So yes, at this point in his life, he hated white people. Hated them. But with a catch—not individually. Though he rarely befriended whites, he was open to discussions. His spiritual guide, a former Malcolm X disciple named Hamaas Abdul-Khaalis, asked Abdul-Jabbar to look beyond skin color and understand that there were plenty of black sinners, too. Abdul-Khaalis referred to Malcolm X’s famous pilgrimage to Mecca, when a militant, anti-white religious leader came to see that race—while important—wasn’t the sole factor in understanding another human being.
“I had a very firm grasp of the concepts I didn’t like—white authority, unbending rules, false-faced people—but was much less certain where to draw the line in real life,” Abdul-Jabbar wrote. “I was wary, and angry, that I had to examine everybody I came in contact with—sort of an emotional frisking—because every touch could be a slap. All my reservations became conscious, each chance meeting with a stranger and every introduction by a friend became a potential source of pain. I read all gestures intensively, and terribly often found them racially hurtful, therefore personally unacceptable. People who tried too hard to be friendly were being patronizing racists; people who didn’t try hard enough were blatant racists. People I didn’t know weren’t worth knowing; people I did know had to watch their step.”
Abdul-Jabbar was still, to the world, Lew Alcindor when, on April 7, 1969, the second-year Milwaukee Bucks called his name with the first pick of the NBA Draft. For a young, socially conscious man who had spent his entire existence on the coasts, this was a blow. Milwaukee was a conservative Midwest town with little nightlife or excitement or open-mindedness. It wasn’t Selma, Alabama, or Columbia, Mississippi. But the city was a long way from New York and Los Angeles.
Meanwhile, he was also drafted by the New York Nets of the third-year American Basketball Association. This presented an enticing option. “The Nets . . . were in real pursuit,” he wrote, “and all things being equal, I would have been more than happy to play for them. The ABA was a new league, without the tradition and composure of the NBA, but I was no great fan of tradition and composure.”
Abdul-Jabbar wanted to sign with the Nets. He expected to sign with the Nets. However, when the ABA offer was dwarfed by Milwaukee’s, he had little choice. He agreed to a five-year, $1.4 million deal—then impressed his new employers by not flinching when George Mikan, the ABA’s commissioner, upped his league’s bid to an unheard-of $3.25 million. “This is not the way to do business,” Abdul-Jabbar said. “I gave my word. I would not want to welsh on them.”
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Milwaukee were an odd pairing. Milwaukee was a Christian town, with a couple of Jews sprinkled in. Abdul-Jabbar was Muslim. Abdul-Jabbar, as per the orthodoxy of his religion, didn’t drink. In Milwaukee, beer capital of the universe, all people did was drink. Growing up in Harlem, at the knee of a musician, Abdul-Jabbar was a jazz fanatic. His record collection numbered in the hundreds, and he loved sitting in the back of a club, nodding his head to the groove. In Milwaukee, there was polka. Having just spent four years in Southern California, Abdul-Jabbar was all about short sleeves and comfort. In Milwaukee, October already felt like winter. “I wasn’t,” he wrote, “the happiest guy to be there.”
And yet, Milwaukee embraced Abdul-Jabbar. Granted, he didn’t immediately get around to telling folks about his name change. Or, for that matter, his mistrust of white people. But on his first day of rookie training camp, Abdul-Jabbar walked onto the court to a three-minute standing ovation, and the love fest lasted all season. Abdul-Jabbar was the runaway 1969–70 NBA Rookie of the Year, averaging 28.8 points and 14.5 rebounds per game while helping the Bucks finish 56-26 (the team lost to the Knicks in the Eastern Conference Finals). “He was not only great, he was as great as anyone could be,” said Jon McGlocklin, an All-Star guard. “We regularly ran plays through him, and there was very little the opposing team could do about it. There are other excellent centers. But there’s only one Kareem.”
Throughout his six years in Milwaukee, the Bucks emerged as an elite team behind their elite center. They won the 1971 NBA title, powered by Abdul-Jabbar and the iconic Oscar Robertson, who had been acquired that off-season. Yet teammates from the era recall an uncomfortable man whose on-court electricity was coupled with off-court darkness. “It was very tough for him to adjust to the culture of the city,” said McGlocklin. “He was walled off, and sometimes not especially approachable. But I think it’s important to understand what a person has been through.”
