When the Game Was Ours (27 page)

"Jonesy cost me almost a month of playing time for that," he said.

He spent most of the season propped up on crutches, shooting free throws and working at Agan's Market in West Baden. When tournament time rolled around, Larry was healed but still limping slightly. Jones added him to the postseason roster anyway, and when the coach tapped him on the shoulder to go into his first varsity game, Bird galloped onto the court and promptly launched a 15-footer. It dropped through. He went on to win the playoff game for Springs Valley with two free throws from the line in the final seconds.

"That was it," said Jim Jones. "Larry was hooked."

Jones dropped by the outdoor courts each summer to see who was refining their skills. Jones told his players, "I'll be back to check on you." Sometimes he came back in 15 minutes. Sometimes he came back after 18 holes of golf. Each time his prized player was still there, working on his game.

As a 6-foot-7 senior in high school, Larry led Springs Valley to the regional finals, where they lost to Bedford. Bird went home with 25 points and a series of bruises on his upper thighs from the opposing player pinching him throughout the game.

The summer before his final year of high school, Larry went to visit his brother Mark, who was working at a steel mill in Gary, Indiana. In the evenings, Mark Bird played at Hobart High School, where most of the top college stars congregated. On the night Larry showed up, his brother marveled at how much taller and stronger he looked. When the college players started divvying up sides, Mark whispered to the guy who had picked him, "Take my brother. He's pretty good."

The Bird brothers played together for almost four hours and didn't lose a game. Larry dominated play, first with his passing, then with his shooting. Mark Bird was asked repeatedly, "Which college does your brother play for?"

"He's a high school kid," Mark answered.

One of the guys who inquired about Larry played for UCLA. "Within a week, Larry was getting letters from John Wooden," Mark said.

Earvin Johnson grew up chronicling the careers of all the UCLA Bruins, particularly center Lew Alcindor, who later changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. When Magic was a teenager, he solicited the big man for an autograph following a Pistons game. While his future teammate did sign his scrap of paper, Alcindor was so dismissive that Johnson felt horribly slighted and brooded all the way back home to Lansing.

"When I make it big," Johnson vowed, "I'm going to smile at every single person that wants my autograph."

There was no doubt in Earvin Johnson's mind that he would be an NBA star someday. When he was in fifth grade and his teacher, Greta Dart, asked the kids what they wanted to be when they grew up, Johnson wrote "basketball player" in bold letters.

"Sure, Earvin," Dart said. "Get your education first."

Yet Dart couldn't help but notice there was something striking about Johnson's leadership capabilities, even as a 10-year-old. His ability to connect with his classmates and bring them together was remarkable. Dart was often the teacher on duty for recess when the kids traditionally played a spirited game of kickball. Magic, who was so much stronger and better than most of his friends, would choose Dart and two of the least athletic kids in the class to be on his team. Together, they'd go out and beat the top athletes in the school.

"He was an organizer," said Dart. "He was always the one who took the kids that weren't included and found a way to make them part of it."

Dart was a disciplinarian, and while she found Johnson to be charming, she also expected him to be responsible. In her first year as a teacher, she warned him that if he didn't finish one of his school assignments by Friday, she would not allow him to play in the big fifth-grade YMCA game the following day.

Magic made the mistake of calling Greta Dart's bluff. When the paper didn't land on her desk, she forbade him to dress for the game. His formerly undefeated team lost without him.

"The kids came in on Monday and said, 'Mrs. Dart, you should have let Earvin play,'" Dart said. "But Earvin didn't say a word."

Johnson couldn't wait until high school so he could wear the uniform of the Sexton "Big Reds." Before he got the chance, his street was redistricted and Magic and his siblings were bused to Everett High School instead. It was a crushing development for his older brothers Quincy, who played football, and Larry, a basketball player who also had longed for the day he'd wear a Sexton uniform. While Sexton's population was made up mostly of African American students, Everett was a mixed-race school, and Magic and his siblings were wary of their new surroundings. Quincy endured racial slurs and bruising fistfights. Larry became involved in a series of scrapes with white students and clashed with the high school basketball coach, George Fox.

