“You might as well sit me down, because I ain’t being used anyway,” Johnson said. “Just sit me down.”
“I don’t want to hear that,” Westhead replied.
“Are you done?” asked Johnson.
“Yes,” said Westhead.
Johnson exited the room. He returned to his locker and considered all the NBA teams that needed his services. The Knicks would love Magic Johnson. So would the hometown Detroit Pistons. The New Jersey Nets. The Golden State Warriors. The Washington Bullets. The . . . the . . .
He turned to Jordan at the adjacent locker. “I’ve got to leave,” he said. “It’s been great and all, but I’m asking Dr. Buss to trade me. . . .”
Huh?
“I want out,” he said. “I’m gone.”
As is the case after all NBA games, members of the media wait outside the locker room for a fifteen-minute cooling-down period. As the Lakers writers lingered before the large white door, they were told by a ball boy that Johnson and Westhead had met in the equipment room.
When they entered the locker room, the reporters were struck by the normalcy. The scene was no different from usual. Some Laker players sat by their stalls. Others entered the showers. There was banter and joking and general happiness over a hard-fought triumph. When a scribe asked Westhead about the meeting with Johnson, he simply noted, “The almond tree bears its fruit in silence.”
This was not Shakespeare. It was a Paul Westhead original.
The first reporter to reach Johnson was Dave Blackwell, a writer for the Salt Lake Deseret News. Because he had not been around the Lakers, he knew nothing of the mounting tension. He asked a couple of routine post-game questions, then moved on to talk with Wilkes about his 26 points.
With Blackwell out of the way, Rich Levin, a beat writer for the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner, planted himself before Johnson. Until this moment, Levin’s claim to fame had been twofold: He played forward at UCLA under John Wooden, and Abdul-Jabbar begrudged his perceived editorial slights. Now he would forever be known as the man who opened up the floodgates.
“Magic,” Levin said, “I have to ask about you and Westhead. . . .”
The other Los Angeles writers gathered around. There was an awkward moment of nothingness, the literal calm before an unprecedented storm. “I can’t play here anymore,” Johnson said. “I want to leave. I want to be traded. I can’t deal with it no more. I’ve got to go in and ask [Buss] to trade me.”
“Are you serious?” Levin asked.
“Definitely,” said Johnson. “I haven’t been happy all season. I’ve got to go. Things haven’t been . . . I don’t know. . . . I’ve seen certain things happening. I’ve sat back and haven’t said anything, but I’ve got to go. It’s nothing toward the guys. I love them and everybody. But I’m not happy. I’m just showing up. I play. I play as hard as I can. But I’m not happy. I’m not having any fun. I just want to go.”
“Is this because of Paul?” asked Randy Harvey of the Times.
“Yeah,” Johnson said. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“I’m going to go in and talk to [Buss], hopefully tomorrow, and see if a trade will happen.”
Jordan was Johnson’s roommate on the road. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and made a beeline for Nixon. “Norm,” he said, “I think you and I are gonna be the starting backcourt.”
“Nah, nah, nah,” Nixon replied. “Earvin’s kidding. I’m sure he’s just kidding.”
“There was this chain reaction, where Earvin’s words traveled around the locker room,” said Kurt Rambis, the rookie forward. “I just started watching it go. It was weird—people stopped what they were doing. It turned into a firestorm.”
The following morning, the beat writers met up at the airport to catch their flight back to Los Angeles. Mitch Chortkoff of the Herald-Examiner approached the group, a serious expression across his face.
“Guys,” he said, “the airline just made a horrible mistake.”
“What’s that?” someone asked.
“They gave Westhead a boarding pass that says ‘Coach.’”
