The Book of Basketball (5 page)

So what happens? The Lakers stick two guys on Bird. Somehow, he breaks free at midcourt (seriously, how the hell does this happen), slides down the sideline, grabs the inbounds pass, controls his momentum long enough to set his feet for a split second right in front of Riley, steadies his upper body for a nanosecond, and launches a wide-open three in front of the Lakers bench. At that precise moment, standing in front of my seat at midcourt with pee probably dripping down my leg, I would have bet
anything
that the shot was ripping through the net. I would have bet my baseball card collection. I would have bet my Intellivision. I would have bet my virginity.
⁴⁰
I would have bet my life. Even the Lakers probably thought it was going in. Watch the tape and you will notice Lakers backup Wes Matthews crouched on the floor and screaming behind Bird in sheer, unadulterated terror like he’s about to watch someone get murdered in a horror movie. You will hear the fans emit some sort of strange, one-of-a-kind shrieking noise, a gasping sound loosely translated as, “Holy shit, we
are about to witness the greatest basketball shot ever!” Hell, you can freeze the tape on the frame before the ball strikes the rim. It looks like it’s going in. It should have gone in.

It didn’t go in.

When Bird released the shot, his body was moving directly between me and the basket; you could have drawn a straight line over the arc of the ball and extended it over Bird’s head right to me. Two decades later, I can still see that moon shot soaring through the air on a direct line—it was dead-on—knowing immediately that it had a chance, then feeling like Mike Tyson had floored me with a body punch when the ball caught the back of the rim. Bird missed it by a fraction, maybe the length of a fingernail. It couldn’t have been closer. You cannot come closer to making a basketball shot without actually making the shot.
⁴¹

Here’s what I remember most. Not the sound in the Garden (a gasp of anticipation giving way to a prolonged groan, followed by the most deafening silence imaginable),
⁴²
or the jubilant Lakers skipping off the court like they were splitting a winning Powerball ticket twelve ways (they knew how fortunate they were), or even the shocked faces of the people around me (everyone standing in place, mouths agape, staring at the basket in disbelief). Nope. It was Larry. As the shot bounced away, he froze for a split second and stared at the basket in disbelief even as the Lakers celebrated behind him. Just like us, he couldn’t believe it.

The ball was supposed to go in
.

The split second passed and Bird joined the cluttered group of players and coaches leaving the floor. When he walked through the tunnel by me and my father, he seemed just as confused as anyone.
⁴³
The rest of us remained in our seats, shell-shocked, trying to regroup for the walk outside, unable to come to grips with the fact that the Celtics had lost. If you saw
Saving Private Ryan
in the theater, do you remember how every paying customer was paralyzed and couldn’t budge as the final credits started to roll? That’s what the Garden was like. People couldn’t move. People were stuck to their seats like flypaper. We went through the seven stages of grief in two minutes, including my father, who was slumped in his seat like he had just been assassinated. He wasn’t showing any inkling of getting up. Even when I said to him, “Hey, Pops, let’s get out of here,” he didn’t budge.

A few more seconds passed. Finally, my father looked at me.

“That was supposed to go in,” he groaned. “How did that
not go
in?”

More than twenty-two years have passed since that night … and I still don’t have an answer for him. For everything else, I have answers.

I think.

1.
That’s the first of about 300 unprovoked shots at Kareem in this book. Just warning you now. Kareem was a ninny.

2.
The C’s played six home games in Hartford each year in a misguided effort to expand their New England fan base. The experiment ended in the late ’80s when they realized three things: the players hated traveling for 47 games a year, they could make more money playing at home, and most important, it was fucking Hartford.

3.
We’ll be referring to the Boston Garden as “the Garden” and Madison Square Garden as “MSG” for this book. Why? Because it’s my book.

4.
Boston’s deep-seated racial issues bubbled to the surface one year later, thanks to a divisive decision to proactively integrate Boston’s public schools and all the ugliness that followed. Although, looking back, it was probably a red flag that Reggie Smith and Jim Rice were the only black guys on the Red Sox for like 40 years and everybody was fine with this.

5.
Both guys had a defining moment in Game 6: Kareem drained a clutch sky hook to save Milwaukee’s season in double OT, and Cowens stripped Oscar Robertson and skidded 20 feet along the floor going for the ball. No clip defined a player more than that one, with the possible exception of the 340 times (and counting) that Vince Carter went down in a heap like he’d been shot. By the way, if you think Kareem is going to take a beating in this book, wait until we get to Vince.

6.
After the ’76 season, Cowens took a leave of absence and found a job at a local raceway, where he had an office and everything. Then he came back at the 32-game mark like nothing ever happened. Later, it came out during the ’77 playoffs that Cowens had been spending nights driving a cab around Boston and collecting fares. The funny thing is, you’re reading this right now convinced that I’m joking. Nope. We need to redo Cowens’ career in the Internet era—imagine message board threads with titles like “Dave Cowens picked me up in a cab last night!”

7.
Yes, once upon a time, a little kid could wander onto the court before games, stand next to the home team’s bench, and talk to the coaches and players. Sigh.

8.
My dad bought something like 30 papers and did everything but hit our neighbors over the head with the picture. He would have been a great stage dad.

9.
Wilkes played Cornbread, a high school star gunned down in the movie. When the murder scene left me bawling, my mom was relieved because she had been worried we might not make it out of the theater alive. She claims that everyone was pissed we were there. I was too young to remember what happened; the only part I don’t believe is Mom’s claim that I played dice in the men’s room afterward.

