June 9, 1987 - Of course, longtime author/podcaster/Celtics superfan Bill Simmons was just one of 15,000 left shattered following Boston's 107-106 loss in Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals. But his retelling of this particular moment in The Book of Basketball points us toward the right side of the players tunnel, where a 17-year-old Simmons can be spotted in a blue polo shirt, looking "like a doctor just told me that I have VD."
More from The Book of Basketball (Pages 28-29):
"Here's what I remember most. Not the sound in the Garden (a gasp of anticipation giving way to a prolonged grown, followed by the most deafening silence imaginable), or the jubilant Lakers skipping off the court like they were splitting a winning Powerball ticket twelve ways (they knew how fortunate they were), or even the shocked faces of the people around me (everyone standing in place, mouths agape, staring at the basket in disbelief). Nope. It was Larry. As the shot bounced away, he froze for a split second and stared at the basket in disbelief even as the Lakers celebrated behind him. Just like us, he couldn't believe it.
The ball was supposed to go in.
The split second passed and Bird joined the cluttered group of players and coaches leaving the floor. When he walked through the tunnel by me and my father, he seemed just as confused as anyone. The rest of us remained in our seats, shell-shocked, trying to regroup for the walk outside, unable to come to grips with the fact that the Celtics had lost. If you saw Saving Private Ryan in the theater, do you remember how every paying customer was paralyzed and couldn't budge as the final credits started to roll? That's what the Garden was like. People couldn't move. People were stuck to their seats like flypaper. We went through the seven stages of grief in two minutes, including my father, who was slumped in his seat like he had just been assassinated. He wasn't showing any inkling of getting up. Even when I said to him, "Hey, Pops, let's get out of here," he didn't budge.
A few more seconds passed. Finally, my father looked at me.
"That was supposed to go in," he groaned. "How did that not go in?"
More than twenty-two years have passed since that night . . . and I still don't have an answer for him."
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