If you had told me at any point in the past ten years that the Los Angeles Lakers and the Los Angeles Clippers would meet in the playoffs during any postseason, I would have spit out my beer and laughed uncontrollably, like the New Orleans Saints front office probably did after the Houston Texans didn’t take Reggie Bush in the NFL Draft last Saturday.
So here we are, dealing with the improbable, but very possible—a series between two franchises who share the same arena, but distinctly different histories. If this wasn’t the Lakers and the Clippers, the focus would be on the goofy notion that neither team will leave their home court; they’ll just alternate locker rooms. The biggest thing either has to deal with is the change in the paint color scheme on the court.
Here’s what’s most troubling: who would get dibs on the front row seats, Jack Nicholson or Billy Crystal?—because Lord knows there isn’t room for both in Staples.
While the focus in this upcoming series should be on the Clippers, a Caddyshack like Cinderella story of the bumbling franchise that all of the sudden turned into a viable playoff contender (with Donald Sterling staring as Judge Smails)—it won’t be.
The Lakers are the most intriguing playoff story going, for two reasons: Phil Jackson and Kobe Bryant.
Though he’s tied with Red Auerbach with most NBA titles won by a coach, the knock on Phil Jackson has always been he had all the talent while winning titles with the Bulls and Lakers. And until recently, maybe that was true.
But after this impressive season-long coaching clinic, when will Phil get the recognition he deserves as Greatest Coach of All-Time? Because there’s nothing left now to discuss with his latest turn in L.A.—and maybe that’s why he came back. How do you top winning championships with Michael and Scottie, Shaq and Kobe? How about turning a team that everyone laughed at for two seasons and making them a Western Conference semi-finalist.
We should have seen this coming—shouldn’t have we assumed that Jackson would out-coach Mike D’Antoni?
Maybe this was Phil’s plan all along. Think about it: if you were Jackson, how would you go about winning games during the regular season in the West? Team ball? No way. Sure, maybe you can count on this collection of misfits to step up in the playoff spotlight like they have, but night after night, over the course of 82 games? Not a chance.
So you put the ball into the hands of one of the league’s most dynamic players and basically let him try to get the team into the playoffs. While Kobe’s doing his thing, Jackson was molding the likes of Lamar Odom, Luke Walton, Smush Parker and Kwame Brown into believing in their roles.
(Can you actually believe we’re talking about Kwame Brown and Luke Walton as a viable basketball players? Me neither.) One unmistakable fact about Jackson: he’s an excellent motivator and can sell basketball like Big Tom Callahan sold auto-parts.
Then, there’s Kobe. I remember watching Jordan’s “Flue-Game” against the Jazz in ’97 and the Game 6 winner over Russell in ’98, with a bunch of my friends. And it was…anti-climatic. We’d come to expect the 50 point games and last second heroics. He was Air Jordan for crying out loud.
But with Kobe, well, it’s unfair to compare him to Jordan, because he’s really not. He’s actually the anti-Jordan.
He wasn’t cut in seventh grade, his father wasn’t killed tragically and for all of his smiling, he doesn’t have Jordan’s off-court likeability (not to mention the whole Shaq divorce). Jordan was endearing because of those all his quirks. Bryant speaks multiple languages, has openly admitted to cheating on his wife and has an ego the size of Jackson’s Montana ranch getaway. Bryant is less than likeable because of these things.
So as Kobe hit the game tying lay-up and subsequent overtime winner, I was thoroughly impressed because unlike Jordan, everyone who isn’t a Laker fan is rooting for Kobe to miss those shots. Most of us want to see him fail because, frankly, we don’t like him as a person.
And that’s fine—we don’t have to like him. But we have to recognize what Bryant’s doing on the basketball court. In the past 86 games, he’s gone from selfish and self-serving, to 62 points in three quarters (where he was berated for not going for the non-Wilt record, to scoring 81 (where he was berated for actually doing it), to leading a group of players who wouldn’t see the court on most NBA rosters into the playoffs.
If there’s one Jordan comparison that works, maybe it’s this one: he massages his team mates’ confidence the same way MJ did. Did you see the way he talked to Parker after that game-tying lay-up?
And did you see the way his team mates mobbed him like Jimmy Chitwood after the Game 4 OT winner? They love him.
But somehow, we still don’t.
In a short five game span, Kobe’s played the role designed by his coach. He became a team leader and a team mate, making the Lakers into a fun-loving, all-for-one NCAA Tournament style playoff Cinderella.
And yet, we still discredit the performance. We still call him self-serving and egotistical. Make no mistake—he’s probably still all those things. But when will we start acting like the fictional Yankees fans did in For Love of the Game and just applaud this? A legend is forming in front of our eyes, but our dislike for Bryant’s personality blinds us.
