by Larry Bird
LA was in the midst of a routine training camp session until forward James Worthy glided through the lane uncontested for a jam. Riley stopped play, his jaw clenched.
"No lay-ups!" the coach barked. "From now on, if you don't take the man out who is going to the basket, if you don't put him on his ass, then you are going to be fined."
His edict was the residual of how badly the Celtics manhandled the Lakers in the Finals. Magic and his boys had failed to respond to Boston's physicality the previous June, and Riley was sounding the alarm that it was time for LA to finally push back. He instituted a new box-out drill that required the defender to hold off the rebounder for 24 seconds—or the equivalent of three NBA lifetimes. The drill became so physical and contested that Lakers teammates turned on one another, trading expletives—and occasionally punches.
Michael Cooper guarded Magic in the scrimmages and purposely hacked Johnson when he tried to penetrate. Johnson shoved his friend away; Cooper merely hit him harder. Riley was relentless, driving his team to the point of exhaustion. He created an atmosphere of edginess and uneasiness and celebrated when his cranky team stomped off the floor after yet another rugged practice.
"It was important," Byron Scott explained, "for us to stay angry."
Riley's call to arms was aided by the return of Mitch Kupchak, who had played in only 34 games the previous season because of a knee injury. Kupchak had undergone multiple surgeries to prolong his career and was undeterred by contact underneath. During the 1984 training camp he took an elbow to his face, and instead of attending to the cut, which was bleeding profusely, he slapped a Band-Aid across his brow and played for another hour and a half before getting stitched up by the team doctor.
While "no lay-ups" became the battle cry in Palm Springs, the champion Celtics gathered at Hellenic College in Brookline, Massachusetts, with a mantra of "no letdown."
The players took inventory in training camp and noted one significant absence. Cedric Maxwell, whose inspired Game 7 performance in 1984 had been so critical in propelling Boston to the championship, was a holdout as he haggled with Auerbach over a new deal.
Gerald Henderson, who had engaged in his own contract squabble the previous season, was traded on October 16 to Seattle for a future first-round draft pick. M. L. Carr had every intention of retiring, but Auerbach coerced him into one more tour of duty. Carr complied but second-guessed his decision almost immediately.
"In retrospect," Carr said, "I probably shouldn't have done it. I couldn't give my all anymore, and for guys like Larry, who still could, it was probably unfair I was still out there. I think it altered our chemistry."
Bird sensed an aura of contentment among his teammates that troubled him. Boston's margin for error against the Lakers was too small; they needed to remain driven if they wanted to repeat as champions. While Boston's players still put in long hours, "winning no longer felt like life and death—except for Larry," Carr observed.
Yet Boston remained the favorite in the Eastern Conference again, and with good reason. Kevin McHale was coming into his own, proving to be virtually unguardable in the post with his array of windmill fakes and up-and-under post moves. He became the model for all high school coaches who taught their young players to keep the ball high over their heads when they rebounded. Parish had established himself as a blue-chip center who ran the floor with the grace of a small forward. Bird was 28 years old and at the peak of his game.
Boston won 15 of its first 16. Bird perused the standings and noted that the Lakers lost 5 of their first 8. He knew, however, that it was far too early to draw conclusions about their rivals out west.
Riley had become obsessed with beating the Celtics and holed up in his office behind his Brentwood home to break down film of Boston's favorite son, searching for cracks in Bird's seemingly impenetrable armor. Riley's defensive assignments were designed with the moves of Bird, Parish, and McHale in mind. His offensive sets were created to exploit the weaknesses of the Celtics. Although the Lakers publicly feigned indifference about the fortunes of their East Coast enemy, privately it was another matter.
On the eve of the Lakers' season opener, Riley reviewed the team objectives with his point guard.
"Let's be clear about this," Riley informed Magic Johnson. "Our goal is not to just get back to the Finals. It is to beat the Celtics."
