The city of Boston was a powder keg of green and white, a singular, pulsating nerve of hope and anxiety. For Game 7, the TD Garden wasn't just an arena; it was a cathedral under siege, its faith tested to its absolute limit. The air inside was thick enough to chew, a mixture of sweat, anticipation, and naked fear. The story was almost too perfect: the historic comeback from 3-1 down, capped by a final, decisive battle on their home floor. The narrative was writing itself. But the NBA, like life, rarely follows a script.
From the opening tip, something was off. The energy was too frantic, too desperate. The Celtics, who had played with such controlled fury in Games 5 and 6, came out tight. Passes were a hair off-target. Shots that usually fell rattled out. The weight of the moment, the specter of the impossible comeback they were trying to complete, was crushing them.
