It's a ritual. Every year. The guys, the fellas, the mind squad, the crew, all congregate in the basement of my house. "Day One," we call it. The Jumpoff. There's nothing like a basement full of basketball "experts" and a fully stocked bar ("Patron Platinum, are you serious?!?") to kick-start another NBA season. And if you think Stephen A. is the only black man that can get loud, please believe, on this night SAS might not have even been heard.

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AP Photo/Matt Sayles

Many of Chicago's basketball gurus would like to see this man in a Bulls uniform.

The voice inside my boy Paul's nephew's head must have short-circuited. Because what came out of his mouth, less than 15 minutes after he arrived, almost got him escorted from the house like Martin used to "escort" Brah Man.

There are some things that you might say to yourself, but never out loud; not in public, not in Chicago right now, not in a room full of people who are already trying to find ways to get Kobe Bryant into a Bulls uniform.

"Are you nuts!?!" You could sense it coming. It's never nice. "What were you smokin' before you came in here?!?" "Paul, get your nephew before he gets hurt up in here!"

The stories of what Kobe can do and what he would do to LeBron pollute the air. Stories of how Kobe has played in Finals games compared to how LeBron played in the last Finals. Stories of how defensively, James couldn't stop Kobe. Stories of how LeBron would probably beat every other player in the League in a one-on-one except the player soon to be remembered as Jack Bauer. "The only thing Kobe can't do better than LeBron is host 'SNL.'"

Laugh track not necessary.

"Could everyone please stop bringing up Larry Hughes' name. We all like him, but we gotta stop making excuses for him."

That was followed by Yao. Then Vince. Then the entire Phoenix Suns squad. The conversations (loudly) shift. Four to five at a time. "Oscar Robertson would only be a 20/7/7 guy if he played in the League now. He wouldn't average a triple-double. That backing defenders down the way he did wouldn't work. He'd be too slow," "Memphis is going to win the NCAA this year," "Any team that has to depend on Penny Hardaway is done," "Who's going to take Rick Reilly's place on the back page of SI once he leaves?"

It's only 10 after eight. The Glenlivet 18 is almost empty. I'm picking jerk chicken off the floor.

"The 72-win Bulls squad verses who? Name any team, they'd win."

After watching the Spurs get their rings, it seems like an appropriate question.

My godbrother Dre said the '85 Celtics or any of the Lakers teams in the '80's. I said the '83 Sixers.

"The one thing Michael Jordan never faced in an NBA Finals is a team with a dominant center. That's why he's lucky he retired the first time when he did … he wanted no parts of Dream [Olajuwon]."

"On the real" my voice begins to crack, "Moses Malone would have murdered MJ and Scottie. Plus Doc, Cheeks, Bobby Jones and Toney? They couldn'ta handled that."

Speaking ill of, about or against Michael Jordan in Chicago -- even in your own basement -- is like calling Al Gore a fraud at a Greenpeace seminar, or saying Oprah is the devil at a NOW convention. I begin to feel like one of those common sense-challenged guys in ESPN's "Monday Night Football" promos. The Lakers game comes on at the same time as the Utah/GSW game. I flip to the NBA package, to see the rematch of the series that was one of the best in last year's playoffs. Everyone screams at me as if I had turned from that scene in "Monster's Ball."

"Turn back, fool!! Just because this is your house doesn't mean you can do some dumb s--- like that?!?"

"But …"

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AP Photo/Douglas C. Pizac

Sorry Carlos … but the fellas want to see the Lakers game.

And that's when the stupidity of the Lakers trading Kobe and the ignorance of fans booing him becomes clear. "Are they booing, dude?" someone asked.

"Wow. That's crazy." Nick leans in closer to the TV. "Keep booin', make him wanna come here. Come on Kobe! Come to the Chi. We didn't boo Brad Sellers, so you know you good here."

Then, from out of nowhere … "Tim Duncan is the best player in the NBA. I don't care what nobody say!"

Here we go. Midway through the second quarter of the Lakers game, my other nephew Joel puts this out into our atmosphere. He isn't saying it just to be saying it, he means it. All of the talk about Kobe had reached a limit with him. The fact that he had almost outscored the Rockets by himself in the first quarter meant nothing to him. He felt the need to make sure we didn't get caught up in this Kobe-ness. Here's the abnormal part: While no one agreed with Joel, no one put up an argument, either.