Abdul-Jabbar had an especially difficult time with the media. If the general assessments of his game were glowing, the assessments of his persona were brutal. Early in his rookie year, the Bucks came to Detroit, and Abdul-Jabbar was forced to conduct his fourth press conference of the week. He was tired and irritable and rightly irked by the all-white media corps harping on his height and religious leanings. He answered many questions with one or two words, and kept his hands buried in his pockets. This was apparently the equivalent of murdering young invalids to the Sporting News’s Joe Falls, whose column gutted the rookie:
I met Alcindor for the first time when he came to Detroit with the Milwaukee Bucks to play a game against the Pistons. Alcindor is supposed to stand 7-13/8 inches, but I can tell you he is much smaller than that. In fact, he is one of the smallest men I have ever met.
. . . They brought the big guy into a press conference at a downtown hotel after the Bucks had arrived in town by plane. It would have been better for all concerned—including Alcindor—if he had gone straight to his room and not talked to anybody. Never have I seen such a discourteous display put on by an athlete in any sport.
. . . None of us was there to go into his racial or religious beliefs. We didn’t have the time or the space . . . or the inclination. We went there to see him because he is a great basketball player . . . to treat him as a great basketball player.
. . . When he tells us, the media, that he isn’t interested in us, he is also telling you, the public, that he isn’t interested in you. Once more that’s his prerogative. I just think you ought to know it, that’s all.
If it took Abdul-Jabbar little time to realize Milwaukee wasn’t for him, he knew, for certain, he wanted to make a change in the early days of 1973, when his life—already dizzying—was toppled upside down. On January 18, two adults and five children were murdered by the Black Muslims in a Washington, DC, house owned by Abdul-Jabbar. The home was being used as a Muslim headquarters, and the killings were tied to a feud among members of the Hanifi sect.
Abdul-Jabbar had nothing to do with the tragedy. He was in Milwaukee when it occurred, and only learned of it when he was called by a Bucks secretary. Yet that didn’t stop the media from making the incident about—and only about—Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
Over the following weeks and months, there was talk that Abdul-Jabbar was the next target. He was protected by armed bodyguards—the last thing he wanted. Really, what he desired was to be back home in New York, to play for the Knicks and once again have a familiar foundation surrounding him. In 1975, he officially asked the Bucks to be traded. “I’m not criticizing the people here,” he said. “But Milwaukee is not what I’m all about. The things I relate to aren’t in Milwaukee.”
He was a three-time NBA Most Valuable Player and a six-time All-Star. He had brought the city its first NBA championship and quietly went about his work.
Milwaukee would never forgive him.
Because Abdul-Jabbar was a year removed from free agency, the team had little choice. After the Knicks refused to meet its demands, Milwaukee sent the greatest star in franchise history to the Lakers for four players—the forgettable Elmore Smith, the even more forgettable Brian Winters and two blue-chip selections from the recent draft: Junior Bridgeman and David Meyers. It was, arguably, the biggest trade in league history. “Frankly,” Bridgeman said at the time, “I think the Bucks got the best of the deal.”
The next five years were
, for the most part, marvelous ones for Abdul-Jabbar. Though he had preferred to land in New York, there was much to love about Los Angeles. It was, of course, the place where he had become a national icon at UCLA; as well as a place where open-mindedness trumped paranoia and prejudice. The Forum was one of the finest basketball arenas in America. From Gail Goodrich and Cazzie Russell to Norm Nixon and Jamaal Wilkes, Abdul-Jabbar was perennially surrounded by some of the top players in the league.
There was only one problem: With Kareem Abdul-Jabbar as its star, Los Angeles never won. Oh, the team advanced to the 1977 Western Conference Finals. Overall, however, there always seemed to be something missing with the Lakers. Not talent, so much as, well, oomph. Spark. Attitude. Abdul-Jabbar arrived only two years after Wilt Chamberlain had retired, and the comparisons between two seven-footers were inevitable. Both were tall, both were tough, both were legends. Yet in his five seasons as a Laker, Chamberlain reached four NBA championships, winning one.
