When the Game Was Ours (35 page)

Johnson walked around the locker room hugging each Laker individually. More than one of them stiffened as he approached. He whispered something private in each of their ears, and when he came to Scott, his most trusted friend on the team, he squeezed him extra tightly and whispered, "Don't worry, B, I'll be all right. I'm going to beat this."

"I know, Earv," Scott responded. "If anyone can beat it, it's you."

"I said that, but I didn't believe it," Scott admitted. "From what little I knew about the disease, Magic had been given a death sentence."

One hour later, dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, crisp white shirt, and an "optimistic" multicolored tie with bright hues, Magic walked up to the same podium where he had accepted his MVP trophy a year and a half earlier. Flanked by Commissioner Stern, Dr. Mellman, Lon Rosen, Jerry West, Jerry Buss, Kareem, Rambis, and Cookie, the NBA's ambassador swallowed hard and told himself, "Remember. Hold it together."

Moments before, Rosen had quickly reviewed what Magic should say. "I'm just going to tell them," Johnson said. "I'm going to tell them I have AIDS."

"But, Earvin," Rosen said, "you don't have AIDS. You have the virus that causes AIDS. Make sure you make that clear. There's a big difference between the two."

Though the press conference was overflowing with reporters, friends, teammates, and Lakers officials, an eerie silence permeated
the room. It had the feeling, Buss noted later, of a funeral procession.

"Good afternoon," Johnson said. "Because of the HIV virus that I have obtained, I will have to retire from the Lakers today. I just want to make clear, first of all, that I do not have the AIDS disease. I know a lot of you want to know that. I have the HIV virus. My wife is fine. She's negative, so no problem with her.

"I plan on living for a long time, bugging you guys like I always have. So you'll see me around."

Johnson outlined his plans to be an HIV spokesman. He preached the need to practice safe sex. He was somber but composed. West, his eyes bloodshot from a morning of grieving, marveled at Johnson's ability to contain his emotions.

"Sometimes we think only gay people can get [AIDS], or 'It's not going to happen to me,'" Magic told the rapt audience. "Here I am, saying it can happen to everybody. Even me—Magic Johnson."

The point guard who had come to define the Lakers—and the NBA—stood facing his audience. West's shoulders heaved. Buss teetered forward, his knees buckling. The only reason the Lakers owner didn't collapse was that an alert Abdul-Jabbar grabbed Buss and pulled him upright before he toppled over.

Back in Lansing, Michigan, Christine Johnson summoned her children to the Middle Street home where young Earvin was raised. She asked them to join hands and bow their heads, then told them their brother had been diagnosed with HIV. The Johnson family knelt down in their cramped family room and cried and prayed together. Christine informed her family that she had hired grief counselors to talk with each of them. She warned them that the world of Magic Johnson was about to change. There would be supporters, but there would also be detractors and a hungry horde of media people trying to advance the story.

"We are a family. We will stick together," she advised her children.

"If any of these people say anything, I'm going to crack them upside their heads," said Magic's big brother Larry, his voice quaking.

Most of Magic's friends learned of his condition from his live press conference broadcast on CNN. All of them remember exactly where they were the moment they discovered Magic was HIV-positive.

Mychal Thompson was playing professional basketball in Caserta, Italy, and working on his post moves when former Seton Hall star Anthony Avent grabbed Thompson by the sleeve and misinformed him that Johnson had AIDS and would likely be dead within a year.

"Even my Italian teammates understood the magnitude of that news," Thompson said. "We were devastated."

Former Michigan State star Greg Kelser was in a hotel room in Denver preparing for a broadcast between the Nuggets and the Minnesota Timberwolves for Prime Sports Network when his wife called him and told him to turn on the television. "I was stunned," Kelser said. "It was my first broadcast, and I had been preparing for days, but when we went on the air, all I could talk about was Magic."

When Pat Riley was informed that Johnson had tested HIV-positive, he immediately felt ill. Riley was a pragmatic, solutions-oriented person, but as he sat in his office with his stomach churning, he couldn't think of a single way to fix this.

"I'm not coaching tonight," he told Rosen through his tears.

