When the Game Was Ours

by Larry Bird

  Buss took Magic to fellow real estate mogul Donald Sterling's famous annual Malibu party. Sterling, who would later purchase the-Los Angeles Clippers, owned a stunning waterfront home and served aqua-colored martinis and cocktails with miniature umbrellas floating on top. Magic was awed by the music, the food, and the women, but mostly he was mesmerized by the rolling surf.

  "I was from Michigan," he explained. "I had never seen the ocean before."

  When he got home from the party, he called Greg Kelser, his childhood friend Dale Beard, his girlfriend Cookie, and his mother. "You won't believe where I was tonight," he told each of them. "I was at the beach. Right on the water. With all the movers and the shakers!"

  A week later, Buss took Magic to Friday night at the Playboy mansion. It was movie night, only Magic couldn't concentrate on the film because there were too many beautiful women to distract him. That prompted another series of phone calls back home to say, "Guess where I was?"—except this time he left his mom and Cookie off the call list.

  Buss took his point guard to the exclusive Pip's in Beverly Hills to dance alongside the biggest Hollywood names. "There's Prince, there's Sylvester Stallone, there's Michael Douglas," Johnson would say, rattling off the parade of stars.

  "It blew me away," Magic admitted. "And what blew me away even more was, they knew me."

  Night after night, he and Buss toured the town. Buss brought lots of women with him on their excursions, and he'd dance disco, the waltz, and the tango with them for hours. When he got tired, he'd turn to Johnson and say, "Earvin, dance with these ladies."

  Sometimes Buss and Magic would go to Vegas, where Buss would win (or lose) thousands of dollars in a half-hour. Whenever the Lakers' owner decided he had reached his limit, they'd go dancing again.

  Although they spent countless hours together, they rarely talked about basketball. Buss wanted his prize investment to think beyond that.

  "Earvin, take care of your money," Buss told him. "What do you want to do after basketball?"

  The goal of the Lakers' flamboyant owner was to create a basketball team with Hollywood flair. Doris Day and Frank Sinatra were already regulars at the Forum, but Buss knew he'd made it when Sean Connery called him one evening and asked if there was room for agent 007 in his box.

  "Once people saw Magic play," said Buss, "everyone wanted in."

  Before Johnson's arrival, the Lakers' summer league games typically drew around 3,500 people. For Magic's first outing, more than 10,000 fans showed up.

  There was a similar buzz in Boston, where Bird was already being billed as the savior who would turn around a franchise that had won only 29 games the previous season. Bird was wary of the city, especially after looking out the window of his downtown hotel room at the Parker House and watching a flock of Hare Krishnas dressed in robes chanting on the Common.

  His owner, Harry Mangurian, was not interested in nightlife, casinos, or scantily clad women. He was a racehorse enthusiast who shook Bird's hand once and left it at that.

  "He didn't seem all that interested in basketball," Bird said. "It was his wife who was the big fan."

  While Boston certainly had its share of exclusive restaurants and trendy nightclubs, Bird did not frequent any of them. He was content to drink a six-pack of beer in the kitchen of his modest Brookline home. The team went to a steak house one night before the season to have dinner, but the rookie did not attend. He was busy mowing his yard.

  He was thankful that Dinah was moving to Boston with him. Bird could be impetuous and hotheaded, but Dinah was his valued alter ego. Just as he was about to make a rash decision, she would pointedly tell him, "I'd think about that if I were you."

  "She talked me out of doing a lot of dumb things," Bird said.

  They met at Indiana State during one of the more chaotic times of his life. His father had committed suicide a year earlier, and his family was struggling financially. Bird married a childhood friend, Janet Condra, right after he enrolled at Indiana State, but the couple divorced in 1976. During a brief (and failed) reconciliation, Condra became pregnant and had a daughter, Corrie. Bird's attorneys asked for a paternity test, and by the time it was proven that Corrie was Larry's child, she was already a toddler who had seen very little of her father. Larry was dating Dinah by then and refused to be a part of his daughter's life, a decision that haunts him to this day.

