On Easter, Lakers Hand Out Baskets Filled With Sweet Success

So here we are breathing deep the weekend air and watching the Lakers, who have sweetened Southern California’s spring beyond belief, given us Sunday afternoons that mean something besides yardwork and bargain movies.

“And Shaq’s in double figures with 11,” Bob Costas says early in this Easter Sunday playoff game.

It just seems right this season. Like destiny. Like the hard work and talent have come together, finally, for a championship year.

“Look how hard they work,” I tell the kids.

“Those are the Laker Girls, Dad,” they tell me.

“Which one’s Kobe?” I ask.

“Mom, Dad’s staring at the Laker Girls!”

“They’re awfully good,” I say.

So are the Lakers. Quick. Smart. Surprisingly silent. At least for Lakers, who in the past often came off as a spoiled bunch of bigmouths.

Not anymore.

“They go after everything,” I say.

“The Laker Girls?” asks the boy hopefully.

“No, the players,” I say. “They chase everything.”

We are visiting friends on Easter Sunday, watching the Lakers, eating Easter ham, honoring resurrections, large and small.

In one season, the Lakers have gone from civic embarrassment to civic treasure, worthy of our weekend time, the best Sunday matinee in town.

“Sacramento has to hold on tight here and play some good defense,” says Doug Collins as the Kings fall behind.

“Good luck with that,” I mumble.

They are the most likable L.A. team in recent memory, these Lakers. Watch the body language. Watch them line up for the opening tip-off. They’re full of quiet confidence. Skill. Even a smile or two.

“Nice to meet you,” they say with a handshake and a grin. “Prepare to die.”

There’s the kid, Kobe Bryant, the Fresh Prince of the NBA, a guy with Yoda’s ears and a pickpocket’s reflexes.

Watch him move with the ball. Watch him move without the ball. Watch him, on defense, destroy the other team’s rhythm. Just watch him, the kid with the most exciting first step in all of sports.

“Look at him create shots,” I say.

“Who?” the boy says.

“Kobe,” I say.

Then there’s Shaq. Talk about your resurrections. If the Lakers’ new coach is the father figure they have long needed, Shaq is the oldest son. Respectful. A good listener. Older than his years.

“He sweats a lot,” says the little girl.

“That’s good,” I tell her.

“Wow, he really sweats a lot,” she says.

Beneath the basket stands Shaq, glistening like an Easter ham. Eyes blazing. Arms of oak. A man-child. A man-mountain. A man-mountain-child-Magic-Mountain-man.

“Yikes,” says the little girl.

“What?”

“He’s scary,” she says.

“I think he’s kinda cute,” I say.

Most of all, there is Phil Jackson, who rode into town like the High Plains Drifter, with a cowboy’s face and a guy named Tex at his side.

They brought this thing called a “triangle offense,” a goofy system nobody understood except Michael Jordan and maybe a few chess grandmasters.

Even now, we’re not quite sure how it actually works.

“I know how the triangle works,” my friend Paul once said.

“How?”

“Pass the ball to Shaq, he scores,” Paul explained.

Which is as good an explanation as you’ll hear.

But it’s the defense that’s really made the difference.

In the recent past, the Lakers played defense with their eyes, watching as the other team stepped around them for easy baskets, after which the Lakers raced down to score their own quick baskets, hoping the game would end at a point when they had more baskets than the other team. That’s how the Lakers played defense. Passively. Like the tubby guy in Row 9.

Now they prowl the court like linebackers, smashing opposing ballcarriers, snatching soft passes from the sky, making the other team pay for all mistakes.

“Kobe,” I tell my friend, “is more fun to watch on defense than on offense.”

And today’s game goes as expected. Sacramento hangs tough for about a quarter, then the Lakers pull away.

The Kings play basketball the way much of the NBA does, as if it’s some sort of mating dance--strutting, grimacing, flapping their wings. The Lakers play as if at war.

By halftime, the Lakers are up by 10, and we’ve turned the sound on the TV off and replaced it with Chick Hearn on the radio.

“The biggest worry for me now if I’m the Laker coach is Shaq’s four fouls,” Chick says midway through the second half.

Chick’s a good guy to spend the holiday with. Older than the Easter Bunny, he has seen thousands of these games. In the last few years, he’s sounded frustrated and cranky, ready to retire.

But he’s stuck it out, like the great ones always do, hung in there for what may be a fairy-tale season.

“Shoot it, Fish,” he tells Derek Fisher. “Make your mother proud.”

I grab a piece of Easter chocolate and take a whiff of the weekend air. Lakers 117, Kings 107. Smells good, this air.

Sweet. Like destiny.

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