Not Pammy, though. She's never been a person, and I'm glad. Pam doesn't just have s.e.x with guys; Pam f.u.c.ks reality. As I type this, she has divorced Lee and is involved with mook musician Kid Rock.5 Here again, Pam has made the perfect romantic decision. Here's a guy who actually named himself after youth and rock 'n' roll. Here's a guy who openly aspires to be the new David Lee Roth. Here's a guy who operates within the idiom of rap metal, an art form that critics despise and normal people adore. Here's an underrated antigenius who represents the redneck renaissance and what's great about music, pot, and popular culture (and, I suppose, America). Kid Rock's not a person either. I sure hope those crazy kids make it! Here again, Pam has made the perfect romantic decision. Here's a guy who actually named himself after youth and rock 'n' roll. Here's a guy who openly aspires to be the new David Lee Roth. Here's a guy who operates within the idiom of rap metal, an art form that critics despise and normal people adore. Here's an underrated antigenius who represents the redneck renaissance and what's great about music, pot, and popular culture (and, I suppose, America). Kid Rock's not a person either. I sure hope those crazy kids make it!

My eyes have drifted back to my TV just now, and I spent a few moments looking at Tommy Lee's p.e.n.i.s. I realize this is no brilliant insight, but Tommy Lee's genitalia is stupidly huge. In the scene I'm watching right now, he appears to be beating his p.e.n.i.s against the steering wheel of a boat. It's oddly rea.s.suring. In fact, it's making me think about Joe DiMaggio again: DiMaggio used his 36-inch, 36-ounce bat to hit safely in fifty-six straight games, and Tommy used his 10-inch, 13-ounce bat6 to hit Heather Locklear, Bobbi Brown, and the single-most important woman of our times. World-cla.s.s s.e.x kittens no longer date sports heroes because modern sports heroes have joined heavy metal bands. Tommy Lee is our "Joltin' Joe." Most of the guys I know would much rather have s.e.x with three of the world's most beautiful women than hit .325 career against American League pitching. Now, it's possible this was always the case (perhaps young men in 1953 felt the same way). But the difference is that admitting that choice in the 1950s meant you were profoundly honest and a little pathetic. In the twenty-first century, it still means you're pathetic, but that's considered normal. to hit Heather Locklear, Bobbi Brown, and the single-most important woman of our times. World-cla.s.s s.e.x kittens no longer date sports heroes because modern sports heroes have joined heavy metal bands. Tommy Lee is our "Joltin' Joe." Most of the guys I know would much rather have s.e.x with three of the world's most beautiful women than hit .325 career against American League pitching. Now, it's possible this was always the case (perhaps young men in 1953 felt the same way). But the difference is that admitting that choice in the 1950s meant you were profoundly honest and a little pathetic. In the twenty-first century, it still means you're pathetic, but that's considered normal.

That's the weird irony that makes Pam Anderson so essential to our times: She's not a real person, but she's still more real than any s.e.xual icon we've ever had. Pam Anderson is a mainstream, nonsubversive p.o.r.n star who actually does all the dirty things her disciples fantasize about. Marilyn Monroe was the perfect vessel for an age where it was wrong to want wild, easy s.e.x; Pam is the perfect vessel in an age where not wanting wild, easy s.e.x makes you a puritanical, born-again weirdo. It's not enough just to talk like Mae West. Anybody can do that. We need proof. We need proof. Pam has the proof. In the short-term, the Tommy-Pamela videotape sullied her already sketchy reputation. But it was probably the greatest thing that could have happened to her long-term legacy-it made her transcendent and organic in the same breath. Pam has the proof. In the short-term, the Tommy-Pamela videotape sullied her already sketchy reputation. But it was probably the greatest thing that could have happened to her long-term legacy-it made her transcendent and organic in the same breath.

Whenever I hear intellectuals talk about s.e.xual icons of the present day, the name mentioned most is Madonna. That seems like a good answer, and it's the kind of answer Madonna has worked very hard to perpetuate. Earning that t.i.tle was her only career goal. But Madonna's not even close to representing contemporary s.e.xuality in any important fashion. She tries way too hard, and it never seems honest. It's very telling that the two best songs in Madonna's catalog-"Like a Virgin" and "Like a Prayer"-are t.i.tled after similes. Her whole career is a collection of similes: Madonna is like like a s.e.xual idol, but that's just the plot for her self-styled promotional blitz. When she overtly attempted to embody Marilyn Monroe in the video for "Material Girl," Madonna got the dance steps perfect but completely missed the message: That song suggests that s.e.x is about money, and that s.e.x is about power, and that s.e.x is about getting what you want. Well, fine. That's how it is with Madonna. But with the original Monroe, s.e.x was about a s.e.xual idol, but that's just the plot for her self-styled promotional blitz. When she overtly attempted to embody Marilyn Monroe in the video for "Material Girl," Madonna got the dance steps perfect but completely missed the message: That song suggests that s.e.x is about money, and that s.e.x is about power, and that s.e.x is about getting what you want. Well, fine. That's how it is with Madonna. But with the original Monroe, s.e.x was about s.e.x s.e.x. It was completely without guile or intellect. Being a s.e.xual icon is sort of like being the frontman for an Orange County punk band: As soon as you can explain why you're necessary, you're over.

Madonna is an unsuccessful s.e.xual icon because she desperately wants to be a s.e.xual icon. Pamela Anderson is the perfect s.e.xual icon because she wants to have s.e.x. You think that makes her dumb? Well, maybe you're right. But how smart are you you while you're having s.e.x? What part of s.e.x is "intellectual"? Certainly none of the good parts. while you're having s.e.x? What part of s.e.x is "intellectual"? Certainly none of the good parts.

There are a lot of interesting moments on my Pam 'n' Tommy Fuji videotape, several of which are so weird that its authenticity can't be doubted. Pam and Tommy listen to MC Hammer and Soul Asylum. They try to write a cookbook for dope smokers. Tommy uses the word rad rad in casual conversation. Pam tells Tommy, "You're the best f.u.c.king husband on the planet," and they get married with the aid of a s.p.a.ceman. But if you had a transcript of this film, you'd find that there's one phrase that appears more often than all others: in casual conversation. Pam tells Tommy, "You're the best f.u.c.king husband on the planet," and they get married with the aid of a s.p.a.ceman. But if you had a transcript of this film, you'd find that there's one phrase that appears more often than all others: "Where are we?" "Where are we?"

This question is asked over twenty times, and it's never answered. They're on a boat, they look at the horizon, and they say, "Where are we?" And if someone wanted to use Pam as a metaphor for the decline of American morality and the vapidity of modern relationships, they could point out that phrase as an illuminating example of a lost generation. "Where are we, indeed," such a critic might write in the last paragraph of an essay. But that kind of snarkiness is more negative than necessary, and it misses the point. We don't need Pam to know where she is; she helps us understand where we we are. are.

