With that success, however, a purity was lost. In a sense, Buss was damned to receive what he wished for. The Lakers grew bigger. Flashier. Bolder. More prominent. What had once felt like a mom-and-pop operation (with Jerry Buss starring as both mom and pop) now seemed increasingly corporate. Jeanie and Linda used to walk through the Forum and know the ushers, vendors and janitors (“Every single one,” Jeanie said) by name. Inside the Staples Center, that was no longer the case. Employees came, employees went. They were mere name tag holders. “I like the new building,” said Jeanie. “I do. It’s just not the Forum.”
Now they were back, two women who grew up in the building; who discovered basketball bliss in the building; who saw Magic morph into a man and Riley morph into a head coach and Kareem snarl and Spencer Haywood snort and Norm Nixon scheme and Byron Scott and James Worthy and Michael Cooper and Kurt Rambis and dozens of others find themselves and their own senses of glory. As they walked through the hallways, and gazed upon the shadowy court, their minds flashed back to confetti raining down on five championship teams, to the best times they would ever know. “We hadn’t been back in years,” said Jeanie. “But there were some old pictures we needed to pick up that we never took with us. It was very emotional. . . .”
The Forum, they found, is no longer the Forum. Everything is dark and dank. Whereas once the building was a palace, it now is a crypt for bygone excellence. Outside, white-and-gray paint peels from the beams, and sentiments like ALEX + ALEXIS and crude illustrations of penises are etched into the siding. The blue plastic signs are cracked, and lettering has faded. Some green bushes remain, yet they are pocked by litter. Empty McDonald’s bags. A plastic ValuSoft Napkins wrapper. While the red Forum Club awning remains, it no longer leads to a world of wonder and intrigue. Now it welcomes nonexistent visitors to an abandoned room.
Though, technically, the Lakers left the Forum at the conclusion of the 1998–99 season, an argument could be made that—with Johnson’s announcement and immediate retirement—Showtime exited the building for good. With the solid-yet-forgettable Sedale Threatt taking over at point guard, the team went 43-39 in 1991–92 before losing, listlessly, in the first round of the playoffs to the Portland Trail Blazers. The ensuing years—overloaded with one too many arrogant, self-indulgent players—were bleak. Even when Johnson returned, briefly, in 1995, the buzz was short-lived. “It was never the same,” said Worthy, who retired in 1994. “The guys who came in didn’t share the work ethic and intensity. There wasn’t as much heart or as much love. That era was so special. But once it ended, it ended hard and never came back.”
• • •
Only that’s not entirely true.
The Showtime Lakers exist—in video, in books, in word-of-mouth, in YouTube clips, in yellowed newspaper articles, in LeBron James and Kevin Durant and Chris Paul and modern players who aspire to recapture similar brilliance.
Most important, in the men who brought it to us.
In the immediate aftermath of Earvin (Magic) Johnson’s HIV revelation, we all presumed we were about to watch one of America’s iconic sportsmen shrivel up and die. That was the understood lot in life for HIV carriers—weight loss, infection, lesions, decimation, death. Ron Carter, the former Laker guard, was sitting on a bed inside the Deerfield Inn in Deerfield Beach, Florida, when he turned on the television and saw Johnson’s press conference. “I called Norm Nixon, and Norm called Michael Cooper,” he said. “We were talking about all the broads we screwed. We were trying to get a list of all the girls we had sex with back then in common with Magic. Because AIDS was the kiss of death. Magic was clearly going to die. We didn’t want to die, too, and we were scared out of our minds.”
That was twenty-two years ago.
Now fifty-four, Johnson has not merely outlived many of those who anticipated his extinction—he has emerged as one of America’s most improbable success stories. The man who ran the Laker offense now runs Magic Johnson Enterprises, a company with a net worth of $700 million. He is also a part owner of the Los Angeles Dodgers, which he and his partners purchased in 2012 for a staggering $2 billion. Whereas he was once the face of the Lakers, then the face of the NBA, then the face of HIV, he is now a face seen everywhere. “He’s one of the great men of all time,” said Dyan Cannon, the actress and Laker fanatic. “His nature, his generosity, his down-to-earthness, his spirit, his Showtime attitude. He’s our Muhammad Ali.
“Of course he’s beaten HIV. He’s Magic—he always finds a way.”
Throughout his numerous incarnations, Johnson has always been—first and foremost—number 32, charging down the court, looking left, passing right to a streaking Worthy or a posting Abdul-Jabbar. It remains his strongest identity, the image that ties him to millions upon millions of people.
