“Give us more,” Riley said.
“OK, I’ll give you what I’ve got,” Abdul-Jabbar replied.
Riley admitted to Mike Downey of the Los Angeles Times that Abdul-Jabbar had “gone stale.” The center agreed. “This past summer, I, well, I [trained], but the fire just wasn’t there,” he said. “I suppose I was taking a breather from the whole ordeal of the past several years.”
Because he was tall and ornery and famous, Abdul-Jabbar was the easy target. He was not, however, the only deserving one. Ever since Johnson arrived on the scene in 1979, the front office had always gone to great lengths to upgrade the roster before every training camp. The track record was phenomenal—from signing Kurt Rambis to acquiring Byron Scott and A. C. Green to trading for Mychal Thompson, Jerry West was widely regarded as a personnel magician. Now, however, the Lakers simply weren’t as good as they had been. Having tired of his unpredictability (and uncomfortable with his reputation as an excessive partier), West let Matthews walk, and used the twenty-fifth pick in the draft to replace him with David Rivers, a 6-foot, 170-pound shoot-first point guard out of Notre Dame.
If talent equaled personal narrative, Rivers would have catapulted past the University of Kansas’s Danny Manning to the top of the draft board. In the summer of 1986, leading into his junior year, Rivers worked at the Port-a-Pit Barbecue, a catering company in Elkhart, Indiana. One night, after wrapping up a shift, he was sitting in the passenger seat of a Chevy van driven by Kenny Barlow, a recently graduated Notre Dame star (who, coincidentally, had just been drafted by the Lakers in the first round, then traded to Atlanta). As they headed down Route 30, an oncoming car swerved into their lane. Barlow jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, and the vehicle went off the roadway, flew through the air, slammed into an embankment, rolled multiple times and came to a halt some eighty-nine feet from the road. Rivers, who had not been wearing a seat belt, was launched through the windshield and sent twenty feet in the air. By the time he landed in a nearby cornfield, his stomach was sliced fifteen inches across and oozing innards. “The body is an amazing thing,” Rivers said. “Just amazing. I felt no pain at all, and when Kenny found me, I was talking to him the way I’m talking to you right now. I knew I was cut from side to side, and I knew my organs were in my hands. I was trying to keep the gash closed.”
Barlow suffered only minor cuts on his legs. He covered his friend’s bloodied torso in a shirt, then ran to a nearby house to call for help. Rivers sat alone for twenty minutes. “I wasn’t afraid to die,” he said. “The idea didn’t even bother me. I was peaceful.”
The incision missed his heart by two inches, and he lost three pints of blood. Somehow, Rivers survived. “I asked the doctors how many stitches I needed,” Rivers said, “and they told me there were too many to count.” He spent eight days in Elkhart General Hospital before beginning a horrific rehabilitation regiment. His days as an All-American were almost certainly over. Yet Rivers, known for his stubborn doggedness, returned to South Bend and averaged 15.7 points as a junior and 22 as a senior. What he lost in quickness he gained in toughness. “You had to like what he could bring,” said West. “He gave us something we didn’t have. But, if I’m being honest, it was not the right time for someone his size in the league. All the guards were bigger.”
Rivers lit up practices—buzzing around Johnson, past Cooper, through Scott and Worthy and the gang. “Oh, he was impressive,” said Mychal Thompson. “He dribbled so low to the ground, no one could stay with him.” Dazzling behind-the-scenes moments, though, didn’t necessarily translate into dazzling big-time moments. Rivers lacked Matthews’ defensive intensity and instincts, and was dwarfed by most opposing guards. With the spotlight off, he hit one deep shot after another. Covered by a Gerald Wilkins or Michael Jordan—not so much. He appeared in forty-seven regular-season games, averaging 2.9 points. “He was a pretty good little player,” said Worthy. “But—little.”
