Wasif's World

Okay, so here it is, the Match Up of the Century! (again) This one is for all the marbles. The Big Three are making one final stand, a last chance to show their dominance. Kobe’s chasing Magic for five championships and the “greatest Laker of all-time” moniker, though playing with Shaq and having the allegations of Tim Donaghy render at least two of those championships iffy make this a moot point. Kobe will never be Magic. (And this from a guy who spent his childhood thinking Magic was overrated.)

The experts are all weighing in and forming their hypotheses based on sight analysis and statistics. And the fans are running with whichever argument best suits their cases.

Fans need to convince themselves of the outcome before it takes place. They call in to talk shows to say, “I’m really worried about the Lakers defensive lapses. Do you think they can beat the Celtics?” And if the talk show host responds in the affirmative, the caller will think, “Phew! I’m glad that’s decided” and they can sleep well at night.

But most of the arguments out there can be eliminated as they have nothing to do with the matter at hand. I’ll go over most of these and tell you who each point sees winning the series, why that is, the counterargument, and why it’s relevant or just a bunch of jibberjabber. (Yes, I said “jibberjabber.” I’m getting jazzed for the “A-Team” movie!)

So let’s begin:

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Revenge
Chatter: The Lakers are upset that the Celtics beat them in 2008, in fact, humiliating them during the clinching game. Now, they want revenge.
Counterargument: Oh, now they want to win? In 2008, they were indifferent to winning? They weren’t sufficiently perturbed before? Why would you need excess motivation to win a championship?
Verdict: I do not wish to degrade my level of education and literary skills by just calling this argument stupid. Therefore, I will say it’s really stupid. When’s the last time you arm wrestled a guy who was stronger than you and actually won the rematch? If the Celtics are better, then no amount of wanting to win is going to help.

One parallel I find interesting is how the run of the last three years is similar to 1985 to1987. You might remember the peak of the Show Time Era when the two teams battled in 1985 leaving the Lakers victorious.

The next year, the Rockets snuck into the Finals, first beating the Lakers only to lose to the Celtics. But in 1987, the Lakers returned and caused a repeat of 1985.

Were the Celtics extra motivated to beat Los Angeles as revenge for 1985? Sure. Did it matter? No.

The Celtics believe the only reason the Lakers won last year was because Garnett was hurt. The Magic beat them and then went on to lose to the Lakers. Sound familiar?

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Team Improvement
Chatter: The Lakers defense is better now with Ron Artest in the fold.
Counterargument: Yes, it’s better. The Celtics just beat the three teams that led the NBA in opponent’s field goal percentage. With or without Artest, the Celtics have already taken down tougher defenses.
Verdict: That same argument could be used to explain why the Celtics are going to win.

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Age
Chatter: The Celtics are old. Garnett doesn’t look the same.
Counterargument: Garnett doesn’t look the same, but you have to figure a Hall of Famer like Garnett still matches up very well against Gasol. But the very claim acts as if the Lakers are composed of all these young pups. Their one superstar has logged almost as many minutes as the Big Three, if not more with his extracurricular play in international tournaments.
Verdict: Age is a push.

Outcome: Celtics
Reason: History
Chatter: This works on two fronts. First of all, this starting five, as currently constituted, has yet to lose a playoff series. Secondly, when the Lakers and Celtics face each other in the late spring, the Celtics win over 85% of the time.
Counterargument: This Lakers team has yet to lose a playoff series as well.
Verdict: If past history declared a winner, then the New York Jets would have almost 20 Super Bowl titles by now.

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Coaching
Chatter: Phil Jackson is the greatest coach of all-time.
Counterargument: That is the dumbest argument of all-time. First off, Phil has already lost a Finals series to Doc Rivers. Wouldn’t that make Doc a better coach? Or perhaps Doc just had the better team, in which case Phil won past championships only because he had the better team. So if it’s the team that made Phil great, then one could reason that given the opportunity, Doc would’ve taken Michael and Scottie to six championships and then Shaq and Kobe to three more had he been there instead of the Zen Master. Counterargument: Michael didn’t win before Phil. Sure, but Scottie Pippen wasn’t his Sundance Kid yet. And you’ll add Shaq and Kobe didn’t win before Phil.
Countercounterargument: Yes, Del Harris is no Phil. But Gregg Popovich (a really valid argument for the actual best coach in the league) could have presumably taken Shaq and Kobe to three titles as well. He did it with less in San Antonio.
Verdict: Both coaches are excellent. Phil may be the most successful coach of all-time, but saying he’s the best is just for empty braggadocio and bar talk.

