Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s

by Pearlman, Jeff

  As the lopsidedness came into focus, the pre-series hype faded away, and Magic-Michael turned into, solely, Michael. “You’re dejected. You’re frustrated. You’re anticipating a great series and they dominate us like this,” Johnson said. “But I can’t feel bad—they’re giving us a good butt kicking.” The Bulls won three straight games at the Forum (Worthy re-aggravated the ankle injury in Game 4, and sat out Game 5; Scott also missed the fifth game with a bruised right shoulder), including the title-clinching 108–101 triumph that sealed Jordan’s status as the NBA’s new reigning elite. He scored 30 points in the finale, and was an easy choice for Finals MVP. Afterward, as Jordan hugged the trophy in the visiting locker room, he couldn’t help but sob. “I don’t know if I’ll ever have this same feeling,” he said. “I guess what you see are the emotions of hard work.”

  Twenty minutes later, with little fanfare, a smiling Johnson entered the Chicago locker room. He went Bull to Bull, offering handshakes and hugs to every member of the team. When he reached Jordan, he gazed upon his rival superstar with both sadness and glee. Johnson was far from a selfish man; he liked the idea of someone coming along to join the club he and Bird had started. And yet—that was his trophy.

  “When I went to congratulate him after the game,” Johnson said, “I could see tears in his eyes. . . . I know what he’s going through, too. There’s no better feeling. It’s unbelievable, it’s unreal.”

  Earlier in the week, Johnson had suggested that this might be his final run. It had been a trying twelfth NBA season, filled with highs and lows and massive turnover. He was a tired man who knew his prime had passed. Watching Jordan caress the trophy, however, stirred something deep within. The Lakers had reached the NBA Finals with a rookie coach and a revamped roster.

  Wouldn’t it be wise, he was asked, to stick around?

  “I’m sure I’ll be back,” he said. “Any time you have a tough season like this, you want to come back and be on the other side of it. Hopefully, it’ll be our turn next year.”

  With that, Earvin (Magic) Johnson left the Forum.

  Showtime walked out with him.

  CHAPTER 22

  SHOCK

  On July 12, 1991, Magic Johnson suffered from heat exhaustion. It happened while he was in Hawaii filming a television segment, and caused him to skip Michael Cooper’s basketball camp a couple of days later.

  • • •

  On August 8, 1991, Magic Johnson told the Torrance Daily Breeze that he expected to play three more NBA seasons, one season in Europe—then retire to try to become an owner. He also said he planned on being a part of the 1992 U.S. Olympic basketball team.

  • • •

  On August 18, 1991, Magic Johnson visited the nation’s capital to speak to two hundred youngsters inside the Washington Metropolitan Police Boys and Girls Club. “It’s a lot of fun to see the looks on their faces and the opportunity not only with basketball but life,” said Johnson. “You want them to know that you’re a human being, too, because they see you as not being human at times. I want them to know that, ‘Hey, I was here, too. I grew up the same way you did and I made it through hard work and dedication and you can, too.’”

  • • •

  On September 14, 1991, Magic Johnson and Earleatha “Cookie” Kelly were finally married at the Union Missionary Baptist Church in Lansing, Michigan. Magic wore a double-breasted white jacket and black pants. Cookie wore the dress she had purchased a year earlier—when they were originally supposed to have wed. His best man was Dale Beard, a longtime friend. Throughout the service, Rev. Rick Hunter was interrupted by shouts of “Amen!”

  “It was like everyone was just so glad it finally happened,” said Kathy Staudt, a family friend.

  The reception was held at the Kellogg Center on the Michigan State campus. Later, Cookie wrote: “I felt like God was saying, ‘Girl, you went through so much with this man that I’ll give you a great wedding.’”

  • • •

  On September 20, 1991, USA Basketball announced a “dream team” comprised of Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan and eight other NBA superstars would play in the following summer’s Barcelona Olympics. “In the amount of time we have to practice,” Johnson said, “we’ll just have to go to work.”