In this, he is not alone. At age sixty-nine, Pat Riley is the president of the Miami Heat. Since being fired by the Lakers after the 1989–90 season, his success has been striking. He took a perennially underachieving New York Knicks team to the 1994 NBA Finals, then coached the Heat to the franchise’s first title, in 2006. Like Johnson, he is one of sport’s most recognizable faces, and has accumulated a small fortune via motivational speaking and endorsements. Yet he will forever remain the coach of the Showtime Lakers. “It was the greatest period of my life,” he said. “Bar none.”
A similar sentiment is echoed—in one form or another—by nearly every prominent participant of the era. Abdul-Jabbar, a prolific author and historian, calls his time in Los Angeles “meaningful and defining.” Byron Scott coached the New Jersey Nets to back-to-back Eastern Conference titles. “But he’s a Laker,” said Anita Scott, his wife. “Always.” Worthy never followed through on his promised return to the peace and tranquility of North Carolina, and serves as a Los Angeles–based studio analyst for Time Warner Cable SportsNet and Time Warner Cable Deportes. “Showtime was beautiful for me,” he said. “It changed my life.” Bob McAdoo is an assistant coach with the Heat. His four Laker seasons were, statistically, the least productive of his career. “But they were the best,” he said. “Easily the best.” After his trade, Norm Nixon played four quality seasons with the Clippers. “I’m a Laker,” he said. “A proud one.” Kurt Rambis went on to coach the Lakers and Minnesota Timberwolves, and recently returned to the Lakers as an assistant. “I don’t think, for most of us, that time period has been replaced,” he said. “You move on, but that excitement was once in a lifetime.” Michael Cooper coached the Los Angeles Sparks to two WNBA titles, then spent four years coaching the women’s team at the University of Southern California. “Big jobs,” he said. “But I’m still known as a Laker. Probably until I die.”
Even for the players who lived on Showtime’s fringes, the memories serve as glow sticks through life’s darkest times. Wes Matthews still thinks back to his days with the Lakers as “the highlight of my existence.” Earl Jones takes pride in “playing with the best of the best.” Billy Thompson, a pastor at the Jesus People Proclaim International Ministries Church in Miami, loves his lord, his savior and his purple-and-gold journey. “Being a Laker,” he said, “is eternal and beautiful.” Those who attended training camp with the team, but failed to stick, occasionally retreat to a closet or chest where they pull out random keepsakes. Jay Triano, an eighth-round pick out of Simon Fraser in 1981, still has his practice shorts. Rick Raivio, the 1980 fifth-rounder from the University of Portland, held on to his jersey. “It’s somewhere around here,” he said. “A reminder of something amazing.”
“On the afternoon I was cut, I went up to every player and got autographs,” said Ron Vanderschaaf, a 1987 seventh-round draft choice out of Central Washington. “I still have them. James Worthy wrote, ‘It was nice knowing you,’ even though he never really knew me. Magic Johnson wrote ‘I hope all your dreams come true.’ And, in a way, they did. I was a Laker. It was brief and fleeting, but I was a Laker.”
On a cold April day in 2012, Mike Smrek sat inside
a barn on his property in Port Robinson, Canada. In many respects, he had been the most unlikely of Showtime Lakers. “Growing up on a family farm, my life was work,” he said. “We had cows to milk and animals to feed. In my spare time I enjoyed building dune buggies and motorcycles. I didn’t even try basketball until I was sixteen.” At the urging of his shop teacher, Smrek played one season for the team at Eastdale High School, and was awful. But he was awful—and enormous. Based upon his 7-foot, 250-pound stature and raw athleticism, Canisius College offered him a scholarship, and he went from averaging 2.5 points as a freshman to 15.8 as a senior. He graduated in 1985, and a year later found himself in Los Angeles, backing up Abdul-Jabbar.
Toward the end of his first season, Smrek and the Lakers prepared for the playoffs by training in Santa Barbara. The team was staying at Fess Parker’s Red Lion Inn, and one morning Smrek made certain to be first aboard the shuttle bus parked outside the hotel. “I got there fifteen minutes before anyone else,” he said, “because I wanted to show how dedicated I was to winning.” Gradually, the rest of the players arrived. Scott. Worthy. Rambis. A. C. Green. When Johnson climbed the steps, he looked at Smrek and pointed toward the door. “Get off,” he said. “You’re on the other bus.”
