To this author, the L.A. Lakers have always been the feared 
pretty boys of the NBA. But now, as the series heats up 
in the Semis-and fueled by the rise of LeBron James 
and a Kobe beef he just can’t seem to kick-that fear has turned to hate

It’s been exactly two decades since I watched my first NBA game live, in the flesh. Thus far, it’s been the only time.

The memory remains vivid. While on a visit to Houston, my mate and I met an NBA telecast honcho at a typically gung-ho Texan barbecue party. In between swigs of awful beer in humongous mugs, I hinted at how, as a basketball freak, I followed the NBA back home in Manila, even if hardly a game was televised until the Finals.

Tipping his Stetson, the fellow grinned and asked if we’d be interested in a couple of tickets for the next evening’s game at the Summit. “Oh, that’s just across the street from the motel we’re staying in,” I said. “Then y’all would just have to walk over,” he drawled, “to watch the Lakers.”

My eyes popped as I turned to my podner, who seemed to assure me with a knowing look-back that it was no bum steer. I then addressed Mr. Generosity in my best echolalic rendition of Gracias, amigo! In fact I got so pumped up after a clinching toast that I almost jumped onto a mechanical bucking bronco by the bar, but for lack of a dollar coin.

The Summit is no more, renamed years later to the Compaq Center, where the Houston Rockets now host home games. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is also long gone from the scene, even as his legend remains.
That night, it was the Showtime Lakers in town, facing down a woeful Rockets team with a yet up-and-coming Hakeem Olajuwon, power forward Otis Thorpe, the young bruiser Buck Johnson at small forward, and the razzle-dazzle Sleepy Floyd at point.

The Lakers seem to have lost their mojo, and can’t even dust off the Yao-less Houston Rockets. It could spoil all dreams of a battle royale for a finale, between the two most exciting ballers today. 

The defending repeat champs from La-La Land were led by Magic Johnson at his prime, with backcourt partner Byron Scott, James Worthy, and A.C. Green on the wings, and at center, Mr. Skyhook himself, on his farewell tour during the ‘88-’89 season. Before game start, a kissing bandit of a lady in rodeo costume and a rhinestone-studded miniskirt wrapped herself around Kareem at mid-court, and couldn’t be pulled away as the crowd howled.

We were seated on a mid-level tier, about 30 or so rows up from the floor, in an elbow section off the back of a goal. Those Lakers were something else, running fastbreak after fastbreak as only they could—the floor-pounding quickening everyone’s pulse as it sounded much like a herd of hooves covering 90 feet of parquet in two to three seconds.

When Thorpe missed from the deep corner, Kareem would collar the carom and quickly hand the ball to Magic, who would either launch a baseball pass to a streaking Worthy, or pound the floor past the mid-court line in two strides, then eat up the transition defense with a nifty drive-and-dish for a Michael Cooper trey. Additional frontline studs were Orlando Woodridge and Mychal Thompson.

That year the Lakers would sweep the playoff elimination rounds till the Finals for a shot at a three-peat, but would inexplicably lose by a sweep to the Detroit Pistons.

The 20 years since have but enhanced the legendary status of the Lakers. However brief and occasionally contentious, the partnership between Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant produced more titles. And the entry of first-rate coach Phil Jackson, he of the double-threepeat rings with the Bulls, and the Zen and Lakota Sioux philosophical tenets, also made for continuing dominance in a league where most teams never even get a fair share of up-and-down cycles.

Of course the old storied rivalry between the Lakers and the Boston Celtics, as well as both teams’ propensity for establishing dynasties, are a central part of NBA lore. Such was the feverish anticipation as last year’s playoffs lurched towards a Dream Finals, a climactic classic retrofit that had the men in green enjoying a resurgence and pulling off a dramatic, highlight-filled win in six games over the men in teal and gold.

But as an aficionado, I go for the fresh underdogs, the team or teams that haven’t had a slice of any championship pie. So that when LeBron James fell into place in his rookie year with his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers, I began to nurture the dream that this superbly conditioned man-child, dubbed “The Chosen One” straight out of high school, would one day assume mythic proportions the way my erstwhile icon, the original Number 23 that was Michael Jordan, had stamped his class act on the entire planet as the best hoopster ever.

Oh, there were anointed pretenders expected to fill the void he left behind: from Penny Hardaway to Grant Hill to Vince Carter (“half-man, half-amazing”) to Kobe himself. But Penny and Grant turned injury-prone, and the former “Air Canada” who spawned “Vinsanity” with his aerial derring-do never did get beyond human-highlight-film status, much like Dominique Wilkins who rivaled Jordan in dunkfests.

