When the Game Was Ours

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When the Game Was Ours Page 8

by Larry Bird


  The rally was successful because Magic's energy was contagious. Wilkes, often a facilitator for Kareem, started envisioning himself slashing to the hole. Nixon perked up at the idea of more shots. Chones volunteered to hound the massive Darryl Dawkins, a force in the middle whose self-proclaimed nickname, Chocolate Thunder, indicated the power with which he played the game.

  "We went from thinking we couldn't win to talking like we would win," Cooper said.

  On the night of Game 6 of the 1980 NBA Finals, Celtics forward Larry Bird sat with a small group of friends in a Boston club awaiting the Lakers-Sixers showdown. The elimination of his Celtics team by Philadelphia in the Eastern Conference Finals had deprived him of the opportunity to face Earvin "Magic" Johnson and even the score of their increasingly personal rivalry.

  Unlike most of America, which was forced to watch the game on tape delay because no major network was willing to run the NBA Finals in prime time during its sweeps period, Bird watched the game in real time. He had a friend in the television business who arranged for a live feed to be pumped into the restaurant.

  As he lamented his own rookie season, which he felt ended prematurely at the hands of Julius Erving and the Sixers, Bird admitted to his buddies he was curious how Magic would fare. He knew by charting Magic's productive box scores that he had become LA's everyman, yet even so, when Bird saw his rival step into the circle for the opening tap, he guffawed.

  "You gotta be kidding me," Bird said. "Magic can't jump!"

  Johnson didn't win the tip, but that was the only moment when his game fell short that evening. He was a catalyst offensively, driving the lane and knocking down fallaways. He was an agitator defensively, using his strong body to knock Philly off the ball. He was, as always, the most expressive player on the floor. He led Los Angeles on a 7–0 run to start the game and never looked back.

  "I found myself rooting for him even though I didn't like him," Bird said.

  Although the game was tied 60–60 at halftime, Johnson was buoyant. Chones, as promised, was thwarting Dawkins. The Sixers, as Magic predicted, were flummoxed by the Lakers' new lineup. When Johnson started hitting shots over Caldwell Jones, they switched Erving onto him. Then they tried Bobby Jones. It didn't matter. None of them could derail Earvin Johnson's momentum.

  "I knew exactly how Magic was feeling," Bird said. "There are times when you get it going and you are in this incredible place, this zone, where you are controlling the game. You feel no matter what you try, it's going to work. It's the greatest feeling in the world, because no one can stop you.

  "And nobody was going to stop Magic that night."

  The Lakers won the title with a 123–107 victory. Magic was an NBA champion on his first try, without his captain, a future Hall of Famer, in the lineup. He logged 47 out of a possible 48 minutes, was a perfect 14 of 14 from the free throw line, and finished with 42 points, 15 rebounds, and 7 assists.

  It was an unprecedented performance. Johnson was the youngest Finals MVP in history and the first rookie ever to win the award.

  Bird witnessed Magic's brilliance with conflicting emotions. He marveled at his ability and his poise under pressure, but was also overcome with envy. He left the bar feeling unsettled.

  "I was jealous and ticked off, but at the same time I was in total awe of what he had done," Bird said.

  By the time he arrived home, Bird had calmed down—until he watched Johnson's highlights on the news and became agitated all over again.

  "Damn," Bird said. "I've got to win one of these things [championships]. This guy's got two in a row. He's making me look bad."

  Earvin "Magic" Johnson had a knack for making things look easy, yet his decision to turn professional and subsequent indoctrination with the vaunted Lakers was stressful, emotional, and, in the beginning, painfully lonely.

  Magic was a pleaser, and in the spring of 1979, while he was still plucking confetti from Michigan State's championship victory parade out of his afro, his Spartan teammates were already pleading with him, "C'mon, man. Stay with us. Let's go for two championships."

  For a moment, he was legitimately tempted. Johnson had two seasons of eligibility left, loved being "the Magic Man" on campus, and felt the Spartans could repeat as champions if he stayed in school. Yet the lure of the NBA was irresistible.