That day’s Los Angeles Times featured the front-page headline: MAGIC’S BOMBSHELL: HE WANTS TO BE TRADED. On the one hand, it was correct. Johnson’s words were bombshell-worthy. They were also, however, ludicrous. Johnson didn’t want to be traded and, despite his insistence, didn’t expect to be traded. Though still a lad of twenty-one, he was no amateur. An owner doesn’t sign a player to a twenty-five-year contract, then promptly ship him off to Cleveland for Kevin Restani, Paul Mokeski and two draft picks. “Look, Magic knew there was no way the team was trading him,” said Mark Landsberger, the reserve big man. “He was a spoiled kid back then. We’d be on the bus and he’d be telling us, ‘I’m either going to Chicago or New York. Fuck this guy!’ He and Buss were so close, there was no chance he was going anywhere. He handled it like crap. He wanted to get the coach fired—period.”
Although Johnson wasn’t shaken by the media response, he was stung by the lack of teammate support. Abdul-Jabbar insisted such disputes be handled internally, then told The New York Times, “There are ways to do things which would sit better with everybody.” Wilkes, the quiet veteran, noted—correctly—that “Magic is a very talented guy, but he has a problem with human relations.” Cooper remained silent. And Nixon—the one Laker who disliked Westhead most of all—did nothing. As soon as Johnson finished speaking in the Salt Palace locker room, reporters scurried toward his backcourt mate, assuming he would go to bat for a teammate who dared speak the truth.
“Norm, what do you think about Magic’s demand?”
Nixon shook his head.
“Norm, do you think this will get Paul fired?”
Nixon shook his head.
“Norm, do you believe the team needs a new coach?”
Nixon shook his head.
“He was the biggest off-the-record agitator toward Westhead,” said Randy Harvey, the Times beat writer. “Norm would talk all the time about Westhead. He was obsessed with him. But he wouldn’t let his thoughts go public.”
“Norm was always raising hell about Westhead, but Magic got the blame,” said Butch Carter. “Westhead was over his head; he didn’t understand how the NBA functioned at a championship level. So Magic said something—rightly. But he didn’t deserve all the heat he caught.”
Springer, an Orange County Register writer, couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Nixon routinely ripped Westhead. Now, with Johnson isolated and vulnerable, he had nothing to add? “Norm, he’s out there all alone,” Springer said. “He’s gonna get all this shit on him. Why don’t you back him up?”
Nixon wasn’t having it. “He’s Magic,” he said. “If he says it, he gets away with it. If I say it, I get traded.”
The sentiment was coldhearted and 100 percent correct. West seemed to hate Nixon when he coached him, and—as a key decision maker—he seemed to hate him equally now. “There was no advantage to me saying something,” Nixon said. “For anyone.”
Though Westhead held out hope that his job could be saved, he was alone. On the night of Johnson’s outburst, he spoke via phone with Buss, and the two agreed to meet the following afternoon at the Forum. “I guess I was thinking maybe it could be salvaged,” Westhead said. “If we just . . .”
No.
Buss greeted Westhead warmly, thanked him for two and a half years of loyal service and told him his days with the Lakers were done. He said the decision had nothing to do with Johnson’s comments, that the guard was merely a player, and players don’t make the decisions. “I do,” Buss said. “This is my call. The offense just doesn’t seem to be working. I know you disagree, but we don’t see things the same way here.”
Westhead refused to appear bitter. He thanked Buss for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, shook his hand and left, devastated. “It’s a good thing
I have a close family,” he said. “Because it was one of the lowest moments of my career. I’m probably the only coach let go during a five-game winning streak.”
Paul Westhead wouldn’t say it then, and he won’t say it now. The truth, however, is undeniable.
He was fired by Magic Johnson.
PART TWO
DOMINANCE
James Worthy, Earvin (Magic) Johnson, Bob McAdoo, Mitch Kupchak, and Michael Cooper—key components of the Showtime
CHAPTER 8
RILED UP
In the world of professional sports management, there is a general rule that, with little exception, is always followed. Namely, if you’re going to dismiss your coach, have a plan in place.
