Bird Watching

by Larry Bird

  On the drive there, we don’t discuss the contract at all. We have lunch, and still we haven’t talked about the contract. I’m thinking, “Well, on the way back, we’ll probably do it. We’ll have a good hour.” We drive back, and still nothing. I pull in, and I’m getting mad now, and Jan gets out of the car and says, “By the way, we’ve got to get this contract thing settled.” I couldn’t believe it. I said, “We had all day, Jan.” He said, “Well, I’ll call you.” By that time I was livid. I called Jill Leone, who worked for Mr. Woolf at that time, and had become the person I trusted to handle my affairs, and I told her, “I’m so sick of them treating me this way, I’m going to play the year out.” She said, “I would too.” I didn’t want to leave Boston—I always told Red I’d never go anywhere—but when I showed up for training camp I told reporters I was done with Jan, and I would only deal with Red. I told them, “They sent a boy out there to do a man’s job.” It was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time, but it was how I felt. And it was effective. Before you knew it, Red was telling reporters, “We’ll take care of this within the week.” Sure enough, a few days later Red comes to practice and tells me, “Alan Cohen wants to meet with you. Tonight.”

  Alan Cohen was one of our owners, the most knowledgeable basketball guy among them. By this time the Celtics knew I was upset about this. I can remember Dinah saying to me, “Don’t you go down there and get mad. Kill him with kindness.” I had all my stuff. I had everything. I had every contract in the league printed out on my sheet. So I go up to Longfellow Place and Alan says to me, “You want a beer or something?” I said, “No, I’m fine.” All of a sudden Alan starts going at me. He’s yelling and cursing at me for criticizing Jan in the papers. He said, “How dare you talk about our general manager like that?” I told him, “Alan, all I did was tell the truth.” He finally calmed down a little bit, and he said, “You know we want you to stay here.” Then he starts talking dollars. It wasn’t even close. I knew what I wanted when I went down there. So I started running down these contracts, starting with Patrick Ewing. Cohen said, “We can’t pay you Patrick Ewing’s money. He’s in New York. They always pay more than guys are worth.” We go down the list to Michael Jordan, and he says, “Aw, c’mon, Jordan is a young star on the way up,” and then we get to Magic and he says, “You can’t count Magic. That’s L.A., Showtime and all that.” I said, “I don’t care what it is. We’re talking about players here. You average them in, and that’s what I want.” Now I had talked to Bob Woolf before I went down there, and he said, “If we get around three point two million a season, you should be satisfied.” But I got so mad at Alan Cohen, I started thinking to myself, “The heck with this. I want a million dollars more.” I wouldn’t budge until I got that and we agreed to it. I walked out of there thinking, “When I take this back to Bob, he’s going to die, because I got a million more than he would have asked for.” I was feeling pretty good about myself until I got into that car and started thinking, “I probably could have got ten million. Cohen is probably sitting up there laughing his butt off. He got me.” But I was happy. I got what I felt was fair.

  Truth is, I loved Alan Cohen. He was one of those owners who not only loved the game, he really understood it. He knew talent. The year the Celtics took Michael Smith in the draft, Alan Cohen wanted Tim Hardaway. I always remembered that. The last time I really dealt with him, I was retired, and was helping the Celtics evaluate talent for the draft. Cohen said to me, the night of the draft, “How do you like Nick Van Exel?” I said, “I love the kid. I know he’s got a shaky background, but as a player he’s got all the heart in the world, and he’s fearless.” So Cohen says to me, “Let’s get him.” That was the year we took Acie Earl with the nineteenth pick. We didn’t have a second-round pick, but my friend Quinn Buckner, who had been named Mavericks coach, had three of them for Dallas. We thought Van Exel might slip to the second round, so Cohen said to me, “Call up Quinn.” I called Quinn ten times after our first-round pick and he kept hanging up on me. He kept saying, “Don’t call me anymore. Who are you after, anyway?” I said, “I’m not going to tell you.” Then he’d hang up on me again. I said to Alan, “He won’t do it.” At this point everyone else on the Celtics has gone home, because they weren’t figuring on us having another pick. So Cohen says, “Call him again.” I did, but that darn Quinn. He wasn’t going to help us.

