When the Game Was Ours (43 page)

L
ARRY BIRD BOUNDED
into the room and lowered himself into a chair a mere five feet away from the man who motivated him like no other.

"Magic Johnson," he said, in his trademark midwestern drawl.

"Larry Bird," his longtime rival responded. "Hell, man. We're back together again."

It had been almost three years since the two had seen each other. The previous occasion had not been nearly as momentous—a Fox Sports special to commemorate the 20th anniversary of their Michigan State–Indiana State clash.

On a rainy day in September 2002, the two men who shared a legacy also shared a microphone to honor the induction of Earvin "Magic" Johnson into the Basketball Hall of Fame.

Magic's original wish was for the two superstars to go into the Hall together. Each of them retired in 1992 after their Dream Team gold rush in Barcelona, but a pair of brief comebacks derailed Johnson from following the same schedule as Bird. The Hall of Fame
requires players to be retired a minimum of five years before they are eligible, so in 1998 Larry went in without his Lakers rival, whose final comeback ended with the completion of the 1995–96 season.

There was never any doubt that Magic would be a first-ballot inductee; the only suspense revolved around who he'd choose to present him.

According to Hall of Fame guidelines, Johnson was required to ask someone who was already enshrined, thereby eliminating the obvious choice of Pat Riley as a candidate.

There were other members of the Lakers family Magic could have selected—Jerry West, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Elgin Baylor—but all along he had someone else in mind.

"I wanted Larry," Johnson said. "When I think back on my career, he's the first person who pops into my head."

He called the former Celtic and asked him to pull out his calendar.

"Larry," Magic said, "how does September look for you?"

"Why?" Bird said. "You taking me fishing?"

"I was hoping you'd present me in the Hall of Fame," Magic said.

Bird caught his breath. Magic's invitation surprised him. It was an unexpected pleasure—and an unorthodox decision to tap the very man who had tormented him for a significant portion of his professional life to present him for basketball's highest honor.

"Really?" Bird said. "Well, I'd be honored."

After he hung up the phone, Larry considered what Magic had told him. No matter where Johnson went or how many speeches he made, the first question from the audience was always the same: have you seen Larry lately? Bird experienced the same phenomenon in his travels. Without fail, someone was bound to ask him, "How is Magic feeling? Have you talked to him?"

"We're connected," Magic told Larry. "We have been for a long time, for better or for worse. And we don't see enough of each other anyway. Let's have some fun in Springfield."

Three months later, when the two convened at the Hall of Fame for a joint press conference, Bird entertained the rapt audience with the story of the day he came back from the World Invitational Tournament and breathlessly extolled Magic's basketball virtues to his brother.

"Aw, he can't be that good," Mark Bird said at the time.

After Johnson and his Spartans upended Bird's undefeated Indiana State in the NCAA championship, Mark Bird amended his comments.

"You're right," Mark told Larry. "Magic
is
better than you."

The audience roared as Bird recounted the story. Magic playfully grabbed Larry's arm, then told him, "You pushed me. You made me a better player. I shot 800 jump shots every day in the summer because I knew you were somewhere, shooting just as many."

For the next half-hour, in front of more than 100 media members, the two stars traded compliments and barbs, heartbreaks and heroics. Afterward, Magic would say, it felt as if no one else was in the room.

"Just two old friends, catching up on everything," he said.

That evening Bird stood on a podium at the Springfield Civic Center and addressed a capacity crowd teeming with Massachusetts natives and Celtics fans.

"I'd like to call out to all of you New Englanders," Bird said. "It's time to lay down your weapons. The battle is finally over. It's time to move on."

Magic fought back tears as he addressed the crowd, including Cookie and their three children, Andre, E.J., and Elisa. When he had been diagnosed with HIV, he spent countless lonely nights lying awake and dreading the moment his health would begin to deteriorate. His T cell count was so low that the doctors told him he'd live three years at the most. During those dark moments, it occurred to him that he might not live long enough to attend his own Hall of Fame induction.

"Eleven years ago," he said, wiping his eyes, "I didn't know if I'd be here to accept this honor. It's truly a blessing.

"I can't tell you what a great moment this is for me and my family. Long after I'm gone, my picture will still be up there."