Though a uniquely successful businessman, Jerry Buss had never been especially good at firing people. He wasn’t the cutthroat type, and avoided at all costs the awkwardness of the “I’m sorry, but . . .” chat. Whereas Jack Kent Cooke, his predecessor, took a certain demonic delight in watching heads roll, Buss was the opposite. He openly rooted for people to succeed, and only made changes when he believed they were indisputably necessary.
Because Magic Johnson had forced his hand with the Utah ultimatum, Buss found himself at a loss when it came to filling the team’s open coaching position. That’s why, when the media gathered at the Forum press lounge on the afternoon of Thursday, November 20, for an announcement, they were treated to one of the strangest fifty minutes in the modern history of organized sports.
Initially, things went relatively smoothly. Buss thanked Westhead (who wasn’t present) for his service, and acknowledged this wasn’t an easy decision. He insisted Johnson wasn’t to blame, and committed himself to bringing a championship back to Los Angeles in the very near future.
Then things got a bit bizarre.
Earlier that afternoon, following his one thirty P.M. meeting with Westhead, Buss had summoned Jerry West and Bill Sharman to his home, the Pickfair mansion, to figure out what to do next. In the course of the conversation, he asked West to return to his old job, as coach. To which the basketball legend responded with a cluster of words that, depending on who is asked, translated to one of the following:
“I’ll do it for a game or two.”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
“Helllllllllll no.”
“Considering how much Jerry hated being a coach, I can’t imagine he wanted that job,” said Norm Nixon. “I mean, it just wasn’t something he liked to do.”
Somehow, Buss came to the conclusion that West not only accepted the position, but did so enthusiastically. He shook hands with the two men, then asked them to meet with Riley and explain to him the situation.
At approximately three P.M., Riley arrived at West’s Bel Air house and was told—in no ambiguous terms—that he was the new head coach of the Los Angeles Lakers. “I’ll help you out as an assistant for as long as you need, but hopefully not too long,” said West, who had played alongside Riley for four seasons and considered him a close friend. “I know you’re going to do great things.”
As was the case for Westhead when he had replaced McKinney, Riley found himself feeling conflicted—giddy at the opportunity but somewhat disloyal to a coach he had respected. On the night Johnson demanded to be traded, Riley returned from the arena to the Salt Lake Hilton Inn, ordered a beer at the lobby bar and lamented the modern athlete. “Things have really changed,” he told reporters. “In the old days a player just worried about playing, and never tried to get involved in coaching decisions. At least not publicly.”
Riley initially assumed that, with Westhead’s dismissal, he would be deposed, too. Instead, he was about to become the head coach. It was weird and disappointing and exciting, all in one.
As Buss stood before the media, he transitioned from bidding Westhead adieu to explaining what would happen next. Riley felt his heartbeat liven. He imagined all his boyhood friends back in Schenectady, New York, watching the transition take place, saying, “Hey, that’s Pat up there! That’s Pat Riley. . . .” He was thirty-six years old and at the height of professional basketball.
Pat Riley was proud.
Pat Riley was strong.
Pat Riley was . . . confused.
Buss announced that West would serve as offensive coach, Riley as defensive coach. Or captain. Or something sorta kinda like that.
BUSS (stepping to the podium): We have appointed Jerry West as offensive captain for the Lakers. His duties will begin immediately. Pat Riley will stay with the Lakers as coach.
QUESTION: Doctor, offensive coach—does that mean he’s the head coach?
Buss paused to take a long drag from his cigarette. One could have forgiven those in attendance for forgetting whether they were listening to the owner of the Los Angeles Lakers or the Los Angeles Rams. Buss was a well-known USC football die-hard. Offensive coach? Defensive coach? Who did Buss want to coach the special teams?
“It was the weirdest event I’d ever covered,” said Mitch Chortkoff of the Herald-Examiner. “Usually you know what you’re going to announce before holding the press conference.”