  Greg Kelser was graduating and had already hired an agent who promoted himself, in part, by saying he had done some work for NBA star Julius Erving.

  Erving was one of Magic's idols. Dr. J signed with the Virginia Squires of the ABA after leaving the University of Massachusetts early and had thrived as a professional. Forbidden by NCAA regulations to dunk in college, Erving became the master of high-flying slams, and when the ABA merged with the NBA, Dr. J became one of the league's first bona-fide superstars.

  "Do you think your agent could hook me up on the phone with Dr. J?" Magic asked Kelser. "I'd like to ask him his advice."

  Erving knew all about Johnson and his gifted passing skills. He not only agreed to talk with him, he invited Magic and Kelser to stay at his suburban Philadelphia home during the 1979 NBA playoffs. They bunked in the guest room, fussed over by Erving's wife Turquoise, and were given passes into the Sixers locker room. Both players were amazed at how big the pro players were, far more imposing than they appeared on 24-inch black-and-white television sets.

  Dr. J sat down with Johnson and briefed him on the challenge in front of him. Erving had left school as a college junior and by doing so missed an opportunity to be an Olympian. Magic would also be giving up that dream if he went pro, he said. Dr. J explained that, whatever decision he made, someone would be disappointed.

  "If you go pro, some of your college teammates will resent you," he said. "If you stay in school, your family might be upset you won't be in a position to assist them financially."

  Erving also outlined the difference between a college basketball season and the long, often grueling lifestyle of a professional basketball player.

  "Are you ready to be in a man's world?" Erving asked. "This is 82 games now, not 30. Can you handle the demands on your body? Can you handle the drudgery? It's going to be totally different. You think you know, but trust me, you don't. Be ready for the ups and downs, because they're coming."

  Magic was ready. He'd been waiting for this moment since he was 12 years old. He declared himself eligible for the NBA draft and braced himself for the inevitable commotion it would cause.

  His decision was indeed a newsmaker, but not in the manner he expected. An article by Joe Falls of the Detroit Free Press detailed why Johnson would not make a good pro. Falls questioned (correctly at that time) whether Magic had the range or the accuracy to be a legitimate outside shooter. He maintained that Magic's no-look passes wouldn't be successful in the NBA and called into question Johnson's defensive capabilities. Falls was also skeptical that a player of Johnson's size could succeed as a point guard in a league that put a premium on quickness and athleticism.

  Magic had known Falls since high school. He was an influential columnist, and his words were stunning. They also ticked Johnson off.

  "Did you hear about this?" he asked Kelser, whom he roused out of bed with an early morning telephone call.

  "Did you read Joe Falls this morning?" said Magic to Heathcote when he arrived at the Spartans gym.

  "Ah, don't worry, that's just Joe," Heathcote said.

  Johnson was already motivated to make his mark in the NBA, but Falls's prose became the impetus he needed to stay an extra hour, shoot an extra hundred jump shots, and run through an extra set of defensive slides.

  "Joe Falls did me a favor," Magic said. "He helped me get ready for the NBA as much as anybody."

  Johnson's new NBA home would be determined by a coin flip between the Chicago Bulls and the Los Angeles Lakers to see who selected first in the 1979 draft.

  After meeting with Johnson, Bulls general manager Rod Thorn and coach Jerry Sloan, an old-school coach who abhorred glitz and flair, were gidd
y at the prospect of building around him.

  "Magic was just so disarming because of his charisma," Thorn said. "We were asking him questions, but the next thing you know, he was interviewing us. Even Jerry was getting excited."

  Magic's visit with the Lakers also went well. He walked out convinced they would take him if they selected first—until he read an LA Times article on the plane ride home discussing general manager Jerry West's fascination with Arkansas star Sidney Moncrief, the team's plans to bring in UCLA forward David Greenwood for an interview, and speculation that the Lakers could use the draft selection to trade for a power forward.

  "Maybe they don't like me as much as I think," he confided to his father.

  What Magic didn't know was that Dr. Jerry Buss, the future owner of the Lakers who was about to buy the team from Jack Kent Cooke, told the Lakers front office that he expected the team to draft Magic.

