When the Game Was Ours

by Larry Bird

  "Magic was nonstop chatter," said Rutgers star James Bailey. "And Larry said zero. It was 'Good morning,' and don't expect a lot more."

  The World Invitational Tournament was the concoction of television executive Eddie Einhorn. While professional basketball in the 1970s produced dismal ratings, the colleges, provided the matchups had some national appeal, were proving to be a market with potential.

  Einhorn had already successfully televised exhibition games against Russians and felt that a competition with some international flavor would prove to be successful. Thus, the WIT was born.

  Einhorn enlisted the help of Brandeis athletic director Dick Rodis and Providence College basketball coach Dave Gavitt, prominent members of the Amateur Basketball Association of the United States (later renamed USA Basketball), to fill out the roster around the Kentucky players.

  "At that time, I really didn't even know who Magic and Larry were," Einhorn admitted. "I would venture to say most other people didn't either."

  Gavitt was painfully aware of the abilities of Michigan State's imposing point guard. Just weeks earlier, Magic and his Spartans had steamrolled Gavitt's Providence Friars in the opening round of the 1978 NCAA Mideast Regional in Indianapolis. Magic scored 14 points and dished out 7 assists, but his ability to push tempo and provide his teammates with high-percentage shots (Michigan State hit 61 percent of its field goals) was what caught Gavitt's eye. Johnson saw the game differently than the other players, almost as if he were watching the action unfold in slow motion.

  Bird's Indiana State team posted a 23–9 mark that spring but was left out of the NCAA field, relegated instead to the less prestigious NIT tournament. Gavitt had never seen him play and knew little about him. Since Indiana State was not being featured on network television, many basketball fans assumed Bird was African American.

  Boston Globe writer Bob Ryan hadn't seen Larry yet either, but was already well versed in Bird lore. Ryan was in Indianapolis to cover Providence but informed Gavitt he also was driving to Terre Haute to check out the Sycamores and this mysterious hidden gem, whom Celtics scouts assured him was a legitimate NBA prospect.

  Ryan embarked on his pilgrimage with Providence Journal sportswriters Mike Madden and Jayson Stark, who were openly skeptical of Bird's credentials. He was playing at a small school in a small conference, which, they surmised, accounted for his prolific offensive numbers.

  The writers barely had time to remove their jackets before the right-handed Bird snared a rebound and started up the left side of the floor dribbling left-handed. Just shy of midcourt, he fired an underhand rocket pass to his guard off the dribble for a lay-up.

  "From that moment on, I was hooked," said Ryan.

  Indiana State went on to win by a point on a jumper by Bird. Ryan was so animated talking about his performance on the way back to Indianapolis, he was driving 75 miles per hour when the state police pulled him over.

  "Sorry," Ryan told the trooper. "I'm just excited because I'm coming back from the ISU game."

  "Oh, yeah?" said the cop, ripping up the ticket. "Who won?"

  The next morning the scribes were back court-side in Indianapolis to witness another legend in the making: a 6-foot-8 (and growing) floor general who dominated play without a consistent jump shot. Magic was a whirling dervish of energy and enthusiasm. Even though he was just a freshman, he barked orders to his older teammates and after every successful play slapped hands, whooped, and celebrated with his teammates. The Friars players took offense at his histrionics, particularly in light of the lopsided score (77–63).

  "Some people thought he was a hot dog," Gavitt said. "I never did. He played like he loved the game. There was a lot of high-fives and fist-pumping, which you didn't see a whole lot of back then.

  "I suppose it was annoying if you were on the other team. I asked his coach, Jud Heathcote, about it, and he said, 'Dave, he's like that every day in practice. Not some days—every day.'"

  After Gavitt met with the press and gave proper credit to Michigan State and their remarkable blossoming star, he bumped into Bob Ryan in the hallway.

  "So, how did your 'hidden gem' do in Terre Haute?" he asked.

  "Dave," Ryan answered, "I just saw one of the game's next great players."

  When it came time to flush out the World Invitational team roster, Gavitt recalled Ryan's endorsement and added both Magic and Bird to his list.

