“I actually remember telling Pat, ‘Magic said he can’t do it.’ I remember being choked up because I felt helpless, and I felt as if I’d let Pat down. I let the team down. I let the fans down. I let Magic down.”
And yet, when Lawrence Tanter, the Forum’s public address announcer, introduced the starting lineups, there was Johnson jogging onto the court, the crowd standing and cheering. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be OK. Maybe, just maybe, the Lakers could return from the brink and . . . and . . .
Johnson lasted four minutes and forty-six seconds.
Watching him try to play was akin to seeing Ruffian hobble around the bend in her final race at Belmont. As he limped from the court, the silent audience of 17,505 seemed to know that hopes of the three-peat were limping off with him. Although the Lakers again kept it close, the backcourt trio of Cooper, Campbell and Rivers was, on a good day, Grade C. Dumars and Vinnie Johnson, Detroit’s two top shooting guards, dominated the replacements, shooting 20-for-32 while scoring 48 points. The Pistons won, 114–110.
“I’m always optimistic,” said Worthy, who scored 26 in the setback. “I always like to think there’s a way, that you can always fight. But, in the back of my mind, I was thinking, ‘Oh, shit, how can we possibly win this without Magic?’ It was like a plane losing a few engines. You can still land, but there will be problems.”
“We knew we needed a miracle,” said Thompson. “Miracles happen in one game—but in seven games, against that Pistons team, we knew the odds were greatly against us. It was almost like the odds of winning the six-hundred-million-dollar lottery. It can happen. But, with Tony Campbell and David Rivers playing big minutes, it probably won’t.”
Because professional athletes are expected to emote a certain way, the Lakers talked the talk. They’d come back before. Never underestimate the heart of a champion. You’ve gotta believe. In Los Angeles—as in every other NBA city—one mostly stuck with the cliché and uttered the right words and phrases.
So, when asked, Campbell followed the script and talked about how sad he was for Johnson, how he wished he could return to the lineup and guide the team to another championship. It was only partially true.
“Honestly, I was happy to finally get a chance,” said Campbell. “Because I felt like I could fill that role and give the team what it needed to win a championship. I mean, we needed Magic. But I felt we could have won with me, too. That’s how I really felt. Here was my opportunity to shine.”
Campbell scored 11 points in twenty-three Game 3 minutes, then another 6 points as the starter in Game 4, when the Pistons finished out the series with a 105–97 win. Based in large part upon his tough play in trying circumstances, Campbell was acquired by the first-year Minnesota Timberwolves at season’s end. He went on to average more than 21 points per game over the next two seasons. “I’m not happy those guys got hurt, and I’d certainly have rather won,” Campbell said. “But it did help my long-term career.”
Cooper, too, carried himself well. An afterthought for much of the year, he started all four games, committing only two turnovers. “At the end of the series I gave Michael a jockstrap with two brass balls in it,” Bertka said. “I said, ‘Michael, this is for you. You’ve got brass balls.’”
Rivers, on the other hand, shot 1-for-5 in twelve minutes in Game 4, appearing confused and overwhelmed. The same man who owned practices learned the hard way that, with millions watching, everything changes. “It killed his career,” said Mark McNamara. “I felt bad for the kid. He went from never playing to playing big minutes against a powerhouse in the finals. He couldn’t win.”
Rivers would appear in a total of sixty-seven more NBA games, all with the Clippers, before moving overseas and becoming one of European basketball’s all-time legends. “It worked out,” he said. “Everything turned out nicely.”
Not for the Lakers. With nineteen seconds left in Game 4, and his team down seven, Riley begrudgingly gave in. He motioned for Orlando Woolridge to leave the bench and enter. Tanter leaned in to his microphone atop the scorer’s table and bellowed, “Orlando Woolridge, in for the Captain. . . .” The crowd came alive one final time—“Ka-reem! Ka-reem! Ka-reem! Ka-reem!”
