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.
In the last 96 hours, I’ve become a father, fought step throat, dealt with crazy neighbors and through it all did my best to get my sports fix. On Thursday, I became a father to a beautiful baby girl that my wife and I named Brielle (thankfully, she looks a lot like my wife). We also have a four year old son, Cole. I tell you this because the last four days have been, well, a little crazy.
Hello, my name is Bri. I’m a sports addict. This is the story of how I blended sports into the weekend my daughter was born.
Thursday, April 27, 2006 My wife was induced for labor at 7:00 a.m., which meant we had to get up at 5:30. After some general proceedings, the doctor informed us we had a couple hours before the show really began. Thanks to the posh luxury hospital we choose, we had a flat screen TV with a DVD player in a room bigger than Donald Trump’s vault. Thanks to my father-in-law, we had the Billy Bob Thorton remake of Bad News Bears .
Is there anyone more qualified than Thorton to assume the role of Buttermaker? That movie so wrong, you can’t help but laugh.
Halfway through the movie, my wife grabbed her bed and my hand so hard I have a small scar from my wedding ring being gouged into my fingers. Um, nurse, we’re ready for the epidural.
One short hour later, our baby was here—and my life was forever changed.
Fast forward through the whirlwind family visits and we were relatively calm in the post-delivery room, still posh and complete with internet access. As my wife and daughter went off to sleep, I thought it would be a good time to check out the NBA Playoffs. Bad idea.
When I finally wore down near midnight, I shut off the TV and settled into my less than cozy chair.
Twenty minutes into dreamland, my daughter gave me my first wake-up call. First lesson—sleep when the baby sleeps.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Day one with our new daughter produced more whirlwind family visits and our son Cole getting strep throat. As my wife and I tried to get the hang of things, I secretly kept checking playoff scores and NFL Draft prognostications.
This time, I learned my lesson. I slept when they slept. But since they were awake, I was able to watch the Lakers take a 2 games-to-one lead over the Phoenix Suns.
So here’s my take: if the argument surrounding Kobe Bryant not being MVP was that he didn’t make his team mates better, what does his performance in this series do to that? 17 points and 7 assists, with all other Laker starters in double figures. Certainly seems MVP-esque.
MVP is an objectionable prize, broken down by not just stats, but intangibles. We want and ask for certain things from the front-runners, but we still manipulate the facts and figures to our liking. I don’t know the answer to the MVP questions, but I do know that Kobe’s made a point—and with that posterizing dunk on Nash in Wednesday’s Game 2, a very big point.
How about a little credit to Phil Jackson? Sure, Jackson always has the best players to win his titles with, but how about the 1994 season without Michael Jordan? Or this Zen-like approach to the Suns in these playoffs? Let’s hope P-Jax writes a book about it.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
We got to leave the hospital with our little bundle of joy, but not until mid-afternoon. Which meant my daughter and I had some quality time watching the NFL Draft together. Naturally, she slept. It won’t be the last time she gets bored and falls asleep with daddy watching sports.
I’ll share this with her someday, that she got her first taste of the NFL by sleeping through the Texans making one of the biggest draft day mistakes in recent history. As I enjoyed her resting comfortably on my chest, I sat stunned and intrigued that Houston actually picked Mario Williams first, letting Bush go to the Saints at number 2.
Has the NFL become so self-involved and over-analyzing that teams really create flaws in players deemed too good to be true? What was once questionable about Vince Young was his ability to escape would-be tacklers at the professional level. With time that passed. But I actually heard people say this was something Bush would have trouble doing in the NFL as well.
Of course, we can’t know until we see Bush play—the same could be said about Young—but Bush has the ability to play no less than four positions in the NFL, and play each now. Then there’s the fact that for the better part of two seasons at USC, no one could lay a hand on him.
It made me sick. Well, not really—but I did get strep throat late Saturday night.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
My wife and I are in the midst of buying a house—a process that can’t end fast enough. We have, to my knowledge, the worst neighbors in the history of apartment life. It’s like their entire existence is spent listening to weird music at obscene levels at all hours of the night.
Naturally, they choose Saturday night to have some fun with the speakers. My wife couldn’t sleep because the baby is hungry ALL THE TIME. Seriously, newborns should come with a warning label. The baby is like LenDale White in the off-season.
After a morning trip to the local sick-bay where I acquired some much needed anti-biotics and the obligatory “get some rest” prescription, I settled in for an afternoon of NBA Playoffs. The wife was fine with this, I didn’t even ask. Well, maybe because she was sleeping.
I take what I can get. Welcome to the world, Brielle. And welcome to the sports world your daddy lives in.
