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What: SLAM magazine, Sept. ’97 issue.

Price: $4.50.

If nothing else, you stop and take notice when an NBA-worshiping magazine lets its best writer start off a profile of Christian Laettner like this:

“I’m a racist. It’s just that simple,” Scoop Jackson writes. “There is no excuse, no explanation, no exaggerated, drawn-out saga to tell and no specific point of reference to justify why; I just am. I have a tendency not to like some white people simply because they are . . . white.”

And, after establishing his street credentials with several more similar paragraphs, Jackson moves on to a sympathetic look at the oft-reviled Laettner.

Turns out Laettner can talk hip, is a good player and, gee, he’s really misunderstood. In earlier issues, the same plot has been played out with Allen Iverson and Shawn Kemp.

Which pretty much tells you all you need to know about this flawed but appealing magazine: It might be the first significant attempt to create a sports publication with serious anti-mainstream attitude, drawing more from Interview magazine and Vibe (and the ego journalism of Vanity Fair) than Sports Illustrated or Golf Digest.

There’s a randomness to SLAM--how is it possible that there are two articles on Alameda prep star Ray Young prophesying his NBA days in this issue?--and most of the graphic action seems over-hyped and more likely to give you a headache than a reason to dive into the stories.

But there is room in this world for a magazine that tries to explain Iverson, or devotes a page to Doug Christie, and has this tart evaluation of Clipper draftee Maurice Taylor in its draft preview:

“Taylor’s big, but not big enough. He can shoot, but not with enough range. He has talent, but also an inflated self-worth. At least he won’t be around Ann Arbor when the authorities arrive.”

As long as SLAM can pump in that kind of punchy perspective, mixed with the loving looks at rapper-hoopsters, this is a magazine to watch.