LONG BEACH, Calif.--Things are different out here in California. Not always better, mind you. But definitely different.

We've got baked beans. They've got tofu. We've got snow. They've got smog. We've got Michael Dukakis and Majority Leader George Keverian. They've got Ronald Reagan and Mayor Clint Eastwood.

And here in the land of vanity plates, pony tails, Star Maps, skate rats, Beach Boys, tree huggers and jay walking tickets, they play a different brand of basketball.

We've got the Celtics. They've got the Lakers. Then again, they've also got the Clippers, the Warriors, and the Kings. See? Not necessarily better, but necessarily different.

The Harvard men's basketball team got a taste of left-coast hoops over break at the Long Breach Classic. The Crimson faced off with Southern California in its opening game. As Harvard Coach Peter Roby said, "We don't see too many teams like USC in the Ivy League."

You could tell from the pre-game shoot-around that the Trojans were quintessential Californians. Funky lay-ups. Funky dunks. Funky turn-around jumpers. Funky purple-and-gold warm up suits. Enormous, yet funky, L.A. Gear sneakers with funky purple shoelaces. A couple of funky dance moves to the funky tunes jamming over the P.A.

And the funky superstar Harold Miner. The laid-back Inglewood native is California. He doesn't play much defense, doesn't fight through ticks, doesn't bang around the boards with the big boys, doesn't work up much of a sweat. He's lazy, but damn, he's good. Smoother than silk, smoother than a baby's behind--pick your own smooth simile. He can play ball. His off-balance jumpers look funny, but they hit nothing but net. He may not run much, but when he does, he's a blur. And on the rare occasions he decides to get a rebound, he skies. They call him Baby Jordan--he's got the Great One's hairdo (or lack thereof), flapping tongue and jump-out-of-the-gym dunk crossed with B.J. Armstrong's oh-so-innocent, what-me-worry baby face.

Against the overmatched Crimson, Miner's head seemed miles away. He didn't seem to want the ball. His jumpers seemed like afterthoughts. But the sophomore guard still poured in 31 points in only 27 minutes as the Trojans cruised passed Harvard, 103-76. You had to wonder what would have happened if Miner had left La La Land and summoned up an iota of intensity.

After watching the blowout, USC Coach Geoge Raveling did not day say he wanted to go to Disney Land.

However, he did complain that Miner looked bored on the court. He did badmouth his team's lackluster performance. But that's Raveling for you. He can't stand Miner's Rodeo Drive style. He wants to see discipline. He wants to see concentration. And he wants to see the kind of intensity you'd find in a Bloods-Crips rumble in East L.A.

Raveling is not a Californian by any stretch of the imagination. But you don't see too many guys like him in the Ivies either. In the huddle, he's a drill sargent, bellowing a stream of juicy expletives at his troops. On the bench, he's a no-nonsense high school principle, lecturing his players, lecturing the referees, stalking the sidelines with eagle eyes riveted on the court. In the press room he's James Earl Jones, pontificating, condescending, commanding respect. Roby is tough. He can scream and curse and berate officials, too. But would he call time-out with a 25-point lead to tell off his guards at mid-court? Doubtful.

Toto, I don't think we're in Cambridge anymore.

The next night, Harvard squared off with Long Beach State. The 49ers are representative of another time-honored California breed: The Poser. (Usually seen holding a skate board or a surf board.) They look great. They talk a big game. But they are not very good.

Long Beach had all the trappings of a professional team--and not only because mega-cheater Jerry Tarkanian used to coach there. The starters ranged from 6'5" to 6'9". The reserves were even bigger. They wore snazzy flourescent green-and-black warm-ups. They had a nationally ranked cheerleading squad. They had a seven-woman song-and-dance troupe performing a routine to MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This" during time-outs. You don't see that kind of thing at Briggs Cage.

But for all the hype and glitz, the cocky 49ers infuriated their coach, Seth Greenberg--a deadringer for Douglas Brackman of L.A. Law. They boasted a lot. They joked around a lot. But they never buckled down long enough to put away the upstarts from the Ivies. Taking what Greenberg described as "an abundance of bad shots," they were outhustled from the start and no matter how often Greenberg--another non-Californian if ever there was one--yapped at his home court referees, he couldn't buy a call.

The 49ers did manage to squeak out an 81-77 overtime win. To watch them celebrate, you'd think the finger-pointing, junk-talking Long Beach hoopsters had knocked off Tarkanian's UNLV squad, a big west rival.

On January 2, Greenberg's 12 Californians and three out-of-staters returned to the normalcy of their west-coast schedule, dropping a league game to Pacific. That same night, the Trojans found themselves on the short end of a 98-81 decision to arch-rival UCLA.

Meanwhile, the 2-9 Crimson was aching to get back to the friendly confines of Briggs Cage, of Cambridge, of the East. No more cherry coke at the press table. No more cotton candy hawkers in the stands. No more song-and-dance troupes behind the basket. And no PAC-10 teams on the other side of the scorers table.

California basketball was certainly different. And maybe just a little bit better.