After Game 4, a fan said that they hadn’t heard the Staples Center that loud since the 2000 Western Conference Finals comeback win over Portland. Sure, Smush Parker made a steal, Luke Walton forced a jump ball—but the success of this team can be credited to Phil and Kobe. They still haven’t won this series or anything else this year—and maybe they never will again.
With the way the NBA playoffs have started, what with the Clippers winning their first playoff game since 1993 and taking a 2-0 lead in it’s series over the Nuggets, we’ve started the playoffs a little differently than normal. In addition to that, the Pacers, Wizards and Lakers are all playing each of their series tight. It looks like we’ve got some crashers on our hands. And if you’re going to crash something, you’ve got to have rules—we learned that from Wedding Crashers last summer.
Using that as a guide, here’s a list of rules for prospective Playoff Crashers.
Rule #1—“Never leave a fellow crasher behind.”
Typically, the best two teams meet in the NBA Finals. It’s hard to crash the playoffs, only a few have taken it as far as John Beckwith did: in 1999 the Knicks were only the second team to beat a 1-seed as an 8-seed (the Nuggets were the first in 1994 over the Sonics). The Knicks made the Finals, but fell to the Spurs in five games.
The point of a playoff crasher is to get in and have your fun—but when other crashers start to fall, you usually bow out gracefully. Non-biased fans want to see the best teams in the Finals, kind of like the NCAA Tournament.
Rule #6—“Do not sit in the corner and sulk. It draws attention in a negative way. Draw attention to yourself—but on your own terms.”
So many teams oblige the higher seeds by bowing out early—usually by not playing very hard and then complaining about “officiating”. Here’s a note for these offenders: the officiating is terrible in the playoffs every year, in every sport—get used to it. Give us something we can use, an excuse like you were more focused on your college graduation ceremony or something.
A good Playoff Crasher will mold itself after some of the legends. The 1995 Rockets could be considered the Chazz Reingold of Playoff Crashers. That year the Rockets were defending champions (Sam Cassell, currently manning the Clippers, was the point guard on that team, too) but the sixth seed in the Western Conference. They beat the Jazz (60-22 overall) three games to two in the first round; then beat the Suns (59-23) four games to three and followed that up in the Western Finals by beating the Spurs (62-20 with league MVP David Robinson) in six games. They were 5-0 in elimination games that year. Rule #7—“Blend in by standing out” also applies here.
Rule #20—“The older the better, the younger the better.”
If you are a potential Playoff Crasher, it’s best to be a veteran laden team or have a key veteran player that knows what to do in certain key situations. As previously mentioned, Sam Cassell’s been to the playoffs with the Rockets, Nets, Timberwolves and Clippers. That’s the player I want leading a group of guys like Elton Brand, Shaun Livingston, Chris Wilcox and Chris Kaman—playoff first-timers who, without proper guidance and support, would be making vacation plans in a week.
Robert Horry is always a good luck charm and I’m convinced that some team will hire him as an assistant coach in a few years, just in case. These veterans are here to remind everyone else that it’s a long two months to the Larry O’Brien Trophy and they shouldn’t get so excited so early—like Sack Lodge was to go quail hunting; don’t be overly aggressive.
A young team—like the ’95 Orlando Magic—can also work as a Playoff Crasher under this rule. The Magic were built for speed and comfort. A young Shaquille O’Neal and Penny Hardaway, supplemented by 3-D (Dennis Scott) and Nick Anderson made a run through the Eastern Conferences Michael Jordan-less Bulls, Knicks and upstart Indiana Pacers. The Magic ran out, you could say, in the Finals. Orlando’s Nick Anderson couldn’t close out Game 1 from the foul line, and after missing four free throws, Kenny Smith of the Rockets hit a three and sent the game to overtime. Anderson and the Magic were never the same—he broke Rule #22 of Playoff Crashing: “You have regulation to seal the deal. Period. No overtime. ”
Rule #29—“Always be a team player. Everyone needs a little help now and again.”
This applies to everyone in the playoffs—even Kobe Bryant. Most superstars need a little bit of help from their friends. They need a Vince Vaughn’s Jeremy to play the role and take one for the team; be the big guy, the Babaganoosh. Michael had Scottie, but he also had a big shot from John Paxson or Steve Kerr. Clyde Drexler couldn’t do it alone against Jordan and the Bulls in ’92, but helped out Olajuwon in ’95 with the Rockets. David Robinson needed Tim Duncan. Everybody’s needed Robert Horry.
Rule #33—“Never go back your place”.
As a Playoff Crasher, this rule becomes vastly important as the playoffs go on. Don’t let it get to a seventh game against a team that should have already beaten you. They will do so in Game 7. The Pacers never learned this against the Bulls in the late 90’s. The Kings forgot it against the Lakers in the 2003 Western Finals. Once you’ve got a team down 3-1 or 3-2, you better close it out.
So, Playoff Crashers—those are the rules, break them and you’ll be outed at the reception. Good luck, and remember Rule #76—“No excuses. Play like a champion!”