  Bird was ecstatic about being chosen, until he learned the identity of the coach. Joe B. Hall recruited Bird out of Springs Valley High School in French Lick, Indiana, but after watching him, Hall determined that Bird was "too slow" to play Division 1 basketball. A wounded Bird vowed to prove him wrong someday and was disappointed that he never had the opportunity to play against Kentucky in college.

  "I wanted a crack at that guy," Bird said.

  The odds of that happening were slim. Kentucky was one of the more prestigious programs in the country. Their conference, the Southeastern, was known primarily as a football hotbed, with heavyweights Alabama, Auburn, Florida, and Georgia among its members. The Wildcats, under the tutelage of Adolph Rupp, had established themselves as one of the top basketball powers in the country in the late 1940s, winning four NCAA championships in ten years. Indiana State simply didn't measure up, and neither did Michigan State—at least not until students named Earvin and Larry arrived on their respective campuses and instantly altered the basketball landscape.

  Michigan State competed in the glamorous Big Ten Conference, but largely in the shadow of state rival Michigan, which stole the spotlight through the years with stars like George Lee, Cazzie Russell, Rudy Tomjanovich, Phil Hubbard, and Rickey Green, all of whom would go on to enjoy successful NBA careers.

  While the Spartans produced their own crop of NBA alumni (Bob Brannum, Johnny Green, Al Ferrari, Ralph Simpson), the program experienced only moderate success. Their cachet paled in comparison to their Ann Arbor neighbors, and they were reminded of it regularly.

  "We were the stepsons," explained Heathcote. "We always told our players, every game counts just once on the schedule except for Michigan games—they counted one and a half."

  One of the few highlights in Michigan State history before Magic's arrival was the success of former coach Pete Newell, who guided the Spartans from 1950 to 1954, then migrated west to the University of California at Berkeley, where he won an NCAA championship in 1959.

  That same year, Michigan State posted a 19–4 record of its own, but that proved to be the program's high-water mark in the ensuing 18 seasons, when the team's overall record was a forgettable 204–233.

  But then, in the fall of 1977, along came Magic. At the time the enthusiasm level in MSU's home gymnasium, Jenison Field House, was, to put it politely, restrained. When word leaked that Johnson, a hometown hero who was born and raised in Lansing, had inked with State even after being heavily recruited by dozens of top programs across the country (including Michigan), every available season ticket package was snapped up within hours. That fall Earvin Johnson appeared alongside Gregory Kelser and team captain Bob Chapman on the cover of the team's press guide, the first MSU basketball freshman to be bestowed with that honor.

  There was no such fanfare when Larry "Joe" Bird unpacked his duffle bag and reported to class on the Indiana State campus in September 1975. Although there had been unconfirmed rumors of him dominating AAU tournaments and embarrassing accomplished college stars, Bird's circuitous route to Terre Haute—a brief and failed attempt to matriculate at Indiana University and a two week stay at Northwood Institute—left ISU fans either wary or ignorant of his talents.

  Not unlike Michigan State, Indiana State had grown accustomed to being a second-class sports program, dwarfed in its own region not just by Indiana University but also by Notre Dame and Purdue. The Sycamores toiled in the unheralded Missouri Valley Conference, which was dismissed as a junior varsity league when held up against the goliath Big Ten, of which Indiana and Purdue were members.

  Indiana
State's first basketball team was fielded at the turn of the twentieth century. In 1946 the school was known as Indiana State Teachers College, and the administration hired an earnest young man by the name of John Wooden to coach basketball and baseball and serve as the school's athletic director. Wooden's basketball teams went 47–14 in two seasons and were invited to the National Association of Intercollegiate Basketball tournament in 1947.

  Wooden refused the invitation because of the tournament's policy of not allowing African American athletes to participate. A member of Wooden's team, Clarence Walker, was black.

  In 1948 Wooden left what would be renamed Indiana State University to inject some life into a lackluster UCLA program. He proceeded to win ten national championships, was crowned "the Wizard of Westwood," and remains the standard by which all college coaches are measured. Indiana State, meanwhile, faded into relative obscurity.

