Dr. Jerry Buss took control of the Lakers at the very dawn of my consciousness, and my entire life he was the old man I aspired to someday be. An aging, auburn James Bond in blue jeans who plied the casinos of Gardena instead of Monte Carlo, he gave Hollywood a Forum for its courtside cool, taught a Magic man how to smile, and gift-wrapped championships end on end to toddlers, adolescents, teens and grown men alike whose civic pride, like mine, centered on finally beating those bastards from Boston. And now that that glorious legacy is horrifyingly in question, a city prays that at least on some level that genius was genetic. Rest in peace, Dr. Buss.