Bulletin: Danny says on Wednesday, the day before the draft, he's keeping the pick.

Did anyone notice if his fingers were crossed when he said it?

We all know Danny Ainge tried very hard to market his number 5 pick. I think he went everywhere but QVC before deciding he would retain it. For now.

I was never opposed to trading the pick. If he could have used that pick to get a decent veteran, good. I just didn't want to include Al Jefferson in any deal.

But that always sounded easier in theory than in practice. It is now completely clear that if anyone in the league has any clout to exert with regard to where he will be spending the next few years, he makes sure he will not be spending them in Boston. You can probably throw Philly and Jersey/Newark in there, too, but you can specifically cite Boston as the least-favored destination in the NBA. In the eyes of the modern player, the Celtics have nothing to offer.

In the old days, the Celtics sold championships and (strike up the band) Tradition! Tra-dish-shon! They sold the floor and the flags and guys pined to wear the green and white. Even a then practiced cynic like Paul Silas, who came to the Celtics at age 29, admitted after a year or two that there was something very good about the Celtics Tradition!

Now? Please. These guys only know Boston as a sad outpost stuck onto the right side of the North American land mass. Tradition? The Celtics last won it all in 1986. They last participated in the Finals in 1987. Aside from that one aberrational appearance in the Eastern Conference Finals five years ago (can you picture that Bombs Away bunch actually playing for the championship?) the Celtics were last viable 15 years ago, in Larry Bird's last year.

To the modern player, the Celtics stand for nothing. Anyway, they're in Boston, a place where people need snow tires and scrapers. Most modern players, if given a choice, do not do snow tires and scrapers and heavy overcoats. They do sun.

Finally, players listen to agents, and agents undoubtedly tell them the Celtics don't know what the hell they are doing, otherwise they wouldn't be in the mess they appear to be in (the team actually isn't as bad as its record). So, no player consequence is willingly coming to Boston. They must be conscripted.

That's just the way it is.

The Celtics must essentially build from within, and they have picked up a few nice pieces of the puzzle in the last few drafts. Kendrick Perkins will always be, at the very least, a quality back-up center. If someone threw him the ball every once in a while, he might actually surprise people and put it in the basket. Tony Allen, providing he recovers sufficiently from his knee injury, was on the verge of being a very useful player when he foolishly decided to stroll down the lane and attempt a superfluous after-the-whistle dunk last winter. Rajon Rondo is already a first class defensive pest and someone who can both get up and down the floor rapidly and penetrate half-court defenses. Gerald Green remains a scary talent. Ryan Gomes will be in the league for 10 or 12 years.

And then there's Al.

Full disclosure: I am a member of the Al Jefferson Fan Club board of Directors and I am up for president in the upcoming season. You can't teach hands and you can't teach feet and you can't teach the kind of inside scoring gift Al Jefferson was born with, and I don't think you can teach his kind of innate rebounding instinct, either. The lad won't be 23 until Jan. 4. (Larry turned 23 in December of his rookie year, by the way).

I wouldn't have traded Al even-up for Jermaine O'Neal. So there.

He's also ours. If he lusts for the beach, he hasn't yet made himself known. He seems to like it here. He's Our Guy. When he becomes a nightly 25-point man, I want it to be in a Celtics uniform. If Danny wants to trade that 5 pick to stick Pau Gasol in the mix, bring him on. But if someone asks for Al, hang up. I hope I've made myself clear.

Assuming Danny does keep the pick, brace yourself for Yi Jianlian. The more people saw this kid, the more they seemed to like him. You don't hear the worries about him being "soft" now as much as you hear them exude over the way he gets up and down the floor at 7-feet, and his touch. He now sounds to me like Brandan Wright with a jump shot. I could live with that.

If it's not him, I'd surely welcome Corey Brewer, who really elevated himself in the 2007 NCAA Tournament, or Jeff Green, the "knock" on whom is that he's too deferential, almost too much of a team guy. I appear to be out there on this one, but I'd also be perfectly happy with Al Thornton. Yes, I know he projects more in the 10-12 range, but I don't honestly see why. I love this kid.

I love Joakim Noah, too, but I'm sure the Celtics won't take him. To me, he's a cross between John Salley and Anderson Varejao; in other words, a seven-foot ath-a-lete who can't shoot, but who will make a big play or two a game no one else will. And if you're luck, his mom (a former Miss Sweden) will take in some games. Talk about brightening up the joint on some cold January night.

