An Apology for the A(in)ges

Do you believe in Christmas miracles? Witness an Irish, Boston sports fan admit she’s wrong. Here’s looking at you, Danny.

It’s the season of giving, and self-reflection. We’re not proud of everything we’ve said about celebrities who may not have deserved it over the years. Now is our chance to set the record straight. Side Streets cofounder Alex Lane does her best to make amends.

Dear Danny,

I have a secret.

It’s something most people don’t learn about me until I’m a few Bud Lights deep at a local bar, and someone invariably starts talking Boston sports. They’ll pose one of those late-night, “what-if” questions.

“What if the ’07 Pats had pulled it off?”

“What if Buckner had stopped that ball?”

“What if Marc Savard never got hurt?”

It’s right around this time that I’m surveying the crowd, trying to assess whether to go there, or to back away quietly. But, I’m Irish, I’m from Boston, and — at that point — I’ve been drinking. It’s the trifecta. I like to stir the pot. You know how it is, right, Danny? So, without fail, I ask “What if Danny Ainge wasn’t such a scumbag, and never broke up the Big Three?”

And my secret comes out.

I hate you, Danny. And I have for a long time. It’s been a grassroots campaign, championed by me, and me alone, for many years. People bring you up in conversation and my eyes roll so hard that I’m afraid I might strain them. I groan, and get all fired up about the most recent ways that you’ve wronged me, my city, and my beloved Celtics.

You see, I was born after the rise and fall of the era of the original Big Three. But, I grew up loving Bird, Parish, and McHale. And, by association, hearing all about how scrappy you were, how antagonistic you could be on the court, and rewatching clips from the ’84 and ’86 seasons where you fifth-wheeled your way to stardom. I also learned how whiny you could be (Moaning Mormon, anyone?), how you skipped out on a binding contract, and just generally, how punchable your face was.

By all accounts, you should be one of my favorite players. Instead, it became really easy to see you as the tag-along little brother who was just annoyingly always there.

Then you came back to Boston, and this city welcomed you with open arms. You were the pugnacious, Prodigal Son returning home, and I got to see you in a new light.

You made big moves — Antoine Walker, Rajon Rondo, Kevin Garnett. You worked to build up the organization that had built you. We appreciated you.

For most of my life, I had heard about the athleticism and personality of those ’80s-era Celtics players. I had fallen in love with basketball by hearing about how they rallied the city, and helped build the mentality of grit and gusto that Boston is famous for.

And then, in the aughts, you brought me my own version of them to root for.

When Paul Pierce joined the team in 1998, I was just old enough to become attached, and just young enough to not know that I shouldn’t. I watched him adopt this city as his own, and vice-versa. He became my Celtic. I had pictures of him in my locker at school, and watched him finesse on the court every chance I got.

When you brought in Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett, building out the new and improved Big Three, the whole city knew we had something special. You’d done good. They brought us championships, sure. But more importantly, they gave us something to root for. They were invigorating. They had spunk, and heart. They loved the game, and they loved this city.

But then in 2012, rumors started floating that you were going to break them up. I was baffled. I was hurt. I had trusted you. I felt betrayed, Danny. And as someone who puts loyalty above just about everything else, there aren’t many things more detrimental than that. The fuse of hatred was lit.

You broke up the trio, and removed the heart of the Celtics organization. The heart, Ainge. Ever heard of it?

I was so mad. Not just because I loved Pierce (which, I’m still not over, by the way) or KG as much as I did, but because it felt like you were taking this team, this organization, this living thing that I love, and putting it on a shelf. It felt like you were coming in, and taking it — that thing to believe in — away from us.

I called you heartless. I called you arrogant. I called you a dick. In my mind, you had truly earned your nickname “Trader Dan,” and I never thought I could forgive you.

But here we are, Danny Boy. I’m putting this thing behind me, and I’ll tell you why.

Because you were right.

I’ve watched — through gritted teeth — while you put the pieces in place to build this organization back into the powerhouse it deserves to be. Bringing in Brad Stevens to lead was gutsy. Letting Isaiah Thomas act as something shiny you used to distract us while you built out the team around him was brilliant. Trading him was the smartest thing I think you’ve ever done.

I’m ready to apologize, Danny — not because I agree with everything you’ve done, or how you’ve done it, but — because I see the heart coming back.

I know, now, that sometimes a thing doesn’t seem broken until you start to fix it. I get it. You were fixing a thing that no one else thought needed fixing.

So, in the spirit of the holidays, here it is: my apology.

I’m sorry for calling you names, day dreaming about your failure, and wishing for the opportunity to publicly snub you. That’s my bad. I see now that we both want the same thing: to have something worth fighting for, and when blood is drawn, for it to be green.

I hope you can forgive me.

Happy Holidays,

Alex