When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [117]
When Pat Riley was informed that Johnson had tested HIV-positive, he immediately felt ill. Riley was a pragmatic, solutions-oriented person, but as he sat in his office with his stomach churning, he couldn't think of a single way to fix this.
"I'm not coaching tonight," he told Rosen through his tears.
Rosen explained that Magic wanted—needed—the people he loved to carry on as usual. "If you don't," Rosen explained, "he'll think he's dying."
Riley agreed to coach that evening, but moments before the Knicks and Magic tipped off another otherwise meaningless regular season game, Riley asked the 19,763 fans in attendance to join him in a moment of silence. Then, through choked pauses, he read the Lord's Prayer.
As word of Magic's condition spread, Bird's phone began ringing incessantly. After an hour, he finally thought to take it off the hook. The world wanted to hear from Magic's most ardent competitor, but number 33 was in no mood to share his feelings.
"I didn't want to talk to anyone," Bird said.
Twenty-four hours later, on November 8, the Celtics hosted the Atlanta Hawks at Boston Garden. Bird engaged in his usual pregame routine—stretches to loosen his back, laps in the corridors of the stands, jump shots from eight different spots on the floor—but he slogged through the motions without his trademark intensity.
"For the first time in my life," Bird said, "I didn't feel like playing."
The Hawks notched a rare 100–95 win at the Garden. Bird scored 17 points with 9 rebounds and 6 assists in 40 minutes of playing time, but he turned the ball over 4 times and was clearly laboring.
"Everything that went on that night was foggy," Bird said. "I played, but I didn't play. Everybody wanted to talk to me about it. The only guy I wanted to talk to was Magic, and I had to wait. I figured he had an awful lot on his plate."
Johnson was inundated with letters, phone calls, telegrams, and flowers. Some wished him well; others chided him for the choices he'd made that put his wife and unborn baby in jeopardy. For every fruit basket and inspirational message there were insults and blackmail attempts.
Magic lived in a gated community, so reporters and gawking fans were temporarily kept at bay, yet the tabloids remained undeterred. Johnson changed his unlisted phone number, but within 48 hours the National Enquirer was already dialing the new number. Reporters rifled through the trash in Rosen's yard, searching for clues to his client's personal life.
Magic and Cookie flew to Maui with some friends to a private home overlooking the ocean. They were having dinner, with the French doors open, when they heard a rustling noise outside. Their friend Michael Stennis went out to investigate: a photographer sprang from behind the shrub and sprinted off—but not before he snapped one final shot.
"It seemed like every bush we walked by had a lens sticking out of it," Magic said. "Cookie was upset about it. But I wouldn't let it stop us. I told her, 'Let's live our lives.'"
Johnson's approach to his illness was proactive. He couldn't change the diagnosis, so he set about changing the way HIV-positive patients were viewed. The day after his announcement Magic went on The Arsenio Hall Show and received a prolonged standing ovation when he walked onto the set. When he assured the live audience that he wasn't a homosexual, they burst into applause again. Gay activists across the country cringed. Johnson's diagnosis had given them hope that the public might finally recognize the AIDS epidemic that was sweeping the world. Magic had enough star power to make a difference, but not if he planned on presenting himself as an isolated case. When Johnson received a barrage of feedback from the AIDS community after his appearance with Arsenio, he pledged to embrace the plight of homosexuals with AIDS rather than separate himself from them.
"The gay community misunderstood what happened there," Magic said. "I wasn't putting down gays. I was asked a question, and I answered it. I told them, 'Don't be upset