As far as trading Paul Pierce goes, I have one question: how? Who wants him, at his salary and with his basic track record?

Just put yourself in the place of rival GMs. Danny calls and offers Paul. If you're Brian Colangelo in Toronto, do you trade Chris Bosh even-up for him? No. If you're Donn Nelson in Dallas, do you trade Josh Howard even-up for him? No. If you're Otis Smith in Orlando, do you trade Dwight Howard even-up for him? No. If you're Larry Bird in Indiana, do you trade Jermaine O'Neal even-up for him? (Whoa. Maybe).

I could go on and on, and I'm not even going to get into superstar territory, which would be truly ridiculous. I see no match for him. If he really wishes to be traded, Danny should have the phone to his agent and say, "Go ahead, you make the deal. Then get back to me."

This doesn't mean I don't like Paul Pierce, or don't (usually) enjoy seeing him play. But I think the idea that he is the level of player management should cater to is ridiculous. He thinks he's better than he is. He looks in the mirror and sees a first-team All-NBA guy who was screwed by the voters. If he was quoted accurately by Adrian Wojnarski in Yahoo.com on Monday, he was saying that he wished the Celtics to import a "veteran co-star." Not veteran "all-star." Veteran "co-star." You are free to supply your own punch line.

I don't see him going anywhere because he's stuck in a curious limbo for which he can thank his salary. At $8 million there might be a market. At the max, no way. But he can still be effective here. It's just that it's either going to happen here or nowhere.

The Celtics can get a nice player at number 5. You need to get lucky. You think Miami knew Dwayne Wade was going to be Dwayne Wade when they got him at number 5? Nope. That's the kind of luck I'm talking about. And, believe me, that's the only way the Celtics will ever get good again. They need to draft lucky, starting on Thursday night.

It's not a good thing when a friend of yours has to die before you find out how great he really was.

I had known Larry Whiteside since 1973. I knew he was held in great esteem among fellow black journalists. But because he was so unassuming, so much just a Good Guy, I had no idea just how much he had meant to so many until he sadly passed away last week at the age of 69, the victim of stroke and Parkinson's Disease.

I knew his bio, how he had become the first full-time black baseball writer covering a major league team back in 1970 when he started covering the expansion Milwaukee Brewers for the Milwaukee Journal. Three years later he came to the Globe, where, in addition to baseball, he also covered many a Celtic game with me, home and away. This was when we still had an evening paper, thus the need for two major stories a night. We hit it off immediately. Ask anyone: On any list of all-time flat-out great companions, Larry Whiteside was in the top 5.

We at the Globe just took Larry for granted. He was one of us; that's all. Everyone loved hanging out with the man we called 'Sides.

I swear to God. I never even heard of the Black List until he died.

This just goes to show that we whites should never take this racial gulf in our society too lightly. All these years I never knew that when he wasn't doing his job for the Boston Globe he was out there striving on behalf of countless other journalists, or would-be journalists, who happened to be black. For Larry had compiled what he jokingly called the "Black List," a compendium of African-American writers in American sports sections. The list included both writers and copy editors.

He didn't just do this for fun. He did it so there would be a public record, so when someone would say, "Gee, I don't know any good black writers (or editors) out there," Larry could say, "Wait a minute, I know five of them," or, later, "125 of them." Larry was The Source. We've got great black sportswriters all over the place, and Larry was the spiritual Godfather of them all.

And I, for one, never knew. I mean, I knew people liked him, but I didn't know how revered he was. It was, to borrow a phrase, a "black thing."

It didn't surprise me when I learned of all the encouragement he offered and kindnesses he extended to young black writers, but the fact that he was such a vital source of information, as well as inspiration knocked me over. You see, Larry never talked about it with us. He never bragged. He never boasted. He was simply the eternal Good Guy.

The Larry I remember loved looking good. He was the King of Filene's Basement here in Boston. Larry would target, say, a suit, and then he would monitor its progress down the price scale. He'd watch it get marked down until he felt now was the time to pounce. He wasn't cheap. Larry would pick up a tab. He liked the game. It was fun.

He once took me to a clothing warehouse place in his beloved Milwaukee and I wound up buying a sportcoat. He was very proud.

