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I can't say why for sure, but I figure it's got to have something to do with the fact that every Hall of Fame I've come across -- from my junior high school trophy case to the Trojan football Hall of Champions -- has felt a whole lot more like a mausoleum than like anything to do with the real live thrill of sports.

Take the Major League Baseball Museum in Cooperstown, for example. To me, it reeks of the Seville Cathedral during the Spanish Inquisition. I mean, I absolutely revere our national pastime, but why the air of uber-solemnity? Is it really necessary to make all comers spend their visits filing grimly past Rublevesque engravings of Babe Ruth and Willie Mays? Or staring at old programs and splintered bats as though they were the Dead Sea Scrolls, or shards of the True Cross? The place is so forebodingly churchlike that I'm still surprised they don't pump the corridors full of incense, or sell officially-licensed communion wafers in the gift shop.

In any case, you get the idea: as far as this reporter is concerned, the whole Hall-of-Fame business is, at best, awfully silly, and at worst, kinda sacrilegious. None of this stopped me, though, from waking up early on September 28th to scour the Web for news of Earvin Johnson's initiation into the Naismith Memorial Hall on the 27th. To you, dear reader, this must seem like a whopping contradiction. But to my mind, it makes perfect sense.

And I'll tell you why: it's because, for a monotheistic fellow like myself, there's only ever been one athlete worthy of what the voting public calls "enshrinement" ... and Magic is that man. More, indeed, than any of the other non-familial heroes of my youth, Magic has been an idol, and even a god to me -- he was and remains a King of Kings, an omnipresence who far transcends any of the easy eulogies he's received these past few weeks.

Such a Lord of Hosts is he to me, in fact, that I tremble to join the ranks of the blaspheming sportswriters who've lately taken his name in vain. And so I hesitate, and sit here in the throes of a scriptural scribe's dilemma. How can I write about Magic without sinning against his holy ghost, without reducing him to just another subject of stamped official approval?

All I can say by way of reply is, thank God for the lovable maniacs of the religious right. Without their help, I might never have discovered the phenomenon of the faith diary, and this article would never have gotten off the ground.

It all started, you see, in a smoky Edinburgh pub last month. I'd had a few beers, and was feeling brazen enough to approach a pretty girl who, to my surprise and delight, was wearing a Lakers sweatshirt in Scotland. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that I was hoping for a bit of Showtime, if you know what I mean.

But somehow it all went horribly wrong -- or so I thought at the time -- and before I knew what had hit me, she was telling me all about how much she loved Jesus. Suddenly drained of any will to live, I listened drearily as she regaled me with the details of her "faith diary" -- a lifelong journal, she explained, where she could record her daily experience of God without degrading His essential mystery.

At the time, I couldn't think of anything but escaping to the bar for a lethal injection of Jack Daniels. Now, however -- and in a plot twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan -- I can see that this comely fanatic's words were sent to me as my guide and salvation. Could there be a better way to communicate the genesis and history of my devotion to Magic Johnson than by her example, and in a so-called faith diary? Would I be able to glorify his name at all, if I simply kept my mouth shut, and my pen capped? I think not, and I can almost hear her preaching it now. "Tell Brian," she is purring, "tell Brian to swing away."

And so I shall. What follows, then, is my own faith diary. It is my Magnificat to Magic Johnson, and the culmination of two weeks' worth of daily meditation on Magic's role in my life as a lad.

It is also a rather lengthy bit of scripture, and so will be posted in two separate installments. Today's selection covers its first five entries -- a sort of diarist's Pentateuch, if you will. And come Thursday, I'll return with a newer testament to Magic's godhead: the journal's final five entries, plus some parting words of pseudo-Requiem. But enough of all this bureaucratic banter! Amen, my brothers, and without any further ado -- the diary:

Day 1 (Monday, 30 Sept. 2002)

When I rolled out of bed this AM and started thinking about Magic, the first thing I remembered was his constant presence in the daily rituals of my life. Consider, for example, my typical morning as a schoolboy. Magic could only have been further involved in its first order of business -- getting dressed -- if he had been there to zip up my corduroy shorts himself (a scenario which, although I loved the guy to death, I'd probably just as soon have avoided).

