The City of Lost Angels beamed sunlight down on its inhabitants that day. The operative stood in the doorway of Jordan’s Cafe on Slauson, awaiting his six-wings-and-yams-for-$5 dinner, and engaging in the now-honored tradition of Laker Bashing with the staff there.

Living in LA isn’t easy for a sports fan. Baseball? Yawn. Football? Moved, thanks for calling. Basketball is the only interesting game left in town for people of color, and it’s about as exciting as a wild, naked weekend with Jocelyn Elders.

“Team ain’t got no heart,” muttered the scowling brother pushing a broom around the floor.

The hairnetted cook yelled over the splattering grease and frying wings, “It’s the coaching! That’s the problem!”

“Team with that much talent and money shouldn’t suck like this,” the operative nodded, chewing on a stick of licorice root. “I mean, I like this Kobe kid and all, but to give a teenager three three-point shots on the way to the finals ... man that was plain stupid. And he can’t rap.”

By the time this sees print, the coach has changed (fade stats, Del, you have no backbone, and these young nukkas need a hardass), and the Worm came to the only city as weird as he is. That’s new, exciting stuff to a chronically disappointing team -- ticket sales, son, merchandising and stuff.

And little else. The NBA lost a lot of credibility in its months-long absence. The whole thing blatantly rotates around the traffic of green slips of paper. Even the simple things we enjoy like a Hakeem Olijuwon finger roll have dollar amounts, marketing photos, and SportsCenter clips attached. It’s almost enough to make you not wanna watch, but go out and play or (heaven forbid) read or something.

As the chicken sizzled, the operative pondered the fans’ quandary -- they wanna watch basketball, because it’s what they do, hence the idea of being “fans.” However, what does it say about someone willing t be exploited by billionaires who don’t even wanna pay their millionaires.

“So, why even watch these fools anymore?” the operative asked the broom jockey, a brother his elder. “Why bother with these shoe-contract havin’ drink hawkin’ non-basketball-playin’ sumbitches?”

The brother stood up and leaned on his broom, the dust settling momentarily around his Nikes. “I guess ... shit, what else we gonna do? We in LA, we gotta watch somethin.’ What would we do without sports?“

The clear-eyed young sister behind the counter passed the food, the operative thanked them and walked out, considering that. What would we do without sports? A line by Boots from the Coup leapt through his mind, “If I wasn’t takin’ a toke I’d be leading a street revolt ...” Is sports that kind of drug? Are we still in Sunday service, sangin’ out our frustrations so we can go back under the lash the rest of the week?

Eddie Jones as the driver with the whip, Shaq as a house negro, Rodman as the jiggering slave preacher ... it all adds up. They sure get better benefits and favors from the “rulers” than the rest ... and to return to the near-worship of their basket-buck-dancing ...

That solemn reverie was shattered by a sudden ring on the Operative Phone (tm). The Commissioner had hooked up a 60 inch screen and a free-per-view De La Hoya fight ... with food ... and the operative thought again. Sport, for all its debits, is also one of the prime bonding possibilities for males, one of the few times they can actually be together without attacking one another. It’s a tough call ... but the food is free ... and the Commissioner might do his Stone Cold Steve Austin impression.

Leaping into the Operativemobile and bumpin’ the hot new Ms. Toi joint, it seemed that there were far worse evils to deal with that professional sports, and for once, De La Hoya might get his pretty ass whupped ...