There are three levels of fandom: an enthusiastic devotee, an ardent admirer, and a fanatic. Okay, so at first I was No. 1, an enthusiastic devotee. Then I became No. 2, an ardent admirer. But when I reached No. 3, a full-fledged fanatic, I was kind of baffled. How had this happened? How had that little word, “fan,” embedded in that big word, “fanatic,” taken over my moderate interest in the Celtics? Probably because of my three adorable brothers-in-law collectively screaming into their streaming phone calls, “No way! That wasn’t a foul. Don’t jinx it! Don’t jinx it! Tatummmm, I love you!”
So now I have become one of those overly committed devoted disciples who is willing to leave a dinner party early because the game is starting, and I like to be home for the tip-off. The fact that I am willing to miss dessert for a game should tell you something, if you know me and my adoration, my appreciation, and my downright respect for sweets.
I have been known to belt out the tune “Happy Birthday” at the top of my lungs in a restaurant for someone else’s celebration if I see flaming baked Alaska or a red velvet cake with candles arriving at a table (not even that close to me). As long as it’s in the same room, I’m singing.
I know the people will look over and, in acknowledgement for my exuberance and sheer volume, will generously ask if I would like a taste. I have already learned how to look sheepish, while saying, “Really? Sure, I mean, if it’s not too much, just a wee piece would be lovely. Just to help celebrate.”
Now, if it’s a floating island or panna cotta or crème brûlée, and the game is starting, it becomes “Sophie’s Choice.” But anything like carrot cake (keep your carrots in your salad, please) or bread pudding (keep your bread near the butter dish), or tiramisu (too much sugar and not enough tirami), I politely say my goodbyes and head for the door.
But when I found out how much these guys were making, I was stunned and appalled. I was disappointed and angry. I was shocked and dismayed. How much do teachers make again? $60,000 a year? And nurses? And violinists in city orchestras? I complained to my husband and my brothers-in-law. They agreed, but they didn’t seem too bothered. Mart said, “Hey, Nance, that’s what our culture values. Sports.” And my husband agreed.
Anyway, I have been thinking about those bloated salaries for a while now, and it might start to put a kink in my love for the game. And the guys.
So yesterday, when I was taking a walk in the woods, with my favorite winter white cover, the outrageous paychecks of my beloved Celtics were at the forefront of my mind. What if, thought I, one of the Celtics owners said to, say, Jaylen Brown, “Would you still play if you got $3 million instead of $34.8?” My hope would be that he’d say, “That would be fine. I love the game. I feel fortunate to get paid for doing something I love doing.” And then the owner would ask Porzingis the same question, and he too would say, “I’d play for anything. I love the game.” And if all the owners asked all the players, I bet you every one of them would say the same thing: “Yes, of course we’d play.”
I want half of them to say, “What else would I do?” and the other half say, “Three million is more than enough. In 10 years, I’ll have thirty mil. Why would anyone need more than that?”
The woods are my church. When I am alone and walking, my heart sometimes opens wider, and even though my knees hurt and my hips creak and my feet start to burn, if I can distract myself with new ideas of how to fix the big world or how to fix my little world, I can push forward.
So yesterday, when I was thinking about changing the over-the-top salaries of my guys and realizing they had to have something that would make them feel okay about giving up all that money, I came up with my most brilliant idea yet.
What if they get to choose a charity — any charity — and the balance of what they had formerly earned goes in full to that charity. I was so excited I broke my no-phone-in-the-woods rule and I called my brother-in-law. I said, “Al, I have an amazing idea. For the Celtics.” And I proceeded to lay it out, step by step. I was breathless and excited, sure that he would say, “Nance, you’re a wise woman, you’re a healer, you’re amazing!”
Instead, there was a long pause, and then he said, “So how stoned are you?”