  • • •

  On September 25, 1991, Magic Johnson released a statement asking for the resignation of a Lansing, Michigan, school board member who referred to Johnson as “a big, dumb black kid” during his time in high school. The man, William Carter, made the comments during a board meeting. He said he regretted them but refused to resign. “It was a dumb thing to do,” he said. “A poor choice of words.”

  • • •

  On September 30, 1991, Magic Johnson was introduced as the new spokesperson for the flagship candy bar of The Nestle Chocolate and Confection Company. “Nestle Crunch embodies the winning spirit,” Johnson said, “and I’m proud to represent that message as I enter the new NBA season.”

  • • •

  On October 13, 1991, the Los Angeles Lakers flew to Paris to take part in the four-team McDonald’s Open basketball tournament. The journey also served as a honeymoon for Magic and Cookie. They took long strolls, ate romantic dinners, spent time alone as a new married couple. He could not, however, fully escape the trappings of fame. During a trip to the Eiffel Tower, Johnson—wearing his uniform for a photograph—was besieged. “It was ugly,” said John Black, the team’s media relations director. “I almost punched two French photographers. It was a mob scene.” Johnson enjoyed his week in Paris as a basketball player (he had 21 assists in a win over Limoges), but also felt run-down. His internal clock was off, there was a lot of up and down, left and right, back and forth. The fourteen-hour plane trip back to California was hardly a relief.

  “We need to get back,” he said. “Get some rest.”

  • • •

  On the afternoon of Friday, October 25, 1991, Magic Johnson was sitting inside his room in the Salt Lake Hilton. The Lakers were visiting Utah to play an exhibition game against the Jazz—one Johnson had little interest in. He was exhausted and in need of a day off. He told Gary Vitti, the trainer, how he was feeling. “He said, ‘I’d really like to take these last few games off, I’m really tired,’” Vitti told ESPN. “‘If you want me to be ready for the season opener, I could use these last few days off.’ He was jetlagged still.” The Lakers, however, insisted Johnson play. The fans had paid good money to see Magic, and he was a key part of the franchise, and . . . and . . .

  The phone inside Johnson’s room rang at 2:15. It was Dr. Michael Mellman, the team physician and one of Johnson’s personal doctors. Johnson had been rejected for a life-insurance policy the team had taken out. “Can you come home?” Mellman said.

  “OK,” said a puzzled Johnson. “I’m gonna play the game and I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “No,” said Mellman. “You have to come home right now.”

  Johnson caught a taxi to Salt Lake City International Airport, then a 4:28 P.M. Delta flight that would arrive at Los Angeles International Airport at 5:15. His Laker teammates assumed Johnson was simply bailing out of a meaningless contest. “I figured he was just pulling some seniority,” said Worthy.

  Vitti, though, couldn’t keep the bad thoughts out of his head. “It just kept going around and around in my head, what it could be,” he told ESPN. “During the game, I can’t even concentrate, because something’s up.”

  Johnson wasn’t particularly concerned. He was thirty-two, running three to four miles every day, lifting weights for thirty to forty-five minutes. “I was actually in the best shape of my NBA career,” he told Sports Illustrated. Johnson was picked up at the airport by Lon Rosen, the longtime Laker employee who now worked as his agent. They talked about high blood pressure—Johnson’s father, Earvin Sr., had struggled with it for much of his life. They talked about heart problems. One year earlier, Hank Gathers, a bask
etball star at Loyola Marymount University, had collapsed on the court and died from a heart-muscle disorder, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

  Upon arriving at the physician’s office, Johnson entered an empty waiting room. He sat, picked up a copy of Ebony magazine. Michael Jordan was on the cover, alongside his wife, Juanita. “You know,” he said to Rosen, “it would be nice if Cookie and I could be on the cover like that.” After five minutes, he was ushered into the doctor’s office. The room was small and white, and the look on Mellman’s face was grim. He motioned toward an empty chair. “Sit down,” he said. No emotion. He turned around and, from atop his desk, opened a Federal Express envelope. A couple of weeks earlier, Johnson had undergone an extensive physical examination. “Earvin,” Mellman said, “I have some news to tell you. . . .”

