Why am I such a huge Laker fan?

I was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. I've never lived in Los Angeles. I've never even been to Los Angeles. In fact, from what I've heard about Los Angeles, I think I would probably hate it if I lived there. Kobe Bryant, one of the best players in the game today, is quite possibly the most arrogant and egotistical player in the history of basketball. Not to mention that incredibly unfortunate incident in Denver a few years back. You know the one. So given that I have no apparent ties to this team, why am I such a loyal and dedicated fan?


My journey to the dark side begins in the year 1983. The Los Angeles Lakers were playing the Philadelphia 76ers for the NBA title. Now here you may say, "Shouldn't you have cheered for the 76ers? At least they were an east coast team." And I would say to you, "This is my story so just shut the fuck up and let me tell it." Anyway, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?...oh yes, 1983. Now I was actually torn between which team to root for. The 76ers had the infamous Julius "Dr J" Erving while the Lakers had Earvin "Magic" Johnson. My dilemma was trying to figure out which thoroughly cool nickname I should be pulling for.


Ultimately, I think it came down to these key elements. 1) I think a 10 year old is always more interested in seeing "Magic" than in seeing a "Doctor." 2) The Lakers also had a team nickname of "Showtime." I mean come on. How cool is that?! A team nickname. And it's "Showtime." It tells you quite plainly that you will be in for a show. And who doesn't like a show? 3) Lastly, at the time, I was convinced that my uncle bore a striking resemblance to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Now how could I not root for family.


One night, all of the men-folk in my family gathered at my aunt's and her husband's house to watch one of the games. My uncles, stepfather, aunt's husband, and several of their friends were all in attendance. It truly is my only memory of when the men in my family, exclusively, got together. I think the women were cooking meat or forming a sewing circle or something. I really can't say and it really didn't matter. It was all about the boys. I also remember that there was a great schism. My uncles were pulling for the Lakers. My stepfather was pulling for the Sixers. Brothers were pitted against brothers. Friends against friends. I wasn't pitted against anyone in particular because there was no one in my age bracket with whom I could verbally spar. And even if there were, I really hadn't developed the ability to match wits at age 10. (At least, not about sports) But since I had, in fact, chosen a side, I felt personally involved any boasts, taunts, or proclamations that were made. In the end, one side left jubilant while the other was completely demoralized. I remember that Moses Malone was simply unstoppable which infuriated me. Ultimately, the Lakers were swept in 4 straight games.


Now here's the part where I get real with you. I mean really real. So brace yourself because you may be shocked, appalled, or indifferent. As you may or may not know, Baltimore is a city that is comprised mostly of whites and blacks. There really isn't much of the in between. It's certainly not what I would call diverse. And as a result of an incredibly long history that I'm definitely not going into (I think you can figure it out. Think South. Think Blacks and Whites.), there was an inherent, let's say tension between the two races.


Why do I bring this up? Because in 1984, the Lakers would return to the NBA Championship to face none other than the Boston Celtics. The absolute whitest franchise in the history of all sports. Even their black players had a certain air of whiteness about them. Don't ask me to explain it. It's just something that I felt at the time. The bottom line is that there was no way in hell that an 11 year old black kid from Baltimore was going to root for the Boston Celtics. It would have been something akin to cheering for segregation. And that doesn't make any sense at all.


Well for those of you who remember your basketball history, you will recall that the Lakers were defeated by the Boston Nazis in 7 games. It was a crushing defeat for the Laker fan. Especially after having suffered the ignominy of being swept in the previous year. And there was one other terrifying aspect of this game that I recall. When the final game ended, and Boston had officially won, every single fan in Boston Garden stormed onto the basketball court in an excited frenzy. It was just this massive wave of people that consumed the players on the court. Thankfully, no one was hurt but it was frightening to watch. I can only imagine what it must have been like to have been there. As a result, I was able to come to this one, irrefutable conclusion. Boston fans are assholes. There I said it.

