When the Game Was Ours (23 page)

"And when I did get hurt, Larry didn't believe it. He thought everyone should play through pain the way he did."

Bird's legacy was flush with examples of valiant performances while fighting through injuries, including persistent elbow troubles, double bone spurs in his heels (which eventually required surgery), and a chronic back condition that plagued him in the final six seasons of his career.

In 1982, while Bird was vying for a rebound against Milwaukee, he was elbowed by big man Harvey Catchings on the side of his cheek. The pain in his face and his jaw was excruciating. His skull had been depressed by the blow, but Bird refused to come out and finished the game. Afterward, Dr. Silva sent him to the hospital, where doctors drilled a hole in the side of his head and inserted a medical apparatus to pop his zygotic arch back out.

Bird hated sitting out so much that he often didn't tell his coaches when he suffered an injury. When Dell Curry tagged him with an elbow and fractured his eye orbiter in the mid-eighties, Bird ran around in the second half with double vision.

"I was seeing two baskets," he confessed. "I had to guess which one to shoot at."

After the game, when he noticed blood dripping from his nostril, he blew his nose, causing his eye to protrude grotesquely.

Year after year, he pushed his threshold of pain to new limits. In the deciding Game 5 of the opening round of the 1991 playoffs, Bird dove for a loose ball against the Indiana Pacers and knocked himself momentarily unconscious by violently slamming his head on the parquet. He had been questionable for the game to begin with because his back had seized up on him. (Days earlier, he had spent a night at New England Baptist Hospital in traction to stabilize his back.)

When he banged his head in the second quarter, he was carted off to the locker room and examined by team physician Dr. Arnold Scheller. It was clear to Scheller that Bird had suffered a concussion and was too woozy to take the floor to start the third quarter.

Bird's temple was throbbing, and his back was locked up again, but he could hear the crowd groaning on the television monitor as Boston's lead slipped away. Midway through the third quarter, Bird started fidgeting.

"Doc, should I go back in?" Bird asked.

"Larry, I think you've done enough," answered Scheller.

"Ah, hell," said Bird, who popped off the table and ran back onto the court to a thunderous ovation. The Celtics, down three at the time, ripped off a 33–14 run and won the game.

Joe Bird would have been proud. Larry Bird vividly recalls his father Joe hobbling home one night with a horribly swollen and discolored ankle from an accident at work. The next morning the ankle was twice its normal size, but Bird's father loosened the laces on his boot, jammed his foot in, and limped back to his job. The moment left an indelible impression on his son, who concluded it was heresy to lie down on the job, no matter how much he was hurting.

That's why, during the 1985 season, Bird ignored the searing pain in his toe for nearly three weeks. When he finally allowed Dr. Silva to examine him, the team physician said, "You've got a serious infection between your two toes. This could lead to a dangerous situation.

"We'll give a shot of Novocain for that because I'm going to have to cut you."

"Nah," Bird said, "just give me one of those beers over there."

Silva administered a two-and-a-half-inch cut to allow the infection to drain. Then he wrapped it up. Bird played that night with considerable discomfort, and when he took his shoe off after the game, his sock was soaked in blood.

"I swear to God, they carved him up like he was John Wayne," Carr said. "Toughest guy I've ever seen.

"But what Larry doesn't understand [is that] other people don't have the same threshold for pain that he has."

Bird grappled throughout his career with separating his own lofty standards from the more pedestrian goals of his teammates. He had little tolerance for players who were unwilling or unable to demonstrate the mettle required to flourish in the NBA.

He was critical by nature, which contributed to his uncommon drive. Danny Ainge appreciated Bird's discerning basketball eye, but conceded, "If you were on the wrong end of it, it could be very tough."

Bird's smoldering intensity was a regular topic of conversation among his teammates. McHale admired his relentless pursuit of excellence, but Bird occasionally displayed an edge that McHale didn't totally understand—or condone. Thus, when Bird verbally harangued a teammate for not filling the lane or manning up properly, McHale cringed.

Conversely, Bird viewed McHale as an exceptional player who could have reached enormous heights but chose not to wring the most out of his considerable abilities. During one game against Sacramento, McHale was benefiting from an obvious mismatch and scoring at will. After the ball went to him on seven consecutive possessions, he told Bird, "Hey, spread it around. I've scored enough for one night."