1. It's possible that The Man Show The Man Show might be off the air by the time this book is released, mostly because Jimmy Kimmel seems like something of a rising cultural force. Of course, it's entirely plausible that Comedy Central would replace might be off the air by the time this book is released, mostly because Jimmy Kimmel seems like something of a rising cultural force. Of course, it's entirely plausible that Comedy Central would replace The Man Show The Man Show with an innovative new series featuring two guys sitting in a beer garden each week and comparing their wives' v.a.g.i.n.as to that of a Hereford heifer. with an innovative new series featuring two guys sitting in a beer garden each week and comparing their wives' v.a.g.i.n.as to that of a Hereford heifer.

2. Although the fact that he never missed a cut-off man in his entire career somehow makes this seem acceptable.

3. And-as I mentioned earlier-it's surprisingly uns.e.xy (it's sort of like watching that cow get butchered at the end of Apocalypse Now). Apocalypse Now).

4. However, you gotta give Steve Nash this: On December 11, 2001, Nash scored 39 points against the Portland Trail Blazers on 12 of 16 shooting. He scored 17 points over the final 6:23 of regulation, including two free throws with3.9 seconds remaining that gave Dallas the win. And then he went back to his hotel roomAND PROBABLY HAD s.e.x WITH ELIZABETH HURLEY. Nice night, dude.

5. And here's something you only notice if you're as obsessive as I am: Kid Rock likes to mention in interviews how he hates Radiohead; in his video for "You Never Met a Motherf**ker Quite Like Me," he actually wipes his a.r.s.e with toilet paper that has the word Radiohead Radiohead embossed on every tissue. On the surface, that might seem like a statement against pretension and elitism, almost as if Rock is saying he's the ant.i.thom Yorke. However, it actually has to do with Motley Crue. On page 358 of the Crue biography embossed on every tissue. On the surface, that might seem like a statement against pretension and elitism, almost as if Rock is saying he's the ant.i.thom Yorke. However, it actually has to do with Motley Crue. On page 358 of the Crue biography The Dirt, The Dirt, Tommy Lee mentions that Pamela threw a ma.s.sive birthday party for him when he turned thirty-three, and Lee says she "cranked our favorite band, Radiohead, on the sound system." I have no doubt that Pam has told Kid how she and Tommy used to adore Tommy Lee mentions that Pamela threw a ma.s.sive birthday party for him when he turned thirty-three, and Lee says she "cranked our favorite band, Radiohead, on the sound system." I have no doubt that Pam has told Kid how she and Tommy used to adore OK Computer, OK Computer, and it drives him crazy. Kid Rock hates Radiohead for the same reason I hate Coldplay (as described on page 4). and it drives him crazy. Kid Rock hates Radiohead for the same reason I hate Coldplay (as described on page 4).

6. Approximate.

"You're missing the point," she said. "What you're saying makes sense in theory, but not in practice. You're trying to compare apples and oranges."

"Why do you keep saying that?" he asked in response. "Apples and oranges aren't that different, really. I mean, they're both fruit. Their weight is extremely similar. They both contain acidic elements. They're both roughly spherical. They serve the same social purpose. With the possible exception of a tangerine, I can't think of anything more more similar to an orange than an apple. If I was having lunch with a man who was eating an apple and-while I was looking away-he replaced that apple with an orange, I doubt I'd even notice. So how is this a metaphor for difference? I could understand if you said, 'That's like comparing apples and uranium,' or 'That's like comparing apples with baby wolverines,' or 'That's like comparing apples with the early work of Raymond Carver,' or 'That's like comparing apples with hermaphroditic ground sloths.' Those would all be valid examples of profound disparity. But not apples and oranges. In every meaningful way, they're virtually identical." similar to an orange than an apple. If I was having lunch with a man who was eating an apple and-while I was looking away-he replaced that apple with an orange, I doubt I'd even notice. So how is this a metaphor for difference? I could understand if you said, 'That's like comparing apples and uranium,' or 'That's like comparing apples with baby wolverines,' or 'That's like comparing apples with the early work of Raymond Carver,' or 'That's like comparing apples with hermaphroditic ground sloths.' Those would all be valid examples of profound disparity. But not apples and oranges. In every meaningful way, they're virtually identical."

"You're missing the point," she said again, this time for different reasons.

7 George Will vs. Nick Hornby 0:86 Like many U.S. citizens, I spend much of my free time thinking about the future of sports and the future of our children. This is because I care deeply about sports.

In the spirit of both, I've spent the last fifteen years of my life railing against the game of soccer, an exercise that has been lauded as "the sport of the future" since 1977. Thankfully, that future dystopia has never come. But people continue to tell me that soccer will soon become part of the fabric of this country, and that soccer will eventually be as popular as football, basketball, karate, pinball, smoking, glue sniffing, menstruation, animal cruelty, photocopying, and everything else that fuels the eroticized, hyperkinetic zeitgeist of Americana. After the U.S. placed eighth in the 2002 World Cup tournament, team forward Clint Mathis said, "If we can turn one more person who wasn't a soccer fan into a soccer fan, we've accomplished something." Apparently, that's all that matters to these idiots. They won't be satisfied until we're all systematically brainwashed into thinking soccer is cool and that placing eighth1 is somehow n.o.ble. However, I know this will never happen. Not really. Dumb bunnies like Clint Mathis will be wrong forever, and that might be the only thing saving us from ourselves. is somehow n.o.ble. However, I know this will never happen. Not really. Dumb bunnies like Clint Mathis will be wrong forever, and that might be the only thing saving us from ourselves.

My personal war against the so-called "soccer menace" probably reached its peak in 1993, when I was nearly fired from a college newspaper for suggesting that soccer was the reason thousands of Brazilians are annually killed at Quiet Riot concerts in Rio de Janeiro, a statement that is-admittedly-only half true. A few weeks after the publication of said piece, a pet.i.tion to have me removed as the newspaper's sports editor was circulated by a ridiculously vocal campus organization called the Hispanic American Council, prompting an "academic hearing" where I was accused (with absolute seriousness) of libeling Pele. If memory serves, I think my criticism of soccer and Quiet Riot was somehow taken as latently racist, although-admittedly-I'm not completely positive, as I was intoxicated for most of the monthlong episode. But the bottom line is that I am still willing to die a painful public death, a.s.suming my execution destroys the game of soccer (or-at the very least-convinces people to shut up about it).

According to the Soccer Industry Council of America, soccer is the No. 1 youth partic.i.p.ation sport in the U.S. There are more than 3.6 million players under the age of nineteen registered to play, and that number has been expanding at over 8 percent a year since 1990. There's also been a substantial increase in the number of kids who play past the age of twelve, a statistic that soccer proponents are especially thrilled about. "These are the players that will go on to be fans, referees, coaches, adult volunteers, and players in the future," observed Virgil Lewis, chairman of the United States Youth Soccer a.s.sociation.