Outcome: Celtics
Reason: Pedigree
Chatter: The Celtics collectively have three Hall of Famers in their rotation. The Lakers have one, maybe two.
Counterargument: The Lakers can neutralize Pierce with Artest, Ray Allen with Kobe, and Garnett with Gasol.
Alternate counterargument: The Celtics are old. [See above.]
Verdict: The Lakers have been unable to neutralize all three on a consistent basis before. It’s not going to start this week as the Celtics are firing on all cylinders and see the prize put forth before them.

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Home Cookin’
Chatter: This time, the Lakers have home court advantage.
Counterargument: A. The Celtics have taken home court advantage away from their last two opponents, who, it should be noted, finished with better records than the Lakers. B. The Celtics/Lakers series in 2008 didn’t go seven games because the Celtics won a game in Los Angeles.
Verdict: The Celtics may win in Los Angeles, but may also lose at home. That said, they are not intimidated by being in the visitors locker room.

Outcome: Celtics
Reason: Basketball is about matchups
Chatter: Going down the rosters, we see that Perkins can handle a hobbling Bynum, Kobe is better than Allen (but that’s closer than people think), Pierce is better than Artest, Gasol and Garnett may be a push, and that leaves the one dominating match up in the series – Rondo v. Fisher. If you want to further take it to the bench, Rasheed can handle Odom, Nate Robinson can counter Shannon Brown, and then Tony Allen can play Jordan Farmar, if that’s who it comes down to. That leaves Big Baby as someone off the bench the Lakers don’t have an answer for.
Counterargument: Even a hobbling Bynum is way better than Perkins.
Verdict: This argument makes a lot of sense. Basketball is about matchups (and shoddy refereeing and nonsensical scheduling). The only question is, who is hurt? Will the rest between games be enough for the Celtics? Can the Lakers play more physical than they did two years ago? Will it matter? Will the Big Four continue to alternate having big nights? Which Celtic role player will save the day like Nate Robinson did against the Magic?

(Okay, that’s more than one question.)

So soaking all this in like a Calgon bubble bath complete with rubber duckie, the picture becomes clearer, though still murky.

As I see it, the way the referees have been fix—er, calling the games these days, Perkins will be assessed one half of a double technical at some point this series (I’ll guess that it will be either Artest or Odom that does the honors) and thus, be forced to sit. If the Celtics can win the games Perkins plays, they’ll be the ones celebrating.

And if the Lakers can score more points than the Celtics on no fewer than four of the seven scheduled games, then they will win.

I hope this puts those minds at ease that have been held sleepless the last few nights waiting for the endless NBA Playoffs to continue. Now go tend to more pressing needs, like the electrical fire coming out of your wall socket due to the radio, television, and computer being plugged in at once while seeking as much info about the Finals as you can possibly get.

The NBA Playoffs begin Saturday night and the big question is whether two of the pre-season favorites-cum-faders have been cruising into May before hitting their strides by simply “flicking the switch.”

For those of you unfamiliar with this “switch,” it’s quite a technological marvel. If you don’t have one, I’d recommend you look into acquiring one. In fact, I’ve heard Apple is working on mass producing an economical version for the consumer – the iSwitch.

In the realm of basketball, the switch heals injuries, it sharpens shooting eyes, it tightens defenses. The switch knocks away in-bounds passes, it fills passing lanes, it executes pick-and-rolls with precision. The switch piles on points, it fills highlight reels, it rises above the rim. In summation, it takes no prisoners.

But some teams don’t have a switch. It’s only the good teams teams that have won before, that have a switch. They know what it takes to win, unlike those other teams like the 1995 Houston Rockets or the 1999 San Antonio Spurs.

In fact, along with a championship trophy, these victors are given a switch by the league. It’s one of those hush-hush jobs, though, as the league owns only a thin supply of switches and they don’t want irrelevant teams like the Clippers begging for one. (That’s why the league frequently engineers the Lakers winning, because they already have a switch.)