  The thrill of trying to make moves was one of the parts I liked best about my brief time in the front office. I had input with the Pacers too, and it was frustrating to go all the way into December of 1998 without any training camp or signings because of the lockout. I was anxious, and bored. But it did enable me to enjoy my induction into the Basketball Hall of Fame, which came about in October of 1998. I really had no idea what to expect. I really didn’t know that much about the Hall of Fame. Jill Leone gave me as much information as she could, but I still wasn’t sure what kind of feel it would have. I had never seen it on television. I found out later that’s because our induction was the first time NBC televised it.

  You get to choose someone to present you to the Hall of Fame, but he or she has to be a Hall of Famer themselves. Then you can also have an escort who was influential in your career. My choice as my escort, Bill Fitch, was a no-brainer. He was the first and best pro coach I had. I learned so much from him, and I’m still learning. The day of the induction, he came up to my hotel room and we diagrammed a few plays. My choice to present me was Bill Walton, my friend and teammate who played with me on our 1986 championship team.

  I always used to say, “Thank God Bill became a Celtic. Now we have someone to pick on.” Bill brought a different energy to the team. Usually we had guys who would come and just try to fit in. Not Bill. He came in with a lot of personality, and it seemed he had something to say about everything. He was very vocal about being ready to play, and he was constantly talking about winning a championship. We thought about all those things, but nobody talked about them much until Bill came along. Then all of a sudden we were talking about it all the time. Bill’s words held weight, because he was a guy who had been there. His 1977 Portland Trail Blazers team, which won it all, was awesome. They were the epitome of basketball, and Bill was the center of it. The more I got to know Bill, the more I liked him.

  I had no idea what to expect of Walton when he came to the Celtics. I had been following him his entire career, even back to college. I knew he was a tremendous passer for a guy his size, and I knew he could throw perfect outlet passes. I remember very clearly when Notre Dame beat UCLA, Bill’s college team. I was happy about that, being an Indiana boy, but what I remember more was how dominant Bill was. What I loved about him was he wasn’t mechanical, like so many big men were back then. If you watched him closely, it was almost like you could see the play developing in his head. And I never saw anyone close up the middle and front the way Walton did. He was an outstanding defensive presence.

  One night, during that great ’86 championship season, Bill, Quinn, and I drove down to French Lick after a game, because we had the next day off. We stayed overnight. We got up, ate, and went down to the basketball court I had built in our backyard. We were messing around down there, and Bill said, “Do you have a jar?” I said, “What for?” He said, “I want to take some dirt home from the court of the famed Larry Bird and sprinkle it on my own court in San Diego.” I thought Bill was kidding. He wasn’t. So I got him a jar and I said, “Go take some dirt out of the neighbor’s yard. We don’t have very much good topsoil around here.”

  Bill was pretty excited when I called and asked him to present me to the Hall of Fame. Later he told people he was surprised I chose him. He said he had no idea I thought that much of him. I guess I’m not the best at telling people. I just assume they know. There were some of my friends who were a little surprised I didn’t choose Red Auerbach. He would seem like a logical choice. Some of the media speculated I was snubbing him because of our so-called disagreement, but my feeling was, Red has done it a million tim
es, and I really wanted to have someone that played with me. Bill Walton was not only a good teammate, he is a very good friend. Red ended up there anyhow, because he presented Lenny Wilkens.

  At my press conference I tried to keep it light. People asked me lots of questions, including asking me to rank the best games, the most memorable, and so on. Those are impossible questions to answer. Everyone kept asking me to pick my favorite championship, but I told them you can’t ever say one was better than the other. They’re different, with special meaning for special reasons. When we won in 1981, it was our first one, so obviously that was incredible. In 1984 we beat Magic, so that was a little revenge from college. I wouldn’t have considered my career complete if we hadn’t ever beaten the Lakers in the Finals. As for our third championship in 1986, that was considered one of the best teams ever, so hey, we should have won. What I always think is so great was that Magic won a title in his first year, and I won one in my second year.