Certainly, I can't argue with Virgil's math: I have no doubt that battalions of Gatorade-stained children are running around the green wastelands of suburbia, randomly kicking a black-and-white ball in the general direction of tuna netting. However, Lewis's larger logic is profoundly flawed. There continues to be this blindly optimistic belief that all of the brats playing soccer in 2003 are going to be crazed MSBL fans in 2023, just as it was a.s.sumed that eleven-year-old soccer players in 1983 would be watching Bob Costas provide play-by-play for indoor soccer games right now. That will never happen. We will never care about soccer in this country. And it's not just because soccer is inherently un-American, which is what most soccer haters (Frank Deford, Jim Rome, et al.) tend to insinuate. It's mostly because soccer is inherently geared toward Outcast Culture.

On the surface, one might a.s.sume that would actually play to soccer's advantage, as America has plenty of outcasts. Some American outcasts are very popular, such as OutKast.2 But Outcast Culture does not meld with Intimidation Culture, and the latter aesthetic has always been a cornerstone of team sports. An outcast can be intimidating in an individual event-Mike Tyson and John McEnroe are proof-but they rarely thrive in the social environment of a team organism (e.g., Duane Thomas, Pete Maravich, Albert Belle, et al.). Unless you're Barry Bonds, being an outcast is ant.i.thetical to the group concept. But soccer is the one sport that's an exception to that reality: Soccer unconsciously rewards the outcast, which is why so many adults are fooled into thinking their kids love it. The truth is that most children don't love soccer; they simply hate the alternatives more. For 60 percent of the adolescents in any fourth-grade cla.s.sroom, sports are a humiliation waiting to happen. These are the kids who play baseball and strike out four times a game. These are the kids who are afraid to get fouled in basketball, because it only means they're now required to shoot two free throws, which equates to two air b.a.l.l.s. Basketball games actually But Outcast Culture does not meld with Intimidation Culture, and the latter aesthetic has always been a cornerstone of team sports. An outcast can be intimidating in an individual event-Mike Tyson and John McEnroe are proof-but they rarely thrive in the social environment of a team organism (e.g., Duane Thomas, Pete Maravich, Albert Belle, et al.). Unless you're Barry Bonds, being an outcast is ant.i.thetical to the group concept. But soccer is the one sport that's an exception to that reality: Soccer unconsciously rewards the outcast, which is why so many adults are fooled into thinking their kids love it. The truth is that most children don't love soccer; they simply hate the alternatives more. For 60 percent of the adolescents in any fourth-grade cla.s.sroom, sports are a humiliation waiting to happen. These are the kids who play baseball and strike out four times a game. These are the kids who are afraid to get fouled in basketball, because it only means they're now required to shoot two free throws, which equates to two air b.a.l.l.s. Basketball games actually stop stop to recognize their failure. And football is nothing more than an ironical death sentence; somehow, outcasts find themselves in a situation where the people normally penalized for teasing them are suddenly urged to to recognize their failure. And football is nothing more than an ironical death sentence; somehow, outcasts find themselves in a situation where the people normally penalized for teasing them are suddenly urged to annihilate annihilate them. them.

This is why soccer seems like such a respite from all that mortification; it's the one aerobic activity where nothingness is expected. Even at the highest levels, every soccer match seems to end 10 or 21.3 A normal eleven-year-old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and n.o.body would even notice, a.s.suming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions. Soccer feels "fun" because it's not terrifying-it's the only sport where you can't f.u.c.k up. An outcast can succeed simply by not failing, and public failure is every outcast's deepest fear. For society's prep.u.b.escent pariahs, soccer represents safety. A normal eleven-year-old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and n.o.body would even notice, a.s.suming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions. Soccer feels "fun" because it's not terrifying-it's the only sport where you can't f.u.c.k up. An outcast can succeed simply by not failing, and public failure is every outcast's deepest fear. For society's prep.u.b.escent pariahs, soccer represents safety.

However, the demand for such an oasis disappears once an outcast escapes from the imposed slavery of youth athletics; by the time they reach ninth grade, it's perfectly acceptable to just quit the team and shop at Hot Topic. Most youth soccer players end up joining the debate team before they turn fifteen. Meanwhile, the kind of person who truly loves the notion of sports (and-perhaps sadly-unconsciously needs needs to have sports in their life) doesn't want to watch a game that's designed for losers. They're never going to care about a sport where announcers inexplicably celebrate the beauty of missed shots and the strategic glory of repet.i.tive stalemates. We want to see domination. We want to see athletes who don't look like us, and who we could never be. We want to see people who could destroy us, and we want to feel like that desire is normal. But those people don't exist in soccer; their game is dominated by mono-monikered clones obsessed with falling to their knees and ripping off their clothes. I can't watch a minute of professional soccer without feeling like I'm looking at a playground of desperate, depressed fourth-graders, all trying to act normal and failing horribly. to have sports in their life) doesn't want to watch a game that's designed for losers. They're never going to care about a sport where announcers inexplicably celebrate the beauty of missed shots and the strategic glory of repet.i.tive stalemates. We want to see domination. We want to see athletes who don't look like us, and who we could never be. We want to see people who could destroy us, and we want to feel like that desire is normal. But those people don't exist in soccer; their game is dominated by mono-monikered clones obsessed with falling to their knees and ripping off their clothes. I can't watch a minute of professional soccer without feeling like I'm looking at a playground of desperate, depressed fourth-graders, all trying to act normal and failing horribly.

In short, soccer players kind of remind me of "my guys."

Now, when I say "my guys," I don't mean kids who are actually mine, mine, as I am not father material (or human material, or even Sleestak material). When I say "my guys," I am referring to a collection of sc.r.a.ppy, rag-tag, mostly unremarkable fourth-and fifth-graders I governed when I was sixteen years old. During the summer in 1988, I worked as a totally unqualified Little League baseball coach. This is noteworthy for one reason and one reason only: I remain the only youth sports instructor in the history of my town who was ever fired, a distinction that has made me both a legend and an antihero (at least among "my guys"). And even though I happened to be coaching the game of baseball that summer, this was the experience that galvanized my hatred for the game of soccer-and particularly my hatred for the ideology that would eventually become the Youth Soccer Phenomenon. as I am not father material (or human material, or even Sleestak material). When I say "my guys," I am referring to a collection of sc.r.a.ppy, rag-tag, mostly unremarkable fourth-and fifth-graders I governed when I was sixteen years old. During the summer in 1988, I worked as a totally unqualified Little League baseball coach. This is noteworthy for one reason and one reason only: I remain the only youth sports instructor in the history of my town who was ever fired, a distinction that has made me both a legend and an antihero (at least among "my guys"). And even though I happened to be coaching the game of baseball that summer, this was the experience that galvanized my hatred for the game of soccer-and particularly my hatred for the ideology that would eventually become the Youth Soccer Phenomenon.