Rosen explained that Magic wanted—
needed
—the people he loved to carry on as usual. "If you don't," Rosen explained, "he'll think he's dying."

Riley agreed to coach that evening, but moments before the Knicks and Magic tipped off another otherwise meaningless regular season game, Riley asked the 19,763 fans in attendance to join him in a moment of silence. Then, through choked pauses, he read the Lord's Prayer.

As word of Magic's condition spread, Bird's phone began ringing incessantly. After an hour, he finally thought to take it off the hook. The world wanted to hear from Magic's most ardent competitor, but number 33 was in no mood to share his feelings.

"I didn't want to talk to anyone," Bird said.

Twenty-four hours later, on November 8, the Celtics hosted the Atlanta Hawks at Boston Garden. Bird engaged in his usual pregame routine—stretches to loosen his back, laps in the corridors of the stands, jump shots from eight different spots on the floor—but he slogged through the motions without his trademark intensity.

"For the first time in my life," Bird said, "I didn't feel like playing."

The Hawks notched a rare 100–95 win at the Garden. Bird scored 17 points with 9 rebounds and 6 assists in 40 minutes of playing time, but he turned the ball over 4 times and was clearly laboring.

"Everything that went on that night was foggy," Bird said. "I played, but I didn't play. Everybody wanted to talk to me about it. The only guy I wanted to talk to was Magic, and I had to wait. I figured he had an awful lot on his plate."

Johnson was inundated with letters, phone calls, telegrams, and flowers. Some wished him well; others chided him for the choices he'd made that put his wife and unborn baby in jeopardy. For every fruit basket and inspirational message there were insults and blackmail attempts.

Magic lived in a gated community, so reporters and gawking fans were temporarily kept at bay, yet the tabloids remained undeterred. Johnson changed his unlisted phone number, but within 48 hours the
National Enquirer
was already dialing the new number. Reporters rifled through the trash in Rosen's yard, searching for clues to his client's personal life.

Magic and Cookie flew to Maui with some friends to a private home overlooking the ocean. They were having dinner, with the French doors open, when they heard a rustling noise outside. Their friend Michael Stennis went out to investigate: a photographer sprang from behind the shrub and sprinted off—but not before he snapped one final shot.

"It seemed like every bush we walked by had a lens sticking out of it," Magic said. "Cookie was upset about it. But I wouldn't let it stop us. I told her, 'Let's live our lives.'"

Johnson's approach to his illness was proactive. He couldn't
change the diagnosis, so he set about changing the way HIV-positive patients were viewed. The day after his announcement Magic went on
The Arsenio Hall Show
and received a prolonged standing ovation when he walked onto the set. When he assured the live audience that he wasn't a homosexual, they burst into applause again. Gay activists across the country cringed. Johnson's diagnosis had given them hope that the public might finally recognize the AIDS epidemic that was sweeping the world. Magic had enough star power to make a difference, but not if he planned on presenting himself as an isolated case. When Johnson received a barrage of feedback from the AIDS community after his appearance with Arsenio, he pledged to embrace the plight of homosexuals with AIDS rather than separate himself from them.

"The gay community misunderstood what happened there," Magic said. "I wasn't putting down gays. I was asked a question, and I answered it. I told them, 'Don't be upset with me. I'm trying to help gays—and everyone else with HIV—by promoting research, getting tested, and finding a cure.'"

His message that heterosexuals were at risk for HIV infection was carefully monitored in one segment of the population: the NBA, where many athletes besides Johnson feared that their sexual encounters had left them at risk.

"Right after we found out about Magic, a bunch of us ran out and got tested too," Worthy said. "It was one of the most traumatic things I've ever been through."

Almost immediately there were whispers and innuendo about Magic's sexuality. Rumors persisted that he had engaged in a relationship with a man, or in a three-way encounter with a man and a woman. Magic felt confident that his friends would dismiss these falsehoods for him, but then was distraught to learn from Rosen and other NBA friends that Isiah Thomas had called asking curious questions. According to Rosen, Thomas told him, "I keep hearing Magic is gay."

"C'mon, Isiah, you know Earvin better than anyone," Rosen responded.

"I know, but I don't know what he's doing when he's out there in LA."

