There are three basic breeds of professional basketball fan, and yes, that means there are still at least three fans in captivity, somewhere.

You have the bandwagon hoppers, perpetually ready to engrave the Hall of Fame plaque of every excessively hyped rookie who can tie his own shoelaces.

You have the grumpy old men who won’t accept any achievement after the advent of the 3-point stripe. Favorite assertion: All Michael Jordan knew how to do was dunk.

And then you have the silent majority who are right; who accept that good is good in any eon and recognize that measuring players of different centuries with the same tape is akin to playing “Rate-A-Record” with Vivaldi and the Village People.

It just doesn’t work.

So, for this weekend at least, can we agree to set generation envy aside and give George Mikan the maddest props for what he was?

Mikan, who died Wednesday night at 80 due to complications from diabetes, was the original big man, and not merely within the boundaries of the National Basketball Association.

He was Andre the Giant wrestling five midgets. He was George Scott steamrolling 5-foot-4 Freddie Patek to break up a double play. He was Deacon Jones grabbing a quarterback by the helmet and dropping him like a Hefty bag at the curbside on Monday morning.

In the epoch of basketball played beneath the rim, Big George stood closer to that rim than any human being before him, and he made dribbling through that narrow strip and toward that modified peach basket more foolhardy than running a post pattern with your head down.

Hey, you know that sky hook Kareem Abdul-Jabbar allegedly made famous? Here’s a news flash: He stole it.

That take-your-junior-high-garbage-to-the-playground swat that has yielded Mark Eaton, Dikembe Mutombo and Yao Ming eight billion blocked shots between ’em? Yup, they borrowed it. Or learned it from an old-timer who learned it from an old-timer who was victimized by the same maneuver as performed by one George Mikan.

It’s true, certain athletes so dominate their contemporaries that they inspire league-wide rules changes in the name of restoring decency and interest.

Most of those variations are relatively minor, though, in the panoramic view. Bob Gibson convinced Major League Baseball to lower the height of the pitcher’s mound. Golf courses rebuilt and extended fairways to prevent Tiger Woods from winning every major championship until kingdom come.

Those wrinkles changed the mathematics of the game, not the science. Obscene talent is still obscene talent, no matter how big a box you wrap it in.

The NCAA and NBA, on the other hand, used methods of Mikan-proofing basketball that surely inspired Dr. James Naismith to pivot in his grave.

That pencil-thin paint was widened to the point that Charles Barkley’s shadow couldn’t block it out. They also invented a violation called goaltending with Mikan’s name stamped all over it. Call it good business. The other team needed to score, after all.

OK, so I err on the side of grumpy old man. I don’t believe anybody in the league right now under the age of 25 not named LeBron or Dwyane would have any business on the same court as Magic, Michael, Larry or Kareem.

Let’s take that one jump-stop further. Had a certain freak of nature named George Mikan not arrived 40 years ahead of his time, there would be no Magic, no Michael, no Larry, and certainly no Yao or Tim Duncan.

Please, please, please spare me the yeah-buts that Mikan played in a lily-white league or came along before coaches were savvy enough to dream up defensive wizardry that would have left a blur in his nearsighted eyes.

Without the benefit of a shoe contract, a $100 million salary and a thousand hangers-on to share it with, George Mikan revolutionized the game of basketball. Period. End of history lesson.

If even one of his wealthy descendants pays attention or homage, it’ll be a beautiful day. But I’m not holding my breath.

Is that grumpy and old enough for you?

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].