  It was Dinah who urged him through the years to make contact with Corrie and attempt to forge a relationship with her. Dinah, who later became his wife, also helped him navigate a private life that became very public as his stature grew.

  "She has always been the mature one," Bird said. "I was a difficult guy to live with sometimes, especially when I was playing. She probably loved it when I came back from shoot-around and took a nap so I was out of her hair.

  "I was lucky. Dinah was always independent, but she always supported me too. And there were times when I really needed it."

  In the beginning, Bird didn't venture out in Boston much. Like Magic, he knew no one in his new city, and he couldn't have picked his coach, Bill Fitch, out of a lineup. When Bird attended his introductory press conference in Boston, he was anxiously waiting for the proceedings to begin when a portly gentleman came up to him and began discussing the Celtics personnel. Bird politely answered his questions, but was nervous and distracted and wanted the man to leave him alone.

  Finally, when it came time for the press conference to start, Bird excused himself and took his place on the dais. To his surprise, the man joined him.

  "Larry," he said, "I'm your coach, Bill Fitch."

  Fitch would soon become unforgettable. He was a disciplined tactician who held his players accountable for every detail. He was organized and unyielding, and his basketball knowledge left an indelible impression on Bird. Fitch became the standard by which Bird would later model his own coaching career.

  The other major influence in his early years was Red Auerbach, the legendary Boston sports hero who built the Celtics dynasty, first as a coach and then in the front office. Red's signature move was to light up a cigar when his team had a game clinched. Often he did this on the bench, during the game, in a building that was clearly marked No Smoking.

  Auerbach didn't believe in mincing words, and that suited Bird just fine. The 62-year-old patriarch was fiercely competitive and fiercely loyal. Bird liked him immediately. In fact, the two men were alike in many ways. Both had the uncommon ability to size up people in a matter of minutes, and each could be horribly stubborn.

  When Bird reported to rookie camp, Auerbach coaxed him into playing tennis in between sessions. Then, when the regular season started, Larry became Auerbach's regular racquetball partner.

  "Red was an angles guy," Bird said. "I hate to admit this, but he did cheat on the score. He really hated losing."

  Occasionally Auerbach would take Bird to eat at his favorite Chinese restaurant in Marshfield, Massachusetts, where the team's rookie camp was held. It was there that Auerbach would recite the proud history of the franchise Bird was joining.

  "It's an honor to be a Celtic," Auerbach told him. "You should never forget that."

  The Celtics' summer league digs were no-frills accommodations that included courts with rims of varying heights. Auerbach ran a summer camp for kids there, and his pro players were expected to eat with the campers in the mess hall and lecture the kids in between workouts. Normally veterans didn't bother to attend, but once word got out that Bird was in town, M. L. Carr and Dave Cowens just happened to drop in.

  Cowens was a Celtics favorite, an undersized center who played All-Star basketball with uncommon passion and energy. He was the best front-court player on the team when Bird arrived. Carr was a wily veteran who had come over from Detroit, where he led the league in steals. Auerbach warned Bird ahead of time that Carr would jump his passing lanes and try to distract him with his nonstop banter.

  "I got this one," said Carr, pointing to Bird the first time they scrimmaged.

>   Carr poked him, banged him, muscled him. "C'mon, rook," he said, in a voice low enough for Bird and no one else to hear, "is that all you've got?"

  Because Auerbach had tipped him off, Bird was careful to step forward to meet the ball, thereby cutting down on Carr's opportunities to pick off the pass. He also refused to be rattled by Carr's chatter. Bird was content to feed his new teammates with scoring opportunities while eschewing most of his own.

  "I've never seen anyone who could beat you with the pass the way Larry did," Carr said. "He'd bait you and bait you like he was going to shoot, and sucker the defense in, then deliver the pass to someone else on the money."

  By the time training camp started, Bird's initiation was almost complete. There was one veteran left who wanted a piece of him, and that was Cedric Maxwell, a slender forward who was as proud of his trash-talking as he was of his low-post moves. He played 2-on-2 after practice with Bird, Carr, and Rick Robey and led Bird onto the block, where he spanked him with a series of upfakes and step- backs.