The Lakers are one of the teams people are questioning. This batch of superstars can play in regular-season, totally over-rated, sluggish mode and then they can shift to bulldozer, juggernaut, high-flying legends mode. The transition from one to the other is seamless, usually done with the flick of a finger.

But wait, haven’t the Lakers been sucking it up lately because they’ve been banged up, uninspired and out-of-sync?

No, of course not, silly person!

So the fact that Kobe has way too many miles on his treads and Andrew Bynum can’t keep from getting hurt and Ron Artest isn’t the same defender he once was has nothing to do with their mediocre play the last few months?

Nope, they just haven’t flicked the switch yet. They’re waiting for the playoffs.

The Celtics are another team that invokes mention of the device. They’ve had their own mechanism before any other team did. The ol’ Auerbach Switch is a bit clunky, but still works. (They’ve since upgraded to Auerbach 10.0.)

The first time it was used was in 1969. The last hurrah for Bill Russell found a team with a 48-34 record winning the championship. Why? Need we go over this again?

It is for this reason that Boston fans needn’t worry as Kevin Garnett’s knee will make a full recovery and we’ll once again see the 2007-08 Defensive Player of the Year dominating opponents, but only once the playoffs start.

The Celtics figured out how to win together early in the season. They started 20-4. Once they got the handle on that, they put it on cruise control. Why waste your energy against the Knicks and the Wizards of the world? And now that it’s playoff time, I’m sure they’ll just revert back to November form. (Back when they could win at home.)

The same goes for the Lakers who still finished atop the Western Conference, though went 15-12 over the last two months of the season. They didn’t need to show off any more. That’s just bad sportsmanship, right? All those shots they missed to lose games were all part of the beauty of the switch. When it’s flicked, those shots go in.

So what does this switch run on? Is it gas-powered? If they’re like the Heat, who have been on a tear lately, they may run out of gas come the second round. Or perhaps it’s run by solar paneling installed under Sasha Vujacic's hair. That’s part of the mystery of it.

I, too, have a switch. I’m just waiting for that moment to flick it so that I may get Jessica Biel to go on a date with me. Just laying low for now, that’s what I’m doing. I haven’t been working my “A” game yet. Yes sir, but when I’m ready, I’m gonna flick that switch and watch out! Buddy Love is only one flick away.

Although it’s quite possible it might not work. I think I was supposed to store it horizontally in a cool, dark place like a bottle of wine. I think it’s because of some chemical that calibrates the magnetic doo-hickeys in the thing. I’m sure the iSwitch has taken the necessary steps to rectify such glitches.

Nevertheless, I know we’ll see the Celtics and Lakers in the NBA Finals again this year ... assuming they took greater care in storing their switches than I did.

It was a dark and spooky night, a night not unlike this night. The full moon’s luminance was dulled by a fog as thick as Maurice Jones-Drew’s legs. A gnarling wind whipped against the car as I sped down the dark, one-lane, suburban road for home. Such wind I had never experienced before, except maybe from Rush Limbaugh in his incessant rants about why he’s no longer part of an NFL ownership group.

It had gotten late early, a paradox made possible by the simple phenomena of daylight savings time ... though I still maintained that Bud Selig had something to do with it.

I was driving my six-year-old nephew, Harrison, home from an afternoon of off-track betting ... at his insistence. (That little dude’s hooked.)

“We’re almost home, Harrison. And just in time too, so Mommy won’t be mad at us. Did you have fun today?”

“Yes,” he said, before a pensive pause. “Uncle Andy?”

“Yes, Harrison?” I answered cheerily.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, Harrison.” Uh oh, I thought. Is this going to be where babies come from or what mommy and daddy are moaning about after he’s asleep? I’m an uncle. I’m not built for this.

“Do you think they will ever scrap the BCS rankings and install a playoff system weighing teams’ wins to determine seeding?”

Dammit. Tough question. “Your parents are having sex, Harrison.”

Harrison, lost as he looked out the window, turned to me quizzically. I think he was about to say, “Huh?” – or maybe “Oh, I knew that” -- when all of a sudden, we felt and heard a big thud against the car.

We jumped! “It’s okay. It was just a tree branch.”

This was followed by an almost primordial screeching, like nails on a chalkboard.