The 1984–85 season was the pilot for Pat Riley's "Career Best Effort" project. The Lakers coach recorded data from basic categories on the stat sheet, applied a plus or a minus to each column, and then divided the total by minutes played. He calculated a rating for each player and asked them to improve their output by at least 1 percent over the course of the season. If they succeeded, it became a CBE, or Career Best Effort. For Kareem and Magic, it was a significant challenge because they were already operating at such a high level.
"But if the other 12 players did it, we felt we had a chance to win it all," Riley said.
Riley's system was simplistic, but it was how the coach manipulated the data that made it so effective. He routinely recorded the performances of every NBA player and highlighted the success rates of Bird and Michael Jordan in particular. Solid, reliable players generally rated a score in the 600s, while elite players scored at least 800. Magic, who submitted 138 triple-doubles in his career, often scored over 1,000. Riley trumpeted the top performers in the league in bold lettering on the blackboard each week and measured them against the corresponding players on his own roster.
Some players ignored Riley's transparent motivational ploy, but not Magic. He became preoccupied with generating the highest score—not just on the Lakers but in the entire NBA.
Johnson was usually the lone player in the locker room while Ri-ley and assistant coach Bill Bertka wrote the pregame directives on the blackboard. Riley often used that quiet time to tweak his star with his statistical ammunition.
"Earvin," Riley would say, "you've got great numbers for a point guard, but look at what your boy Bird did this week. He croaked you."
Johnson would remain silent.
"You had a bad week, Buck," Riley would continue. "Look at what numbers Michael put up."
Still, Magic would say nothing. There wasn't anything subtle about what Riley was doing, yet Johnson couldn't help but fall into the trap. He resented having his numbers up on the blackboard trailing the league's top stars for his teammates' viewing pleasure. He plotted to usurp both Bird and Jordan the next time his coach's "ratings" were revealed, just as his coach had hoped.
Riley was correct about Bird—the Boston forward was putting up big numbers and would go on to win a second consecutive Most Valuable Player Award in 1985. Yet Bird wasn't interested in repeating as the league's best player. He was gunning for back-to-back championships, and he grimaced when Maxwell finally showed up to camp with a new contract and gleefully announced, "Career's over, boys. Slam the books. I got my money."
Maxwell was clearly not a candidate for a Career Best Effort. His holdout had left him substandard, both in timing and conditioning. When the Celtics played the struggling Cleveland Cavaliers, Maxwell chortled before the game, "You're on your own, fellas. I don't do JV games. I'm saving myself for the varsity."
"It was supposed to be a joke," said Ainge, "but nobody thought it was that funny."
Bird was not amused. There were so many variables required to be successful in an NBA season, and he was in no mood to jeopardize Boston's chances because one of his teammates didn't feel like playing. One morning in practice, Maxwell put out his leg and said, "Someone jump on my knee and put me out for six weeks."
"Put that son of a bitch right here, I'll snap it in half for you," Bird growled.
"That kind of negativity really bothered me," Bird said. "We were trying to win back to back, something no one had done in over 15 years, and Max is talking about lying down on us."
Ironically, Maxwell suffered a cartilage tear in his knee in February. He tried to play through it, but the flap inside his knee kept gra
bbing, and the pain jolted him awake at night, leaving him popping pain relievers around the clock. After Boston's loss to the Lakers on February 17, Maxwell underwent arthroscopic surgery. McHale replaced him in the starting lineup and would remain there for the balance of his career.
When Maxwell returned, it was in a new role as a bench player. The veteran was unhappy with his reduced status, but his allies in the locker room were dwindling and his complaints went unheeded.
"Max was out of shape when he came back," Bird said. "He didn't do the rehab the way they asked. I was so pissed at him, because he was so good. He was a helluva player when he felt like it. But all that talk ... it could bring you down.
"He got his money, and he quit. I like Max, but that's the bottom line. What he doesn't understand is, we helped him get that money, just like he helped me get mine. We were all accountable to each other.
"It was just a waste, that's all. We could have won in '83, but we didn't because of all the bullshit with Bill Fitch. Then we could have won again in '85, but we didn't because of more bullshit. There are two years, right there, where we were young and together and healthy, and we didn't capitalize on it. Looking back, it just kills you.