  • • •

  On the evening of Friday, October 25, 1991, Magic Johnson called his wife. She was surprised to hear his voice. He was supposed to be on a basketball court in Utah.

  “What are you doing, calling me?” she said.

  “I’ll tell you when I get there,” he said.

  Oh, no, she thought. Does he want a divorce?

  • • •

  On the evening of November 1, 1991, the Lakers opened the regular season with a game at Houston. For the first time since 1978, Earvin (Magic) Johnson was not the starting point guard. “It was strange,” said Sedale Threatt, who filled in and scored 7 points in a 126–121 double overtime loss. “Just didn’t seem right for Earvin not to be in there. Who was I?”

  • • •

  On the afternoon of November 6, 1991, Lon Rosen came over—unannounced—to Mike Dunleavy’s house. Johnson had now missed the first three games of the regular season with what was being reported as “flu-like symptoms.” Flu-like symptoms? Like Johnson, Dunleavy had been a player who needed to be minus three limbs to sit out a game. This made no sense. “Mike,” Rosen said, “Earvin wanted me to tell you about something he’s dealing with. We’re trying to find the right way to handle it publicly, but . . .”

  • • •

  On the evening of Wednesday, November 6, 1991, John Black’s phone rang. And rang. And rang. The Laker publicist was out on a date, so he was unavailable to take Lon Rosen’s call. By the time he heard the message, it was ten P.M. “Hey John, it’s Lon. Listen, you need to be at my house at eight o’clock tonight.”

  Oh, well, Black thought. I’ll just deal with it tomorrow.

  When he arrived at work early the next morning, Black was told to go to the office of Lou Baumeister, the Lakers team president. He was irked—there were press releases to write, reporter phone calls to return. Who had time for this? “I walk down the hall, about a hundred feet, and I enter Lou’s office. And Lou’s at his desk, and I see Jerry West sitting in a chair, crying. And I think to myself, ‘Why the fuck is Jerry West crying?’

  “A few minutes later, walking back to my office, my knees buckled.

  “They just buckled.”

  • • •

  On the morning of Thursday, November 7, 1991, John Black—back in his office—received a phone call from Randy Kerdoon of KFWB Radio. It was approximately ten thirty. “We’ve just heard a story that Magic is going to retire,” Kerdoon said. “Is this true?”

  Silence.

  “I was like, ‘Holy fuck—how did this leak out?’” said Black. “‘Holy, holy fuck.’”

  Black asked for understanding and a couple of hours of patience. Kerdoon agreed. The Lakers were planning on holding a Thursday afternoon press conference. That would no longer do. Black called Johnson. “Earvin, the news is going to break,” he said. “We can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  “OK,” Johnson said. “Let’s do it today at three.”

  A release was immediately written and sent out to the media. MAGIC JOHNSON TO HOLD PRESS CONFERENCE AT FORUM . . .

  • • •

  On the morning of Thursday, November 7, 1991, Johnson and Rosen wrote up a list of everyone who needed to be called. One by one, Rosen dialed the numbers.

  Michael Jordan began to cry. “No,” he said. “This can’t be happening. . . .”

  Pat Riley, now coaching the New York Knicks, couldn’t speak.

  Isiah Thomas pulled off the road and called back from a pay phone. “Tell me it’s not true. . . .”

  Larry Bird was leaving his home in Boston. “Oh my God,” he said. “This can’t be true.”

  Arsenio Hall, the talk show host and Johnson’s good friend, told Rosen he would cancel that night’s program. “Earvin will kill you,” Rosen said. “He needs you to carry on with your life.”

  Kareem Abdul-Jabbar said he would come to the press conference. Kurt Rambis, now playing for Phoenix, departed practice for the next flight to Los Angeles. “I have to leave,” he told Cotton Fitzsimmons, the Suns coach. “I can’t tell you why. You’ll just have to trust me on this one.”

