by Larry Bird
Magic's congeniality was a gift and a blessing to a school that was struggling to maintain order in the wake of the redistricting. There were incidents throughout Johnson's tenure at Everett between white and black students, yet the gifted young ballplayer defused much of the tension by coaxing his friends into becoming like him—colorblind.
He showed up at parties held by his white teammates, even though he and his friends were often the only blacks in attendance. He convinced his white friends to listen to his soul music and coaxed the principal into setting aside a room to dance during free study periods. He organized a protest when no African American cheerleaders were picked for the school's squad, even though their talents were undeniable.
"For all his basketball skills, the biggest contribution Earvin made to Everett was race relations," said Fox. "He helped us bridge two very different cultures. He ran with the white kids, but never turned his back on the black kids. He broke down so many barriers. He was so popular the students figured, 'Hey, if Earvin is hanging out with these guys, it must be okay.'"
It was an Everett tradition that after the first practice of the season, the players ran around the basketball court until the last teammate was standing. Two years in a row, that person was Earvin Johnson. The summer before his senior season, Johnson's teammate Randy Shumway informed Fox that he was out to beat Magic. The two ran around the court for more than a half-hour as their teammates dropped by the wayside. After 45 minutes, both players were panting, clearly exhausted, yet neither was willing to quit. Fox was contemplating how he should break the stalemate when he noticed Johnson whispering in Shumway's ear. The two did one more lap together before Magic announced, "That's it, Coach. We're calling it a draw."
"Earvin could have outlasted him," said Fox, "but he knew it would be better for team morale if he didn't."
Although Johnson was the hardest-working player Fox had ever seen, he was not above challenging his coach. In Magic's sophomore season, Everett played in a holiday tournament against Battle Creek Central; the players were told to be at the school at a designated hour, and not a minute later. As the team filed onto the bus, their best player, the notoriously tardy Earvin Johnson, was missing. Fox took a deep breath, then instructed the bus driver, "Let's go."
As the bus started pulling out of the parking lot, Fox tapped the driver on the shoulder.
"But drive real slow," he said.
As the bus turned the corner, a horn tooted behind them. It was Earvin Johnson Sr. with his son in the back seat. Magic hopped on board but moved to the back to sit alone. His signature smile was absent, and he would not talk to any of his teammates. He was still sulking before warm-ups when Fox called him over and told him, "Listen, big fella. It's time to get over it. Let's play ball."
"Okay, Coach," Johnson answered. "That sounds good."
He went out and submitted a triple-double, and Everett won easily.
"Earvin was awesome that night," Fox said. "Heck, he was awesome every night."
Johnson led Everett to the Class A state championship over Brother Rice in his final season by sharing the ball instead of scoring 45 to 50 points a game, which he could have done at any time. He worked tirelessly on his ball-handling and his rebounding with the advice Fox gave him imprinted on his mind: when you think you have done enough, do a little more, because someone out there is working harder than you.
Bird was told the same thing by coach Jim Jones. As he advanced from high school to the college game, he wasn't sure that "other person" truly existed.
"Not until I met Magic," Bird said.
As they sat in his basement in West Baden, Bird was not surprised to discover that Magic used to practice his fictional last-second shots against Russell and Chamberlain, just as he himself did. The two compared notes on their solitary workout regimens and their off-season conditioning programs.
Magic discovered that the man notorious for his stubbornness and frankness had a sharp sense of humor. Larry was an excellent storyteller, a loyal friend, protective of his family. He had a legitimate aversion to crowds and avoided mobs of autograph-seekers at all costs because of it. He told Magic he marveled at the way Johnson maneuvered through throngs of fans, touching each person and making them feel as though they'd been blessed.
"As I was sitting there listening to him," Johnson said, "I realized the Larry Bird that had been created in my mind through our battles, and the media, and my coaches and my teammates, was not the person I was talking with.
"He was somebody completely different. He was someone I could relate to completely. It was a little strange, in a way, to be sitting across from someone who had the exact same mindset about competition as I did. I had played with and against a lot of basketball players, and he was the first one I felt that way about."
