The Year After Life in the Real World, as told by NBA Player Luke Walton By Alan Shipnuck (Jan. 28)

It’s less than two hours til show time, and the Staples Center scene is alive with La-La Land’s defining mix of sex, celebrity, and money. Laker Girls flutter into the arena in skin tight velour suits, batting their false eye lashes at admirers. One-by-one the famous management team materializes backstage-- the Playmate-canoodling owner; his daughter, the team executive, who once posed for Playboy; and her boyfriend, the Hall of Fame head coach.

The first fans are also streaming in, crowding around the court to beg for autographs. (For this Jan. 28 tilt with the Seattle SuperSonics, the front row seats will soon be cleared for Jack Nicholson, in his iconic sunglasses, and fellow glitterati Courtney Cox and David Arquette.) Finally the real stars -the Laker players- arrive, filling a secure, underground parking lot with a Robb Report’s worth of customized rides, including a Hummer with bejeweled 24-inch wheels and a Rolls with impenetrably tinted windows. During the short walk to the locker room, the players preen like peacocks, ice glittering from their ears, necks, wrists, fingers, and parts unknown.

There is no more glamorous sporting event than a Lakers home game, but one protagonist seems strangely out of place, and not just because he drives a 33-year-old Cadillac. When 6’8” rookie forward Luke Walton ambles into the arena, he is wearing jeans, sneakers, and a dumpy, long sleeved T-shirt. No jewels, no entourage, no attitude. While some of his teammates have immaculate braids that require hours of weekly upkeep by trained professionals, Walton’s curly locks look suspiciously like bed head.

On a team on which a third of the roster is made up of surefire Hall of Famers- including one embroiled in this week’s Trial of the Century- “the energy here is amazing- everyday of the week,” says Walton. Yet tonight he’s sleepy eyed, and his laconic basso profundo is even more of a slow speed rumble; yesterday he was held out of practice because of flu like symptoms. But Walton, 23, is a pro now. He’s expected to play, simple as that.

Since his senior season at Arizona ended last March, one game short of the Final Four, Walton- who received a degree in family studies a year earlier- has gone no more than two days without a basketball in his hands. First he had to earn a place in the NBA, and now, after 42 games and counting, he is facing the dreaded rookie wall. “Right now, I’m exhausted,” he says. “I need to sleep for like three days straight.”

Yet in a game of unexpected importance- the injury-racked Lakers are fighting for playoff position- the rook almost single-handedly vanquishes the Sonics. On the bench for the first three quarters, Walton starts the fourth, with the Lakers clinging on to a one-point lead. All he does is play every second of the decisive period and sparks a 25-12 run, gobbling up loose balls, playing cagey D and drawing fouls while banging on the board. Every time he touches the ball the crowd serenades him: Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke! His final tally only hints at his impact: four points, four assists, four rebounds, no mistakes. So how did it feel to be the hero? “I was dying,” says Walton. “My chest felt so messed up I could barely breathe. I think I need to lie down.”

Walton is, of course, second generation hoops royalty, the son of Bill Walton, three time national player of the year at UCLA, MVP of the NBA(1978), world champion with the Trail Blazers (‘77) and Celtics (‘86), and now one of the sport’s most popular TV announcers. All four of Bill’s sons played Division 1 basketball, but Luke is the most physically gifted and he possesses an all-around, old-school game much like his dad’s.

Last June 26, the day of the draft, the Walton clan gathered at the family home in San Diego, a kind of Playboy Mansion South, which is equipped with Amazonian foliage and a 16-foot-high teepee, reflecting Bill’s eclectic counter-culture youth. (As a kid, Luke once got an eyeful of when a naked Jerry Garcia strolled through the yard.) Draft day was supposed to be a party, but it felt like a wake when the first round came and went without Luke’s name being called. “It got eerily quiet in the house,” says Bill. “It was very tense. The frustration and sadness was setting in. I was rubbing Luke’s shoulders, trying to keep him relaxed.”

The Lakers finally nabbed Luke with the 32nd pick, and what followed was a whirlwind introduction to the NBA: summer camp, summer league, rookie orientation and rookie camp, followed by a training camp, with its twice-daily three-hour practices. When did he realize he was playing at a different level? “Uh, the first time I checked Shaq on a switch. The first time I checked Kobe on a switch. The first time I checked Karl Malone…”

Yet Walton made an immediate impression as a playmaker and a quick study of the intricacies of the triangle offense. He still needs to strengthen his defense and extend the range of his jump shot, but even in sporadic playing time he has emerged as a key contributor. “He makes everyone around him better,” says Lakers legend Magic Johnson, “and that kind of ballplayer is a dying breed.”