Larry Johnson didn't like people telling him what to do. He showed up late for practice, and his effort was spotty. He was angry that he had to stay at Everett, and he took it out on everyone around him.

"I felt like all these white teachers and white coaches were looking down on me," Larry explained. "It seemed to me they treated me like I was nothing. It wasn't like that—but back then that's how I saw it."

Larry Johnson was riding the bench on a junior varsity team with a record of 1–6 when Fox called them together and said, "Do I have to call up that eighth-grader Earvin Johnson from the middle school to show you guys how to bring the ball up?"

Earvin, who was already 6-foot-4, dropped 48 points on the Oddo Eskimos, a crosstown middle school rival. He entertained a packed gymnasium with behind-the-back passes and full-court jams while his brother Larry sat court-side, urging him to smash the school record of 40 points. He did so in three quarters, then sat back and watched his teammates from the bench in the final minutes.

By the time Earvin was a ninth-grader, Larry Johnson had been bounced from the high school team because of his poor attitude. When he left, he angrily told Fox, "My brother Earvin will never play for you. I'll make sure of it."

When Magic finally arrived at Everett, his initial interaction with Fox and the players was awkward. He was fiercely loyal to his brother Larry, but he also ached to play.

"I've got to do this," he told his older brother, the anguish clear in his voice.

In the beginning, Johnson's older teammates resented his abilities and, ignoring him completely, pointedly passed the ball among themselves. Yet, over time, their stance softened. Magic was too talented, too unselfish, and too charismatic to dislike.

"What they figured out," said Larry Johnson, "was if they gave Earvin the ball, he was going to give it right back."

Magic's congeniality was a gift and a blessing to a school that was struggling to maintain order in the wake of the redistricting. There were incidents throughout Johnson's tenure at Everett between white and black students, yet the gifted young ballplayer defused much of the tension by coaxing his friends into becoming like him—colorblind.

He showed up at parties held by his white teammates, even though he and his friends were often the only blacks in attendance. He convinced his white friends to listen to his soul music and coaxed the principal into setting aside a room to dance during free study periods. He organized a protest when no African American cheerleaders were picked for the school's squad, even though their talents were undeniable.

"For all his basketball skills, the biggest contribution Earvin made to Everett was race relations," said Fox. "He helped us bridge two very different cultures. He ran with the white kids, but never turned his back on the black kids. He broke down so many barriers. He was so popular the students figured, 'Hey, if Earvin is hanging out with these guys, it must be okay.'"

It was an Everett tradition that after the first practice of the season, the players ran around the basketball court until the last teammate was standing. Two years in a row, that person was Earvin Johnson. The summer before his senior season, Johnson's teammate Randy Shumway informed Fox that he was out to beat Magic. The two ran around the court for more than a half-hour as their teammates dropped by the wayside. After 45 minutes, both players were panting, clearly exhausted, yet neither was willing to quit. Fox was contemplating how he should break the stalemate when he noticed Johnson whispering in Shumway's ear. The two did one more lap together before Magic announced, "That's it, Coach. We're calling it a draw."

"Earvin could have outlasted him," said Fox, "but he knew it would be better for team morale if he didn't."

Although Johnson was the hardest-working player Fox had ever seen, he was not above challenging his coach. In Magic's sophomore season, Everett played in a holiday tournament against Battle Creek Central; the players were told to be at the school at a designated hour, and not a minute later. As the team filed onto the bus, their best player, the notoriously tardy Earvin Johnson, was missing. Fox took a deep breath, then instructed the bus driver, "Let's go."

As the bus started pulling out of the parking lot, Fox tapped the driver on the shoulder.

"But drive real slow," he said.

As the bus turned the corner, a horn tooted behind them. It was Earvin Johnson Sr. with his son in the back seat. Magic hopped on board but moved to the back to sit alone. His signature smile was absent, and he would not talk to any of his teammates. He was still sulking before warm-ups when Fox called him over and told him, "Listen, big fella. It's time to get over it. Let's play ball."

