Don’t dare count them out

Not so fast.

The three words danced off the end of Laker fingertips, once shaky, now certain.

Not so fast.

The three words swallowed the Staples Center, once somnolent, now screaming.

Like weary partygoers who awaken at last call, the Lakers and their fans lifted their heads Sunday night and together offered one last howling toast to the improbable.

Not so fast.

Those forlorn NBA Finals are not yet final. Those champion Boston Celtics are not yet champions.

The Lakers have never been better in these finals, their fans have never been louder in these playoffs, and resuscitation has never been more fun in a 103-98 Laker victory over the Celtics that might just turn this series serious.

“This is not over yet,” intoned public address announcer Lawrence Tanter afterward as the crowd roared and the confetti fell.

“Not in our house” read the giant scoreboard as the sweaty players gathered at midcourt and applauded the equally sweaty fans who had finally showed up.

The Celtics still lead the series three games to two, and the show now moves to Boston for Game 6, and 7 if necessary, and the Lakers haven’t won there this season in three tries.

But if they can recover like this from Thursday’s 24-point collapse, who knows?

And if they can be strong enough to blow a 19-point lead on Sunday and still win, who would dare guess?

It was a night when valuable Kobe Bryant scolded his teammates, and energized Lamar Odom scolded himself, and somebody in the stands finally booed Boston.

It was a night when Pau Gasol actually played up to his first name -- Pow! Nineteen points and 13 rebounds.

It was a night when Jordan Farmar actually lived up to his last name -- he plowed through the Celtic defense for 11 points, mostly on layups.

It was night, the first night, when Coach Phil Jackson actually talked like his team actually outplayed the mighty Celtics.

“They played harder than the Celtics consistently for the game, and I think that was a big key,” Jackson said.

Before the game, Jackson laughed and said his team had just the right attributes to pull it off.

“We’re young enough and dumb enough to be able to do this,” he said.

Turns out, that was no joke. The Lakers dumbly blew a second-quarter lead that had stretched to 19 points, then youthfully streaked ahead of the Celtics after the game was tied at 90-all with 4:35 remaining.

Those final desperate moments were a microcosm of a city on the brink, a game from the heart.

Gasol and Odom, both giving a consistent three hours for the first time in these finals, helped by the absence of sore-shouldered Kendrick Perkins, each fought for big points and rebounds.

Kevin Garnett, the epitome of Celtic toughness, missed three late free throws in the face of Lakers fans waving foam fingers and balloons.

Then there was Closer Bryant.

We had been waiting for Closer Bryant.

The regular-season MVP finally brought his late-game drama to the finals, the complicated acrobat clinching this game with a simple flick of the wrist.

With 40.9 seconds remaining and the Lakers leading by two, Celtic hotshot Paul Pierce casually dribbled across midcourt . . . and then he didn’t.

The ball was gone. Bryant had sneaked up behind him and knocked it away.

It landed in the hands of Odom, who made a quick long toss that would have made a USC quarterback proud, throwing the ball back into the hands of Bryant, who raced downcourt for an uncontested dunk.

Said Pierce: “It definitely hurts -- a tough one to swallow.”

Said Jackson: “A breakout basket.”

A breakout game that ended with nobody wanting to break out, everyone standing in their Staples Center seats and crowding the hardwood, their optimism still deafening.

Not so fast.

Of course, there remain those three other pesky words.

Never been done.

No team in NBA Finals history has ever recovered from a three-games-to-one deficit.

Closer Bryant smiled.

A mountain two days ago, a speed bump today.

“If you told us in training camp that we were two wins from an NBA championship, we would take that in a heartbeat,” he said.

On a thumping Sunday night, that heartbeat returned.

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Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.

To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.