  "He didn't really know how to play defense yet," Maxwell said.

  When it was Bird's turn on offense, Maxwell stood with his hands at his side, daring the rookie to beat him. Bird started drilling shots. He hit them from 15 feet, then moved back to 20 feet, and then, finally, to 25 feet. By then, Maxwell was frantically trying to halt the comeuppance by blanketing him with his spindly arms. It was too late. Larry Bird was torching him.

  "Damn," Maxwell said to Carr. "That white boy can shoot."

  Once the Celtics veterans were done challenging Bird, they went about the business of protecting him. There was resentment among some black players who couldn't understand why there was so much hype surrounding a white rookie who, as far as they could tell, couldn't run or jump. Carr recalled forward Maurice Lucas telling him before a game in Bird's first season, "I'm going to take down the great Larry Bird."

  "Oh, yeah?" Carr said. "Well, you're going to have to go through me first."

  Magic underwent a similar rite of passage in Lakers training camp. Coach Jack McKinney put him on the second team and left him there for days. He stressed to Johnson that his decision-making would be the most important component of his job description. McKinney advised the rookie to remain respectful and to know his place.

  Johnson willingly fetched Kareem's paper, bought him hot dogs in the airport, and nicknamed him "Cap" so there was never any doubt who ranked atop the Lakers' hierarchy. And yet, Magic was a born leader on the court and couldn't suppress those tendencies.

  "It was potentially a big problem," Buss said. "The way Earvin played the game, he just had to be in charge. At the same time, you had this Hall of Fame player who had already won before."

  Johnson endeared himself to his teammates with his hustle and his unselfishness. Norm Nixon nicknamed him "Buck" because he was always galloping around like a young deer. Although the veterans knew Magic spent time with Buss, nobody was aware of how close the owner and the rookie had become, and therefore no one objected.

  "The extra hand-holding made sense because he was so young," Wilkes said. "I don't think Earvin had any intentions of crossing the line. I'm not sure he even understood he was crossing the line."

  Johnson may have been a teenager, but he played with the swagger of a veteran. In his first practice with the Lakers, he turned it over twice because Wilkes, a three-time All-Star, wasn't ready for the pass.

  "Magic!" McKinney reprimanded him. "You can't make those passes. This isn't college."

  Johnson fumed. He was embarrassed to be singled out and furious that Wilkes didn't make the play.

  The next time down the floor, Magic waited until Wilkes cut through the key, then the moment Wilkes turned, fired the ball at him. "Jamaal," he said evenly, "I'm going to keep hitting you in the head until you look."

  Wilkes became the ideal complement to Magic's exceptional court vision. He moved gracefully with or without the ball (hence his nickname "Silk") and had great hands. He also knew how to use a pick better than anyone Johnson had ever played with before. He didn't object to the rookie's admonishment because, Wilkes said, "he was right. After that, I always looked."

  Not everyone responded as positively to the confident rookie. Johnson was outplaying teammate Ron Boone in practice, and when the two went up for a rebound, Boone purposely whacked Magic in the back of the head. As they ran down the floor, Magic said, "You better know I'm going to get you back."

  "Keep moving, rookie, you're not going to do anything," Boone replied.

  Magic delivered his payback in the form of a fist to Boone's neck. Boone crashed to the floor and came up swinging.

  "Don't you ever do that shit to me again!" Johnson shouted.

  "Magic, get off the floor!" McKinney barked.

  "Bullshit!" Magic retorted. "He hit me first, and when I retaliate, you're going to throw me off the court?"

  "Get off the floor," McKinney repeated.

  "I might be a rookie, but none of you are going to punk me," Magic said. "You're dealing with the wrong guy if you do."

  Johnson sat on the sideline for the remainder of the practice, then left without speaking. For the next six days, he dominated practice, knocking down shots and firing pinpoint passes, each delivered with his teeth gritted. Jerry West tried to calm him, but Magic was unmoved.

  "Jerry," he said, "I can smile nice, but I can fight mean too if I have to."