Afterward, in a locker room filled with heartbreak over the defeat, and anger toward a coach who’d pushed too hard, Abdul-Jabbar was asked how it felt to be done after twenty years. The NBA’s all-time leading scorer, who averaged 12.5 points in the series, paused to search for the right words. This was his final press conference as a Laker, his final time wearing an NBA uniform. “It really hasn’t sunk in yet, the deeper meanings of it,” he said. “I’m just thankful I could last this long and walk out the door. I am very thankful.”
A mere 2,845 miles away, in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the world’s happiest ex-Laker sat in his home, watching Abdul-Jabbar on television. Wes Matthews had bristled when the team let him walk while keeping the inferior Rivers, and he bristled again when Riley stole three-peat without proper acknowledgment.
Now, however, as the Pistons celebrated and the Lakers sulked (Riley told his players, “There’s nothing to learn from this series—nothing”), Matthews relished the delicious irony. Two months earlier, he had hit a last-second three-pointer to lift the Tulsa Fast Breakers to a 114–111 victory over the Rockford Lightning in the fourth and final game of the Continental Basketball Association’s championship series. Matthews played brilliantly, scoring 29 points that night and connecting on seven three-pointers. “You won’t believe it, but winning the CBA championship was as meaningful to me as the NBA championship,” he said. “ESPN televised it, I got a beautiful ring, I played big minutes.
“Best of all,” he said, “Pat stole three-peat, and I was the only one to three-peat.
“I, Wes Matthews, was the only fucking one.”
CHAPTER 20
BATES
One of the strangest marriages in Lakers history began—as most marriages do—with a tropical trip.
Three and a half months following the finals sweep, Pat Riley found himself back in Hawaii, this time staying at the beautiful Sheraton Waikiki in Honolulu. He was, after a long summer of remorse and regret and self-doubt, elated to be surrounded by paradise. Here, the pineapple was sweet, the breezes were warm, the women were gorgeous, the sand was soft and inviting.
The Lakers’ forty-four-year-old coach was not alone. Along with the familiar faces gathered for training camp at the University of Hawaii’s Otto Klum Gymnasium, Riley was happy to see his newest squeeze—free-agent signee Quintin Dailey.
For those who worked in professional basketball, Dailey was one of the nine or ten most naturally gifted players in the game. A 6-foot-3 shooting guard from Baltimore, Dailey could do—when he tried—everything. He dribbled as well with his left hand as he did with his right. He could run a team from the point, or slide to the two-spot and torch bigger opponents for 25 points. Though not particularly tall, he deftly positioned himself below the boards. While starring at the University of San Francisco in the early 1980s, Dailey was a two-time West Coast Conference Player of the Year who, as a junior, averaged 25.2 points per game. In seven NBA seasons—first with the Bulls, then the Clippers—Dailey averaged more than 15 points per game five times. “Quintin was an incredible player,” said Norm Nixon, who teamed with Dailey on the Clippers. “He had so much ability to do so many things. He could have gone down as a true great.”
Unfortunately, Quintin Dailey came with baggage. In the early morning hours of December 21, 1981, while still in college, he allegedly entered the room of a twenty-one-year-old nursing student inside Phelan Hall and held her captive. According to a police report, Dailey wanted the woman to “fellate” him and forced her to masturbate him. When she reached for the telephone to call the police, Dailey allegedly wrapped his fingers around her throat. The investigation resulted in three charges (including attempted rape) that were dropped, and three years of probation. During the
court proceedings, it was also revealed that Dailey had been given a $1,000-a-month job while in college that didn’t require him to show up.
Shortly thereafter, under pressure from faculty and the NCAA, the University of San Francisco dropped its basketball program. Also shortly thereafter, the Chicago Bulls used the seventh overall pick in the 1982 Draft to select Dailey.
The reaction was fierce. To celebrate his home debut, an anti–domestic violence organization, Take Back the Night Coalition, picketed outside Chicago Stadium. Women’s groups threatened to boycott the Bulls, and even Wallace Bryant, a former college teammate who played center for Chicago, suggested Dailey “might do it again.” Fans showed up for games dressed as nurses. Dailey begged the Windy City for understanding, but received little. Wrote John Schulian of the Chicago Sun-Times: “If you really want to know how badly the values of sport have been distorted, examine the presence of Quintin Dailey on the NBA’s doorstep. . . . I can’t help believing that if Dailey weren’t a basketball player, if he were just another creep off the street, he would still be learning what a chamber of horrors the halls of justice can be.”
