At 4:09 of the fourth quarter, my anxiety is becoming unbearable and obvious to everyone. The blond from Sportschannel takes pity and offers me one of her extra pens.

I am back in action.

My new pen is from the Salt Lake City Marriott. (When did the Celtics last play the Jazz...?) The journalists are becoming more partisan. Is this allowed? I got booted from the dead show for cheering.

The blond offered to let me see her notes, but as she glanced at mine, she said she wasn't sure we were working on the same type of story. Indeed. She has things like "3 sec-violation - Lohaus." I have paranoid ravings and incoherent exclamations.

The Celtics look tired. Sherman Douglas finally comes back in with 21 seconds left. Too late. The Celtics lose, 115-109.

***

At the this point, I thought why not just go home? But I wanted it all. I followed the teams off the court, down the runway and into the locker room.

I interviewed Bucks Coach Mike Dunleavy. (He didn't know when the last time the Bucks won in the garden).

I interviewed Fred Roberts, a former Celtics forward who now plays for the Bucks. (He didn't remember getting his hair cut next to me when he used to play for the Celtics.) And then I made my way into the Celtics locker room.

I knew I would be surprised, but I didn't know that all the players would be naked. Xavier McDaniel was surrounded by reporters, talking about a lack of protection under the basket without even a towel to cover his privates. Robert Parish came out of the shower, sat down, and was interviewed for TV. Naked. I assume they only showed him from the waist up.

I was dumbfounded. My composure finally fell apart. I didn't know how to react, and just then a security guard asked to see my press pass. For the first time all night, my makeshift Crimson cut-out didn't wash.

***

But I had done it. I had made it into the Celtics locker room. I had walked across the parquet floor. I had seen Robert Parish naked. It's as close as I'll ever come to my childhood macho fantasies of running around with sweaty men.

Yesterday morning, I saw my therapist.