A BRAND new sport has totally captivated me. I've become a life-long fan of a team I first saw only a month ago and which I'm unlikely to see again for several years.


Its players are genuine giants among men and their athleticism and skill is simply spectacular. They are also eloquent and educated and, despite earning salaries that would have even a Premiership footballer choking on his bling, they seem to lack the arrogance and thuggery that mark out their single brain-celled British sporting brethren.


The fans are noisy, passionate, steeped in history and knowledge of the game and even outside quantities of beer that would fell a horse they have absolutely no inclination to kick anyone's head in.


Welcome to NBA basketball. Welcome to the Boston Celtics.

My introduction to the sport and the Celtics was a pretty cool one - Games 1 & 2 of the 2008 Finals against historical rivals LA Lakers at the TD Banknorth Garden in Boston. With court-side seats going for about £14,000 I was pretty chuffed to have paid only, um, nothing - courtesy of the NBA.

The Garden is not an attractive building. It's a huge concrete block that would be more at home in a Stalingrad suburb than down town Boston.

But inside it was a cauldron. A sell-out 18,000-seat arena packed with locals screaming "Beat LA!" and jeering the A-List, fancy Dan celebrity fans of Los Angeles.

As a nipper, I used to read Whizzer and Chips which had a strip called "The Toffs and The Toughs" which pitted a collection of snobs against a gang of scruffy herberts. Innocent japes and pranks ensued. These days they'd be knifing each other in alley ways and copping ASBOs from a powerless judiciary.

Any old hoo, Celtics v Lakers had a very similar feel. While Leonardo Di Caprio, David Beckham and Jack Nicholson backed LA; Boston's sole celebrity cheerleader was a sweaty, dancing Jack Black. Pictures of Nicholson on the Garden's big screens were greeted with rabid pantomime boos, while banners in the crowd proclaimed "You Can't Handle the Truth" as a dig at the actor and in praise of the C's hero Paul "The Truth" Pierce.

Boston did have the better eye candy in a supporting role - the Celtics Dancers - 15 uber-hot babes in tiny hotpants and tight, low cut tops getting jiggy to a thumping musical background.

When the noise did drop from Concorde take-off levels, the big screens urged the fans to greater vocal support, with a noise-meter rising from Rumble to Loud, Wicked Loud, Thunderous and finally the ear-splitting, skull-cracking Garden Level!

You can keep your Kops and Sheds and Stretford Ends and your Holmesdale roar - Garden Level wasn't chanting - just dangerously loud, visceral, screaming lunacy!

Much as I loved the experience, basketball could learn a thing or two from British football.

The Boston fans had the volume, but not the repertoire. With only five players per side on court at any one time, a few songs for individuals wouldn't go amiss. And the repetitive tribal chant of "De-fense, De-fense" (said with an 's' not a 'c'!) grated after the 60th LA attack. That, and "Let's Go Celtics" were the only terrace offerings.

One thing that would shake up football if we adopted it from the NBA would be the 24-second clock. Essentially, once you have possession of the ball the team has just 24 seconds to shoot for the hoop. If you don't hit the ring within that time, you lose possession.

How good would it be to have that in football!? Actually, they already seem to have that rule for the hoofers at Anfield - but making every team shoot for goal within 24 seconds or give the ball to the oppo to have a pop adds value and entertainment in my book - and it would totally bollox up the entire Italian league!

But what may be regarded as drifting into the realms of anorakness is that my attraction to basketball means I'm looking forward to the British season!

After the NBA finals it might a bit like hoping Sunday morning parks football will offer the same quality as the European Championships - nevertheless I shall be popping a few miles down the coast to lend my unflinching support to the mighty . . . Worthing Thunder. Kaboom!