“Uh, a very large tree branch.”

And then a pop and the unmistakable sound and feel of shredded rubber rolling over the wheel.

“Okay, we ran over a very large tree branch.”

I slowed down and pulled onto the dirt shoulder angling the car off a slight decline leading to a thick-wooded area. To a complete stop now, I exhaled for the first time in two minutes. Silence.

I clicked the hazards and we sat in silence, solved by an intermittent click which seemed to reverberate against a low howling outside. “No problem,” I said, attempting bravado, but achieving nervous trepidation. I took out my Larry Bird figurine from the glove box, put it on the dash board, and started rubbing it for luck. “I’ll just fix the tire. Stay inside.”

Now I knew as much as he did that I had as much luck fixing the tire as a mid-major school has of winning the NCAA championship. He already had unbuckled his belt and grabbed his new Ricky Rubio European carryall to join me.

I walked around to his side and opened his door. We stood and witnessed what looked like an entire tree was growing from the car’s axel. “Yeah, we’re not fixing that,” said Harrison, almost consolingly.

I checked my cell phone. No signal. Seeking to set the boy's mind at ease, I said, “It’s okay though, I know these woods as I know the back of my --- ahhhh! Get it off! Get it off!!!!” I shook my hand violently, too quickly for my other hand to simply remove the cobweb on my right hand.

Finally, I was satisfied the back of my hand was clean. “Ahem. As I was saying -- we'll be home in no time, Harrison,” I said confidently as a little bit of pee trickled out. Just take my hand.

I held his hand to make him feel safe, yet I noticed that he was holding mine to make me feel safe. We walked off the road in the direction I suspected was his house. Through a layer of dense trees, we walked for what seemed like two hours, but it was only 20 seconds. I stopped. "Shhhh! You hear that?” We heard footsteps.

Then, from seemingly out of nowhere, a billy goat scampered by. Harrison held me closer. “It’s just a billy goat, Harrison.” I chuckled. “They’re harmless. Well, unless you believe in superstition, then it’s at least a hundred years of bad luck.”

The trees receded into a clearing highlighting the backyards of two residences. I brightened as I began to recognize our surroundings. “I think I know where we are. There’s the Ortiz house. Be careful if you go trick or treating there. Don’t take anything that’s not factory-wrapped. They’ve been known to hand out spiked protein shakes unknowingly.” I directed his gaze to the neighboring home, a base of stone and marble that was split down the middle, as if by some giant chain saw, segregating it into two houses. “And that one there is the McCourt home. Mrs. McCourt’s away now, but she might be coming back.”

Moving ever slightly on an incline, we reached the crest of the hill past the two abodes. There, rising up without remorse on the horizon was a monstrosity of a home; one that seemed to have no beginning and no end. It had towers and turrets with bay windows, tinted for maximum obscurity, and gargoyles perched, ready to strike, chiseled into the pillars.

We stared for what seemed like an eternity, but actually was an eternity. The house on the hill loomed above us. Then it dawned on me. “Oh,” I said, “that’s Antoine Walker’s house. At least, it used to be. It hasn’t been occupied since the bank took it. But if you listen closely, you can hear the ghoulish sound of him splitting aces at the blackjack table. D-did you want to get a closer look?” I stuttered.

“No,” Harrison said succinctly.

“Thank you.” I’ve known the inquisitive nature of a child ever since I accidentally went airborne in my father’s hot air balloon experiment fortunate to land safely, without any damage, in my family’s attic. Harrison was much smarter than I was.

We walked past the house and a few moments later came to this stone fence, decrepit, yet perfectly preserved. A ray of light reflected off the fog to illuminate the sign arched above. It read “Paul Allen Cemetery.”

The night was still now ... too still. “Oh, it’s a sports graveyard. I didn’t know this was here. He must've moved it. It used to be in a busier area."

“A graveyard?” Harrison’s eyes got wide and he shuffled his feet backyard ever so slowly.

“Oh, well, it’s safe. We’re not afraid of a little grave—”

“H-h-h-hooo!” came the sound from the darkness.

“What was that?!” Harrison was on full alert.

“It’s okay, Harrison. It’s just Eric Mangini pondering which quarterback he should start.”