  "I never saw anything wrong with Indiana State, but Indiana was the school when I was growing up," Bird said. "If you got recruited by IU, you had really made it."

  Both Bird and Magic qualified under those guidelines, since each appeared on Indiana coach Bob Knight's radar as high school seniors.

  Johnson still rates Knight's visit to his high school as one of the greatest thrills of his young life. Knight, who had just led Indiana to an undefeated season and a national championship, was one of the most revered—and feared—men in basketball, an unrelenting disciplinarian who demanded instant respect.

  When Johnson learned Knight was coming to Everett High School to meet with him, he woke up an hour earlier that morning, unlocked the school gym, and shot an extra 100 free throws—just in case coach Knight asked.

  "He was 'the Man' back then," Magic said.

  Knight told Magic's high school coach, George Fox, that he would meet with Johnson when school ended. Half an hour before the bell rang, Fox was walking down the hall and was stunned to see Knight leaning against the wall near Magic's classroom.

  "Coach, you're early," Fox said.

  "I always am," Knight said. "When I recruit a player, I like to see him with his peers, check out his attitude with the other students."

  The coach's clandestine observations of Johnson revealed a confident, outgoing kid who was clearly adored by his classmates and who patrolled the hallways of the school as the undisputed leader of the student body.

  When Magic sat down with Knight and Fox in Everett's cafeteria, the swagger that Knight had witnessed in the corridor quickly vanished. Johnson felt his shoulders tighten. He was nervous. The man he'd seen on television pacing the Indiana sidelines was ferocious, intimidating. But when Magic tentatively extended his hand, Knight received it warmly.

  The Indiana coach proved to be a jocular host of the recruiting session and within minutes set both Fox and Johnson at ease with his anecdotes describing his passion for the game.

  "He had a great smile," Johnson said. "I don't think I had ever seen him smile before."

  Knight laid out what he expected of all players who came to Bloomington: they were required to go to class and expected to graduate. He would not guarantee playing time or special treatment. "If you come," Knight told Magic, "you will be treated like everyone else. You will be expected to earn your spot. I don't give anybody anything. You have to prove to me you deserve it."

  The message was appealing to Johnson, who had been courted incessantly for months by schools that promised him corner lockers, starting jobs, and a few other perks (clothes, cash, cars) that were in direct violation of NCAA guidelines. It was refreshing to have someone challenge him to back up his play.

  Knight's tone was conciliatory until he sharply asked: "So, Earvin, where the hell are you going to school?"

  Both Magic and Fox were taken aback by the sudden change of tone. Coach Knight was done fooling around. There were countless kids who were dying to play for the Hoosiers. If Magic Johnson wasn't one of them, then Knight didn't want to waste his time.

  Johnson was silent for a moment, then conceded, "I'm not sure. I don't know about Indiana. If you started getting in my face, I'm not sure how I'd react to that."

  Knight cocked his head for a moment, then stood up. The interview was over. Knight shook Fox's hand and left Lansing.

  "That was it," Magic said. "I never spoke to or heard from him again.

  "To tell you the truth, I regret not taking a visit. He was a tremendous coach. And just imagine if Larry had stayed and I had gone there. The two of us would have played in college together. Now that would have been something."

  Unlike Magic, who was recruited heavily from his junior season on, many of Bird's suitors did not arrive until his senior year of high school. He quickly narrowed his list to Kentucky, ISU, and IU, although that did not deter other programs from pursuing him.

  Louisville coach Denny Crum diligently tracked Bird even though Bird refused to visit the school. He liked Crum, though, and when he discovered the Louisville coach shooting baskets in his high school gym one afternoon, he stopped to talk with him.

  "Larry, we'd like for you to come on a recruiting visit," Crum said. "We really think you'll like it."

  "I don't want to," Bird answered plainly.

  "Look," Crum said, "I'll play a game of H-O-R-S-E with you. If I beat you, you've got to come for a visit."

  Bird agreed to the terms—and almost instantly regretted his decision. Crum was a former UCLA guard under Wooden who had maintained his soft perimeter stroke. He matched Bird basket for basket for over 15 minutes, and the kid started to realize he had been hoodwinked.

