Bird Watching Page 3
Nobody ever found out about that charity game—until now—which was good. There was nothing I hated more than talking about my injuries. It never helped them feel any better, and to me it always sounded like an excuse. Also, I found myself getting kind of superstitious. I remember one time, I had just finished practice at Hellenic College, which is where the Celtics used to hold all their workouts, and I was feeling fantastic. Peter May, a reporter who covered our team for many years, asked me how my back was feeling. I answered him, “Great!” I drove home from practice, lay down to take a nap, and I woke up with that horrible burning pain down my leg again. The next day, I was at the hospital getting injections. That’s when I decided, “That’s it. I’m not talking about my injuries anymore.” I know it was hard for the reporters covering the team, but they got used to it. They knew that if I was cranky, it meant something was hurting. Near the end, that was every day.
It was just a grueling process. Dan would check my back to see if it had lost its alignment, because things were so unstable, the bones were prone to shifting, and that set off all sorts of spasms. But the worst part about it was that my back prevented me from practicing, and without all that time in the gym, my skills were deteriorating. I loved to practice, and I needed to practice, and my game really suffered when I didn’t.
That played a part in my decision to retire, too.
My last game at Boston Garden was on May 15, 1992. We had beaten the Pacers 3–0 in the opening round of the playoffs and had Cleveland next. The Cavs were a good team, and had us down 3–2 heading into Game 6. It wasn’t a memorable performance for me. I remember feeling a little off balance all night. My shot didn’t feel the way I wanted it to feel, and everything was a little out of sync. But Reggie Lewis hit some foul shots at the end, and we won to tie the series 3–3. I wasn’t thinking it was the last time I’d play in the Garden, because I truly believed we were going to beat Cleveland and come back home for the next round. But that didn’t happen. The Cavaliers beat us at their place, and then—boom!—all of a sudden the season was over, and so was my career with the Celtics.
I hadn’t told any of my teammates I was done, so there weren’t any hugs or handshakes or anything like that. I’m sure some guys suspected, but nobody said anything. I just grabbed the game ball, stuffed it in my bag, and went home.
The official announcement didn’t come for about another three months, because I had to play for the United States in the Olympics in Barcelona. When we decided it was time to let everyone know I was retiring, we called up everyone that morning and told them. I didn’t want it to get leaked out ahead of time and have people camping out in front of the house. Better to get it over with all at once. Dinah decided to go back to Indiana. There was something going on in French Lick, and I think she really didn’t want to be around to see it end. I remember she called me the night after the press conference and said she was getting her hair done at the beauty shop when the announcement came on over the radio. She said it got her all teary-eyed and everything. It was a big change for both of us. We had gone through all this pain and sweat, and now all of a sudden it was going to be over.
There were a lot of reporters at the press conference, even though we hadn’t given them much advance notice. They wanted to know how I had spent the previous night preparing for the announcement. I told them I sat in my house in Brookline by myself, and watched old tapes of myself and cried. But that was crap, of course. I don’t know why I said it. It just came out, and it sounded good. I remember I did sit home and I started thinking about it, and said to myself, “My God, this is really over. I’m really out of here.” Then I started thinking back to when I first got there, and how I went in and saw the house that I really liked, and how much fun we had in that house, and then I started going through in my mind everything that happened during those thirteen years. More than anything, I was so thankful to have played in one place my entire career. That’s something I believe is truly special, and I’m so glad it was with the Boston Celtics. I used to tell people, if you haven’t played for the Boston Celtics, you haven’t played professional basketball. I suppose that’s a little bit of bull too, but it felt that way to me. I never tried to imagine wearing another uniform, because I couldn’t have. I would have retired first.
