The Celtics had won 84 of their last 86 at home, and they were able to take a Game 3 squeaker, 109–103. That night, Riley and Bill Bertka, his top assistant, stayed up until three A.M. watching the tape. When the team met the next day to practice at the Garden, Riley explained that the biggest problem wasn’t poor shooting or lazy passing or simply a good Celtics team having a fine night.
No, it was . . . the wives.
Dating back to his “peripheral distractions” operating philosophy (anything unrelated to the game itself was an unnecessary burden that could only stand in the way of victory), Riley chewed out his players for allowing a handful of spouses to come to Boston. He was correct—among those in attendance for Game 3 were Wanda Cooper and Anita Scott, both of whom had paid their own way to fly commercially. Riley spotted the women in the crowd (in an ocean of white Bostonians, a pair of African-American females screaming for the Lakers were not especially difficult to locate), and stewed. “Last week we made a deal,” he told the team. “No wives or girlfriends would come back until Monday. We all agreed that we’d get to Boston, we’d practice, and we’d try to get a third game out of the way. We were unanimous. We would go together as a team and that would be it.
“Today I found out that a number of the wives flew in on their own Friday night. You were supposed to be settling in, resting and preparing mentally for the game, without distractions. I’m not going to fine you guys. I’m not going to bench you, or send you home, or yell and scream at you. And I definitely don’t want you to go back to your hotel rooms and yell at your wives for getting you in trouble.
“But I want you to think about what happened. We’ve created a little white lie. We lied to ourselves.”
Riley was serious.
The Lakers were agape.
They’d lost to the Boston Celtics at home in a really close game. This was the fault of the wives? Magic Johnson could screw around on the road all he wanted, and that was fine? But heaven forbid a spouse come—on her own dime—to support her husband? That was wrong?
The Cult of Pat Riley never ceased to amaze.
Yet were there hope in Boston that this was another version of the big bad Celtics using their home-court advantage to physically abuse the soft, sensitive Lakers, well, such thinking was quickly put to rest. In a contest that lived up to past Los Angeles-Boston tussles, the Lakers and Celtics beat the snot out of one another, exchanging punches and elbows without stepping backward. It was Cooper—who gazed into the mirror and saw Andre the Giant staring back—demanding his teammates refuse to cower in the face of hostile crowds and hostile opponents. “They’re gonna try and make this a war,” he said beforehand. “Well, fuck them. They go after us, we go after them. Take control of the tone.”
While driving for a layup in the second quarter, Worthy—the Boston beating boy dating back to M. L. Carr and Cedric Maxwell—was hammered high by Dennis Johnson and low by Greg Kite. He fell to the ground, jumped to his feet and charged Kite, fists flailing. Both men were assessed technicals. “I wasn’t trying to hurt James,” said Kite. “It was just really rough out there. I had nothing but respect for James Worthy.” One quarter later, Cooper and McHale exchanged shoves, and after that McHale and Scott nearly came to blows. “It definitely gets a team excited if another team takes cheap shots at them,” Scott said. “It always seems to get us more into the game.”
The Celtics led 85–78 after three quarters and, with 1:40 to play, held a 103–97 advantage. Then, in a stretch of uncharacteristically undisciplined basketball, Boston fell apart. Parish turned the ball over to Abdul-Jabbar and watched as Cooper nailed a three-pointer to slice the lead to three points. On the Celtics’ next possession, Bird—owner of a hoops IQ of 450—uncharacteristically threw away the ball. When Worthy hit a fade-away jumper with fifty-nine seconds remaining, the Celtics’ lead was reduced to a single point. “We gave it away—no question about that,” said Bird. “The last couple of months we’ve done that—lost leads we shouldn’t have.”
Moments later, Bird missed a gimme jumper, and the Lakers rebounded the ball and raced toward the other end, where Abdul-Jabber slammed home an alley-oop from Johnson. With twenty-nine seconds remaining, Los Angeles held a 104–103 lead. The Boston Garden, basketball’s most hostile arena, was dead. The Celtics called a time-out and Bird walked to the sideline, head hanging, baffled by what had transpired. With Cooper and Worthy attached to his hip for much of the game, he had hit just 6 of 17 shots. The Celtics were finished. Over. Gone.