The following year, I refused to give up on the Lakers. Since I had followed them, they had gone to the big dance twice and come up short both times. I knew that they had it in them. I continued to believe in the power of "Showtime." The year was 1985. Now at this point, there were no further get-togethers with the men folk. Maybe people were a little too busy. Maybe friends had grown apart. Some people had moved away. But I was determined to stick it out. I would watch each game with an undying loyalty. I would keep the tradition alive even if no one else was interested. And it was then, in 1985, that the Lakers defeated the Boston Celtics 4 games to 2. Kareem Abdul Jabbar was named Finals MVP. All was right with the world. I was finally given the chance to celebrate an NBA victory.

Since then I have always been a strong supporter of the Lakers franchise. It has provided me with many uplifting and heartbreaking moments over the years. Magic Johnson's game-winning, junior sky hook shot in 1987. James Worthy's dominant performance in 1988. The gut-wrenching sweep from the Pistons in 1989. The passing of the torch to the new dynasty known as the Chicago Bulls in 1991. (Which was doubly heartbreaking because one of my uncles decided to jump on the Michael Jordan bandwagon that year and thus abandon is Laker attachments) The complete and total shock of Magic Johnson's sudden retirement due to HIV. The arrival of Shaquille O'Neal. A player who I couldn't stand but was admittedly the most dominant player in the game. The emergence of a new dynasty with Shaq and Kobe leading the way. The fall from grace as Shaq and Kobe just couldn't find a way to get along and went their separate ways. The Lakers failure to make it out of the first round of the playoffs ever since. The barrage of injuries that plagued the team last year and this year. And the arrival of another All-Star caliber player, Pau Gasol, who has breathed new life into my precious team. And the excitement at the possibility of having a very successful playoff run.

When I was working at (ugh) Applebee's, I was shocked and appalled at how many people were anti-Lakers. Granted, Karl Malone was playing with them at the time. (And I really despise Karl Malone. God, what were they thinking?!) But it was still the Lakers. One woman said to me, "I liked them in the '80's, but I don't like this team."

Well, maybe it's just me. Maybe I have too long of a memory. Maybe what happened in the '80's should have just stayed in the 80's. But I don't believe that. I'm just not that type of person. If something or someone was truly special to you, I don't think you can just disregard it so easily. Even if they're not around anymore. Memories are precious. Memories of special moments with my family, in my case, are somewhat rare. Which for me, also makes them just a little bit sacred. Maybe it's silly to love the team of a city that you've never been to. But then again, think about how amazing it will feel to be there when they win again. To follow the journey from start to finish. To truly value what is happening. And to stick with it. No matter what. And on top of that, to have that slight feeling that you're sharing that journey with those special people who you don't see as much of, or who you will never see again.

Go Lakers!

Why is it so difficult to stay in touch?

Despite my various sarcastic, insane rantings about how I have no friends, I would like to take this opportunity to admit that I do, in fact, have quite a few friends. I would even say plenty of friends. Unfortunately, my behavior doesn't necessarily reflect this belief. There are many people in my life who I consider very close friends and yet I have not spoken to some of them in months or even years. Hell, it almost feels like a blood feud. Except that it's not. It's something entirely different.

I would like to think that it's a simple matter of just being really busy. I've been living in New York for just over 11 years now. I've been working my hustle; Trying to make ends meet; Trying to survive; Trying to flourish in my career. It really is a hectic life and it can be very draining. And as a result, it can be very difficult to maintain relationships with people who are sitting right there in front of your face everyday.

Sure, I think those are all valid points. But I will now challenge myself to go a little bit deeper. And I will challenge you, all eight of my readers (I saw the poll. It's only eight of you. The poll says nine but one of them was me. And the polls never lie) to join me on my little journey. I think we'll all learn a little something together.

For one thing, I am a huge procrastinator. I'm really really really really bad at addressing the issues in a timely manner. In fact, that's an entirely different blog entry of how many things in life have been put on the back burner for no real reason. But as a result of this chronic procrastination, I have simply put off getting in touch with a lot of people that I consider friends. I mean to call but I just don't get around to it. The timing just doesn't seem right. Maybe it's a little too early. Maybe it's a little too late. Maybe there's something really good on TV. Maybe I'm working on the high score of my latest video game. The "what" isn't really the issue here people. The point is, for some reason I can't seem to get myself to pick up a phone or even drop an occasional email. And it's not just in my complete lack of communication with people, it seems to have infiltrated much of my life activities.

