NBA
BASKETBALL Phil
and His Pipe Drive the Rats Away April
14, 2001 By
SEAN MILLER
Jimmy
O’s was quiet last night. The local sports bar that has seen more
than its share of controversy over the past month typically is on a Tuesday
night. But, that’s fine by me. The Lakers were hosting the
Suns at Staples and I needed to focus. The local can be a haven of
distraction due to the aesthetic value of the waitresses and the recent
police activity. You see… I’m one of those fans who needs complete
solitude when viewing my team. One TV two inches from my face is
preferable in order to dissect every play. If she lived with me,
Grandma would warn me of blindness from sitting too close to the TV.
Hence the reason I live alone. Unfortunately, my place was being
fumigated for the wondrous praying mantis and the Black African millipede,
which forced me out of my Del Mar sanctuary and into Jimmy O’s.
This
was an important game. The Lakers were getting Kobe back and they
were playing a pretty hot Suns squad. The barometer on the Shaq/Kobe
squabble would most certainly be ready to read into any sign of pressure
between the two. Kobe’s play would definitely come under close scrutiny
with circulating rumors of a swap for two of the opposing stars.
Phil Jackson would need this win to prove his sexual worthiness to Jeanie
Buss. Yes, this was a big game. It was a game that the Lakers
needed in order to prove they were not the scourge of the NBA. I
wouldn’t be surprised if Rider had been dealing stuff in every city he
visited ala The British Empire and the subsequent Opium Wars that resulted.
Fortunately for him, David Stern need only bribe Dr. Buss with involuntary
drug tests for Rider. Of course, that could be just as formidable
a bribe as Hong Kong, but I digress.
The
Lakers took this game as seriously as their individual contract re-negotiations.
They played to win and they looked great. Shaq played like the player
possessed that he was a year ago. Kobe distributed the ball like
Magic in his heyday, passing up jumpers in the open court for easier baskets
to cutting teammates. Ho Grant and Foxy got touches and knocked their
shots down. It was beautiful. And, by the time it ended, the
Lakers led by twenty points and notched their fifth win in a row.
By
this time, Alisa came around to my table for what seemed to be the fiftieth
time. I had snubbed her all night in order to concentrate on the
game, but I could see her frustration waning as her prospects for tips
were at a minimum. I sat up in my chair and breathed a sigh of, “stepping
it up for big games,” and ordered the patented Jimmy O’s Captain and Coke.
No time to leave. It was time to celebrate. But, instead of
burning cars and looting the nearby Banana Republic, I decided a few drinks
were in order. After all, if the Lakers keep playing like this, L.A.
will take care of the rioting. I’ll just stick to the depleting of
brain cells.
When
Alisa returned with my toddy, she looked perplexed. “How’s the XFL
column going?” she asked. “And where’s Kraig?”
I
didn’t have the heart to tell her about the failed XFL project, so I turned
my attention to my fallen friend. “Kraig is recovering from jaundice.
He’s been out of commission for a while, but he’ll be ready for the playoffs.
He’s just resting his liver.”
Alisa
looked at me like so many have before. The disdain and distrust was
written all over her face. I wanted to reassure her of my sincerity,
but it’s almost impossible to do when you’re giddy about your NBA team's
chance of success in the second season. Forget all the talk of San
Antonio and Philadelphia. Those teams are soft and have too many
distractions with killer bees and freeing Mumia to be able to step up to
a championship level. Look for a rematch of sorts. Phil Jackson
vs. Pat Riley. Kobe vs. Eddie. Horace vs. Brian in a Grant
grudge match. Ron Harper and Tim Hardaway vs. their knees.
Alisa had noticed I’d retreated into the cavernous abyss of my mind, so
she sauntered off to wipe down a perfectly clean table.
Time
had come for me to return to my makeshift abode at the nearby inn.
Needing a good night’s sleep, I drove the three blocks down the Del Mar
strip hoping to hear the sweet sound of the Pied Piper of Hamelin driving
the pesky vermin away. I thought I saw Phil Jackson taking note.