"Right next to mine," said Bird.

***

For months after Magic Johnson retired, he had recurring dreams of playing basketball, of playing against Bird. Sometimes Magic couldn't make his body move in his dream. The game was so slow, and he'd reach for the ball, but he couldn't quite get his hands around it ... and then he would wake up.

In Bird's dream, he would be gliding up the court, floating as if he were on a cloud, but then he'd look down to shoot, and the ball was gone. Suddenly, he was in a gym he didn't recognize, with players he'd never seen. And no matter how many times he tried, he couldn't figure out how that ball was snatched from his hands.

"Retirement" was a challenge for both men. They were presented with numerous opportunities related to basketball, but they all paled in comparison to the rush of competing against the best athletes in the world.

In March 1994, owner Jerry Buss approached Magic to ask a favor. The Lakers had stumbled out to a 21–47 start, and Buss planned to fire coach Randy Pfund.

"Could you take over as head coach until the end of the season?" Buss asked.

The team played a different brand of Laker basketball. Kareem and Michael Cooper were long gone, and Byron Scott was too. James Worthy was in his final season with the Lakers and averaging a career-low 10.2 points a game.

Magic had never coached before, yet he couldn't fathom saying no to Buss, the man who had nurtured him through his rookie season, rewarded him with the most lucrative contract in NBA history, advised him regularly on his business ventures, and tirelessly scoured the medical community to make sure Johnson was given the best possible care after his HIV diagnosis.

Johnson's disease had not affected him adversely. He painstakingly monitored his diet, his exercise, and his medication and felt healthy enough to do almost anything—even coach the Lakers.

"There's only 16 games left," Magic said, when discussing it with Cookie. "How bad could it be?"

Bird learned of Magic's new vocation on ESPN's
SportsCenter.
In all the years he had been around Johnson, he'd never heard him
discuss a desire to sit on the bench. Although it would be three more years before Bird's own foray into coaching, he already knew it was a daunting undertaking that required careful research and preparation.

"You can't just say, 'Oh, I think I'll coach now,'" Bird said. "It's crazy to ask someone to do that. But that's exactly what the Lakers did with Magic."

His first day on the job, Johnson drove to practice an hour and a half early to work with the point guards. When he arrived, he was surprised to discover that no one was in the gym. Magic sat and waited. Most of the Lakers rolled in five minutes before they were due or even, in some cases, after practice was under way.

"This isn't going to work," Magic said to longtime assistant coach Bill Bertka, who had been with Johnson through the Lakers' glory years. "We used to come an hour and a half before. We used to stay an hour afterward. Don't these guys realize they need to do that to get better?"

"Earvin," Bertka replied, "it's a different time."

Johnson notched the first victory of his coaching tenure on March 27 against the Milwaukee Bucks and his old Lakers coach Mike Dunleavy. The night before the game, Magic received a one hour pep talk from Pat Riley, who also offered some coaching tips. George Lynch, a swing player from North Carolina who Magic felt could become a force if he developed a perimeter game to complement his slashing style, scored 30 points in the win.

Yet Lynch proved to be as inconsistent as the Lakers team. Two nights after looking like an All-Star, Lynch managed just 4 points against the lowly expansion Minnesota Timberwolves, and the Lakers barely eked out a 91–89 win.

"George," Magic said to him, "you are not a good outside shooter, but in games you regularly take that shot. Why don't you come early before the next practice and we'll spend some time on shooting?"

"Sure," Lynch shrugged.

The next day Magic arrived an hour and a half ahead of time. Again, he was alone in the gym. When Lynch showed up with just three minutes to spare, Johnson waved him over.

"If you take a shot tomorrow and don't hit it, I'm yanking you out of the game," he said.

Magic turned his attention to guard Nick Van Exel, who Johnson believed would thrive in an up-tempo system. When the Lakers played Seattle on March 31, point guard Gary Payton (nicknamed "the Glove" because of his superior defense) hawked Van Exel from end line to end line. Payton disrupted his concentration and made it difficult for him to get into his offensive sets. Van Exel kept glancing over to Johnson on the sidelines for instructions.

"Don't look at me!" Magic shouted. "You call the play. You've got to get into the flow of the game."