"I'm not going to lay all the blame on Max. It was more than just him, but we couldn't afford that kind of stuff, and he just didn't seem to get that."
Maxwell never denied he made joking references to his contract. He realized too late, he said, that his constant chatter proved to be a source of friction with Bird.
"We all used to tease and laugh about stuff," Maxwell said. "I think Larry fed into what Red Auerbach was hearing from [Boston Globe reporter] Will McDonough. He was talking to Red every day and saying I wasn't busting my hump.
"And when I did get hurt, Larry didn't believe it. He thought everyone should play through pain the way he did."
Bird's legacy was flush with examples of valiant performances while fighting through injuries, including persistent elbow troubles, double bone spurs in his heels (which eventually required surgery), and a chronic back condition that plagued him in the final six seasons of his career.
In 1982, while Bird was vying for a rebound against Milwaukee, he was elbowed by big man Harvey Catchings on the side of his cheek. The pain in his face and his jaw was excruciating. His skull had been depressed by the blow, but Bird refused to come out and finished the game. Afterward, Dr. Silva sent him to the hospital, where doctors drilled a hole in the side of his head and inserted a medical apparatus to pop his zygotic arch back out.
Bird hated sitting out so much that he often didn't tell his coaches when he suffered an injury. When Dell Curry tagged him with an elbow and fractured his eye orbiter in the mid-eighties, Bird ran around in the second half with double vision.
"I was seeing two baskets," he confessed. "I had to guess which one to shoot at."
After the game, when he noticed blood dripping from his nostril, he blew his nose, causing his eye to protrude grotesquely.
Year after year, he pushed his threshold of pain to new limits. In the deciding Game 5 of the opening round of the 1991 playoffs, Bird dove for a loose ball against the Indiana Pacers and knocked himself momentarily unconscious by violently slamming his head on the parquet. He had been questionable for the game to begin with because his back had seized up on him. (Days earlier, he had spent a night at New England Baptist Hospital in traction to stabilize his back.)
When he banged his head in the second quarter, he was carted off to the locker room and examined by team physician Dr. Arnold Scheller. It was clear to Scheller that Bird had suffered a concussion and was too woozy to take the floor to start the third quarter.
Bird's temple was throbbing, and his back was locked up again, but he could hear the crowd groaning on the television monitor as Boston's lead slipped away. Midway through the third quarter, Bird started fidgeting.
"Doc, should I go back in?" Bird asked.
"Larry, I think you've done enough," answered Scheller.
"Ah, hell," said Bird, who popped off the table and ran back onto the court to a thunderous ovation. The Celtics, down three at the time, ripped off a 33–14 run and won the game.
Joe Bird would have been proud. Larry Bird vividly recalls his father Joe hobbling home one night with a horribly swollen and discolored ankle from an accident at work. The next morning the ankle was twice its normal size, but Bird's father loosened the laces on his boot, jammed his foot in, and limped back to his job. The moment left an indelible impression on his son, who concluded it was heresy to lie down on the job, no matter how much he was hurting.
That's why, during the 1985 season, Bird ignored the searing pain in his toe for nearly three weeks. When he finally allowed Dr. Silva to examine him, the team physician said, "You've got a serious infection between your two toes. This could lead to a dangerous situation.
"We'll give a shot of Novocain for that because I'm going to have to cut you."
"Nah," Bird said, "just give me one of those beers over there."
Silva administered a two-and-a-half-inch cut to allow the infection to drain. Then he wrapped it up. Bird played that night with considerable discomfort, and when he took his shoe off after the game, his sock was soaked in blood.
"I swear to God, they carved him up like he was John Wayne," Carr said. "Toughest guy I've ever seen.
"But what Larry doesn't understand [is that] other people don't have the same threshold for pain that he has."
Bird grappled throughout his career with separating his own lofty standards from the more pedestrian goals of his teammates. He had little tolerance for players who were unwilling or unable to demonstrate the mettle required to flourish in the NBA.
He was critical by nature, which contributed to his uncommon drive. Danny Ainge appreciated Bird's discerning basketball eye, but conceded, "If you were on the wrong end of it, it could be very tough."