Between my soph.o.m.ore and junior year of high school, I applied to coach Pee Wee and Midget baseball in Wyndmere, North Dakota, the tiny farming town (pop. 498) where I lived and breathed and listened to Guns N' Roses. The compet.i.tion for this position was not intense: There were twenty-three kids in my cla.s.s and only fourteen in the grade ahead of me, and almost all of the other boys had to spend the summer working on their family farms. Theoretically, I should have been in the same position. However, I was too clever to farm and too lazy to work, and I simply had no interest in s.h.i.t like cultivating (or in cultivating s.h.i.t, for that matter). Instead, I decided to spend my summer coaching Pee Wee and Midget baseball for $250 a month. I had to deliver my job application to the Wyndmere Park Board, and-since this job was always given to local high school boys-one of the questions on the application asked who my role models were. I wrote "Bobby Knight and George Orwell," and I wasn't joking. But it really didn't matter what I wrote, since I was the only applicant. "We're excited by your enthusiasm," said the vaguely blonde Park Board president.

We had practice three times a week. The Pee Wee kids worked out from 9 A A.M. to 10 A A.M., and this was always a horrifically boring sixty minutes. These were really little kids (like, under four feet tall), and they hit off a batting tee. As long as n.o.body broke their clavicle or vomited, I viewed practice as a success. Only one kid had any talent (a left-handed shortstop!), but apt.i.tude was pretty much a nonfactor: I played everybody the same amount and generally tried to act like that black dude from Reading Rainbow Reading Rainbow. I mostly just tried to convince them to stop throwing rocks at birds.

The Midgets, however, were a different story. Though not vastly dissimilar in age (the Pee Wees were eight-and nine-year-olds and the Midgets were ten and eleven), the Midgets were "my guys," and I intended to turn them into a war machine. At the Midget level, there was real pitching. There was base stealing. There was bunting. And-at least in my vision-there was. .h.i.tting and running, double switching, outfield shading, middle-relieving, and a run-manufacturing offensive philosophy modeled after Whitey Herzog's St. Louis Cardinals. I'm convinced we were the only Midget League team in North Dakota history to have a southpaw closer. I even implemented the concept of physical conditioning to my preseason regime, which immediately raised the eyebrows of some of the less-compet.i.tive parents. However, my explanation for making ten-year-olds run wind sprints was always well-founded. "The running is not important, in and of itself," I told one skeptical mother. "What's important is that 'my guys' realize that success doesn't come without work." Weeks later, I would learn that this mother respected my idealism but disliked the way I casually used the phrase "in and of itself."

To be honest, I was merely coaching these kids the way I had wanted to be coached when I was in fourth grade. I was a pretty f.u.c.king insane ten-year-old. I was the kind of kid who hated authority-but sports coaches were always always an inexplicable exception. For whatever the reason, a coach could tell me anything and I'd just stand there and listen; he could degrade me or question my intelligence or sit me on the bench to prove a point that had absolutely nothing to do with anything I did, and I always a.s.sumed it was completely valid. I never cared that much about winning on an emotional level, but winning always made sense to me intellectually; it seemed like the logical thing to want. Mostly, I just wanted the process of winning to be an inexplicable exception. For whatever the reason, a coach could tell me anything and I'd just stand there and listen; he could degrade me or question my intelligence or sit me on the bench to prove a point that had absolutely nothing to do with anything I did, and I always a.s.sumed it was completely valid. I never cared that much about winning on an emotional level, but winning always made sense to me intellectually; it seemed like the logical thing to want. Mostly, I just wanted the process of winning to be complicated complicated. I was fascinated by anything that made sports more cerebral and less physical; as a consequence, my coaching style became loosely patterned on the life of Wile E. Coyote. We'd practice conventionally from 10:00 to 11:00, but then we'd spend forty-five minutes memorizing a battery of unnecessary third-base signals (I recall that tugging on my "belt" meant "bunt," because both words start with the letter b b). I also a.s.saulted their fifth-grade cerebellums with dozens of strategic hypotheticals: "Let's a.s.sume our opponent has runners on first and third with no outs, and they send the trail runner to second with the count at 02," I would theorize. "What is our objective?" One frail kid with eyegla.s.ses answered pretty much everything; most of the others just discussed their favorite flavors of Big League Chew. I constantly questioned their commitment to excellence.

Still, four or five of "my guys" were oddly enthusiastic about my Pyramid of Success, and that was enough to kill (or at least scare) most of our early season opponents. But what I kept noticing was that the other fifteen kids on my squad didn't care if we won or lost. They didn't seem to care about anything, anything, really, or at least nothing that had an application to baseball. I couldn't tell what they found more excruciating: when they didn't get to play (because sitting on the bench was boring), or when they really, or at least nothing that had an application to baseball. I couldn't tell what they found more excruciating: when they didn't get to play (because sitting on the bench was boring), or when they had had to play (because that meant another two strikeouts and an hour of praying that no fly b.a.l.l.s would be hit in their general direction). In fact, some of "my guys" started complaining to their mothers. And near the end of June, I was told to attend the next Wyndmere Park Board meeting for a "free-form discussion about my coaching style." to play (because that meant another two strikeouts and an hour of praying that no fly b.a.l.l.s would be hit in their general direction). In fact, some of "my guys" started complaining to their mothers. And near the end of June, I was told to attend the next Wyndmere Park Board meeting for a "free-form discussion about my coaching style."

Now, it should be noted that Wyndmere didn't really need a park board, because Wyndmere doesn't have a park. Wyndmere does have the Rock Garden (not a a rock garden, but rock garden, but the the Rock Garden), which is a stone enclosure that's as big as a city block and augmented by a forty-foot replica of a Scottish castle (it also has a basketball court and several uncomfortable picnic tables). When, who, or why the Rock Garden was built remains a mystery on par with Stonehenge, so living in Wyndmere always made you feel a little like Leonard Nimoy on Rock Garden), which is a stone enclosure that's as big as a city block and augmented by a forty-foot replica of a Scottish castle (it also has a basketball court and several uncomfortable picnic tables). When, who, or why the Rock Garden was built remains a mystery on par with Stonehenge, so living in Wyndmere always made you feel a little like Leonard Nimoy on In Search Of In Search Of. And what's even crazier is that the Wyndmere Park Board had no clear jurisdiction over the Wyndmere Rock Garden; the Wyndmere Park Board seemed to exclusively serve as a legislative body for Little League athletics. When the secretary read the minutes from the May meeting, the only item was, "Board approves motion to hire Chuck Klosterman as baseball coach."