After the 95–92 loss, Johnson offered to spend some time with Van Exel on how to see the floor and establish tempo.

"Come early before practice tomorrow and we'll do some drills," Magic said.

"I can't," Van Exel replied. "I've got an appointment."

"Another time then," Magic said.

Johnson eventually abandoned his waiting game. Van Exel never came early, and neither did Lynch. Only Rambis, Johnson's former teammate who had returned as a seldom-used bench player with the Lakers, engaged in any extra court work in advance of the scheduled practice.

On April 6, Johnson's old friend Worthy reached back into his All-Star archives and gave Magic 31 vintage points off the bench, and the Lakers came back from a 12-point deficit to edge Sacramento in overtime. Although Magic couldn't have known it, that victory, his fifth in six games, would be his last.

"Fellas, we've got to get back to fundamentals," Magic told his team after the narrow win. "You've got to pass the ball."

He explained to them that Showtime was successful because of the unselfish nature of the team. He lectured them on the value of a player like Michael Cooper, whose career average was 8.9 points a game but whose defensive commitment was a critical part of the team's success.

"You think the Celtics didn't fear Michael Cooper?" he said. "Larry Bird said he was the toughest guy he ever faced, that Coop
belongs in the Hall of Fame. It's not all about getting your shots. There's so much more to the game than that."

Their reaction was muted, save a yawn from Elden Campbell. It wasn't as though Cooper was an unknown name from the past. He was an assistant coach, working with the Lakers every day. On the way out to the floor, one of the players murmured, "Who gives a shit about Showtime?"

The 1993–94 Los Angeles Lakers lost their final ten consecutive games. In a span of two and a half weeks, Magic's career coaching mark went from 5–1 to 5–11.

Before the team's last practice of the year, Magic grabbed Ram-bis, Worthy, and assistant coaches Larry Drew and Cooper and told them to start stretching. He laced up his sneakers and called in his team.

"I'm going to prove a point today," Magic said. "I'm going to prove to you that you don't know how to play this game. I'm going to take all these old guys, and we're going to give you a whooping."

The "old guys" won the first game 15–11. They won the second 15–8. By the third game, the young Lakers were so busy cussing at one another that Magic stopped keeping score.

In his final game as coach, Magic started Rambis, Worthy, 38-year-old center James Edwards, Van Exel, and journeyman guard Tony Smith.

"These are the guys who are willing to play the right way," he said when explaining his line-up.

LA lost that game too, and for the first time in 18 seasons the Lakers did not make the playoffs. Coach Earvin Johnson stepped down the next day. Asked how he felt, Magic responded, "Relieved."

Bird's first job in his basketball afterlife proved to be equally unfulfilling. He went to work in the Celtics front office as a special assistant to Dave Gavitt, but the team was floundering and Gavitt was at odds with owner Paul Gaston, who had assumed control of the team from his father, Don Gaston, earning him the nickname "Thanks-Dad" from
Boston Globe
columnist Dan Shaughnessy.

The Lakers and Celtics were no longer the marquee NBA franchises. Jordan's Chicago Bulls dominated the nineties, with Houston opportunistically taking advantage of Jordan's brief and quixotic sabbatical to pursue professional baseball.

Boston was left shorthanded by the sudden demise of the Big Three. The Celtics bungled the 1993 draft by selecting Acie Earl, an awkward forward from Iowa. They won just 32 games and missed the playoffs for the first time in 14 years. Gavitt was fired, and Earl was eventually traded.

Bird stayed on after M. L. Carr was named vice president of basketball operations, but he operated largely as a figurehead. A disturbing pattern developed when it came to Bird's input on basketball decisions: Gaston and Carr would ask his opinion, listen carefully, then make decisions that were often at odds with what Larry recommended.

A month after Bird told them Sherman Douglas was their best player, the Celtics traded him to Milwaukee for Todd Day (who failed to grasp the team concept the Celtics stressed) and fading veteran Alton Lister. When the team contemplated signing 34-year-old Dominique Wilkins as a free agent, Bird, who suspected it was a public relations ploy to sell tickets rather than bolster the roster, warned them, "Don't do it. There's nothing worse than a superstar past his prime. 'Nique will need to be 'the man,' and it's going to ruin your chemistry."