West’s other quirky addition sent small shock waves throughout the NBA. With rare exception, when the Lakers brought in veterans, they made certain the newcomers would fit in with the team’s philosophy and personnel. Way before Mychal Thompson slipped into a purple-and-gold jersey, the team had asked two hundred questions to former teammates and coaches about his character and willingness to fill a role. “It was a pretty meticulous organization,” said Ronnie Lester, the former Laker guard turned scout. “When something was done, it wasn’t without thought.”
Hence, the collective gasp when, on August 10, 1988, veteran forward Orlando Woolridge (like Rivers, a Notre Dame product) was signed to a four-year, $2.9 million contract. Sports Illustrated once wrote that Woolridge “earned the reputation as a selfish, one-dimensional player who, when he wasn’t shooting the ball, was thinking of ways to shoot the ball . . . [his] uniform] number—0—matched his commitment to winning.” This was true. Woolridge was selfish, one-dimensional and defensively inept. The biggest issue, however, was his off-the-court behavior. Woolridge first tried cocaine as a rookie with the Bulls in 1981, and the drug soon consumed him. He played five years in Chicago before joining the New Jersey Nets as a free agent in 1986. His new coach, Dave Wohl, had been an assistant with the Lakers, and he was excited to add someone of Woolridge’s gifts. Here was a 6-foot-9, 215-pound stallion. Woolridge ran like a point guard, but with the physicality of a power forward. “He had some amazing skills,” said Wohl. “But there was a dark side.”
The Nets held their training camp in Princeton, New Jersey, and one day Wohl received a phone call from the manager of the Scanticon Princeton Hotel, where the team stayed. “He asked me to come up to Orlando’s room,” said Wohl. “I walk in and it looks like World War III. There’s drug paraphernalia, the room is trashed, money and credit cards are everywhere. Orlando walks in and I say, ‘O, what’s up with this?’ He says, ‘Well, I was with this girl and she . . .’ I said, ‘O, don’t do this. Please, just don’t.’ He admits the whole thing. So I called the general manager [Harry Weltman] and told him Orlando had a drug problem and we needed to take action. They ended up just slapping him on the wrist with a warning and telling him not to do it again. It was embarrassing.”
Woolridge lasted two seasons in New Jersey, but his dependency issues caught up with him. He played only nineteen games in 1987–88 before enrolling in a Van Nuys, California, inpatient drug rehabilitation center. He spent nearly two months there, and emerged—in his words—clean and sober. Yet Woolridge had uttered such things before. As a young Bull, he even devoted much energy to speaking to Chicago elementary school children about the dangers of addiction. Then, as soon as the sessions ended, he’d snort cocaine. “When things were going easy for Orlando, he was OK,” said Wohl. “But when things got difficult, you worried.”
“Orlando would battle with the best of them on the court and stand his ground, but off the court he couldn’t,” said Pat Jackson, his wife. “Whatever felt good and got him through the day was what he took.”
Life with the Lakers was always pressure packed. There were expectations to meet and sold-out houses to please and one time demand after another. So why would West risk relative harmony on a known drug addict, when he’d witnessed Spencer Haywood’s meltdown nine years earlier? “There are certain people in your locker room who you believe have enough strength to help someone prevail,” West said. “You convince yourself they have a chance, with a great team and great ownership, to be great. I thought that could happen. Maybe I was naïve. Orlando was a real talent. But he was a fucking druggie. That’s hard to combat.”
Woolridge reported to camp in tremendous physical shape and was, his wife said, clean. Even though he was the team’s seventh or eighth man, Woolridge seemed content. He produced his lowest totals in points (9.7) and minutes (20.1) since his rookie year, but felt loved and appreciated. “L.A. was the ideal fit,” said Jackson. “We were in a restaurant in Santa Monica once and Michael Keaton came to our table to talk to Orlando
. I’m thinking, ‘You want to talk to him? I want to talk to you.’ It was cool. Orlando liked how warm and friendly people were. He didn’t care about starting or points—he’d been a starter before. He wanted to be a part of Showtime.”
Sadly, as was the case with Rivers, Woolridge was a square peg in a round hole. “Orlando just couldn’t work,” said Bill Bertka. “He was a hell of an athlete, but he didn’t fit into our system.”
