I love the first round of the NBA playoffs. Not everybody does. People like to complain that the first round is too long -- shouldn't it be best of five, rather than best of seven? -- and full of unexciting matchups between mismatched opponents. These criticisms are legitimate, I suppose, but I view them as minor quibbles. I love basketball, and the first round is wall-to-wall basketball. Every time you turn on the television, there's a game to watch; sometimes there are even games playing simultaneously on two channels, and you have to decide which one to watch. Cavs vs. Wizards or Hawks vs. Celtics? Such choices make me delirious.

The first round is also full of intrigue; it's when the storylines that avid NBA fans will be following for the next two months get established. For every tiresome mismatch (Orlando vs. Toronto -- yawn) there's a series that's both surprising and compelling: Witness Golden State's historic upset last year of the mighty Mavericks. It was exciting and magical, and for one week Baron Davis was my favorite person; he had me convinced that Golden State could storm to the NBA finals and shock the world.

I love a good David and Goliath story, but imagine my horror when this year's most surprising and compelling David and Goliath story involved my beloved Boston Celtics. The Celtics were supposed to sweep their series against the Atlanta Hawks. After the first two games, I was confident they would. The Atlanta Hawks looked hapless, clueless and totally out of their league. I was on vacation when the Hawks tied the series, so I wasn't as concerned as I might have been if I was home watching the games. I caught a bit of Game 5 while hanging out in the Detroit airport, and I wasn't worried at all. The Celtics looked like a team that had learned a valuable lesson -- don't underestimate your opponent, don't take anything for granted, blah blah blah -- and would fulfill their destiny by dispatching the eighth-seeded Hawks in merciless fashion.

But it was not to be. I watched Game 6 on Friday with mounting anxiety. My dad shot me an e-mail during the fourth quarter, as the Celtics were falling apart, that read, "What to think!" Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. It was clear the Celtics were going to lose -- lose to the freakin' Hawks! -- and so, with a couple of minutes left in the fourth quarter, I decided to watch a movie. You know something's gone terribly awry when you think Ingmar Bergman's "Scenes From a Marriage" will cheer you up.

I had welcomed the Celtics' return to the playoffs, but when the pesky Hawks pushed the series to seven games I realized that it was becoming harder and harder for me to enjoy the first round. With the Celtics flailing, I didn't want to watch any games. Last year I rooted for Golden State, but I hardly cared when they lost to the Utah Jazz. I was a bandwagon fan, casting my lot with the team that seemed most exciting, and as soon as Golden State lost, I picked a new team. This year was different: My main concern was the Celtics. Being personally invested in a team had made it impossible for me to unequivocally love the first round; instead, I was full of worry and concern, chewing my fingernails, angry.
I followed Sunday's Game 7 on my computer, catching only the last couple of minutes of the Celtics beat-down of the Hawks on television. In this game, the Celtics looked like the best team in the history of the world. My dad e-mailed after the game was over: "I am a bit more relieved now," he said, which was my sentiment, too.

But the chinks in the Celtics' armor have been exposed, and I realize that the second round will be even more fraught with anxiety than the first. LeBron James already has me sick with worry. I can't get that game last year, where he scored 29 of the Cavs' final 30 points against the Pistons, out of my head. Silly me, I thought this year's playoffs would be so much fun. After all, I love the first round, and it only gets better after that. Right?