by Larry Bird
Thomas responded with one of the gutsiest performances of his career in Game 6. He suffered a badly sprained ankle during the game but still returned to pump in 25 third-quarter points to keep his team afloat in the series. After the game, he left on crutches.
Isiah was hobbling badly in Game 7, and Magic exploited his lack of mobility. The Lakers became the first team since the 1968 and 1969 Celtics to win back-to-back championships. In the final seconds of the Finals, with LA up three points and Thomas hoping to sink a miracle three-pointer to prolong the action, he and Magic accidentally collided at midcourt. There was no call, no foul, no shot.
Johnson and Thomas did not speak after the game. There were no trips to Hawaii that summer, no shopping sprees in New York, no workouts in Lansing, no marathon phone calls. Thomas's son was born during the playoffs, and Magic never even went over to see him.
"I saw things differently," Magic said. "Our relationship was changing."
Almost immediately after the title was secure, Riley was gunning for a three-peat, even securing a patent on the phrase. He was obsessed with the Lakers legacy he was creating, and his approach with his players became even more controlling. Riley had become a national celebrity and was handsomely paid for it. He had more endorsements than most of his players, with Magic as the notable exception. His relationships with Cooper, Scott, and Worthy deteriorated. Johnson remained a Riley loyalist, but often he was a party of one.
Although LA advanced to the championship against the Pistons again in 1989 with a perfect 11–0 postseason record to that point, Riley made a tactical error. He took his team to Santa Barbara for a mini–training camp before the Finals and put his guys through two-a-day practices. Byron Scott tore his hamstring prior to Game 1, and Magic pulled up lame with a hamstring injury in Game 2. The Pistons swept the Lakers, ruining Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's final season.
Kareem retired in 1989, and the Lakers tried to make do with Thompson, Orlando Woolridge, and a young Serbian rookie named Vlade Divac in the middle. As Riley's demands increased, his players' patience wore thin. The Lakers still won 63 games in 1989–90, but in the second round of the playoffs against the Phoenix Suns, the tension between the coach and his players bubbled to the surface. The Lakers had difficulty containing point guard Kevin Johnson and were allowing journeyman Mark West to shred them inside. After a Game 4 loss that left the Lakers trailing in the series 3–1, Riley exploded in the team dressing room.
"Usually his outbursts were orchestrated," Magic said. "This time it wasn't."
As Riley disparaged his club for not getting back on defense, not following the game plan, and repeatedly allowing Kevin Johnson in the lane, he looked and saw a sea of blank faces. His players weren't listening. They had tuned him out.
Riley turned and slugged the mirror in frustration, shattering the glass and gashing his hand. As the blood began flowing down the sleeve of his custom-tailored white shirt, Riley walked out and closed the door. No one said a word. The Lakers silently dressed and exited to the bus, where they sat and waited. After 20 minutes, their coach took his customary place in the front seat with his hand heavily wrapped in gauze.
"It was never discussed," Magic said. "We couldn't discuss it. That would require Pat admitting he had a weakness, and he wasn't going to let us see that."
Two days later, the Suns ended the Lakers' season. Riley poked around aimlessly in his office behind his Brentwood home, the same room where he used to pore over Boston game film and excitedly call Magic at three in the morning when he discovered a new nugget on how to stop the Celtics.
Johnson was still his leader, still his trusted friend, but even Magic, he sensed, had grown weary of his coaching style. Once he realized that, Riley knew his days were numbered.
Owner Jerry Buss called his coach in and told him he thought it was best if he relieved Riley of his duties. It was an emotional meeting, with Buss thanking Riley profusely for his dedication to the Lakers and providing him with a handsome financial settlement. Buss agreed that Riley's exit would be worded as a "mutual parting of the ways."
Magic heard his doorbell ring and was surprised to see his coach standing in the foyer.
"Buck, I'm leaving," Riley said. "The guys aren't responding. It's time for me to go."
Tears formed around Riley's eyes. For the next hour, he sat on Magic's deck and wept.