Wait.
On the next possession, Dennis Johnson whipped a pass to Ainge along the top of the three-point circle. He found Bird in the corner, momentarily alone. Freed from Worthy when the Laker forward mistakenly rotated toward Ainge, Bird caught the ball and, with fourteen seconds remaining, fired a three-pointer that barely eluded the tips of a leaping Thompson’s left-hand fingers. The ball hung, hung, hung, hung, hung, hung, hung, hung in the air. . . .
Net.
“Heartbreaking,” said Thompson. “I was that close.”
The Garden shook. The Celtics were up, 106–104.
“I had the best view of it,” said Magic Johnson. “I was under the basket—and knew it was going in. I just said, ‘My goodness. That’s Larry.’”
Riley signaled for a time-out and designed a play for Abdul-Jabbar, who took a pass from Worthy and, with eight seconds left, was hacked by Parish on a wide left hook shot. He sank the first free throw but missed the second. The basketball was batted out of bounds and Ainge, believing possession belonged to Boston, gleefully jumped up and down. However, the officials ruled it touched McHale last. With seven seconds on the clock, the Lakers received one final chance.
Riley called his last time-out. He had a plan. Positioned along the baseline, Cooper inbounded the ball to Johnson, who stood just outside the three-point line. Worthy cleared out, Abdul-Jabbar posted, then shifted away from the paint, and Johnson drove past Ainge, past McHale and into the lane. With three seconds left, he released a running jump hook over the outstretched arms of both Parish and McHale. Like Bird’s shot moments earlier, Johnson’s ball hung high in the air, the Garden’s silent tension seeming to serve as its helium. It floated through the net, and Abdul-Jabbar leapt for joy. “A junior, junior, junior skyhook,” Johnson later said, describing the shot.
Bird’s final-second jumper hit the rim and bounced out, and Los Angeles escaped with a riveting 107–106 win. Afterward, when asked by CBS’s James Brown whether he thought the Celtics had intentionally increased their physicality for the game, Johnson flashed his glistening smile. “Well,” he said, “it was a conscious effort on our part, too.”
• • •
And that was pretty much it. The Celtics managed to take another win in Boston, but it was a fleeting last gasp. Bird, who praised Johnson as the best player he’d ever seen, acknowledged his team’s odds of winning two at the Forum were somewhere between none and none.
When Los Angeles finished off the series with a 106–93 Game 6 demolition, the burdened Cooper took a long breath of relief. The finals were over, as was something much deeper. The greatest rivalry the NBA had ever known had reached its conclusion. The Celtics were looking like an old Buick Electra, with hubcaps and spare parts falling off to the left and right. Bird’s back was a mess. Parish’s skills were diminished. Dennis Johnson had slowed significantly. The bench—once a Celtic hallmark for depth and talent—wouldn’t have started for most CBA teams. One year earlier, the franchise had used the number two overall pick in the NBA Draft to select a potentially great Maryland forward named Len Bias. When, two days later, he died of a cocaine overdose, the future of Boston-Los Angeles battles seemed to die, too.
“People ask if I hate the Boston Celtics,” said Kurt Rambis. “That’s always been the wrong word. It was actually more like a love, born out of competition. The hatred is that you love to compete with those guys at that high of a leve
l. If you’re truly a competitive athlete, you want to beat the best team playing their best in the most hostile environment possible. That’s what makes competition fun. I looked at Larry and Kevin and Robert and I thought, ‘I want to do everything in my power to beat you.’ That’s not hatred. That’s not even close to hatred.
“You know what it is? It’s love.”
CHAPTER 16
SHATTERED GLASS
For the first time since 1983, the Lakers entered the off-season without an opening-round pick in the upcoming NBA Draft.
This was Jerry West’s turf.
The Los Angeles general manager was emerging as one of the greatest personnel gurus the sport had ever seen. He was also— Well, let’s allow those who observed him to tell it:
Mike Downey, Los Angeles Times columnist: “A pretty strange dude. There was a blind spot in his personality.”
