What if Fans Played the Same Game?

So imagine what it would be like if the NBA season opened and no one showed up, the players sprinting out of the locker room like they always do, only to find no one there, just the echoes from the basketballs hitting the hardwood, the players’ newfound public-spiritedness left dangling.

“What the . . . ?” Shaq would say.

“Maybe we’re in the wrong place?” Kobe would say.

“I’m going home,” Elden would say.

“No, wait,” Shaq would say. “Let’s look around.”

And the dazed players would wander out across the floor and look up into the empty stands, suspecting that it was just some trick. That maybe the fans were playing a little joke on them and that they would pop out from behind the seats at any moment, yelling, “Surprise!” then showering them with love, the way fans are supposed to.

“What the . . . ?” Shaq would mumble when it was clear no one was there.

“Where’d everybody go?” Kobe would say.

“I don’t see no one,” a rookie would say, not yet as well-spoken as some of the veterans.

All those empty seats would puzzle the players, because the fans always loved them, no matter what they did.

In the past, sports fans always came back after lockouts or strikes, always flocked to the $150 seats and stood in line for the $4 beers, then cheered themselves silly, happy to be part of such a grand spectacle, grateful to be among the gods.

But tonight, for this one night, the stands would be empty. And the concession stands too. No one would be there to cheer them. No Laker Girls. No vendors. No food. The fans were on strike.

“Where’s Dyan Cannon?” Shaq would say.

“Where’s Jack?”

“I’m going home,” Elden would say.

“No wait,” Shaq would say. “The fans, they have to be here somewhere.”

The players would sit down now, because millionaires shouldn’t have to stand. Someone would bring them towels and drinks, since several of the millionaires had started to perspire.

And then, right there on the quiet Forum floor, the players would try to zero in on what had gone wrong. They’d check the date. They’d check the time. They’d check to see whether they were in the right place. Check. Check. Check.

“Maybe the fans think the lockout is still going,” Kobe would say.

“No,” some rookie would say. “The fans, they ain’t stupid.”

“Maybe we don’t need no fans,” another rookie would say. “We still got TV, right?”

So they’d look around for the cameras, but the cameras would be missing. They’d look for the announcers and the reporters and the photographers. But they’d be gone too. No Jell-O a-jigglin’. No refrigerator door about to close.

“Where’s Chick?” someone would ask.

“Where’s Stu?”

“Where’s Plaschke?”

And there’d be no answer, no play-by-play, no lights.

“I don’t think we have TV either,” Shaq would say.

“No TV?” Eddie would say. “That’s crazy, no TV.”

Try as they might, the players wouldn’t be able to figure out what happened to the fans. After the lockout, hadn’t the NBA players promised to treat the fans better? To reach out to them? To sign autographs? A couple of the more committed players had promised to smile.

“It’s not like we didn’t try,” Elden would say.

“Yeah, we tried,” Eddie would say.

“The fans, they don’t know what it’s like, having to deal with fans,” someone would say.

Yep, they all agreed, those fans could be really annoying.

“Especially those little kids,” one of the veterans would say.

“Yeah, they always want to shake your hand,” someone agreed.

As long as they were there, the players would take a few practice shots, some of them dropping, some of them not. They would practice their spin moves as if the fans were really watching, as if the fans were in the stands roaring at every stutter step and no-look pass.

Along the bench, a cell phone would ring. Then another. Soon, an endorsement deal would collapse. A book deal would fall through. Maybe a mistress would move on.

“I’m going home,” Elden would finally say, upset at showing up for a game only to have no one there to appreciate it.

“Me too,” Shaq would say.

And one by one, they’d take their basketballs and their cell phones, and they’d leave the Forum floor, dropping the towels on the ground, where some old guy would probably pick them up later.

As they entered the locker room, one of the players would bring up the most important issue of all.

“Do we still get paid?” he’d ask.

“I don’t know,” Kobe would say.

“We’d better get paid,” a player would say.

“Yeah, we’d better get paid.”

“If we don’t get paid, I’m going on strike,” someone would say.

“Me too,” a rookie would say. “I’m going on strike.”

And then someone would turn out the lights.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.