Kobe and the Bench Mob
A foursome of feisty (and variously coiffed) players who embrace their role as a backup act are the key to the Lakers' championship hopes
The NBA's most celebrated supporting cast (if that's not a contradiction in adjectives) belonged to Michael Jordan in Chicago. And belonged is the correct verb since Jordan looked upon those mere mortals quite proprietarily, often using "my" when he referred to them. In journalistic circles they eventually acquired a sobriquet, the Jordanaires, which was also the name of Elvis Presley's backup singers.
A worthy next-generation supporting cast has suddenly appeared in the most appropriate of cities -- Los Angeles -- where a feisty band of extras serves at the pleasure of a genuine leading man. The Lakers' Kobe Bryant, as Jordan once did, enriches these lesser lights figuratively (by the grandeur of his talent) and literally (backup point guard Jordan Farmar snagged a Louis Vuitton bag for Christmas), and so they aid him utterly and enthusiastically, while also making sure that their walk-on moments are duly recorded. "If we win a championship," says reserve guard Sasha Vujacic, "we know it will be mainly because of Kobe. But we will have something to say about it too."
Just as Scottie Pippen eventually carved out an identity apart from the Jordanaires, three Lakers veterans (center Pau Gasol, forward Lamar Odom and guard Derek Fisher) have earned more than backup billing. The ones still operating in the considerable coolness of Bryant's shadow constitute L.A.'s Bench Mob -- a quartet of subs united by youth (forward Luke Walton is the eldest at 28) and middling draft position (Farmar, at No. 26 in 2006, was the highest selection), while divided by nationality (Vujacic is from Slovenia, forward Ronny Turiaf from Martinique) and hairdos. Walton has a head of chestnut curls; Farmar a classic 1950s crew cut; Vujacic a longish I-must-be-in-rock-videos coiffure that necessitates hair-band adjustments as he runs upcourt; and Turiaf a cornrows-beard combo that suggests he might be un professeur de philosophie at the Sorbonne.
Turiaf was hardly that on Sunday at EnergySolutions Arena in Salt Lake City. In the second quarter he body-slammed Utah Jazz guard Ronnie Price to the floor and was ejected from what turned out to be a 123-115 overtime Lakers loss, tying this Western Conference semifinal at two games. Farmar, on the other hand, did play like a professor, as he has throughout the series -- he missed 15 of 16 shots in the first four games. Vujacic (11 points) and Walton (a team-high plus-minus rating of +8) were competent but not spectacular.
All in all, on Sunday the Bench Mob did not offer Bryant the support it had throughout much of the season (including the first-round sweep of the Denver Nuggets, when the four combined for 29.0 points per game). Hampered by back spasms, Bryant scored 33 points but missed 20 of his 33 shots. With Utah apparently gaining strength and resolve from its two wins at home, much more will be needed in Games 5 and 6 from L.A.'s reserves -- and from everyone else.
Bryant didn't single out anyone for blame after Sunday's loss. But make no mistake about it: Mobbed up as it might be, the quirky quartet still answers to the Kobester. Case in point: Trailing by four with about 15 seconds left in Game 3, the Lakers saw their last chance for victory vanish when Walton let a ball slip through his hands, earning him dagger looks and harsh words from Bryant. Such wrath has been rare over the last few months, however. Indeed, the most compelling L.A. leitmotif -- the team's transformation from dysfunctional Simpsons to loving Cleavers -- is best told through Bryant's marriage to the Mob.
Two subs insist that Bryant's periodic outbursts, withering as they might have seemed to anyone watching, never got to them. Nor did they take as an insult Bryant's off-season request to be traded, which was based partly on his belief that management hadn't acquired teammates who met his elevated standards.
"I will give you an honest answer even if it sounds like a diplomatic answer," says Vujacic. "I know it looked like it was bad when Kobe was hollering and everything. But the idea that it was a big deal is just so overreacting that I can't even describe it. My relationship with Kobe was great from Day One." Turiaf agrees. "It's very hard for people to know exactly what's going on inside a family. We don't look at things like people in the media do," he says, smiling widely. "Maybe that's why we're in the NBA and you're not."
Farmar and Walton did take the knocks a little more personally, the Southern Californians perhaps being less accustomed to vehement displays of emotion. But everyone agrees that the team began to put things behind it at training camp in Honolulu. Even as the Kobe-wants-to-go story played out in the press -- it was not resolved until opening day -- the players were kicking back at lunch and dinner "through the grace of Lamar Odom," as Turiaf puts it. Odom had hired a well-known Hawaiian chef, Sam Choy, to prepare meals for the entire team. "Instead of going back to our rooms after practice, we stayed together, put our feet up, hung out and talked," says Walton. "All of us, every meal, Kobe included. It was a major, major factor in us coming together." Plus, the food was damn good. "Sam made a chicken crusted with, I kid you not, Cap'n Crunch," says Odom. "Best thing you ever ate in your life." Fitting that what has turned into a Leave It to Beaver season began with a sugary cereal.