Holy frijoles! What a game.
The Moogster and I stopped in to The Shack on Wilshire Blvd to catch the game before I took her to the airport. The place was packed with a ton of drunken, middle-aged Laker fans and two REALLY drunk, middle-aged ladies rooting for the Magic. The crowd was incredibly obnoxious, and the Magic ladies were by far the worst They took every opportunity to make their allegiance known--jumping out of their seats and shrieking at every rebound, turnover, or foul. Unfortunately, the Moogster and I were sandwiched between these two Magicianettes.
Throughout the first half the Laker fans were forced to endure the raucous chicks in the back because, quite frankly, we had very little to cheer about. Then the third quarter rolled around and a completely different Laker team took the court. Not sure what Phil said to the boys in the locker room, but whatever it was, it worked. Our defense clamped down, our shot selection improved, and Trevor A-three-za got hot. It was awesome. The ladies in the back shut up, our food finally made its way to our table (although the wings were very sub-par), and the mood in the bar improved dramatically.
I'm not gonna lie, I had given up hope when we were down 5 with 12 seconds to go. I was planning the best route to get to the 405 when Superman got fouled.
I can't help but think that his misses, and D-Swish's subsequent trifecta, were the basketball gods punishing the Magic for the abhorrant befuddled women sitting next to me. Either way, it was an incredible course of events that Laker fans won't soon forget.
Now, while I watch Stargate on HBO, our boys in purple sit one win away from a post-Diesel championship and parade through downtown LA. In a way I hope we close it out at home, but I'll most definitely take a W on Sunday.
Boo Ya,
DB
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