When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [115]
AZT was not a perfect antidote. Its side effects included nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, anemia, and, in some cases, evidence of severe muscle atrophy. In subsequent years, other, less toxic drugs would prove to be a far better course of treatment. But in 1991 it was AZT or nothing.
Dr. Ho explained to Magic that he needed to alter his diet, get plenty of rest, and limit his physical activity. Although there was no hard evidence that playing basketball would compromise his health, there was also no blueprint to chart how a full, rigorous NBA season would affect an HIV-positive patient. Magic, as far as Ho knew, was the first.
Although he was aware that his career was in jeopardy from the moment Mellman handed him the manila envelope with the results of his blood test, Magic couldn't completely grasp why he shouldn't play. He had plenty of energy and no discernible symptoms. The disease was baffling to him. If it was so deadly, why did he feel so alive?
While he awaited the results of his new round of tests, he dabbled at the side baskets in practice, shooting lightly while the Lakers went through their regular daily routine. At least twice, he contemplated jumping into the scrimmages before he retreated to the sidelines again.
It was unlike Johnson to miss so much time. He put a premium on the team's workout sessions, attacking them with the same enthusiasm that he would a playoff game against the Celtics. Byron Scott couldn't understand what was taking Magic so long. His friend didn't look ill, although he did show up one day with a small wrap on his arm, an indication that someone had drawn blood. When Scott noticed the bandage, he couldn't resist a jab at his expense.
"Hey, Buck, is your arm too sore to shoot?" Scott said jovially. "Since when are you too sick to play?"
"I've got to wait until the doctors clear me," Magic curtly replied.
The exchange left Scott suspicious and Magic uneasy. Johnson was uncomfortable with deceiving his friends. He wanted to tell Scott that he was sick, and frightened, but he remained silent.
By the morning of November 7, that no longer was possible. Dunleavy, his face ashen, interrupted practice and told his players to listen carefully to instructions from Vitti. Choking back sobs, Vitti told them to walk directly to their cars and drive straight to the Forum. They were not to speak with anyone. Those who didn't comply would be fined $20,000.
"Hurry," Vitti said.
It was too late. The story had leaked. Several media outlets breathlessly—and erroneously—reported that Magic Johnson had AIDS. As he drove to the Forum, Worthy turned on the radio and heard that horrifying, albeit inaccurate, information.
"I almost went off the road," said Worthy. "I was in such a daze, I don't even remember how I got there."
Magic mistakenly tuned into the urgent news of his demise on his car radio. Although he had been living with the diagnosis for nearly two weeks, it was jarring to hear it broadcast publicly. His private life was about to be dissected and analyzed and scrutinized. When the man who had captivated the NBA with his infectious smile walked into the Lakers dressing room—his sanctuary—all he could muster was a feeble wave.
"Hey, fellas," he said, his voice cracking.
As he stood before his teammates, who were overcome with emotion, Magic broke down. The Lakers were his family, his livelihood, the center of his world. And quite abruptly, that world had collapsed. He explained the diagnosis and the course of treatment. He told them how truly sorry he was for letting them down. And then he grieved with them, abandoning his original intent of maintaining a stoic resolve.
Johnson walked around the locker room hugging each Laker individually. More than one of them stiffened as he approached. He whispered something private in each of their ears, and when he came to Scott, his most trusted friend on the team, he squeezed him extra