  It ended like most shooting competitions Bird would compete in through the years: with his arms raised in victory. He finally eliminated Crum with a 20-foot bomb, and when Crum's last gasp rolled off the rim, Bird cheered triumphantly before noticing the agonized look on the coach's face.

  "It wasn't until then that I realized he was serious about the bet," Bird said.

  He shook Crum's hand, patted his shoulder, and said, "At least I don't have to go see your school."

  In truth, Bird couldn't imagine leaving his native state of Indiana—with the exception of one place. Kentucky, which happened to be Louisville's chief rival, was steeped in history, and Bird and his father had watched the Wildcats demolish some poor overmatched opponent on television once.

  "Now that's a first-rate program," Joe Bird had said.

  When Joe B. Hall contacted Bird, Larry brought along his parents for his official visit. All three Birds sat wide-eyed in the stands of Rupp Arena and listened to the explosion of sound when the basketball team sprinted onto the court. It was easy to be swept up in the energy and the tradition that was synonymous with Kentucky basketball. When Larry glanced over at his father, he could see that Joe Bird was suitably impressed.

  Larry was too. His father still preferred Indiana State, and his mother was fascinated with Indiana, but Bird briefly daydreamed about what it would be like to wear Kentucky blue. The university was only 135 miles from his home. The campus was beautiful, and the athletic facilities were top-notch. Yet before he ever had a chance to give the Wildcats serious consideration, Gary Holland, his high school coach in his senior year, intercepted Bird in the hallway and informed him that Hall had concerns about him being able to get his shot off in the Southeastern Conference.

  "In other words, he quit recruiting me," Bird said.

  Although Bird's outer reaction to the news was muted, he was upset and angry. He never forgave Hall for giving up on him before he had a chance to prove himself.

  "I don't know if I would have gone there," Bird said. "I liked it. They ended up taking Rick Robey instead of me. He was 6-foot-11, and they got who they wanted and went off and won a national championship. So I guess they were fine with their decision."

  With his choices narrowed to the two Indiana schools, Bird was swayed by the same no-nonsense talk Knight would deliver to Magic two years later: no shortcuts, no guarantees, and no special treatment. He was speaking the boy's language—
as well as his mother's. Georgia Bird won out. Her son Larry chose IU.

  Since the Birds didn't have a family car, Larry's uncle, Amos Kerns, tossed Bird's lone bag into the back seat of his Ford and drove him 49 miles north to Bloomington when school began. Kerns stayed for a while, then stretched his arms and told his nephew, "Good luck, man. I'll be up to see you."

  Suddenly, Bird was alone. He was not well traveled, having been content for most of his young life to stay within the confines of his county and play ball and hang with his friends. When he glanced around his dorm room, which he shared with fellow basketball recruit Jim Wisman, a wave of uneasiness overtook him. Although Wisman was by no means wealthy, when he unpacked his clothes and personal effects, Bird realized, "Man, I don't have nothing."

  As he walked the grounds of the Indiana campus, he couldn't help but notice the well-dressed students who looked nothing like his pals back in French Lick. Mindful that basketball always raised his comfort level, Bird showed up each night at Assembly Hall with Wisman and another IU freshman, Wayne Radford, with hopes of getting into the games with the varsity players. The newcomers rarely did. The regulars played game after game without including them.

  Bird and Wisman (who would later become noteworthy as the player Knight pulled off the court by his jersey on national television during one of his famous tirades in 1976) finally switched venues to the outdoor courts on campus. When word got out that there was some pretty good basketball being played there, IU varsity players Bobby Wilkes and Scott May began showing up and playing 2-on-2 with them. May, already an All-American, rained jumper after jumper over Bird, beating the young forward repeatedly with his outside touch. It was both frustrating and humiliating.

  Bird studied him carefully and realized that May had a knack of creating space for himself by leaning in as if to launch the shot, then stepping back ever so slightly when he finally did. He never shot beyond 16 or 17 feet and was meticulously mindful of his range.