When the Game Was Ours - Larry Bird [82]
"The Celtics mystique definitely bothered us in 1984," said Worthy, "but by 1985 it was old news."
In Game 6, the Celtics shortened their rotation further. Riley instructed Magic, "Run them off the floor." Johnson pushed tempo and fed Kareem for 29 points, but also sprinkled in some key baskets of his own. He managed the game so thoroughly that it appeared as though he could score at any time but chose to only when absolutely necessary. Magic checked out with a triple-double—14 points, 14 assists, and 10 rebounds—and the Lakers posted a Career Best Effort against the team that had tormented their franchise for decades. They had done something no other team in history had accomplished: clinched an NBA championship on the Garden floor.
While Abdul-Jabbar fittingly was awarded the Finals MVP trophy, Riley grabbed his point guard and whispered in his ear, "We couldn't have won this without you."
"Magic's purpose was written all over his face in Game 6," Riley said. "It was, 'Atone for 1984.' It was life or death for him."
Bird scuffed his way through another poor shooting night (12 for 29), which left him shooting 44.9 percent for the series. As he headed to his locker room, Bird noted that the normally frenzied Celtics fans were silent, numb with shock. He felt the same way.
For Riley, whose career had been marred by a series of crushing losses to the Celtics, the championship was a dream fulfilled. For Jerry West, who watched from his living room in California, shouting instructions at his television set, it was payback—finally.
And for Earvin Johnson, who reversed his fortunes from Tragic back to Magic, it was redemption of the sweetest kind. He celebrated the win over the Celtics in the name of West and Chamberlain and Baylor and every other Lakers loyalist who had wondered if this day would ever come.
He gently corralled Kareem court-side, a far less demonstrative hug than when he leaped into his arms five years earlier as a rookie, yet far more heartfelt. This time the embrace truly meant something.
In the cluttered visitors' locker room, the Lakers gathered in a circle and chanted "LA! LA!" in unison. Their owner, Jerry Buss, accepted the championship trophy from David Stern and declared, "This has removed the most odious sentence in the Engl ish language. It can never again be said the Lakers have not beaten the Celtics."
After Riley proclaimed that "all the skeletons are cleared out of our closet," a subdued Magic admitted, "It's been a long, long wait for this moment."
Johnson's sense of relief was overwhelming. Since his performance in the Finals the previous season, he had carried a burden that weighed him down in ways he didn't realize—until he and the Lakers finally turned the tables on the Celtics. This time, as he let the cold water from the antiquated shower in Boston Garden pour over him, he reveled in the moment.
"I'll never forget this moment for the rest of my life," he told Michael Cooper.
During the long, regretful summer that followed, Celtics coach K. C. Jones dissected the game film for clues to how his team could have played Magic differently. There were instances when they should have shaded him left, or doubled him off the glass, but, Jones conceded, "I honestly don't know if it would have made any difference. Magic's mindset was just like Larry's, which was, 'I'll do whatever it takes.' He'd rebound, he'd take a charge, he'd dive for a loose ball.
"How many superstars do that? That's what separates Magic and Larry from the rest, and always will."
Shortly after the Lakers' championship parade, Riley took his wife Chris on vacation to the Bahamas. They were sitting on a sand dune in Nassau, sipping on some island cocktails, when Riley looked down the beach and saw a crowd forming. There were some shouts and excited chatter, and his curiosity got the best of him.
"I wonder if someone is drowning,"