When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [52]
"If you walked into Madison Square Garden, a mecca of basketball, and said, 'What do you think of Larry Bird's game?' the answer is going to be, 'He's a great player because he can do so much.' And that has nothing to do with the color of his skin."
For black athletes in the city of Boston, it was often difficult—sometimes impossible—to be colorblind. Former Celtic M. L. Carr said the residual effects of Judge W. Arthur Garrity's decision in June 1974 to integrate the Boston public schools by implementing forced busing were still palpable when he arrived in the city in 1979 as a free agent.
Garrity's decree polarized the city's communities and ignited spasms of violence. During the height of the tension, police arrived at Boston public schools each morning to help load and unload students, snipers were dispersed on rooftops poised to strike down potential threats, and metal detectors were installed in school hallways.
The lasting image of the racial unrest was captured by Boston Herald photographer Stanley Forman on April 5, 1976. Black attorney Theodore Landsmark was on his way to City Hall when he came across anti-busing protesters. A Charlestown youth speared Landsmark with the point of an American flag, and the photo, which appeared across the nation, became a shameful symbol of Boston's turbulent racial history.
Carr remembers the picture well. He signed with the Spirits of St. Louis, an ABA franchise, a few months after the incident, and the racial attack was a recurring topic of discussion in the dressing room. "The guys all said the same thing," he said. "There's no way we'd ever play in Boston."
Carr was more open-minded. He was impressed by general manager Red Auerbach's recruiting pitch and comforted by Auerbach's own résumé, which included assembling the first all-black starting five in NBA history and appointing the league's first African American coach.
When he signed with the Celtics in 1979, Carr settled into the tony suburb of Weston in a beautiful home with a spacious fireplace. Teammate Dave Cowens ordered him a cord of wood and had it delivered to Carr's house. The following day, he had a visit from the local authorities.
"Mr. Carr," the policeman said, "we've got a problem."
"What is that?" Carr asked.
"See that wood you have out there? Some of your neighbors say it looks an awful lot like the wood they had delivered to their house."
"Oh, really," Carr said. "Which neighbors would those be?"
The policeman declined to identify the accusers.
"Are you sure that's your wood?" the officer asked.
"Are you sure you want to ask me that again?" Carr replied.
Robert Parish, born and raised in Louisiana, was strolling through the North End of Boston one night and was stopped and searched by police without provocation. The next time he frequented the popular Italian section of the city, it happened again. After that, he found another part of town to have his supper.
It was far more challenging to find a highway where Parish would not be pulled over in his luxury vehicle. On half a dozen occasions, he was stopped by police for no apparent reason.
"I wasn't speeding, I wasn't swerving, I was just driving," Parish said. "And when I asked them why they pulled me over, I got the same answer every time: there were reports of 'suspicious activity' in the area. I guess that's code for: 'There's a black guy driving a nice car down the highway.'"
K. C. Jones, an avid golfer, tried to join a local country club but was told the wait was several months. Two weeks later, he bumped into a mutual friend who had applied and been accepted in a matter of days.
"The only difference between the two of us was he was white and I wasn't," said Jones.
Jones lived in the wealthy town of Wellesley in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Many of the neighbors were cordial but distant. He didn't discover until he had lived there a few months that