Now, had I only been meeting with the actual park board members, I suspect the whole affair would have gone smoothly: I would have outlined my goal-oriented mission statement and expressed deep affinity for the future of "my guys," and I would have exited the meeting with nothing more than a gentle reminder to keep everyone's best interest in mind. I have no problem pretending to be conciliatory if the ends justify the means. Unfortunately, a few mothers showed up at the meeting that night as well. And-as we all know-there is nothing more frustrating than a mother who cares about her children.

Predictably, these were the mothers of kids who really had no interest in baseball, or in sports, or in competing against other children in any meaningful way. And that's fine; these kids were great people (possibly), and have gone on to fine careers (perhaps) and wonderful families (I a.s.sume). There's nothing admirable about having the kind of killer instinct that always felt normal to a weirdo like me. I mean, these little guys didn't want to spend two months chasing a stupid leather sphere through the stupid green gra.s.s in stupid right field; they just wanted to do something that kept them under the radar until they got to tenth grade, when they could quit pretending they cared about sports and start listening to Replacements ca.s.settes. I'm sure my guys would have loved loved youth soccer. youth soccer.

But ANYWAY, suffice it to say the mothers of these kids didn't see it that way. They seemed to believe their sons actually adored baseball and were being discriminated against, apparently for being c.r.a.ppy baseball players. I decided to prove them wrong by grabbing a dictionary and reciting the exact Webster definition of "discrimination," which inadvertently proved their point entirely. But-somehow-this still felt like a draw. Their second argument was that I was setting a bad example by starting the same nine kids in every game, and that the starters should either be selected randomly or alphabetically; I argued that this was like giving every student the same grade on a test no matter how many questions they answered correctly (not a flawless a.n.a.logy, I realize, but I was always good at rhetorical misdirection). They went on to propose that every player should get to try every position over the course of the season, a suggestion I deemed "unprofessional." And when they finally demanded that I had to stop keeping score and that I needed to play every future contest as an exhibition, I casually made the kind of statement sixteen-year-olds should not make to forty-six-year-old Midwestern housewives: "Why are you telling me how to do my job?" I asked. "It's not like I show up in your kitchen and tell you when to bake cookies."

In my defense, I did not mean to imply that these women were only only suited for cookie-oriented purposes, and I was fully aware that the particular person I told this to worked in a bank (which actually might have made things worse). My statement was to be taken at face value and as a point of fact. However, the park board found this "exchange of ideas" rather damaging to my case and immediately adopted all of the mothers' suggestions, all of which I unabashedly ignored in our very next game (a 166 drubbing of our hated rivals from Fairmount). When I jumped into my father's pickup truck after the contest, I noticed an envelope under the windshield wiper: I had been terminated for "insubordination." This did not strike me as an especially brave way to fire a sixteen-year-old, but I knew that was how the industry operated; one year later, the same thing would happen to Tom Landry. suited for cookie-oriented purposes, and I was fully aware that the particular person I told this to worked in a bank (which actually might have made things worse). My statement was to be taken at face value and as a point of fact. However, the park board found this "exchange of ideas" rather damaging to my case and immediately adopted all of the mothers' suggestions, all of which I unabashedly ignored in our very next game (a 166 drubbing of our hated rivals from Fairmount). When I jumped into my father's pickup truck after the contest, I noticed an envelope under the windshield wiper: I had been terminated for "insubordination." This did not strike me as an especially brave way to fire a sixteen-year-old, but I knew that was how the industry operated; one year later, the same thing would happen to Tom Landry.

Now, perhaps you're curious as to how my ill-fated experience as a baseball coach has anything to do with my maniacal distaste for soccer; on the surface, probably nothing. But in that larger, deeper, "what-does-it-all-mean?" kind of way, the connection is clear. What those anti-cookie-baking mothers wanted me to do was turn baseball into soccer. They wanted a state-sponsored Outcast Culture. They wanted to watch their kids play a game where their perfect little angels could not f.u.c.k up, and that would somehow make themselves feel better about being parents.

Soccer fanatics love to tell you that soccer is the most popular game on earth and that it's played by 500 million people every day, as if that somehow proves its value. Actually, the opposite is true. Why should I care that every single citizen of Chile and Iran and Gibraltar thoughtlessly adores "futball"? Do the people making this argument also a.s.sume Coca-Cola is ambrosia? Real sports aren't for everyone Real sports aren't for everyone. And don't accuse me of being the Ugly American for degrading soccer. That has nothing to do with it. It's not xenophobic to hate soccer; it's socially reprehensible to support it. To say you love soccer is to say you believe in enforced equality more than you believe in the value of compet.i.tion and the capacity of the human spirit. It should surprise no one that Benito Mussolini loved being photographed with Italian soccer stars during the 1930s; they were undoubtedly kindred spirits. I would sooner have my kid deal crystal meth than play soccer. Every time I pull up behind a Ford Aerostar with a "#1 Soccer Mom" b.u.mper sticker, I feel like I'm marching in the wake of the Khmer Rouge.

That said, I don't feel my thoughts on soccer are radical. If push came to shove, I would be more than willing to compromise: It's not necessary to wholly outlaw soccer as a living ent.i.ty. I concede that it has a right to exist. All I ask is that I never have to see it on television, that it's never played in public (or supported with public funding), and that n.o.body-and I mean n.o.body n.o.body-ever utters the phrase "Soccer is the sport of the future" for the next forty thousand years. Outcasts may grow up to be novelists and filmmakers and computer tyc.o.o.ns, but they will never be the athletic ruling cla.s.s. Your hopeless dystopia shall never befall us, Mr. Pele. Now get back in that Aerostar and return to the killing fields.

1. And losing to Poland!

2. And also Jake Gyllenhaal.

3. My statistically obsessed compadre Jon Blixt once made a brilliant deduction about World Cup soccer: It must be a nightmare for gamblers. "I cannot comprehend how casinos could set the point spread for these games, as it appears the favored nation wins every single match-yet never by a margin of more than a single goal," he wrote me while watching Italy defeat Bulgaria 21 in a 1994 World Cup semifinal, a contest that was immediately followed by Brazil's 10 win over Sweden. "Perhaps they only bet the over-under, which must always be 2 1/2."

On the last day of May in 2002, the Los Angeles Lakers defeated the Sacramento Kings in the sixth game of the Western Conference Finals in one of the worst officiated games in recent memory (the Lakers shot a whopping twenty-seven free throws in the fourth quarter alone, and Kings guard Mike Bibby was whistled for a critical phantom foul after Kobe Bryant elbowed him in the head).

Obviously, this is not the first time hoop zebras have cost someone a game. However, people will always remember this particular travesty, mostly because the game was publicly protested by former Green Party presidential candidate Ralph Nader.