“When you’re always measured up against someone like Wilt, it’s not easy,” said Michael Cooper. “Kareem was a great player. But he needed something in Los Angeles.”
What was it?
“Kareem,” Cooper said, “needed help.”
• • •
Kid, what are you doing?
Those are the words that immediately entered Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s mind, and if they’re not 100 percent accurate, it’s only because a curse or two has been omitted in the name of good taste.
What was Earvin (Magic) Johnson doing on the night of October 12, 1979, sprinting across the court, leaping high into the air, wrapping his arms around the dignified center’s neck and smothering him as if he were a Kleenex affixed to a nose?
“That hug,” said Gene Shue, the San Diego Clippers coach. “That damn hug . . .”
It remains, more than three decades later, the lowest moment—and most lasting image—from Shue’s long and distinguished NBA coaching career. Having relocated from Buffalo, New York, one year earlier, his Clippers seemed poised to continue the positive vibes of a 43-39 debut season. With 8,503 fans present at the San Diego Sports Arena for the 1979–80 opener, Johnson, the most heavily hyped player to enter the NBA in years, tripped and fell over his droopy pants during warm-ups (the stumble was greeted by cackles from both teams). After nine minutes, Jack McKinney pulled him from the court. “You need to relax and calm down,” the coach told him. “This is no different than college or high school. It’s basketball. Just basketball.” The newcomer collected himself to score 26 points, but San Diego still maintained control. The Clippers jumped out to a fifteen-point first-quarter advantage over the stunned Lakers and held it through much of the game. “We were playing fantastically,” said Shue, whose team held a 102–101 lead with less than a minute remaining in regulation. “We rebounded a miss and the ball was in the hands of Freeman Williams.”
A former NCAA scoring champion at Portland State, Williams boasted a dead-eye jump shot, solid court sense—and an infant’s ball-handling skills. With no Laker within five feet, he began dribbling up the right side of the court, then bounced the ball off his foot and watched it roll out of bounds. “Oh, my lord,” said Shue. “Just unbelievable. Unbelievable. You’re giving Magic and Kareem another life.”
With eight seconds remaining, McKinney called a time-out to design a last play. The Lakers had many fine offensive options. Nixon was a lightning bolt driving toward the rim. Haywood still could soar. Wilkes’s high release point made his jumper nearly unblockable. “But there was only one conceivable play in that situation,” Johnson later wrote, “and everybody in the building knew exactly what it was.”
Inbounding the ball from near mid-court, forward Don Ford watched as Johnson cut to the hoop, and Haywood stood frozen atop the three-point line. He held the ball for a moment before lofting it high to Abdul-Jabbar, who caught it on the left elbow of the free-throw line. With the Clippers’ 6-foot-11 Swen Nater pressed up against his back, Abdul-Jabbar pivoted to his left, catapulted a skyhook high into the air and . . .
All net.
Lakers 103.
Clippers 102.
As the Clippers players walked off the court, the Lakers commenced their delirium. McKinney, owner of his first NBA win, rushed toward Abdul-Jabbar. Johnson, owner of his first NBA win, rushed toward Abdul-Jabbar. The rookie smiled widely, wrapping his long arms around the center’s neck. Brent Musburger, broadcasting the game for CBS, screamed, “And Magic Johnson is out there celebrating, like they just won the NCAA championship! We’ve got Magic Man and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar!”
Seconds later, Hot Rod Hundley, also working the game for CBS, saddled up to Abdul-Jabbar for an interview.
Hundley: Great shot! What a skyhook, baby!
Abdul-Jabbar: What can I say?
Hundley: What a way to finish the game!
Abdul-Jabbar: Yeah.
Hundley: How about this season? It’s gonna be a great one for the NBA!
Abdul-Jabbar: I hope so. There’s a lot of new talent. I think the people in the league office are looking to give a better image, a more complete image of what we’re about.
Interview complete, Abdul-Jabbar walked toward the visitors’ locker room—29 points on the stat sheet, a victory in the books. When he once again ran into Johnson, he pulled him aside for a brief chat.
