Finally, Players Past and Present Can Stand Tall

Hey, Frank Selvy. Hey, Jerry, Elgin, Wilt, Hot Rod, Rudy LaRusso, Ray Felix . . .

Wherever you guys are, find a quiet place, lift yourself up a glass of your favorite drink and knock one down in honor of your Lakers.

They have squashed the leprechaun; they have taken the weed-eater to the patch of four-leaf clovers.

Jack Kent Cooke, blow yourself up a balloon. Jack Nicholson, think back on all the lean seasons when you were sitting courtside but nobody noticed. Throw back your head and give us your best, nastiest Randall P. McMurphy laugh.

At 12:34 p.m. Sunday, L.A. time, of course, the organically grown, solar-powered, Malibu-Margueritaville-Hollywood Lakers put an end to the Celtics’ domination.

They treated the hallowed Celtic championship banners hanging in the rafters of the Boston Garden with all the reverence of laundry on a clothesline.

In a sweatbox antique of an arena, where opposing teams come to die, where the only air circulation is courtesy of M.L. Carr’s whirlybird towel, the Lakers outrunned, outgunned, outmuscled and out-Celticed the Celtics.

They did it for themselves and for all the Lakers who are no longer suited up.

“We played for everybody else, all the Laker teams of the past,” Magic Johnson said. “It’s better than a win, I tell you, because of what happened to all the other teams.”

This one was also for Kareem the Elder, too old to rock and roll, too old for the heat, but still cookin’ in the kitchen.

“Just think about it,” said Abdul-Jabbar, who has a better perspective on sports history than anyone on the Lakers. “We’d never beaten Boston. Jerry lost to Boston eight times (six, actually), and Elgin never beat them. I feel for those guys. You look back at how great they played and you just want to do it.”

So you do it. You do it despite the banners. “Kareem Elbow-Jabbar,” “Kurt Igna-Rambis,” “Can you say choke? Kiss it goodby, L.A.”

You do it despite the tradition, the Celtic hex, the green ghosts of Celtics past, the oppressive history of Celtic domination.

“We loved it,” Magic said. “That’s what you live for. To come here, all the tradition, to win despite all of it, despite all the banners and everything.”

What time was it out there, Magic?

“It was winnin’ time,” Magic said.

But what of the Celtic championship banners, the fans, the tradition?

“The game is played down on the floor, not up in the rafters,” Bob McAdoo said.

Wrong, Bob. This one, this game, this series, was played above the rafters, above the banners and above the smoke from Red Auerbach’s stinking victory cigar.

“You play against anybody else, you can’t play this hard,” Magic said. “We had to go to another level. We had to play on a higher level, past what we played the rest of the season and in the playoffs.

“In your guts, you can feel it. I’m so tired right now. I had to go sit down (in the locker room after the game), I couldn’t even celebrate.”

Yea, this one’s for you, too, Magic. The goat of the playoffs last season. And for Kurt Rambis, Lord of the Sewers. And for Doc Kerlan, the Lakers’ team physician since they came to Los Angeles in 1960, who threw one of his crutches out on the court Sunday to protest a call in the fourth quarter.

And this one’s for Riley, whose perfect hair and GQ wardrobe became a symbol of the prettiness of the Lakers.

“The hair and the suit,” Riley said, “it’s all part of a decoy, to take the heat off the players.”

Riley was smoking a victory cigarette. His custom-made silk shirt was soaked with sweat and champagne. His hair was sopping, but still plastered in place.

“This is my eighth final in the last 16 years,” Riley said. “I’ve seen a lot, this has to be the best. It’s never been done before. Those guys (previous Lakers who lost to the Celtics) can now walk outside and hold their heads up high.”

Riley gave the team a Knute Rockne pre-game talk. He invoked the series history, especially last season’s finals, the pain and humiliation of losing to the Celtics. He reminded his team of the crowing and woofing the Celtics have been doing ever since.

“Our whole theme is that somewhere along the line, no matter what obstacles are in your path, you have to stand strong, plant your feet and make a stand,” Riley said. “And we did. We’re the best team in the world.”

His players believed that going into the game. The Lakers didn’t come to Boston this time to be intimidated, humiliated, beaten. Had they lost Sunday, they would have had a workout Monday, but most of the players didn’t even bring their workout sweats.

Did Mitch Kupchak, for example, bring his workout gear to Boston?

“No, of course not,” Kupchak said indignantly.

Cocky? Sure, the Lakers are cocky.

Even the prospect of meeting President Reagan at the White House today has ‘em yawning. After you bring the Boston Garden to its knees, the White House is no challenge.

“My season’s over, I’m going home to see my kids,” Michael Cooper said. “What about the Prez?” a reporter asked.

“I’m through with you guys, too,” Cooper said, laughing.

“No, Coop, not the press , the Prez . Reagan.”

“Him too,” Cooper said.

Just kidding, Prez. It’s party time for the Lakers, you understand.

See, this one is special. It’s not just another Super Bowl win, another World Series victory. This one is bigger.

This one is for a quarter-century of frustration at the hands of the dreaded Celtics, in one of the most heated of professional sports rivalries. This one is for Chick Hearn, Freddy Schaus, Tommy Hawkins, Jamaal Wilkes, Doris Day, and for all the players and fans, Minnesota and Los Angeles, who have choked on a quarter-century of Red’s cigar smoke.

The air is clear. The sun is shining. Lift one to the rafters.