While living in London, you see, young James Beberman had somehow become a huge Lakers fan. "Man oh man oh man oh man!" James would chant/shout in his slightly English accent as we sat on the floor watching the amazing early-’70s Lakers. "The Lakers are God!" I’d sort of admired the Bucks and the Knicks — especially Oscar Robertson and Earl "The Pearl" Monroe — but I really didn’t consider any team to be "my" team.
So it was James’ fault. He got me addicted to his Lakers. We’d hang out there in the castle basement, watching Chamberlain, Goodrich, West et al., drinking strawberry sodas, eating candy bars and browsing ancient Playboys at halftime. I began to lose interest in the Illini.
THE TRANCES BEGAN YEARS LATER, after I’d moved to Los Angeles. I didn’t have the money for Lakers tickets, but I watched them on television, and the whole spectacle seemed rather drab and rehearsed. Maybe I never really cared about the Lakers, I only cared about the Lakers in Beberman’s basement, among the musty magazines and the ghosts in the picture tube.
But then one evening an Illini basketball game came on — a home game, televised from my beloved old flying saucer. And even with the harsh sounds and dorky commentators, I could somehow hear the ball bouncing on the asphalt, could smell the grass of Hessel Park — and I couldn’t turn it off.
Speaking of which: I gotta go. SportsCenter’s on. Gotta see highlights. Gotta.
Now Trending
-
Voice Places
Find everything you're looking for in your city
-
Happy Hour App
Find the best happy hour deals in your city
-
Daily Deals
Get today's exclusive deals at savings of anywhere from 50-90%
-
Best Of...
Check out the hottest list of places and things to do around your city
- Profile
- Newsletters
- Mobile
- Logout