To say that Larry Whiteside was a man of immense good cheer is to state the obvious. Back in the 1981 NBA Finals, we took ourselves to the famed Gilley's, then at the height of its game in the wake of "Urban Cowboy." Larry was hardly unused to being the only black in a given situation, but this was a test, even for Larry. Gilley's was monstrous, and among the thousands on this particular evening his was the only dark face.

"How're ya' doin', 'Sides?" I asked at one point.

"You ever try smiling for four hours?" he asked.

We're all going to miss Larry Whiteside. But the good he did on this earth will long out-live him.

How's this for a good trade?

On Dec. 20, 1993 the Cleveland Indians traded Felix Fermin, Reggie Jefferson, and cash to the Seattle Mariners for Omar Vizquel.

Fermin was gone at the end of the 1996, having accumulated 186 hits as an unproductive member of the team. Jefferson, an OK hitter but nothing special, lasted until 1999, and he did have two pretty nice years with the Red Sox: 1996 (.347-19-74) and 1997 (.319-13-67). I'm not sure what the Mariners did with the cash.

Omar Vizquel has built a Hall of Fame resume. That trade was 1,993 hits, 333 stolen bases and, most importantly, 10 Gold Gloves ago. He has been overlooked because his prime happened to have dovetailed with the likes of Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter, the early Nomar Garciaparra, Miguel Tejada, etc., in what is, without question, The Golden Age of Shortstops.

But he has been a magnificent player in his own right.

What a wonderful fielder he has been. His barehand stuff alone makes for a tremendous highlight package. Last year, at age 39, he became the oldest man ever to win a Gold Gove Award, and he did it at the sport's most athletic position.

But he's not hitting very much and the end might well be near. He has always been a Class Act, and it has been a privilege and an honor to welcome him back to Fenway this weekend.

I was driving up I-95 on Tuesday night when it suddenly occurred to me: The Dodgers!

I have XM satellite radio, you see, and one of the great benefits, in addition to all the great music --- I really couldn't function without XM --- is the fact that you get every major league baseball game, all season.

Each team's entire home schedule is on an XM channel. Through this experience, I have become a huge fan of San Diego announcer Ted Leitner and White Sox announcer Ed Farmer, each wonderful in a totally different way. But at that moment I was thinking about the One and Only Vin Scully. I tuned in, and, sure enough, he was doing the first three innings of the Dodgers-Mets game. Solo. No color man. No banter with a partner. Just pure Vin Scully.

Vin Scully is 79. His famous voice is just about intact. The least you can say about its strength and timber is that it sounds like someone doing a pretty good imitation of Vin Scully. At his peak, of course, he was The Man, the Greatest of All-Time. His description of the ninth inning of the 1965 Sandy Koufax perfect game against the Cubs has been famously printed as literature. It is beyond perfect. I have it in my copy of "The Fireside Book of Baseball." You will be thanking me if you go out of your way to find it. (Editor's note: You can read Scully's call here and listen to it here.)

Now in these three innings he was not great. He was fine, but not great. He got to call back-to-back-to-back homers by 7-8-9 guys Wilson Betemit, Matt Kemp and pitcher Hong-Chih Kuo.

He did the job, is what I'm saying. But he didn't knock your socks off. At first.

Then Juan Pierre hit one inside the first base bag and the foul line. And here is Vin Scully ... "There's a rabbit on the loose! (pause) ... and there's a belly-flop into third!"

C'mon, how cool is that?

Vin Scully started broadcasting Brooklyn Dodger games in 1950.

Did you digest that? 1950. That was a year before Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle made their major league debuts. 1950. He is in Year 57, and while he no longer does much (if any) traveling he is still a viable announcer.

It occurred to me to play the "Degrees of Separation" game with Vin Scully. I went back to 1950 to see just whose games he was calling. One of the Cubs whose games he worked was Phil Cavaretta. He made his Big League debut in 1934, so right away, with one degree of separation, we have Vin Scully linked to someone playing baseball 73 years ago.

I decided to take it just one step farther. One of Phil Cavaretta's teammates on the 1934 Cubs was Charlie (Jolly Chollie) Grimm, who made his own big league debut with the 1916 Cubs. Now we've got Vin Scully, an active major league broadcaster in the year 2007, linked with just two degrees of separation to a man who broke into major league baseball 91 years ago.

