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  PRAISE FOR

  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

  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

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Copyright

  Praise for Bird Watching

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  CHAPTER 1: On Retirement

  CHAPTER 2: On the ’92 Olympics

  CHAPTER 3: On My Time in the Front Office

  CHAPTER 4: On Joining the Pacers

  CHAPTER 5: On Private Matters

  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 11: On Team Dynamics

  CHAPTER 12: On the Long Season

  CHAPTER 13: On Jordan, Magic, and Myself

  CHAPTER 14: On the NBA Today

  CHAPTER 15: On the 1999 Playoffs Debacle

  Foreword

  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 an
d 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

  CHAPTER 1

  On Retirement

  On 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.

  Maybe that’s why when I walked up to the podium at my press conference in the Boards and Blades Club at Boston Garden and finally said out loud that it was over, I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I can’t tell you what a relief it was not to have to push myself through all that pain anymore.

  I can honestly say I hated basketball at that point.

  As soon as that press conference was over, me and some of my good friends, including my physical therapist, Dan Dyrek, went out and celebrated. There was nothing to be sad or sentimental about. It was time for me to be done.

  I had known for months before the actual press conference that I wasn’t going to play anymore. When my back started flaring up in training camp, before the start of the 1991–92 season, I knew that was probably it, but I don’t think I actually admitted it to anyone—probably not even to myself, really—until January or February of 1992. I wasn’t afraid of life after basketball. It was more a matter of finishing a job. I don’t believe in giving up in the middle of anything. But it really wears you out when you are in constant pain. I had what they call a nerve impingement, which meant the L-4 vertebra was sitting twisted and compressed on the L-5 vertebra, and there was a nerve trapped in between the two. It left my spine very unstable. The bone kept pushing itself into the nerves in my back, and it was just terrible. Dan Dyrek would work on it so he could temporarily push the bone off the nerve, but before long I’d be feeling that burning pain shooting down my leg, and I’d be in serious trouble all over again.

  By this time Dan had been treating me for almost a decade, and he was really concerned about the permanent damage I might be doing to myself. There were a whole bunch of times we had serious discussions about retirement. We came to a compromise, and worked out a system where we’d make decisions from game to game. Dan would examine me, and if my back was really “hot,” or agitated where the disc was, he would tell me I had to sit out. If Dan gave me a thumbs-down, that was the final word for that night. Neither the Celtics nor I questioned him—most of the time. Looking back, it was a ridiculous way to finish my career, but at the time I just put my head down and tried to get through it.

  I missed 37 games in my final season. People knew I was hurting, but very few of them had any idea how bad it really was. It got to the point where I was wearing a brace almost all the time except when I was practicing or playing. I even had to wear it to bed. I really hated that brace. It was made of a quarter-inch of fiberglass and went from my chest all the way down to my hips, and it was really uncomfortable. But I knew it was necessary. One thing is for sure: I wasn’t going out much at that point. I didn’t want anyone to see me in that thing.

  The day I finally didn’t need that brace anymore, I took it outside and destroyed it.

  Even though I
knew I was playing my last season, I kept it to myself. The last thing I wanted or needed was a big commotion at every city we went to. I had no interest in a retirement tour. Our team was still pretty competitive at that point and that’s all I wanted to concentrate on, getting as deep as we could into the playoffs and, if we caught a break or two, maybe into the Finals. Of course the media was speculating on how much longer I’d play, but I wasn’t saying a word.

  Well, not publicly anyway. I do remember walking into Dan’s office early in 1992 and telling him, “Dan, the back is really bad. Just get me through this season and I’ll quit.”

  Dan said what he had been saying for over a year: “Larry, you should quit right now. Your back is unstable. Every day you go out there, you are risking further damage. It’s over. You have to stop playing.”

  I knew Dan was right, but I couldn’t see quitting in the middle of the season. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that, because people had bought season tickets that year thinking they were going to see me play. Most of them knew my back was bad and I might miss some games, but they were counting on seeing me at least some of the time, and I didn’t want to let them down.

  For the rest of the season I lived on anti-inflammatory drugs and wore that stupid brace. Both Dan and the Celtics trainer, Ed Lacerte, did the best they could to hold me together. It seemed we’d be talking every two weeks or so about retiring, but then I’d have a period of ten days or so where I felt okay, and that would be the end of it. Then, like it always did, the pain would come back. Both Dan Dyrek and Ed Lacerte have told me I played that last season in a state of unconsciousness.

  The truth is, I should have retired a couple of years earlier, after I had my first back surgery in the summer of 1991. We had played Indiana in the first round of the playoffs that spring, and I was in really bad shape. The burning down my leg was so bad I couldn’t feel my toes. I couldn’t sit down, I couldn’t stand up. I was in shock, really, but how could I stop in the middle of the playoffs? I remember after we lost Game 4 in Market Square Arena, it was about the worst I had ever felt. I wanted so badly to be healthy, because we had to go back to Boston for a deciding Game 5, and there was no way I could let that team beat us, because I didn’t want to hear about it all summer from my friends who lived in Indiana.