When the Game Was Ours (34 page)

Rosen waited on the other line for a response. He was already
growing accustomed to the chilling effect his phone calls were having on some of the biggest stars in the game. Moments earlier, he had elicited a similar, shocked reaction from Jordan.

"What can I do? What does he need?" Bird asked Rosen, struggling to control his voice.

"He's doing okay," Rosen answered. "You'll hear from him in a couple of days."

"I need to talk to him now," Bird said. "Can I call him?"

Magic was at his Beverly Hills home attempting to pick out a tasteful suit and an "upbeat tie" for his press conference when Bird reached him.

"Magic, I'm so sorry," Bird said.

"No, it's going to be all right," Magic said. "I have to take some medication and do some different stuff, but I'm going to fight this thing."

The two superstars talked briefly. If Johnson was reeling from his diagnosis, he adeptly concealed it.

"So," Magic said, "how are the Celtics looking?"

Bird was momentarily speechless.

"Ah, hell," he replied. "We'll probably kick your ass."

When Bird hung up the phone, he turned to Dinah and reported, "He was trying to cheer
me
up."

For the next three hours, Bird lay on the bed in his room, ruminating on his complex relationship with his lifelong rival—and, in recent years, his friend. Their journey had elicited a range of emotions: jealousy over Magic's NCAA championship in '79, euphoria over beating him head-to-head in '84, determination in '85 after the Lakers stole back the title, and grudging respect in '87 when it became clear that Magic had truly reached his peak.

Bird had devoted his entire career to establishing the upper hand over Earvin Johnson and the Los Angeles Lakers, and suddenly none of it mattered.

"My God," Bird said to Dinah, "Magic's gonna die."

The official word was that Magic Johnson caught the flu. In reality, the life of the Lakers star began unraveling shortly after he took a
blood test for a team life insurance policy in early October 1991. The team was about to leave for Paris to play in the McDonald's Open when Rosen was notified by the Lakers that there was a problem with Magic's results. The insurance company needed Johnson to sign a document to release his medical file to the team and his physician, Dr. Michael Mellman.

When Rosen called the insurance company to inquire why Johnson's results had been flagged, they were tightlipped.

"Is it safe for him to play?" Rosen asked.

"I can't discuss Mr. Johnson's results with you," the insurance man answered.

The response left Rosen skittish. The previous March a college star named Hank Gathers had collapsed and died while playing for Loyola Marymount. A subsequent autopsy found that Gathers had suffered from a heart condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. What if the insurance company had detected a similar problem during Magic's tests?

"I need to know if it's safe for him to play," Rosen persisted. "If he drops dead like Hank Gathers, we'll sue."

"I'm sorry, sir," the insurance agent replied. "Mr. Johnson's results are confidential. We need that release."

As soon as he hung up the phone, Rosen contacted Magic's personal physician, Mellman, who was as perplexed as Rosen about the results.

"It could be anything," Mellman told him, "but every physical I've given him has shown that he's fine. He looks healthy to me. Let's wait and see."

Johnson flew to Paris unconcerned about what he dismissed as a minor clerical detail. On October 18, the Lakers trounced CSP Limoges 132–101, then beat Spain's Joventut Badalona 116–114 the next day. Rosen faxed a signed release to the insurance company from Paris, but they did not accept it as an official document.

"We need this done in person," the official explained.

Magic arrived back in Los Angeles on October 21 feeling jet-lagged and fatigued. The Lakers were scheduled to play an exhibition game against the Utah Jazz in Salt Lake City four days later, but Johnson was dragging and discussed skipping the trip with assistant GM Kupchak. His former teammate urged him to play. Although the Jazz game had sold out, there were still tickets remaining for the next game in Vancouver, and the Grizzlies would have no chance of a full house without Magic there.

"Besides, there are thousands of Utah fans that bought tickets to the game just to see you," Kupchak reminded him.

"All right, I'll go," Magic said. "But limit my minutes, okay? I'm beat."

Before he left for Salt Lake, a representative from the insurance company drove to his home and witnessed him signing the release form. Instead of overnighting the document via Federal Express, the representative inexplicably sent it via regular mail.

