The Celtics were up by one. One second remained on the clock. I was the one who had the last shot. Would I make it? Would I be the hero for the Lakers and their wild fan base? Would my winning shot go down in the annals of basketball history?
I rose. Their best defender was all over me, blocking my view of the rim. The buzzer was ready to blare when the ball left my hand, arched toward the basket, and . . . .
I woke up. What a frenzied dream I had. I didn’t play for the Lakers, although that was one of my lifelong desires. I grew up in LA, had a brother who worked for the Lakers, and watched as many games as the limited television stations aired. Laker purple ran through my veins. I spent every moment thinking about the Lakers, except for those moments I thought about girls. The Lakers were royalty, and I lived in their kingdom.
That was back in the 1960s and 70s. Those were the days of Wilt Chamberlain and Jerry West and Gail Goodrich. The 1980s arrived, and my adoration of the Lakers, now staring Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, and James Worthy never waned. The early nineties were lean, but the emergence of Shaq and Kobe brought more glory to the City of Angeles. Every time the Lakers hoisted a championship trophy, I too held the trophy in my hand. I was a Laker, or at least, their truest fan.
All Laker fans have two things in common; their love of the purple and gold, and their loathing of the Boston Celtics. The rivalry between the two teams went back to the 1950s. When the two teams squared up in the 2008 finals, the Celtics owned one more trophy then did the Lakers. We, by that I mean the Lakers and me, had a chance to even the score. We were ready to win it all.
That didn’t happen. Game six took place on June 17th. I rode my bike to my favorite sports bar to watch the game with a few friends, ready to watch the Lakers beat the Celtics and force a game seven. Instead, the Celtics demolished the Lakers, beating them by a hefty 39 points. It was hard to watch the game, and harder to ride my bike home. I felt defeated – let down in a humbling way. It was the worst feeling I’d had in quite a while.
I slowly rode home, draped in the doldrums of despair. That feeling though, only lasted a few blocks. As I peddled through the dark streets of Boise, a new feeling hit me, like a behind the back pass to the face. “Wait a minute.” I thought to myself. “I didn’t lose that game. I didn’t miss out on a championship ring and the glory that accompanies it. No extra money did I miss. No picture of me on the cover of Sports Illustrated did I forfeit.”
I realized in that moment that I was just a fan. I realized that basketball, like all sports, is just a sport. I learned to love the sport, to enjoy the sport, and more importantly, to put the sport into perspective. Since that day, I still watch the Lakers (and the Dodgers, Kings, and Rams – when they play in LA) and I hope they win. If they do, I’m happy, If they don’t, well, I’m happy too. Life is too short to be unhappy, especially when you cannot affect the outcome of what causes unhappiness.
Last night I had a dream. The Celtics were up by one. One second remained on the clock. I was the one who had the last shot. Would I make it? Would I be the hero for the Lakers and their wild fan base? Would my winning shot go down in the annals of basketball history?
I rose. Their best defender was all over me, blocking my view of the rim. The buzzer was ready to blare when the ball left my hand, arched toward the basket, and . . . my shot was short.