For a while I thought my writing career was magically linked to the Lakers’ basketball trajectory. If they were winning, then I was winning. The night after the Easter/Passover weekend, I got the call that STARTERS had sold to a pre-emptive bidder. The Lakers were on the TV in the background, beating the pants off the New Orleans Hornets. When I hung up the phone in a euphoric daze, the cheers at Staples Arena sounded like my cheering squad, celebrating my literary victory.
At that instant, the planets aligned and I was blissful.
A perfect moment.
The Lakers went on to win the next and final game in that round a few days later. Every day continued to bring good news for me, beyond my wildest dreams. I thought if it was going this well for me, surely the Lakers would win the championship again. A three-peat. Send Phil off to his Montana retirement in a well-deserved blaze of glory.
But then round two started against Dallas. Even though the Lakers had beaten Dallas before, during the regular season, they lost four straight games against a team everyone agreed was smaller, less experienced, and less talented.
At that point, my life was so good, with amazing news pouring in daily regarding marketing, publicity, and foreign rights. And only a week had gone by. But everything had turned for the Lakers.
And that’s when I decided that we were no longer linked. My news continued to blossom, while they created flagrant fouls, yanked off their jerseys, and stomped their feet like little brats. Some tried to save face in their exit interviews. Phil ended his coaching career in the dust of this mess and rode his motorcycle straight into the Montana sunset.
Goodbye, Lakers. Hello, life.