  People were asking me if Magic and I resurrected the NBA. I told them, “I don’t believe that’s totally true. I’m sure there was more excitement by Magic and me coming into the league together, after playing each other for the national championship, but two guys didn’t change this league around. There were plenty of players before us and after us.” I truly believe that. People have put that Michigan State versus Indiana State game on some sort of pedestal, but I admitted at that press conference, “We met our match in Michigan State. They were the better team. If we played them ten times—and you know me, this is hard for me to say—they would have beaten us eight times.” I told them I appreciated that I was joining an elite group of athletes, and what an honor that was, and that growing up as a kid I didn’t even know what the Hall of Fame was. But when you go through your career and have success and accomplish things, this is the way you know it’s all worthwhile. I reiterated what I had been saying since I took over for the Pacers, which is that I had no plans to coach in Indiana beyond my three-year contract. Someone asked me what was in my future, and I joked, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll work as vice president for Bill Gates at Microsoft.” I quickly added, “But I sort of hope not. Then I’d have to go into the office every day.” Later that afternoon a representative from Microsoft contacted Jill by fax and asked her to thank me for the mention, and to offer their services to me should I have any interest in the company in the future. You forget, sometimes, how closely people monitor your words. That was an interesting reminder.

  The actual Hall of Fame induction was in an arena that held about 6,000 people. It was sold out. The crowd got a little rowdy, which surprised me. I didn’t mind the fans cheering and yelling about the Celtics and all that, but when the actual induction started and some of the spectators shouted things during the presentation of the other inductees, I thought that was pretty awful. I was inducted with a pretty impressive group: Lenny Wilkens, who coaches the Atlanta Hawks; the University of Texas’s Jody Conradt, who has won more college games than any other women’s coach in history; Arnie Risen, who starred for the Celtics in the fifties; Marques Haynes, an amazing ball handler who used to play for the Harlem Globetrotters; Alex Hannum, who was the first guy to win an NBA and ABA championship; and Aleksandar Nikolic, who is known as the father of Yugoslavian basketball. I knew all of their names, and I remembered Nikolic very well from following Olympic basketball, but the only one I had ever really talked to was Lenny Wilkens. Right away I could tell things were going to be a little onesided, and I felt bad about that. Here were all these people being honored, on one of the most important days of their lives, and there was all this commotion around me. The last thing I wanted to do was take away from their day, but they were all pretty good-natured about it. We had a press conference before the induction during the afternoon, and Lenny started off by saying, “I want to thank you all for inviting me to Larry’s party.” That kind of stuff is embarrassing, but what can I do?

  The problem was, whenever any of the speakers made reference to Boston or the Celtics, the place would go crazy. I started getting really uncomfortable. My feeling was, “Let everyone have their say. Then, when I get up there, you can do whatever you want.” The fans gave me an incredible ovation. I really did appreciate it. But it went on and on and on, and here this thing was on television. Every time I tried to talk and say my speech, they cheered some more. Dinah and the kids were sitting in the front row, and I could tell Conner and Mariah were kind of overwhelmed by the whole thing. I’m sure they were wondering, “Why are all these people clapping for Daddy? ’Cause he’s coach of the Pacers?” I didn’t talk very long. I thanked my coaches and my teammates. I said I wished my mom could have been there, because I know she would have enjoyed it. Then I thanked Bill Fitch and Bill Walton, and that was that. We went backstage for some pictures, and Mildred Duggan, the coaches’ secretary from the Celtics, came back to say hello. It was great to see her. I always loved seeing all the old people from the office, and remembering how nice they treated me twenty years ago. I had seen Millie off and on, and she always made me smile. She was a really nice lady. She did my fan mail for about six or seven years. She was the one who went out and bought all the presents for the kids at Christmastime. Bill Fitch really liked her too, but K. C. Jones was her favorite. Whenever he came to town he’d take her to lunch. I was so glad Millie came to Springfield for the induction. I really enjoyed seeing her. A few weeks after the ceremony I got a call from someone in the Celtics office who told me Millie had died of a massive heart attack. I couldn’t believe it. I had just seen her, and she looked great. They told me how much she had enjoyed the induction, and I was glad she made it.

