The conventional wisdom, the word from pundits, the story on the street, the buzz in bars and bus stations, is that the regular season is a formality this year. As good as Dallas and San Antonio are (and they're both very good), ask any prognosticator, oracle, columnist or call-in host you know -- they'll all tell you we're headed back to Cali for the Western crown.

	Rick Fox and Doug Christie were just getting warmed up for more important Lakers-Kings battles this season.

Forget the experts, ask Rick Fox and Doug Christie. Ask Christie's wife. They'll tell you we're just warming up for seven more games between Sactown and Tinseltown in May, just biding our time before seven more nights of the Kings and Lakers in we-don't-like-you, we-don't-respect-you, we-don't-fear-you, we-don't-sweat-you battles for the right to beat up on whichever team the East coughs up. That's the story. Pick up any preseason hoops mag and read all about it.

So, the question is, who will win this time around? Four in a row, or the birth of a new era? Big brother delivers another slap-down, or kid brother finally turns the tables? What's it gonna be?

You're a student of the game, you get your fantasy stats delivered by e-mail, you read Chad Ford and David Aldridge religiously, and you bought the domestic-strife satellite package so you could watch games every night, in every city, even Denver. You're dialed-in.

You're looking for patterns and indicators in the next 81 games. You have your eye on Keon Clark and Tracy Murray, looking to see how each guy blends in -- is Keon making interior passes? Does Murray get the kick-out from Shaq, and what's his shooting percentage from beyond the arc? You know Kobe's body-fat and muscle-mass numbers. You're casting about on eBay for bootleg X-rays of Mike Bibby's foot right now, and you know a guy who works the parking lot at the Staples Center, who knows a guy who sells hot dogs inside, who knows a guy who stands outside the door to the locker room, who swears he knows the guy who stocks the tape for the trainer's room, and he says Shaq's toe is healing nicely.

You keep your ear to the ground, you do your homework. You chart each team against common opponents, especially Dallas, San Antonio and New Jersey. You keep Shaq's free-throw and Webber's rebound numbers in Excel files. Just the basics.

	The Lakers need Shaquille O'Neal out of those Burberry numbers and back in the classic purple and gold.

But you're hard-core and you know data, film and inside scoops aren't always enough. You know the margin between the Kings and Lakers was paper-thin last time around. You know, dominant as the big man in purple and gold is, the series turned on a couple of jumpers, and it could have gone the other way.

So you tune to the low frequencies, you ask yourself, What are the hidden factors? What are the intangibles? Where is the mojo? Who's got soul, who's super-bad?

As with so many things between these two teams, it's tight, maybe even a push. But rest assured, at some point in the next eight months, there are little things, old things, immeasurable but absolutely crucial things, that will contribute to how the West is won.

I can't say how or when, but the Kings are going to rely on things like this:

New unis. Sometimes it's not about matchups, or even key shots in big moments. Sometimes it's about feeling good in your new duds. Heartbreaking back-to-back losses in the old duds? Go shopping, break the mold, run a black stripe down your side, bust out some neo-goth, Draculaesque lettering. Whatever makes you feel good. You're beautiful. You deserve it. (Note: The new uniforms are fine, and a fresh start is a fresh start, but if they really wanted to work the sartorial magic, the Kings should have gone old school and brought back the early-80s, name-below-the-number jerseys. That way, they'd be tapping into all that Sam Lacey-Scott Wedman power.)

	Hidayet Turkoglu made some impressive offseason adjustments.

Growth spurts. Word out of Sacramento is that Hidayet Turkoglu grew two inches in the offseason, jumping from 6-foot-8 to 6-10. Guys bulk up, they trim down, they shoot 1,000 jumpers a day -- these things are common. But break off two new inches? In four months? When a little more size might exploit the only discernable chink in your arch-rival's armor? That's impressive. And if you're guarding young Hedu, you've got to be a little distracted, wondering ... How did he do it? Can he do it again? Is he growing right now?

