Anyone remember Robin Ficker?

I was thumbing threw some old articles off of Google and came across this one.

Totally forgot about this guy, but it brought back some memories reading about some of his antics.

http://www.sacbee.com/content/sports/basketball/kings/story/11716398p-12604882c.html

Ailene Voisin: Heckling is an art, and this guy rules

By Ailene Voisin -- Bee Sports Columnist

I hate to disagree with Minnesota coach Flip Saunders, but the fine art of NBA heckling is in serious decline. None of these modern entertainers - the goofy middle-aged mailman who sits behind the radio crew in his replica Kings uniform, the rowdy bunch in Utah, those tart-tongued fellows in Philadelphia - are as verbally gifted as the late Leon "The Barber" Bradley or criminal attorney Robin Ficker.

Those guys, they were pros.

They provoked. They annoyed. They offended. They were also wonderfully creative, often amusing, and at times absolutely hilarious. From seats located within feet of the visitors' bench in Troy, Mich., and Landover, Md., respectively, they sang low blows and high notes at the top of their voices. They were too much a spectacle to be ignored. And while innumerable players and coaches secretly envisioned ripping out their vocal cords, the unofficial policy of the 1980s and 1990s was understood and enforced by all: The paying customer has a right to voice an opinion.

The alternative was the same then as now. If you can't stand the noise, get out of the building. Or wear earplugs. Another option is simply to sit back and enjoy.

"As long as we can say something back," said Doug Christie, grinning, "I don't have a problem with it. I hear a lot of stuff about (signaling) my wife. I heard the stories about Leon when I first came in the league, and that guy (Ficker) in Washington ... some of that stuff is really very funny."

Indeed, while there is nothing humorous about fans pelting players with objects and players responding with fists and forays into the stands, those associated with the league (and Latrell Sprewell) could use a little reality check here. Fans just aren't what they used to be, or even who they used to be.

Outrageous ticket prices have forced many of the most impassioned fans into the nosebleed sections, or worse, back to their living rooms. Lower-bowl seats have become the domain of the upper class, in many arenas occupied almost exclusively by corporate clientele.

The result is a better-behaved, better-dressed but less emotionally engaged and enthusiastic audience. The obnoxious goofy guy is a rarity, the prolific baiter a solo sound in the night. The death of longtime Detroit Pistons loyalist Leon Bradley left the league with one acknowledged bellower - Ficker - but only briefly; when the Wizards moved into the MCI Center and shifted his seats behind the basket, the defense lawyer relinquished his right to make a scene.

"When I go to the Kennedy Center, I don't yell, 'You're hitting the wrong note,' " Ficker explained Thursday from his cell phone. "But football and basketball games are different. You experience a vicarious thrill. You can be part of the game. I know I had an effect on the players and coaches. They were always looking at me and paying attention. Some of them even mentioned me in their books. It wouldn't have been as fun (behind the baseline)."

Ficker - whose son (Flynn) is on the wrestling team at UC Davis, by the way - prepped for games with the studied approach of a trial lawyer. He spent hours perusing newspapers, magazines, books, police reports, and often startled players and coaches by reciting aloud intimate details of their lives. Child support issues, for instance, were among the touchier subjects. Yet as irritating as he could be -and, yes, many a coach tried to have him banned -he adhered to a code of conduct that he suggests modern fans should adopt.

No obscenity. No sexually explicit references. No racial epithets. No alcohol. Everything else was part of the game.

Among the more infamous of Ficker's full-throated offerings were these: He read direct passages from Phil Jackson's book that detailed the coach's divorce; tore pages from a copy of Pat Riley's book on leadership and crumpled them to the floor; brought bags of vegetables and urged Charles Barkley to stay off the Big Macs; dangled oversized dice at Michael Jordan; placed dozens of rubber spiders near the bench upon learning of Alonzo Mourning's arachnophobia; and after watching Don Nelson diagram a play during a timeout, barked at the players to run a different route.

"Another time I looked out at Manute Bol, Rick Mahorn and Barkley and said, 'I'm looking at the biggest baloney sandwich in the NBA,' " related Ficker. "After the game, Charles and Mahorn come over and squeezed me and said, 'We're going to make salami out of you.' Charles would even leave notes on my seat before games, telling me how many points he was going to score. I still love that guy."

Most of the players and coaches were tolerant, he said, and many seemed at least mildly entertained, though in one well-publicized incident, Chris Mullin dumped a bucket of Gatorade on Ficker's head before walking off the court.

But when the Wizards moved his seats, Ficker said, he gave it all up. The prep work. The bantering. The antics. The love of the game and the players. These days, he satisfies his competitive urges in the courtroom, though he clings fiercely to his legacy. "It was always me and Leon," Ficker said. "That's what everyone says. Now it's just me."