Besides providing me with the chance to quote one of my favorite books, the phenomenon described in this passage is one that I recognize as one that began affecting my experience as of fan of professional sports long before I had ever heard of Don DeLillo. My very first memory of watching an NBA game is both distinct and lacking in detail. I was probably about 6 years old, which would put have made it somewhere in the range of 1987-1988 ; my mom was doing something in the kitchen, and my dad was out of the house running an errand. I had been watching Saturday morning cartoons on channel 4, NBC out of New York City, earlier that day, so when I turned on the TV, I unwittingly tuned in to a Lakers game, already in progress. I have no memory of who they were playing, but I know that I was immediately transfixed by the play of one Earvin “Magic” Johnson. No, transfixed would be the wrong word, because it has the connotation of sitting still. Though I was focused completely on Magic’s play, I spent the majority of the rest of the game jumping into the air and trying to skip a SuperBall off a stool in the middle of the room and into the back of the couch, mimicing Magic’s behind-the-back and between-the-legs passes.

I’m not sure what percentage of my fixation on Magic originally came from my own recognition of his abilities and what percentage came from the announcers’ extolation of Magic’s abilities. Either way,  their praise for him colored my experience of watching Magic play from the very first time I encountered him as a sports fan. Granted, I was late in experiencing Magic Johnson; by the late 1980′s, Magic had already cemented his reputation with those who covered him in the media. However, my lateness robbed me of the chance to experience him through my perceptions and to make my own opinions. Borrowing the language of White Noise, I had already read the signs touting MAGIC JOHNSON and, because of that, I would never know what Magic was like before the signs had been put up.  To paraphrase Murray, my lateness in experiencing Magic has left me wondering my whole life: What did Magic look like before his reputation and representation were cemented, how was he different from other players, and how was he similar to other players? Granted, Magic’s greater reputation and cultural significance changed later on, during the time of my experience, but the things that were said about him as a player at the time of his hall of fame enshrinement had already been established by the time of my first viewing.

Or, I should say, looking forward to All-Star Weekend was exciting to me. The excitement that began building-up inside me around the time that the All-Star rosters were announced? Thrilling. The anticipation I felt while sitting in front of the TV, a drink and my dinner laid out around me, as NBC showed a brief highlight reel of that year’s All Stars (followed, of course, by Roundball Rock)? Seemingly palpable. But then, every year, the minute that the game started, it all went downhill for me.

With only one exception (Magic’s non-NBA selection), I don’t have a single All-Star Game memory. Every year I’m guilty of looking at the rosters, picturing the match-ups in my head, and imagining how they would play out in a game where the players were playing up to their abilities. Some years, we’re lucky enough to see a tightly contested 4th quarter; most years we have to content ourselves with a glorified pick-up game.

I’m well aware that the game will never be played as if it was Game 7 of the NBA Finals, but the mindset of the All Stars robs both themselves and the fans of the chance to see who really has bragging rights in the NBA.  Personally, I’d love it if the NBA All-Star Game was played more like the MLB All-Star Game, where every player seems to be out to make his case for being the best player in the game. With the exception of the young guards wanting to go one-on-one at Michael Jordan in the mid 90′s, I can’t remember that ever happening in the NBA All-Star Game. Considering that most of the players on the court have been playing with and against one another for a decade or more, one would think that more players would be playing with an eye towards cementing their alpha dog status to their peers. This year’s game, for example, would be a timely space for LeBron and Kobe to trade shots à la Dominique Wilkins and Larry Bird in the 1988 NBA Playoffs. But, I’ve come to the sad realization that this will not happen; not this year, and probably not any other.

I don’t know if I will ever stop getting excited about the NBA All-Star Game, but, until the players start taking the opportunity to prove themselves, both to fans and the best-of-the-best of their peers, I’ll continue to be disappointed with the game itself.