by Bill Walton
Larry was a firm no, but the guy would not give it up. And finally one day, Larry said, OK. I’ll do it.
Harry was overjoyed—ecstatic, beside himself with glee. Larry Bird was going to endorse his restaurant. But then Harry came to the realization—oh my gosh, what am I going to have to pay this guy? This is Larry Bird. The King.
When they came to talk price, Larry said that he didn’t want anything for the deal. Harry was stunned. Larry said that the only thing that he wanted was for each of his teammates—there were eleven of us—the three coaches, the trainer (Ray), and the guys who ran the locker room (Wayne and Corky) to be able to come into the Scotch ’n Sirloin anytime, bring their families, and eat for free—but that we would all leave a cash tip, and if the tip wasn’t big enough, to be sure and tell Larry, and he would take care of it.
Harry jumped at it. Little did he know that Rick Carlisle would eat every meal there all season long. Rick already had one nickname, Flipper, for the enormous size of his feet, considering that he was just a guard. Larry soon took to calling Rick “Teriyaki Chicken” for the humongous amounts of teriyaki chicken that Rick put away at the Scotch ’n Sirloin on a daily basis.
It was one of the coolest things ever. We went there all the time. After almost every game, the whole team would go to this very nice restaurant just down the street and eat and drink all night long. Each player and their families would have their own table. And at the end of the night, Larry would quietly check to make sure that the plates were clean and the tip was the right size. And if you were coyly observant, you could usually catch Larry discreetly dropping some very-large-denomination bills on most of the now empty Celtic tables as he tried his best to make his way quietly out into the night.
And we’d be on our way—until the next practice, the next game, the next victory.
* * *
One morning, as we’re getting ready to start practice and everybody is warming up, I am off to the side getting ready when, all of a sudden, Kevin and Larry are there at my side.
“What’s going on?” they wanted to know. I asked them what they were talking about. “Come on, you know. What’s going on here?” they demanded. “There’s lots of new people all over town. They all have long hair, they’re all wearing those colorful shirts that you always wear, and everything smells really funny. What’s going on here?”
With all the seriousness I could muster and as straight a face as I could find, I told them I had no idea what they were talking about.
They pounced. “Are the Grateful Dead in town?”
I told them that the band was indeed “on their way.”
“Is there going to be a concert?” “Yes.”
“Are you going?” “Yes.”
After a long pause: “Do you think that we can come, too?”
“I think we might be able to work something out.”
So the whole team met at Larry’s house, everybody except Danny Ainge, whose wife wouldn’t let him come. Larry had arranged for a fleet of limousines. And we all went, as a team, in formation.
When we got to the show in Worcester, we were all backstage, and I was making the introductions. Jerry—Larry. Chief—Bob. Phil—Kevin. BK—DJ. Scotty—Mickey. Brent—Jerry. And on down the line. We were all having a high and fine time back there when Ram Rod came and told us it was time to get on with the show.
We, the Celtics, went up first. Now, when I asked crew members Ram Rod, Robbie Taylor, Big Steve, and Kidd Candelario about bringing the team to the show, I explained to the guys that these Celtics were true legends and that they would not have a good time if they were out in the crowd, where I always liked to be. The crew rolled their eyes and explained that they were not rookies—and that they would take care of things.
When we got up onstage, the crew had constructed a masterful space just off to the side, all curtained off so that nobody could see in. It was better than perfect.
And there were very nice, comfortable seats for all of us. As we took our places for the upcoming ceremony, Ram Rod and Steve brought over some extremely large coolers full of our favorite drinks—most likely milk and water, as near as I can remember.
The concert hall was all abuzz with the excitement, anticipation, and euphoria of a Dead show that was about to start. And with the lights now down, Jerry finally stepped into the shaft of golden light, as the place was just about ready to blast off. And as he fiddled with his foot pedals and stepped to the front to make sure that the microphone and everything was exactly perfect, Jerry turned to us, the Celtics, safe and secure in our little enclave to his right.
He made eye contact with Larry Bird. And he nodded. And winked. And then he mouthed to Larry, “THIS is what WE do.”
And then he turned and the band blew it out and open for the rest of the night. And all the people never had such a good time.
When it was over—much, much later—and the lights came back up, all the Celtics turned to me, now with their kaleidoscope eyes spinning, and exclaimed, “WOW! Can we come back tomorrow?”
And go back we did, gratefully for many happy and fun years. And the Grateful Dead came to us as well, stopping by now and again for practice and the games to meet the guys and to see what we were able to do together on our stage. When K. C. would come onto the court to find Jerry, Bob, Phil, Bill, Mickey, and Brent there in all sorts of everything, he looked around in wonderment, asking anybody within earshot who these new guys were and what they were doing here. Somebody muttered something about them being friends of mine from out of town. K. C. always said, “Fine. OK. Whatever.” And we all got on with it.
* * *
When you’re a really good team, you win in a variety of ways. Most often it happens from an accumulation of successes over the course of the entire game, generally starting with the opening tip. And as these add up, it usually results in commanding separation that leaves no doubt at the end as to who the better team is. But sometimes it comes down to one play at the very end, and that is when you really need to have the single best player in the game to get it done. And we had Larry Bird. And nobody else did.
