When I was younger– so much younger– my mother briefly re-married and I had a stepfather. He was, among other things, the son of an alcoholic and followed through on the family legacy in that regard. He was also not a particularly wise man, nor a particularly clever man. But like most short white guys in Indiana, he had a fondness for basketball and would tell the stories of his high school exploits.
If you have ever seen an episode of Married With Children where Al Bundy brags about Polk High football, that’s basically what high school basketball is in Indiana. My stepfather was a legend in his own mind from a small county school. my biological father was actually a star player for the big high school. He was such a star, in fact, that when I befriended the son of one of his high school rivals, the father told his son not to associate with me. My “bio” dad and I never talked about basketball, but it was the way I tried to bond with my step-dad. I even played on his youth league team, though as a coach he was more interested in developing the skills of the other players. It deeply bothered me, but it shouldn’t have.
As a freshman in high school, I had my Indiana high school basketball moments– all the ones I’d need, as I never played again after that year. I out-shot everyone on the team, including our coach, in a three point shootout (I only missed two of 35). I blocked a senior who attempted to slam dunk on me. I ran the offense like a point guard even though I was technically our center. And a Mr. Basketball Indiana leaped over me to make a key shot (I was good on D, but not that good). I also destroyed my knee that season. In the process I made friends with the coolest senior at our high school and for a long period no one dared make fun of me because of that.
But my step-dad and I didn’t bond that way. He didn’t even come to see me play.
Our basketball bonding came when I was much younger, watching games on our satellite dish. He was, as most men his age from Indiana were, a Boston Celtics fan.
I had so much green and white gear. I had so many Larry Bird t-shirts. I really wanted to be loved.
A confession. Please no one tell my mother, as she’d cry to know it.
I HATED Larry Bird. Mostly because when he played bad it pissed my step-dad off, and I watched him beat up a riding lawn mower and a dog over it. He was going to hit my mom once because if it, but I hit him first with a footstool. But I also didn’t care for Bird’s play style. I was, to refer back to my Judas references the other day, a fan of the other big star from that draft, Magic Johnson. I was a closet Lakers fan. I later also got into Jordan because everyone did (and my mom loved him– basketball was oddly about bonding with people for me).
But yes, I was a Lakers fan. I played like Magic. I was a passer, a defender, a guy who made lunch bucket plays. I could shoot from outside, and I often did, but I wasn’t interested in being a wing. I wanted to run the show. I wanted to be the thinking man, the one who orchestrated. I met Magic once when I was young (at a Larry Bird charity event, no less, that Mom managed to get front row tickets to). It was amazing to chat with him for just a second, to shake his hand. He’s an awesome person.
So the Lakers, for me, were a secret love that flew in the eyes of loyalty. My favorite color, for years, was purple. I told people it was because of the Joker. Then, luckily for me, I saw a shade of blue that changed color theory for me forever. Still love me some purple, though.
As time passed, I became a Pacers fan, because I could actually go see them on occasion, and Reggie Miller was the truth. But I always pulled for Kobe Bryant, and the Shaq/Kobe Lakeshow was can’t miss TV. I loved Derrick Fisher. I remember Elden Campbell, and I knew who Lamar Odom was before he was a Kardashian.
When I went to graduate school, I’d see Magic Johnson on occasion around campus. I’m certain he didn’t remember me (how could he? Do *I* remember me from when I was that age? Was I even me? Could I have been anyone other than me?), but I once, in passing, thanked him for talking to me that day when I was just a little fart in a Larry Bird jacket. I told him how fly his green ride was (spartan green with sparty pride). I yelled “go White” to him, which I realized just after saying is an awful racial conundrum our college chant causes to happen and I hope if I ever see Magic again I get to be the one to initiate so I can say “green.” I would venture to say that as heroes go, he’s the real-life hero that disappointed me the least. Sure, he slept around and he got HIV, but he beat it, somehow, and the entire second act of the man’s life should be the real I am Legend. As ‘Ye said, “you can live through anything if Magic made it.”
So back to my Pacers fandom. I would like to stay a Pacers fan. But every time I love a Pacer, they leave me. Ron Artest. Jonathan Bender (Shut up). Al Harrington. And now… Paul George. I’ve grown so attached to Paul George, not quite like I did with Peyton, but so, so close. I don’t know PG in any way, shape or form, I’ve never met him. But I feel like I do know him, I’ve followed him so closely.
PG 13 has been the lone bright spot in the NBA for me since the era of “make the super team” started, but I also knew that if Paul left Indy, the chances of winning a title this era left with him. There’s no other way to lure big names to Indiana, and we’d need three if PG wasn’t here. He’s unhappy in Indy, and why not? We have done nothing right to put together a decent team. But guess where he wants to go. Los Angeles.
Guess who is the new GM of the Lakers.
Magic Johnson.
So the next time I login to NBA 2K, PG and I are going to take our talents to the Staples Center. All (purple and) gold everything.
My step-dad is gone. My father is gone.
No more Larry fucking Bird. No more Hick from French Lick. No more vaguely racist talk about the amazing talents of the white three point scoring machine.
Hey, Magic… I can finally wear Laker purple around the house.
Go green, my brother. Go green.