It was almost even better than that. One active player in 1950 was a Pirates backup catcher named Ray Mueller. He had broken into the Bigs with the Boston Braves in 1935. Two other Braves players that year of were --- are you ready? --- Babe Ruth and fellow Hall of Famer Rabbit Maranville, each in his final season. Now Mueller played in 40 games. Ruth played in 20. Maranville played in 23. The two vets did not finish the season. I don't know for sure when Mueller joined the club, so I don't know if their stints overlapped. Mueller could have been a late-season call-up.

If they did, well, Ruth was a rookie in 1914 and Maranville was a rookie in 1912. If anyone really cares, I'll try to research this at some later date.

Until then, we can state with certainty that, with just two degrees of separation, we have an active broadcaster among us who has connective baseball tissue to someone who played in the 1916 season.

I find that stunning. How about you?

So how does a truly great man get sent off by the city he loved?

If you're David Halberstam, you get famed Jazz pianist Billy Taylor playing an uninterrupted half hour of "Selections" as the guests take their seats at the mammoth Riverside Episcopal Church on the far Upper West Side of Manhattan.

You get Paul Simon singing "Mrs. Robinson," while apologizing because he didn't have any Ted Williams songs (Dave McKenna, the great jazz pianist and fanatical Red Sox fan, did give us a song entitled "Splendid Splinter," but, alas, there are no lyrics).

You get Lucy Chapin with "Wildflowers." You get Peter Yarrow, of "Peter, Paul and Mary" fame, with "Sweet Survivors."

You get Robert Johanson with an a capella rendering of the 23d Psalm.

You get the 16-member Metropolitan Baptist Choir with a powerhouse "American The Beautiful" like you ain't never heard before. You get the likes of Ben Bradlee, David Remnick, Bill Kovach, Graydon Carter, Les Gelb, and Calvin Trillin among the honorary pallbearers.

You get 10 speakers, some of whom the public knows (Anna Quindlen, Neil Sheehan, Congressman John Lewis, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Gay Talese, etc.), and some of whom they don't know, but all chosen because of specific connection to a man whose tentacles were endless.

You get nearly two hours, and when it's done the overall effect on those in attendance is to reinforce the idea that David Halberstam, who died at age 73 in an automobile accident on April 23, was perhaps even more of an amazing man than most of us had realized.

You can't even say he led a dual life. He led a phenomenally multi-layered life. For among the speakers were old journalistic friends such as Sheehan, whom he had met 44 years ago in Saigon when both were covering the Vietnam War, as well as Sean Newman, a fireman whose home station had been immortalized by Halberstam in his vital book "Firehouse," a story of the men who lost 12 comrades on 9/11, and which is located in Halberstam's midtown neighborhood; and Ralph Hockley, a Korean War veteran befriended by Halberstam beginning in 2002, when Halberstam began work on what would turn out to be his final epic journalistic effort, a book entitled "The Coldest Winter," a tome on the whys and wherefores of the Korean War that will hit the bookstores in September. Hockley said that Halberstam had told him he was enormously proud of this book, that it was, in his judgment, his "best" book ever.

Another speaker was Dexter Filkins, a New York Times reporter who has spent the last four years in Iraq. He said he felt a bit funny to be up there because he really didn't know David Halberstam very well.

What he did know was that David Halberstam was universally regarded as the patron saint of all Iraq War correspondents, all of whom had read "The Best And the Brightest," Halberstam's legendary tale of the massive screw-up that was the Vietnam War. Using a sports metaphor he said he was certain Halberstam would have loved, Filkins said that Halberstam had served as the "pulling guard" for all subsequent war correspondents. "He cleared the way for us all," Filkins said.

The speakers all had something to offer, but I was most moved by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Quoting someone (regrettably, I forget whom), she said that Halberstam ideally fulfilled the idea set forth to balance properly work, play, and love. The work part was self-evident. The play was two-fold.

First, there were his sports books, which were truly his recreation.

Secondly, there was his deep love of fishing, both fresh and salt water. There is a new, thick compendium of fishing stories on the market (Don't know the title, but I happened to see it in Barnes & Noble last week), for which he had written the foreword. One of the speakers said that when he was asked to do the foreword, he acted hurt that he had not actually been included as an author. He was just kidding, of course -- or was he? But he graciously wrote the foreword and it is of some considerable length.