Some of my friends think it’s too bad the fans didn’t know which one was my final game, because they didn’t get to say goodbye, but they did. The Celtics held a retirement night for me, and it was one of the greatest things I’ve ever experienced. It was Dave Gavitt’s idea. At first I didn’t want any part of it. The way the Celtics usually retire jerseys is at halftime of a game, but Dave said it would be almost impossible to get the ceremony done in such a short time, and it would be disruptive to the game. His idea was to sell tickets to a Larry Bird Night, and donate all the proceeds to charity. The way he envisioned it was to have me onstage, in uniform, and have various people who were important throughout my career come up and talk with me. He also wanted to fly in Magic Johnson from L.A. to be there, which I thought was a great idea, because the two of us were so closely connected throughout our careers. Dave thought Magic should be in his Lakers warm-ups, and I should be in my Celtics warm-ups. I fought him a little on that, but I finally gave in. Dave also thought I should take one last shot, but there was no way I’d agree to that. I told him, “Dave, I’ve already taken all the shots I’m going to take.”
Anyhow, once I said yes to this Larry Bird Night, I got concerned about it. Who would come? There wasn’t any game being played. But once it was announced, it sold out in a matter of minutes. Everyone got pretty excited about it. Mark Lev, who worked in the marketing department for Boston, came up with the idea of selling 1,033 limited edition Leroy Neiman prints, signed by both Neiman and me, for $1,033 each, with that money going to charity as well. (The additional 33 was for my uniform number.)
The night itself is one I’ll never forget. I still can’t get over all those people showing up, just to cheer for me. When they cheer for you in a game, you never know if it’s because of the play the whole team just made, or because they love the Celtics, or what. But that night, I really appreciated their applause. Bob Costas, who agreed to fly in and be the emcee at no charge, was great. Magic was his usual charming self. My mom made a rare appearance in Boston to attend, and my son, Conner, who was just a baby, helped me raise my number to the rafters.
We raised over $1 million for thirty-three different charities. We gave money to everyone from Celtics Wives Save Lives (to benefit breast cancer research) to Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children. It wasn’t easy choosing where the money should go, because there were so many worthy causes. I remember that at the time, Conner loved the show Barney, so I asked that we give something to the public television station that aired it. I wanted to make a donation to the Colonel Daniel Marr Boys and Girls Club, because I had seen for myself all the good they had done, and I wanted to make sure we gave a new van to a homeless shelter in town called Rosie’s Place. Some of the donations involved personal connections too. We gave money to an Alzheimer’s foundation named after M. L. Carr’s father, who died of the disease, as well as to the Red Auer-bach Youth Foundation. I also wanted New England Baptist Hospital, whose staff had taken care of me all those years, to receive a donation.
People ask me all the time if I regret playing through all that pain, and if I would do it over again, knowing what I know now. When I list all of the things that went wrong with my body, it sounds like I’m whining about my injuries, and I hate that. That’s why you didn’t hear me talking about them when I was playing. It was the last thing I wanted to talk about.
I will say this: I should have retired after my first back surgery. I wish I had. But the mentality of our team was to play through anything, to do whatever it takes, and most of us did that. Like when Kevin had that broken foot. We knew it was bad, and if he had decided he couldn’t play, we would have lived with it. We would have understood. But the truth is, we all knew Ke
vin wasn’t going to sit, because he knew we had a chance at a championship that season, and those chances don’t come too often. I’m sure McHale has some regrets. We lost to the Lakers in the Finals in 1987, and from what I understand, all these years later that foot still gives Kevin some trouble. You hate to hear that.
I think one of the problems with our league today is that guys will sit out more now if they’re injured because they don’t want to ruin their reputation of being a great player, and it’s hard to perform at your top level when you’re injured. The other thing is that guys whose contracts are up figure they stand to make a lot of money, so why push it if you don’t have to? Then there’s the agents. These young kids are letting other people make their decisions for them, and that’s too bad. A kid like Marcus Camby, he’s got all this talent, but he’s hurt so much it doesn’t matter. You feel like telling him that if he tries to play through some of the nagging injuries he might actually feel better. I played some of my best games when I had a muscle pull or I was sick. You come in that night figuring you can’t feel any worse, and when you finally get out there and run around a little bit, you tend to forget about what was bothering you.