  "They resisted because Jerry West really liked Moncrief too," Buss said. "But I told them, 'It's Magic, or find yourself another buyer.'"

  The coin flip was determined over a squawk box in an empty conference room. Thorn was in Chicago, Lakers executive Bill Sharman was in Los Angeles, and the NBA's legal counsel, David Stern, was in New York presiding over the toss.

  The Bulls capitalized on the event as a promotional opportunity to let the fans vote on whether the call should be heads or tails. The Chicago fans voted heads.

  "It came up tails," Thorn said. "They got a Hall of Famer in Magic Johnson, and we got David Greenwood."

  Greenwood played six years for the Bulls and enjoyed an unremarkable career that spanned twelve seasons and four teams.

  Larry Bird's NBA destination was already secure in the spring of 1979, but the timing of his arrival in Boston remained in doubt. When Indiana State's season finally ended in heartbreak in Salt Lake City at the hands of Michigan State, the Celtics made a pitch to sign Bird for the final eight games of their season. He declined in order to complete his student teaching obligations so he could finally earn his diploma.

  That meant reporting to West Vigo High School in Terre Haute as a physical education and health teacher and assistant baseball coach. Bird was scheduled to begin in March, but each time Indiana State advanced in the tournament, he called West Vigo's baseball coach, Dave Ballenger, to apologize and postpone his arrival. After the third call, Ballenger finally told Bird, "What are you apologizing for? I'm going to the game!"

  Although Auerbach was persuasive in his argument to lure Bird to Boston, informing Bird that he would be the first player in history to compete in both an NCAA game and NBA game in the same month, the young forward opted instead to teach flag football, badminton, and dodge ball. His duties also included teaching a CPR course and driver's education.

  While the Celtics dropped seven of those final eight regular games, Bird tooled around with high school students in a specially equipped vehicle that had a break on the passenger side in case the young drivers panicked. "We had some close calls," Bird said, "but I always had my left hand ready in case I needed to grab the wheel."

  Bird's most difficult—and rewarding—assignment at West Vigo was the three or four times he taught a classroom of mentally disabled children. He spent the majority of the class chasing his students down the hall and ushering them back to their seats after they bolted upright and scampered out of the room without warning.

  "It was an unbelievable experience," Bird said. "And at times very overwhelming. I can't tell you how much respect I have for people who have made it their life's work to help those kids."

  In the evening, Bird played basketball at the Boys and Girls Club in Terre Haute and occasionally filled in for Bob Heaton's softball team. One night in early April, he arrived at the diamond to discover that his brother Mike was on the opposite team.

  Bird was manning left field when Mike lofted a line drive toward him. The fly ball started out straight, then sank dramatically at the last moment, like a Tim Wakefield knuckleball. Larry bent down on one knee to make a basket catch, but the ball smashed his finger and bent it backward. He felt an odd tingling sensation, and when he picked up the ball and tried to throw it, his finger curved around at an unnatural angle, as though he was a Saturday morning cartoon character with exaggerated, elastic limbs.

  "I looked down," Bird said, "and my finger was all the way over to the other side of my hand."

  Bird's mangled finger was so grotesque that his brother Mike nearly vomited when he examined it. Bird's girlfriend, Dinah Mattingly, rushed him to a nearby hospital where emergency room personnel took x-rays and immobilized his finger in a splint.

  He slept fitfully that night, with his throbbing finger robbing him of any prolonged sleep. Bird's alarm was set for an early morning wake-up call to go mushroom hunting, and he was hell-bent on sticking to his plans. There is a six-week period each year when rare morel mushrooms grow in Indiana. They range in size and color, depending on the month, and they are extremely difficult to find. Bird had been hunting mushrooms for years and was annoyed that his aching finger threatened to ruin his day. It never once occurred to him that it also might ruin the upcoming season of the Boston Celtics.

  He popped a couple of aspirin and went hunting anyhow. After emerging from the woods just before dark, his brother informed him, "There's a doctor looking for you. He checked your x-rays, and you need to get to Indianapolis right away."

  The news was alarming: Bird's knuckle was shattered, and he needed surgery to remove bone chips and insert several pins to stabilize the finger.

