A gentleman in his early 20s stands outside the Bank of America at the intersection of Vine Street and Sunset Boulevard at 8:45 PM. He is wearing a Post-That-Denver-Thing Kobe Bryant Jersey (#8 is the dynasty number, #24 is the ‘maybe if I change my number, people will forget that I went two-hole on a rocky mountain groupie), Kevin Smith-esque jorts, and is holding a Lakers banner that is less flag than it is Battle Standard. He’s screaming in celebration, waving the standard to and fro, having a Little Death each time a passing car honks his horn. Of course, the jubilation is the same if the honking is for the Lakers winning the NBA title or if the guy in front of him drives like Mr. Magoo if he was from New Jersey. This kid has a big smile on his face and is nothing if not passionate.

He’s also an idiot.

Let’s just start doing the math: it’s very unlikely he has to get up in the morning to go to work, unless he’s got the morning shift at Popeyes (sidenote: there is no place more depraved than the Popeyes at Hollywood and Cahuenga before ten AM. If you were awakened from a time capsule [a la Brendan Frasier in Blast from the Past] you would be certain that the Soviets had won the Cold War). It’s equally unlikely that he has a girlfriend, because instead of deciding to spend an hour and a half celebrating the Lakers win by Kobe-ing her (the safe word is ‘Shaq’s-A-Bitch’), he’s waving a flag next to a couple ATMs and a dirt-encrusted bum who’s repeatedly screaming, “My popsicles are the best popsicles!” at the billboard with Johnny Depp on it. It’s 9:31PM. He’s still out there.

So this begs the question: what is he getting out of this?

Evolutionary anthropologists suggest that the experience of being at a professional sporting event causes a similar feeling that our ancestors used to get On The Hunt. ‘Hooray! The men of the village killed a boar and we won’t starve!’ Only instead of killing a boar, Rodney Harrison is putting his helmet under Hines Ward’s chin. It’s a primitive response, but that’s not to discount it. On the contrary, it validates why we get so excited about the accomplishments of millionaires who don’t know our names.

A wonderful aspect of L.A. is that the transplants mean there are thousands of fans of every team in every league (except the Royals. Haven’t found one of them). So sitting in a sportsbar during game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals was like being in Detroit and Pittsburgh at the same time. Considering both towns are notorious for sportsmanship and perspective, there was nearly a knife fight about thirty times during the third period. And they didn’t even bring knives! They were going to use the dull, toothless cutting devices that couldn’t go through mashed potatoes without bending. But by god, they would cut the enemy. Violence - extreme physical violence - against strangers for something that happened thousands of miles away and didn’t involve anyone you knew.

Again, back to our ancestors. We used to be in tribes, the tribes used to fight, the tribes used to eat each other. On Deadliest Warrior, the greatest thing on Spike since the most recent Bond marathon, the culture of the Maori was explained in graphic detail: Maori’s would flash their tongues in battle, to explain in no uncertain terms that their intention was to kill, flay, grill, season, and consume their opponents. Now, the Lakers don’t get to eat the Magic, although I’m sure Pau Gasol has been eying a sirloin cut off Hedo Turkoglu since the series began.

It’s 10:05PM and that kid is still out there. He isn’t feasting on fallen enemies or celebrating a really cool bucket of berries brought back from the harvest. He’s just happy that every time a car horn goes off, he gets to feel like he has something in common with someone else. A city notorious for its sprawl and transient residents can come together in at least some capacity. Someone out there agrees with him. And that’s a nice change from the douches in Singapore that repeatedly frag him in Halo 3. He may live in his mother’s foyer (his brother’s got dibs on the basement), but today he lives in Los Angeles, a city of champions, with millions of people who also wanted his team to win, showing their bond by laying on the horn.

Either that or they’re all Magic fans.