They talked about the season that had just ended so badly and the ones that ended so much differently. They laughed at Riley's thinly veiled motivational techniques and lamented the passing of the days when their lives revolved around Larry Bird and the Boston Celtics.
Magic knew Riley was making the proper decision. He had lost the players, and even his treasured relationship with Jerry West had suffered. When his coach talked about a future without the Lakers, Magic wondered aloud if there was such a thing.
On the day Pat Riley's resignation was announced, Larry Bird felt a tinge of sadness he couldn't quite explain. Even though he had never played for Riley, Bird believed he was the best tactician he'd ever seen. Riley's innovative responses to Boston's offensive sets had earned Bird's grudging admiration, although he never—ever—admitted it publicly.
"So he's gone," Bird thought. "That's good for us."
Riley's departure turned out to be immaterial to Bird and the Celtics. Although neither Larry Bird nor Magic Johnson would have ever believed it at the time, they had already played in the final championship of their careers.
9. NOVEMBER 7, 1991
Los Angeles, California
"YOU'VE GOT TO CALL Larry," Magic Johnson told his agent, Lon Rosen.
"Right away," Rosen assured him.
"Make sure you reach him before the announcement," Magic persisted. "I don't want him to find out about this on the news."
For 11 days Johnson had been harboring a harrowing secret: he had been diagnosed with HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. The condition was detected during a routine blood test, and Magic spent the next week meeting with specialists, undergoing additional examinations, and mulling his options. His wife Cookie was pregnant with the couple's first child, and although initial tests indicated she was not HIV-positive, it would be months before the baby could be pronounced risk-free with certainty.
How could he do this to her? He loved her and had planned to spend the rest of his life with her since his freshman year of college when he spotted her dancing at a nightclub in East Lansing, Michigan. But Magic couldn't commit. He had been swept up in the Hollywood scene, intoxicated by the beautiful, desirable women who propositioned him in the parking lot before games, in the hotel lobby after road games, in the stands during games. He broke off his engagement with Cookie twice, hurt her deeply, but then, finally, provided her with the wedding of her dreams. And now, some eight weeks after the day he pledged to love her forever, he had placed their happiness—their lives—in jeopardy.
Although Johnson had not contracted AIDS, only the virus that causes it, he knew so little about his condition that in conversations with Rosen he mistakenly kept referring to his illness as the fatal disease that was just beginning to creep into the public consciousness. An AIDS diagnosis would be an explosive story once the public became aware of it, and Magic wanted to keep it quiet until he knew all the facts. He needed to give his wife time to process what was happening. Cookie was frightened and upset and fretted about how she and her husband would be received once the news hit.
No secrets are safe for long, particularly in Los Angeles. Magic planned to hold a press conference on Friday, November 8, but the morning before, a reporter from KFWB, an all-news station in Los Angeles, called Rosen and told him they had learned Johnson had AIDS and planned to retire.
It was time to go public. Magic had already shared his condition with a small cadre of people—his parents, Cookie's parents, owner Jerry Buss, general manager Jerry West, assistant GM Mitch Kup-chak, and commissioner David Stern—but none of LA's players had been apprised of what was ailing their star.
Magic compiled a short list of people who needed to be notified immediately: his former coach Pat Riley, now with the New York Knicks; his confidant Isiah Thomas; talk-show host and close friend Arsenio Hall; and former teammates Michael Cooper, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Kurt Rambis.
It was also critical, Magic stressed, for Jordan and Bird to be contacted as soon as possible. Those two would be asked to comment more than any other current NBA player on his startling personal crisis.
As he ticked off the names, Magic paused to consider how each of them would react. They would be stunned, he was certain. Would they also be disappointed? Disgusted? Would it change the level of respect he enjoyed with each of them?
"You don't have a lot of time to think about it, because everything is happening so fast," Magic said. "But at some point I was wondering, 'What will Larry think? What will Michael think?'"
