by Larry Bird
Six months after the new collective bargaining agreement was implemented, the league announced a landmark substance abuse policy that specifically targeted cocaine and heroin use: repeat offenders caught using or selling drugs were dismissed for a minimum of two years from the league.
The agreement also provided treatment and rehabilitation for players who willingly came forward to disclose their problem. Lanier and the union identified family stresses, boredom on the road, a lack of knowledge on how to manage money, and the adjustments of former college stars struggling to accept a lesser role in the pros as some of the factors that led to substance abuse.
Lanier, who is African American, was offended by the suggestion that all black NBA players were drug users. He was heartened that Magic Johnson proved to be such a dynamic African American role model who not only eschewed drugs but also didn't smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol.
"He came at the perfect time," Lanier said. "Magic had this great face that just radiated. Same with Larry Bird. He was such a competitor, anyone could appreciate what he was doing. We needed guys like that."
In 1984 Welts infused new life into All-Star weekend by starting both the slam-dunk competition and the Old-Timers' Game (which was later scrapped because of too many injuries). The NBA was able to attract Schick, American Airlines, and a tiny company based in Indiana called Gatorade as sponsors, in part because of the compelling personal stories surrounding the participants. That, Welts determined, was what his fan base wanted.
Larry and Magic fit the bill. They were East Coast versus West Coast, the Lunch Bucket Brigade versus Showtime, the gritty leader versus the flashy star.
"It was as if they came out of central casting," Welts said. "We couldn't have asked for a better fit.
"It provided us with the foundation to build on the idea of the player as the hero."
Although their exceptional court vision was a shared talent, Johnson and Bird were a study in contrast. Magic was effusive, emotional, and engaging. Bird was stoic, reserved, and enigmatic. There was also one undeniable difference between the two: the color of their skin. Neither ever gave that component of their rivalry much consideration, but whether they liked it or not, it quickly became a factor.
"There was clearly a racial element to their relationship," said former Celtics coach K. C. Jones, who is African American. "Larry was a dominating, highly intelligent individual, and he was white. Magic was a dominating, highly intelligent individual, and he was black.
"None of that mattered to the coaches or the players, but it did matter to the public. Larry created an admiration and following among whites, and Magic created an admiration and following among blacks. And with that came some animosity between the two groups when the Celtics and Lakers were playing. Larry never liked it. He didn't want to be the Great White Hope. But he didn't have a choice."
Magic noted the racial divide when the topic of Larry Bird was raised. His black friends from Michigan State constantly degraded Bird's game, while his white friends from the same college tended to overstate Bird's talents.
"The country was split over Larry and me," Magic said. "After a number of years, it was okay for people to admire both of us, but in the beginning the black guys backed Magic and the Lakers, and the white folks rooted for Larry and the Celtics."
His first week in training camp, Bird was serenaded with catcalls of "the Great White Hope" from Cedric Maxwell. He didn't pay him much mind. Bird had grown up playing against African Americans who worked at the Valley Springs Hotel in French Lick, and their heritage was irrelevant to him.
"All I cared about was finding the best game," Bird said.
The rest of America was not quite so enlightened at the time. According to Magic, white players were routinely dismissed as "overrated" by black fans who felt the white stars were built up by the biased, predominantly white media. White fans often sniffed at black players as undisciplined and lacking fundamentals. They didn't want to pay to watch the "street ball" of African Americans. The arrival of Bird and Magic helped dispel false assumptions on both ends of the racial spectrum.
Magic frequented the Morningside Barber Shop on Crenshaw Boulevard in Los Angeles and was astonished to hear the "elders" discussing Bird one afternoon. Magic had never heard them mention a white ballplayer before, not even the legendary "Pistol Pete" Maravich.
"I got to give it to you, that white boy can play," his barber said.
"I told you that the last time I was in here," Magic said.
"You did," the barber replied. "But I wasn't buying none of that until he put on that show in the Finals against the Rockets. That boy made Moses [Malone] look silly!"
Bird, the forward who allegedly possessed no agility or athleticism, won over the barber shop patrons when he pulled up for a jumper from the foul line against the Rockets, but sensed immediately it was off target and streaked down the right side of the floor in pursuit of the rebound. He grabbed the ball as it came off the rim and then, in midflight, switched it from his right to his left hand and coaxed it back in. That acrobatic move became the signature clip of Boston's 1981 championship title over Houston.
Soon after that, minority kids began showing up at the playground wearing Bird's number 33 jersey. Magic was surprised the first time he saw it, particularly because it was on a blacktop in Los Angeles. When Lanier frequented his barber shop in Milwaukee, he too noted the old-timers extolling the virtues of Bird's moxie.
"Most of the brothers came up on the playground," Lanier explained. "They talked a lot of smack. So Bird comes into the league, and he's talking all the time. But if you talk smack and you back it up, then you are considered one bad mother. And Larry always backed it up."
Bird's habit of baiting his opponents was quickly becoming part of NBA lore. During Indiana Pacers forward Chuck Person's rookie season, his team traveled to Boston Garden a week before Christmas, and Bird was waiting with a holiday greeting.
"I've got a present for you," Bird told Person as he walked past him before the game.
