by Larry Bird
LARRY BIRD STRODE into Dave Gavitt's office on a humid August morning. He had been home from Barcelona only nine days, and there was one unfinished piece of business that had been nagging him.
"Dave," Bird said, "I'm done. I'm retiring."
"Larry, are you sure?" Gavitt said. "I think you should take a few weeks to think it over a little longer."
Gavitt, who had watched Bird suffer in Barcelona, knew better than anyone that his star couldn't physically play anymore. Yet there was a reason why he wanted to put off Bird's announcement. If the franchise forward waited two more weeks, his contract for the following two seasons at $5 million each would kick in, and the Celtics would be obligated to pay him, even if he did retire. After everything number 33 had done for the Boston Celtics, Gavitt felt he deserved the money.
"I know what you are doing," Bird said. "I don't want the money. I didn't earn it, and I won't take it. Let's just get this over with."
Although there had been rumors of Bird's retirement for months, no one save Dinah and a few select Dream Team teammates could say for sure whether Bird was really done.
His final game at Boston Garden was on May 15, 1992, against the Cleveland Cavaliers. At the time, the Celtics were down 3–2 in the second round of the playoffs, and Bird steeled himself to face the fact that any game from that point on could be his last. His friend Reggie Lewis was turning into a star before his eyes, and it was Lewis's young legs (not to mention some critical free throws) that extended Bird's career. Lewis dropped 28 on the Cavs, while Bird had 16 points and 14 assists in his final game on his beloved home court.
He went to Cleveland firmly believing Boston could win Game 7, but as the Cavaliers put the finishing touches on their 122–104 victory, Bird glanced around the Richfield Coliseum and said to himself, "Well, I guess this is it."
It was a markedly subdued ending to a superlative career. Coach Chris Ford, aware that Larry was in constant pain, played his forward 33 minutes. Bird submitted 12 points (on 6-of-9 shooting) with 5 rebounds and 4 assists, but the box score was reflective of his lack of mobility. Larry didn't attempt a single free throw or three-point shot.
"I wasn't myself," Bird admitted. "If I was, maybe I would have felt worse about stopping. But I knew it was time. Hell, I should have retired after the first back surgery."
There were no grand pronouncements when the game ended. Although speculation swirled that Bird was considering retirement, no one in the locker room mentioned it—least of all Bird himself. He just quietly slipped the game ball into his gym bag and went home.
Larry would have preferred an equally low-key retirement celebration, but Gavitt had already hatched an idea to hold a tribute celebration at Boston Garden in Bird's honor and donate the proceeds to local charities.
"Let me do this for you," said Gavitt. "Let me do it for your fans. You deserve a proper sendoff."
"I don't know," Bird said. "Why would anyone want to come see me if I'm not playing ball?"
"You still don't get it, Birdie," Gavitt laughed. "You have no idea what you mean to these people."
Bird finally agreed to holding a Larry Bird Night, and the tickets sold out within an hour.
But first Bird had to make his retirement official. After he met with Gavitt, he called his attorney, Bob Woolf, who tried in vain to talk his client out of the hasty press conference.
"Larry, let's do this right," Woolf said. "Give me some time. You want this announcement to get the proper attention it deserves.
"Nope, Bob," Bird said. "I'm done now. Today. I'll see you at the press conference."
The harried Celtics public relations staff got the word out as quickly as they could. The local media flocked to the Garden, and the national pundits, aware of what the press conference meant, solemnly delivered the news that Larry Bird's basketball career was about to officially end.
Magic Johnson had already arrived at work at his downtown offices when his phone started ringing.
"You better clear some time in my schedule," Magic informed his assistant. "I think I might be kind of busy today."
Larry Bird told the people of Boston that if you didn't play for the Celtics, then you didn't play professional basketball. He told them he cherished the fact that he had played in one place his entire career. He promised them he would never—ever—make a comeback.
And then it was over.