"Uncle Andy, I’m scared,” Harrison said to me, though my attention had been captured by a large structure 20 feet inside the gate. I moved closer, tugging my nephew into my hip.

“Well, would you look at this?" The structure was a tombstone. “It's the gravesite of Pacman Jones’ career.”

Trying to remain calm, Harrison asked, “What’s this open one next to it?”

I leaned closer. It said, “Reserved for JaMarcus Russell.”

“Oh.” A sharp, loud chime pierced the night air. We jumped and held each other closer. A beat. Then silence. Harrison looked up at me. “Was that your cell phone?”

I relaxed. “Yes, I think it was.” I scrambled into my pocket for the device. “We must have a signal up here. Maybe it’s a message from your mother.” I looked. “No, it’s just a Tweet from Ochocinco. He says he’s going to do something wacky upon scoring his next touchdown.” Gee, that's helpful. “This is good though. We can try to call your mom.” I pushed some buttons, and held the phone up to listen. The phone had gone dead.

As this realization washed over us, we saw a creature silhouetted in our periphery. Harrison attached himself to my leg. “Uncle Andy, IT’S A WOLFMAN!”

I spun around to see. “No, no, it’s just Pau Gasol. He’s letting his beard grow again.”

Harrison started to cry. “I want to go home!”

“Okay, let’s go.” We started to run. “I’m pretty sure your street is on the other side of that fence.”

As the moon peeked out from the clouds again, more creatures began to appear from behind other tombs. “Brains! Brains!” they mumbled, as they shuffled toward us in unison. Zombies!

Well, not exactly zombies. “Oh, no, it’s the umpiring crews from the baseball playoffs. We don’t want to be near them! Run, boy, run!” He was betrayed by his short stature. I almost dragged him, til I decided to just pick him up and tuck him under my arm.

We were able to put some distance between us and the maligned umps, and then we saw it. Galloping toward us and closing fast was a headless body wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.

“Uncle Andy, look out!”

“It’s the headless safety William Gay. Legend has it,” I explained as I hauled ass, “that he once tried to tackle Adrian Peterson, but was bowled over, his head being knocked from his body in the process. He roams these grounds looking for someone he can tackle. Well, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be us,” I said as I picked up speed.

Gay positioned himself between us and the fence. I made sure to protect my nephew from being stripped and lowered by shoulder. Upon impact, Gay went down.

We’d reached the fence. The umpires were still coming. “Uncle Andy, hurry!”

I hoisted my nephew up to the top of the fence. “Hold on!” I jumped to the top of the fence and was about to pull myself over when I felt a tug at my foot. The umpires had reached me. I kicked one of them away. Then another hand reached out and another. I kicked as violently as I could. I clocked one in the head – I think it was CB Bucknor – who fell against the others like bowling pins. It gave me the opportunity I needed to spring myself over the fence, reach up, grab my nephew and keep running to pay dirt.

On the door step of his house, Harrison and I shared a uncle/nephew bonding moment. I cried at his coming of age, but mainly because I’d never been so frightened in all my life. “We’re safe,” I said as I rang the doorbell. “Nothing that terrifying will ever happen to us again.”

His mother opened the door. “Oh, Harrison, I was getting worried. Let’s get you some dinner. And you’re missing your favorite sport on television.”

“Oh? Who’s playing?” he asked.

“The Yankees are in the World Series again,” she answered with no judgment.

We turned to look at each other. “Noooooooo!”

I cried for what seemed to be 20 minutes, but in actuality, it was 14 minutes and 10 seconds.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

I want to congratulate the Los Angeles Lakers on a hard-fought battle through the NBA playoffs. Over the past few years, I’ve had the opportunity to get to know their fans. And may I say, they are adorable. They try so hard to be good fans. It’s like watching a squirrel on a jet ski. (Okay, maybe not exactly like it, but there’s a sense of amusement with both.)

There’s a reason that the team is called the “Fakers” and other fans hate them. It isn’t because they’re the second-most celebrated franchise in the NBA. Boston has the greater history and more championships, but fans don’t hate Boston nearly as much as they hate the Lakers. (Though as a Boston backer, I know we can get pretty annoying with our self-adulation.)

It’s not the team. Who can hate Pau Gasol? He’s so ... uh, gangly. Okay, Kobe’s hatable, but he’s definitely almostas good as he thinks he is.

