When the Game Was Ours (19 page)

"Sometimes," Wilkes said, "I think he knew where I was cutting before I did."

Boston relied on a half-court game that pounded the ball inside to Maxwell, Bird, Parish, and McHale. The Celtics steeled themselves for a long, grueling season in the rugged Eastern Conference, hoping they could slug their way past physical teams like New York, Milwaukee, and Philadelphia.

"I always said the problem with our rivalry was the Lakers could be out there playing at 80 percent and still get to the Finals, but we had to bang and scratch and beat our way to get there," Bird said. "It was just a fact the East was stronger and more physical. We were taking a huge beating on our way to the Finals, and the Lakers were just sitting back, waiting for us to arrive."

Although each roster was loaded with future Hall of Famers, both coaches found themselves obsessing over the two young stars. Magic's size and his exceptional passing skills were only half the reason he was so dangerous, according to K. C. Jones.

"Magic pulled everybody in," said the Celtics coach. "He grabbed them, held them close, and made everybody a part of it. He was so much fun to watch, he even got Kareem to smile once in a while. And when the big fella was happy, the Lakers won games."

Riley pored over tapes of Bird, pointing out specific tendencies to his team, such as Bird's preference to bring the ball up left-handed and his ability to split double teams by positioning his feet in between the trap. Yet all the technical tips, Riley knew, would not offset the true strength of Bird's game: his mental tenacity.

"You had to deal with his psyche first before you could even discuss the basketball aspect of it," Riley explained. "I always told my guys, 'You will never be able to beat Bird until you understand how much he wants to win and what he'll do to make sure he wins.'

"We had to be above and beyond him mentally, and I wasn't always sure it was possible."

Riley did have one unshakable weapon in his arsenal: Michael Cooper, the slender Lakers forward whose commitment to the defensive side of the game bordered on the obsessive. Cooper watched tapes of Bird while lying in bed with his wife Wanda before he went to sleep. He watched tapes of Bird in the morning while he was brushing his teeth. The tapes went everywhere with him, even on vacation.

"My goal was simply to make every single thing he did more difficult," Cooper said.

While Cooper was analyzing Bird, the Celtics forward was playing and rewinding and playing films of Cooper, looking for clues as to why this one player had been so successful in disrupting his offensive flow.

As Bird watched the film again and again, he looked to see where Cooper was when he got the ball. Was he trying to shade Bird in one particular direction? Who did the Lakers have coming up behind him to double-team? What other defensive shifts were they using?

Bird consulted with D.J., who believed Bird should rely on his backdoor cuts a little more. He also suggested using quicker pick-and-rolls to keep Cooper off balance.

"But the key," D.J. told Bird, "is to get him in the post. He can't do anything once you've posted him up."

Magic's ability to see over the defense and connect with Abdul-Jabbar for easy baskets made him the focus of Boston's defensive schemes. His superior rebounding skills were also a major concern. Few point guards crashed the glass with his gusto. It enabled Magic to start the break himself, and his teammates soon learned to release as soon as Johnson moved toward the ball off an opponent's miss. Magic also posed unique problems because he was so physical and had learned to use his body to his advantage when muscling out smaller guards.

Because the Celtics had won 62 games during the regular season, the 1984 Finals would begin on their home floor, the hallowed parquet notorious for its dead spots. As the Lakers departed for Boston, Magic made a point of approaching Jerry West, who refused to travel to the Garden and would watch the games at home. He grabbed his boss's arm and told him, "Don't worry. We're going to make this right. We're the better team. I'm sure of it."

When the Lakers landed at Logan Airport on May 26, they waited nearly an hour for their bags, emblazoned with the purple-and-gold Lakers emblem. When the luggage finally appeared on the conveyer belt, many of them were unzipped. Nothing was missing, according to Magic, "but the message was clear. It was just Boston's way of letting us know we shouldn't get comfortable here."

The airport was crawling with Celtics fans who had braved the city's choked traffic on the Central Artery for the singular purpose of harassing Boston's next opponent. As Johnson scooped up his bag, a teenager displaying a shamrock logo on his kelly-green T-shirt waved enthusiastically to him. Magic slowed, expecting to fulfill an autograph request. "Hey, Magic, Larry is going to make you disappear!" he taunted.