His immediate family consisted of his wife, Jean, and his daughter, Julia, who read "if there are any heavens," a poem by e.e. cummings.

I make no claim to being a Halberstam intimate. But we were friends by any measure, and I will always cherish treasure the memory of the many phone calls we shared over the years. He invariably ended with, "Be well, my friend," and with his voice that sounded like an order. We first met in 1980 when he joined the Celtics on a West Coast trip. He was researching his first sports book, "The Breaks of the Game," and he was also working simultaneously on a magazine piece about Pistol Pete Maravich. It was the beginning of a 27-year relationship that would culminate in our exchanges over his book on Bill Belichick, "The Education of a Coach." Coach Bill was present at Riverside Church on Tuesday, as were Scott Pioli and Belichick's personal assistant Berj Najarian.

Halberstam was a serious man, but he was also a total sports junkie. As a result of his forays into sport, he came away with friendships with the likes of Bill Walton, Dr. Jack Ramsay, Bob Knight, Belichick (a fellow Nantucket guy) and, of course, the venerable Red Sox trio of Johnny Pesky, Bobby Doerr, and Dom DiMaggio, immortalized in "The Teammates." And no one ever did more to explain the lonely sport of crew than he did in his exquisite book, "The Amateurs." He was killed, as many of you know, en route to an interview for his next sports venture, a book on the celebrated the 1958 Giants-Colts NFL Championship Game and the men who played in it.

To sit and listen to the remembrances of Pulitzer Prize winners, firemen, authors, soldiers and family friends such as author John Burnham Schwartz, who recounted just how much Halberstam loved to tell stories, was to be overwhelmed. How, you ask yourself, could one man touch so many disparate lives?

I am grateful to have been a peripheral satellite orbiting around the sun that was David Halberstam.

What, you wanted closure?

Apparently, not enough people were paying attention to the David Chase M.O. The Russian is still out there, isn't he?

But Americans, by and large, want resolution. We're not very big on the abstract. And we seem to think someone like David Chase owes us an ending.

Well, here's the deal. David Chase doesn't care about you and me. "The Sopranos" were always his personal toy. David Chase is a creative genius with a touch of arrogance. He wrote for himself, and only himself. He didn't care to wrap the story up with a neat bow, and I really don't see why anyone should be surprised.

The big thing for me was that Paulie lives to work on that tan for at least a little while longer. Paulie was always my favorite character, and when, in the final episode, he revealed himself to be a cat hater, he went up several notches in my my estimation. "Snakes with fur!" he hissed when he spied that cat in the office. Fantastic. Another reason to love Paulie Walnuts. And the Virgin Mary thing? Priceless Paulie, leading to an even more priceless "Holy Water" line from Tony. C'mon, that's why we loved the show, for all the little stuff, the great lines. It's why I did, anyway.

That, and the music. As a Jersey Guy myself (Trenton), I took note when Tony and Paulie were sitting there in the car waiting for Agent Harris that the song Tony was instructing the grumbling Paulie to "enjoy" was "Denise," by Randy and the Rainbows. They were, of course, from Teaneck, N.J. I doubt the selection was random.

Anyway, I never demanded a satisfactory ending. I had long ago prepared myself for ambiguity. I will admit I thought Phil Leotardo would somehow survive, even if he wound up like Uncle Junior. What a delightfully evil guy he was. When he would talk about being in the can, that was appointment listening. And that's what really frosted him about Tony. In Phil's eyes, Tony never paid his proper dues. And think about those kids in the back seat of the killer SUV. Wait 'til they reach the Age of Reason and discover they were not only in "The Sopranos," but in the final episode? Pretty cool.

Now, let's get serious. Did you really need to see the family get whacked? Yes, A.J. was getting to be really annoying, but I was rooting for him to escape the mob life, even if it did mean working for Donald Trump. Meadow always had a good heart. And Carmela, who never could quite come to grips with the idea that she had made a serious pact with the devil by marrying Tony, was still an empathetic figure. If Tony had to go down, well, that's the life, you know? But I didn't have to see the blood spill.

May we agree we didn't want some wussy ending like Tony flipping and repenting and living out his days in Yakima, Washington, selling appliances under an alias? So we got what we got.

