Bird Watching
“Courtside seats to one of the game’s greatest…. The book is endearing for its humanity, [and] there are enough descriptions of Celtics and Pacers games, and playing against Michael Jordan, Magic, playoff teams, and their coaches to keep basketball enthusiasts happy…. [An] articulate and candid book.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Surprisingly revealing…. There are anecdotes from his playing days, insights into his coaching philosophy, and even some details of life in French Lick…. When Bird talks basketball, people listen.”
—Booklist
“The Hick from French Lick solidifies his reputation as a straight-talker unimpressed with his own legend.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lays out Bird’s coaching philosophy in an accessible manner.”
—Newsday
“Excellent … intelligently written.”
—Library Journal
Copyright © 1999 by Larry Bird
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.
ISBN: 978-0-446-93043-7
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2000 by Warner Books.
First eBook Edition: December 1999
To my parents, Georgia Marie and Joe Bird
—Larry Bird
To Michael, now and always
—Jackie MacMullan
I would like to thank my wife, Dinah, and my family for their ongoing support in everything I do; to Jackie MacMullan and her family; to my editor at Warner Books, Rick Wolff; to Jill Leone; and to Donnie Walsh, for giving me the opportunity to coach the Indiana Pacers.
—Larry Bird
To Rick Wolff, Jill Leone, and Karen Bolton for their professionalism; to Dan Dyrek, Dave Gavitt, Donnie Walsh, Rick Carlisle, and Dick Harter for their insights; to Tim Edwards, Mary Kay Hruskocy, and David Benner for their assistance; to Fred and Margarethe MacMullan, Sue Titone, and Karen O’Neil for their unwavering support; to Alyson, Douglas, and Michael for their love and their patience; and to Larry Bird for his candor.
—Jackie MacMullan
Contents
CHAPTER 2: On the ’92 Olympics
CHAPTER 3: On My Time in the Front Office
CHAPTER 4: On Joining the Pacers
CHAPTER 6: On My First Year As Coach
CHAPTER 7: On Coaching Today in the NBA
CHAPTER 8: On Coaching Philosophy
CHAPTER 9: On Endorsements and Lifestyle
CHAPTER 10: On Life in French Lick
CHAPTER 12: On the Long Season
CHAPTER 13: On Jordan, Magic, and Myself
CHAPTER 15: On the 1999 Playoffs Debacle
I had the opportunity, as a player and coach for the Los Angeles Lakers in the seventies and eighties, to be around some truly great, great players. I played on teams with Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, Wilt Chamberlain, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and later in the eighties coached both Kareem and Magic Johnson. What I grew to realize is that all the great ones have an underlying subtext to them. You don’t always sense it from their exterior public persona, but it’s there. It’s something totally unique that lies underneath, and drives them to exceptional accomplishments.
When Larry Bird was named head coach of the Indiana Pacers, I was neither shocked nor surprised. I was not aware of his plans, but I had felt it was only a matter of time before someone with a great will to win and compete against the best would return to the game he loved. Larry never walked away from any challenges. He needed this. After all, there were more Lakers, 76ers, and Bulls to beat.
I vividly recall the time Larry Bird revealed to me the unique competitive perspective and quality that was part of those great players who always won. It was during the 1987 Finals in Boston Garden when Magic hit that famous baby hook to put us ahead in the final seconds of Game 4. The Celtics called time-out, down by one, to set up their crucial play. We knew in the huddle it would be Bird getting a pass from Dennis Johnson in the corner—it was a play they ran all the time. Sure enough, when they came out of the huddle to inbound the ball, Bird cut to the sideline from the free throw line and pushed James Worthy off, so that he could get free. Bird then cut sharply to the corner. As he sprinted to his spot, looking back over his shoulder at D. J. to make sure he was focused on the ball, Larry’s face was looking toward our bench.
When Bird caught the ball, he was directly in front of me, and he was wide open. My basketball life flashed in front of my face. This was death. It was one of those rare moments when time stood still. Even though he had to catch, turn, and shoot very quickly, I knew he was going to get a good shot. As he faded back and let it go, Bird fell out of bounds. With my heart in my throat, I watched the ball, and it was as straight as an arrow, but it was long. The ball bounced off the back rim and we won the game that propelled us to the world title.
Our bench was going wild when Bird walked past us. He was both unfazed and unaffected by the missed shot and taunting opponents. He would not show us any emotion other than “It ain’t over yet, we’ll get you on Sunday.” But he knew I knew this—Bird looked directly at me. He didn’t say a word. The expression on his face showed exactly what he was thinking. While everyone else in Boston Garden was in despair over the loss, Bird’s piercing lethal look into my eyes said, “I can’t believe you left me wide open like that! You lucked out, Riley.” He was right. I did. There’s no question it pained Bird to miss that shot, but I think it pained him even more that he missed a chance to put the dagger right between my eyes. Boy, did he love to win and let you know it.
When Larry played for the Celtics and I coached the Lakers, we were involved in knock-down, drag-out battles for the ultimate prize—the championship. People talked about the level of dislike, or even hatred, among our two teams, but it was more about a fierce attachment to the same goal.
