When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [80]
He had pushed his Lakers team to the brink, from the no-lay-up rule to the Career Best Effort campaign to hours and hours of film on the Celtics and their tendencies.
And the best his center could do in response was 12 points and 3 rebounds? Magic had scored 19 points with 12 assists, but he had come away with only 1 rebound, thereby limiting the Lakers' transition chances.
"You call yourself a fucking Hall of Famer?" Riley challenged Ka-reem afterward. "That guy kicked your ass. Parish embarrassed the hell out of you. Look at this pathetic stat line. Three rebounds? Three rebounds for a Hall of Famer?"
"And you," he said, turning to Magic. "You're supposed to be one of the best players in this league. You got dominated today. Fucking dominated. One rebound? You think that's going to get it done against this team, against your boy Larry?
"Where's the fucking leadership? This is supposed to be your team!"
Riley then turned his wrath toward Worthy, who had missed 11 of his 19 shots, but by then Magic had stopped listening. He was still smarting from his coach's assault on his game.
"He got me with the leadership thing," Johnson said. "That hurt. But I didn't say anything. When Pat got into his little zone, if you knew what was good for you, then you just sat there and took it."
As his coach railed on about their lack of concentration and professionalism and heart, Magic started recalling their final practice before Game 1. The Lakers had been loose, confident. They played H-O-R-S-E, took wild shots from half-court, had a few laughs. In retrospect, they had lacked the proper focus and purpose.
"We paid the price for that," Magic said.
The next morning, humiliated by his poor showing and portrayed in the Boston papers as an old man whose time had passed, the 38-year-old Abdul-Jabbar vacated his customary seat in the back row of Riley's film sessions and sat in the front.
Riley treated his players to a three-hour horror film. The Lakers relived their Game 1 mistakes in slow motion with profane prose accompanying each error. As they watched Wedman sink shot after shot, their coach became enraged all over again. "Who the fuck is Scott Wedman?" Riley screamed. "This guy can only shoot when he's open. And we left him open all damn night!"
Kareem apologized for his play and promised a different outcome in Game 2. As the Lakers walked out to the practice floor, Ri-ley announced, "Today there will be no fouls. I don't want to hear shit in this gym. I better not hear any complaining. You got me?"
Silence.
The practice was a free-for-all. The forwards knocked each other to the floor. Cooper manhandled Magic, holding him and bumping him and chopping his arms. "That's a foul," Magic moaned. "Get off me."
"Quit crying," Cooper snapped. "I'm doing exactly what D.J. is going to do to you tomorrow night."
When Riley finally ended the workout, the players dropped the balls, walked to the bus without speaking, then scattered to their hotel rooms. It was the first time Magic could remember not making plans for supper with Cooper and Byron Scott. The trio had become inseparable, dubbing themselves "the Three Musketeers," yet on this night the swashbucklers had gone solo.
Magic padded around his hotel room. One hour passed, then another. Finally, he placed two phone calls. "Coop, Byron," he said. "We can't do this. Let's grab something to eat."
They spent a solemn evening analyzing Riley's criticisms. The coach didn't care if they united against him as long as they were united, yet his biting words had troubled Magic. Riley was no longer a hesitant assistant thrust into the driver's seat. He was in charge, demanding accountability, and Magic knew he needed to deliver.
In a quiet moment before Game 2, Riley pulled Johnson aside. "You need to control the tempo of this game," he said. "It's paramount that we establish early that we've