This was because a solid 60% of my childhood wardrobe consisted of Magic-insignia items, ranging from jersey shirts and warm-up pants to tennis visors and an honest-to-goodness plum-colored "Magic Man" top hat. I don't think I ever found much use for the top hat, but even so, it was a rare day when my purple-and-golden idol didn't make it onto at least one part of my chosen outfit.

These mornings also marked the stage in my life when, before I left my room to eat breakfast, I would check to make sure that my wallet-sized picture of Magic (courtesy of "the Magic Family" fan club) was snugly secure in my billfold. The photo in question was a constant source of consternation in our household, mostly because I kept it filed in front of my mother's picture, and my sister's picture, and even my girlfriend's picture.

By this arrangement, my poor mum insisted, the Magic Family meant more to me than any family I already had, and more than any family I might have been hoping to start in the future. I always felt that this was a ridiculous thing for her to say, but then again I'm not too sure I ever strongly protested the point.

The morning's real sacrament, though, came in the kitchen, where each day's Eucharist of yogurt and grapefruit juice was administered via Magic's agency. Unless we were being rushed out the door, my cup of Yoplait went straight into yet another "Magic Family" trinket: a tiny novelty fruit bowl, circa 1982. I'm pretty sure it escaped my notice at the time, but thinking back on it now, I recall that the effect of this transfer was one of Revelation -- that is, every time my spoon dipped into the bowl, the body of Magic dunking a basketball (a marvel in its own right) came more clearly into view.

But it was when I received my daily glass of Ocean Spray that Magic's ceremonial function was most thoroughly realized. As I gulped the wine-colored liquid out of my promotional Magic Johnson Slurpee cup, my eyes -- which, by the way, I'd giddily measured at almost exactly 32 millimeters apart -- were perfectly poised to see him smile at me from either side of the treasured receptacle, urging me to take the Ruby Red and drink of it. This was Magic hic et ubique, and the sense of communion it left me with made the drive to school a merry one.

Saith Magic, so to speak, you were thirsty, and I gave ye drink.

Day 2 (Tuesday, 1 Oct. 2002)

When it really came down to it, Magic's place on my person, Magic's place in my kitchen, and even Magic's place in the Hall of Fame, were no kind of enshrinements at all next to what he enjoyed in my room at home. My walls at the time were utterly plastered with posters of Magic -- the most memorable of which were 1) the patented Sports Illustrated image over my headboard, and 2) the life-size seven-foot measurement chart behind my door.

The SI poster, in particular, was a frequent focus of my ecstatic and sobbing supplications. Over the years, I must have raised my eyes to it a thousand times, murmuring Hail Magics as prayers of thanksgiving when the Lakers were winning, or (rather less often, I'm happy to say) as prayers for deliverance from the hand of the vengeful Celtics. On more than one such occasion, I could have sworn that the poster pulled a Virgin Mary-style miracle, and responded to my pleadings by manifesting an apparition of Magic in my humble home -- but before any hordes of petitioners start making their way to my parents' door, I should probably force myself to admit that these visions were merely the products of an overactive imagination.

In either case, Magic came through for me so often that, over time, I came to associate his image with righteousness and success. Looking back now, it doesn't seem unreasonable to suggest that, by rooting for him so wholeheartedly, I had exposed my own vulnerability -- a courageous step which Magic in turn affirmed, and nurtured into a nascent form of trust.

But whether or not this is utter bullshit, my faith in Magic back then was strong enough that, whenever I woke up in the middle of the night and caught a sleepy glimpse of my other memorable poster -- the full-sized, measurement chart one -- the sight of a 6'9" black man leering down at me from above was always a comfort, and never a cause for alarm.

Saith Magic, I redeem the souls of my servants: and none of them that trust in me shall be desolate.