While it remained en vogue to blame Abdul-Jabbar for all shortcomings, the Lakers were flawed and, perhaps, in slow decline. In Johnson, Worthy and Scott, Riley possessed three cornerstones, all of whom would average more than 19 points per game. A. C. Green was an above-average power forward. Cooper, thirty-two, and Thompson, thirty-four, were both fading, and Tony Campbell was—at best—a player Riley preferred to use only when necessary. “Things changed,” Cooper said. “Things in sports always change. You can’t age and remain as dominant as you once were. It just doesn’t work that way.”
For the first time in the Riley reign, the Lakers had to fight for the Pacific Division title. Led by a pair of young stars in point guard Kevin Johnson and forward Armen Gilliam, the Phoenix Suns were everything the Lakers suddenly were not. On December 26, the two teams met at the Arizona Veterans Memorial Coliseum, and those in attendance could not be criticized for believing a passing of the torch was at hand. Not only did the Suns demolish Los Angeles, 111–96, but they did so with the same speed-and-pressing-defense formula the Lakers had once perfected. The low point came in the fourth quarter, when Magic Johnson refused to hand the ball back to referee Billy Oakes after a questionable call. Johnson tossed the ball, and Oakes tossed Johnson—only the second ejection of his ten-season NBA career. “I’m frustrated from losing,” Johnson said. “I’ve never been through this before. I maybe had to get this out of me. I’m sorry it happened to the team. But when you’ve never gone through anything like this, you don’t know how to react.” With the setback, the Lakers (17-10) led Phoenix by two games, and the Suns proved stubborn all season. West and Riley tried everything to rediscover the spark of yesteryear, but their efforts were met with frustration. After the Lakers beat the Rockets on January 16 to improve their record at the Forum to 15-0, Riley boldly predicted his club would become the first in NBA history to go undefeated at home. When asked if he was being serious, Riley didn’t flinch. “You asked the question,” he said, “and I don’t see why not.” Players responded angrily. Were they five years old, needing banal motivational incentive for every little thing? Riley’s words only served to irritate and, they believed, motivate other franchises. Eight nights later, when the Knicks came to Los Angeles and, behind Patrick Ewing’s 25 points, ended the home streak, some Lakers were mildly relieved. Their coach needed to shut up and do his job.
This, however, seemed increasingly hard for Riley, who was largely insufferable. When he’d first arrived on the scene, Riley maintained his success was based on the play of Johnson and Abdul-Jabbar and the other stars. Now, while he occasionally uttered such sentiments, they lacked feeling. “There’s an ego factor with Pat that didn’t used to be there,” Johnson said. “Wanting to be recognized as a good coach. He’s not overbearing about it, he just needs it.”
Riley appeared on the January 1989 cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly magazine, and the accompanying article was eye-opening. When Riley didn’t talk about how great he was, he talked about how great he was or, on occasion, how great he was. He felt disrespected during pre-season contract renegotiations with Buss, and had threatened to resign. He was genuinely upset that, in seven seasons, he had never been named the league’s Coach of the Year. He once approached Gary Vitti, the trainer, during a winning streak to complain that the chalk he was given to write with was “too hard.” (Vitti’s response: “Pat, what the fuck does that mean?”) Early in training camp in Hawaii, he demanded the rims on the basket be painted bright orange, and the bolts on the backboard be replaced.
Once upon a time, the GQ piece would have humiliated Riley. It was self-indulgent narcissism from a coach who stressed the meaning of the word team. If a player had promoted himself in such a way, he would have either been mocked or disciplined (or both). But Riley, in the minds of his players, was beginning to believe he was the one who invented basketball. “Things were,” said Cooper, “getting a little uncomfortable.” On the night of March 28, the coach-player relationship reached a new low. The Lakers had again celebrated a trip to Phoenix by being throttled by the Suns, 127–104. Abdul-Jabbar was held to 6 points, and Johnson sleepwalked his way to 10 points. The Suns led 58–47 at the half, then outscored the Lakers 36–27 in the third quarter. Watching from the sidelines, Riley was furious. Losing, he could sort of accept. Mediocrity, he could not. Afterward, he told the media his team was “humiliated” and he demanded a change in attitude. “We came out tonight and quit,” Riley said, venting before a question was even asked. “Obviously, I haven’t gotten through to the players. There’s something tremendously lacking, and they just think they can turn it on.
