There Was Nothing Like Chick’s Pregame Shows

I don’t recall much about the conversations, other than the privilege of having them.

He would be sitting on the level of his assigned broadcasting post, but several sections off to the side, and all by himself almost two hours before another Laker game. An icon sitting alone, now isn’t that crazy?

There was never any question, Chick Hearn was going to be there. It took just a walk up the stairs from Staples Center court level, a quick turn down the aisle to the left and there he would be--arms outstretched, always with the warm and welcome greeting.

He was happy to see you, imagine that, no matter who you were, his face--pancake makeup already applied--lighting up like a grandfather spotting his grandson.

I don’t ever remember him shaking hands. He’d take both of your hands by the fingers, then flap them up and down, as if he’d just struck it rich because you happened to stop by.

Then he would pat the seat next to him, a sign of affection, and insist you join him.

“Tell me,” he would say, and the first question was always his, making a meeting with a living legend as comfortable as sitting with family on the living room couch.

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HE PLAYED basketball at East Aurora High and, almost 50 years later, I was covering basketball games at East Aurora High. It was an Illinois connection.

I lost money betting on harness races at Aurora Downs while dating the wife-to-be, and it has been bothering me all day--I can’t remember the story he told me about that track. I know he would remember what I said, which is just another one of those gifts he had that set him apart.

Every time we chatted, he wanted to know more about the prospects of pro football again in Los Angeles, and he’d say how good it would be for the city to have a team here again, and I’d tease him: “You interested in broadcasting their games too?”

“No, no, no,” he’d say with a glint in his eye that said, “Well, maybe if someone asks ... “

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HE TALKED about Jim Murray in reverential tones, offered a history lesson on Jim Healy and talked lovingly about Jerry West, a man, as he said, driven away from the Lakers by his own inability to watch the team he built play.

“Terrible, terrible, a terrible thing,” he’d say. “Great, great man. Just great.”

He called me “kid,” and I was 50 years old, and I loved him for that.

Again and again I asked. I wanted to know how he did it, road trip after road trip in his 80s, and why would he continue to do it?

“I love it,” he’d say, and that would never be enough for me, so I would prod and tease and demand more, and he’d laugh and shake his head and say, “I just love it.”

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I RECALL talking to him about his championship rings, and where he kept them. He was going to get another that night, but he spoke about the one he would never wear, the one he had given to his son before his son’s death.

I made mention of that in the newspaper the next day, but with no help from my notes, because I had stopped writing as he talked.

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IT WAS always the same; no matter what we discussed, he’d want to know about the Bagger.

“Tell me,” he’d say, while poking a playful jab at my shoulder, “you really like the kid, don’t you?”

And I’d tell him something I would never tell you, or anyone else.

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WHEN HE returned to work last season after his medical hiatus, he was brought to the Laker locker room. He had already given a news conference in the Chick Hearn Media Room at Staples Center, and anyone who has seen tape of that event knows the trademark, wonderful way he could enter a room, hands out, a hand raised and pointed at a familiar face, offering a personal greeting.

In the Laker locker room that day he had a warm meeting with Kobe. Then Shaq came up from behind and placed his hands over Chick’s eyes. Athlete to broadcaster, there is almost no bigger sign of affection than such playfulness.

He continued to make his way around the room, smiles for everybody, Jim Hill from Channel 2 following with a camera crew. “I’m so happy to see you all,” he told everyone, and then spotting me, he said, “Even you.”

What an honor to be standing in front of a one-man firing squad.

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THEY WOULDN’T be long, those sessions sitting together, maybe five or 10 minutes, sometimes interrupted by someone else desiring an audience, but usually coming to a close at 6 p.m.--the assigned time to go downstairs and listen to Phil Jackson speak. In departing, I’d make some crack about Phil and Jeanie Buss, or Phil speaking from on high, and without being pulled into the mud, he’d wave goodbye.

It doesn’t seem like much now in comparison to a lifetime of memorable running commentary for so many others in the Los Angeles area, who grew up with this marvelous entertainer. But I have those five- to 10-minute conversations, a treasure when you consider the e-mail that has poured in here from people touched by someone they never even met.

There were some people talking Monday about a tragedy, but Vin Scully, as you might expect, chose words better befitting to describe the end of this great ride.

“Though we have lost a dear friend and a true broadcasting legend, I would like to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for having been able to enjoy his work for all these years.”

I’ll be thankful for those five or 10 special minutes shared before just another basketball game with Chick Hearn, a reminder, I guess, that every moment really does count, which might very well be the answer I could never get out of him.

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T.J. Simers can be reached at his e-mail address: t.j.simers@latimes.com.