“Listen,” he said, “we have eighty-one more of these to go. Calm down.”
• • •
Magic Johnson didn’t calm down. He refused to, and whether Abdul-Jabbar liked it or not, the rookie was taking him along for the ride. Johnson had been repeatedly warned how boring the Lakers had been throughout the past few years, and he knew a big problem was Abdul-Jabbar’s dead-fish approach.
The Lakers returned to action four days later, opening at home with a 105–96 win over the Chicago Bulls. A sellout crowd of 15,073 greeted Johnson with a standing ovation as he bounded across the court during player introductions. The game was hyped as a meeting between the draft’s top two selections (Chicago had used the number two pick on UCLA forward David Greenwood) but symbolized significantly more to Jerry Buss. Ever since purchasing the franchise five months earlier, he had waited for this moment. The Lakers were Buss’s toy, and he planned on doing things right. With the Forum’s noise at an earsplitting level, Johnson played masterfully. He was one of five Lakers to score in double figures, and throughout the evening, he couldn’t help but gaze toward Greenwood and the Bulls and think (had a coin landed on its head) what might have been. Save center Artis Gilmore, Chicago was a hapless lot, damned by a selfish, me-first scorer in Reggie Theus and a collection of here-for-the-paycheck stiffs. The Bulls would proceed to win thirty games, and even that was a surprise. “It was pretty bad,” said Del Beshore, Chicago’s second-year guard. “Earvin was an enthusiastic guy, but I’m not sure whether that could have held up with us. We were awful.”
The Lakers, on the other hand, were spectacular. Raved the Sporting News: “Jerry Buss has replaced Jack Kent Cooke as owner, Jack McKinney has replaced Jerry West as coach and Earvin (Magic) Johnson has replaced apathy.”
Jack Kent Cooke, the former owner, believed basketball needed to be coupled with a certain level of dignity. He had an organist play peppy tunes, wanted fans to get excited but not too excited.
Buss, on the other hand, was all about energy, buzz, pizzazz, spark. He ditched the organ and—at the suggestion of Roy Englebrecht, the team’s director of promotions—brought in members of the USC marching band to sit in the stands and blast fight songs. He also allowed Englebrecht to follow his gut on what, at the time, was an unheard-of NBA idea. “The Dallas Cowboys were getting a lot of attention with these cheerleaders in high boots,” Englebrecht said. “I went to Dr. Buss and said I would love to put a dance team together—not cheerleaders, dancers.” Buss gave his blessing, and Englebrecht found four USC dancers and four UCLA dancers. “The
y spent about a month putting together a number,” he said. “I went to a sporting goods store and bought eight pairs of matching sneakers, and I told everyone to keep it top secret.
“One night we decided, finally, they were ready. We all had walkie-talkies at the Forum, and when I yelled ‘Code red!’ the girls came out. The music starts, the announcer yells, ‘The Laker Girls!’ We had no idea how it would be received. Well, people went crazy, and an idea was born. We were no longer a basketball game. We were a show.”
Under McKinney’s guidance, the team ran whenever possible, often pushing the ball forward without waiting for a play to be called or a coach to shout out instructions. “It was fantastic,” said Bob Steiner, the public relations director. “Jack was instant enthusiasm. He’d run out onto the court after a great play, slap someone on the butt. He was the perfect leader for a perfect team.”
During the early days of training camp, Johnson had expressed concern over ordering Abdul-Jabbar around on the court. He was, after all, a mere twenty-year-old rookie. “I can’t tell Kareem what to do,” he said to McKinney. “Why would he listen to me?”
“Well,” McKinney replied, “one of us has to do it. If you’re not up for leading this team, I’ll just have to. . . .”
“No, no, no,” Johnson replied. “I’ll do it.”
“And he did,” said Michael Cooper. “It was the way Magic gained respect right off the bat. He was unafraid of confronting the big man.”
Around that same time, McKinney pulled Nixon into his office and sat him down. “Norman,” he said, “you’re terrific. One of the best in the league. But we have a lot of good players on this team, and I have to put them in the right position.”
Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 9