Dinah had decided to go back to Indiana once she knew her husband was about to make his retirement official. There were too many memories, and, she surmised, it would be too emotional. She was sitting in a chair at the hairdresser's when the announcement breathlessly came across the radio.
Though Bird experienced a wave of nostalgia after the press conference, what he felt mostly was a huge sense of relief. He was in so much pain that he was ecstatic not to have to play anymore.
"At that moment," he said, "it was one of the happiest days of my life."
Larry Bird Night raised more than $1 million for 33 charities, among them WGBH, the local PBS affiliate that televised all the kids' shows that Bird's young son Conner loved to watch with his daddy.
While numerous dignitaries, celebrities, and Hall of Famers were present, the highlight was the arrival of Magic Johnson, who came nattily dressed in a suit and tie.
The Lakers had previously shipped Magic's uniform to the Garden, and as Magic began to change, he realized he'd forgotten to bring a T-shirt to wear underneath. The team tossed him a Celtics jersey and he snapped up his gold-and-purple warm-ups to cover it.
As the two legends bantered onstage during the ceremony, Bird suddenly lunged toward Magic and ripped open the Lakers warm-up jacket to reveal Celtics green. The Boston fans howled with delight.
Magic, matching Bird's gesture from his own retirement, presented him with a piece of the Forum floor signed by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, and, Magic chuckled, "all those other guys you don't care about."
He told the crowd that in all the years Bird had played in Boston, he had only ever told them one lie.
"Do you know what it was?" Magic asked Bird, who was genuinely perplexed by the line of questioning.
"You said there would be another Larry Bird," Magic continued. "And I'm telling you, you're wrong. There will never be another Larry Bird. You can take that to the bank."
A year and a half following his retirement, Bird underwent spinal fusion surgery, a major medical procedure that often leaves patients permanently unable to engage in most athletic activities. The surgery was successful, and Bird was able to play golf and an occasional tennis match through the years. It was made abundantly clear to him, however, that his basketball days were over.
Magic's prognosis was much murkier. He had been living with HIV for almost a year, and his T cell count (the white blood cells called lymphocytes that protect the body against infection) was holding steady. His energy level was high, and his health was good.
He kept busy during his time away from the game. He built up his business and still rubbed shoulders with celebrities and musicians.
By the early nineties, the Jackson Five had disbanded, but the youngest brother, Michael, had become a pop icon with his Off the Wall album. His handlers called Magic one night and invited him to dinner. When Johnson arrived, he was presented with an elegant plate of freshly prepared chicken garnished with parsley and a bed of rice.
Magic was about to dig in when he noticed that Michael Jackson had nothing in front of him. On cue, a servant came from the kitchen and placed a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken on Jackson's plate.
"Is that your dinner?" Magic asked.
"You bet it is. I love this stuff," Jackson answered.
"Well, then, pass some over," Magic said. "I love it too!"
Over their fast-food meal, Jackson asked Magic to appear in his new video "Remember the Time." Eddie Murphy had agreed to play the role of a pharaoh, and Magic would be cast as his servant.
The video was cutting-edge for those times, and more than nine minutes lo
ng. Magic wore a funky Egyptian midriff and headband and banged a gong. He loved every minute of it, even though his friends teased him mercilessly for his bizarre attire. The video premiered in March 1992 and drew rave reviews.
While Magic enjoyed the opportunity to try new endeavors, he wasn't kidding himself or anyone close to him. He wanted to play basketball again, and with his health stabilized, he couldn't come up with a reason why he shouldn't.
He called Commissioner David Stern at his New York office.
"David," Magic said, "I want to make a comeback."
Stern was not particularly surprised by the phone call. He'd seen Magic at various NBA functions and could sense his restlessness. He did not object to Johnson's return but was keenly aware of how difficult it would be to sell a permanent comeback as opposed to a one-time All- Star exhibition.
In the wake of Magic's diagnosis, the NBA had taken specific steps to protect its players. Every league trainer was required to wear plastic gloves when treating an athlete. If a player was cut on the court, he had to come out until the wound was covered with a bandage.