On the afternoon of October 25, shortly after he checked into the team hotel in Salt Lake City, Johnson received a phone call from Mellman, who had finally been mailed the results of his blood test.

"Earvin, you need to come back to Los Angeles immediately," Mellman said.

"I just landed in Utah," Johnson protested.

"This can't wait," Mellman said.

Rosen hastily arranged for Johnson to catch a Delta Airlines flight back to LA that landed at 5:30
P.M.
He picked Magic up at the airport and drove him directly to Mellman's office. By then, Rosen feared the worst: cancer, a serious heart condition, a fatal disease.

Johnson was more curious than worried. A heart murmur maybe? Some kind of knee trouble?

"I'm a positive guy by nature," Magic said. "I wasn't thinking, 'Oh, no, something is really wrong.' I felt so good, I couldn't imagine I was sick."

But when Mellman finally opened the door and waved him into his office without any of his usual cheerfulness, Johnson quickly realized the news was dire.

The HIV-positive diagnosis was equally shocking and surprising.
Magic did not initially react; he sat transfixed for a moment, as if he were intently watching a dramatic movie in which the plot was about to be revealed.

"Honestly, I think I was numb," he said.

Within seconds, he had a flood of questions: How did I get it? When did I get it? What does it mean? Am I going to die? What about my career? What about Cookie? The last question left him breathless. Only then did the scope of the somber diagnosis finally register with him.

"Oh, no," Magic said. "What about Cookie? She's pregnant."

Mellman recommended an additional blood test to make sure the results were accurate and advised him to have Cookie tested immediately. From there, Magic needed to meet with HIV specialists to chart a course of treatment. All of this would take time. Hence, the "flu" alibi was hatched.

"How am I going to tell her?" Magic asked Rosen as they left Mellman's office.

The two men stopped at an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica to have dinner and map out the immediate future. Magic wondered aloud if he would have to retire. He agonized over what he would say to Cookie, who was at home, still unaware that anything was amiss. As the waiter took their order, he handed Johnson a note from the adjacent table. They were planning an AIDS fundraiser and were hoping Magic would be willing to speak at their event. Johnson spent the rest of dinner absent-mindedly turning over their business card in his hands.

On his way home from the restaurant, Magic called his wife to tell her he'd been sent home from Utah.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'll be home in a few minutes, and we'll talk all about it," he said calmly.

Cookie hung up the phone, her hand shaking.

"In my mind I was thinking, 'He's going to tell me he has AIDS,'" she said, "because that was my worst possible fear."

The moment Earvin "Magic" Johnson stepped into his house he knew his wife had already figured out his news was devastating.

"She knew me too well," he said.

He told her what Dr. Mellman had said and then fell into her arms. Cookie experienced a range of emotions: shock, fear, anger, disappointment, concern.

"At that time, any discussion of AIDS meant you were going to die," Cookie said. "I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. For a minute, I felt like I was going to pass out."

She sat down and held her husband, and then did what she always did when she was frightened or in trouble: she prayed.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," said Magic through his tears.

"Are you crazy?" Cookie answered. "I am staying. God will get us through this."

Her faith did not completely overrule the terror of what lay in front of them. She fretted about her unborn child, about what the future held for her husband. The next morning Cookie went to visit her minister, the Reverend Rick Hunter, and he told her, "We will pray, and ask for a miracle."

Mellman drove to the Johnsons' home and took blood from Cookie and Magic. He retested the Lakers star's blood under the assumed name "Frank Kelly" in order to protect his privacy.

As the days droned on, Johnson's absence from the Lakers became more and more difficult to explain. Vitti, the trainer, who traveled with the team on the road and was a witness to Magic's cavalier lifestyle, guessed immediately what Johnson was facing. He was sworn to secrecy, which was the easy part. The more difficult task for the emotional Vitti was to prevent himself from breaking down every time he saw his friend.

The so-called flu that Magic was battling made no sense to a keen group of veteran reporters or a seasoned group of Lakers players. A week after Magic was summoned home from Salt Lake, Lakers coach Mike Dunleavy, who lived around the corner from Rosen, dropped by the agent's house unannounced.