I can still remember every play of that great Lakers-Celtics rivalry. I have never forgotten how Larry Bird affected the outcome. When you are striving for the same kind of greatness, you develop a lifelong respect for your adversaries, even though you rarely articulate it. I have always admired the level to which Larry Bird would go to fulfill his commitment to winning, the game, and his teammates. His commitment was sacred, and he made sure yours was too. If you wanted to play for rings, both teammate and opponent had to surpass his commitment.
I used to challenge Michael Cooper and anyone else who was charged with defending Bird. I told them, “You must raise the ante or this guy will embarrass you. He will take your heart out, stomp on it, then walk off the court with that sly grin on his face. He won’t stop until he whips your ass.” They had to hear that in order to have the respectful fear and alertness one needs to compete at his level. Come to play or Bird would bring you to your knees.
I found it interesting to learn that when Larry retired to Naples, Florida, in between golf rounds and a few cold Millers he spent some of his time tuning in to the Miami Heat games and watching me go through my coaching misery. I was flattered that he mentioned me favorably but also knew that if Larry got into coaching, my old Boston Celtics paranoia would alert me that these kind words were simply a way to soften me up and give him an edge. The truly good coaches and players always observe those they compete against. They study, they watch, they listen, they look for ways to beat them and their game. I’ve spent eighteen years studying all kinds of coaches, trying to identify the common denominator that makes their game work. I believe it’s a sincere, competent, reliable, restlessly competitive
disposition
to dominate all aspects of the game. All good coaches have the knowledge, but it’s their disposition and attitude that sets them apart. Bird reeks of it. It’s not conjured up; it is simply there.
This disposition becomes the crucial conduit relating to your players. The players watch you like a hawk. It’s like that Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell song many years ago, “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing.” We saw the real thing in Bird. Right away you could see Larry Bird understood, from experience, what his players needed, wanted, and would tolerate. Larry’s innate wisdom as to how to relate to his players was fascinating to watch. Some coaches never get it.
As an example, when Reggie Miller hit that big shot in the final seconds of Game 4 in the Eastern Conference Finals against Chicago in the 1998 playoffs, everyone on the Pacers team was going crazy except Larry. He coached. While his inner emotions were jumping for joy, he just stood there, devoid of any exterior emotion. The question is, was it conscious, or unconscious? He was coaching consciously to show the calm and collected demeanor he knew his players would require to close out the win. He knew they would look to him in that situation, and he knew there was still time on the clock, so he provided what they needed most—composure—just like he needed when he played.
When I look at how Larry has coached the Pacers, there’s nothing complicated about it. What you see is what you get. He keeps it simple. His offense, defense, and rebounding operate on solid, basic principles. His team takes tremendous pride in playing extremely hard and doing the little things well. Bird’s team rose to the occasion every night because he made them. I have also taken note of the comments Bird made to the press his first season, and it seemed as though everything he said was the right thing at the right time, for the right reason—not too much, not too little, but of
great impact
. It’s obvious that his players respect and trust him and draw from his completeness as a former player, present coach, and honorable fair man. They know Larry Bird has no agenda other than to win and make them better.
That’s why, when my team competes against his team, I know my guys better be in the right frame of mind, or they’ll get their asses handed to them. Larry Bird is going to get you, just like he did when he was playing.
I have deep respect for Larry Bird. Our paths have crossed countless times in competition, but we have rarely talked at length. As a coach who wants to win, I don’t believe in creating those kinds of relationships with people you are competing against, and from what I’ve been told, neither does Larry. One day when the competitive gloves come off for both of us and we can raise a couple of cold ones to help us along the way to the “remember whens,” I believe we would enjoy each other’s company. He reminds me of what the great warrior Tecumseh said: “I am a Shawnee. My forefathers were warriors. Their son is a warrior … From my tribe I take nothing. I am the maker of my own fortune.” Yes, yes, he was a Celtic. He was proud to be a Celtic. While he may be a Pacer now, you get the feeling he came from a long line of warriors. His sons, daughters, and players will also be warriors. They will be taught to take nothing from their tribes. They will be taught to be the makers of their own fortune and, damn it, they will do it together.
I am proud to have competed against one of the greatest of all time. He has forced me to fear with respect, and that has forced me to prepare to get better. To teach my players that when we play his team the encounter will be for men only, and you better get ready to take the hit in all ways, shapes, and forms. But there will always be a quiet relief on my part as coach. That I won’t be stupid enough to leave him wide open again, ever. I know better.
Pat Riley
Head Coach, Miami Heat
On Retirement
O
n August 18, 1992, I announced my retirement from the Boston Celtics.
It was one of the happiest days of my life.
You have to understand how screwed up my back was at that point. I had been playing through back problems for almost ten years, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. The pain was relentless. No matter what I did—whether I was standing up, sitting down, lying down, leaning over—I couldn’t escape it. It had completely taken over my life. There were some days I couldn’t even bend over to pick up a basketball, never mind try to shoot one. Some nights, I had to eat dinner sitting on the floor. Even lifting up my son, Conner, hurt so much that I had to stop doing it. When I’m hurting, and not able to play the way I want, I can be a pretty miserable person to be around. I don’t know how my wife, Dinah, lasted through that last season of my career, because I was in pain all the time, which meant I was in a bad mood all the time too.