Tracy McGrady eventually overshadowed his cousin Vince after playing second fiddle to him in the same team, so that it became a toss-up between Tracy and Kobe for the Next Jordan tag. To both players’ credit, they established their own inimitable styles of play as super scorers, often inhabiting a zone of rarefied air where they were untouchable.

Now that Tracy’s gone down due to injuries, and is unlikely to relive his M.V.P. glory days, it’s certainly been Kobe who comes closest to . . . well, not exactly being the Next Jordan, but his own go-to guy specie: a hardcourt warrior whose sheer will and determination can take over a game and clinch it with a cold-blooded killer instinct.

Unfortunately, for him and countless fans, his persona also introduced questionable attributes. There was the pouting Kobe who thought nothing of berating teammates while on the floor, who stuck his lips out like a déclassé corner-lot bully whenever he made a great play, who quarreled with “The Big Diesel” and earned mocking rap lyrics from the supremely humorous Shaq. Then there was the Kobe taken to court for alleged rape.

I didn’t like Kobe much at that point, and always wished for his comeuppance in game after game. Tough, that one, as No. 8 who turned into No. 24 certainly had the skills and guts to keep evolving as a player. He wasn’t just a shooter and a scorer (distinct types those are); he also became a superb lock-down defender. And of late he’s bought into Coach Jackson’s mantra that even Jordan had to be part of a team, and help finesse that team into more effective synergy.

The Kobe Bryant who visited Manila last year was surprisingly accommodating, friendly, and articulate. I asked him at a press con about his new diet and physical regimen that I had read about, how it put pounds and muscles in the right places, and his face lit up to acknowledge the quality of research that went into the question. His reply was extended and detailed, totally sharing what could well be secrets for some athletes. I liked that Kobe.

The way he accepted LeBron James’s youthful leadership of their Olympics-bound U.S.A. Dream Team was yet another facet of maturation. He knew he would still be the go-to guy during winning time, and he proved it when James deferred to the maestro of clutch baskets.

The Kobe Bryant who visited Manila last year was surprisingly accommodating, friendly, and articulate. I liked that Kobe.

Their friendship and mutual respect spoke volumes of an inevitable rivalry born of noble admiration for each other’s special skills, but one that would reach a zenith when their respective arcs of individual passion and drive to become the lord of the rings intersected.

That time has come. Should the Lakers cooperate, it will happen this June. While the Cavs overtook the Lakers close to the homestretch and finished the regular season with the best win-loss record, the Lakers were still deemed as odds-on favorites to take another crown. At least this was so before the second round of the playoffs.

My own love for the game dictated that LeBron should face the ultimate challenge before he earns his first ring. I wanted the Cavs to dispatch the Pistons, then the Heat instead of the Hawks, if only for LeBron to hurdle the personal challenge that would have been put up by his buddy Dwyane Wade, and then to be the team to dispose of the defending champs, the Boston Celtics.

Alas, as I write this, it’s been so much easier sailing for my darling Cavs. Not to worry, as LeBron appears so focused and locked in the final goal. Monster performances have been the order of the day. Why, we could sweep all the way through the Eastern Conference Finals, where I still prefer to face Boston than Orlando. The Celtics have done their part, struggling to tie their series against the Magic, thus regaining homecourt advantage.

But the Lakers seem to have lost their mojo, and can’t even dust off the Yao-less Houston Rockets. It could spoil all dreams of a battle royale for a finale, between the two most exciting ballers today. It used to be dread of the Lakers’ powerful frontline, in aid of Kobe, that fueled my prayers for the Cavs to go all the way with LBJ. Now I find myself hoping we don’t meet up with the Rockets or the Nuggets in the Finals.

I still want us as the underdogs versus Kobe and the Lakers. That would make a first championship so much sweeter. The way it was for Jordan and the Bulls when they had to go up against the older Magic Johnson and the Lakers way back in 1991—that’s how I want the seemingly imminent intersection of superstar careers to go.

It could still be in the cards. All the Lakers have to do is hold serve for two games against the Rockets, then show up Carmelo Anthony, Chauncey Billups, and the rest of the Denver Nuggets in the Western Conference Finals. I’m cocksure we’ll hold our part of the bargain, maybe even sweep the Celtics or the Magic.

If and when it comes down to LeBron versus Kobe for all the marbles, then I’ll be back on default mode, loathing the Lakers with implacable intensity. Make it so, Hell-A.