When the Game Was Ours (39 page)

It was precisely the play Magic had envisioned when he coaxed Bird onto the roster.

"I'll remember that basket for the rest of my life," Magic said.

"To this day," Bird said, "I have no idea how he saw me."

Bird was buoyed to have played without pain and to find that, even with all his downtime, his shooting stroke was intact. He went to his designated cubicle for his postgame interviews and regaled the press with pithy one-liners. But when Bird shifted slightly in his seat halfway through the session, he felt that familiar jolt of pain traveling down his leg. The pain was so sudden and so severe that Bird, nauseous from the burning sensation, began sweating profusely. He abruptly ended his interview, hobbled back to the hotel, and laid himself out on the floor.

That is where his brother Mark discovered him when he burst into Bird's room exclaiming, "That was awesome! Let's go celebrate!"

"I'm done," Bird said quietly. "It's over for me."

"What do you mean?" his brother asked.

"I mean, this is it," Bird said. "I can't keep going on like this."

Mark Bird hurried out to find the Dream Team (and Boston Celtics) trainer Ed Lacerte. Lacerte tried to alleviate the burning sensation of the compressed nerves by manipulating Bird's muscles, but his back was rock-hard, like an impenetrable brick wall.

"I'm sorry, Larry," Lacerte said. "I'm not sure what else I can do."

Bird had played his first and last game in the Tournament of the Americas—and quite possibly the final game of his career. He was relegated to the sidelines for the remainder of the pre-Olympic competition.

He had company. Patrick Ewing had cut and dislocated his finger on the rim during the team workouts in La Jolla and missed the win over Cuba. He was held out of practice for a few days, and in the interest of preserving his conditioning, he jumped on an exercise bike on the sidelines while the team went through their drills. Bird did the same. It made for an awkward scene: two tall, proud men who had been heated adversaries for years sitting side by side, pedaling furiously, going nowhere and having nothing to say about it.

Although he wasn't playing, Bird still offered some caustic commentary from his perch on the bike. When Barkley muscled Malone in the post, Bird kidded Utah's chiseled forward, "Charles owns you, Karl. Get used to it. You're a backup on this team."

Ewing eventually joined the verbal fray. When David Robinson jammed home an alley-oop pass, Ewing shouted, "Enjoy it now, David. When I get back out there, you'll be eating that." Bird chuckled. The two men got to talking.

They recounted their playing days against one another, when Bird would lure Ewing out to the wing and inform him, "You're no center. You're a glorified power forward. And there's no way you can stop me out here."

Bird usually punctuated his point with a jumper. Then it would be Ewing's turn to jog back and inform Boston's forward, "I'm going to take you into the post and kick your ass."

At the time, the acrimony was real. Years later, pedaling side by side, their past bravado seemed contrived. When Magic glanced over and caught Ewing and Bird guffawing over the misadventures of Clyde Drexler, who had been pickpocketed by Jordan on back-to-back possessions, he shook his head.

"I wasn't expecting that," Magic said. "Two of the quietest guys, and suddenly they were best friends."

Bird bestowed the nickname "Harry" on Ewing. Most of the guys thought it was after the big but lovable character in the movie
Harry and the Hendersons,
but Bird was harkening back to his junior season of college, when he played alongside Harry Morgan at Indiana State.

"Just call us Harry and Larry," he announced.

Lacerte printed up T-shirts that read T
HE
H
ARRY AND
L
ARRY
S
HOW
...
TO
B
E
C
ONTINUED IN
B
ARCELONA
—a takeoff on a Reebok Olympic advertising campaign that featured American decathletes Dan (Johnson) and Dave (O'Brien).

It was an unlikely friendship. Ewing grew up in Boston resenting the way the public fawned over Larry Legend. He saw Bird as another overhyped white guy and used to scoff with his friends, "Oh, please. He's not that good. He can't run, and he can't jump."

But Ewing changed his mind when he arrived in the NBA and bore witness to Bird's considerable skills.

"I take it back," Ewing told his Cambridge friends. "This guy is incredible. He can shoot, rebound, pass ... he's the greatest competitor I've ever seen."