Johnson advanced a few more steps before another pocket of "green people" (the generic name bestowed on the passionate group of fans who stalked the Celtics) surrounded him. "Larry's going to eat you up, Magic," a woman outfitted from hat to sneakers in Celtics memorabilia announced. Johnson smiled politely and picked up his pace. He was relieved to finally reach the team bus—until he noticed the driver was wearing a Celtics shirt. When he stepped up to the counter at the team hotel to check in, the manager who assisted him also proudly wore Celtics colors.

"Even the curtains in my room were green," Magic said.

The city was thirsty for a championship—specifically one over Magic and the Lakers. In the moments before Game 1 began, Bird took a moment to glance into the stands and was heartened to see fans walking through the aisles dressed in white sheets to signify the ghosts of Lakers past.

"It didn't have any bearing on the game," Bird said, "but I loved it when they pulled out those sheets."

Magic noticed the "ghosts" too and briefly harkened back to the heartache West had endured in his prime. "That won't be me," Johnson told himself. "We're taking these guys down."

The last Lakers player to take the floor for Game 1 was the 37-year-old Abdul-Jabbar, who had woken up that morning with a searing migraine, an affliction that plagued him throughout his career. Although the pain was crippling and usually induced acute nausea and vomiting, Kareem demonstrated an odd tendency to excel when he was suffering.

Game 1 was no exception. Abdul-Jabbar was brilliant (32 points, 8 rebounds, 5 assists, 2 blocks) in a stunning 115–109 Lakers win, his patent skyhook clearly flummoxing Boston center Robert Parish, who looked unprepared and overmatched. Bird finished with 24 points and 14 rebounds, but the resolute Cooper had clearly affected his shooting (7 of 17 from the floor). And although Abdul-Jabbar had rightfully stolen the headlines, it was Magic who left him concerned.

"Magic picked us apart that night," Bird said. "He got his guys easy baskets. I didn't like what I saw."

K. C. Jones chose to start the 6-foot-2 Gerald Henderson on the 6-foot-9 Magic because he felt Henderson would be able to utilize his speed to keep up with Johnson when he filled the lane in transition. It was a decision that deeply wounded D.J., who had been gearing up all week for a matchup with Johnson.

"I wanted a chance at him," D.J. said, "but I told myself, 'Be patient.' The last thing I needed was to be called a troublemaker again."

Magic was equally surprised and pleased to learn Henderson was guarding him. D.J.'s physical style often made it problematic for Magic to establish tempo because he was so preoccupied with the possibility that D.J. would swat the ball free. With the smaller Henderson on him, Johnson felt he'd have better success finding Abdul-Jabbar in the post and would be able to generate more offensive opportunities for himself.

He was correct on both counts. Magic scored 14 points by the end of the first quarter in Game 2, and his confidence was soaring. He was on the verge of leading the Lakers to victory when a seemingly minor miscue in the final seconds led to a series of gaffes that haunted him for the remainder of the series.

The Lakers held a 113–111 lead with 20 seconds to play when McHale, a 78 percent free throw shooter, was fouled and stepped up to the line. The young forward, his knees wobbling, missed them both.

Magic snared the rebound on the second miss and had victory in his hands. All he had to do was turn, take the ball up the floor, and run out the clock to preserve a 2–0 series lead for the Lakers. Instead, he inexplicably called time-out, enabling Boston to set its defense against the ensuing inbounds play.

Pat Riley had instructed Johnson to call time-out if McHale made both free throws to tie the game. He had not given the same instructions in the event McHale missed.

"I'm to blame," Riley said. "It was the biggest mistake of my career. I was so busy on the sidelines talking to my players and preparing for the final seconds, I never even looked up to see if McHale made the free throws.

"I just assumed he did. Earvin did what he was told. It was my fault. I should have been more conscious of what was unfolding. My best player had rebounded the ball, and all he had to do was run up the floor and the game would have been over."

Instead, Boston's defenders utilized the time-out to face-guard each Laker on the floor. Magic had to find someone who was open—quickly. He chose his whippet forward, Worthy, who had already scored 29 points in the game on 11-of-12 shooting. But Worthy floated a sloppy crosscourt pass to Byron Scott, and Henderson intercepted it. He streaked in for a lay-up to tie the game—and permanently cement himself in Boston's sports annals as a true Celtics postseason hero.