Hunger. The Kings haven't won a title since they were the Rochester Royals in 1951. They have all kinds of want-to stored up in their coffers. Their desire has a very serious edge to it. Loose balls, lucky bounces, judgment calls -- they're all drawn to hunger. Plus, though there's no evidence of it yet, the Kings have to figure eventually a little fat-cat syndrome is going to take effect with the Lakers. Forget the bickering -- the champs seem to thrive on -- what the contenders have to hope for is some bliss and contentment, a little invincibility, a certain ripe smell in the air.

	The Kings could use Oscar Robertson to tip the scales in their favor.

Oscar Robertson. I'm thinking legacy, influence, historical precedent, and the whispers of genius that make their way down the family tree. I'm also thinking, what the heck, suit him up. He still looks good, and you know he'd get his shot off against Derek Fisher, and you can believe he'd move Kobe and his 15 new pounds of offseason-workout muscle back off the block with a well-placed dip of the shoulder and a do-you-know-who-I-am glare.

The hate thing. I'm talking about the town. Sacramento is salt-of-the-earth. The people have no time for the glitz and glamour thing down south, but they've got lots of contempt for it, lots of healthy disdain, and a fair amount of genuine hate. The Lakers claim they're above the fray, that the Kings are just another opponent. That doesn't play in Sacramento. In Sactown, the Lakers are the prey in the crosshairs. They plot like mad professors, they squeeze their collective bad feeling for L.A. into a powerful beam of light that, when the time is right, will shoot from their super-conductor, Lakers-busting raygun and burn a whole right through the champs and then, and then, they will, yes, yes, yes, take over the world, ha-ha!

Tiny Archibald. I don't have to spell this out for you, do I? OK, let's put it like this: Cut open Mike Bibby's chest and you'll find a second heart, a Tiny one.

Coast-to-coast love. The Kings-Royals have played in Rochester, Cincinnati, Kansas City (and for a while they were known as the K.C.-Omaha Kings -- a grammatical oddity that undoubtedly provides some sort of that's-just-goofy, confuse-the-other-guy mojo from time to time) and Sacramento. They have fans all over the country. That's a lot of love barreling down highways and screaming across phone lines and into Sacramento. Add to that the general anti-Laker, anti-California vibe that seems to float on the wind in just about every state in the union and you have a pretty serious constituency.

Nicknames. Peja, Hedu, C-Webb. Handles are good, they provide a certain crucial liquidity to a team's play, they make things flow a little more smoothly, with a little more savoir-faire.

Comradery. Look at that dance thing they do in a circle before games. It's silly, yeah, but you have to be brave and loyal to be willing to look that silly in front of a packed house and a big TV audience.

Second sight. According to a piece in Sports Illustrated, the Kings are running all sorts of sets and variations based only on eye contact. I also heard a rumor that they do this thing where Vlade is sitting in the locker room, looking at a card with a black triangle on it, and Webber will be driving on the way to the arena, and he'll know what shape Vlade sees, then he'll start to hum a tune and Vlade, miles away, will sing the lyrics out loud. Someone told me Bobby Jackson helps the Sac police solve crimes, too -- sees bodies in abandoned fields in his mind's eye, that kind of thing. I hear Bibby plans to bend a spoon with his mind before tip-off of Game 1. You don't want to mess with this kind of thing.

	Did somebody say Jack Twyman?

What else? Did I say Sam Lacey? Let me say it again. And let's say Otis Birdsong, too, and Jack Twyman, while we're at it. Throw in Maurice Stokes' courage. Bob Cousy and Bill Russell coached the team at one point -- their records were lousy, but still, you've got to figure on some residual Celtic spirit hovering around the team even now, spirit which ought to serve them well in, and might even be at the root of, this rivalry with the Lakers they have going now. They're called the Kings so, duh, a championship, a title, is their right.

And the Lakers? You think they win three straight titles without a little bag of intangible goodies hanging from their belts? You think Robert Horry's shot rips the net without some extra magic flowing through the system? I didn't think so.

When the chips are down, when the boys are really up against it, the Lakers can count on:

The memory of Chick. Some players dribble, some shoot, some run, but Lakers, then, now, and forever, "yo-yo up and down," make "dribble-drives," "slaaaaam dunk," shoot "finger rolls," and run the "give-and-go." They play in the tradition of the poets, in the comfort of words chosen, given and repeated just for them.