Warm memories of the All-Star Game and his appearance in Barcelona with the Olympic team had convinced Magic that he was no different than anybody else, in spite of his medical condition. Yet once word circulated that Magic was coming back for the long haul, the goodwill toward him began to vanish. One by one, a small number of his NBA peers began publicly questioning whether someone who was HIV-positive should be playing in the league. Utah forward Karl Malone, Magic's Dream Team teammate, told the New York Times on November 1, 1992, that players were nervous about playing against Magic, particularly if they had any open cuts on their bodies.
"Just because he came back doesn't mean nothing to me," Malone told the paper. "I'm no fan, no cheerleader. It may be good for basketball, but you have to look far beyond that. You have a lot of young men who have a long life ahead of them. The Dream Team was a concept everyone loved. But now we're back to reality."
In the same article, Suns president Jerry Colangelo, who had been so supportive of Magic remaining a part of the Olympic squad, also conceded that players were concerned about the potential exchange of blood through cuts, even though the Players Association had repeatedly reassured them that the chances of that happening were practically nil.
"Risk is risk," Colangelo told the Times. "I have a son-in-law who does surgery every day, and he wears gloves, goggles, masks, and lives in mortal fear."
Magic was blindsided by the comments. Malone had said nothing in Barcelona; why was it an issue now? Johnson was particularly stung that Malone and Colangelo did not share their reservations with him before going public.
Their comments reignited the debate on whether Magic belonged in the NBA. It was a major blow to Johnson, who mistakenly believed that his peers would warmly welcome him back.
"I was really ticked off at Malone," Byron Scott said. "He had just played with Earvin in the Olympics. He knew the deal. He knew we had the best team with Earvin, and if Earv didn't play, Utah would have a better shot of getting to the Finals.
"I couldn't believe Karl would stab him in the back like that. I've never forgiven him."
Colangelo said Malone's fears were shared by many of his peers at that time, whether they articulated them or not. It was, he conceded, the result of a lack of knowledge about AIDS and HIV.
"It's pretty easy to look back now," said Colangelo, "but at the time, players were frightened. When they heard 'HIV,' a lot of red flags went up.
"I wish we had been more informed. In retrospect, had we known what we know now, I wish nothing was said. But at that time, we were saying what a lot of other people were secretly thinking."
The pressure for Stern to ban Magic increased tenfold. The commissioner stood his ground and stressed in confidential meetings with his owners that if the NBA tried to ban Johnson, they would have a major lawsuit—and public relations disaster—on their hands. It would also force the league to implement mandatory HIV testing for all of its athletes, a concept the Players Association vehemently opposed.
"Are you completely sure that Magic is our only HIV-positive player?" Stern asked his owners. "Because I'm not."
His reasoning did little to quell the cries for Stern to turn Magic away. The commissioner stubbornly held his ground, telling owners, sponsors, players, and media the same thing: "We will not be railroaded."
Within a week of the controversial Times article, Johnson's fate was sealed. As he was driving to the basket in an exhibition game against the Cleveland Cavaliers in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Magic was scratched on the right arm. Under the new guidelines established by the league, game action was halted and Johnson's "wound" was attended to by trainer Gary Vitti.
Once they realized it was Magic who was cut, the crowd emitted a collective gasp. As Magic walked toward Vitti, the arena grew deathly silent.
Vitti understood what he was required to do. He needed to put on his rubber gloves and attend to the cut. But for weeks Magic's teammates had been secretly streaming into Vitti's office asking for reassurances that it was okay to play alongside Johnson. The trainer explained again and again that there was virtually no risk involved.
"That's what I was telling them," Vitti said. "Now here comes a little scratch, and I'm going to put on those gloves? To me, it was sending the wrong message."
The gloves were in his pocket. Vitti reached for them, then looked at the Laker players, who were monitoring his every move. He pulled his hand out of his pockets without the gloves and placed a Band-Aid on Magic with his bare hands.