Keith Erickson, Lakers broadcaster: “Always nervous—Jerry was always nervous.”
Don Greenberg, Orange County Register beat writer: “Wrapped up tighter than anyone on the planet.”
Randy Harvey, Los Angeles Times beat writer: “Jerry West was crazy. Really crazy. All the writers knew he was crazy. But we didn’t quite know the depth of it. He couldn’t stop himself from saying what was on his mind, and he was always pissed at you the next day because you quoted him. I never got a call from him denying that he said what he said, but he would just say things—crazy things. ‘Kareem’s a dog.’ You quote him the next day and he says, ‘Why’d you use that?’ Well, you said it and you didn’t say don’t use it. ‘I know I said it but I didn’t say use it!’ Just crazy.”
People within the Laker organization loved West—and it had nothing to do with his status as one of the NBA’s all-time superstars. West had played fourteen seasons for the team, averaging 27 points, appearing in fourteen All-Star games and helping the franchise capture the 1972 championship. “But that wasn’t what was so great about Jerry,” said Joan McLaughlin, who worked in the team’s human resources department for more than thirty years. “You could talk to him—really talk to him. I could go in there and say, ‘You know, Jerry, I’m ready to kill someone.’ And he’d listen to me and talk me out of it. The other thing is, Jerry hated his celebrity. He had no interest in fame or VIP treatment. He wanted to be a guy who did a job.”
“When I was an intern with the team, someone called me with a speaking request for Jerry,” said Richard Crasnick, who later became the director of promotions. “I told Jerry how much it paid, and he accepted it. Well, months later I received a personal check in the mail from Jerry. It was commission for the speech. How many guys would have done that? Would have even thought to have done that? He was a special man.”
Behind the Ken Doll looks and confident exterior, however, was a tortured soul. Quirkiness wasn’t mere quirkiness. Irrational moments weren’t simply irrationality. His personal battles were kept hidden until 2011, when he released an autobiography, subtitled My Charmed, Tormented Life, that delved into his lifelong battle with depression. The caricature of West had often been that of a hick from West Virginia who clawed his way out of the coal mines and into a life of NBA glory. He was nicknamed Zeke from Cabin Creek by Elgin Baylor, and, though he’d usually smile when the words were uttered, he hated it, hated everything about it. He was raised in Chelyan, West Virginia, by an abusive father, Howard West, who caused him to feel tormented. His older brother, David, was killed in the Korean War when Jerry was twelve, compounding his depression. As a young teen, he slept with a shotgun under his bed and was always prepared to use it on his dad in anticipation of another beating. “I would go to sleep feeling like I didn’t even want to live,” West said. “I’ve been so low sometimes and when everyone else would be so high because I didn’t like myself.”
It was a love for basketball that helped him rise above and, eventually, run the Lakers. But he was never fully able to shake a nightmarish past. “I think most people would agree on this: there are certain events that are important in your life and can do damage to it. Life-changing events,” West wrote. “And I’ve had some of those, and, unfortunately, they happened to me when I was young. But they, perhaps more than anything else, formed much of the crucible of who I am, and almost certainly made me into the determined person and sick competitor that I became. A tormented, defiant figure who carries an angry, emotional chip on his shoulder and has a hole in his heart that nothing can ultimately fill.”
In an effort to hide—if not heal—a lifetime of scars, West threw himself into the job. Losses destroyed him. Wins also destroyed him—a sloppy moment, a poor coaching decision, a bad pass. When the team sealed the championship against Boston, West smiled for approximately 4.1 seconds. Then he thought about all the things that went wrong. Every failing and shortcoming was taken personally. “He lived and died with our success,” said McLaughlin. “I think Jerry felt like it was all on him. Like it was his fault if things went poorly.”
This was never more true than the drafts. Although the organization wound up with the number one picks that landed Magic Johnson and James Worthy, the Lakers’ annual championship runs resulted in multiple late-round selections. The challenge enticed West and his cohorts—the idea of holding, say, a twenty-third pick in the 1985 Draft, watching others swing and miss on the likes of Kenny Green (Washington Bullets), Alfredrick Hughes (San Antonio Spurs) and Uwe Blab (Dallas Mavericks), then scoring a future All-Star like A. C. Green. Sure, the Lakers occasionally misfired (Earl Jones would always haunt West’s soul), but more often than not, they hit.
