When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [16]
The Spartans ran into the Sycamores one more time in the hallway as they departed. A handful of the ISU players chanted and sang the team's fight song as they passed.
"I'm not sure what they were trying to do," said Michigan State forward Greg Kelser, "but it was awful disrespectful."
As the Spartans filed onto the bus to return to the team hotel, the talk again turned to Indiana State's curious choice of attire.
"It just doesn't fit," Magic said to Kelser. "I didn't know they were cowboys. You just don't see that kind of thing in college.
"Just what are those country guys trying to pull?"
***
The 1979 NCAA championship game between Michigan State and Indiana State drew a 24.1 Nielsen rating, the highest in college basketball history, a noteworthy milestone that remained untouched three decades later.
It was the matchup every college basketball fan longed to see, not because the two schools had demonstrated a long history of success or a simmering, adversarial rivalry, but because of a more singular concept: Magic versus Bird, two prolific stars who led their teams with the perfect blend of superb passing, nerveless shooting, and, above all, a steely ability to withstand the mounting pressure that dogged each of them as their résumés swelled with success.
Their paths to the championship game in Salt Lake had not been nearly as smooth as their stellar records would indicate. Indiana State's unblemished 33–0 mark suggested a perfect season, yet it did not reflect the volatility that swirled around Bird, a demanding young player who would not tolerate anyone who failed to consistently submit the proper effort. It was of little consequence to Bird whether he was popular with his teammates. What he wanted—expected—from them was to match his intensity, and that was often a tall order.
"Larry would fight you," said Nicks. "He wouldn't back down. If he didn't like what you were doing, he was in your face, telling you."
Indiana State forward Leroy Staley learned that firsthand in preseason when he committed some sloppy turnovers and Bird began chiding him to pick up his game. Staley took out his frustration on seldom-used backup point guard Rod McNelly, cornering him as he brought the ball up the floor and kneeing him as he swiped at the ball.
As McNeely crumpled to the ground, Bird charged Staley, fists curled.
"Leroy was frustrated, I think," Nicks said. "He wasn't playing well, and he got too rough. But Larry wasn't going to let him get away with a cheap shot like that."
"I really don't know what happened," Staley said. "Larry was having a bad day. Next thing I know, he was swinging at me."
The two were eventually separated, but not before three Sycamores hauled Bird away.
Nobody approached Bird after the altercation; they understood it was wise to let their volatile leader cool off on his own. Coach Bill Hodges called Bird and Staley in to clear the air, and both players agreed to move forward. When Larry returned, he was unapologetic and as steely-eyed as ever.
"We had a lot of skirmishes that year," Nicks said. "Every day in our practice was a dogfight."
Bird's mantra was simple: play the game the right way or stay away. In his mind, the previous season had been squandered by a lack of discipline, and he wasn't going to allow that to happen again.
"Leroy Staley is a great guy," Bird said. "He was also a good player and a good teammate who helped us a great deal. But you needed to stay on him, and he wasn't the only one.
"I didn't mind doing it. Those guys were intimidated by me. It was my job as the leader of the team to keep their intensity level up, even in practice. I knew that was the only way we could win a championship."
Bird was keenly aware of the inordinate publicity he received and stopped talking to the press in hopes that the media would promote other Sycamore players. Even so, he still had to contend with the perceived slights of his teammates, who grew tired of it all being about number 33.
"There