When the two stars emerged from the house to continue filming the commercial, the Converse people were astonished at how easily the two collaborated. In previous joint appearances, Bird had seemed reticent, distant, unwilling to invest in any kind of interpersonal relationship.
"We could all see something had changed that day," Nagy said.
The original script called for Johnson and Bird to stand back to back, then turn quickly and face one another. That had to be scrapped because the two players convulsed with laughter each time they tried to turn and stare each other down.
Yet there was no evidence of their budding camaraderie in the finished product. With menacing music underscoring the opening scene, the commercial began with a black limousine gliding down a dirt road flanked by fields on either side. As the limo approached a clearing that featured a simple blacktop with a hoop, Bird stood glaring at the approaching vehicle, a basketball tucked under his arm.
The camera panned to the front of the limousine's license plate: LA 32. An agitated Bird slapped the ball between his two palms. At that moment, Magic Johnson, dressed in his full Lakers uniform, lowered the power window and said, "I hear Converse made a Bird shoe for last year's MVP."
"Yep," snapped Bird, looking down at his sneakers.
"Well, they made a pair of Magic shoes for this year's MVP!" retorted Magic, who, stepping out of the limo, snapped off his warmups and approached Bird.
"Okay, Magic," said Bird, whipping him the ball. "Show me what you got."
As Johnson leaned back to launch a fadeaway jumper, Bird, wearing shorts and a Converse T-shirt, lunged to stop him.
Cut to a black pair of Converse shoes, situated next to a pair of bright gold ones. The announcer growled, "The Bird Shoe. The Magic shoe. Choose your weapon. From Converse."
The commercial was an instant classic. Sales of both models skyrocketed, and Converse sneakers quickly ruled playgrounds from the East Coast to the West Coast. The black-and-white Weapons sold two-to-one over the gold ones, not because Bird was more beloved than Magic but because the neutral colors of his shoes were more appealing to the masses.
Converse sold 1.2 million pairs of the Weapon in its first year and an additional 600,000 pairs the next. "Those were extraordinary results," said Gib Ford, former Converse CEO. "And there's no doubt a major reason for our success was the Bird and Magic promotion."
The public's perception of the two players was altered once the spot hit the airwaves. Suddenly, they were viewed as respectful competitors, not bitter adversarial rivals.
"It wasn't until they did that Converse commercial that people started to realize they weren't enemies, just two very tough guys who hate to lose," said Lakers forward James Worthy. "They were both great assist men who enhanced everyone around them."
The Converse ad received mixed reviews from Johnson's Lakers teammates, who were stunned to learn he had flown to Indiana—more specifically, to Bird's house—to tape it. When Johnson returned to Los Angeles, he called up his friend Byron Scott and told him, "You know what? I've got a different feeling about Larry Bird now. He's a real down-to-earth guy. I think we could end up being friends one day."
"I couldn't believe what I was h
earing," Scott said. "I was shocked. We hated Larry Bird and the Celtics."
Scott mercilessly taunted Johnson about his new Converse advertising partner. When Magic showed up for practice, Scott and Michael Cooper were waiting. Cooper played the role of Bird, complete with the hardened glare and the biting words. "Okay, Magic. Show me what you got!" Cooper shouted at Scott, who played the role of Magic. At that moment, Scott ripped off his warm-ups, just as Johnson had done in the spot.
While the skit usually left Magic's teammates doubled over with laughter, it did not amuse his coach. As Johnson suspected, Riley was furious when he learned of the commercial—and its location.
"I didn't like it," Riley said. "I didn't say anything about it, but I was not happy. We all knew the Magic-Bird thing transcended the Lakers versus the Celtics. It was between them as to how they handled that.
"I wanted to ask Earvin if he thought Bird would have filmed it if he had to come to Los Angeles. He wouldn't have. We all know that."
Riley hoped there were other reasons Magic had agreed to film the commercial. He had witnessed Johnson disarm many of his would-be adversaries with his dazzling smile and knew that while Bird considered fraternizing a sign of weakness, Johnson's charms were often too irresistible to ignore.