In the 1990 playoffs, Ewing traded elbows and insults with Bird as the Celtics took a 2–0 lead in the best-of-five first-round series. Everyone in Boston was certain the Knicks were done, but Ewing anchored a New York comeback that culminated in a Game 5 win over the Celtics on the Garden parquet. It was a shocking development that forced Bird to examine Ewing in a new light. He had always recognized the big man's skills, but now he grudgingly acknowledged Ewing's mental resolve, the quality Bird always felt separated the great players from the good ones.

Ewing was able to return to action after a few days of the Tournament of the Americas, but John Stockton fractured his right fibula midway through the Dream Team's win over Canada, and Clyde Drexler was forced to sit out the victory over Argentina with a bruised right knee.

Stockton was clearly going to be sidelined for a few weeks, which initiated a discussion of whether to add another player. Isiah's name came up in a conference call, but again he was rejected by his peers.

Even without a full complement of players, the Dream Team lived up to its weighty name. Magic, Barkley, and Jordan dominated, and their opponents literally applauded them for it, sometimes in the middle of the game. When they played Argentina, Magic guarded a player on the block who refused to make a move to the basket.

"What are you doing?" Magic asked him.

"I'm waiting," the player replied.

Johnson, clearly flummoxed, finally knocked the ball out of his hands—but only after a player on the Argentina bench had successfully snapped a Polaroid of Magic guarding his friend.

As he ran back down the court, Magic noticed the player was weeping.

"Mr. Johnson, I cannot believe it's you," he said. "I used to watch you late at night. This is the thrill of my life."

When the United States played Puerto Rico, Bird remained flat on his stomach on the court in his warm-ups, too injured to play. One of the game officials ran past the U.S. bench and begged Bird to check in, if only for a second, so he could tell his family he had refereed a game in which the great Bird competed.

The referee left disappointed. He wasn't the only one. Brazilian star Oscar Schmidt, whose silky smooth shooting stroke was the pride of his nation, idolized Bird as a child and had anxiously awaited the opportunity to test his skills against his hero. He had to settle for an autographed copy of Bird's autobiography
Drive.

"Sorry, Oscar," Bird told him before the U.S. game against Brazil. "I'd love to drop 50 on you, but I can't move right now." The United States cruised to another lopsided win, after which the Brazilian coach touted the Americans as "a team from another planet."

The U.S. team proved to be an undefeated juggernaut in the Tournament of the Americas, overpowering clubs by an average of 51.5 points. Magic led the team in assists and minutes played and was chosen to carry the U.S. flag in the closing ceremonies.

When Bird stopped to consider Magic's prognosis during a quiet moment, it left him pensive, even melancholy. Magic Johnson would be dead soon. Based on the scant information the Dream Team had about an HIV diagnosis, his teammates were certain of that. And yet this exuberant man, who thrived in Barcelona as the unofficial U.S. basketball ambassador, seemed more vibrant than all of them.

By contrast, Bird's physical struggles had become increasingly transparent. He was forced to wear his fiberglass body brace around the clock. It had become part of him, like buttoning up his shirt each day, but it felt like a piece of concrete around his waist and was so tight that his breathing was labored when he sat down. He wore it to bed but could only lie on his back or his stomach because, when he tried to sleep on his side, the fiberglass dug into his skin, leaving welts and cuts.

When the team broke camp 15 days before reconvening in Monte Carlo, Bird went back to Boston and showed up at Massachusetts
General Hospital unannounced. He found Dan Dyrek, his physical therapist, and begged him to accompany him to Barcelona.

"I don't think I can make it without your help," Bird said.

Dyrek opened his daybook. He was teaching a graduate school course and had a full calendar of commitments. But he wasn't about to be the person who prevented Larry Bird from realizing his Olympic dream. Dyrek hopped aboard the Dream Team caravan and before long was treating many of Bird's teammates as well, including Ewing and his chronically sore knees.

By that point, "Harry" and Larry were inseparable. When the team flew to Monte Carlo for their final pre-Olympic training, Ewing sat poolside with Larry, Dinah, and their friend Quinn Buckner, wearing dark glasses and trying not to stare at the topless women. He ordered a round of draft beer for Bird and his friends, unfazed by the $8 price tag.

Bird was incredulous each time his new friend ordered another round.

"Do you know how much those beers cost?" Bird asked Ewing.

"Nah, I don't drink," Ewing replied.