One thing I’ve tried to understand as a coach, though, is that everyone handles pain differently. Some people know how to play through it. Others just can’t. You have to be realistic. I like to see guys play through twisted ankles, stuff like that. When it gets to more serious injuries, though, only you can decide how far you want to push yourself. My whole thing is, if you don’t think you can play, then don’t. And if you can, then go out there and do it, but don’t spend a whole lot of time talking about it. Nobody else knows your pain threshold but you. Sometimes I’d complain privately to Dan Dyrek and say, “Why isn’t this guy playing tonight? We could use him.” But Dan would always tell me, “Larry, you have an unbelievably high threshold of pain. You can’t expect other people to have that same threshold, because they don’t. It’s not fair to question how much people are willing or able to put themselves through. That’s just not fair.” I’ve tried to remember that in dealing with my own players.
So was all that suffering worth it? When you look around Boston Garden and see 15,000 people there, then it’s worth every minute. I loved looking around and seeing every seat filled. That’s a special feeling I’ll never forget.
There are some other things I would rather forget. A few years after I retired, I was in Boston with a friend of mine who was having back trouble, and I called up Dan Dyrek and asked him if he could take a look at him. Dan’s offices were in a new place, but even so, the minute I walked in there and started remembering all the pain I had gone through, I felt sick. Dan looked at me and said, “Larry, you look pale. Are you all right?” I took one look around and answered, “As long as I never have to come back here, I’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER 2
On the ’92 Olympics
I can’t think of a better way to end my career than to play for the United States in the 1992 Olympics. Ever since I was a little kid, I used to love it when the Olympics were on television. I really wish my father would have been around to see that gold medal put around my neck. I can remember way, way back, always watching the Olympics with my dad. They’d play that national anthem, and he’d perk right up. He fought in the Korean War, and he was really very proud of our country. He’d watch that flag go up, and he’d say, “God, that must be a great feeling.”
Then all those years later, there I am in Barcelona, getting my own gold medal. He would have loved to see that. So would Mom. She watched it all on television, but she didn’t come over to Barcelona with us.
It never occurred to me that I might get to be in the Olympics. Back before our 1992 team was chosen, and nicknamed the “Dream Team” because it was full of so many big NBA stars, the Olympic basketball team was always made up of college players. The problem was that the Olympics were only every four years, so if you were, say, a sophomore in college in an Olympic year, and you were coming on but were not quite the player you were going to be, chances are you’d miss out, because the Olympic committee was going to pick guys who were at the top right then and there, usually upperclassmen. So by the time the Olympics came around again, you’d be in the pros. That’s pretty much what happened to me. I went to Indiana during the 1974–75 season, but left school before the basketball season even began. The following season, 1975–76, was an Olympic year. By then I had transferred to Indiana State, but had to sit out a year before I was eligible to play. By the time the next Olympics came around in 1980, I was just finishing up my rookie year with the Celtics.
Like a lot of guys, including Magic Johnson, I figured the Olympics was something that just wasn’t going to happen for me. So in 1991 when I started hearing talk that they were considering adding pros to the competition, I didn’t pay much attention. I figured I was too old. By the time the Olympic team went to Barcelona, I would be thirty-five years old. Besides, my back was as bad as it had ever been.
At that time Dave Gavitt was the CEO of the Celtics, but he was also president of USA Basketball. He told me they had been quietly working for some time with the NBA to make the Olympic team available to professionals. Nobody was sure whether anyone would be interested, but Dave figured if he could convince the best players to commit to playing, then everyone else would follow suit. Dave was smart. He went after Magic first, because at that point Magic was “retired” because he was HIV-positive, but was still itching to play. Magic said yes right away. Then Dave came to me and told me Magic was playing and they wanted me on the team. My first reaction was, “No way.” I told Dave, “Look, I’m too old for that. It should be a chance for some younger guys.” But Dave wouldn’t let it drop. He told me I was being given a chance to play for the Olympics, for maybe the best team ever assembled in basketball history. Then he started talking to me about the team spirit, and the fellowship and patriotism and all that. In the meantime, once the word got out that I had this invitation, the phone started ringing.