	There's a little Laker on everyone in the NBA.

The logo. As in the NBA logo. As in Jerry West. Memphis is drawing on the clutch of the clutch and the genius of the genius now, but L.A. has first and most enduring dibs. What difference does the logo make? Well, you're the Kings, right? And you're working all your new-uni, fresh-start, black-racing-stripe, brand-new-me positive vibes, right? But the thing is, your uni has this little Laker-guy on it. And he's not just any Laker, he's an icon, he's the symbol for the whole damn league. You think maybe that bothers you a little after a while? Maybe you wish, for just one minute, you could get away from the Laker thing, find your own identity? Yup. Logo power, baby.

What's a Laker? In Minneapolis, the name made sense. In L.A., it's what ... a reference to Echo Park, to the reservoir up in Silver Lake? Incongruous names are a bad thing if you've never won a title -- see the almost-but-not-quite madness that afflicts the criminally misnamed NBA team from Utah. If you have won a title, however, or if, say, you've won three in a row, or, say, five in the '80s, an incongruous name is part of your mysterious edge, part of your wacky misdirection; it makes you like Peter Falk and Alan Arkin in "The In-Laws," all serpentine action, and hard targetlike.

Indifference. I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings or burst any bubbles, but folks in L.A. don't really give folks in Sacramento too much thought. All the venom coming down I-5 is usually met with an "uh-huh, OK, whatever, you keep plugging, little brother." In a lot of ways, Shaq is the perfect Laker because, like Wilt before him, he brushes guys off (or they bounce off him). It's all about eyes on the prize with the Lakers, guys don't get caught up in thinking about the opposition, even when it's as good as the Kings.

Magic. Look at the tapes. Look at that no-look, dump-it-off-over-the-right-shoulder thing he did to Fat Lever that one time. Wicked.

The same old unis. Classic lines, bold, contrasting colors, lettering that says speed. If it ain't broke ?

	Underdogs or not, these Lakers carry 14 karat, 50-pennyweight monsters with 14 brilliant-cut diamonds apiece on their hands.

Underdog power. Speed of lightning, roar of thunder, fighting all who rob or plunder. Check out the preseason picks this year. Doesn't matter where you look, everybody but everybody is saying the Kings are the team to beat. Lakers have won three titles in a row. Shaq and Kobe are still playing. Phil is still coaching. And these guys are the dogs? Nothing like a little disrespect to make a team that could have reason to rest on their laurels come out vicious and focused. I'm telling you, when in this world the headlines read of those whose hearts are filled with greed, look out for Underdog.

They're unloved. Not in L.A., of course, in L.A., there is a whole lotta love for the Lakes, even among the Valley types who are threatening to secede from the city on Tuesday. But outside of Los Angeles, this is the team the country loves to hate. The players know that, and they use it. They've got the bunker, fox-hole mentality working for them. They might not dance in a circle, but the comraderie thing is covered nonetheless.

	Having Phil Jackson always gives the Lakers the edge.

Phil. Speaking of circles, Dr. Phil and his merry Zensters might be gathering, focusing, concentrating and meditating in one now. Phil gets points because he knows the game is about mindset and attitude, about a state of consciousness. He knows guys have come up through the ranks being yelled at, shaped, molded, berated, and commanded. He gives them something else, and just the change, just the breathing room of his philosophy, seems to be an edge.

Free throws. Everyone says the big man should hit them. Everyone says his performance at the line is going to cripple them one day. But he doesn't, and it doesn't. This drives the opposition batty. What they thought they knew has been turned upside down. The game, which ought to feel natural and intuitive to them, feels somewhat alien and confusing in the Shaq-throw era.

What else? Kareem's goggles. Spencer Haywood's double-jointed hands. Bob McAdoo's McAdoo-McAdoo. The way the Angels kept the championship vibe alive in the southland. Derek Fisher's headband. Jack's sunglasses, Shaq's performance on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" last season, and a bubbling, cultural-diversity, city-wide renaissance thing going on in Los Angeles these days.

Eric Neel reviews sports culture in his "Critical Mass" column, which will appear every Wednesday on Page 2. You can e-mail him at eneel@cox.net.