10.
Great subplot: Barry wore a wig that season (these were the days when you could do such a thing without getting mocked on the Internet) and after the fight, Barry seemed more concerned with readjusting his wig than with wondering why Sobers jumped him. If you ever get hold of the Warriors media guide, check out how Barry’s hair recedes each season until the ’76 team picture, when he suddenly has a full head of hair, and then he’s back to being bald in the ’77 team picture again. Now he has plugs. Don’t ask why I love this stuff.

11.
Two new wrinkles/problems that we’ll cover in detail later: First, some players stopped giving a crap because they had guaranteed big-money contracts. Second, cocaine became fashionable for a few years before everyone realized, “Hey, wait, this drug is addictive and destructive and expensive. There’s really no upside here!” Back in the late ’70s, nobody knew and the league suffered because of it. We never knew there was a problem until a Nuggets game in 1979 when David Thompson tried to snort the foul line.

12.
My father still makes fun of me about this. In my defense, I was six. In his defense, it was the most famous NBA game ever played.

13.
When we came home, Dad and I were so wired that we made food and watched TV. A
Charlie’s Angels
rerun was on—the show that had just taken off a few weeks before—and I remember thinking, “So this is what happens when you’re up late? You can watch TV shows with half-naked female detectives running around?” A future night owl was born that night, my friends.

14.
Not only did I spend my formative years sticking my right hand out hoping for famous high fives, but you can see me on TV during half of the great games of the Bird era. I spend more time on ESPN Classic than the Sklar brothers.

15.
This was one of my two favorite moments of 1978, along with the time my buddy Reese and I realized that if one of us was holding the feet of the other, we could steal all the change from the bottom of the fountain at the Chestnut Hill Mall and buy hockey cards with the money. Good times!

16.
I had a reader joke once, “Tommy is as objective during Celtics games as Fred Goldman when the topic is O.J.”

17.
John Y. owned the Braves and “traded” them for the Celtics in a complicated deal that involved seven players, two picks (one turned out to be Danny Ainge), and cash. Boston’s previous owner, Irv Levin, moved the Braves to San Diego and renamed them the Clippers. So if John Y. had forced out Red, he would have been directly responsible for Clippers East and Clippers West. We also probably would have traded Bird’s rights to New York for Toby Knight and Joe C. Meriweather.

18.
We had 12 months to sign Bird before he reentered the draft, so everyone in New England jumped on the ISU bandwagon as Bird carried the undefeated Sycamores to the ’79 NCAA Finals. They were more popular in New England than BC and Holy Cross that year.

19.
I threw Katie in here for old times’ sake. It’s not her fault that Tom Cruise turned her into a mannequin.

20.
When I worked on Jimmy Kimmel’s show, we called this the Adam Carolla Corollary. Carolla always found a humorous angle on anything; eventually, everyone else became funnier just trying to keep up with him.

21.
I did not make this up. There were four times in the second half of that game (March 12, 1985) when the Hawks subs either jumped up in delight with their arms raised, fell on top of each other in disbelief or slapped palms.

22.
This was the most shocking and improbable sports fight that ever happened. Happened 20 feet in front of me. I will never forget it. Like seeing Santa throw down with the Easter Bunny.

23.
I thought about throwing in “the last two minutes right before a girl-on-girl show starts at a bachelor party” here and decided against it.

24.
Bird and Erving (four MVPs), Robert Parish (NBA top fifty), Kevin McHale (ditto), Tiny Archibald (ditto), Maurice Cheeks (one of the top point guards that decade), Andrew Toney (most underrated player of that decade), Bobby Jones (best sixth man of his generation), Cedric Maxwell (’81 Finals MVP), Darryl Dawkins, Caldwell Jones, M. L. Carr, Gerald Henderson, Rick Robey … now that’s a playoff series! The lesson, as always: expansion ruins everything.

25.
One of the many great subplots of the pre-Jumbotron era: the Garden fans rewarding the team with a standing ovation through the entire time-out. That was our ultimate stamp of approval. Like a “you did that for us, we’ll do this for you” thing. Now we’re too busy watching the kiss cam or gawking at cheerleader nipples.

26.
My seat was next to one of those classy Wellesley/Weston housewives who wore great jewelry and looked like she got groomed four times a week. Even
she
was sweating. I don’t think her sweat glands had ever been triggered before.

27.
My personal favorite: Bird once told Indiana’s Chuck Person before a game that he had a Christmas present for him. During the game, he made a three in front of the Pacers bench, turned to Person, and said, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

28.
On
IMDb.com
, this is also listed as
The Passion of the Christ
.

29.
It’s too bad that Bird’s prime just missed Scottie Pippen, the greatest defensive forward ever and someone who would have been a fantastic foil for Bird. By the time Pippen matured, Bird was on his way out. Our loss.

30.
Bird’s back brace made him look fat and misshapen, kinda like Ralph Macchio in
Karate Kid 3
. He couldn’t move by the second round and still dominated a do-or-die Game 6 against the ’92 Cavs with his perimeter passing (16 points and 14 assists). Then the Cavs realized before Game 7, “Wait, he can’t dribble, all we have to do is hound him when he has the ball and attack him defensively!” They won by 18 and shot 59%. Sad ending for the Legend.

31.
Or even worse, in Magic’s case, a Legend/Celebrity 3-on-3 or 3-Ball on All-Star Weekend.