Nope, that's not it either. So what is it that makes them despised more than any other hardwood ballers?

It’s one aspect of the team --- the fans. And it’s not any one thing in particular, it’s just, well, ... everything.

On the outside, they act like typical fans. They make predictions. One fan told me the Lakers would beat the Magic in three. In three! A best-of-seven series in three! That’s so cute.

They complain about the referees. Mainly, this comes from mimicking Phil Jackson who complains about the referees so much, I’m not sure he isn’t using it for a euphemism about the government’s handling of the financial crisis or something other than actual refereeing. I’m actually shocked he didn’t complain about the refs during the celebration after the clinching game. Does he go into a restaurant where a waiter asks him, “Is everything here satisfactory, sir?” and say, “Are you kidding me? We haven’t had one call go our way the entire meal!”

And this is a man who coaches a team whose superstar has elbows that are actually wanted in several states for attempted murder!!! Phil Jackson’s a bright guy. He complains about the refs to gain an edge in the series. Sure, he gets fined, but he makes that money back in book deals. The fans haven’t realized this yet. Simply delightful.

They make comparisons. Talk of Phil Jackson being better than Red Auerbach started years ago, but now it’s “been proven.” Well, except for the fact that any conversation requiring the comparison of two different eras is inane and pointless. Marvelously naive.

They rationalize their fandom. I heard a fan call into a radio show and declare that he was not a fair weather fan, but rather a great fan because he didn’t think he had to root for the team if they were bad. He had, in fact, earned the right to expect a good team and should only root for them when they were good. And the talk show host agreed with him. It’s endearing. Don’t you want to just pinch their cheeks?

(Of course, if you want to get technical, that’s actually the definition of a fair weather fan. But we won't go there.)

They’re sore losers. Upon Boston winning last year, one Lakers fan told me the only reason Boston won was because Kevin McHale traded Kevin Garnett to the Celtics as a favor to his former team. Quite an observant little pip, he was. I didn’t have the heart to tell him who Jerry West was and how Pau Gasol got to the Lakers. It would have ruined his whole outlook.

And they’re sore winners. Anyone who didn’t root for their team is a “sore loser” and a “Laker Hater.”

They spread themselves thin. If the Clippers make the playoffs, they start following them as well. Kids will be kids, huh?

They make stuff up. One Lakers fan last year said that his team had the best defense in the league last year. Just don’t look at league stats. They would only confuse you. Trite!

They take quotes out of context to validate their points. During one particularly awfully officiated game versus Denver, announcer Jeff Van Gundy remarked how the refs were doing a great job. One Lakers fan pounced on that to me. Guess he missed the moment earlier in the same game where Van Gundy bashed the refs for a missed call. Ah, so spunky!

They put flags on their cars to announce their allegiances ... and that they had eight bucks lying around. It’s just that the majority of them don’t come up until the Finals begin. You guys are certainly welcome to start using them earlier in the playoffs. No one will get mad.

Oh, and they get feisty. One newspaper columnist made his case for the better team in an article about how Boston fans were not as good looking. Oof! You really showed those fans. There’s a “Key to the Game” I don’t anyone else had noticed.

Those are the Lakers fans. Take them or leave them.

It’s not that they’re totally to blame. There’s a lot more going on in Los Angeles to catch one’s interest. How many babies does Angelina Jolie have now? What did “The Watchman” gross? The Lakers really don’t have the cache of other subjects.

But the fans really do try. They’ll make it to two, maybe three quarters of a game during the season. (They’re similar to Dodgers fans in that sense. I went to a game at Dodger Stadium last week in which the Dodgers were down 3-1 and the stadium emptied in the seventh inning. Sure, their excuse is that they wanted to beat traffic. But when half the stadium leaves at the same time, you’re not beating traffic. You are the traffic.)

And there are fans that live, sleep and breathe Lakers, but that’s not what elevates them in the eyes of other fans to the status of good fans. Lakers fans are like in the minor leagues of fandom. A couple of solid seasons strung together or maybe an injury or demotion to a fan base such as Portland and they might just reach the big leagues.

But all seriousness aside, it is nice to see them trying. Los Angelenos, congratulations! You can hang your flags now to show everyone that you’re fans of the team ... or to just show them that you had eight dollars.