  • • •

  On the late morning of Thursday, November 7, 1991, Mike Dunleavy cut short the Lakers’ practice at Loyola University. He gathered his players in a huddle. “One o’clock, I want you at the Forum,” he said. “No exceptions. If you have anything planned, cancel it.”

  “No one said anything,” said Keith Owens, a rookie forward out of UCLA. “But people were kind of thinking the worst.”

  Forty minutes later, Owens went to his parents’ house to take a quick shower. As he was getting dressed, his grandfather, Sidney Allen, pointed to the screen. There was a photograph of Johnson. “Do you know anything about this?” Sidney asked.

  • • •

  On the afternoon of Thursday, November 7, 1991, Johnson entered the Lakers locker room at the Forum. It was one thirty. All the players were sitting at their stalls in street clothing. “Guys,” Dunleavy said, “Magic wants to address you. . . .”

  “He came in and told us what was up,” said Owens. “He went around the room, hugged everybody. Dudes were crying. Then he left to go to the press room.”

  The Lakers followed him out. It felt like a funeral procession.

  • • •

  On the afternoon of Thursday, November 7, 1991, Johnson walked toward—of all places—the Forum Club. Before entering, Rosen pulled him aside.

  “Are you OK?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Johnson said.

  With that, he led a parade through the rear of the room—Johnson, his new bride, Cookie, Jerry West, Abdul-Jabbar, Mellman, Rosen. The Forum Club was packed. Hundreds of photographers. Hundreds of reporters. David Stern, the NBA’s commissioner, sat on the dais, directly to his left. Cookie sat directly to his right.

  Johnson wore a dark blue suit, a red-and-blue tie. He reached the podium, then waited ten seconds for everyone to be seated. He looked around, pursed his lips, removed his hands from his jacket pockets. There was modest talking within the media corps. Johnson grabbed the silver microphone holder. Thump! The room went quiet. Johnson leaned toward the microphone. He looked calm. There was no trademark smile.

  The building had been his home for twelve magnificent seasons. He knew every nook of the Forum; every corner; every closet. The ushers and vendors and custodians considered him one of their own. He wasn’t just a basketball player. He was a Los Angeles Laker. An icon. Others had been on the team before him, others would come after. There was, however, only one maestro. Only one Magic. Without him, there would never have been five championships, never would have been the fast breaks and the pinpoint passes and the invaluable entertainment. He was here when Spencer Haywood imploded, when Kareem Abdul-Jabbar dominated, when Bob McAdoo saved the day and Norm Nixon forced his own departure. He had dozens of teammates, ranging from Rambis and Jamaal Wilkes and Byron Scott to Earl Jones and Ronnie Lester and Swen Nater. Through it all, Magic Johnson had been the linchpin.

  He was—at its very core—Showtime.

  “First of all, let me say
good after . . . late afternoon,” he said. “Um, because of the”—lengthy pause—“HIV virus that I have attained, I will have to retire from the Lakers today. . . .”

  AFTERWORD

  In the summer of 2012, Jeanie Buss and Linda Rambis returned to the Forum.

  The Lakers had played their final game inside the building thirteen years earlier, thereby escaping to the new, state-of-the-art Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. The NBA had changed drastically from the time Showtime reigned, and the Forum became an 8-track relic in an iTunes age. A league that once aired its finals games on tape delay was now a multibillion-dollar industry. Stadiums were replaced by arenas; plain ol’ seats were important, but not nearly as important as (cha-ching!) luxury boxes. Hot dogs and sodas continue to be peddled, but so are sushi rolls and Tazo Chai Tea Lattes. When Jerry Buss purchased the team from Jack Kent Cooke, he dreamed of turning basketball into more than mere basketball. He desired the game to be a full-throttle entertainment experience, replete with dancers and loud music and halftime shows and balled-up T-shirts launched into the crowd. “My dad wanted it to be a happening,” said Jeanie. “And he succeeded.”