by Larry Bird
"Look, I can't wait a year," Slick told Bird. "Our franchise can't afford it. So if you are going back to school, you've got to tell me, because I'll trade the pick. But if you come out, I'll take you."
There was no hesitation in Bird's reply. He had promised his mother Georgia he would leave Indiana State with a degree. Although Georgia's financial situation was still tenuous, she remained steadfast in insisting that her son earn that diploma.
"My mom didn't care about the money," Bird explained. "She was hanging in there. It wasn't a life-or-death situation. If it was, maybe I would have made a different decision."
Leonard and Bird drained a couple more Heinekens before they amicably shook hands and parted ways. As he was leaving the Hyatt, Bird asked Jukes to hold on a moment. He hopped on the escalator, riding up, then down again, with childish delight.
Although he was disappointed that Bird would not be wearing a Pacers uniform, Slick was hardly devastated. At that time there were questions about Bird's body type, his quickness, and his temperament. No one was projecting him to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer.
"I liked Larry," Leonard said, "but, c'mon now. Nobody knew he was that good."
True to his word, Leonard dealt the number-one pick to the Portland Trailblazers in exchange for guard Johnny Davis, center Clement Johnson, and the number-three pick in the 1978 draft, which the Pacers used to select Kentucky big man Rick Robey.
Now it was the Trailblazers' turn to woo the reluctant ISU forward. Bird was barraged with phone calls at his French Lick home from Portland executive Stu Inman. After a while, Georgia Bird, able to distinguish Inman's voice, would politely but firmly hang up the phone.
Inman's sales pitch to Bird included the prospect of playing alongside a certain future Hall of Famer.
"Larry," Inman said, "you are missing out on an opportunity to play with Bill Walton. He is one of the greatest centers ever to play the game."
"He's hurt all the time," Bird bluntly replied.
(Although Bird, who would later play alongside Walton with the Celtics during their 1986 championship season, counts Walton among his closest friends, he was accurate in his assessment. In Walton's first two seasons in the league, he broke his nose, wrist, and leg. After leading Portland to an NBA championship in the 1977 season, Walton broke his foot in 1978, played in just 58 games, and demanded a trade during the off-season because of what he perceived to be unethical treatment from the team doctors. When the Blazers refused to deal him, the big redhead sat out the entire 1978–79 season in protest. The broken foot led to a myriad of problems that severely hampered his career and later required him to undergo fusion surgery on his ankle.)
Although Bird was as adamant with the Blazers about his intentions to return to Indiana State, Portland remained undeterred, emptying its Rolodex in attempts to reach out to numerous contacts to whisper in Larry's ear.
"I swear Portland had everyone working it," Bird said. "Total strangers would come up to me and say, 'I can't believe you're not going to the pros! You have a chance to take care of your family for life. Why do you need to go to school?'
"I kept telling them, 'No, I'm going back. I'm going back.' I wasn't changing my mind."
Inman made some inquiries about Bird and discovered he was fiercely loyal, uncommonly stubborn, and had a quick temper and a taste for beer. Inman had concerns about the forward's maturity and conditioning. On draft day, Portland selected Minnesota forward Mychal Thompson with the first overall pick. The Blazers' intent was to pluck Bird with their other first-round selection, the seventh pick, but Boston, selecting sixth, grabbed him before Portland had the chance.
Red Auerbach made the selection without ever speaking to Bird about his professional aspirations. The Celtics general manager already knew all about Indiana State's prized player. The day Larry's World Invitational Tournament teammates saw Red walking down the stairs, he was there to evaluate Bird. He had also been monitoring Bird through reports from scouts John Killilea and K. C. Jones. Killilea returned home from an extended road trip to the Midwest and gushed to Auerbach, "Red, I think I've just found the next Rick Barry. He can shoot from anywhere. And you won't believe what a great passer this kid is."
"I trusted Killilea," said Auerbach, "but I also thought he was exaggerating."
Auerbach placed a call to his friend Bob Knight, who assured him that Bird's missteps in Bloomington were nothing to be concerned about.