It seemed like everybody I knew wanted me to go to the Olympics. They didn’t understand why I was hesitating. But the reason I was trying to get out of it was because I knew my back would be just awful, and I had been through enough pain. I just wanted to retire and forget all about basketball for a while. But all these people kept calling me and telling me I should do it. They all said the same thing to me: “You’ve worked your whole life to get to this point. You’ve earned this.” That might have been true, and I really did want to play, but under the circumstances I just didn’t feel I could do it.
There was another thing bothering me. I wanted to make sure they wanted me for the team because they felt I was still good enough, not because they wanted me in some kind of honorary role. I never wanted to take a spot that I didn’t earn. I looked Dave Gavitt in the eye and told him, “You better tell me the truth. Do you want me because I can still play, or do you want me because I’m Larry Bird?” He looked right back at me and said, “Larry, in international basketball they play zone defense. How many guys can pass and shoot the ball like you?” He made a pretty good point.
I thought about it some more, and decided I’d give it a try. Then Gavitt went to work on Michael Jordan. He told him he had me and Magic, and didn’t Michael want to be a part of history too? Next thing you know, Michael signed on. By then, everybody really started clamoring to play. Before long, Patrick Ewing, Karl Malone, John Stockton, Chris Mullin, David Robinson, Scottie Pippen, and Charles Barkley had agreed to be on the team. The good thing about it was they didn’t have any tryouts, because that could have gotten really ugly. The original plan was to have eight pros and four college players, but the response from the NBA guys was so overwhelming that the committee decided to pick ten pros and leave two spots open. The idea was that if one pro had a really unbelievable year, he’d be added, but if no guy emerged, they’d take two college players. In the end, the pro who had the great year turned out to be Clyde Drexler. He was put on the team alo
ng with Christian Laettner, the only college player, who had just finished up a great season at Duke. He beat out a big center from LSU, a kid by the name of Shaquille O’Neal, for the final spot, in part because his team had more success, and in part because he had put more time into playing international competition through USA Basketball.
Of course there was going to be some controversy over who didn’t make it, and the one guy most people were talking about was Isiah Thomas. I know he must have been hurt by it. Hell, Isiah was one of the top players in the league. He helped Detroit win two championships. He was one of those special players and, to be honest, I wondered myself why he wasn’t on the team. The problem with a selection process like that is a lot of guys are going to be left off. You always know somebody is going to be left unhappy.
For those of us who did make it, we all understood it was an honor. Even Michael, who had played on a gold medal Olympic team before, said how great it was to be part of the Dream Team. Our first training camp was in San Diego, and it was amazing to see all these players in one gym and on the same team. Right away, the atmosphere was loose. The first day, Magic was busting on everyone in sight, and that set the tone for the whole Olympic experience.
Magic liked to tease the other guys about all his rings. I never said anything about it. Magic did all the talking about the championships. One day me and Magic were shooting around at one basket and Patrick Ewing came over. Magic took one look at him and said, “Get out of here.” Patrick said, “What’s with you?” And Magic said to him, “You don’t belong at this basket.” Patrick is all confused, and he says, “Why not?” Magic says to him, “Hey, you haven’t won nothing!” So then he shouts over to Barkley, “Hey Charles, you might as well just stay over there too, ’cause you haven’t won anything either!” That’s Magic for you. So now he’s got everybody in the gym going. I’m getting all embarrassed about it, but Magic says, “Hey, if you’ve got championship rings, you can shoot at this basket. Let’s see. I’ve got five of them, and Larry’s got three. We’ve got eight championship rings over here. What do you guys have?” Next thing you know, Michael is coming over, and at that time he had won two titles. So Magic starts shouting, “Okay, then. Now we got ten rings.” He sees Scottie Pippen laughing, and he says, “Hey Scottie, you want to come over and shoot with us? Then we’ll have an even dozen. You don’t want to be over there with all those losers, do you?” We were all cracking up.