“I have failed miserably in trying to drive home how important this is. A serious inventory from an individual standpoint has to happen. What is happening now shouldn’t be happening to a team trying to win a championship. We were humiliated tonight.”
With the loss, the Lakers dropped to 47-21—impressive enough, but misleading. Dominance had been a staple of Showtime basketball. It now seemed to be a thing of the past. “What is particularly irksome to Riley is the Lakers’ recent bout with inertia,” Sam McManis wrote in the Los Angeles Times. “Instead of gearing up for the playoffs, they seem to be grinding to a halt. The Lakers have won four of their last seven games, but three of the victories have come in the final seconds.”
West made effort after effort to upgrade, but to no avail. He called the Indiana Pacers about a Woolridge-for-Herb-Williams swap and was rebuffed. Elgin Baylor, the Laker legend and close West friend, was now the general manager of the Los Angeles Clippers. He dangled Benoit Benjamin, the team’s skilled yet boneheaded center. West inquired, but quickly learned he had no chance. Meanwhile, Abdul-Jabbar collected one gift after another (a sailboat here, a portrait there) while playing in slow motion.
On the afternoon of April 22, Abdul-Jabbar’s seemingly interminable farewell tour reached its finality at the Forum. Two days earlier, the Lakers picked up their fifty-sixth victory, beating the Trail Blazers 121–114 to edge out the Suns by two games and clinch yet another Pacific Division title. Now, before the final regular-season contest, Abdul-Jabbar was brought to center court, placed in an oversize rocking chair and rocked by teammates while the song “That’s What Friends Are For” blared from the PA system.
“May you enjoy your retirement for many, many years,” Buss said. “But please, please, don’t start it until late June.”
The next forty-five minutes were an ode to Abdul-Jabbar, but also an ode to weird professional athletic excessiveness. The Lakers played in a magnificent building that was surrounded by one of the region’s most downtrodden neighborhoods. More than 20 percent of Inglewood families lived below the poverty level, and less than 15 percent of adult residents had attained a college degree. It was a city of liquor stores and pawn shops and men huddled together on corners, smoking Camels and drinking Piels from brown paper bags. Inside the building, the faces filling the stands were almost all white, many with artificially fortified breasts and $100,000 smiles. Inglewood was the Lakers’ home, but the relationship was one-sided.
As Abdul-Jabbar looked on, his eight-year-old son, Amir, sang the national anthem. The NBA’s all-time leading scorer then received trips for his parents, Cora and Al, to Hawaii and Orlando, Florida, as well as a personal tennis court from Buss. There was a telegram from President George Bush and two standing ovations. A street outside the Forum was renamed Kareem Court. Finally, Johnson took the microphone. “Since you’ve been carrying us on your back for so long, here’s something to carry you aroun
d,” he said. “It’s definitely not enough. We should give you more. When I came here as a rookie I was a snotty-nosed kid. Not only did you wipe my nose clean, but you showed me the path to become the player I wanted to be and the man I wanted to be.”
Abdul-Jabbar was presented with a white 1989 Rolls-Royce. As tears streamed down his cheeks, he addressed the sellout crowd. “We’ve had a certain amount of success here,” he said. “You can see by the [five championship] banners up there. Hopefully when the playoffs start we can see about getting another one up there.”
Adbul-Jabbar’s voice cracked. “I just want to say,” he whispered, “I love you all.”
Los Angeles won, 121–117.
Abdul-Jabbar scored 10 points. Following the game, he retreated to the locker room, where he found his designer jeans sliced to pieces and dangling from a hanger. “It was a final practical joke by his teammates,” said Lon Rosen. “They saw it as a way to end things on a lighthearted note.”
Abdul-Jabbar stormed out of the building without saying a word.
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Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 45