“Why?” said Smrek. “I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes.”
“Because,” Johnson replied, “you’re not a Laker yet.”
A humiliated Smrek rose from his seat and—eyes glued to the floor—exited. None of the other Lakers uttered a word. He had appeared in thirty-five games for the team, even started three. He practiced hard and often stayed late to work with the assistant coaches. Was that not enough? What more did Mike Smrek need to prove?
Two weeks later, on June 14, 1987, the Lakers beat the Celtics at the Forum to capture the NBA championship. Smrek had played but nine minutes in the six-game series, contributing two points, five rebounds and four personal fouls. With the champagne flowing and the music blasting, Smrek was as happy as he’d ever been. The bus incident was long forgotten, a bad moment in an amazing year.
Midway through the celebration, Smrek felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face Johnson, who opened his arms and wrapped the backup center in a long hug.
“Mike,” he whispered, “congratulations.”
Arguably the greatest point guard in NBA history was grinning from ear to ear. Arguably the most mediocre backup center in NBA history was grinning from ear to ear, too.
“Now,” Johnson told him, “you’re a Laker.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
On the afternoon of March 29, 2012, I overflowed Spencer Haywood’s toilet.
It’s true.
I had spent roughly one and a half hours with the former Laker in his Las Vegas home. We talked hoops and recovery (he’s been clean for thirty years) and family (he’s the proud father of four girls) and memories of basketball players long gone. The time flew by, and toward the end, I was euphoric over yet another fabulous interview with yet another Showtime participant.
Before I left, I asked whether I could use his bathroom. Haywood pointed me in the right direction, so I went inside, closed the door and peed. Seriously, that’s . . . all . . . I . . . did. I peed. And not even a big pee. Just a normal, average, run-of-the-mill piss.
As soon as I flushed, however, the tidal wave began. Higher and higher and higher. Water rose from the porcelain depths, and even as I took every possible step to stem the tide, well, nothing worked. Before long, the floor had morphed into Lake Mahopac, and liquid started to seep beneath the door and into the adjacent bedroom’s carpet.
When I mustered the courage to inform the 6-foot-8, 250-pound Haywood that I’d ruined his lavatory (“Spencer, I overflowed your toilet! But I swear, all I did was pee!”), he glanced upon me as if I were telling him something as pedestrian as the arrival of that day’s mail. “Don’t worry,” he said. “These things happen.”
• • •
I have long maintained that writing a book is a nightmare, and, indeed, it often is. The nights are long, the hours are ceaseless, the road is lonely (though, admittedly, one can do worse than spend the winter months kicking back in Los Angeles), the search for interviews can be maddening. No words or experiences, however, can embody the process better than overflowing Spencer Haywood’s toilet—and having to tell him about it. Then, and only then, is the nightmare complete.
Hence, I would like to start by thanking Spencer for his insight, for his plunger (you can’t go wrong with the PlumbCraft Plastic Stow-Away Plunger II) and his candor. Though he was a Laker but for one season, Spencer’s powerful road to recovery could fill twenty volumes. He is a man of strength and conviction, and it was an honor to spend time together. Along those lines, I’d like to acknowledge all of the Showtime-era Lakers who contributed to this project, with a special tip of the hat to Bill Bertka, Frank Brickowski, Tony Campbell, Michael Cooper, Mike Dunleavy, A. C. Green, Brad Holland, Earl Jones, Mitch Kupchak, Mark Landsberger, Ronnie Lester, Wes Matthews, Jack McKinney, Norm Nixon, Kurt Rambis, Lon Rosen, Mike Smrek, Larry Spriggs, Billy Thompson, Mychal Thompson, Jerry West, Paul Westhead, Jamaal Wilkes and James Worthy. Equal gratitude to the men who reported on the Lakers during the time period—namely Mitch Chortkoff, Scott Ostler, Steve Springer, Earl Bloom, Don Greenberg, Mark Heisler, Randy Harvey, Roy Johnson, Mike Littwin, Joe McDonnell, Pat O’Brien and John Papanek.
During the Showtime era, two men—Josh Rosenfeld and John Black—were charged with handling the organization’s media relations efforts. Both are top-shelf individuals who represented the Lakers extraordinarily well, and both were kind enough to answer my repeated questions. Furthermore, Gary Vitti remains basketball’s best trainer, as well as one of its best talkers. The words were invaluable.
