Running For Our Lives in Boston
Lakers’ finals victory over Celtics sets off fan lynch mob
Trigger Warning: This true story contains profanity, and derogatory slurs that the writer finds offensive.
My friend Ted and I were sitting in the bar of the Hilton Hotel, located a couple of blocks away from the TD Garden, the home of the Boston Celtics.
The Los Angeles Lakers and Celtics had split the first two games of the 2010 NBA Finals at Staples Center, and we decided to see two of the next three games in Boston.
We were picking a group of Los Angeles sportscasters’ brains on the Laker players’ mindsets a few hours before Game Three of the NBA Finals.
Seeing us wearing our Laker jerseys, Steve Hartman of KTLA gave us this warning about Celtics fans:
“Don’t go into the bathrooms, whatever you do. Many Lakers fans have been beaten up in those bathrooms over the years.”
The rest of the sportscasters started chiming in as well.
“You guys are crazy to wear Lakers jerseys to the Garden.”
“Don’t look any of them in the eye.”
“You might want to consider running if the Lakers win.”
We knew of the Celtics fans' reputation as crazy, violent drunks and knew they hated the Lakers with a fury, including any and everything about the city of Los Angeles, and were about to find out their reputation was true.
As a kid, I remember watching the Boston Celtic fans screaming into the television camera. They foamed at the mouth with rage over the slightest thing and then danced in the aisles after they beat the Lakers.
That crowd looked like it would kill, dismember, and devour any and all Laker fans — young and old, female or male — with a heartbeat.
But as I grew older, my fears of these angry Celtic fans faded and I really wanted to see the Lakers play the Celtics in Boston.
Now that we were here and heard the warning from LA sportscasters, it all of a sudden became real.
This was going to be crazy.
We waited until five minutes before the tip to head over so the Boston fans would be in their seats and we could get in safely without being hassled.
As we jogged up the street towards the arena, we saw a large crowd outside the arena, holding a Celtics pep rally.
Our purple and gold №. 32 Magic Johnson jerseys really stood out in the sea of Celtics green. We immediately got the crowd’s attention. They were outraged to see us, but weren’t too drunk yet — so we never felt threatened.
But the insults flew like crazy from all directions.
“Fuck, the Lakers!”
“We’re gonna beat the shit out of LA!”
“Magic Johnson sucks!”
We kept our heads down, got through the seething crowd, passed the door, and made a beeline to our seats. There would be no pre-game beers or, for that matter, anything to drink after what the LA sportscasters told us.
There was no way in hell we would have to pee during this game!
Thinking ahead, we decided to get the best seats in the reserved section, which was called the Boston Garden Society section. We thought that if we sat with people who spent $500 and up for seats, they would be a bit older and not quite as dangerous.
We were half right.
Our white-collar seat neighbors were not going to beat us up, but as the game progressed and they got more and more drunk, they got more and more obnoxious with us. These businessmen and lawyers were as profane as the construction workers we passed in the lobby.
The Lakers jumped ahead of the Celtics after the first quarter and kept a 10–point lead most of the game — keeping the crowd tame and in their seats.
But as the game got deeper into the fourth quarter, the score tightened. With two minutes left, Celtic All-Star center Kevin Garnett hit a jump shot trimming the lead to 82–80.
The crowd was screaming for Laker blood.
It felt like a giant spotlight had been turned on us, as hundreds of Boston fans below and to the side of us were flipping us off and screaming.
“Fuck you, Lakers!”
“Fucking queers!”
We looked at each other and thought, Was this a good idea, after all?
And then, all of a sudden, the momentum of the game changed again.
With about a minute left, Kobe Bryant hit a jumper, Boston’s Ray Allen missed a three-pointer, and Derek Fisher grabbed the rebound.
Instead of slowing the ball down, Fisher took off with the ball.
He flew past Garnett at half court and had the angle on Glen “Big Baby” Davis and Allen to the basket. Just as Fisher put the ball up with his outstretched left hand he was clobbered by three Celtics.
It brought back memories of Boston’s Kevin McHale clotheslining Laker Kurt Rambis in the 1984 NBA Finals in Boston.
We were jumping up and down and screaming. The crowd started throwing things at us, and — lost in the moment — we didn't think about an exit plan.
But when Kobe stole the ball from Garnett with 20 seconds left in the game — and the Lakers ahead 89–82 — a chill suddenly ran down my spine.
We might’ve stayed a little too long.
Now, we had to try to exit the arena.
Reaching the concourse, we started running down the escalator. Trash flew at us in every direction, and each group we passed screamed for our heads.
“Lakers suck!”
“Get out of our town!”
When we got to the doors, we saw that a crowd had formed behind us. It felt like we might be lynched since they were seething with resentment.
We ran up to the Boston police officers who had formed a phalanx outside the door and appealed to them for help.
“Hey, these people are going to kill us, do something!”
One of them sneered at us and responded with the now classic line:
“Only fah-gots w-ah puhr-ple!” the bitter cop said in a strong Boston accent.
The pitiless police then turned away and left us to our fate.
By this time I wasn’t even surprised. Ted and I took off running full speed down the street toward our hotel, sprinting with a life-and-death urgency.
A crowd was right behind us. I saw a bar a few doors down. I tried to open the glass door to get us to safety.
A patron smiled at me and then locked it.
I was out of breath and drenched in sweat, but we kept running and finally made it to the safe harbor of our hotel.
We outran a bunch of insane, drunken, middle-aged Celtics fans, but I think some of the younger and faster ones chickened out.
They could have got ahold of us if they’d wanted to.
But maybe, like their team, the fan’s bark is worse than their bite.
The Lakers won the series in seven games.
Sitting seven rows behind the basket at Los Angeles’ Staples Center in Game Seven and watching the Lakers beat the Celtics for the NBA championship ranks as my greatest sports thrill of all-time.
The image of Kobe, Pau Gasol, and Phil Jackson celebrating will forever be etched in my memory — till the day I die.
I’ll never forget Metta World Peace’s three-pointer at the end of the game to take the lead. I can still see Sasha Vujacic trembling at the free-throw line as he hit two free throws to clinch the game in the final seconds.
But these aren’t the only things I’ll remember.
I’ll also flashback to our trip to Boston and that cop calling us “purple wearing faggots.” I’ll never forget those obnoxious Celtic fans who pelted us with trash and serenaded us with screams of “Fuck LA!”
And I will definitely never forget running for our lives down a street in Boston chased by a mob of drunken Bostonians.
And living to tell the tale.
It made me hate the Celtics and their idiot fans even more.
And it made that 2010 championship the sweetest of them all.
Thanks for reading my story.
I apologize to my gay friends for the language in this story. It certainly doesn’t represent my views, but this is a true story. These words were really yelled at us!