"The more I thought about it, maybe Earvin had a plan," Riley said. "He was such a competitor himself, maybe his idea was to catch Bird off-guard, to soften him up a bit."
Back in Boston, the commercial registered barely a blip in Celtics workouts. McHale occasionally serenaded Bird with a sudden outburst of "Choose your weapon!" but he soon grew bored with it and left Boston's franchise forward alone. If any of Larry's teammates resented his decision to film the ad alongside Magic, they didn't articulate it.
"There was none of that," said former Celtic Rick Carlisle. "Honestly, I think that just epitomizes the difference between the two personalities. Magic was probably concerned about what his teammates thought of him. Larry didn't really care."
Celtics coach K. C. Jones had no concerns at all about Magic and Bird's time together and how it might alter the mental toughness of his star.
"Are you kidding?" Jones said. "Larry was the most competitive person alive—except for maybe Magic. I couldn't see how any commercial was going to change their approach.
"I never did understand what Pat Riley's problem was. It was a harmless thing. It was good for the league, good for their image, and good for both of our franchises."
Jones had an intimate knowledge of such rivalries, since he had played alongside Bill Russell during his epic battles with Wilt Chamberlain. When the Celtics played in Philadelphia, Russell often spent the day with Chamberlain—even took a nap in his bed—but when it was game time, all that hospitality was forgotten.
"We'd get on the court, and Russ would look through Wilt as if he wasn't there," Jones said. "I knew Larry would be the same way."
Following the commercial, Magic anticipated a more civil reunion when he saw Bird before their rare regular season meetings.
"I still wanted to beat the Celtics in the worst way," Magic said. "I still wanted to take away what Larry Bird had. But now, after the game, I found myself saying, 'Hey, let's go have a beer.'"
Bird's answer, however, did not change from previous years: thanks, but no thanks. Their relationship changed that afternoon in West Baden, but he still wasn't willing to socialize with the one player who stood in the way of every single basketball goal he'd set for himself and the Celtics.
"I could separate the guy who sat in my basement and told me all about his family from the guy who was wearing a Lakers jersey and trying to keep us from winning a championship," Bird said. "It was easy, to be honest."
The slogan "Choose Your Weapon" eventually became dated and politically incorrect. According to Jack Green, the name of a subsequent campaign for Phoenix Suns star Kevin Johnson, originally "Run and Gun," was scrapped and the campaign renamed "Run and Slam" after urban groups voiced their opposition. The "violent nature" of the wording ultimately killed the Weapon campaign.
Yet the success of the concept convinced Nike to invest millions in a young megastar they nicknamed Air Jordan. The spectacular young Bulls star turned the Oregon-based shoe company into a major player in the athletic industry.
Because their schedules were so busy and because they lived on different coasts, the karma between Magic and Larry on that beautiful fall afternoon was never again re-created on camera. Yet the residual effect of their time together was an unspoken, shared understanding of the blessings and burdens of carrying a franchise.
"I would have never guessed how it would turn out," Bird conceded. "If we had never done that commercial, I doubt we ever would have sat down and talked like we did. We may never have gotten to know each other."
The commercial aired throughout the 1985–86 season, which began with Bird continuing to labor through severe back pain. By the end of the exhibition season, Bird was contemplating shutting it down for the year. The pain was nauseating, and the stiffness limited every aspect of his game. Dr. Silva brought in a physical therapist named Dan Dyrek to examine him. Dyrek discussed surgery, an option Bird quickly dismissed. They talked about rest and treatment, and Bird agreed to half of that course of action.
"I'll do the treatment," he said, "but I'm not missing any games."
For the next three months, Dyrek worked on Bird's back, attempting to alleviate the pressure of the compressed nerves. After every practice, the forward would drive to Dyrek's office for an hour (or more) of treatment. He religiously did a series of exercises that helped his mobility, but shooting a basketball remained problematic for the first ten weeks of the season. By the New Year, however, the treatment finally paid dividends.