During the course of researching Showtime, Jerry Buss, the Lakers’ brilliant owner, passed away. Though I was unable to interview him before his death, I was fortunate to hang with Jeanie Buss, his daughter. There are OK people in sports, good people in sports, great people in sports. Jeanie—class personified—tops them all. So, for that matter, does Linda Rambis, who knows the organization as well as anyone. Linda was an encyclopedia of stories and contacts, and has guaranteed herself a lifetime of Pearlman Family Chanukah cards (be warned).
Early on in my research, I was urged by Michael Cooper to contact (of all people) his ex-wife, Wanda. “She’s very honest and very real,” Michael told me. “And she has a great memory.” Thank goodness I listened. Showtime is my sixth book, and for the previous five, I always developed a deep connection with one person whom I knew I could call whenever I needed to grasp a concept or filter a theory. In this case, Wanda fit the bill. Not only was she present for 98 percent of the era, but she speaks with a uniquely authoritative perspective. Showtime isn’t Showtime without her.
I’ve now been writing books for ten years, and although it’s my name that graces the cover, I’ve been propped up by a literary dream team. David Black, agent to the stars, continues to stand out as the Kyle Brady of his field. Michael Lewis, my longtime friend and purveyor of the greatest wedding dessert spread in human history (an egg cream menu!), has as sharp an eye as anyone in the business, and Casey Angle is the Eddie Lee Wilkins of fact checkers (admittedly, this makes no sense; I just thought it’d be neat to compare Casey to Eddie Lee Wilkins). Paul Duer, the former associate mayor of Christiana Towers, continues to supply keen insights, and I would be lost without the handiwork of Stanley Herz, one of Palm Beach Garden’s top fifty senior citizen tax advisors, and Gary Miller, owner of the world’s only Josh Hamilton–themed kosher coffee mug emporium. There is no better place in the world than the Sports Illustrated library, and no better people than the Kid ‘n’ Play of research, Joy (Kid) Birdsong and Susan (Play) Szeliga. Oh, and Elizabeth Newman and B. J. Schecter—thanks for letting a bum in.
Showtime is my second collaboration with Gotham, and I’m honored to have the confidence
of the great William Shinker. Charlie Conrad is the type of editor any writer would be lucky to work with, and the PR team of Lisa Johnson and Anne Kosmoski is the best in the business. Hats off to Stephen Brayda for the wonderful cover design.
It would be impossible to name everyone who assisted in this process, but mighty appreciation to Liz Monaghan, Anita Scott, Mark Kriegel, Mike Mingione, Victor Ugolyn, Franco Miele, Laura Fasbach, J. A. Adande, Beverly Oden, Angela Taylor, Elizabeth Camp, Rob Easterla, Chris Wittyngham, Andy Dallos, Matt Zimmerman, Michelle Herbert, Marlo Norma, Daniel Monaghan, Orli Moscowitz-Urbas, Jack McCallum, Jon Wertheim, MC White Owl, Steve Cannella, Jeff Bens, John LaQuatra, Marina Adese, Kopal Goonetileke, Schmoopie Monaghan, Lisa Joseph, Matthew Walker, Larry Luftig, Frank Zaccheo, Dyan Cannon and the interminable Steve English.
Growing up on the mean streets of Mahopac, New York, a kid fought to avoid a future of either slinging crack or peddling Amway products out of a cardboard box. I am forever grateful to my parents, Joan and Stan Pearlman, for guiding me down the righteous path. Every time I order another $4.25 Espresso Affogato at the Swirl Coffee and Tea Shop, I think of what could have been. An equal dose of appreciation to Dr. David Pearlman, Daniel and Naya Pearlman, Dr. Martin Pearlman, Laura and Rodney Cole, Jessica Guggenheimer, Chris (Buckeye) Berman, Richard Guggenheimer, Leah Guggenheimer, DJ Norma Shapiro and the accounting firm of Jordan and Isaiah Williams, Inc. A moment for the lovely Chantay Steptoe-Buford, whose life was one of great purpose.
Lastly, a huge nod to home base. I’m guessing there’s nothing quite like being wed to a health-anxiety-consumed, self-employed writer who insists on blogging about his latest twelve trips to the bathroom. Yet Catherine Pearlman—the gem of gems, editor of editors and collector of ensuings—continues to both support and love me. I did not merely marry up—I married the queen of goodness (and a friggin’ awesome proofreader).
Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 53