A National Bore

Larry Bird and Magic and the Doctor and Chocolate Thunder and Kareem and the best semifinal matchups in years--all this and more, yet the National Basketball Association playoffs are boring.

Marinate me in promotions, Brent Musberger. Smother me with superlatives, Bill Russell. Inform me of the intricacies, Rick Barry. You will not change my mind.

The current playoff situation seems ideal. Seattle and Los Angeles have garnered a win a piece in a heated Western series; the Sonics seeking to become the first NBA champ in 11 years to repeat, the Lakers hoping to dethrone them with an assortment of inimitable Jabbar sky hooks and Johnson sleights of hand.

Closer to Cambridge, the Sixers are peaking and bidding to steal the Celtics' remarkable renaissance. Philadelphia holds a 2-1 edge in this battle of the brotherly and the beans.

But even this showdown featuring the East's cradles of liberty cannot free me from the boredom of the first 46 minutes of each contest.

The regular season produced a modicum of excitement, with few pretensions to drama. The Celtics surged as Washington faded, the Western race heated up, Milwaukee evoked angst and the league's complexion received a much-needed face-lift.

But as the Long March toward basketball supremacy (apologies to Louisville and the Soviet Olympic squad) draws to an end, with dunks sandwiched between slapshots and short hoppers, the teams play maddeningly efficient hoop, tempered only by the chaotic last two minutes.

The first half lolls to an idyllic close. The third quarter, hardly noticeable, drifts by, highlighted by the occasional interesting and much-heralded Change in Momentum. The fourth quarter represents an inconsequential primary--mere prelude to the real war waged in the last 120 seconds.

Those precious seconds often expand to fill 12 commercials. Every big play demands a time out; each coaching strategem a countermove. Teams trailing by a significant margin throw up arching three-point attempts and play a full-court press. Leads change hands; clutch buckets take on anomalous importance.

Then the game ends abruptly, with the exception of overtime duels.

And to think you can read a full account in the morning paper. Without taking two hours to get to the point, without the tension interrupted by beer ads, without the cloying Musberger telling you over and over again how great the game is, and how the next one will surely be greater, and the next greater still.