"Unless the NBA orders a review of this game's officiating, perceptions and suspicions, however presently absent any evidence, will abound," wrote the semi-respected consumer advocate in a letter to NBA commissioner David Stern. "A review that satisfies the fans' sense of fairness and deters future recur-rences would be a salutary contribution to the public trust that the NBA badly needs"

"As usual, Nader's argument is only half right. Were the Kings jammed by the referees? Yes. Was Game Six an egregious example of state-sponsored cheating? Probably. But this is what sets the NBA apart from every other team sport in North America: Everyone who loves pro basketball a.s.sumes it's a little fixed. We all think the annual draft lottery is probably rigged, we all accept that the league aggressively wants big market teams to advance deep into the playoffs, and we all concede that certain marquee players are going to get preferential treatment for no valid reason. The outcomes of games aren't predeterminedor scripted, but there are definitely dark forces who play with our reality. There are faceless puppetmasters who pull strings and manipulate the purity of justice. It's not necessarily a full-on conspiracy, but it;'s certainly not fair. And that's why the NBA remains the only game that matters: Pro basketball is exactly like life.

8 33 0:97 Every time I watch a Spike Lee movie on HBO, I get nervous. That probably happens to a lot of white people, and I suppose that's sort of the idea. But my reason for getting nervous has nothing to do with the sociocultural ideas that Spike expresses, nor does it have anything to do with fear that a race riot is going to break out in my living room, nor is it any kind of artistic apprehension. My fear is that I know there's a 50 percent chance a particular situation is going to occur on screen, and the situation is this: A black guy and a white guy are going to get into an argument over basketball, and the debate will focus on the fact that the black guy loves the Lakers and the white guy loves the Celtics. And this argument is going to be a metaphor for all of America, and its fundamental point will be that we're all unconsciously racist, because any white guy who thought Larry Bird was the messiah is latently denying that Jesus was black. The relative blackness and whiteness of the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics (circa 19801989) is supposed to symbolize everything we ever needed to know about America's racial cold war, and everyone who takes sports seriously seems to concede that fact.

But this metaphor is only half the equation.

To say the 1980s rivalry between the Celtics and the Lakers represents America's racial anguish is actually a shortsighted understatement. As I have grown older, it's become clear that the Lakers-Celtics rivalry represents absolutely everything everything: race, religion, politics, mathematics, the reason I'm still not married, the Challenger explosion, Man vs. Beast, Man vs. Beast, and everything else. There is no relationship that isn't a Celtics-Lakers relationship. It emerges from nothingness to design nature, just as Gerald Henderson emerged from nothingness to steal James Worthy's errant inbound pa.s.s in game two of the 1983 finals. Do you realize that the distance between Henderson and Worthy at the start of that play-and the distance between them at the point of interception-works out to a ratio of 1.618, the same digits of Leonardo da Vinci's so-called "golden ratio" that inexplicably explains the mathematical construction of the universe? and everything else. There is no relationship that isn't a Celtics-Lakers relationship. It emerges from nothingness to design nature, just as Gerald Henderson emerged from nothingness to steal James Worthy's errant inbound pa.s.s in game two of the 1983 finals. Do you realize that the distance between Henderson and Worthy at the start of that play-and the distance between them at the point of interception-works out to a ratio of 1.618, the same digits of Leonardo da Vinci's so-called "golden ratio" that inexplicably explains the mathematical construction of the universe?1 Do not act surprised. It would be more surprising if the ratio did not. Do not act surprised. It would be more surprising if the ratio did not.

Am I Serious?

Yes. How could I not be? For ten years-but for only only ten years-you had two teams that were (a) clearly the cla.s.s of their profession, and (b) completely and diametrically opposed in every possible respect. This is no accident. For at least one decade, G.o.d was obsessed with pro basketball. And as I stated earlier, everyone always wants to dwell on the fact that (a) the Celtics started three Caucasians in a league that was 80 percent black and (b) the Lakers never had a white player who mattered (the only exception being Kurt Rambis, a role player who seemed artless on purpose, going so far as refusing to purchase contact lenses). But what made this rivalry so universal was that it wasn't about black and white people; it was about black and white philosophies. Americans have become conditioned to believe the world is a gray place without absolutes; this is because we're simultaneously cowardly and arrogant. We don't know the answers, so we a.s.sume they must not exist. But they ten years-you had two teams that were (a) clearly the cla.s.s of their profession, and (b) completely and diametrically opposed in every possible respect. This is no accident. For at least one decade, G.o.d was obsessed with pro basketball. And as I stated earlier, everyone always wants to dwell on the fact that (a) the Celtics started three Caucasians in a league that was 80 percent black and (b) the Lakers never had a white player who mattered (the only exception being Kurt Rambis, a role player who seemed artless on purpose, going so far as refusing to purchase contact lenses). But what made this rivalry so universal was that it wasn't about black and white people; it was about black and white philosophies. Americans have become conditioned to believe the world is a gray place without absolutes; this is because we're simultaneously cowardly and arrogant. We don't know the answers, so we a.s.sume they must not exist. But they do do exist. They are unclear and/or unfathomable, but they're out there. And-perhaps surprisingly-the only way to find those answers is to study NBA playoff games that happened twenty years ago. For all practical purposes, the voice of Brent Musburger was the pen of Ayn Rand. exist. They are unclear and/or unfathomable, but they're out there. And-perhaps surprisingly-the only way to find those answers is to study NBA playoff games that happened twenty years ago. For all practical purposes, the voice of Brent Musburger was the pen of Ayn Rand.

Perhaps you're curious as to why we must go back two decadesto do this; obviously, pro basketball still exists. The answer is simple: necessity. I mean, you certainly can't understand the world from the way the NBA is now. Two years ago, I watched an overtime game between the Philadelphia 76ers and the Toronto Raptors: Allen Iverson scored 51 points and Vince Carter scored39. As I type those numbers into my keyboard, it looks like I'm painting the portrait of an amazing contest (and exactly the kind of mano-a-mano mano-a-mano war NBC wanted to show me on a Sunday afternoon). But it was an abortion. It was like watching somebody commit suicide with a belt and a folding chair. Iverson took 40 shots; Carter was 15 for 36 from the field. It was like those excruciating NBA games from the late 1970s, where collapsing super-novas such as World B. Free and John Williamson would shoot the ball on every possession and David Thompson would try to score 70 points against the New Orleans Jazz before blowing two weeks' pay on Colombian nose candy. Guys like Iverson and Carter are mechanically awesome, but they don't represent anything beyond themselves. They're nothing more than good basketball players, and that's depressing. Watching modern pro basketball reminds me of watching my roommate play Nintendo in college. In order to remedy this aesthetic decline, the league decided to let teams play zone defense, which has got to be the least logical step ever taken to increase excitement. This is like trying to combat teen pregnancy by lowering the drinking age. war NBC wanted to show me on a Sunday afternoon). But it was an abortion. It was like watching somebody commit suicide with a belt and a folding chair. Iverson took 40 shots; Carter was 15 for 36 from the field. It was like those excruciating NBA games from the late 1970s, where collapsing super-novas such as World B. Free and John Williamson would shoot the ball on every possession and David Thompson would try to score 70 points against the New Orleans Jazz before blowing two weeks' pay on Colombian nose candy. Guys like Iverson and Carter are mechanically awesome, but they don't represent anything beyond themselves. They're nothing more than good basketball players, and that's depressing. Watching modern pro basketball reminds me of watching my roommate play Nintendo in college. In order to remedy this aesthetic decline, the league decided to let teams play zone defense, which has got to be the least logical step ever taken to increase excitement. This is like trying to combat teen pregnancy by lowering the drinking age.