"Lon," he said, "I need to know what the hell is going on."

"I can't tell you yet," Rosen answered, "but it's not good."

"I already know that," Dunleavy said. "Every time I ask Vitti about it he starts crying."

On Wednesday, November 6, Magic met with Dr. David Ho, an expert on HIV and AIDS who had been researching the disease since 1981. The second blood test confirmed the diagnosis. Ho recommended that Johnson stop playing basketball.

The doctor's reasons were sound. It was too early to determine how much Johnson's immune system had been compromised. There was no way of telling how Magic would react to AZT (zidovudine), the medication he planned to prescribe. At the time, AZT, which had demonstrated the ability to help prevent HIV from spreading, was the only FDA-approved drug available. Normally that painstaking approval process takes anywhere from seven to ten years, but the FDA pushed AZT through in twenty months under pressure from the AIDS community, which stood by helplessly while thousands of people suffered an agonizing death without treatment.

AZT was not a perfect antidote. Its side effects included nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, anemia, and, in some cases, evidence of severe muscle atrophy. In subsequent years, other, less toxic drugs would prove to be a far better course of treatment. But in 1991 it was AZT or nothing.

Dr. Ho explained to Magic that he needed to alter his diet, get plenty of rest, and limit his physical activity. Although there was no hard evidence that playing basketball would compromise his health, there was also no blueprint to chart how a full, rigorous NBA season would affect an HIV-positive patient. Magic, as far as Ho knew, was the first.

Although he was aware that his career was in jeopardy from the moment Mellman handed him the manila envelope with the results of his blood test, Magic couldn't completely grasp why he shouldn't play. He had plenty of energy and no discernible symptoms. The disease was baffling to him. If it was so deadly, why did he feel so alive?

While he awaited the results of his new round of tests, he dabbled at the side baskets in practice, shooting lightly while the Lakers went through their regular daily routine. At least twice, he
contemplated jumping into the scrimmages before he retreated to the sidelines again.

It was unlike Johnson to miss so much time. He put a premium on the team's workout sessions, attacking them with the same enthusiasm that he would a playoff game against the Celtics. Byron Scott couldn't understand what was taking Magic so long. His friend didn't look ill, although he did show up one day with a small wrap on his arm, an indication that someone had drawn blood. When Scott noticed the bandage, he couldn't resist a jab at his expense.

"Hey, Buck, is your arm too sore to shoot?" Scott said jovially. "Since when are you too sick to play?"

"I've got to wait until the doctors clear me," Magic curtly replied.

The exchange left Scott suspicious and Magic uneasy. Johnson was uncomfortable with deceiving his friends. He wanted to tell Scott that he was sick, and frightened, but he remained silent.

By the morning of November 7, that no longer was possible. Dunleavy, his face ashen, interrupted practice and told his players to listen carefully to instructions from Vitti. Choking back sobs, Vitti told them to walk directly to their cars and drive straight to the Forum. They were not to speak with anyone. Those who didn't comply would be fined $20,000.

"Hurry," Vitti said.

It was too late. The story had leaked. Several media outlets breathlessly—and erroneously—reported that Magic Johnson had AIDS. As he drove to the Forum, Worthy turned on the radio and heard that horrifying, albeit inaccurate, information.

"I almost went off the road," said Worthy. "I was in such a daze, I don't even remember how I got there."

Magic mistakenly tuned into the urgent news of his demise on his car radio. Although he had been living with the diagnosis for nearly two weeks, it was jarring to hear it broadcast publicly. His private life was about to be dissected and analyzed and scrutinized. When the man who had captivated the NBA with his infectious
smile walked into the Lakers dressing room—his sanctuary—all he could muster was a feeble wave.

"Hey, fellas," he said, his voice cracking.

As he stood before his teammates, who were overcome with emotion, Magic broke down. The Lakers were his family, his livelihood, the center of his world. And quite abruptly, that world had collapsed. He explained the diagnosis and the course of treatment. He told them how truly sorry he was for letting them down. And then he grieved with them, abandoning his original intent of maintaining a stoic resolve.