Once upon a time, I moved to Portland and quickly learned that one of the best ways to assimilate and become a true Portlander was to hate the Los Angeles Lakers. Not just dislike the Lakers, mind you. HATE the Lakers. Yes, hate the evil SoCal spawns of Satan with the fiery, unquenchable disdain of one who would back over Jerry Buss‘ dog with an F-150 while laughing maniacally. THAT kind of hatred. This took some getting used to, because I grew up a HUGE Lakers fan. Growing up in northern Minnesota, as close to Winnipeg as Minneapolis, the nearest NBA teams were in Chicago and Milwaukee. I hate any team from Chicago, and I’m no fan of Milwaukee, either…but that’s another story for another time.
The Lakers, who once called Minneapolis home, were, as far as I was concerned, the next best thing to a local NBA team. Hey, I was in junior high school; I make no claim to having possessed a sense of logic or distance at such a tender age.
On the basketball court, I was a point guard who idolized Jerry West. One day I read that West taught himself to dribble and drive equally well with either hand. I immediately went out and did the same thing. I wore number 44 because that was West’s number. I admired Kareem Abdul Jabbar’s sweeping skyhook- though it did me no good, afflicted as I was with “White Man’s Disease.”
Still, when in Rome, right? After moving to Portland, I changed my way of thinking. Before long, I hated the Lakers with the seething, irrational passion of a native Portlander. I’d watch Blazers-Lakers game on television as if they were the proxy battles of Good and Evil. Blazers- Lakers playoff series were epic conflicts between the forces of Darkness and Light…titanic fights to the (metaphorical) death.
When Phil Jackson came along it became tougher to hate the Lakers. I’d always admired his coaching philosophy and his unorthodox manner of motivating and relating to players. In a business populated by sideline-prancing prima donnas and screamers, Jackson sat placidly on the bench maintaining his composure as those around him lost theirs. He employed Zen philosophy at a time when most coaches and players couldn’t even spell “Zen”… much less define it. He prescribed books for his players to read. Occasionally, he’d lead his players in meditation…not the sort of thing your average NBA player expected from a coach.
The Lakers were talented, deep, and exciting. “Showtime” may have been a marketing ploy, but the Lakers’ fast break was a wondrous thing to behold. Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, James Worthy, and Byron Scott, among others, made the Lakers the toughest ticket in L.A. The seemingly annual NBA finals battle with the Boston Celtics had the feel of Old vs. New, the plodding farm-boy game I grew up playing vs. playground flash-and-dash. I didn’t even mind the nauseating celebrity spotting that network play-by-play announcers engaged in during games at the Fabulous Forum.
Then came Kobe Bryant, and suddenly hating the Lakers was easy again. I don’t dislike Bryant on a personal level (I prefer to know someone before hating them), but as a player, his arrogance and sense of entitlement fueled my disdain. He whined at officials, disrespected teammates and opponents, and played an astonishingly selfish brand of basketball. Bryant seemed incapable of understanding just how fortunate he was to be playing in the NBA. He’d been the Next One all through high school, a man among boys even as a schoolboy. Drafted out of high school by the Charlotte Hornets, Bryant forced a trade to the Lakers. What seemed presumptuous at the time in retrospect makes sense. Faced with a choice between Charlotte and L.A., who among us would choose the Tar Heel State? I thought so.
Bryant proved himself adept at conducting his public life in ways that invited fans to dislike him. His aloofness and air of superiority kept outsiders at arm’s length. Those who wanted to get to know Bryant were never allowed the opportunity, as if he needed distance to feel safe. The extramarital affairs, the rape allegation, his contentious relationship with his teammates, and his surly disposition made it difficult to like him. Bryant’s talent was undeniable, but his humanity was too often open to question.
As time has marched on, Bryant, now 33, has begun to win acceptance and even admiration as an eminence grise, though to some of us he’s still just a young ‘un. If it feels as if he’s been around forever, it’s because he was drafted at 18. He’s spent almost half his life in the NBA and the white-hot spotlight that comes with playing for the Lakers. We should all have it so bad, eh?
As happens with most people, Bryant seems to be mellowing with age. No one will ever accuse him of being avuncular, but he appears more at ease these days. He’s still not the most agreeable interview. He’ll never be described by sportswriters as “engaging.” Nonetheless, Bryant seems more comfortable with himself and his place in the world. With five championship rings, he no longer needs to prove himself. That he still has the drive and the impatience of someone wanting more NBA titles may rub some the wrong way. In a results-oriented business, though, who can argue with his methods?
These days, I take solace in the knowledge that losing to Portland still drives Bryant crazy. That will have to suffice until the Blazers beat the Lakers in a playoff series…preferably the Western Conference championship. I still hate the Lakers, but I’m finding it tougher to dislike Bryant. After all these years, he’s growing on me. In some ways, Bryant’s still the smirking kid from Lower Merion H.S. who thought he was King of the World. Now he actually may be. If you don’t believe me, consider this: When did you last see game footage of Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, or Larry Bird on SportsCenter?
I rest my case.
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