Trust yourself. You’ve been to the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles many times, so you know you’re walking the right way, south on Figueroa Street a couple of blocks to the arena. Okay, then. Where is it? It’s got to be there. They haven’t moved a building holding almost twenty thousand people, have they? You’re positive the VIP parking lot used to be right here, between Figueroa Hotel and the Staples Center. Walk on and enjoy the balmy New Year’s Day. Soon enough you’ll say there it is.

The parking lot’s gone but the arena still stands, and you’re amazed by all these new buildings, ESPN and others, that hours before the game entice people to gather in courtyards and saunter into restaurants and cafes for coffee or ice cream or yogurt or ethnic food or generic food and more. And over there, west on Olympic Boulevard, they’ve also put up a cineplex. Props to L.A. for trying to revitalize its city center.

You decide to do an afternoon workout, walking three times around this extravaganza before stepping back to ancient Hotel Figueroa for a nap. You hope you’ll be able to sleep but when you open the window for fresh air you sense falling twelve stories onto concrete. Quickly close the window and instead use the air conditioner and remind yourself the external fire escape, accessed down the hall, has a thin rail and rusty metal steps alternating directions each floor, and will comfort only trapeze artists. The elevator, during a fire or after an earthquake, would likely be either a crematorium or a coffin. So remember where the stairs are.

Stuff like that only happens to other people. You sleep fine for an hour then bound up and put on fresh casual clothes before joining the stars. A guard at the VIP entrance declines to welcome you, instead pointing around the building and saying lines (for regular people) are shorter there. What lines? You’ve already got your ticket. He means long security lines that, save for keeping your shoes on, are similar to those leading into airport terminals. The lines move slowly. You examine a swarthy young man holding a hand-printed sign saying “Omri”, a name he proudly shouts because Omri Casspi of the Sacramento Kings has become, at age twenty-one, the first Israeli to play in the NBA. After about fifteen minutes you put your cell phone and keys in a basket and walk through a metal detector then head down to your seat near floor level. You know you won’t actually be sitting among the stars, who’re always between the baskets. Your seat is only about nine rows behind a basket and pretty good but you can’t see if Jack Nicholson’s here.

The place is full, the beautiful Lakers cheerleaders are prancing, and august Phil Jackson, coach of Michael Jordan and Shaquille O’Neal and, currently, Kobe Bryant, is standing in front of the bench and much aware he owns championship rings for each digit, thumbs included. Tonight his elite Lakers, with a league-leading 25-6 record, are playing the youthful Kings, who bear a 14-17 mark. Anyone awakening from a Rip Van Winkle nap would assume the Kings are virtuosos as Omri Casspi nails long jumpers, drives by defenders for layups, and dunks on an alley-oop. This skinny kid, who thinks Bryant bumps him after another successful shot, soon pounds his chest, in front of Bryant, to celebrate his next basket. Casspi could be an all star in a couple of years. And Spencer Hawes, a young man with plenty of coordination but little aggression, on this night shoots like a seven-foot Larry Bird, swishing four of five three pointers. The Kings lead by twenty points in the second quarter and, despite a Lakers awakening, are still up by fifteen at the half.

If you know basketball then you predict what happens in the second half. Kobe Bryant stops firing bricks and starts rising majestically for jump shots released with perfect form en route to net-tickling trips through the hoop. After three quarters the Kings cling to a seven-point lead. With four seconds remaining they’re still up by two, and have two free throws to ice the game. Ime Udoka is the man at the line. Fans in front of him, behind the basket opposite you, scream and wave long plastic objects full of air. Udoka barely misses the first shot, and the second goes in before popping out. Quickly the Lakers advance to ball to Kobe who, behind the three point line, rises to launch a rainbow that hits all net and sends most of nineteen thousand fans into joyful outburst. The Kings promptly leave the floor. Officials carefully study the film before confirming the shot is released before time expires. Kobe smiles during his on-court interview projected on the overhead screen, and fans buzz as they leave, many heading across the street for food and fuel.