So there we’d be, needing one more big play to win the game, and we’re all standing there in the huddle surrounding K. C. And he has the clipboard, and he’s stroking his chin, tapping the board, and figuring it all out. Now, before K. C. could let us know his plans, Larry would reach right in and start pointing emphatically at the board himself.
He would lean in, tapping the board with his crooked right index finger, and tell our coach, at this critical juncture, “Just give me the ball right here. I’ll make the game-winner, and we’re out of here.”
K. C. is listening patiently to all this, then he shakes everybody off. He looks up and firmly commands, “Shut up, Bird. I’m the coach here.”
We all pause for a second, then K. C. looks up at us again, now with a real twinkle in his eye, and tells us, “Guys, we’re going to give the ball to Larry Bird—right here,” tapping the same spot that Larry had originally demanded.
Larry stands up a bit straighter now, and then he would go out and tell the other team, in advance, what the play was going to be, and how he was going to beat them, and where.
And then he would do it—exactly as he told them, and us, that he would.
There was nobody like Larry Bird—ever.
* * *
The Celtics would regularly go on these long and extended road trips, sometimes for two weeks at a time. Larry had gotten into the habit of predicting how the team and he individually would do on any given stretch away from Boston. Average a triple-double. Win all the games. Set scoring records. Take over first place. Whatever he felt like. Larry had high standards and expectations. And he was generally able to back up almost all of his proclamations.
Toward the end of one arduous West Coast trip, where Larry had been playing flawlessly, the reporters asked him after yet another masterpiece what else he had in store, what else could he possibly do. He announced right then and the
re that he was bored and that he was going to play the next game left-handed, or at least for the first three quarters, and that if the outcome was still in doubt, he would go back to playing right-handed to make sure that we won.
Some people thought he was kidding. Poor Jerome Kersey and the Portland Trail Blazers certainly wished he had been. Larry did play the entire game left-handed, and he put on an absolute clinic. Now, he didn’t have the range on his left-handed jumper, but he played a different, more controlled and disciplined game that night in Portland. A midrange, driving, running, back-cutting, rebounding, passing, and slashing game for the ages. All left-handed. And there was nothing anybody could do about it. Including an All-Star-level player like Jerome Kersey.
As the season marched on, we found ourselves in Atlanta one night for a really big game. When you’re on the best team, all the games are big. And for the other team, it’s always the biggest game of the year. So with the Hawks fielding a most formidable lineup that included Dominique Wilkins, Kevin Willis, Tree Rollins, Reggie Theus, Doc Rivers, Spud Webb, and Antoine Carr, and all coached by Mike Fratello, this was a particularly competitive matchup for us. They had a record crowd at the Omni that night, and the fans came for blood. The Hawks were flawless from the outset, and we couldn’t seem to get anything right. We were way down and hopelessly out of it at the half. Their fans were going wild, and the Hawks players themselves were all trash-talking to no end, with the exception of Dominique—who knew better and had too much class.
We limped into our locker room at the midway break, our tails dragging between our legs. K. C. walks in, looks at us, and shakes his head in embarrassment, disappointment, and shame. He looks around, finds the cooler in the corner, walks over and grabs a cold one, and goes and sits down in a chair off to the side and pounds it down. When he’s done, he looks at his watch, looks at us as we’re sitting there still down and dispirited, and goes back to the cooler for another one, which he pounds down as well. When he’s done, he looks at his watch, looks at us, and goes back to the cooler for another one. Finally, he looks at his watch, stands up, and quietly says, “Let’s go.”
We’re back out on the court now for the start of the third quarter. Larry is waiting to take the ball in from out-of-bounds to start the second half. And as the ref comes over and hands the ball to him to get things going, Larry takes the ball and shoves it right back into the startled ref’s midsection and won’t let go—of either the ball or the ref. Completely caught off guard, the poor, unsuspecting ref has no idea what’s going on here. And then Larry looks right into the guy’s soul, deep and burning through his now bulging and scared eyes. And Larry—serious as can be—tells the ref right there, “Hey, we’re down big here. But we’re not going to quit. You make sure that you don’t, either!”
Larry went absolutely wild in the third quarter—made every shot he took, including an astronomical number of three-pointers. Whatever Larry didn’t do, Scott Wedman did. Scotty was the second-best player on the planet that night, held back only because he played behind and in support of Larry, and no matter what, on this team he could never get the minutes he needed to be at the top.
By the end of this most remarkable quarter, we had come all the way back to tie it up. We won the game, at the end, in overtime. We didn’t need a plane to get home that night.
It didn’t always go so smoothly, though. As we rolled into Dallas toward the end of the season, it was not lost on anybody that the Mavericks, still a fairly recent expansion team, had never beaten the Celtics. And we are on fire. Larry is having a really, really big game, and has 48 points after three quarters. He knows he’s hot, we have a huge lead, and he decides to keep going for it in the fourth. Except that he goes ice cold, and momentum shifts wholly to Dallas. Larry misses every one of the many shots that he takes in the fourth, making only two free throws, and Dallas comes back to beat us in the end. The Mavericks and their fans are overjoyed. We are stunned.
