Woke up thinking about Larry Bird again. My buddy kept arguing it was 32 during last night’s game, but something felt off. Grabbed my cold coffee – ugh, forgot to drink it yesterday – and fired up the laptop. F@#&ing search engines these days, right? Typed “larry bird celtics number” and first page showed me bird migration patterns. Seriously?
The Messy Hunt Begins
Scratched my head, spilled coffee on my sweatpants. Typical Tuesday morning. Tried again: “boston celtics legend larry bird jersey.” Boom! Images flooded in. Saw that skinny dude with the moustache hoopin’, clear as day, sporting that number…
My Brain:
- Checked * archives? Down for maintenance.
- Dug out an old sports almanac covered in dust bunnies from under the sofa. Index finger got a paper cut. Worth it? Maybe.
- Texted three different group chats. Dave said 23, Linda guessed 00 (lol), Mike just sent a meme.
Finally hit the damn Wikipedia page. Scroll, scroll, scroll past his life story, childhood, stats… bam! Right there:
33.
Felt dumb and smart at the same time. How’d I blank on that? Larry Legend rocking 33 for every bit of magic he made on that parquet floor.
Random Flashback (Why This Stuck)
Made me think of my older brother’s stupid basketball jersey obsession. Dude had like 30 jerseys hanging in his room, treated ’em like museum pieces. One time, 1992 maybe, I borrowed his fancy replica Bird jersey – the green one with the white trim – without asking. Went outside, tripped over a root playing 1-on-1, ripped a huge hole near the number. Pure terror.
Consequences were brutal:
- Got screamed at for 20 minutes straight.
- Had to use my entire allowance (three months!) to pay him back for the stupid thing.
- Wasn’t allowed within five feet of his room for like a year. He’d literally hiss if I walked past.
Kinda funny now? Mostly just annoying. Anyway, seeing that number 33 today unlocked that stupid memory vault. Brother still brings it up sometimes at Thanksgiving. Like dude, get over it, it was three decades ago!
So yeah. Larry Bird? Number’s 33. Case closed. Mic drop. Now, where’s that fresh coffee I was trying to make?