Yes, kids, the world was a better place from 1984 to ’87. Professional basketball was a better game, too.

So while the next two weeks won’t really constitute a magic carpet ride to the days of offensively high shorts, tube socks and tape-delayed conference semifinal games on CBS, enjoy the illusion.

Crank up Men Without Hats and Falco.

Roll that Goldie Hawn poster out of cold storage. Or in my case, the Qaddafi “Wanted” poster with the shooting range bull’s-eye superimposed upon it. Best $12 I ever spent at the Monmouth Fair.

Celtics. Lakers. East Coast. West Coast. The Good Doc. The Zen Master. The most complete player in the NBA never to win a ring. The most explosive player in the NBA never to win a ring without his sidekick.

Could it get sweeter than this? Only if Mitch Kupchak and Kurt Rambis were to suit up and receive forearm shivers from Jerry Sichting and Scott Wedman, respectively, in the third quarter of Game 1.

Name one person who doesn’t live within a 10-mile radius of the Alamo or a Great Lake that isn’t delighted about the impending NBA Finals.

Commissioner David Stern’s pasted-on facial expression might actually morph from perpetually constipated to a full-on smile from now ’til Draft Night.

ABC executives are positively giddy about the potential of the NBA’s championship confrontation finally hauling down higher ratings than “Wife Swap.” One of them with a pregnant wife already is lobbying for the kid to be christened Rajon Gasol.

True, there is nothing romantic about the way either one of these franchises wrought this return to normalcy.

Boston basically mortgaged the second-worst team in the league and adopted the Spurs’ business plan overnight, surrounding three potential Hall of Famers with a militia of Mr. Intangibles.

Los Angeles rode out its superstar’s twice-annual tantrum long enough to steal him a supporting cast. That strategy stroked Kobe Bryant’s ego enough to convince that he’s still the umbrella in the drink, even if it’s Pau Gasol and Derek Fisher who spike the mix.

But we’re here, and that’s what matters. If you’re a fan who sat in the Real Garden or stayed up too late to watch an 11:45 p.m. start from the Real Forum, the end justifies the means.

Tell me you’re not sick of parity, of expansion, of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts.

If I had to watch one more meaningful postseason event involving the Arizona Diamondbacks, Colorado Rockies, Jacksonville Jaguars, Tampa Bay Lightning, Miami Heat, Orlando Magic or Florida Marlins, it was time to shred my red-blooded American male card and turn to soccer and the WNBA. At least I could count on Manchester United and the Houston Comets, right?

Tradition is everything in professional sports. It’s the reason my lovely, lost soul of a wife wears an Oakland Raiders pull-over, even though the next time they’ll win a Super Bowl will be the same year her Republican party holds a majority in both the Maine House and Senate.

When we’re talking NBA tradition, the discussion begins and ends with the Boston Celtics and Los Angeles Lakers. It’s no coincidence that they have ruled the sport during every era of its relevance.

George Mikan, Wilt Chamberlain and Bill Russell weren’t walking through that door in 1978. Coming off the awkward merger of the NBA and ABA, basketball ranked lower than hockey in this country, if that’s possible to comprehend.

Bird and Magic, Kareem and the Chief, James Worthy and Kevin McHale rescued the game. Without their decade of dominance, there would have been no Michael Jordan, no Shaquille O’Neal, no Kobe Bryant. Even as Jordan sold a quintillion dollars worth of sneakers in the 1990s, ratings and mainstream interest dipped like a presidential approval rating.

Yes, the Lakers held up their end of the bargain in Phil Jackson’s first administration, pre-tell-all book and pre-false rape accusations. But the Lakers on top without their historic foil at a similar zenith in the East is a little bit like calling Mike Tyson a great heavyweight when he didn’t have the benefit of fighting Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Joe Frazier or Rocky Marciano in their prime.

Celtics and Lakers. Paul and John. Mick and Keith. You can have one without the other, but it’s nothing more than a hollow solo project.

I’ll offer no predictions, and I suppose it’s no secret for whom a Boston Sports Lifer will cheer until the blood vessels in his eyes burst. Instead, I’ll blow out the candles on this 21st anniversary of the last meaningful NBA Finals and make a wish: That this superpower summit is the first of many.

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