While Bird was almost maniacal in his pursuit of the perfect game, McHale was content to contribute 15 points and 10 rebounds and call it a day. He refused to allow basketball to consume him; Bird refused to allow distractions to penetrate his basketball concentration.

Their contrasting approaches to the game made for an odd team dynamic. Bird respected McHale's game so much that he rarely criticized him for not possessing the killer instinct that, in Bird's mind, could have spurred McHale on to a league MVP trophy.

McHale was so taken with Bird's work ethic that he rarely challenged his teammate when he became moody or difficult after a tough loss. "Aw, that's just Birdie," McHale would say.

Their unusual relationship accounted for some comical on-the-court interactions with Ainge, who was friendly with both stars and became their floor conduit.

When Bird wanted McHale to do something, instead of approaching him and barking out instructions like he did with his other teammates, he'd motion Ainge over and say, "Tell Kevin to set a high screen for D.J., then roll to the basket." Moments later,
McHale would pull Ainge aside and whisper, "Tell Larry to pop out on the baseline and I'll flash through the key."

"It was kind of funny," Ainge said. "They were very careful about what they said to each other. Larry had no problem chewing me out, but he would never flat-out yell at Kevin. He just thought too much of him."

McHale's and Bird's contrasting ideals were accented in a span of nine days during the 1984–85 season. On March 3, McHale set about destroying the Detroit Pistons with his expanding ensemble of post moves. By the third quarter, when it became apparent this could be a historic day, the other Celtics—including Bird—abandoned their offense and fed their amiable forward a steady diet of passes on the block. When it was over, McHale had set a new Celtics single-game scoring record with 56 points. He was so exhausted by his milestone that he waved to Coach K. C. Jones to remove him in the final minutes of play, even as his teammates urged him to remain on the floor and add to his total.

It was a landmark performance made possible, in part, by Bird, who registered a triple-double that day directing most of his passes toward number 32. There were congratulations all around for McHale, who so often played second fiddle to his more celebrated teammate without complaint. Bird gushed about McHale's feat but couldn't resist chiding him. "You should have stayed out there," he said. "You should have tried for 60."

"We talked about it afterwards," Dennis Johnson said. "Larry didn't understand why Kevin didn't go for it. When Larry had his foot on someone's throat, he crushed them. Kevin was the kind of person who would say, 'Aw, he's already down. No need to hurt the guy.'"

Nine days later in New Orleans, Bird showed McHale how it was done. He went on his own tear against the Atlanta Hawks, hitting 22 of 36 shots, including improbable fadeaways, stop-and-pop jumpers, and twisting drives in the lane. His most spectacular basket was one that didn't count: an off-balance three-pointer in front of the Hawks bench that had the Atlanta players literally falling off their seats in disbelief. Just as they had done for McHale, the Celtics fed Bird the ball down the stretch, even intentionally fouling the Hawks to regain possession. Bird topped off at 60 points, nailing a jumper at the buzzer and breaking the team record set just a week and a half earlier by his front-court mate.

The most absurd component of Bird's feat was that he almost sat out the game against Atlanta. The day before the game Bird woke up and decided to run in a five-mile road race, something he and teammate Scott Wedman occasionally did together during the season. But Bird hadn't run on asphalt for a few months, and the morning after the race his legs were heavy and sore and his hamstrings were throbbing. Bird limped through the team shoot-around before he finally went to see his coach.

"K.C., I'm not sure I can go tonight," Bird said.

"Larry, you ran in another one of those races, didn't you?" Jones admonished him.

Bird went to the arena a half-hour earlier than normal to do some laps. As he started jogging, his lower legs loosened up, but his hamstrings were still tight and painful.

"I was hurting real bad when the game started, but for some reason I was making shots," Bird said. "There wasn't a whole lot of defense being played. My legs were killing me, but I figured, 'I gotta tough it out.'"

When he accepted handshakes in the locker room after his scoring barrage, he walked over to McHale's locker and said, "See, Kevin? I told you to go for 60."

McHale merely shrugged.

"Honest to God, Birdie, I really don't care," he replied.

