When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [31]
Had Lakers captain and perennial All-Star Kareem Abdul-Jabbar been on board, he would have assumed his customary spot on the bulkhead aisle. But Abdul-Jabbar was back in Los Angeles nursing a badly sprained ankle, and the timing of the injury couldn't have been worse. The Lakers were playing the Philadelphia 76ers in the 1980 NBA Finals, and as they headed east for Game 6, they were forced to depart without Kareem, the epicenter of the Lakers offense, a towering combination of skill and finesse with a trademark skyhook that was one of the most effective weapons in the league.
The notion of playing without Abdul-Jabbar at the most critical point of the season, with LA ahead 3–2 in games and on the cusp of winning it all, was momentarily paralyzing.
Lakers coach Paul Westhead announced in practice he would plug Kareem's hole with Earvin "Magic" Johnson, the precocious rookie who had skipped into training camp as the number-one pick in the 1979 draft. Westhead's strategy puzzled some of his veterans. Magic was a point guard accustomed to running the show. Now, it appeared, he would be the show.
"I wasn't sure what Westhead's intent was," confessed veteran Jamaal Wilkes. "I guess he was saying, 'We just lost our best player, but we have this young, charismatic phenom who is going to make it all right.'"
If there was any question whether that young phenom was up to the task, Magic eliminated all doubt when he boldly walked past his more seasoned teammates and settled in Kareem's premium seat for the flight to Philadelphia. As the 20-year-old turned around, he flashed his pearly whites and declared, "Never fear. E.J. is here!"
Magic could see the players' spirits were flagging, but felt with the smaller, quicker lineup the Lakers could strike with their transition game. It was a huge mistake, he believed, to write off Game 6 and pin their hopes all on Game 7, when Abdul-Jabbar might or might not be back.
"Okay, fellas, you know what?" Magic said. "We're looking at a wide-open game here. This might be all right. Let's put our track shoes on and run these guys out of the building."
Johnson pulled big man Jim Chones aside and asked him how he should defend Caldwell Jones, who, at 6 feet, 11 inches, would enjoy a height advantage. Chones reminded Magic that Jones was not a threat from the perimeter but an exceptional rebounder who needed to be boxed out completely.
"One more thing," Chones cautioned. "Caldwell likes to come over from the weak side to block shots. Be aware of it, or he'll make you look bad."
On game day in Philadelphia, the rookie breezed through the locker room selling LA's potentially catastrophic hole in their lineup without Kareem as an opportunity, an adventure.
"Hey, Norm," he said to veteran guard Norm Nixon. "We're so worried about how we're going to stop them. Well, who is going to guard us?"
Michael Cooper watched Magic working the room like a nightclub singer in a cocktail lounge. Professional athletes generally become jaded as the years pass, scoffing at the rallying cries of youngsters who have just exited the college ranks and still believe in pompoms and fight songs. As Johnson stopped at each locker preaching his gospel of optimism, Cooper mused, "He's giving his own pep rally."
The rally was successful because Magic's energy was contagious. Wilkes, often a facilitator for Kareem, started envisioning himself slashing to the hole. Nixon perked up at the idea of more shots. Chones volunteered to hound the massive Darryl Dawkins, a force in the middle whose self-proclaimed nickname, Chocolate Thunder, indicated the power with which he played the game.
"We went from thinking we couldn't win to talking like we would win," Cooper said.
On the night of Game 6 of the 1980 NBA Finals, Celtics forward Larry Bird sat with a small group of friends in a Boston club awaiting the Lakers-Sixers showdown. The elimination of his Celtics team by Philadelphia in