The NBA doesn't need to sanction sanction zone defense; the smart guys were playing zone when it was still illegal. Larry Bird played zone defense every night of his career. What the NBA needs to do is provide a product that will help us better understand ourselves and foster self-actualization. Granted, this is not an easy goal to legislate. But that's the only solution that can save this dying brachiosaurus. I didn't need Michael Jordan to come back; I need to watch a game that tells me who to vote for. zone defense; the smart guys were playing zone when it was still illegal. Larry Bird played zone defense every night of his career. What the NBA needs to do is provide a product that will help us better understand ourselves and foster self-actualization. Granted, this is not an easy goal to legislate. But that's the only solution that can save this dying brachiosaurus. I didn't need Michael Jordan to come back; I need to watch a game that tells me who to vote for.

Here's what I mean: I never understood partisan politics until I watched the last epic Lakers-Celtics war, which happened in the summer of 1987. The contest everyone remembers is game four, which I watched as a high school soph.o.m.ore at a summer basketball camp on the campus of North Dakota State University. You probably remember this game, too: It's June 9 at the Boston Garden, and the Lakers lead the series 21. Boston has the ball with under thirty seconds left, down one; they dump it to McHale on the right block, who kicks it out to Ainge, who reverses to Bird in the far corner for a three. Twine. Celtics by two. The Lakers come down on offense and Kareem gets hacked; he makes one and misses the second, but it bounces off Parish and goes out of bounds under the rack. Magic takes the in bounds pa.s.s, blows by McHale and hits that repulsive running hook across the lane. Lakers lead by one. After the obligatory timeout moves the rock to halfcourt, the Celtics have two seconds to get a shot. Bird's forty-footer is dead-on, but two inches deep. L.A. wins 107106; they go up three games to one and win the rings five days later.

This, of course, was like a ten-inch stiletto jammed into my aorta. Magic Johnson is one of my favorite players of all time, but I hate him. I once interviewed Johnson about all those stupid, civic-minded, state-of-the-art movie theaters he's putting into depressed urban areas, and I was caught between feeling impressed by his suit, nervous about his stature, and overcome by the desire to punch him in the face. However, my personal feeling toward Earvin can't negate the larger meaning of his heroics, and that meaning is political. Because what I really remember most about that game was that I was just about the only kid at this camp who wanted Boston to win. The only other people who liked the Celtics were the camp's coaches; I was the only Bird apostle under the age of thirty-five. If you liked the Celtics, it meant you liked your dad's team. And this is when I came to understand that I was actually rooting for the Republican party.

Regardless of how liberal Ma.s.sachusetts may seem, the Celtics were totally GOP. Like Thomas Jefferson, K. C. Jones did not believe in a strong central government: The Celtic players mostly coached themselves. They practiced when they felt like practicing and pulled themselves out of games when they deemed it appropriate, and they wanted to avoid anything taxing. They wanted to avoid taxes taxes. And they excelled by attacking the world in the same way they had been raised to understand it: You pick-and-roll, you throw the bounce pa.s.s, you make your free throws. If it worked in the 1950s, it can work now. Meanwhile, the Lakers were like late sixties Democrats: They seemed seemed liberal and exhilarating, but Pat Riley controlled the whole show. There were no state's rights within the locker room of the Fabulous Forum. Government was seen as the answer to all problems, including the problem of keeping Robert Parish off the offensive gla.s.s. Riley was a tyrant-a dashing tyrant, but a tyrant nonetheless-and arguably the strongest singular governing force since LBJ. I once heard an apocryphal story about Lyndon Johnson and a military helicopter: After addressing some Vietnam-bound troops, he was supposed to get on a chopper and leave the Air Force base, so one of his sycophants asked him, "Sir, which of these helicopters is yours?" Johnson supposedly said, "Son, liberal and exhilarating, but Pat Riley controlled the whole show. There were no state's rights within the locker room of the Fabulous Forum. Government was seen as the answer to all problems, including the problem of keeping Robert Parish off the offensive gla.s.s. Riley was a tyrant-a dashing tyrant, but a tyrant nonetheless-and arguably the strongest singular governing force since LBJ. I once heard an apocryphal story about Lyndon Johnson and a military helicopter: After addressing some Vietnam-bound troops, he was supposed to get on a chopper and leave the Air Force base, so one of his sycophants asked him, "Sir, which of these helicopters is yours?" Johnson supposedly said, "Son, all all these helicopters are mine." That's how Riley looked at James Worthy. these helicopters are mine." That's how Riley looked at James Worthy.

Perhaps you think this kind of sweeping generalization is insane. Most people do. If you ask almost anyone about the cultural ramifications of a series of basketball games (some of which happened twenty-one years ago), they will inevitably scoff. I know this, because I've tried. "I'm really very hesitant to buy into any theories of this nature," says longtime Boston Globe Boston Globe writer Bob Ryan, generally considered America's foremost media expert on the NBA and someone who's known for buying into illogical theories. "I just think that's reaching beyond any reasonable limit of logic." Of course, immediately after making that statement, Ryan spent the next ten minutes explaining why these two teams represented "the conflict between speed and convention." writer Bob Ryan, generally considered America's foremost media expert on the NBA and someone who's known for buying into illogical theories. "I just think that's reaching beyond any reasonable limit of logic." Of course, immediately after making that statement, Ryan spent the next ten minutes explaining why these two teams represented "the conflict between speed and convention."2 The fact of the matter is that everyone who truly cares about basketball subconsciously knows that Celtics vs. Lakers reflects every fabric of male existence, just as everyone who loves rock 'n' roll knows that the difference between the Beatles and the Stones is not so much a dispute over music as it is a way to describe your own self-ident.i.ty. This is why men need to become obsessed with things: It's an extroverted way to pursue solipsism. We are able to study something that defines who we are; therefore, we are able to study ourselves. Do you know people who insist they like "all kinds of music"? That actually means they like The fact of the matter is that everyone who truly cares about basketball subconsciously knows that Celtics vs. Lakers reflects every fabric of male existence, just as everyone who loves rock 'n' roll knows that the difference between the Beatles and the Stones is not so much a dispute over music as it is a way to describe your own self-ident.i.ty. This is why men need to become obsessed with things: It's an extroverted way to pursue solipsism. We are able to study something that defines who we are; therefore, we are able to study ourselves. Do you know people who insist they like "all kinds of music"? That actually means they like no kinds no kinds of music. And do you know guys who didn't care who won when the Celtics played the Lakers? That means they never really cared about anything. of music. And do you know guys who didn't care who won when the Celtics played the Lakers? That means they never really cared about anything.