Most of the few games that we lost that year were to the worst teams that we played. This was no exception. In the locker room after the game, I walked by Larry on the way to the showers. I told him, “You might have scored fifty points tonight, but you were the worst player in the game.” He had his head down as he mumbled, “I know.”
He more than made up for it the next day. He always did.
The Mavericks made and sold countless copies of the video recording of their win.
* * *
On the rare occasions that we did lose a game that season, K. C. didn’t say much in the locker room right after the game other than to direct us to “go take a shower and wash that mess off yourselves, and we’ll talk about it all tomorrow.”
When tomorrow rolled around and it was time to go again, K. C. would bring up the debacle from the night before and explain that he had spent the night lying awake trying to figure out how this supposedly great team could have possibly lost to “those guys.” And as he was trying to understand it, he told us, his thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing in his room. It was Bill Russell, and Russ said that he had seen the Celtics’ loss on the satellite TV earlier that night. He was so embarrassed by our performance that he wanted K. C. to give him the team’s mailing address so that he could send all of his eleven championship rings back. K. C. told us that John Havlicek called not too much later, and had also seen our miserable performance that night. And John was so ashamed that he wanted to know how he could have his retired No. 17 Celtic uniform removed from the rafters of the Boston Garden. And on it went through the night. They all called. The entire Celtic family. All the Hall of Famers. All the great champions. All the legends. They were through with us. They all wanted to disassociate themselves from what we had just done.
We would go out and obliterate whoever was next—for quite a while.
* * *
Being part of a great team makes the locker room a very special place. When the team is lousy, that same room is dreadfully awful. This Celtics team had so many dynamic and diverse personalities, the locker room scene became a story all its own.
Dennis Johnson, DJ, in the right corner locker near the showers, hated wasting time and waiting around. He always kept his own schedule, preferring to arrive as late as humanly possible and still get there before the game actually started. He loved to eat just before the game, wolfing down food even as he was getting dressed, taped, and filling out the myriad of ticket requests.
Kevin, in the corner to DJ’s left, loved the social aspect of always having someone there to listen to him. He enjoyed recounting the weirdness of the daily news, and would regularly read the day’s tabloids out loud to anybody within earshot, which meant all of us.
To Kevin’s left, Chief liked to focus on his fan mail. Sitting next to him, right in the middle, where the centers always are, I had the privilege of living his dreams alongside him. Robert would get all these letters that were doused with perfume and stuffed with pictures and all sorts of enticing invitations. Chief and I regularly discussed temptation.
Danny, in the far left corner, could never keep still. Always up and down, bouncing off the walls, and nonstop chatter—usually about golf, money, and how great a player he was—at everything. Which was mostly true.
One day, Danny was whining more than usual, about how Kevin would never pass him the ball, and that Kevin was the ultimate black hole—you threw it in there, and it never came back out.
Kevin took it all in quietly for a while, but finally he blurted out, “Enough! Corky, Wayne, get me the stat sheet. Right now.” They do, and Kevin starts going up and down the list, reading it out. Here is Danny shooting 50 percent from the field for the season while being left unguarded the entire time, because every team had to put two or three guys on Kevin; and here’s Kevin shooting 58 percent, near the top of the league, being totally surrounded by the other team all game long—including Danny’s man. Then Kevin turned to Danny and, looking around the room at all of us for affirmation, asked him, “So tell me, Danny,
with these facts and stats, why should I ever pass you the ball?”
The question was met with stone silence, as Danny quickly went off in another direction. The rest of us—Scotty, Jerry, Rick, Greg, Sam, David, and me—kept still and quiet. We were the cannon fodder for one of the great teams in sports history.
And then there was Larry. He was always so meticulous in his preparation and attention to detail. He was also constantly burdened by the responsibility of being the best performer and the leader of the band, all at the same time. In that spot, you’re never really allowed the luxury of being happy. The obligation isn’t easy, and Larry never took it lightly.
He was always one of the first to arrive, often hours before game time. He immediately took the court and started running and shooting. Always near the basket at first, and then as he found his rhythm and touch, he would slowly add distance to the practice shots. Larry generally had three men, all hired by the Celtics, there to feed him the ball. Not little children but grown men, who, like Larry, were all very serious in this warm-up session that lasted quite a long time. When he felt ready for the game—and only he knew when—he would head straight to the locker room, already completely drenched in sweat. He would strip down, take a hot shower, and then go and lie down in a dark, quiet space and get a full body massage from Vladimir, the first full-time massage therapist in the history of the NBA. Red always said do whatever it takes, and he’d take care of everything from the business end. And he did.
Vladimir is still a Celtic today, as we all are—because of Red.
When it was time, Larry would come out into the locker room, get dressed in his game uniform, get taped, and then sit there quietly by his corner locker off to the left of Chief, Scotty, and myself. He wouldn’t put his shoes on until the last few moments. And as he sat there by himself, head down, deep in thought, analysis, concentration, and everything else, he would start chewing on his thumb. The earlier and more furiously he started chewing on that thumb, the more urgent we all knew the situation to be.