There was a time when I would be anxiously waiting for the Lakers game on Christmas mornings like today.  I’d make sure that my family knew that at some point I would turn off the bootleg movie blasting above everybody shouting. At game time, I wanted the remote, a seat on the couch, and folk needed to chew on their peach cobbler quietly so I wouldn’t miss a thing.  The Lakers would be playing whatever team they smashed the prior year in the Finals; and I’d be looking for a repeat so I could go back to school and talk trash to all the idiots who weren’t down for the home team.

 

 

I always looked forward to the pregame show because Shaq was bound to break away from the warm up, steal the mic from a sideline reporter, and say something ridiculous. Kobe would interject and give some PC answer about how the game was just like any other game, even though we all knew he and the rest of the Lake show wanted that W bad.

 

Everybody and their moms would be watching and it was Christmas; nobody wants to feel like a loser on Christmas. So today, when I’m watching with my own mother, I’ll be hoping for a W too, but not for the purple and gold squad; My money and shit talking weight is on the 20th consecutive win for the other team.

 

It’s not like I’m a die hard Celtics fan (although I absolutely love me some KG) it’s just that I haven’t been down with the Lakers since July 14, 2004.  It’s one of the worse days of my NBA fanatic life. That’s the day I realized I loved a player more than a team, and I absolutely wanted to spray paint Mitch Kupchak’s house with obscenities that would make Richard Pryor blush. 

 

July 14 was the day The Big Aristotle, Superman, The Diesel, Shaquille mothaeffin O’Neal was traded to the Heat, and my Laker bliss turned to pure hate.  That’s right. Hate. Hate. Hate. I’m owning it. I’ve turned into one of those people. Despite an almost perfect season this year for the Lakers, my love kicked rocks a long time ago, only to be replaced with pure unadulterated scorn to the fourth power.

 

That’s probably a shock to anyone who knew me prior to ‘04.  When I say I was down for the Lakers, it’s an understatement. I use to visit my Aunt’s house and spend hours in my cousin’s purple and gold room (seriously, the top half was painted yellow, the bottom was purple) talking about how much we hated the Sac Queens and how I wanted Reggie Miller to choke on a can of Sprite and die.  We even convinced my aunt, who hates large crowds, in 2002 to take us to the Lakers parade after they won their last championship.  At the parade, I didn’t complain about what felt like 100 degree weather and I didn’t ask to go home when random perves kept brushing up against me because I needed to witness the team drive past on fire trucks, in real life, not on the TV with the better view.  I was nuts I tell you. I actually cried the day Chick Hearn died and I still think no one will close a game like he did. 

 

Chick is probably spinning in his grave because I no longer care to close the refrigerator door after a Laker game unless I can lock Kobe in it.  If the jello starts jiggling’ while I’m around I will eat that shit. There was a time when I prayed for the Lakers to devour ever team in site.  I held my tongue when Karl Malone’s annoying behind joined the squad because my team needed him to keep me from going insane when they started to lose. I acted a fool during Lakers games. True story: my mother use to send me to my room to watch the games because I couldn’t contain myself. I got so bad, I broke my glasses rolling around on her living room floor after Derek Fisher did this:

 

 

 

And I lost my voice the day Robert Horry did this

 

 
  

But on July 14, I cried.  It was bad enough that Phil was gone, but a Shaq-less Laker squad was unacceptable.  How was I supposed to handle their losing streak if I didn’t have Shaq Fu to entertain me with quotes like these?

 

I told my wife the other day, I’m the Halle Berry of the NBA.  Everybody wants this, baby.  Everybody wants me.

 

My game’s like the Pythagorean Theorem. It ain’t got no answer.

 

He’s a little bit younger, he got a lot of proving to do, but he’s just as lethal.  It’s my job to make him lethaler.  It’s my job to make him the lethalest, if that’s a word…

 

If I were a painter, you’d be calling me Shaqcasso

 

I miss Shaqcasso! I haven’t been able to enjoy a game without him in LA since he left; so I’ve been making the franchise pay for depriving me, with hate. Hate. Hate. And not the kind that’s the “new love.”

 

I enjoy it when Tony Parker lets one go over Kobe, and I relish in rare occasions of Rondo managing to get up in his ass. I know it’s mean and ridiculous to hold onto a pain stemming from a four year old trade, but I can’t help it. I never was a big fan of Kobe, no matter his stats, so it’s easy to blame him for the split, no matter the truth.

 

I’m hurt, and I haven’t been able to get over it. Never mind the fact that my fav is washed up like dark clothes without downey in the rinse  cycle. Sometimes I feel bad going against D-Fish and Phil, but I’m a woman scorned. 

 

So, all I want for Christmas is the opportunity to hear KG shout out to his mama and peanut again. I live in LA where the majority of folk are rooting for the Lakers, but remember Proper Talkers, any thing’s possible!

 

 
 

 

Merry Christmas y’all!

Tags: Boston Celtics, Chick Hearn, Kobe Bryant, Los Angeles Lakers, Mitch Kupchak, NBA, NBA Finals, Phil Jackson, Shaquille O'Neal