“We put on a clinic,” said Bruce Jolesch, the team’s public relations director, “on how not to conduct a press conference.”
The session could have doubled as a Saturday Night Live skit. . . .
BUSS: I did not specifically make someone head coach and someone else assistant coach. That was not accidental. I did it the way I announced on purpose. I feel that Pat is very capable of running the Laker team. However, I feel that we need a new offensive coach. I asked Jerry if he’d take that job and, fortunately, because of his relationship with Pat, I feel the two of them will coach this team together, with Jerry being in charge of the offense in particular.
QUESTION: Jerry, there’ll be a game tomorrow night. The game will end. Will two coaches come out to talk to us? Or will they choose which one it’s going to be from game to game?
BUSS: We discussed that. In reality I’m really making this change to change the offense, and since Jerry West will be in charge of the offense, he will be the one who you will question. You can, however, talk to Pat whenever you want, as well.
QUESTION: Jerry, who picks the starting lineup?
BUSS: Who picks the starting lineup? In basketball, that’s typically the coach.
QUESTION: Which one of these two?
BUSS: Oh, which one of these two? (glances over his shoulder toward West and Riley) Uh, I think there are some things along the line, not only the starting lineups but other considerations as well—uh, potential trades, etcetera, etcetera—that Pat and Jerry are going to have to sit down and work out what their relative responsibilities are. Fortunately, we’re dealing with a situation of two men who have worked together on and off for years and therefore I have decided to leave that up to them . . . the division of their duties.
QUESTION: What will Jerry do as far as actually changing the offense?
Buss began answering, but was interrupted by Springer, who requested a response from West. The team’s new “offensive captain” appeared uncomfortable and desperate to be anywhere but here. Ten minutes earlier, he thought . . . well, he didn’t know what to think. He’d help Riley, toss in some ideas—not much else. And now he was a captain? How did this happen?
WEST: First of all, I’d like to clear up one thing. I’m going to be working for Pat Riley.
QUESTION: With or for, Jerry?
WEST: With and for. And I think my responsibility is to him because I feel in my heart that he is the head coach. And hopefully my position here won’t be a long-range position.
QUESTION: Pat, will you take questions?
RILEY: Sure.
QUESTION: Pat, what are your reactions?
RILEY: Well, I haven’t had a whole lot of time to give it much thought and I’m reacting rather emotionally to this thing beca
use it’s not a very fun day for me, nor is it for Paul. So until we can sit down, Jerry and myself, and discuss some of the things we can do to improve the incentive of the team, then I don’t think I can really discuss that philosophy right now.
QUESTION: Have you talked about any assistants?
RILEY (laughing): Have I talked about any assistants? I just want lunch.
As if the afternoon couldn’t become more cartoonish, a reporter asked Buss whether he had yet to speak with Johnson. “Well, actually, I did, yes,” he said. “But it was in a different context. I was checking with him about a birthday party I’m giving. I wanted to make sure he and Norm Nixon would be on time.”
The reporter promptly wished Buss a happy and healthy birthday.
“No,” he said, “it’s not my birthday.”
When the press conference from hell finally concluded, West—not one to avoid the occasional vulgarity—pulled Riley aside. “You’re the head coach of this team,” he said. “You’re the only fucking head coach.”
• • •
The only fucking head coach had an idea. Two ideas, to be exact.
First, he was scrapping Westhead’s paint-by-number offense and reverting to a knockoff of Jack McKinney’s old system.
Second, he was listening to Magic Johnson.
If that sounds particularly simplistic, well, it isn’t. As soon as Westhead’s firing was announced, Johnson plummeted from the crown prince of Los Angeles to the lowest rung of the city’s dog-urine-coated parking meters. At a time when fans and reporters were already complaining about the egos and salaries of star athletes, Johnson would have beaten out Pat Haden, the Rams’ mediocre quarterback, and Jerry Brown, the unpopular California governor, in a Most Hated Man in Town balloting.
Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 19