Day 3 (Wednesday, 2 Oct. 2002)

It's great fun to guess about Magic's role in my own developmental psychology, but I have to keep reminding myself that this is supposed to be a diary about what it was like to worship Magic during his days as my idol. I should probably point out, therefore, that in those days looking at Magic meant a whole lot less to me than looking like Magic. This may have been a bit of a stretch for a blonde kid from the beach cities, but I was determined to do what I could, so I busied myself acquiring a substantial hoard of Magic's favorite gametime paraphernalia.

For whatever reason, what really stood out to me about Magic's appearance back then was all the cool stuff he wore to salve his nagging injuries. Just like the prepubescent playas who now sport Allen Iverson elbow sleeves on their arms and Kobe Bryant calf-warmers on their legs, I couldn't fathom being any good at basketball unless I was equipped with a wide variety of Magic-styled neoprene sleeves and single-finger splints.

And so it was that, when other kids were wanting Mario Brothers or Masters of the Universe for Christmas, I spent the holiday season begging my parents to buy me Futuro-brand knee braces and thigh supports. And whereas my classmates cried when they jammed their fingers, I was always thrilled to bend mine back: how else could I have justified taping them thickly, and right around the knuckle, just like Magic did?

All of these idiosyncratic fixations left me well-equipped for the elementary-school basketball season -- a campaign I loved less for the joy of the sport than for the chance it gave me to show off my newly-acquired injury gear. How proud I was during warm-ups, when I caught the girls whispering about me behind my back! What a stupendous talent I thought myself to be when I noticed opposing coaches looking me over with fear in their eyes!

Never once, in all that time, did I stop to consider the probable truth: that the schoolgirls were sizing me up as a weakling, and that the coaches were debating whether or not to report my parents to the Child Abuse Prevention Network, so marked was I with evident ailments.

Saith Magic, I will not glory of myself, but in my infirmities ... for when I am weak, then I am strong.

Day 4 (Thursday, 3 Oct. 2002)

I may have been alone in my affinity for the outward tokens of infirmity, but none of that kept me from yearning after the more acceptably frivolous things that Magic's popularity was used to market. Indeed, for most of my allowance money, it had to be the shoes: Magic's shoes, of course -- and the more garishly Laker-hued they were, the better. By these criteria, my footloose days of sneaker-worship came to their absolute zenith with the introduction of the Converse Weapon line in 1987.

I doubt that that kid from A Christmas Story ever wanted a Red Ryder BB gun as badly as I wanted my pair of purple-and-yellow-striped Weapons, and I doubt that any would-be Gollum ever guarded his prize, once he got it, more fiercely than I guarded mine. I could hardly even stomach sleep or bathing, so loathe was I take those sneakers off my feet.

Saith Magic, I have opened mine armoury, and have brought forth the weapons of my indignation.

Day 5 (Friday, 4 Oct. 2002)

While I'm on this topic of high-tops, it needs to be said that there was a dark side, and even a burgeoning tale of redemption, caught up in all of this shoe fetish business. That is, the Magic Weapon -- so virtuous in its white and spring-toned trim -- did not stand alone, but was sold alongside its Larry Bird counterpart: a dark shoe, blackish and besmirched with an evil aspect wholly befitting my idea of the great Adversary.

For awhile at least, I took this in relative stride, and simply kept a sharp eye out for any Bird-wearing minion who dared to risk my righteous ire. But before long, an ugly, ugly rumor started making the rounds. Apparently, while filming a Converse commercial that summer, Magic and Bird had come to respect each other, and even (gasp) to think of each other as friends!

To me, this was like Copernicus telling the Pope that the earth revolved around the sun, or like Darwin disproving the claims of the creationists -- it completely messed up my cosmology. How could Magic be friends with Bird?

My whole Manichean view of the universe, based as it was upon visions of me at Magic's right hand, spelling out doom to Larry Lege and his Boston Garden minions, had been shaken irredeemably. If Magic was going to move outside the tribe and embrace this consummate Laker-hater, this hick from French Lick, then how could I maintain my blind and thoroughly gleeful malice toward the Celtics?

Saith Magic -- in a phrase that was very hard for me to swallow -- love ye your enemies as yourself.

Stay tuned: Part II arrives Thursday.

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