I can’t sit here as a black man and say that Larry Bird’s color didn’t matter to me. I’d be lying. So would any other black person who had a passion for basketball while he was playing. But Bird’s white skin did not drop 45 points on Phoenix in his rookie season. His white skin also didn’t get him 60 in New Orleans against Atlanta in ’85 or let him light up Chuck Person in the ’90 playoffs. Larry Bird did not have more than 50 40-point games and 69 triple-doubles, three championships and three MVP’s or steal the ball against Detroit in Game Five of the ’87 playoffs because he was white. He did not average 24.3 ppg, 10.0 rpg, and 6.3 apg over his 13 seasons despite a debilitating back condition because he was white neither. Fuck that. It was because the people he embarrassed were black that pissed us off.
The only advantage Larry Bird’s skin gives him the game of basketball is a much better chance of owning an NBA team when he decides he wants one. That’s it. The truth is that, more than we didn’t want Larry Bird to be white, brothas wanted Larry Bird to be black.
Isiah Thomas was wrong in ’87 when he said, “If Larry Bird were black, he’d be considered just another good ballplayer.” If Larry Bird were black, he’d have been Magic Johnson. At 6-9 (6-10 on some days), Bird was everything Magic wasn’t, yet they were still one and the same. To bring Magic into this Larry Bird story is probably wrong, because the same wouldn’t be done if the situation were flipped. But it is necessary. Not only because of the duality they built on the court (owning the 80’s with eight championships between them), but also because of the friendship that was not just created by some network.
It was Bird who openly discussed his father’s death when Magic announced his illness, and it was Magic putting on a Celtics T-shirt at Larry’s retirement that made Bird smile the most. The fact that they were both 6-9 had just as much to do with their dominance and comparisons as did the color of their skin and the regions in which they played. Who was better? Who cares. What one couldn’t do, the other one could…and could do well.
As Magic said, “[Bird] is the smartest player I ever played against. I always loved competing against him, because he brought out the best in me. He was the only player that I truly feared.”
Size matters with Bird, because no one his size was supposed to be able to do what he did. Just like Magic. Bird had more coordination than any 6-5 ballplayer ever. Jerry West could do most of what Larry Bird did, but he wasn’t 6-9. Pete Maravich could do almost everything Bird could do, but… The fact that Bird gave height to this “theory” is often overlooked in discussing his game. It mattered because it took him from being great to being the greatest. From being the best to being the best ever.
You will never see another basketball player like Larry Bird. Never. Ever. Not with his ability, not with his size. This is what separates Bird from Magic and even Jordan. In the future, there may be another Magic, another Jordan, but there will never be another Larry Bird.
The ’87 NBA Draft was big for me. Massive. Len Bias was about to turn out the NBA, and I didn’t care who got him–I was ready to have his jersey specially made right after his name was called. “And with the second pick in the 1987 NBA draft, the Boston Celtics choose…” My heart dropped. After hours of mental stress and three bottles of Maalox, I went to Athletic Attic to place my order. I took a hard swallow before I spoke. “Could I please have a Bos-s-s-t-on C-el-t-t-t-ic jersey with #30 and the name ‘Bias’ on the back?”
“We’re out of jerseys…” (Whew.) “…but we do have the t-shirts.”
Damn. On my subway ride home, I kept my jacket zipped up past my neck. Brotha was so hemmed-up he couldn’t breathe, you know. I would get stomped if anyone around the way saw me—or anybody—in Celtics gear. We used to call it “riot gear,” because anyone flaunting Boston paraphernalia would essentially and eventually get rushed. I heard my mother scream when I walked in the dining room. “What the hell is that Celtic shirt doing in my house?!?” I explained the Len Bias factor and that it wasn’t about the Celtics, it was all about Lenny. She wasn’t trying to hear it, but she let it go.
A few days later, Lenny passed away. His not being there disallowed me to become a closet Celtic fan. I know in my heart that if Bias had lived, the Celtics might have gone 82-0 that year, or at least have been the first team to maybe win, what, 75 games. I kept the shirt in a special drawer in my bedroom. I only got to wear it twice. I still have it. [Editor’s Note: He does. I’ve seen it.]
I knew this Larry Bird story was serious when I opened my mail on April 4th. For the four years I’ve been at this magazine, I have never been given anything with which to enhance any story I’ve ever done.
Inside the white FedEx box was a book. BIRD: Portrait of a Competitor. Adjoining the book was a note from Anna Gebbie, who’d assigned me the story to begin with: “Enjoy. Peace, Anna.” Enough said.
I’ll say this once and only once: Larry Bird played basketball so well, sometimes he made my dick hard. He was as good as that girl Richard Pryor used to talk about was fine. He was one of the few people put on this earth to do something who discovered what it was he was meant to do. In the words of b-ball legend Billy Harris, referring to himself: “God didn’t make many like me.” That applies directly to Larry Bird.
It seemed like the rims never got tight on Larry Bird. His shooting range, work ethic and demeanor allowed him the privilege of elitism in this so-called black man’s game. I’ve gone through my life “privileged” to have several Larry Bird experiences. This story is just another one. God didn’t make many like Larry Joe Bird, I know this.
