Bill Plaschke, LA Times
The best owner in the history of professional sports is strolling through his sprawling hilltop home when he comes upon an ornate wooden door riddled with three gaping holes.
It is the door to his private elevator. It is also, perhaps, the portal to a philosophy.
“Let me tell you a story about those holes,” Jerry Buss says.
On a recent Saturday, while Buss was inside the elevator, it jolted to a stop between the first and second floors.
A man with a presence as sprawling as the Southland was suddenly stuck in a small, dark place.
“What could I do?” he says. “I sat down and I waited.”
And waited. And waited.