Blog

Dear Ray,

Sunday, January 27th will be your first foray back to the Garden since you decided to stick it to Danny, Rajon and whoever else you deemed to have slighted or disrespected you over these past five seasons in Boston.  By now I’m sure you’ve contemplated your reception – will the fans applaud, will they give you a standing O, will they boo your every move?

Well, I for one wouldn’t hold your breath for any kisses or long embraces, unless, of course, you bring your mom with you.  Don’t know about anyone else out there, but I’ve always wondered why Ray’s momz was always so much more visible that his classy wife Shannon.  Is it because Momma Allen couldn’t be happy enough that her famous son’s mug had become a national icon?  Does she suffer from a deep-seeded need to have the spotlight constantly thrown on her, even though there’s no real, valid reason for her to have more than cursory camera shot celebrating her son’s exploits?

Personally, the whole relationship between Ray and his mommy worries me.  It’s a little on the creepy side if you ask me – maybe not Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes creepy, but close.

Maybe that shtick worked when you were 10 and playing some sort of church league ball, but you’re pushing 40 now.  Don’t you think it’s time to back off just a bit?  Maybe throw some of that love to Shannon during the games?

But back to your homecoming.  I’m guessing you’ll get a mixed bag – the loyal Allen fans who still love you and want to thank you for five beautiful years; the tanked-up meat-heads who would love nothing more than to get you in a dark ally in North Boston and show you what they really think; and the rest of us, who wish you the best personally, but hope that you experience nothing but pain and suffering on a team level.

That’s where I fall.  It would warm my heart to see you jump ship and end up watching our Celtics celebrate an NBA Championship.

Revenge, so the old proverb goes, is always best served up cold.  That’s why I’m going to hold back on the hate.  I’m going to keep it inside and hope like hell that you come up short in Miami.  That’s when we can gloat over your team’s failure, and feel secure knowing that you weren’t the difference maker that everyone in South Beach thought that you’d be.