The One, Big Thing Missing in Boston Is the Purple Gang

Dear Lakers:

I just flew into town and I haven’t seen any of you guys around, so I assume I wasn’t dreaming. You really did lose to the Houston Rockets in the Western Conference finals.

Sure, now I remember. Ralph Sampson taking that last-second, lean-’n-pray shot. I remember the sudden, profound, stunned silence in the Forum as the shot bounced and dropped through the net. People watching on television must have thought their sound went out.

No, all that went out was their Lakers.

So how are the summer vacations coming so far, fellows? Been taking it easy? As easy as you did on the backboards the first four games of the Houston series? Just kidding.

Might as well get used to it. I know the Rockets deserve a lot of credit, they’re a fine, up-and-coming team and all that cliche claptrap.

Still, you’re going to have a hard time convincing most of your loyal fans that you guys didn’t blow it. Losing four straight to Houston!

You guys couldn’t have done more damage to your reputation had you all been arrested for being pickpockets at Hands Across America.

Anyway, I thought it might cheer you up to know that the folks here in Boston haven’t forgotten about the L.A. Lakers. No sir.

In the Sunday Boston Globe, for instance, there’s a banner headline: “Were Lakers great? Yes--great big flops.”

Then there’s a cute cartoon, showing Akeem Olajuwon’s legs. Akeem has one foot up, so you can see the sole of his shoe, and Jack Nicholson is squashed on the tread like a large bug.

You know how these Boston folks like to kid around. But I think there really is an undercurrent of resentment here that you guys decided not to come back here for the finals.

This was to be the rubber match. The Celtics won in ‘84, Lakers won in ‘85, and this final was going to be the tie-breaker to decide the team of the ‘80s.

After all, Lakers-Celtics is--or was--America’s Rivalry. No other tale of two sports cities could match this one for the honest and heartfelt mutual contempt on the part of players and fans.

The bad feeling between the two clubs was fueled by a grudging mutual admiration and respect. How can you stop Bird and McHale? How can they stop Magic and Kareem? How can they stop the Laker break? How can you keep the Celtic front line off the backboards?

If you guys were here, by now us devious-minded media representatives would be asking Kevin McHale and Kurt Rambis to relive their famous and near-fatal midair pas de deux of two series past.

We would be probing and prodding the coaches and players and ushers and cab drivers and Red Auerbach to try to stir up some of that famous Laker-Celtic bad blood.

We wouldn’t have had to stir hard.

Maybe this series between the Celtics and Rockets (it hurts to even see those words in print, doesn’t it?) could be a classic. Two enormous and talented front lines clashing. The Lone Star State vs. the Cradle of Liberty.

But it’s just not the same. I pick up a newspaper Saturday and read where Ralph Sampson says, “We aren’t afraid of the Celtics.”

Now is this any way to kick off a colossal series? By talking about fear ?

When the Lakers and Celtics meet, nobody talks about fear. It’s all bluster and bravado and swaggering and intimidation. Real men don’t know the meaning of the word fear.

If this was Lakers-Celtics, players would already be snarling and woofing, K.C. Jones and Pat Riley would already be trying to play their psychological games and influence the officials.

And of course, once the series started, there would be lots of woofing on the court, led by Bird and Michael Cooper.

The Rockets are too polite to get into that kind of fun stuff. They’ll probably call the Celtics “Mister” and say nice things about the Boston fans and the arena and everything.

Speaking of woofing, it sounds like you Lakers have turned that activity into an intramural sport. You lose to the Rockets and all of a sudden that famous Three Muskateers-type team unity starts fading.

I know I wouldn’t feel too swell right now if I were Mitch Kupchak or Kurt Rambis and people in the organization were making broad public hints about my future usefulness--or lack of same--to the club.

If I were either one of those guys and I were at the big team sendoff barbecue at Pickfair, I wouldn’t stand too near the edge of the barbecue pit.

But I guess that’s what happens when you do something you haven’t had much practice at--losing. If half the rumors floating around here among the nation’s sportswriters are true, the only Lakers who will be back next season will be Magic Johnson and maybe trainer Gary Vitti.

And maybe Chick Hearn, although nobody has seen the poor man since his Game 5 sign-off. Chick probably climbed into a funk so deep it will take a team of coal miners to haul him out.

So much for dwelling on the negative, though. It’s too nice a day for that. It’s sunny and warm here in Beantown, with whipped, fluffy clouds floating overhead. There are sailboats

skimming the Charles River and downtown Boston looks beautiful and alive.

Riding into town from the airport, I got a glimpse of the Boston Garden. That’s right, the Gaaaden is still standing, despite what you guys did to the place last year, exorcising the Celtic ghosts and chipping away at the ancient foundation of the arena and the Celtic mystique.

In fact, the Garden looked fresh and perky, in an old-fashioned way. Like the place had been primped and readied for a big event, a titanic series between two great rivals.

But enough. I’m probably making you guys wistful. Or suicidal. I’m sure you wish I was back there in Los Angeles to console you personally, but I’ve got an NBA Finals to cover.

By the way, if you’re looking for incentive for next season, be advised of another headline in the Sunday Globe: “Sizing it up: Celtics in 6.”

If the experts figure the Celtics can handle the Rockets that easily, imagine what everyone here must believe the Celtics would have done to the poor, fading Laker Dynasty.

Celtics in 4? Three?

Enjoy the beach.

Sincerely,

Scott