It was all downhill from there. Dailey became a poster child for NBA drug excesses, twice being suspended by the league for his addiction to cocaine and attending three in-patient rehabilitation centers. He often failed to show up for games, and his weight would balloon with comical regularity. When he played, he played hard—sometimes. Or indifferently. Or sloppily. He was the laziest man teammates had ever seen, and took quizzical pride in being labeled a dog. “I’d never been around a drugged-out player before Quintin,” said Don Casey, his coach with the Clippers. “He was as good a catch-and-shoot player as I’d seen, but his attitude was awful.”
In the past, Jerry West and the Lakers were reluctant to add men like Quintin Dailey to the mix. In the world of Magic Johnson, the ultimate uniter, cancers were not to be tolerated or endured. You either played hard for the Lakers, or you didn’t play for the Lakers.
Riley, however, had adjusted his thinking over recent years, and came to believe that, under his magical powers, even the most dysfunctional basketball player could find his way. Look, it worked moderately well with Orlando Woolridge, another former substance abuser who became a model citizen and solid producer. So what if Quintin Dailey was a drug addict who, while playing with the Clippers in 1988–89, was suspended for weighing 225 pounds—20 above what was demanded? So what if he was as reliable as a dollar store appliance? Talent was talent.
Los Angeles signed Dailey to a guaranteed one-year, $400,000 contract and welcomed him into the fold. “It’s an honor to play with a team that can win the championship,” said Dailey upon agreeing to the deal. “I’m not here to take a position, just to help them win. I want to be established as a winner. I’ve thought of myself as that, but now maybe this will be a chance to prove it to everybody else.”
The Lakers reported to Hawaii for their first team meeting—which was mandatory—on the evening of Thursday, October 6. Dailey, who had missed his flight from Los Angeles, was nowhere to be found. He arrived later that night, and showed up for Friday morning’s practice looking suspiciously frail. He entered the gym, shook some hands, patted some backs—then lasted barely an hour before complaining of stomach pains and dizziness. “First practice, it’s ‘Where’s Dailey?’” said Bertka. “Oh, he’s outside throwing up.” When asked to explain, Dailey said he was so excited for camp that he hadn’t eaten food in two days. “The gym was a steam box, and we were doing a drill at the very beginning and Quintin couldn’t complete it,” said Larry Drew, a free-agent guard who had played with Dailey on the Clippers. “He ended up going outside to get air, and they sent him back to the [Sheraton Waikiki]. That set the tone. If you’re going to be a Laker, you have to be in shape.”
One week later, after oversleeping and failing to attend a morning practice, Dailey was gone. The Lakers ate the $400,000 and sent him off into the abyss.
“He just didn’t come in mentally or physically ready to perform,” said an exasperated Riley. “We’ve got a lot of young guys on this team, and we cannot tolerate this kind of thing. I sort of feel sorry for the guy, a little bit. He’s had an opportunity to play for the Lakers—just keep playing in the league—and he does this. Look, he missed a flight, he missed a meeting, he fell out from the first practice, and then he oversleeps today. And he’s begged off (working out) in a couple of other practices, too. It’s unconscionable that a player would do what he’s done. We don’t think it’s a privilege to play for the Lakers, but there are certain things we won’t put up with.”
One month into the season Josh Rosenfeld, the media relations director, quit after a confrontation with Bob Steiner, his boss. A day or two later, the phone in his home rang. “It was Quintin Dailey, out of the league, calling to see how I was doing,” said Rosenfeld. “He said, ‘I know how much that job meant to you—I just want to make sure you’re OK.’ I was truly touched. Talk about an enigmatic man . . .”
Perhaps, had Dailey arrived at a different time, in a different year, he could have stuck. This, however, was the worst possible moment for someone who required soothing and guidance to become a Laker.
Pat Riley was in a foul state of mind.
