Fans Keep Emotions in Play

The boys are watching the basketball game in the den, in front of what passes for a big-screen TV.

The girls are watching in the kitchen--books splayed across the table as they study for their finals--on a tiny set perched on the counter.

I am shuttling between the two groups, delivering potato chips and sharpened pencils and chocolate-chip cookies, catching glimpses of the action in a game that has produced as many groans as screams. And observing a clash in cultures at least as interesting as the competition in the game.

“Did you see that?” My teenage daughter and her friend rush breathlessly into the room, where my boyfriend and his sons are whooping over the 3-point basket that has just given the Lakers the lead.

“He is sooooo adorable,” my daughter gushes, as the object of her affection bounds across the television screen into the arms of his teammates for a moment of celebration.

“Look at that smile. Is he cute or what? How could you not think he’s cute?” I wonder for a minute if she is going to rush over and kiss the TV.

The boys smirk and roll their eyes. Ron Harper. . . . Adorable? A great jump shot, tough on defense. . . . But cute?

But it’s not just his basketball skill these girls see. Harper is balding, almost as old as their moms, a little on the skinny side . . . but his smile lights up Staples Center and reminds them why they love this game.

*

They have all put in time on the basketball court, my daughters. They have grabbed rebounds, fouled and been fouled, experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Still, they watch these playoff games like . . . well, girls.

So they probably couldn’t tell you how many points Shaq has scored or why the triangle offense works. But they’ve found plenty to talk about this playoff season:

They love Shaq’s smile but are grossed out by the sweat that pours off his massive frame. (“I would not hug him until he took a shower!”)

They dug Trail Blazer Brian Grant’s dreadlocked mane but agreed that pinning it back was a good idea. (“All that hair swinging around could hurt somebody.”)

They think Rick Fox is to-die-for cute but wish he’d spit out his gum before he takes to the floor. (“Doesn’t he know he could choke on that during a game!”)

And while they’re glad the Lakers triumphed, they miss watching the Blazers play. . . . Cute little Damon Stoudamire, his arms inked with tattoos, his head encircled with braids. Fiery Rasheed Wallace, with that cool patch of white in his hair.

The Pacers, they find, are less interesting. No elaborate hairdos or eye-popping tattoos. No Arvydas or Detlef or Bonzi, just guys named Reggie and Mark and Sam. And those ugly black socks . . . what’s up with that fashion statement?

Still, my girls cannot watch any two teams without getting caught up in their joy and pain.

So they cheer when Reggie Miller finally starts scoring, his skinny arms pumping the Hoosier crowd. And they cringe when Kobe goes down injured, not because of what it means to the Lakers’ chances but because their favorite player is in pain.

And, like their friends and classmates, they force me to arrange our weekends to accommodate the Laker games.

“I think it’s Kobe” that has piqued the girls’ interest, one mother--a psychologist by profession--confides. “He’s so young . . . they can identify with him, almost like a peer.”

Maybe it’s his retro hair, his dazzling smile, the poetry-in-motion beauty of his body when he hangs in the air as his jump shot flies. Or, as my 15-year-old daughter reminds me, his accessibility.

“Do you realize,” she says, her voice wistful, “he’s marrying a girl barely older than me? Can you imagine me being married to Kobe Bryant?”

And I smile, because this same daughter can also imagine playing alongside Kobe, can envision not just being his wife but being his teammate in a basketball game.

*

We are curled on the couch, my three girls and I, watching the Lakers demolish the Pacers in the first game of their series.

By the third quarter, my 9-year-old has stopped cheering. Her heart is breaking for Miller, who keeps firing shots that bounce off the rim.

“He doesn’t look like he’s having fun,” she says, watching somberly as he takes a seat on the bench and pulls his sweatshirt on over his head, en route to a 1-for-16 game. “He looks like he’s about to cry.” She slumps against me and I see tears welling in her eyes.

She played on her first basketball team last fall, the littlest, youngest girl on her squad. She went through all 10 games without scoring a point, bobbling almost every ball that came her way.

“I think it’s mean,” she says, “for them to cheer when he misses. Don’t you think that hurts his feelings, Mommy?”

And I pause, not knowing how to answer.

This game may be played for money, by men who see it as a job. But it is watched by little girls, who measure each move and every player with their hearts.

*

Sandy Banks’ column is published on Sundays and Tuesdays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@atimes.com.