THE NBA CHAMPIONSHIPS : LOS ANGELES LAKERS vs. DETROIT PISTONS : On Paper, Here’s Best Matchup of Series : Detroit Mob Will Mug Aging Lakers

This is your nightmare speaking, Los Angeles. This is your darkest fear. This is the voice of a city where men get their fingernails dirty, not polished, where cars are constructed, not leased, and where most adults--Are you sitting down? Comfy in the hot tub? Got lots of bubbles?--work for a living.

Oh, God. Not that, huh?

Move over, L.A. Detroit is coming. Book us a room, and put that crown in it--the one the Lakers have worn for the last year as National Basketball Assn. champions. We’ll take that home, thank you. And maybe a few of those towels.

And we’ll take Mike back, too, OK? And wash his brain. God knows, he doesn’t have any hair left. Hey, Downey. My friend, my pal, my esteemed colleague.

What are you, nuts?

The Lakers? Over the Pistons? When did you get on that bandwagon? For Pete’s sake, Mike. They wear purple. They sell maps to the star’s seats.

You, of all people, should know better. You used to live here in Detroit, where life was good. Now you live in L.A., where your rent is tripled, your car mileage is quadrupled, and you eat tofu for breakfast.

You call that a good move, Mikey?

Don’t worry. We’re here to save you. To return you to reality. Grab a rope, “We Want to Take You Higher.”

Hey! A song! Dance, dude!

Isn’t that the L.A. approach to basketball, Mike? Buy a ticket? See Jack Nicholson? And boogie, boogie, boogie? Real knowledgeable fans you got there. Last year, they were dancing on the Forum court during the sixth game of the championships--with 10 minutes left to go. Great. Does the place have a two-drink minimum as well?

In Detroit, we take a purer approach. We believe a ball is something you put in the net, not the description of the time you had at the arena.

But hey, that’s just us. You remember us, don’t you Mike? Before you got those sunglasses and that big chain around your neck? It is true, we humble Detroiters lack Jacuzzis and restaurants named Spago. In Detroit, Spago would be something you feed your dog. Pour a little water on top. Chewy, Chewy, Chewy.

Hey! A song! Dance, dude!

But let’s talk basketball. Ready? Set?

You lose.

Why? I’ll tell you why. Because in Detroit, we play what is known as Eastern Conference basketball. It means you’re allowed to bump a guy now and then without him yelling: “Cooties! Cooties!”

That’s one reason. Our defense is another. I will not bring up the fact that it took your Lakers 14 games to get through the last two rounds. Wait. Ah. Why not?

It took your Lakers 14 games to get through the last two rounds. Who were they playing? The Utah--Jazz? The Dallas--Mavericks? Must have been their great winning traditions, huh?

The Pistons, on the other hand, defeated Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls in five games, and the mighty Boston Celtics--leprechauns and all--in six. Now, you may say: “Heck, we beat the Celtics in six last year.” Yeah. Sure. After we tired them out for you.

No such luck this time, purple men. The Pistons have young legs, young lungs, young hearts.

And the Lakers? Their best player is Earvin (Magic) Johnson. “Oooh, Magic,” you coo. “He’s got a great smile. He’s a great guy.”

Sure. He grew up in Michigan. You think he’d be that sweet if he’d grown up in Inglewood?

Understand me, Los Angelenos. We are talking Adrian Dantley, who is the perfect age, vs. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who attended George Burns’ bar mitzvah.

We are talking Isiah Thomas, Mr. All-World, vs. Byron Scott, Mr. All-or-Nothing.

We are talking John Salley, tall enough for two men, and Ricky Mahorn, big enough for two men, vs. James Worthy, who only looks like two men--himself and Teddy Pendergrass.

And then there’s Bill Laimbeer.

“Oooh, bad dude,” you say. “Nobody likes him. Everybody hates him. He’s a crybaby, a faker, a dirty player.”

To which I say: Bill Laimbeer went to high school in Southern California. You have only yourselves to blame.

Coaches? You have one, we have one. Each dresses as if he were a Gucci ad. Face it, the only difference between Chuck Daly and Pat Riley is the grease Riley smears in his hair. Who had that first, by the way, Riley or Gordon Gekko?

Benches? Yours is deep, ours is deeper. Strength? Yours is deep, ours is deeper. Championship experience? Yours is deep, ours is non-existent.

So? What do you think? We’re supposed to come to L.A. and be overwhelmed? By what? Banners? We’ve seen those. Exhaust fumes? We’ve smelled those. Movie stars? We’ve seen those.

The fact is, one of your biggest grossing movies was about a Detroit cop making fun of Beverly Hills. To my knowledge, there has never been a movie about a Beverly Hills person coming to Detroit and making fun of it.

You know why?

Because he’d be dead in seven seconds, that’s why. In Detroit, we call that, “Taking Care of Business.”

Hey! A song! Dance, dude!

OK. We’ve made the point. Detroit wins. But, don’t worry, Mike. Michigan forgives you for your momentary lapse of reason. When this is done, and the Pistons have won the title, you can still come home for dinner.

Bring some Spago. We’ll feed the dog.