Cleveland coach Lenny Wilkens thought the crowd's response seemed awfully dramatic for a little scratch. He looked up to the stands and realized that the fans were fixated on his players, wondering what they'd do next.
"I think they were waiting to see if we'd run off the floor," Wilkens said.
The coach scanned the expressions on the faces of his players as he waved them to the sideline. He recognized fear when he saw it. Wilkens was a longtime NBA alumnus, a Hall of Fame player for 15 seasons, and a Hall of Fame coach for another 32. He had not forgotten what Magic Johnson had done to revitalize the league during one of its most dismal periods. Wilkens admired his skill and, in the wake of his diagnosis, his courage.
As the Cavaliers huddled together, it was apparent that some players were unfazed by Magic's "injury," while others were genuinely unglued.
"I don't know about this," said one of the Cavalier starters.
"I want to go home to my family without worrying about whether I'm going to pass on some infection. Let's stop this thing," said another.
"Guys, you have to calm down," Wilkens said. "You are not in danger. It's only a scratch. Now let's get back to work."
Danny Ferry was in the Cleveland huddle. He had already guarded Magic in the game and was ready to resume playing. Yet he understood why some of his teammates were hesitant.
"The NBA tried to educate us, but to be honest, it was an uphill battle," Ferry said. "They told us we were more likely to be run over by a car than contract HIV, but some of the guys in that huddle just couldn't wrap their minds around that."
As Wilkens coaxed his team back onto the floor, he glanced over at Magic Johnson. His face was steeped in disappointment. There would be no more high-fives that day, no joyous behind-the-back passes, no playful gestures to the crowd. The look of devastation on his face was unmistakable.
"His expression said, 'I can't do this anymore,'" Wilkens said.
The collective gasp of the Chapel Hill crowd haunted Magic for years. And when Cleveland veteran Mark Price publicly joined the fray as yet another NBA player who had reservations about Johnson playing, Magic knew what had to be done. He called Cookie and told her, "It's over."
"I'm not going to hurt the league Larry and I spent so much time building up," he said.
Over the weekend, Magic called Rosen and met him at Duke's, his favorite breakfast spot. He told him he was retiring and i
nstructed Rosen to call a press conference.
For the first time in his career, Magic didn't bother to show up.
"He was so hurt by the criticism," Rosen said. "It devastated him. I'm not sure there was ever a lower point in his life."
The morning after the Charlotte exhibition, a photograph of trainer Gary Vitti ministering to Magic Johnson was on the front page of papers throughout the country. There, in plain sight, was proof that the trainer had not used his gloves. Within days he was reported to the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) for not following protocol. The complaint came from a Rhode Island doctor.
"Who knows what motivated him?" Vitti said. "Maybe he was a guy the OSHA had been hassling. Maybe he was an overzealous Celtics fan. All I know is that I was investigated for the next year regarding everything I'd ever done with the Lakers."
Vitti was eventually cleared by the OSHA, but while his "impropriety" made the front page, his exoneration was a one-line news item buried in the back.
By then, Magic was retired from the NBA and had organized AllStar and barnstorming teams to play in exhibition games throughout Europe. He was received with great fanfare—and little mention of his medical condition—as he played against, and beat, the top players in the world. Over time, new cases of HIV cropped up daily, and so did new courses of treatment. Americans learned to live with HIV, just as Magic Johnson did.
On January 30, 1996, nearly five years after his first retirement, Magic Johnson embarked on one final comeback. Fears about HIV had subsided considerably, and prevention and treatment of the disease were part of the daily conversation in America. This time he felt certain that he could resume playing the game he loved without any further static regarding his condition.
In his return against Golden State, Magic assumed his new role on the Lakers as a power forward/sixth man and put up 19 points, 10 rebounds, and 8 assists. He was 27 pounds heavier, less mobile, and no longer an MVP candidate, but his court vision and his unabashed enthusiasm for the game were still unparalleled.