When the Game Was Ours (10 page)

Magic could see the players' spirits were flagging, but felt with the smaller, quicker lineup the Lakers could strike with their transition game. It was a huge mistake, he believed, to write off Game 6 and pin their hopes all on Game 7, when Abdul-Jabbar might or might not be back.

"Okay, fellas, you know what?" Magic said. "We're looking at a wide-open game here. This might be all right. Let's put our track shoes on and run these guys out of the building."

Johnson pulled big man Jim Chones aside and asked him how he should defend Caldwell Jones, who, at 6 feet, 11 inches, would enjoy a height advantage. Chones reminded Magic that Jones was not a threat from the perimeter but an exceptional rebounder who needed to be boxed out completely.

"One more thing," Chones cautioned. "Caldwell likes to come over from the weak side to block shots. Be aware of it, or he'll make you look bad."

On game day in Philadelphia, the rookie breezed through the locker room selling LA's potentially catastrophic hole in their lineup without Kareem as an opportunity, an adventure.

"Hey, Norm," he said to veteran guard Norm Nixon. "We're so worried about how we're going to stop them. Well, who is going to guard us?"

Michael Cooper watched Magic working the room like a nightclub singer in a cocktail lounge. Professional athletes generally become jaded as the years pass, scoffing at the rallying cries of youngsters who have just exited the college ranks and still believe in pompoms and fight songs. As Johnson stopped at each locker preaching his gospel of optimism, Cooper mused, "He's giving his own pep rally."

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 giddy 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.