Late in the second half, Bird ambled up the court and drilled a three-pointer right in front of the Pacers' bench, where Person happened to be sitting.
"Merry f——ing Christmas," said Bird.
Although Bird and Magic helped to shatter some of the old stereotypes that had become cemented in American sports culture, it was a gradual process. Magic was one of the most cerebral players to ever play the game, yet rarely was he lauded for a "high basketball IQ," a moniker that black athletes claimed was reserved exclusively for white players. Conversely, in spite of Bird's highlight reel of amazing basketball feats, there are some who still refuse to recognize his natural ability.
"Larry was a debate," Michael Jordan said. "He still is. People ask me all the time who my all-time five top players are, and when I start saying Larry, they interrupt me. They say, 'You've got to be kidding me. He can't play with LeBron James!' I tell them, 'You guys don't get it. Larry is far better than any small forward who played the game, and to be honest, I'm still not sure if he is a small forward or a power forward.'
"To appreciate Bird fully, you need to know the game. You have to be a basketball person to be able to give him his due. He's not jumping out of the gym. He doesn't dunk on anyone. He doesn't show any quickness. That's why some people can't see the value of his game. Now, is that racial? I suppose you could see it that way, since he doesn't possess the athleticism of some of the black guys in the league, but I never bought that.
"If you walked into Madison Square Garden, a mecca of basketball, and said, 'What do you think of Larry Bird's game?' the answer is going to be, 'He's a great player because he can do so much.' And that has nothing to do with the color of his skin."
For black athletes in the city of Boston, it was often difficult—sometimes impossible—to be colorblind. Former Celtic M. L. Carr said the residual effects of Judge W. Arthur Garrity's decision in June 1974 to integrate the Boston public schools by implementing forced busing were s
till palpable when he arrived in the city in 1979 as a free agent.
Garrity's decree polarized the city's communities and ignited spasms of violence. During the height of the tension, police arrived at Boston public schools each morning to help load and unload students, snipers were dispersed on rooftops poised to strike down potential threats, and metal detectors were installed in school hallways.
The lasting image of the racial unrest was captured by Boston Herald photographer Stanley Forman on April 5, 1976. Black attorney Theodore Landsmark was on his way to City Hall when he came across anti-busing protesters. A Charlestown youth speared Landsmark with the point of an American flag, and the photo, which appeared across the nation, became a shameful symbol of Boston's turbulent racial history.
Carr remembers the picture well. He signed with the Spirits of St. Louis, an ABA franchise, a few months after the incident, and the racial attack was a recurring topic of discussion in the dressing room. "The guys all said the same thing," he said. "There's no way we'd ever play in Boston."
Carr was more open-minded. He was impressed by general manager Red Auerbach's recruiting pitch and comforted by Auerbach's own résumé, which included assembling the first all-black starting five in NBA history and appointing the league's first African American coach.
When he signed with the Celtics in 1979, Carr settled into the tony suburb of Weston in a beautiful home with a spacious fireplace. Teammate Dave Cowens ordered him a cord of wood and had it delivered to Carr's house. The following day, he had a visit from the local authorities.
"Mr. Carr," the policeman said, "we've got a problem."
"What is that?" Carr asked.
"See that wood you have out there? Some of your neighbors say it looks an awful lot like the wood they had delivered to their house."
"Oh, really," Carr said. "Which neighbors would those be?"
The policeman declined to identify the accusers.
"Are you sure that's your wood?" the officer asked.
"Are you sure you want to ask me that again?" Carr replied.
Robert Parish, born and raised in Louisiana, was strolling through the North End of Boston one night and was stopped and searched by police without provocation. The next time he frequented the popular Italian section of the city, it happened again. After that, he found another part of town to have his supper.
It was far more challenging to find a highway where Parish would not be pulled over in his luxury vehicle. On half a dozen occasions, he was stopped by police for no apparent reason.
"I wasn't speeding, I wasn't swerving, I was just driving," Parish said. "And when I asked them why they pulled me over, I got the same answer every time: there were reports of 'suspicious activity' in the area. I guess that's code for: 'There's a black guy driving a nice car down the highway.'"
K. C. Jones, an avid golfer, tried to join a local country club but was told the wait was several months. Two weeks later, he bumped into a mutual friend who had applied and been accepted in a matter of days.
"The only difference between the two of us was he was white and I wasn't," said Jones.
Jones lived in the wealthy town of Wellesley in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Many of the neighbors were cordial but distant. He didn't discover until he had lived there a few months that his realtor had been warned not to sell the house to a black family.
Most of the time, Jones said, the slights were subtle. Other times, the racial bias was appalling. In the late sixties, he walked into a suburban Boston restaurant for lunch with a white friend. Before they were seated, the owner nervously motioned to his friend.
"You can't stay here," he said. "All of my patrons are white."
After a couple of racial incidents involving his family, the affable Carr carried a registered gun with him at all times, including game days to and from Boston Garden, a practice he continued when he became coach.
"I never had to fire it," said Carr, "but that doesn't mean I didn't have to use it."