Okay, so that seems like an even more fairly valid point. But I don't think it really answers the question. I think I need to go even deeper. I need to lay it all out there. Regardless of how silly it may sound. Or gut-wrenching. I'm not sure which one it is.

Like so many people, I was never really popular in High School. (Although I would like to take this opportunity to say that I was admitting this fact way before it was cool to admit this fact. Way before, "Freaks and Geeks," and, "SuperBad.") In fact, I seriously question whether or not the people I did hang out with even wanted me around. Whether that was true or not is completely irrelevent. I do know that my idea of friendship involved trying really hard not to offend people so that I could be included. Which, in retrospect, doesn't seem like the healthiest approach to life.

Then there was the home front. I will not get into too many details but I will give you the gist in terms of how it relates to the question. I didn't have a lot of money growing up. That's no big deal. A lot of people didn't. But at the same time, I went to a High School that consisted of mostly upper-middle class people. On top of that, I wasn't exactly raised in an environment where the door was open and all were welcomed to come in and visit. As a result, I was always hesitant to extend invitations to visit. It was always a little embarrassing to have a friend from school trek over into the ghetto. I wasn't exactly proud of the way I was living. Besides, it was definitely much cooler to hang out in their homes. I mean wouldn't you rather hang out in front of a big screen TV instead of a 19". I rest my case.

But even though I'm all grown up and I should be well beyond any of this shit, I do think that old habits die hard. I know that the people that are in my life now are there because they want to be there. Because they enjoy my company. I know that have a life to be proud of and that any one of my friends is more than welcomed to see it and enjoy it with me. But after many years of being comfortable with keeping to myself, it becomes more difficult let people now these things. On top of that, the more that you fail to let these special people know these things, the more time passes without them hearing it. And more the more time passes without them hearing it, the more difficult it becomes to say. And then, instead having a simple conversation about how your week has been, you end up saying things like, "Wow. I didn't know you got married!" I mean that's a very jarring statement to have to make to somebody who you actually consider close.

Hopefully, by making this confession, I can come to terms with all of it. I will start with baby steps. Maybe a few emails here and there. Maybe a phone call once in a while. Maybe even plans to meet up for a lunch or two. Nothing crazy. Just a few simple gestures to let the people in my life know that I care about them. I would say, "You know who you are," but given the current circumstances I would understand if you're confused about your status. But don't worry, as soon as I find your number, I'll be telling you personally.

Why do I work with children?

Before I begin my foray into this week's adventure, I'd like to take this opportunity to point out a very clever, yet very subtle, tracking device that I've employed. Just to the right of this phenomenal blog is a poll. It's completely irrelevant to what you actually think about whatever made up issue I threw in there. The real point is that I'm desperate to found out how many people are actually reading this bad boy. Commenting clearly requires way too much of a commitment. I understand that now. So perhaps, maybe, if you'd be so kind as to click one of those buttons, I can get some idea. My ego will thank you for it.

Moving on.

So as you may or may not know, I work with children. Yes, children. Those wonderful little...um...blessings from heaven. Yeah, that's the b-word I wanted to use in this context. I mean, I certainly didn't want to say something like...oh...I don't know...bastards. That's just, you know, the first word off of the top of my head. It has no actual bearing on the issue here. Suffice it to say, I do work with them.

I teach after-school programs for an elementary school in the Bronx. The students range from 3rd to 5th graders. I teach five ecstatic days a week for an all too brief hour and a half Monday through Thursday, and for two hours on Fridays. (They get out early on Fridays. Whoopeeee) Two days out of the week, I teach a Drama Club and the other three I teach a Young Men's Club. Plus I spend about a half hour or so in daily preparation time.

Now, I don't know if you've had the pleasure of working with the young ones, but let me tell you that, although my time with them is somewhat brief, it is not what I would classify as easy work. In fact, some days, when maybe I'm not feeling my most energetic, I might consider the option of running a steel spike into my ear canal.

