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From our side of the door, we can hear the preaching. "Don't let the niggers up," yells one player, "Bury those mother _ _ _ _ _ _s!" "Yes," follows the coach, "we must learn to, um, take full advantage." It is a tear-rending speech, and they leave much louder than they'd entered. And we have quiet again. "C'mon, Kareem," pleads a producer, "now's the time." But as the D-Fenders fail to live up to their name – or their halftime agenda – and the 14ers rise, we sit and wait. Every so often, one of us sticks his head into the tunnel to see if someone is on his way. "How many hours would you guess you've wasted waiting over the years?" the cameraman asks. "Thousands, literally thousands." "Hey, last week we waited seven hours for Kobe only to be asked to come back the following day," says the audio man, half-gleefully. "Did you?' "Of course, man, it's Kobe." "Hey, it's worse with Hollywood people," says the cameraman who has worked that side of the street as well for decades. "They just flat don't even bother telling you. They just don't show up. They don't care." As the D-Fenders trudge downheartedly back to their room – and ours – having lost not just the 16-point lead but also the game by a bunch, there remains no sign of Kareem. Food is being trundled in, to feed the boys, not us. It smells wonderful, even through the door. It is six, and we have been here for four hours now. The Lakers play Charlotte on this same court in 90 minutes. The thought crosses my mind that he may not turn up. His reputation, after all, is hardly media-friendly. No matter that I flew cross-country all morning just for him. Suddenly – and just as the D-Fenders begin to get their noise on – the door opens and there is the magnificent one. "Sorry, man," he says, shaking hands. He smiles, shyly, sits and stretches his five-foot long legs. I sit sidesaddle, facing him, to give him room. Tell me, I ask him, about that night in 1984. And when his eyes light up, and he begins what would be a spirited rendition, complete with Riley and Magic and Cooper and Worthy, I simply sit back and bask. The noise of those D-Fenders, the smell of food, seeping through and under the door, is filtered away in the mood of the moment. All the confusion, all the noise, all the waiting, all the inner joy of a couple good sound bites, all just part of a day's work. 'Cept one thing; what the hell is a 14er?
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