  Looking back, the whole thirty-six hours or so I was in Springfield was a blur. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to sit down and think about what was happening. We had the press conference. I also had a number of private receptions I had to attend, one for General Mills, and another for the Basketball Hall of Fame Properties. Dinah, the kids, and I were walking from one function to the next, when the doors swung open, and about a hundred people were standing there, staring at us. Conner just stopped in his tracks. I knew how he felt. I could tell by his eyes he was thinking, “What are we getting into here?” He’s kind of shy. He snuggled up kind of close to me. I took his hand and said, “Just stay with me. You’ll be fine.”

  While we were attending all these functions, they were unveiling a statue of me in Springfield. From what I understand, a large group of people gathered there because they thought I would be present for the unveiling. And when I wasn’t there, a lot of them went home angry and disappointed. That’s happened to me constantly in my career. I’ll see things in the paper where I’m going to be here or there, and I’ve known nothing about it. There’s one thing about me you can count on: if I say I’m going to show up at something, I’ll be there. Later I found out we were told about the statue, but since we had booked these meetings and receptions months in advance, we made it clear well in advance we wouldn’t be able to attend the unveiling. Besides, I’m not big on those kinds of things anyway. I don’t know why anyone wants a statue of me, and I certainly wouldn’t have been comfortable standing there getting my picture taken with it, or whatever.

  The best part about the Hall of Fame induction was it put an end to my playing days. I can remember after I retired, somebody said to me, “Five years from now, you’ll go into the Hall of Fame.” It wasn’t something I had ever considered, but when I stopped to think about it I said to myself, “Wow, that’s a long time. I wish I could just move it up so I can get it over with.”

  I just want to move on. Everywhere I go, people are still asking me about my playing days. In a lot of ways, it seems like it’s getting worse instead of better. I’m hoping my Hall of Fame induction will close the book on it once and for all.

  I thought I would miss playing basketball when I retired, but I’ve never looked back.

  I’ve got too many other things happening to live in the past. I know the only way people a
re going to forget Larry Bird the player is if Larry Bird the coach can win a championship.

  I’m betting my guys are going to get me there.

  CHAPTER 15

  On the 1999 Playoffs Debacle

  There was no doubt in my mind 1999 was going to be our year. I really felt we were going to win the championship.

  What happened instead is one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to deal with in basketball.

  We got back to the Eastern Conference Finals, just like we said we would, but we lost to the New York Knicks in six games. I still can’t believe it. That series was our worst nightmare, all come true. Nothing went right for us. We couldn’t drive and penetrate and kick out to our shooters, which is so important for us to be successful. We couldn’t score down low, because Rik Smits was having so much trouble. And, on top of all that, Reggie Miller couldn’t hit any shots. I never thought that was something we’d ever have to worry about.

  I was really down when we got eliminated. I still am. It is just a very, very tough thing to take, because we should have beaten the Knicks. I know that, and my players know that, and we have to live with it. Believe me, it isn’t easy.

  Looking back, all the warning signs were there. Against the Knicks, we just never put together any sustained stretches where we were playing great basketball, night in and night out. Nobody stepped up with the big play the way they had last year. Something was missing, and we could never seem to find it.

  At first, when the NBA announced we were going to play a shortened season, I was excited. Fifty games in eighty-five days sounded fantastic to me. I kept thinking back to when I was a player, and how much I would have loved that. But once we got into it, I realized it wasn’t as great as it sounded. The pace was so fast, so nonstop, that I said to myself, “Wow, this is going to be a strange year.”