The unpleasant task of informing them fell to Rosen. He called Celtics public relations director Jeff Twiss and asked him to contact Larry with an urgent message. Twiss dialed Bird's number at his Brookline, Massachusetts, home shortly after one o'clock in the afternoon East Coast time with no expectation that Bird would pick up.
He didn't. After the Celtics were throttled the night before by Jordan and the Chicago Bulls, Bird had come home from practice that morning cranky, tired, and hurting. His Airness had scored 44 on Boston, and while Bird (30 points, 9 assists) had acquitted himself admirably, his chronically injured back had flared up, preventing him from sleeping most of the night. In fact, many nights the only way Bird could alleviate the searing pain was to sleep on the floor. When Dinah answered the phone call from Twiss, Bird was napping.
Dinah poked her head in to wake him.
"You need to call Lon Rosen," she said. "It sounds important."
Bird pulled himself up and dialed the number.
"Hey, Lon, what's going on?" Bird asked.
"Larry, I'm just going to tell you, because we don't have a lot of time," Rosen said. "Magic has the HIV virus. He's going to announce his retirement this afternoon. He wanted you to know before the news hit."
Bird grabbed on to the wall to steady himself. He wasn't sure what he was expecting—an endorsement opportunity perhaps?—but this revelation literally took his breath away.
"I felt like someone had sucked the air out of my lungs," Bird said. "I had this terrible empty feeling, like how I felt when my dad took his own life."
Rosen waited on the other line for a response. He was already growing accustomed to the chilling effect his phone calls were having on some of the biggest stars in the game. Moments earlier, he had elicited a similar, shocked reaction from Jordan.
"What can I do? What does he need?" Bird asked Rosen, struggling to control his voice.
"He's doing okay," Rosen answered. "You'll hear from him in a couple of days."
"I need to talk to him now," Bird said. "Can I call him?"
Magic was at his Beverly Hills home attempting to pick out a tasteful suit and an "upbeat tie" for his press conference when Bird reached him.
"Magic, I'm so sorry," Bird said.
"No, it's going to be all right," Magic said. "I have to take some medication and do some different stuff, but I'm going to fight this thing."
The two superstars talked briefly. If Johnson was reeling from his diagnosis, he adeptly concealed it.
"So," Magic said, "how are the Celtics looking?"
Bird was momentarily speechless.
"Ah, hell," he replied. "We'll probably kick your ass."
When Bird hung up the phone, he turned to Dinah and reported, "He was trying to cheer me up."
For the next three hours, Bird lay on the bed in his room, ruminating on his complex relationship with his lifelong rival—and, in recent years, his friend. Their journey had elicited a range of emotions: jealousy over Magic's NCAA championship in '79, euphoria over beating him head-to-head in '84, determination in '85 after the Lakers stole back the title, and grudging respect in '87 when it became clear that Magic had truly reached his peak.
Bird had devoted his entire career to establishing the upper hand over Earvin Johnson and the Los Angeles Lakers, and suddenly none of it mattered.
"My God," Bird said to Dinah, "Magic's gonna die."
The official word was that Magic Johnson caught the flu. In reality, the life of the Lakers star began unraveling shortly after he took a blood test for a team life insurance policy in early October 1991. The team was about to leave for Paris to play in the McDonald's Open when Rosen was notified by the Lakers that there was a problem with Magic's results. The insurance company needed Johnson to sign a document to release his medical file to the team and his physician, Dr. Michael Mellman.
When Rosen called the insurance company to inquire why Johnson's results had been flagged, they were tightlipped.
"Is it safe for him to play?" Rosen asked.
"I can't discuss Mr. Johnson's results with you," the insurance man answered.
The response left Rosen skittish. The previous March a college star named Hank Gathers had collapsed and died while playing for Loyola Marymount. A subsequent autopsy found that Gathers had suffered from a heart condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. What if the insurance company had detected a similar problem during Magic's tests?