Endings are always hard. Most movies have poor endings. Extremely popular TV series are even trickier. I thought the best was "Mary Tyler Moore," when a new company came in and fired everyone one but the clueless Ted Baxter. M*A*S*H was just OK. "Seinfeld" was universally panned. I can't even remember how "Cheers" ended, and for a time that was as good as TV got.

By the way, I timed the blackout on a second viewing. It was a hair over seven seconds. Seemed like an hour, didn't it? And yes, I panicked and thought the cable went kaput, just as you did.

Hey, we'll always have the DVDs.

It's pretty hard to get LeBron James off my mind.

I've been thinking about what took place in Auburn Hills on Thursday night, and I'm not sure we've ever seen any more amazing playoff performances than that one.

For the past 27 years, I've continually declared that the single best playoff performance I've ever seen, or knew of, was Magic Johnson's 42-point, 15-rebound, 7-assist, play-all-five-position Game 6 against the 76ers in 1980. The performance itself was astonishing, but what also enhanced it was the setting. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar had unquestionably been LA's best player through the first five games, during which the Lakers built up a 3-2 series lead. But Kareem was back in LA for Game 6, having injured his ankle in Game 5.

All I can tell you is that we writers totally assumed we'd all be back in LA for a Game 7, which would take place on Sunday afternoon. All the talk was of dinner plans for Saturday night.

Uh, no.

Magic simply took over the game. He had five field goals in the first period, and none were alike. Then he built on it. It was some show, all right.

But when you compare it to what LeBron did last Thursday, you must consider two things. The first is the fact that Jamal Wilkes had the sneakiest, quietest and most thoroughly unobtrusive 37 points the NBA has ever seen in support of Magic. The second is the final score: LA 120, Philly 106.

LeBron James scored 29 of the final 30 Cleveland points at the end of regulation and throughout two overtimes of what turned out to be a 109-107 game. The Cavs needed every one of those points. Big difference.

I don't know if anyone can absolutely, positively, crown this performance as the very best in NBA playoff history, but no one can say it wasn't, either. It's certainly in the discussion.

You've already heard of some candidates, I'm sure. People always love to talk about Michael Jordan's 63-point game against the Celtics in Game 2 of their 1986 five-gamer, but what people usually omit is the fact that the Celtics won the game, 135-131, in those two overtimes.

Isiah Thomas had some playoff adventures, most notably his 25-point third quarter with the sprained ankle in Game 6 of of the 1988 Finals (the Pistons were robbed by a stupid call that gave Kareem a chance to win it from the free throw line). I was present for his rather amazing 1:30 against the Knicks in Game 5 of a 1984 five-gamer. Isiah scored 16 points!

Not enough people appreciate Larry Bird's Game 6 against Houston in 1986. It was a triple-double of the 29-12-12 variety, but it was so much nore than that. I have never -- I said never -- seen a man impose his will on a team at both ends of the court as much as he did that afternoon. Yes, I said "both ends." Larry was omnipresent that day. He even won a jump ball from Hakeem Olajuwon. It was a virtuoso performance.

Back to LeBron. We're all fond of saying that "No one man can beat five," but this was one time when one man beat five, and not just any five, but a good five. Why Detroit didn't send more men at him, or knock him on his keister, or have someone step in to at least try for a charge when he was sashaying to the hoop at will are other matters. My guess is there'll be a hard foul or two at Quicken Loan Arena tonight.

Final thought: Whenever these things crop up, various experts are paraded in front of the American people, and when you're done listening to them, you come away with the impression that pro basketball began when Michael Jordan entered the league. Dr. Who? Well, there was some pretty good ball way back when.

Do any of them know that Bob Pettit had 50 points in the deciding Game 6 against the Celtics in 1958? (Another 2-point game, by the way). A few more people remember the dramatic Willis Reed entrance, and those first two jump shots, in Game 7 of the 1970 Finals, but not so well remembered is the fact that Walt Frazier is the man who won that game with 36 points and 19 assists. Keep that in mind.

And then there was a man named Russell. I'll leave you with this. In Game 7 of the 1962 Finals between the Celtics and Lakers, the Celtics prevailed by a 110-107 score in overtime and Bill Russell had 30 points and 40 rebounds. They didn't keep blocked shots then, but we can assume the total was well into double figures. That was a manly game.

What The Kid did the other night was truly special.