"I'ma call the Little Fella," Lonnie screams from one side of the room. "The Little Fella" in this instance is the recently media battle-scarred Timmy Hardaway, who is still considered family among those in the basement. His opinion -- because he has one and he played the game -- on this latest addendum brought to the room would weigh heavy like a 7-series Alpina B. And it could stop Kobe's name from being mentioned again if he validated Joel's latest proclamation.

Emancipation? No sir. Voice mail. The Little Fella's not picking up. Joel's head drops. The debates continue.

"Look, I feel you on that," Rob G. screams, "and I'm not disagreeing, but as my man IP says, ("Where is he?" someone yells) 'Tim Duncan is a scientist. He's a basketball scientist.' Now most scientists when they reach the top level of their science are considered geniuses and in this situation, Duncan is a genius. He's the most brilliant scientist alive. But -- and this is where all of us have to decide how we define greatness -- who would you rather watch do their job at the highest level, the scientist or the assassin?"

Frowns and twisted smiles came over all faces. Like, none of us knew how that made sense, but it did. It got quiet. Only for a very short period of time. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand … noise. Grey Goose tends to bring out the best analogies.

"Scoop?" I heard my name, voice unfamiliar, face not clear. "When are you all going to give Greg Anthony his own show?"

Then the best observation of the night came from the bathroom, "Why are the two best basketball analysts black Republicans?"

The Lakers are down by whatever and no one cares. It's jokes and notes. Nick calls Dirk Nowitzki "Dirk Noheartzki." Someone asks about a former high school phenom from Cincinnati, Bill Walker.

"Patrick Ewing in his prime or Shaq in his?"

This becomes the longest verbal battle of the night. It goes from downstairs up to the first floor, where my wife, my sister and our girl Veronica are "Nip/Tuck"-ing.

They all said Ewing. But what do they know? Apparently, a lot.

Because back downstairs, 20 or so basketball gurus batted beliefs and opinions around like the Red Sox did the Rockies.

"The only reason I'd say Ewing," my other nephew Patrick said, "is because throughout his career Shaq has always had the luxury of playing alongside the 'other' best player in the game. When he was in college, it was Chris Jackson. When he came into the League, it was Penny. Then when he got to L.A., it was Kobe. Now it's D-Wade. I know some of you all will say that they became that good because of Shaq, but I wouldn't go that far. But I know for sure that if Patrick Ewing had any one of those players to hoop with in his career, this wouldn't even be a question worth discussing."

The yelling got louder. Shaq's name was being cried out like dudes were standing outside of a courtroom demanding his freedom. "Shaq! Shaq! Shaq!" The basement sounded like Jena.

Oh snap • the Lakers are only down by like five, and there's like under two minutes left. Kobe has like 37. "See, I told y'all!" PJ yells, referring back to the LeBron verses Kobe one-on-one issue from five hours ago.

"Hold your breath," Malik yells back at him, "wait until you see what LeBron's going to do tomorrow night before you start claiming victories." (LeBron scored 10 in his opening game against Dallas, not a good look for young Malik.)

The crowd around the television gets thick. For the first time that night, the basement is quiet. The ice stops melting. All eyes on him. Black Jack Bauer to the rescue • again. "And the Lakers want to trade this dude?" is the only thing said. As we watch the Lakers lose and Kobe finish with 45 points, eight rebounds and four steals, the basement begins to empty. The Commission files out one by one, hoarse, making sure there's a decent dent in the half-gallon of Gentleman Jack still sitting on the bar.

Upon leaving, some guy who I'd just met earlier, said to me, "Thanks man, I had a wonderful time. I'd been hearing about these annuals for a while, but never got a chance to come through. I'm glad that I did."

And after watching how much the dude ate while he was down there, I couldn't say the same. I wanted to charge him $50 plus tips before he left. But he froze me with his last words, (keep in mind the Grey Goose theory), and made me rethink the conclusion I was drawn to before.

"As far as scientists and assassins go, and who I'd rather watch, people love 'The Sopranos.' It's one of the best shows ever on television. But I ask you, Mr. ESPN, what show had the larger audience, which show was the most-watched when 'The Sopranos' were still on?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"'CSI,'" he said. Then he said goodbye.

Scoop Jackson is a columnist for Page 2 and a contributor to ESPN The Magazine. Sound off to Scoop here.