"I need to know if it's safe for him to play," Rosen persisted. "If he drops dead like Hank Gathers, we'll sue."
"I'm sorry, sir," the insurance agent replied. "Mr. Johnson's results are confidential. We need that release."
As soon as he hung up the phone, Rosen contacted Magic's personal physician, Mellman, who was as perplexed as Rosen about the results.
"It could be anything," Mellman told him, "but every physical I've given him has shown that he's fine. He looks healthy to me. Let's wait and see."
Johnson flew to Paris unconcerned about what he dismissed as a minor clerical detail. On October 18, the Lakers trounced CSP Limoges 132–101, then beat Spain's Joventut Badalona 116–114 the next day. Rosen faxed a signed release to the insurance company from Paris, but they did not accept it as an official document.
"We need this done in person," the official explained.
Magic arrived back in Los Angeles on October 21 feeling jet-lagged and fatigued. The Lakers were scheduled to play an exhibition game against the Utah Jazz in Salt Lake City four days later, but Johnson was dragging and discussed skipping the trip with assistant GM Kupchak. His former teammate urged him to play. Although the Jazz game had sold out, there were still tickets remaining for the next game in Vancouver, and the Grizzlies would have no chance of a full house without Magic there.
"Besides, there are thousands of Utah fans that bought tickets to the game just to see you," Kupchak reminded him.
"All right, I'll go," Magic said. "But limit my minutes, okay? I'm beat."
Before he left for Salt Lake, a representative from the insurance company drove to his home and witnessed him signing the release form. Instead of overnighting the document via Federal Express, the representative inexplicably sent it via regular mail.
On the afternoon of October 25, shortly after he checked into the team hotel in Salt Lake City, Johnson received a phone call from Mellman, who had finally been mailed the results of his blood test.
"Earvin, you need to come back to Los Angeles immediately," Mellman said.
"I just landed in Utah," Johnson protested.
"This can't wait," Mellman said.
Rosen hastily arranged for Johnson to catch a Delta Airlines flight back to LA that landed at 5:30 P.M. He picked Magic up at the airport and drove him directly to Mellman's office. By then, Rosen feared the worst: cancer, a serious heart condition, a fatal disease.
Johnson was more curious than worried. A heart murmur maybe? Some kind of knee trouble?
"I'm a positive guy by nature," Magic said. "I wasn't thinking, 'Oh, no, something is really wrong.' I felt so good, I couldn't imagine I was sick."
But when Mellman final
ly opened the door and waved him into his office without any of his usual cheerfulness, Johnson quickly realized the news was dire.
The HIV-positive diagnosis was equally shocking and surprising. Magic did not initially react; he sat transfixed for a moment, as if he were intently watching a dramatic movie in which the plot was about to be revealed.
"Honestly, I think I was numb," he said.
Within seconds, he had a flood of questions: How did I get it? When did I get it? What does it mean? Am I going to die? What about my career? What about Cookie? The last question left him breathless. Only then did the scope of the somber diagnosis finally register with him.
"Oh, no," Magic said. "What about Cookie? She's pregnant."
Mellman recommended an additional blood test to make sure the results were accurate and advised him to have Cookie tested immediately. From there, Magic needed to meet with HIV specialists to chart a course of treatment. All of this would take time. Hence, the "flu" alibi was hatched.
"How am I going to tell her?" Magic asked Rosen as they left Mellman's office.
The two men stopped at an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica to have dinner and map out the immediate future. Magic wondered aloud if he would have to retire. He agonized over what he would say to Cookie, who was at home, still unaware that anything was amiss. As the waiter took their order, he handed Johnson a note from the adjacent table. They were planning an AIDS fundraiser and were hoping Magic would be willing to speak at their event. Johnson spent the rest of dinner absent-mindedly turning over their business card in his hands.
On his way home from the restaurant, Magic called his wife to tell her he'd been sent home from Utah.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I'll be home in a few minutes, and we'll talk all about it," he said calmly.
Cookie hung up the phone, her hand shaking.