"In fact," Auerbach reported, "Bob told me he wished he had helped the kid along more. The way he put it was, 'The only thing Bird did wrong here was not check with me before he left campus.'"
On a balmy afternoon in June, Bird was playing golf in Santa Claus, Indiana, with his longtime friend Max Gibson when a stranger hollered to them, "Larry Bird! You just got drafted by the Boston Celtics!"
"What does that mean?" Bird asked.
"Hell, I don't know," he said.
Gibson and Bird plopped down their clubs and walked inside the lounge to have a sandwich. At around 4:00 P.M., they drove to the house where they were staying and turned on the television. Back then, without the benefit of 24-hour news scrawls, Internet access, and multiple ESPN channels, there was no other way to learn about the happenings of the day than to watch the six o'clock news. Bird and Gibson sat around talking about fishing, golf, and hunting until the NBA report finally aired. The forward listened, shrugged, then shut off the TV set. The magnitude of what Auerbach had done was lost on him.
"Max was a lot more excited about it than I was," Bird said.
Throughout Bird's senior season at Indiana State, members of the Celtics began appearing at the Hulman Center, often without warning. K. C. Jones, coach Tommy Heinsohn, Celtics star Dave Cowens, and even Auerbach himself intermittently appeared to check on their investment.
***
In the meantime, scouts from nearly every NBA team were also traversing the country with a Michigan State schedule in their pockets. They too had number 33 circled—Magic's college number with the Spartans. Johnson had already carefully mapped out his future basketball plans in his head. If all went well, he intended to turn pro after his sophomore season, and NBA executives knew it. In fact, Magic had nearly made the jump after his freshman year, even going so far as to meet with the Kansas City Kings, but the two parties couldn't agree on a suitable salary and Johnson went back to Michigan State, where he planned to cement his standing as a top draft pick.
In contrast to Bird, Johnson was a student of the pro game and had emulated his idols Wilt Chamberlain, Dave Bing, and Julius Erving on the playgrounds of Lansing.
Since he nearly always outlasted his friends, who grew tired of shooting or were called home to supper, Johnson often played 1-on-1 games with himself, counting his first crossover and jump shot as two points for Wilt and then his post move as two for Bill Russell.
"I wanted to play in the NBA in the worst way," Johnson said.
But first Magic wanted to win a college championship, and he was convinced that 1978–79 would be the year. Most of the nucleus of the MSU team that had advanced to the Regional Finals were back, including the reliable Terry Donnelly—whose timely shooting figured prominently in their postseason run—scorer Jay Vincent, and the rugged Ron "Bobo" Charles, who gladly handled the dirty work up front. Kelser was a senior, an explosive and gifted athlete who had meshed beautifully with Magic's game.
Heathcote was also excited about a highly touted freshman from Buchanan, Michigan, named Gerald Busby, who he felt could be a regular contributor before the year was out.
"Gerald had Jordan-like jumping ability," said Magic. "We had him marked down as a sure-fire NBA player."
Johnson was alone practicing perimeter jump shots in an empty Jenison Field House during the first week of September 1978 when Heathcote waved him over to tell him Sports Illustrated had chosen him to appear on the cover of its college basketball preview issue. There would be no cheerleaders alongside him promoting college's best-kept secret: the word w
as already out on Magic.
For the cover photo of the November 27, 1978, issue, he donned a black tuxedo and top hat with a white vest and patent leather shoes. In the photograph, Magic is leaping through the air, laying the ball in wearing both the tuxedo and his trademark smile. The heading declares, "Super Sophs," and the tagline reads, "Michigan State's classy Earvin Johnson."
Magic was so anxious to see the cover that he didn't wait to swipe it from the coaches' lounge. He called his father, Earvin Johnson Sr., and told him to scoop up ten copies at the newsstand instead. When Earvin Sr. went downtown to buy the magazine, the racks were empty. The good people of Lansing had bought them all up. When Magic went home for his annual dentist's appointment, the receptionist lamented that someone had lifted their copy too.