"Okay, Coach," Johnson answered. "That sounds good."

He went out and submitted a triple-double, and Everett won easily.

"Earvin was awesome that night," Fox said. "Heck, he was awesome every night."

Johnson led Everett to the Class A state championship over Brother Rice in his final season by sharing the ball instead of scoring 45 to 50 points a game, which he could have done at any time. He worked tirelessly on his ball-handling and his rebounding with the advice Fox gave him imprinted on his mind: when you think you have done enough, do a little more, because someone out there is working harder than you.

Bird was told the same thing by coach Jim Jones. As he advanced from high school to the college game, he wasn't sure that "other person" truly existed.

"Not until I met Magic," Bird said.

As they sat in his basement in West Baden, Bird was not surprised to discover that Magic used to practice his fictional last-second shots against Russell and Chamberlain, just as he himself did. The two compared notes on their solitary workout regimens and their off-season conditioning programs.

Magic discovered that the man notorious for his stubbornness and frankness had a sharp sense of humor. Larry was an excellent storyteller, a loyal friend, protective of his family. He had a legitimate aversion to crowds and avoided mobs of autograph-seekers at all costs because of it. He told Magic he marveled at the way Johnson maneuvered through throngs of fans, touching each person and making them feel as though they'd been blessed.

"As I was sitting there listening to him," Johnson said, "I realized the Larry Bird that had been created in my mind through our battles, and the media, and my coaches and my teammates, was not the person I was talking with.

"He was somebody completely different. He was someone I could relate to completely. It was a little strange, in a way, to be sitting across from someone who had the exact same mindset about competition as I did. I had played with and against a lot of basketball players, and he was the first one I felt that way about."

When the two stars emerged from the house to continue filming the commercial, the Converse people were astonished at how easily the two collaborated. In previous joint appearances, Bird had seemed reticent, distant, unwilling to invest in any kind of interpersonal relationship.

"We could all see something had changed that day," Nagy said.

The original script called for Johnson and Bird to stand back to back, then turn quickly and face one another. That had to be scrapped because the two players convulsed with laughter each time they tried to turn and stare each other down.

Yet there was no evidence of their budding camaraderie in the finished product. With menacing music underscoring the opening scene, the commercial began with a black limousine gliding down a dirt road flanked by fields on either side. As the limo approached a clearing that featured a simple blacktop with a hoop, Bird stood glaring at the approaching vehicle, a basketball tucked under his arm.

The camera panned to the front of the limousine's license plate:
LA 32.
An agitated Bird slapped the ball between his two palms. At that moment, Magic Johnson, dressed in his full Lakers uniform, lowered the power window and said, "I hear Converse made a Bird shoe for last year's MVP."

"Yep," snapped Bird, looking down at his sneakers.

"Well, they made a pair of Magic shoes for this year's MVP!" retorted Magic, who, stepping out of the limo, snapped off his warmups and approached Bird.

"Okay, Magic," said Bird, whipping him the ball. "Show me what you got."

As Johnson leaned back to launch a fadeaway jumper, Bird, wearing shorts and a Converse T-shirt, lunged to stop him.

Cut to a black pair of Converse shoes, situated next to a pair of bright gold ones. The announcer growled, "The Bird Shoe. The Magic shoe. Choose your weapon. From Converse."

The commercial was an instant classic. Sales of both models skyrocketed, and Converse sneakers quickly ruled playgrounds from the East Coast to the West Coast. The black-and-white Weapons sold two-to-one over the gold ones, not because Bird was more beloved than Magic but because the neutral colors of his shoes were more appealing to the masses.

Converse sold 1.2 million pairs of the Weapon in its first year and an additional 600,000 pairs the next. "Those were extraordinary results," said Gib Ford, former Converse CEO. "And there's no doubt a major reason for our success was the Bird and Magic promotion."

The public's perception of the two players was altered once the spot hit the airwaves. Suddenly, they were viewed as respectful competitors, not bitter adversarial rivals.