I'm just saying that they tend to wear you down. Particularly when they are at that age. They've all joined forces to create this incredibly illogical and bizarre universe. A world where a tap on the shoulder suddenly turns into, "He hit me!" Where spinning in a circle by yourself is considered a high form of entertainment. Where losing any form of any game will produce an immediate deluge of tears. (Although I must admit that I'm guilty of that one myself once in a while)

It's also a disturbing world where they just toss around the word gay as an insult. I mean the times have really changed since I was a kid. I mean I hadn't even heard of the word gay when I was nine years old. In fact, I remember an episode of the great TV series, "Sanford and Son." In it, Fred (Redd Foxx) was concerned that his son, Lamont (Demond Wilson) might be gay. However, they didn't actually use the word gay. Fred made a sort of pivoting motion with his hand and thus insinuated something about which I had absolutely no idea. Now that I think about it, I didn't really figure it out until I was about 16. ("Oh, that's why there was a bar in that episode called the Gay Blade")

Once again, I digress. On top of all that, the most bizarre aspect of this lunacy is that I am the voice of reason in it. Me?! The guy who just quits jobs because one person's a little obnoxious. I am the gatekeeper and ringmaster of this adolescent circus.

So now that I've painted a fairly detailed picture of my feelings about the job, I'll now address the question of why I do it. Well, for one thing, it sure beats the hell out of waiting tables. As much as I enjoy interacting with people who are old enough to drink, I can say that I don't miss running around on my feet for 10 hours straight, carrying hot plates of food, and pretending that I give a damn. Not to mention the fact that the whole myth about how being a waiter is the perfect job for an actor is complete and total bullshit. In fact, it's the worst job for an actor. It's physically and mentally exhausting and it's not easy to get out of shifts. (I may have said this before but it's worth repeating. Future generations of actors must be saved)

But there's got to be more noble reasons for doing the job other than the fact that you hated the old one...Isn't there? Well it just so happens that there is. A young girl in my Drama Club is very shy. In fact, she barely speaks above a whisper. When we play certain theatre games, she doesn't want to participate because of her shyness. And yet, there are moments, when she's relaxed, that she speaks very distinctly and confidently. She recites lines from Hamlet's, "To be or not to be," speech effortlessly. Now, she's actually a little disappointed because I have yet to give her a line in the play that they will be performing. (Don't worry. Everybody's getting a line. Have you no faith in me?)

In the Young Men's Club, the saucy lads seem to have taken a liking to drumming. I procured some drumsticks and buckets and arranged a rather challenging piece for them to play together. Some of them picked it up rather quickly. Others were having some trouble. Still others were have a lot of trouble. And still even others were just being borderline...what's the word...retarded. But after many, many attempts, (and many moments of me corralling the herd) they were finally able to play the piece together. And when I jubilantly shouted the victorious phrase, "That's what I'm talking about!" They all cheered and hugged and high-fived each other into a frenzy. (Thankfully, no one was hurt)

During the school year, I work about 2 hours a day for 5 days a week. Of course, you subtract holidays and snow days. I don't have to leave for work until about 1:30 in the afternoon. I am free to go to auditions in the morning without having to feel that I'm making a life and death choice every single time.

But despite the flexible nature of my work schedule, I've got to admit that there is that other tiny little factor that I'm reminded of every once in a while. (When the brats aren't screaming) I am reminded that I am, maybe, on some level, making a difference in the lives of these kids. They get the opportunity to see a young, intelligent, black man expose them to ideas about the world that they don't necessarily get anywhere else. Who knows, maybe they'll forget all about me. Or maybe one day they'll take up drumming...maybe they'll take up acting...maybe they'll think twice before they start a fight with someone who might be dangerous...maybe they'll think twice before using hateful language. Or maybe they won't. I can say this though: It's a little more rewarding than helping a wealthy couple from the Upper East Side decide between the chocolate tart and the cheesecake sundae.

PS

Don't get me wrong. Once my career takes off I am so out of there.