Once Bird regained his touch, the Boston Celtics were brimming with Career Best Efforts of their own. The Big Three of Bird, McHale, and Parish was in its prime, and D.J. and Ainge had established themselves as reliable fixtures in the backcourt.
Auerbach asked Maxwell to come early to rookie camp to reclaim his place in the team nucleus, but the veteran declined, citing the need to oversee construction of his new home. "Where the hell does he think he got the money for that new home?" Auerbach groused.
"The veterans never went to rookie camp," said Maxwell. "Why all of a sudden was it so important that I be there?"
Boston had previously been engaged in on-again, off-again talks with the Los Angeles Clippers about center Bill Walton, who was on the back side of his career and looking for a change of scenery. Walton contacted the Lakers first, but West was wary of his medical issues, so Walton placed a call to Red Auerbach, who ran it by Bird.
"Hey, if the guy's healthy, he'll help us," Bird said. "Let's go for it."
After Maxwell's refusal to attend rookie camp, Auerbach decided the former 1981 Finals MVP would be the bait to pry Walton away from the Clippers. When the deal was announced, Maxwell bitterly departed Boston believing Bird had angled to have him shipped out of town.
In later years, Bird would continue to laud Max as "one of the greatest teammates I've ever had," but their relationship had suffered irreparable harm. Bird thought Max quit on him, and in the end Max thought Bird did the same to him.
Walton's arrival connected Bird with a teammate who loved and respected the game as much as he did. The two became instant friends and verbal sparring partners. They played 1-on-1 for hours before and after practice, trash-talking to one another throughout. Their chemistry was electric, their camaraderie genuine. Walton, who had seriously considered quitting, was reborn.
"Larry didn't just give me my career back, he gave me my life back," said Walton.
The liberal mountain man, a disciple of the Grateful Dead and a passionate political pundit, provided his teammates with a plethora of material to use at his expense. After practice, Walton, McHale, and retired Celtic John Havlicek would adjourn to Bird's house for lunch so McHale could begin his interrogation in earnest.
"So, Bill," McHal
e would say, "what do mushrooms really taste like? And was that really Patty Hearst tied up in your basement?"
After McHale had worked Walton into a proper lather, he'd sit back and announce, "Richard Nixon was the best president we ever had, don't you agree, Bill?"
The big redhead, whose one regret was that he never made Nixon's infamous "enemies list," would screech in protest as his new teammates howled with laughter.
Walton was a student of basketball history who tried to emulate Bill Russell as a young player. He was so taken with Bird's game that he made a trip to his friend's Indiana home and bottled up some of the French Lick dirt as a souvenir.
Walton, Jerry Sichting, and Scott Wedman became Boston's primary weapons off the bench and dubbed themselves the Green Team. They prided themselves on pushing their more celebrated teammates to the limit. The starters, nicknamed the Stat Team, often logged 40-plus minutes a night, so it wasn't uncommon for the reserves, fresh from 10 minutes or less of playing time, to beat them in practice the day after a game. Regardless of the score, assistant coaches Jimmy Rodgers and Chris Ford rigged the results in the Stat Team's favor. One day Walton had seen enough.
"K.C.," Walton said, "how can you let this travesty of injustice unfold before your eyes?"
"Bill," Jones answered, "you know we can't let practice end until Larry's team wins."
Although injuries had taken their toll on his body, Walton was still a superb rebounder and a defensive presence. He was also a gifted passer, and there were nights when he and Bird deftly performed basketball poetry together. The former UCLA star with the West Coast roots became an instant folk hero, embraced by the normally discerning Boston fans as one of their own.
His arrival pushed Parish, the silent center nicknamed "Chief"—after the character in One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest—further to the back of the public's consciousness. Walton was keenly aware of Parish's value to the team as well as the public's habit of overlooking him. The afternoon he arrived in Boston and was picked up at the airport by M. L. Carr, he asked to be taken to Parish's house, where he promised the Chief he had no aspirations other than being his backup.