Bird's smoldering intensity was a regular topic of conversation among his teammates. McHale admired his relentless pursuit of excellence, but Bird occasionally displayed an edge that McHale didn't totally understand—or condone. Thus, when Bird verbally harangued a teammate for not filling the lane or manning up properly, McHale cringed.
Conversely, Bird viewed McHale as an exceptional player who could have reached enormous heights but chose not to wring the most out of his considerable abilities. During one game against Sacramento, McHale was benefiting from an obvious mismatch and scoring at will. After the ball went to him on seven consecutive possessions, he told Bird, "Hey, spread it around. I've scored enough for one night."
While Bird was almost maniacal in his pursuit of the perfect game, McHale was content to contribute 15 points and 10 rebounds and call it a day. He refused to allow basketball to consume him; Bird refused to allow distractions to penetrate his basketball concentration.
Their contrasting approaches to the game made for an odd team dynamic. Bird respected McHale's game so much that he rarely criticized him for not possessing the killer instinct that, in Bird's mind, could have spurred McHale on to a league MVP trophy.
McHale was so taken with Bird's work ethic that he rarely challenged his teammate when he became moody or difficult after a tough loss. "Aw, that's just Birdie," McHale would say.
Their unusual relationship accounted for some comical on-the-court interactions with Ainge, who was friendly with both stars and became their floor conduit.
When Bird wanted McHale to do something, instead of approaching him and barking out instructions like he did with his other teammates, he'd motion Ainge over and say, "Tell Kevin to set a high screen for D.J., then roll to the basket." Moments later, McHale would pull Ainge aside and whisper, "Tell Larry to pop out on the baseline and I'll flash through the key."
"It was kind of funny," Ainge said. "They were very careful about what they said to each other. Larry had no problem chewing me out, but he would never flat-out yell at Kevin. He just thought too much of him."
McHale's and Bird's co
ntrasting ideals were accented in a span of nine days during the 1984–85 season. On March 3, McHale set about destroying the Detroit Pistons with his expanding ensemble of post moves. By the third quarter, when it became apparent this could be a historic day, the other Celtics—including Bird—abandoned their offense and fed their amiable forward a steady diet of passes on the block. When it was over, McHale had set a new Celtics single-game scoring record with 56 points. He was so exhausted by his milestone that he waved to Coach K. C. Jones to remove him in the final minutes of play, even as his teammates urged him to remain on the floor and add to his total.
It was a landmark performance made possible, in part, by Bird, who registered a triple-double that day directing most of his passes toward number 32. There were congratulations all around for McHale, who so often played second fiddle to his more celebrated teammate without complaint. Bird gushed about McHale's feat but couldn't resist chiding him. "You should have stayed out there," he said. "You should have tried for 60."
"We talked about it afterwards," Dennis Johnson said. "Larry didn't understand why Kevin didn't go for it. When Larry had his foot on someone's throat, he crushed them. Kevin was the kind of person who would say, 'Aw, he's already down. No need to hurt the guy.'"
Nine days later in New Orleans, Bird showed McHale how it was done. He went on his own tear against the Atlanta Hawks, hitting 22 of 36 shots, including improbable fadeaways, stop-and-pop jumpers, and twisting drives in the lane. His most spectacular basket was one that didn't count: an off-balance three-pointer in front of the Hawks bench that had the Atlanta players literally falling off their seats in disbelief. Just as they had done for McHale, the Celtics fed Bird the ball down the stretch, even intentionally fouling the Hawks to regain possession. Bird topped off at 60 points, nailing a jumper at the buzzer and breaking the team record set just a week and a half earlier by his front-court mate.
The most absurd component of Bird's feat was that he almost sat out the game against Atlanta. The day before the game Bird woke up and decided to run in a five-mile road race, something he and teammate Scott Wedman occasionally did together during the season. But Bird hadn't run on asphalt for a few months, and the morning after the race his legs were heavy and sore and his hamstrings were throbbing. Bird limped through the team shoot-around before he finally went to see his coach.