Worthy instantly identified who was about to be labeled the goat. He had played for North Carolina in the 1982 NCAA Final against Georgetown. In the final seconds of that epic game, Georgetown guard Fred Brown threw a pass right into Worthy's hands and cost his Hoyas the championship.

"It wasn't until that day in Boston Garden that I truly understood how Fred felt," Worthy said. "It's the most humiliating feeling in the world."

The Garden crowd, despondent just moments earlier, was now on its feet. Their ardent cheers of "Let's go, Celtics!" drowned out most of what Riley attempted to tell his players in the huddle, which was that LA still had a chance to pull out the win. They had the ball, their redoubtable center, their charismatic point guard, and 13 seconds to regain the momentum.

But Magic's swagger had dissipated. There was too much noise, too much pressure, too many scenarios to consider. He carefully dribbled the ball up the floor, searching for the open man, but Worthy was covered. He looked to Kareem, but Parish was denying Ka-reem the ball. With three seconds left in the game, Magic realized with horror that he was almost out of time. He quickly fired the ball to Bob McAdoo, but McHale, his long, gangly arms outstretched, prevented McAdoo from getting a shot off.

"Magic had a brain freeze," Carr said. "It happens. The place is loud. Everyone is yelling to you, and at you. And Magic was only a kid. He was still learning."

The Boston crowd was incredulous. Thirteen seconds to go and Magic couldn't deliver a shot for his team? The jeering began in earnest. The mistake was further magnified when a Scott Wedman baseline jumper sealed the win for the Celtics in overtime and knotted the series 1–1.

As the Lakers collected their warm-ups, Worthy patted his young point guard on the back. There would be two Laker goats on this night, not just one.

"I'll never forget the look on Magic's face," Buckner said. "It was one of absolute disbelief. He had never messed up before."

"When a player of that caliber does something so uncharacteristic, you know you are lucky," Ainge said. "You also anticipate that star will make up for it—in the next play, or the next game."

Bird contends that Magic may have been a victim of a Celtics home-court advantage. In 1984 shot clocks were not positioned atop the baskets, as they are today. In Boston there were huge electronic boxes on the floor displaying how much time was left on the shot clock, but more often than not they were obstructed by a courtside photographer or a fan who had draped his or her jacket over it.

"It seemed like someone was always sitting in front of them clocks," Bird said. "I bet Magic couldn't even see how much time was left. I never could. What I used to do was check the time during the time-out, then count down in my head once I got out there."

In the aftermath of the loss, Magic reminded anyone who would listen that the Lakers had accomplished what they had set out to do: win a game in Boston. No one was interested in that angle. They were too focused on the mismanagement of the clock in the final seconds.

Johnson was vilified in the Los Angeles and Boston media for the glaring error, but he never said anything about his coach instructing him to call the time-out. He absorbed the worst public flogging of his young career in silence.

"I just felt, being one of the leaders of the team, I had to take the criticism," Magic said. "You don't want a situation where you are contradicting your teammates or your coach. We had to stick together."

The Lakers flew home to Los Angeles with their humbled point guard in unfamiliar territory. For the first time in his career, Magic found himself—and others—dwelling on his mistakes. The night before Game 3, the man who had fashioned a career out of positive self-talk had to keep pushing images of his mistakes out of his mind. It didn't help that Bird, his nemesis, was emerging as the catalyst of the Celtics.

Riley, recognizing that his floor leader was shaken, instructed him to push the ball on every miss. "Let's take them out of their game," he said to Johnson.

The Lakers began with an 18–4 run and demolished Boston 137–104 in Game 3. Their 51 fast-break chances pinned the Celtics with their largest playoff defeat in history. Magic was dazzling, dishing out 21 assists and completely controlling the tempo. Bird had 30 points and 12 free throws in the game, but sensing the series was slipping away, verbally assaulted his team with the aim of spurring them on.

"Until we get our heads where they belong, we're in trouble," Bird declared after Game 3. "We're a team that plays with heart and soul, and today the heart wasn't there. I can't believe a team like this would let LA come out and push us around like they did. We played like sissies."