Picture if you will a small Maine town, on the outskirts of Portland. It's very late, and very quiet ... and the town sits in a lake of fog, with only a church spire and the local college water tower to pierce it's calm surface. It's very dark ... darker and quieter than usual because of the fog, and an eerie stillness has descended like a cloak on a candle.
 
A small light pierces the dense fog ... no, two lights, and they're moving ... slowly, but with purpose. They're slowly winding their way through the town, unconcerned with the minor activity at the 7-11, or the local police, blue lights spinning like sapphires, as the officer writes a speeding ticket to an unwary traveler. The two lights move on ... disappearing at times, the fog becoming so dense where the street dips.
 
The lights turn from the center of town, onto an old road, and continue on. On past the little college ... on past the Methodist Church ... past the Nursing Home and the new development, all asleep under their blanket of mist. On past the old elementary school, now just a ghost of it's former laughter-filled self. On past the Dairy Farm, it's animals and keepers many hours in slumber.
 
This old road is straight, but it climbs ... ever upward, mile after mile, and the two lights climb with it, slowly rinsing themselves of the dense mist, the fog swirling in their wake like a witch's potion. As the lights climb higher, the picture becomes more clear, and the little black car, now clearly visible, seems more sure of it's purpose, and somehow more diligent in it's course.
 
The road leads the little car onward and upward, and as it seems to have at last reached it's peak, it begins to slow. The road and it's surroundings are now more visible as well, as the height of this small mountain outside of town has lifted the scene quite clear of the dense coat of fog. The moon is now full, and it shines down on this lonely scene, the top of the mountain looking like an island on a cool-blue sea ... a sea of fog.
 
The little car keeps slowing, and just as it passes by a small, moss-grown graveyard, it turns off. It pulls into a rough dirt lot that has been worn into the very top of this little mountain, where in evenings past, and years past, young lovers have come to watch the sun set, and weave their hopes of romance and conquest. But tonight there is no one ... just this little car, now parked and silent under the moon ... just a still companion to the lonely graves nearby.
 
Nothing happens for a few moments, as if a silent offering is being made to the quiet beauty of the place ... and the ghosts that may remain. But then, quietly, slowly, the door of the little car opens, and a man gets out. He's dressed warmly, with a jacket and a cap, as it's still early May, and the night and height of the climb have made it even cooler than it was in town. It seems he has something in his hand, and though it's hard to make out what it is in the dark of the night, the moonlight glints very brightly and brief, on it's shiny, cold surface.
 
The figure of the man moves around to the rear of the little car, where some fumbling and jingling of keys breaks the silence of the night ... and then the sound of a squeaky trunk being opened slowly ... silence ... and then a slam! The man is now clearly carrying something larger, and has it tucked under his arm, but with a caring grasp ... gently but firmly. We can also now see that the cap on his head clearly says: Celtics, (though the rest is too small to make out), and it's white with green.
 
The figure, now even more slowly than before ... more hesitantly, walks to a spot where a small square stone rests atop the peak. This stone marks where a fort once stood in ages past ... centuries past, really, at a time when this highest spot in the town was it's strongest defense, and it's most treasured asset. Now there's just a stone, it's chiseled face weather-worn and unreadable, but still standing vigil despite the years ... and the ghosts.
 
The figure stands there for some time ... not moving, but just staring down at the stone, as if waiting for the ghosts to appear, and keep him from his grisly task. But no one appears ... no spirits even, and the figure is finally forced by time and the chill to move again. He kneels gently near the stone, and the thing tucked under his arm is slowly lowered to the ground ... it's something dark inside some kind of clear case, and the figure struggles a bit to loose it from it's sealed, transparent coffin, where it has sat untouched for years.
 
The prize within, now feeling the cool air of the night for the first time since it was placed inside it's shell so long ago, is round ... and smooth. It's difficult to tell in the wan moonlight, but it seems to be orange ... and it has dark letters on it that spell: Spaulding. The figure holds it softly but firmly in both hands ... with what is clearly a deep reverence. He stares at it again, for what seems like an eternity, and then, with a deep sigh, lowers it to the surface of the stone.
 
Once again the moonlight hits the scene just so, and we see more letters on the round object ... in a bright white, fancy handwriting ... and it seems to be a signature ... yes! A signature! The person's name, clearly signed on the object with care and intention, seems to read: Larry Bird! The figure, upon seeing this, once again becomes still with reverence and honor ... this is clearly something of great importance, though his intent seems no less sinister. Another pause ... a deep breath ... and he moves again.
 
The object, which now clearly seems to be a ball of some kind, is slowly placed upon the gleaming, cold surface of the stone. Even more slowly, cautiously, almost painfully it seems, the man reaches with his right hand over the ball, across his chest, and into his right inside coat pocket, and withdraws something. It's something much smaller than the ball, about eight inches long, and as it did before, it glints in the moonlight briefly, (but not briefly enough to hide it's six jagged teeth, and smooth, sharp, deadly surface).
 
The figure is now shaking ... slowly and evenly at first, but soon almost violently, casting a grotesque and twisted shadow, that seems to taunt the sad figure. There are sobbing sounds now that break the eerie silence, and tears that drip from the lonely figure onto the sacred ball, and glisten there in the moonlight, like tiny jewels. A low chant now begins, though it's too faint to hear, and it repeats rhythmically, over-and-over, and mixes with the sobs of the now grieving man.

The scene gets clearer now, as the moon seems to brighten, betraying the pitiful figure in his determination to see this twisted deed to it's sick conclusion. Despite his intense struggles to keep composure, the sad man carries on ... sobbing, his tear-streaked face turned skyward to the moon, eyes pried away from the focus of horror ... the right hand raises the knife high in the air, and it's only now, as the chant is ended in a final screaming repeat of the phrase, that we can finally make out the words ... as the right arm comes down in a swift, diabolical slash ... and the weapon finds it's final true mark, we hear, as clear as the now mocking moon: "Let the Celtics make their free-throws ... pleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaase!!"

Finally, as the mocking moon shines it's unforgiving face upon this horrid scene, there is almost complete silence ... save for the tiny, squeaking "pffffffft" of escaping air from the now horribly disfigured Official Spaulding Game Ball, (hand-signed by Larry Bird himself), and the soft, low sobbing of a man tortured and broken for the sake of his beloved Boston Celtics. Yes ... sadly, the man's sick deed is now complete ... it's meaning now clear. How long he lingers there, suffering for his now twisted and unrecognizable sacrifice, I can not say .... I WILL not say, for such things are left to a man in his deepest thoughts, and at his most private of times.

I CAN tell you that I know this man ... oh yes, I know him quite well, indeed ... his face is as familiar as any I've ever known, for this man ... this sad figure is Everyman, and Everyman is Me! Will we ever know if this lonely sacrifice was worth it's torment to this sad soul? Who can say ... for such things are the dreams of children ... and the breaths of a spring day. We can be sure of this, however: It WAS worth it to him! Ah, if only such devotion were rewarded ... we would all sleep better, and dream more deeply! Only time will tell.

Whatever the outcome, ask yourself this, (and remember the sad soul on that lonely mountain top): What are YOU willing to sacrifice?!?