"You will someday," Bird shot back.

Magic Johnson followed McHale and Bird's dueling scoring outbursts with amusement. He identified with Bird's competitive streak since he too turned everything into a contest, whether it was betting on which song would come on the radio next or counting who could bank in more free throws.

The Lakers usually ended their workouts playing 5-on-5 with Cooper and Magic guarding each other. One day, after Cooper hit the winning jumper, Riley said, "Okay, let's bring it in."

"No," Magic said. "One more."

His teammates groaned. They'd been practicing for more than two hours, but they knew Johnson wouldn't quit until he got the last word. When Magic drilled the game winner in the next game, they sprinted for the exits as Cooper hollered after them, "Wait! We're not done yet!"

During a long road trip, Scott and Magic played Tonk, a popular card game among NBA players, on the airplane. Scott took most of Johnson's money, and when the Lakers landed, Magic said, "Let's keep playing."

Scott fleeced his friend for a few more dollars on the bus ride to the hotel. When they checked in and hopped on the elevator, Magic said, "Meet me in my room. We've got to finish this."

"Finish this?" Scott said incredulously. "Buck, we've been playing for four hours!"

Defeat was not a palatable option for Magic, regardless of the nature of the competition—or the opponent. Longtime Lakers trainer Gary Vitti used to tease Johnson that if he played tiddlywinks with Vitti's two young daughters, Rachel and Amelia, whom Johnson adored, he would still need to win.

"He'd find a way to outwit them, outwork them, out-luck them, or out and out cheat them," said Vitti. "He's the worst loser I've ever seen."

Despite his impressive start to the 1984–85 season, Magic could not completely erase the disappointment of the 1984 Finals. The defeat lingered in his psyche, and as winter approached and the annual All-Star Game loomed, he brooded about seeing Bird again. He anticipated that the All-Star buzz would center on a possible rematch between the Lakers and Celtics—and by extension a rematch between Bird and himself—but the story line veered elsewhere.

Rookie Michael Jordan was making his All-Star debut and stole the spotlight when he irritated some of his peers by wearing Nike gear instead of the league-mandated apparel.

Jordan was a phenomenal talent with unparalleled athleticism. His jump shot as a North Carolina sophomore clinched the NCAA championship for the Tar Heels, and he went pro shortly after that. His court sense and his ability to control play above the rim was the talk of the league. The kid had talent, charisma, charm—and a staggering endorsement portfolio for an NBA rookie.

Everyone anticipated a big offensive night from number 23, yet Jordan took only 9 shots in 22 minutes of All-Star play, leading to whispers that he was "frozen out" by East point guard Isiah Thomas. Magic, because of his close association with Isiah, was also suspected of being involved in snubbing the league's newest sensation. After the game, media reports citing sources close to Thomas and Johnson claimed the two conspired to keep the ball away from Jordan because they were jealous of his endorsements and his rapidly expanding, worldwide appeal.

The story gathered steam when Jordan did not publicly refute the conspiracy theory.

Magic maintained he did not learn of the controversy until two days after the game when television personality Ahmad Rashad, a mutual friend of both Johnson and Jordan, called and asked him, "Earvin, what's going on with this?"

"Are you kidding me, Ahmad?" Johnson said. "Do you really believe I'm going to an All-Star Game thinking I don't want to let Michael Jordan have the ball? First of all, why should I care? What does that do for me? I don't have anything against him. I barely know him.

"That's just stupid. If I was going to come up with a conspiracy to freeze someone out, I would have done it a long time ago—to Larry Bird."

As a teenager growing up in North Carolina, Jordan was a Magic Johnson disciple. He even drove a 1975 Grand Prix with the license plate Magic Mike on the front. Yet the young Bulls player was wounded by the events of All-Star weekend, and whether it was real or imagined, Jordan felt snubbed by both Thomas and his childhood idol Magic.

Nearly 25 years after the fact, Jordan confirmed that the incident strained his relationship with Magic for years.

"It kind of split us," Jordan said. "I felt Magic didn't like me. He and Isiah were freezing me out. I had some endorsements and a good agent [David Falk]. I was taking advantage of some situations that Magic could have had too, with the right representation.