announced on these esteemed pages I had become a Lakers fan.

I have regretted it ever since. And no, not because of the L.A.'s putrid performance during the Finals.

Within seconds after pushing "PUBLISH POST" that night, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Ten minutes later I was on the phone with Fornelli near tears: "Dude, what is wrong with me? I love the Celtics. I friggin' hate the Lakers!" [Editor's Note: She did. It was hysterical.]

Fornelli, ever sympathetic, called me an idiot and laughed. (And he's my best friend because....?)

I toyed with deleting the post but it was too late. The die had been cast. I had put it out there for all five of you to see.

I longed to publicly recant that silly, babbling crock of crap and ask for forgiveness from the ghosts of Red and DJ. I even had a post ready to go.

But then the Lakers went 0-2.

So I sat here for the last week, rooting for L.A. to win, not because I had the slightest desire to see them prevail but because I figured if they at least tied the series, I could publish an "I Was Blogging Under the Influence" post and no one would accuse me of being a fair-weather fan. This, I brilliantly reasoned, would allow me to preserve what was little was left of my dignity.

Thanks, Lakers. Yet another reason to hate your guts.

I've struggled to understand what prompted my temporary moment of insanity and have come up with this.

The stereotype is true: People here in Los Angeles basically don't care about anything except their tans and whether anyone notices their tans. Most especially, they don't care about sports. (Don't tell me about USC and UCLA. Yeah, there are hardcore boosters but trust me, for the most part it's about tailgating and networking than true love.)

There's a reason this town doesn't have an NFL team. NO ONE GIVES A SHIT.

But all that seemed to change a few weeks ago. For the first time since I moved to the Left Coast, you could feel some genuine excitement in the air about a sports team. L.A. turned purple and gold, glittering like one of those rare nights here after it's been drizzling. The whole city felt like it was ready for a hot date.

It was fun. It felt good.

But in truth, it was more of a drunken one-night stand, when you wake up and discover that gorgeous guy you went to bed with has a bald spot, a beer belly and bad breath.

Fortunately for me, my Catholic upbringing opens the door to forgiveness following confession.

So tonight...

... after I watched Doc Rivers embracing his son... Russell embracing Hondo... Paul Pierce joyfully hoisting the MVP trophy over his head... Tommy and Danny cheering... KG tearfully screaming, "Anything is possible, anything is possible!" up to the heavens...

... after all that, I shed a few tears of joy myself, went outside, looked up at the moonlaced sky and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Red."

Just then, I saw a plane come over the horizon. As its ruby landing lights flickered, I could have sworn it looked just like a cigar being lit.