  "How long is it going to take before it's healed?" Bird asked the surgeon.

  "Healed?" the surgeon replied. "Son, I'm not sure it will."

  After the procedure, the doctor attempted to immobilize the finger by putting a clip behind Bird's fingernail. Then he attached a mechanism running the length of his wrist to hold the finger in place. One evening, while Bird was watching television, the clip gave way and the fingernail ripped off, leaving Bird yelping in pain and splattered with his own blood.

  He had not yet signed a contract with the Celtics, nor had he informed them of his injury. When Auerbach learned of his draft pick's surgery, he summoned Bird to Boston. By then, the forward was working out again, yet he still visited the godfather of Celtics basketball with some uneasiness.

  "I just didn't have the same feel for the ball as I did before," Bird said. "I was sure Red would notice."

  Team physician Dr. Thomas Silva didn't like what he saw. He told Auerbach that the knuckle would never repair completely and Bird would not have the same range of motion. In his estimation, the young forward was damaged goods. The Celtics boss listened, then directed Bird out to the court. He threw him the ball and told him, "Shoot it."

  Bird buried one jumper. Then another. Then another. Although his feel wasn't the same, his range was intact. So Auerbach threw him a bounce pass, then a chest pass, then an overhead pass. Bird nimbly caught them all.

  "If he was in pain," Auerbach said, "he did a pretty good job of disguising it. He was one tough kid."

  The general manager put his arm around his young forward. "I'm not worried about this," Red said.

  For the first time since he arrived in Boston, Bird exhaled.

  As time went on, Bird's finger built up calcium deposits and became grossly disfigured. Once, while Bird was posing for a cover shot for Sports Illustrated, the photographer told Bird to hold up his finger to signify that he—and the Celtics—were number one. But when Bird held up his ghastly digit, it looked more like "We're number ten." The photographer shot him using his opposite hand instead.

  Although he still went on to bury some of the biggest shots in NBA history, Bird concedes nearly 30 years after the fact that Dr. Silva's diagnosis was correct. "I never could shoot as well again," he said.

  Magic Johnson spent the better part of August 1979 working solely on his own perimeter game. Dr. Charles Tucker, a school counselor from Lansing and a former ballplayer who became Magic's ag
ent, warned him that teams would sag off him and double-team Kareem until the kid proved he could stroke the jumper.

  "No one is going to sag off me without paying for it," Magic grunted in between sessions.

  He signed a five-year, $2.3 million contract with a $175,000 signing bonus, and he couldn't imagine what he'd do with all that money. Buss asked him to move to Los Angeles to get acclimated to his new home, and Johnson happily obliged.

  Magic was 19 years old. He didn't know anyone and was overwhelmed by the sprawling, glittery city and its daunting freeways. His new teammates were much older, and many of them were married with families. His first month in his new city he was completely alone.

  Buss owned an apartment complex in Culver City and suggested the rookie move in there since it was near the practice facility, the airport, and the Forum. Johnson bought himself a new color television and spent his days watching Perry Mason and dialing home. He missed the chaos of his house in Lansing, which always seemed too small, too loud, and too cluttered but now seemed so inviting. On Sunday nights, he'd call and ask his sister Pearl to describe what his mother Christine was cooking. Then he'd hang up and order takeout—again.

  One morning, Buss called to check on him.

  "Do you like football?" the owner asked.

  Three hours later, Magic was on the field at the USC game standing next to the coaches and the players. The Lakers' season hadn't started, and Magic had yet to play for LA, yet he was serenaded by the college football crowd with doting cheers of "Mag-ic, Mag-ic!"

  "Dr. Buss!" Magic exclaimed. "They know who I am!"

  Buss and Johnson, the two new guys on the Lakers' block, became constant companions. They both loved chocolate doughnuts, which they shared on Saturday mornings. They enjoyed shooting pool and competed in epic Ping-Pong battles. The owner liked to frequent exclusive nightclubs, and while Johnson was not a drinker, he went along anyhow, socializing with some of the wealthiest people in Los Angeles.

 

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