8901230897
DETROIT FREE PRESS
890606
Tuesday, June 06, 1989
METRO FINAL
1C
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO EDITION 1C; ; SPECIAL SECTION: NBA FINALS '89
Copyright (c) 1989, Detroit Free Press
MIKEY, STOP KIDDING YOURSELF:
YOU AND THE LAKERS LOOK OLD
Listen up, Los Angeles. Sorry to disturb your cappuccino. I have come all
the way from the Motor City to ask just one simple question: Is it a sickness
with you people, or what?
First you give us four Rockys. Then five Captain Kirks. Then at least
eight Jasons, maybe nine, I stopped counting when the eyeballs got ripped out.
Sequels. More sequels. I swear, if Californians could pull it off, they'd go
through puberty twice. "Part II: The Prom Years."
And now, you want to give us another Lakers championship? What's the
matter? The writers on strike again?
Obviously not. You've still got Mikey. He writes anything. Look at him
over there. Nice mug shot. I see you finally got the hairpiece you were
talking about. Hey, Mike? Loved you in "Youngblood," babe. Thought you got
robbed on the Oscar.
Take this down: We've got a new script this year. Detroit will win the NBA
championship. Wipe off that pancake makeup, Michael, and you will see I am
right. The Pistons were nice to the Lakers last season. They had the finals
won in six games, went down to the last minute, and then, like good Americans,
they put their faith in the referees.
The refs called a foul on Bill Laimbeer, gave Kareem two free throws and
strangled us.
Thanks a lot.
These days, we have no faith in referees, we do not believe in being nice.
These days we bump you, stump you, thump you and dump you. Bad Boys. This is
our postgame quote: "Where's the plane?"
And it works. Look around, Mikey. Recognize this place? This is not LA.
You can tell by all the people actually going to work in the morning. Hey --
why so sad? Oh, that's right. You had to give up your place in line at Spago.
What's it been, three months? You were almost at the front, too.
But Mikey, you are here for a reason: The Pistons, not the Lakers, won
more games than anybody else this season. They have home-court advantage. When
this series winds down to a sixth or seventh game -- if Kareem's oxygen holds
out -- there will be no Laker Girls to distract the referees. No Nicholson.
No Dyan Cannon. Just us. You remember us, LA. Your worst nightmare? People
with wives, kids, jobs, and no beluga in the fridge?
Boo!
Three-peat? Mikey. It sounds like something you put on your lawn.
Obviously, you are truly gone. We tried to save your soul last year, offered
you a ride in a Chevy and reminded you that when people say, "I work for a
living," they do not mean checking bubbles in the tub.
But noooo. You've changed. You used to be one of us. Now, like the pod
people, you are one of them, swallowed up by a culture that believes serious
reading is "Vanna White: My Story."
So let me put this Pistons-Lakers series in terms even "Entertainment
Tonight" can understand: We're back (Poltergeist II). We're Bad (Michael
Jackson). And this time it's personal (Rambo III).
As Vanna would say: "Y-O-U L-O-S-E."
Fess up, Michael. Even you can't believe the Lakers are here. Just a few
months ago, they looked like trout. Then played like perch. Then, suddenly,
they hit the Western Conference playoffs, and the opposition says, "Gee, let's
all fall over and die, shall we?" Seattle? Phoenix? No wonder LA swept. What's
their motto? Touching another player gives you cooties?
On the other hand we have the Pistons, who swept Boston, swept Milwaukee
and just finished off a fellow named Michael Jordan. You know him, right?
Sometimes goes by his nickname, God?
Which brings us here. Lakers against the Pistons. Let's talk players.
Let's talk Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. How old is he now, 91? Hey, Kareem, you're
great, you're wonderful, you're a legend, you're . . . not moving. Kareem.
Kareem?
Well. Shoot. Just retire his number with him in it. You can call Mychal
Thompson, who thinks he's John Salley, but isn't as funny. Or maybe James (I
am Not Teddy Pendergrass) Worthy. Hey, James, we have something to throw at
you. His name is Rick Mahorn.
James? . . . Man, he sure can run fast.
You can call Magic Johnson. You can call A.C. Green. You can call A.C.
Delco. You can call Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd and Sigourney Weaver. And we will
call Bill Laimbeer.
Boo!
Look, Mikey. See Isiah. See Isiah run. See Isiah with no crutches this
time? See Joe Dumars. Sticky little guy, isn't he? See Mark Aguirre. See
Dennis Rodman. You don't know what to make of Rodman, do you? Heh-heh. Neither
do we.
Kind of frightening, huh?
Hey, Mikey. All kidding aside. Can I ask you a serious question? Were you
really in that Rob Lowe video?
Sorry. None of us has seen it. We've been too busy producing things like
American cars, which most Los Angelenos have never heard of. What the
heck. It all boils down to this: You say you have a nice-looking team. I say:
So what? "Teen Wolf' was probably a nice-looking movie. But it was not deep.
The Pistons are deep. They are so deep, Hermann Hesse doesn't understand them.
Let me throw a few bench names at you: Johnson, Rodman, Salley, Edwards, Long.
What can you throw me back? Michael Cooper? Of course you can throw him. The
guy weighs 12 pounds.
And you really expect to win this thing?
Mikey. Come in from the sun. Read my lips: Pistons in seven. No more LA
sequels. Who wants to see Pat Riley croaking to CBS: "This is sweeter than the
last time"? Even Magic is getting bored. Why do you think he shaved the
goatee?
As for you, Mikey. I suggest you go back to sleep, and maybe one of those
pods will swallow you up and turn you back to the old Downey, quick, before
she files the lawsuit.
Move it on over. Bad Boys are comin'. We are stealing your thunder. We
are stealing your crown. And, Mikey? When we go to LA, and you put us up in
one of your real nice Southern California hotels?
We're stealing the towels.
Have a nice day.
COLUMN;NBA;PLAYOFF;DEBATE;MIKE DOWNEY