This time, however, the task was especially daunting. Having traded their first- and second-round picks, the Lakers were forced to wait until the sixty-ninth and final spot of the third round to acquire a player. It was, for a man who struggled to sit still, torturous. West knew the franchise wouldn’t be drafting Navy center David Robinson or UNLV forward Armen Gilliam, the two grand prizes. But as one mediocre yet passable college standout after another fell from the board, things turned ugly. When, at picks 56 and 57, Millerville’s John Fox and Alaska Anchorage’s Hansi Gnad were plucked, it was official—no one even approaching Earl Jones–esque potential was left to be had.
“So,” said Josh Rosenfeld, the media relations director, “we took a shot on Willie Glass.”
If West couldn’t draft big, he insisted upon at least drafting athletic. At 6-foot-7 and 210 pounds, Glass was the star of St. John’s University highlight films. There were two-handed dunks and one-handed dunks and behind-the-back moves that left opponents dizzy. He first dunked as a seventh grader at Central Junior High in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and through the years became increasingly explosive. He averaged only 16.6 points as a senior with the Redmen. But, boy, could Glass levitate. When asked by Earl Bloom of the Orange County Register about the pick, West was uncharacteristically bubbly. “He can run and jump with the best,” he said. “When you see him in training camp, I don’t know if you’ll be impressed by his basketball ability, but you’ll be impressed with his athletic ability. He is spectacular.”
West loved the idea of adding yet another diamond in the rough to his list of draft conquests. Then Glass reported to the Lakers’ summer league team. He had been listed in the St. John’s media guide as standing at 6-foot-7. The Lakers, having heard he was a smidge shorter, wrote his name in press releases alongside “6-foot-6.”
“Well, he shows up, and he’s small,” said Rosenfeld. “Really small.” Though the organization maintained 6-foot-6 in its registry, Glass measured three inches shorter. When camp opened, he was thoroughly outplayed. “Was I intimidated? Sure,” he said. “When I was in college our center was Bill Wennington. Now I’m playing with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, with Magic Johnson, with James Worthy. I thought I did OK, but it’s a different level.” Riley later said he’d never coached a player with less court sense than Glass. West agreed. Glass failed to understand defensive rotation and play call
s. He ran fast and hard, but rarely in the right direction. Veterans like Johnson and Scott found him likable enough, but far from worthy of wearing a Laker uniform. He did, however, leave Los Angeles with one great story.
Jerry Buss always made certain to welcome the team’s top draft pick to the city with a nice dinner. He ordered Rosenfeld to find a veteran, and the two of them would escort Glass. “I called Michael Cooper,” Rosenfeld said. “He asked if he could pick the restaurant. I couldn’t see why not.” Cooper insisted upon Mr. Chow, one of Beverly Hills’s trendiest eateries, and had Rosenfeld book a limousine for the occasion. “Michael did the ordering,” said Rosenfeld. “We ordered five different lobster dishes, three bottles of pink champagne. The bill was in the thousands.” When the evening was complete, Rosenfeld returned Glass safely to his hotel. “We just had this huge meal, we drank fantastic champagne, and we’re driving back,” Rosenfeld said. “And Willie has the limo stop at McDonald’s—where he orders two Big Macs, two large fries, two apple pies and two milk shakes.”
On October 21, the Lakers cut Willie Glass, who scored two points in one exhibition game. Before long, he was a member of the Youngstown Pride of the fledgling World Basketball League.
To participate, one had to be 6-foot-5 or shorter.
• • •
Even though Glass failed to measure up, West was thrilled by another strong possibility entering the 1987–88 season: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was thinking about retiring.
It was, for many Lakers players and executives, a long time coming. Now forty and increasingly skeletal, Abdul-Jabbar was merely another of the league’s OK starting centers. “I think Kareem is a good person,” said Lon Rosen. “But there are things he did that were always different than the other guys. It was a generational thing, really. He was from a different generation, and that gap was felt.”
Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 40