"That was one special day in the Johnson home," said Magic's father. "For a young black man from Lansing, Michigan, to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated? I told my wife, 'Now I have seen everything.'"
Just as it had done for Bird, Johnson's cover shot raised his already considerable profile to new heights. Opposing fans from various Big Ten cities lined up, Sharpie pen and Sports Illustrated cover in hand, seeking his signature. Magic almost always obliged. Nine times out of ten, whether he was in Columbus, Ohio, or Minneapolis, he'd sign the magazine, receive a heartfelt "Thank you!" then absorb a raucous "Go Buckeyes!" or "Gophers rule!" as he turned to walk away.
Back in Terre Haute, someone showed Bird the glitzy cover with Magic decked out in formal attire.
"Good," was Bird's reaction. "Let someone else deal with all the attention."
Michigan State's first true measuring stick was a preseason exhibition game against the Russian national team, which was touring the United States and playing select colleges. The Soviets were a methodical team that simply could not keep pace with Johnson and Kelser. Michigan State ran them off the floor, 76–60, barraging them with repeated fast-break baskets.
The game, televised nationally on HBO, drew some interested observers: the Indiana State Sycamores, who gathered at Bird and Bob Heaton's off-campus house to watch the game. ISU was scheduled to play the Russians the following week, and while Bird tried to focus on the Soviets, he couldn't help but be dazzled by what Earvin "Magic" Johnson had done to them.
"At that point I knew very little about Magic," Bird said. "But I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Magic ran those guys like a pro team. Any miss and they'd be off, running the break. His angles on his passes were perfect. He looked kind of awkward bringing the ball up with that big body, but he was always one step ahead of everyone."
When Magic and Michigan State had completed their thrashing of the Russians, Bird turned to his teammates and said, "Boys, you are watching the best team in the country."
Bird began the evening sitting next to Nicks on a sagging couch and bragging about how he was going to dominate the Soviets. He pointed to one Russian forward and explained in explicit detail how he was going to embarrass him in the post. He pointed to another and promised to rain jump shots on his head. "There ain't nobody out there that can guard me," he boasted.
"That's what he started out saying," said Nicks. "But by the end he was saying, 'That Magic, he's incredible.'"
Bird backed up his bravado on November 20 as ISU stunned the Soviets 83–79 behind 22 points and 13 rebounds from their forward. Thus, Indiana State became one of just four colleges that beat the Russians.
Both Michigan State and Indiana State utilized their victories over the Soviets as a springboard to their regular season before departing for opposite corners of the country.
The Sycamores flew to Deland, Florida, where they easily dispatched East Carolina (102–79) and Cleveland State (102–71) to win the Hatter Classic.
At that juncture, Indiana State was 6–0, but Bird, the architect of the win streak who averaged over 31 points and 13.6 rebounds during that stretch, still wasn't impressed.
"We were winning, but we really hadn't played anybody yet," Bird explained.
For its Christmas tournament on December 18, Michigan State flew west to Portland, Oregon, where they were scheduled to play Washington State, Heathcote's alma mater. The Wazzus were ranked 10th in the country and led by Don Collins, who later played for the Washington Bullets in the NBA.
The normally effusive Heathcote was strangely closed-mouthed in the days leading up to the game against his beloved school, where he had also worked as an assistant coach for seven seasons.
"Like a bulldog, he was so tight," Magic said. "I could tell the game meant a lot to him. He had all of his old friends in the stands watching."
The day before the game, Magic called a players-only meeting and explained the significance of the matchup to Heathcote. "We can't let him down," Magic told them.
Michigan State trounced Washington State by 46 points. As they walked off the court, Magic nudged Heathcote with his elbow.
"Coach, that one was for you," he said.
The next day, just before Michigan State tipped off against Oregon State, Indiana coach Bob Knight, whose team had just beaten Oregon, shook Heathcote's hand and said, "C'mon now, Jud. Make it an all–Big Ten final."
