When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [140]
"I wish we had been more informed. In retrospect, had we known what we know now, I wish nothing was said. But at that time, we were saying what a lot of other people were secretly thinking."
The pressure for Stern to ban Magic increased tenfold. The commissioner stood his ground and stressed in confidential meetings with his owners that if the NBA tried to ban Johnson, they would have a major lawsuit—and public relations disaster—on their hands. It would also force the league to implement mandatory HIV testing for all of its athletes, a concept the Players Association vehemently opposed.
"Are you completely sure that Magic is our only HIV-positive player?" Stern asked his owners. "Because I'm not."
His reasoning did little to quell the cries for Stern to turn Magic away. The commissioner stubbornly held his ground, telling owners, sponsors, players, and media the same thing: "We will not be railroaded."
Within a week of the controversial Times article, Johnson's fate was sealed. As he was driving to the basket in an exhibition game against the Cleveland Cavaliers in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Magic was scratched on the right arm. Under the new guidelines established by the league, game action was halted and Johnson's "wound" was attended to by trainer Gary Vitti.
Once they realized it was Magic who was cut, the crowd emitted a collective gasp. As Magic walked toward Vitti, the arena grew deathly silent.
Vitti understood what he was required to do. He needed to put on his rubber gloves and attend to the cut. But for weeks Magic's teammates had been secretly streaming into Vitti's office asking for reassurances that it was okay to play alongside Johnson. The trainer explained again and again that there was virtually no risk involved.
"That's what I was telling them," Vitti said. "Now here comes a little scratch, and I'm going to put on those gloves? To me, it was sending the wrong message."
The gloves were in his pocket. Vitti reached for them, then looked at the Laker players, who were monitoring his every move. He pulled his hand out of his pockets without the gloves and placed a Band-Aid on Magic with his bare hands.
Cleveland coach Lenny Wilkens thought the crowd's response seemed awfully dramatic for a little scratch. He looked up to the stands and realized that the fans were fixated on his players, wondering what they'd do next.
"I think they were waiting to see if we'd run off the floor," Wilkens said.
The coach scanned the expressions on the faces of his players as he waved them to the sideline. He recognized fear when he saw it. Wilkens was a longtime NBA alumnus, a Hall of Fame player for 15 seasons, and a Hall of Fame coach for another 32. He had not forgotten what Magic Johnson had done to revitalize the league during one of its most dismal periods. Wilkens admired his skill and, in the wake of his diagnosis, his courage.
As the Cavaliers huddled together, it was apparent that some players were unfazed by Magic's "injury," while others were genuinely unglued.
"I don't know about this," said one of the Cavalier starters.
"I want to go home to my family without worrying about whether I'm going to pass on some infection. Let's stop this thing," said another.
"Guys, you have to calm down," Wilkens said. "You are not in danger. It's only a scratch. Now let's get back to work."
Danny Ferry was in the Cleveland huddle. He had already guarded Magic in the game and was ready to resume playing. Yet he understood why some of his teammates were hesitant.
"The NBA tried to educate us, but to be honest, it was an uphill battle," Ferry said. "They told us we were more likely to be run over by a car than contract HIV, but some of the guys in that huddle just couldn't wrap their minds around that."
As Wilkens coaxed his team back onto the floor, he glanced over at Magic Johnson. His face was steeped in disappointment. There would be no more high-fives that day, no joyous behind-the-back passes, no playful gestures to the crowd. The look of devastation on his face was unmistakable.