City officials worked tirelessly to ease racial tensions, but in some cases Boston's reputation had already been cemented among professional athletes. A handful of Major League Baseball players had clauses written into their contracts that allowed them to veto a trade to Boston.
Maxwell went home to his native North Carolina to visit family and was chagrined to learn that none of them were rooting for his basketball team.
"Plain and simple, black people didn't like the Celtics," Maxwell said. "They were too white—or at least that's how they were presented. You had John Havlicek, who was white, so you never heard about Jo Jo White, who was black. You had Dave Cowens, so you never heard about Paul Silas. And then later you had Larry Bird, who was the Great White Hope in a white town that was perceived by most black people as the most racist city in the country at that time."
According to Maxwell, the first time the Celtics played the Lakers in the Larry and Magic era, the majority of black America monitored the 1984 Finals very carefully. Even though the barber shop elders admired Bird's game, they still passionately booed him and his Boston team.
"They were rooting for Magic and the Lakers, and when Larry Bird and the Celtics won instead, it was one of the worst black eyes you could have given black America," Maxwell said. "Now, I was a black man playing for the Celtics at the time. We had a bunch of black guys that year, but it didn't matter. We were still perceived as a white team, and Larry was front and center.
"You couldn't find any black people rooting for us, even in our own town."
When Magic Johnson landed at Boston's Logan Airport for his first playoff game against the Celtics, an older African American man chased after him and extended his hand.
"You gotta beat those Celtics," he said.
"Where are you from?" Magic asked.
"I'm from Boston," the man answered.
"I thought everyone from Boston loved the Celtics," Magic said.
"Son, I am a black man," he said. "Why would I root for those white boys?"
Bird was oblivious to the racial undertones. He didn't care what color you were as long as you cut to the right spot, boxed your man out, and dove for a loose ball if it came free. He was an equal opportunity motivator: whether you were black or white, he was going to be in your grill if you messed up. The first time he barked at Maxwell, his teammate quietly burned.
"We grew up in a time of segregation," Maxwell said. "I'm looking at Larry, and he's from the French Lick area, a center of Klan activity. If you were a black man in Indiana, once you got past Indianapolis, you didn't stop for nothing.
"So for me, in the beginning, it was crazy to be playing alongside a guy from there. But it stopped being an issue pretty quickly. Race was never ever an issue with Larry Bird. He was no racist.
"He was just a guy who wanted to kick some ass and win."
Stern demonstrated a keen sensitivity to the racial climate of his league and set about transforming the NBA into one of the most diverse entities in sports. He championed African American players, coaches, and general managers and pushed tirelessly for minority ownership. As the popularity of Bird and Magic increased, the NBA marketed them in a way that transcended racial stereotypes. They became the optimal story line for corporate America, and companies began lining up to capitalize on their success.
Stern had already developed a cordial relationship with both Johnson and Bird, although his initial instinct was to keep a respectful distance. Bird, who insisted on calling the commissioner Mr. Stern, liked him immediately. Stern found Bird to be a man of few wants and even fewer words, but he said, "I was good at reading grunts, so I was pretty sure I knew what he meant."
Magic was more vocal and proactive. He regularly presented Stern with a flurry of ideas on how he could better exploit the growing rivalry between the Celtics and the Lakers, as well as the tantalizing subplot of Larry versus Magic.
Stern genuinely loved the game of basketball and made it a priority to attend every NBA Finals game. Through 2009, he had
missed only one in his tenure—to attend the 80th birthday celebration of his wife Diane's Uncle Martin.
In the earlier playoff rounds, Stern traversed the country in an attempt to drop in on every postseason team. When a team fell behind 2–0 in a best-of-five series, Stern would fly in on the chance a franchise was about to be eliminated, earning him the moniker "Grim Reaper."
His first Finals as commissioner was the 1984 series between Los Angeles and Boston. The Celtics were up 3–2 in games when Stern, riding in an elevator before Game 6, struck up a conversation with a group of men wearing number 33 Celtics jerseys.
"So where are you from?" Stern asked.
"We're from Indiana—we're friends of Larry," one of them answered.
"Jeez, tell Larry to take it easy on us," Stern cracked. "We need this series to go seven games."
It was an offhand joke, but when the Celtics lost Game 6, Bird publicly berated the new NBA boss.
"He's the commissioner. He shouldn't be saying anything like that," Bird declared. "The NBA wanted a seventh game because they wanted to make more money, and they got their wish. There's no reason to lie. He said it. He's a man and he'll live up to it.
"He may have said it in jest. But I'm out here trying to make a living and win a championship."
Bird's attack on Stern instantly became headline news. The comment threatened to derail the commissioner's tenure in its infancy, and he was mortified. For the first time in his life, he shut off his phone and locked himself in his hotel room. "What have I done?" he asked himself as the messages piled up.
With a pivotal Game 7 looming, Stern correctly assumed his misstep would quickly fade into the background. It did. Bird and the Celtics prevailed, and Stern's first minor controversy receded from view.
Nearly 25 years after he called out Stern, Bird recalled the incident with regret.
"I was wrong," Bird said. "I never should have said it, but that's how I felt at the time. Stern shouldn't have been joking about something so important either, but two wrongs don't make a right.