Michigan State dispatched Oregon State by 8, then spanked Indiana 74–57 in the championship. Magic submitted 20 points and 7 assists against the Hoosiers.
The Spartan players were euphoric about their performance but also anxious to return home to ring in the New Year with friends and family. On December 30, they boarded a flight to Seattle that was supposed to connect them to a flight back home to Michigan, but a blinding snowstorm diverted them to Denver. There, with his team gathered around the baggage carousel, Heathcote received the official word: the new college rankings listed Michigan State as the number-one team in the country.
The newly minted team made it as far as Minneapolis the following day before inclement weather again left them stuck in a hotel, rinsing out socks and underwear on New Year's Eve.
By the time they finally landed in Detroit two days later, on January 2, the players were tired, cranky, and irritated. The wait for their bags was interminable. Ten, then twenty minutes passed. Heathcote approached an airline representative, demanding that their luggage be brought out to them. Another ten minutes passed.
"There was steam coming out of his ears," Magic said.
Finally, Heathcote could wait no longer. He climbed onto the conveyer belt and rode down the shoot after the luggage. Minutes later, he was escorted through a side door with a security guard on either arm, as his players convulsed with laughter.
"I get very impatient when I'm traveling," Heathcote said.
When the Spartans finally did return to Lansing, they had not practiced for a week. Although the team rallied to beat their next two opponents, they went on to drop four of the next six games, including a blowout loss to lowly Northwestern on February 3. That defeat dropped Michigan State to 4–4 in the Big Ten.
The number-one ranking was a distant memory, and so was the jubilation of their Far West Classic championship.
Heathcote called a team meeting and chastised his players for not submitting a solid defensive effort, not working hard enough on the glass, and failing to play with the proper concentration.
Then it was the players' turn to sound off. Kelser went first. "Our mistakes are exacerbated by your tirades," Kelser told Heathcote. "You need to back off. You are also relying on Earvin too much. It's made us too predictable."
One by one, the players weighed in. Vincent said he was playing tentatively because he was afraid if he made a mistake he'd get yanked off the court. Magic told Heathcote he felt stifled with the offense they were running.
"Coach," Magic implored Heathcote, "let me take the ball and go!"
The coaches and players had reached a stalemate. Heathcote and his staff wanted better fundamentals and a more consistent commitment. His players wanted more freedom and less harassment.
Reserve John Longaker, a Rhodes Scholar who rarely played key minutes
but was respected by his teammates for his high basketball IQ, stood up and declared, "We're not playing Michigan State basketball. What happened to all that confidence we had earlier in the year? Earvin, what happened to all that cockiness you had that kept us going?"
"He was right," Magic admitted. "We weren't playing with the same swagger."
"I was glad John said something," Heathcote said, "because he was one of the only guys Earvin would listen to."
Longaker, who went on to become a physician at Stanford Medical School, spoke plainly to Johnson about his academic deficiencies and the need for him to apply the same self-discipline he exhibited in his workouts to his studies. He taught Johnson how to organize his assignments and budget his time.
Longaker was one of the few players who wasn't afraid to challenge Johnson. During that team meeting, he implored Johnson to stop pointing fingers and look at himself.
After each player aired his concerns, Heathcote pledged to provide his point guard with more leeway and agreed to make a concerted effort to scream a little less. The meeting adjourned without properly addressing one more unspoken issue.
Although the Spartans were a close team, there were occasions when Magic's gigantic personality became all-encompassing. That was occasionally bothersome to Kelser, who was the team's leading scorer and rebounder but who was clearly overshadowed by his dynamic teammate.
"The truth is, we had two superstars—Magic and Kelser—but Magic was getting all the ink," Heathcote said. "Earvin understood it was a problem, but it was just his personality. He couldn't help that everyone loved him. He was such an easy guy to gravitate towards, and sometimes that was difficult for his teammates."
Kelser rarely vocalized his frustrations. He and Johnson were great friends and spent many nights dancing at the clubs in Lansing together. Yet Heathcote detected hints of Kelser's mindset in the locker room.