For years, this had been brewing. With every success, with every magazine feature and endorsement opportunity and paid speaking engagement, those around the Lakers saw his ego grow like a well-watered fern. The Pat Riley of old could laugh at himself and tell one story after another until the bar was empty and the tables cleared. The modern version, though, lacked both perspective and a sense of humor. Defenders within the organization would say Riley was simply obsessed with winning and didn’t want to let people down. Those who knew him well, and who were honest in their feelings, could express the truth. Put simply, Riley had forgotten that, come day’s end, he was merely a basketball coach, and the Lakers merely a basketball team. He equated winning and losing with life and death, with Biblical tales and the fight for righteousness and . . .
“It got,” said John Black, “ridiculous.”
Early on in the 1989–90 season, Black took over from Rosenfeld as the team’s media relations director. He was excited to work closely with one of the great coaches in NBA history. One day Riley told Black that, as part of the position, he would have to file regular detailed statistical reports on the team’s players. “It would have been two hours a day of adding shit up, compiling statistics, figuring trends and percentages and bullshit,” Black said. “I hate that shit. Josh was a numbers guy—he’d happily lock himself in his office and dig through stats. Not me.” Black didn’t offer an immediate response, and asked West whether it was something he had to do. “Absolutely not,” the general manager said. “That’s not your job.” A few days later, Riley cornered Black once again. “So,” he asked, “are we good?”
“Actually,” Black said, “we’re not.” He was thirty years old and supposed to do (under Riley Law) whatever the coach asked. If that meant handling statistics or mopping the floor or singing Amy Grant love songs, so be it.
“What do you mean?” Riley said.
“I mean I’m not going to do it,” Black replied. “It’s not part of my job. I know Josh was doing it for you, but that was something Josh enjoyed doing. It’s not something I like.”
Riley stormed off. For the next two weeks, he refused to speak to Black—the person responsible for handling all dealings with the enormous Lakers media contingent. “I was getting a half-dozen interview requests for Pat every day . . . things he had to do every day after practice,” said Black. “I had to work with the man, and the guy wouldn’t talk to me. It was so dysfunctional. He really had become the most miserable, fucked-up bastard.”
If one were to watch the team in Hawaii, he would think it was all business as usual. Though Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was, for the first time since 1975, not a Laker, he showed up to assist in camp. Magic Johnson w
as throwing passes, James Worthy was slashing to the lane, Byron Scott was popping jumpers. Everything was the same as it had always been, with a slight difference: People now walked on eggshells. Not just low-level staffers and men like Black. No, everyone. Wrote Mark Heisler in his book The Lives of Riley: “Laker employees grew used to seeing [Riley] in the office on the morning after a loss, unshaven, looking gaunt, a shell of the dandy they’d see the night of games. He made myriad demands of them. There were itineraries to be changed at a moment’s notice and he was impatient if they couldn’t get it done now.”
Those who once supported Riley no longer came to his defense. Cooper, the ball-hawking stalwart, was thirty-three and about to begin his final year with the club. Long ago, when Riley demanded something, Cooper jumped to attention. No more. “Everything gets old,” he said. “Old and stale.” Scott behaved similarly. Riley spoke, he shrugged. Or yawned. Abdul-Jabbar, who disliked Riley so much that the two barely spoke, nicknamed him Norman Bates after the character from Psycho.
The most noticeable change came in Riley’s relationship with West. The two were not only former Lakers teammates, but close friends for more than two decades. Yet everything Riley was becoming, West abhorred. West was a man who shunned celebrity, who ducked crowds, who was happiest in casual attire, sitting in the rear of a room. He had played basketball for the pure love of the game, and worked in the front office because he felt he could help others achieve greatness. One of the favorite (of many) Jerry-West-is-simply-an-awesome-guy stories told by Lakers staffers occurred on a night in Hawaii, when he agreed to take ten team employees to dinner. To his great chagrin, the group settled upon Ruth’s Chris Steak House. “Fuck Ruth’s Chris!” West said. “That place sucks. Motherfuckers don’t know how to make a steak.”
Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 47