he good?" James asked with the blessed innocence of a seven year-old.
"He is very good," his father replied with love.
His four school friends and James chanted, "The Boston Celtics suck."
It sounded cute, but last night that was the truth versus the Brooklyn Nets.
"James, sssh." His father stilled their mantra.
His son obeyed his order.
They are a good father-son team, but the Celtics will out in the end.
2013.
Beat the Heat.

Scott and his girlfriend were coming over to New York from London to celebrate his birthday at the Who concert at the new Barclay Center in Brooklyn, which is only a few blocks from the Fort Greene Observatory. I half-expected to be invited along with the glamorous couple, except upon the day of their arrival into this fair city, Scott texteda message.
"Problems."
His girlfriend Cara, a smart blonde publisher, clarified the situation with another SMS;
"Glitch in concert plans."
Within hours the two were planning on permanent separation. She was too attractive a girl to lose over nothing and I argued for re-conciliation, since I had never seen the Who.
I had come close in 1970. They had been playing at the Boston Tea Party, but I went to see Rod Stewart on the Commons. I missed Woodstock in 1969 along with Altamont. This year I thought that I could relive my past through the present. I was wrong.
Yesterday Scott and I sat in General Fowler Square eating bagels and he explained, "No matter what I said about the blue skies, she said that it was green."
"Couldn't you last out the madness?"