"They are $8 each!" Bird exclaimed. "I would never pay that for a beer!"

In his rookie season, the first time Bird went to New York with the Celtics, he and Rick Robey popped into a bar to have a brew. When he saw the prices on the tavern's menu, Larry abruptly stood up and walked out. Years later, while dining with his teammates in a trendy New York eatery, the players began collecting money for the bill. Told they were going to give the waiter a 20 percent tip, Bird said, "What for? All he did was deliver the food."

He stood up, grabbed the tip money, and strode unannounced into the kitchen. He handed the astonished cook a fistful of bills, then walked out.

While Larry rang up the bar tab in Monte Carlo, Magic hung with Jordan at the casino and tried to bring him luck at the blackjack table. When the clock struck midnight, Johnson, Jordan, Barkley,
and Pippen flocked to Jimmy Z's, an exclusive Monte Carlo nightclub with a retractable roof and a maze of dance floors.

For the first time since his HIV diagnosis, Magic felt like one of the boys again. The Dream Team was all about inclusion, right down to their 12th man, Laettner, with whom Bird regularly sat on the bus so he would not feel isolated from his more celebrated teammates.

While the team was still in Portland, a representative from
Newsweek
magazine had approached Magic about appearing on their cover with Michael Jordan. Johnson had agreed, but with one stipulation—he wanted Bird included in the shot too.

"No Larry, no cover," Magic said.

On July 6, 1992, Magic, Michael, and Larry had graced the front of
Newsweek
with the heading "Team Dream" trumpeting their upcoming journey.

When the team arrived in Monte Carlo on Sunday, July 19, Bird had still not been cleared for contact, but the following morning he scrimmaged for five minutes. Stockton, also on the mend, split his time between the swimming pool and the stationary bike. That evening the Dream Team attended a reception hosted by Prince Rainier and Prince Albert, and Magic, resplendent in a black-and-white tuxedo, declared that the Rainiers were the only royalty who superseded Jordan.

Magic led the United States to a 111–71 win over the French National Team, the last tune-up before Barcelona. Johnson went to the casino, won big, and blew kisses to the crowd on his way out the door.

"He absolutely captivated those people," Daly said.

On Wednesday, July 22, the West (Magic, Drexler, Robinson, Malone, and Barkley) lined up opposite the East (Bird, Jordan, Pippen, Ewing, Mullin, and Laettner) for an in-practice scrimmage. Magic, feeling particularly spry, sparked his team to an early 14–2 advantage with a dazzling display of artistic passes; after driving to the hole, he sneered good-naturedly, "Hey, M.J., you better get with it."

Jordan's fists clenched. He called for the ball, drove to the basket, elevated, then dunked it through.

"That good enough for you?" he said.

Pippen immediately perked up when he saw Jordan's suddenly glowering visage.

"Y'all have done it now," Pippen said, grinning.

Jordan swarmed the West team with traps and full-court pressure. He jumped the passing lanes, knocked down one-handed slams, pushed Magic off the block, and hit fadeaways, barking at the West's suddenly impotent squad as he continued his scoring rampage. Within minutes, the score was tied. Johnson, rankled by the calls (or no calls) of the coaching staff, complained, "It's like I'm in Chicago Stadium! They moved it to Monte Carlo!"

"Welcome to the nineties," Jordan retorted.

"You want to be like Mike?" Pippen baited Magic. "Try drinking some Gatorade!"

When the "regulation" scrimmage ended in a tie, both Jordan and Johnson instructed their respective teams to remain on the floor.

"We're going again," Jordan said.

"No," Daly interjected. "We don't need any more injuries."

For the first and only time, the players ignored Daly's pleas. Five more minutes of high-octane basketball followed, with Ewing and Robinson grinding in the post, Barkley and Malone wrestling for the boards, Bird angling for the perimeter dagger, and Magic controlling tempo. Yet it was Jordan who had the last word, with a melodious display of basketball trickery that Gavitt would later maintain was the most amazing five minutes of basketball he'd ever seen.

As Jordan and Bird skipped off the floor victorious, gloating shamelessly about their turnaround, Magic left the court demanding a new officiating crew.

"Magic was cursing at the refs, his teammates, and his coaches," Jordan recalled. "He couldn't stand that we beat them.