The Core Principle of Our Metareality, and/or Pat Riley's Head I called the Miami Heat's front office to see if Riley would talk to me about my hypothesis. Much to my surprise, he called back in only two days; much to his surprise, the first thing I asked him about was his hair. What I wanted to know was whether he realized that his hair symbolized the hypermodern, ant.i.traditional paradigm the Lakers used to mock the Celtics' archetypical simplicity and Greatest Generation morality.

Oddly, Riley acted like he had heard this question before.

"Oh, I was totally aware of that," he said. "I knew I was being packaged by CBS and everybody else in the media. But I didn't pay attention to it. If you play in the finals seven times, somebody is going to notice you slick your hair back, and sportswriters make a big deal about things like that. And as those teams go down in history, the myths become more important than anything that actually went down for real."

I suppose that detached mythology is really what I'm writing about. In truth, these teams didn't play each other as often as it seems retrospectively. Though there wasn't an NBA championship series in the eighties that didn't include either L.A. or Boston, they only played each other three times. They only faced each other in a seventh game once, and the star that night was forgotten antihero Cedric "Cornbread" Maxwell. The greatest Celtic team-the 198586 squad that used Bill Walton as the sixth man-never played L.A. in the finals, because the Lakers were upset in the playoffs by an inferior Houston team led by underachiever Ralph Sampson. The era's best Laker squad was probably the one from 198687 (Jabbar's last decent season and Byron Scott's first good one), but Boston was so devastated by injury that year they essentially played with only five guys (their best reserve was Jerry f.u.c.king Sichting). In a way, the rivalry is akin to memories from keg parties from your freshman year at college-it all sort of runs together into one hazy image that never technically occurred, yet somehow feels to have occurred all the time.

But in so many ways, that kind of mythology is the only thing that keeps us alive. Remember when Danny Ainge bit Tree Rollins's hand in the 1984 Eastern conference playoffs? If you do, you shouldn't: Rollins is actually the guy who bit Ainge. For some reason, everyone recalls the opposite. This is a big part of why so many people hated the greatest Mormon in league history-because someone bit him him. Life is rarely about what happened; it's mostly about what we think think happened. happened.

Riley knew this, too. When I asked him what the ultimate key to beating Boston was, I a.s.sumed (and kind of hoped, actually) that he'd start talking about the way Michael Cooper matched up with Bird defensively. Instead, he went into a bunch of c.r.a.p about the fifteenth-century Boers.

"We had to get over the psychological element of the Celtic mystique," Riley insisted. "After we choked in '84, I had to teach my guys exactly who the Celtics were in a historical sense. I mean, the Celts were a cult who did sinister things in secret places. That's where I took it. I had to teach them who their opponent was originally, because that's exactly who they were playing in 1987. I don't know if the Celtic players knew about Celt history, but that's how those guys played."

This is probably true, although a bit comical (I like to imagine Riley handing out scouting reports that included such insights as, "Dennis Johnson: no range beyond twenty-one feet, initiates contact on drives to the hole, may have aspirations to sack Iberia"). But it proves that Riley understood that sport (or least the transcendent moments of sport) has almost nothing to do with the concept of a game game. Scrabble is a game. Popomatic Trouble is a game. Major League Baseball is a game. But any situation where Bird is boxing out Magic for a rebound that matters is not. That is a conflict that dwarfs Dante. That is the crouching tiger and and the hidden dragon. the hidden dragon.

So this is how I have come to make every decision in my life: I suss out the Celtics and Lakers dynamic in any given scenario, and then I go with Larry. I'm a Celtic Person; for me, life is simple. And just in case you're blind to the abundantly obvious, here are ten examples of how you can construct a green and gold humanity: QUESTION # 1-"What kind of car should I drive?"If you're a Laker Person, buy a two-door car, preferably something made in America. I'd go with a Camaro IROC or possibly a Ford Probe. These are fast, domestic vehicles, just as the "Showtime" automaton was a sleek, streamlined machine that came from the streets of Michigan (which is where Magic was raised). Meanwhile, Celtic People are four-door sedan owners. I lean toward the Chrysler LeBaron and the Chevy Cavalier, the veritable D.J. and Ainge of the automotive universe.QUESTION # 2-"Whom should I marry?"If you're a Celtic Person, you should try to marry the most beautiful woman willing to sleep with you. In all likelihood, you are not attractive, Celtic Fan. Your haircut is ridiculous. You need to marry the equivalent of a model, lest your kids will almost certainly be repulsive. It is the Celtic Way to find that middle ground between the beautiful (i.e., the rotation on Bird's release) and the ugly (i.e., Kevin McHale's skeletal structure). If you're a Laker Person, you need to marry the most understanding, forward-thinking, unconventional female you can possibly find. This is because (a) you will only enjoy a creative relationship, and (b) you will undoubtedly cheat on her, and probably with a hooker.QUESTION # 3-"What should I have for breakfast?"There's sort of a gut reaction to insist that Celtic People should eat pancakes and bacon while they read the newspaper, but n.o.body does that except lumberjacks and maybe Mark Cuban. A Celtic Person eats cereal, but nothing bland; Cap'n Crunch or Frosted Flakes are the best options, because the empty sugar represents M. L. Carr and the ample riboflavin represents Scott Wedman (i.e., something that is good for you, even though you have no idea what it does). Laker People consume Kellogg's Pop-Tarts, which heat up in a hurrya lot like Bob McAdoo.QUESTION # 4-"Who Should I Believe Killed John F. Kennedy?"Laker People side with the conspiracy that implicates the military industrial complex, although they also suspect this is why n.o.body turned on the air conditioners during game five at the Garden in 1984. Celtic People think Oswald acted alone and without justification, just like Philadelphia 76er Andrew Toney.QUESTION # 5-"What should be my favorite s.e.xual position?"I don't want to get too graphic, but here's a hint: Look at the way Danny Ainge shot his jumper. Then look at the way Jamaal Wilkes shot his. Enough said.QUESTION # 6-"What kind of drugs should I take?"Remember the first game of Magic's career, when Kareem hit a skyhook at the buzzer against the Clippers and Johnson hugged him like a grizzly? The only people I know who behave like that are usually on Ecstasy. Meanwhile, Celtic People smoke pot, just like the Chief.QUESTION # 7-"David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar?"This is a tricky one, because Dave was the ultimate California boy and Sammy's heaviest solo record is t.i.tled Standing Hampton, which I think is in New Hampshire (the Red Rocker also looks a bit like Bill Walton, sans headband). Yet upon further review, it's; all too obvious: Celtic People