"Isiah kept questioning people about it," Magic said. "I couldn't believe that. Everyone else—Byron, Arsenio, Michael, Larry—they were all supporting me. And the one guy I thought I could count on had all these doubts. It was like he kicked me in the stomach."

"Of all the things that happened, I think that hurt Earvin the most," Cookie said. "But we had no choice but to move on from people like that. Whenever something like that happened, I reminded him, 'They just don't get it.'"

Johnson needed some guidance to navigate his way through this monumental personal crisis. Lon Rosen contacted Elizabeth Glaser, an AIDS activist who contracted the virus from a tainted blood transfusion following the birth of her daughter Ariel, and she was happy to provide it.

Glaser, whose husband, Paul Michael Glaser, was the star of the popular television series
Starsky and Hutch,
unknowingly passed the disease on to her daughter and son Jake. After Ariel died at the age of seven, Glaser helped found the Pediatric AIDS Foundation and became a tireless advocate for the rights of infected patients.

"I didn't know anyone with AIDS," Magic said. "She helped me wrap my mind around it. She was very sick when I met her. She told me, 'You are going to be here a long time. It's too late for me, but not for you.'"

While Glaser conceded it would not be an easy road, she implored Magic and Cookie to assume a leadership role in educating the country about HIV and AIDS.

"You don't have time to wallow in this," Glaser told them. "You have to fight."

It wasn't just about raising money. It was about raising awareness. Most people (including Magic at the outset) didn't distinguish AIDS from HIV. It was important for the public to understand that neither disease could be transmitted by sharing a cup, or hugging someone who was infected, or coming in contact with their sweat.
The last point was of critical importance to NBA players, who were still reeling from the downfall of one of their most notable stars.

"We were starved for information," said Rambis. "How did it happen? Is it contagious? Nobody knew the answers. What about sweat? What if we bump heads? Guys were scared. Really scared."

When Johnson returned from Hawaii, he showed up at the Forum out of habit. Although he was no l onger on the roster, he dressed in his practice gear to get some shooting in and do some drills before practice. When some of his teammates wandered in early, he expected an enthusiastic greeting. Instead, Magic was met with polite small talk before the players hurriedly moved to another basket. When he tried to coax a couple of them into a game of 1-on-1, there were no takers.

"It took me a while to realize they didn't want my sweat on their body," Magic said.

Only Byron Scott embraced him when he walked in. Only Scott engaged in a meaningful conversation with him and lingered, asking, "Are you feeling okay? Are you taking care of yourself?"

"I wanted to shout at those other guys, 'Hey, I'm one of the boys, remember?'" Magic said. "I won't lie to you. It crushed me for a minute."

Magic, the rare superstar who actually liked to walk freely among his fans, noted subtle changes in the way he was treated. Suddenly, people weren't clamoring for autographs. Fans backed away when he passed by. Friends kept him at arm's length. Even his signature high-fives were an issue. People didn't want to touch him because they were terrified they'd get infected. For the first time in his life, nobody wanted a piece of the Magic Man.

"I'm a warm guy," Magic said. "I'm a hugger. I'm a person who wants to greet people, and when someone pulled away, it was difficult. I kept telling myself, 'You have to respect what they're feeling, because they don't know.' And for a while I could do that. But when my teammates shied away from me—and to be honest, most of them did—that got me a little down."

Elizabeth Glaser warned him that he would experience bouts of
isolation. Her daughter was excluded from play dates and birthday parties because of her condition. Johnson nodded sympathetically when she shared those anecdotes, but he naively thought it would be different for him. He was Magic Johnson. He had difficulty believing people would avert their stare when he walked into a room or cross the road so they wouldn't get too close—until it happened.

"I know those kinds of things hurt him to the core," Scott said.

Lakers forward A. C. Green, a deeply Christian man, had always preached abstinence and warned his teammates that promiscuity was a sin. After Magic contracted HIV, Green told him he would pray for him. Green never chided Magic with "I told you so," but the Lakers star knew how he felt. Following Magic's diagnosis, A.C. was distant, aloof. Although he did not publicly condemn Johnson's choices, Green did urge him to include abstinence as part of his educational platform on HIV and AIDS.