Walton has adjusted to the pro game while also learning the business side of the job. He signed a two-year deal worth just under one million dollars. How did it feel to cash the first check? “Pretty good,” says Walton, who has made additional dough through endorsements with trading card companies, regional ads for Sprint and a national print campaign for L.A. Gear. “It was a nice number just to play basketball, which I’ve always done for free.”

His only big splurge so far is actually leased. “I needed something sporty for going into the city,” says Walton. “I got a Lexus 4 … uh… LXI… LSI… I don’t know, a lexus four something.” Walton’s ulterior move was to keep the miles down on his prized Cadillac, a hooptie that draws snickers from teammates. (Fellow rookie Brian Cook, who rolls the de rigueur Escalade, grudgingly professes admiration for the car, which he calls “pretty pimp.”)

Having figured out the basketball and the bidness, Walton’s only challenge is mastering the lifestyle. Bill’s pep talk: “Don’t get caught up in the glitz, and don’t get dragged down by the Cling-Ons, who have their own agendas.” Luke’s roommate is a childhood friend who works in then non-glam field of commercial real-estate, but the rook still has his fun. He has settled in Manhattan Beach, a party town teeming with a population of UCLA and USC grads that skews towards bronzed, hard-bodied rollerbladers. Says Bill, “He’s 23 years old, single, living on the beach and playing for the Lakers. If he’s not having the time of his life, I have failed as a father.”

Luke demurs on the subject of his swinging bachelorhood, allowing only that there’s nobody “steady.” In fact, to hear him tell it, life in the NBA is pretty dull. A typical non-game day? Practice in the morning, eat lunch, then waste a few hours on PlayStation or Xbox. “Then it’s run errands, call people, sneak in a nap, go out for dinner, then just chill,” he says. On game day, he adds, “all I try to do is stay off my feet.”

This can be a tougher to accomplish on the road, given the chores that Walton and Cook are compelled to do as the team’s only rookies. If 16-year vet Horace Grant wants his suit’s pressed, he calls Walton. If a player needs a new pair of black socks, Walton must track them down. He and Cook also have to unload the luggage from the team charter. This has posed particular problems for a Southern California kid who bought a winter coat this year only at the urging of coach Phil Jackson. When the Lakers visited wintry Minneapolis, Walton schlepped bags in -4 degree weather. He had teammates rolling in the aisles when he boarded the team bus and announced, “I can’t feel my face!” Thing is, he wasn’t joking.

But in an era when so many players arrive in the NBA with an air of entitlement, Walton has earned the admiration of his elders. “It’s a joy to see a young player do things the right way,” says the 40-year-old Malone. “Luke respects the game, respects the concept of team. He wants to learn, and he wants to get better. I like what he stands for. If he was one of those arrogant rookies, we’d kill him with the errands. But with Luke I don’t have the heart to do it, because he’s so nice. I think the world of him. We all do.”

Having feasted on the Sonics, Walton has now retired to Jerry’s Famous Deli in Marina Del Rey, a favorite post-game spot if for no other reason than its open 24 hours. It’s nearly midnight when his snack arrives, a combo of granola with skim milk, chicken soup, and a salad. Walton pays little attention when Cook excitedly replays his buddy’s heroics, concentrating instead on SportsCenter and screening endless phone calls on his cell phone. (He picks up only for dad and brother nate, a Princeton grad who recently ran for governor of California, but that’s another article entirely.) His bro’s call reminds him of one of his favorite moments from this eventful season: The Lakers were in Phoenix a few days before Christmas, and late in the game Walton made a key bucket, plus the foul. “Shaq picked me up off the floor, and Kobe ran over to give me a chest bump,” he says. “I didn’t think about it at the time, but after the game I had a message from Nate, saying, ‘That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The reverie is broken by a fellow diner who haltingly approaches the table - no doubt another Lakers fan looking for an autograph. Or not. “Hey, didn’t you go to USC?” the fan asks Walton. Without missing a beat, Walton says, “No, but I enjoyed kicking their ass.”

Everyone laughs, and Walton falls into easy conversation with the stranger. Less than a year out of college, the rookie is almost famous.