  On October 12, 1979, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird made their pro debuts on opposite ends of the country.

  Bird, operating on East Coast time, was in the starting lineup against the Houston Rockets in Boston Garden. His performance was unremarkable from a statistical standpoint because he was in foul trouble for most of the night and watched the Celtics pull away for a 114–105 win from the bench. His coming-out party proved to be the next night in Cleveland, where he poured in 28 points.

  Because California was three hours behind Boston, Bird was showered, dressed, and settled in his family room to watch Magic's first professional regular season game in San Diego. When Johnson fed Kareem for a skyhook at the buzzer to win it, Johnson was so ecstatic that he jumped into the big fella's arms.

  "What the hell is he doing?" Bird said to Dinah.

  Kareem wondered the same thing. When they got back to their locker room, he reminded Magic that they still had 81 more games to go.

  "He'll burn out in a week if he keeps going at this pace," Norm Nixon observed.

  Nixon was wrong. The young buck played at one speed every day: full speed. He never wanted a day off, never ran easy, never let up. His energy level was a constant.

  "He charged ahead at everything," Wilkes said. "And what it did was put tremendous pressure on the rest of us to match that kind of commitment."

  One month into his professional career, after lighting up the Denver Nuggets for 31 points, 8 assists, and 6 rebounds, Magic confessed, "There are some nights I feel like I can do anything out there."

  Four weeks later, Bird pinned a triple-double (23 points, 19 rebounds, and 10 assists) on the Phoenix Suns and wryly noted, "Some nights the game just seems really easy."

  The NBA couldn't believe its good fortune. It had been saddled with drug scandals, image problems, and dwindling revenues, but this budding rivalry between two remarkable rookies had revitalized two of its kingpin cities. Boston's vice president Jan Volk sensed something special was going on when the team played a Wednesday night game against Utah against the televised World Series—and sold out anyway.

  "None of our fans could name a player from Utah," Volk said. "They were coming to see Larry."

  They only played each other twice during the regular season. Just as he had done during the NCAA Final, Bird refused to engage in any banter with Johnson. During their December tilt, the only time the two exchanged words was when Bird leveled Magic as he drove to the basket. The two rookies stared each other down before teammates stepped in.

  "I thought Larry and I had some kind of connection after the N
CAA championship," said Magic. "I guess he was making it clear he didn't feel the same way. So I made up my mind, 'I'm done trying to be nice to this guy. I'm just going to beat him instead.'"

  The Lakers went on to take both regular season games that season, irritating Bird even further.

  Bird circled his first trip to Los Angeles for a number of reasons. It was a chance to play Magic again, but also to be on the same court as Abdul-Jabbar, who represented one of his first introductions to pro basketball. Bird grew up a block and a half from a poolroom called Reeder's. The owner was a midget who loved sports and took Bird's brothers to a Chicago Cubs game each summer. Bird was too young to go, but one night, when Abdul-Jabbar was scheduled to play against Elvin Hayes in the old Houston Astrodome, Bird convinced his parents to let him go down to the pool hall and watch the game.

  "I thought Kareem was the greatest," Bird said. "Every time I came across him in the pros, I flashed back to sitting in that pool hall, staying up until eleven o'clock to watch him play. I was asleep by eleven-thirty, but I remembered every move he made."

  Practicing alongside Abdul-Jabbar and his Lakers teammates only further convinced Magic that he had a lot to learn. Cooper and Nixon showed him how to break down film and decipher the tendencies of opposing guards, like Gus Williams's preference to dribble twice before he pulled up at the free throw line or "Downtown" Freddie Brown's habit of gravitating to the corner.

  Nixon ran the projector and pointed out that when the San Antonio Spurs ran "4," that meant George Gervin was curling off a screen, while "2" meant he was coming off a single double screen.

  Nixon was helpful in other matters as well. One morning when the Lakers were on the road, Magic was having breakfast with a woman. As he hugged and kissed her goodbye before he got on the team bus, Nixon called him over.

  "Don't ever do that again," Nixon said.

  "Why? She's just a friend. We're having breakfast together," Magic protested.