The Golden Age of Basketball

Chapter 625 Bird out
On August 18, 1991, I announced my retirement from the Boston Celtics.

Those were some of the happiest days of my life.

You have to understand how bad my back condition was at the time.

For nearly 10 years, I've been suffering from back problems, and I can't take it anymore.

The pain was relentless, and no matter what I did—standing, sitting, lying down, or leaning forward—I couldn't get rid of it; it completely took over my life.

Some days, I couldn't even bend down to pick up the ball, let alone shoot it.

Some nights, I had to eat while lying on the floor.

Even picking up my son Connor caused me unbearable pain.

The pain prevented me from playing the game as I wanted, and at those times I hated myself.

I don't know how my wife has endured so many years of hardship with me; I find it incredible myself.

Perhaps that's why when I stepped onto the podium and finally announced loudly that it was all over, I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders.

I felt a great sense of relief when I no longer had to force myself to endure all this pain.

To be honest, I hated basketball back then.

As soon as the press conference ended, I went out to celebrate with some good friends, including my physical therapist Dan Drake.

There's nothing to be sad or sentimental about; it's time for me to end this.

Months before the press conference, I knew I was close to retirement.

Right after the 1990-1991 season ended, I started experiencing back discomfort, and I knew I was done for.

But it wasn't until July 1991 that I truly admitted that I could no longer play.

I'm not afraid of life after leaving basketball. Basketball used to be my everything, but pain can be exhausting.

I have nerve compression syndrome. My L4 vertebra is twisted and pressing on my L5 vertebra, with a nerve sandwiched in between.

This made my spine very unstable, and the bones were constantly pressing on the nerves in my back, which felt terrible.

Dan Drake will treat me; he can temporarily remove the bone from the nerve, but soon the burning pain will spread down my leg, and I'll be in trouble again.

Dan has been treating me for nearly 10 years, and he is very worried about the permanent damage this pressure might cause me.

We've had many serious discussions about retirement. Ever since that major injury in 1989 that sidelined me for the rest of my career, I've felt like every game is the last one.

In the summer of 1990, the team made a big trade, sending away the promising Reggie Lewis and bringing in Divac and Hornacek, who were perfect for us.

We played exceptionally well in the first half of the 1991 season, and at one point we held the top spot in the league. Everyone felt that the Celtics were back.

Only I know that we are actually quite weak, both mentally and physically. We are excellent, but it will be difficult for us to win the championship.

In the summer of 1991, I underwent back surgery in hopes of completely eliminating the pain caused by the spinal cord compressing my nerves.

During that year's playoffs, my physical condition was terrible. I had a severe burning sensation in my legs, and I couldn't even feel my toes.

I couldn't sit down or stand up; I was really scared.

I managed to finish Game 5 at the Garden Arena, the decisive fifth game against the Pacers.

I felt terrible before the match, but after Dan treated me, my adrenaline surged, and I was able to completely forget about the bad feeling.
I know I'll pay the price for this later, but that's a matter for the future.

We beat the Pacers in Game 5 and won the series.

During the game, I was chasing a loose ball when I bumped into the parquet floor and got dizzy.

To be honest, I don't remember the scene very well. I was a little disoriented when they led me into the locker room.

Team doctor Ani Scherer was sitting in the locker room closely monitoring my condition.

Once I started to clear my head a bit, I said to him, "Can I shoot? Can I get back on the court?"

He said, "Hey, you've done enough. That's enough, take a break."

But I kept hearing the audience shouting, "Larry! Larry! Larry!"

I looked at Ani and said, "Damn it!"

So I stood up, ran through the tunnel, and back to the stadium, where the whole place went wild.

Later, when I was hired by the Pacers, Donnie Walsh said he knew I would play, knew I would come back, the whole arena would go crazy, and then we would win the game, which is exactly what happened.

Even so, we couldn't maintain that momentum, and we eventually lost to the Detroit team in the next semifinal.

Then, I had my first back surgery and started thinking about retiring.

The procedure involves removing the intervertebral disc and widening the passageway leading to the spinal nerves.

On the day of the surgery, I walked 10 miles outside.

My surgeon was very optimistic. He said, "You should come back in January, and I'll check you again, but I think you'll be fine."

But I told the doctor, "I may never come back, no matter how well I recover."

I had serious discussions with the team's new operations manager, Dave Garvitt, about retiring.

Dave joined the Celtics in 1990, and he advised me not to retire.

We hit it off immediately. Dave has a lot of innovative ideas on how to help the team, and I enjoy talking to him about basketball.

He led Providence University to some very good results in the 70s. He understood how players viewed the game and what kind of team could succeed.

When Gavit became the team's CEO, I was very excited. I was sure he would be the one to win our next championship—our performance in 1990 was truly fantastic.

But just two months before my surgery, right after the 91 season ended, I went into Dave's office and told him, "Dave, I can't go on like this. I'm not the same person I used to be. I can't play the game as I please anymore. I think I should retire."

Dave is a very persuasive person; he can get your blood pumping.

He made many inspiring remarks, reminiscing about the Celtics' glorious history and expressing his hope to win another championship next year.

To be honest, I'm a little tempted. Our roster is indeed quite good. Parish and McHale still have fuel in the tank, Hornacek and Divac are still growing and improving, and our substitutes are excellent.

If I were still the same player I was from 1984-1986, I would definitely lead the team to 60 wins and continue to strive for the championship.

As long as we have even the slightest chance, I will not give up, never. I haven't tasted the flavor of victory in so long, I crave it so much.

The closest I came to a third championship was in 1986. We had a near-perfect season, but fell short in the finals.

At the Boston Garden, we witnessed Forrest Gump ascend to godhood. At that moment, I knew in my heart that the entire league could be dominated by this number 11.

As it turned out, I was right, but I never imagined that we would never be able to return to the finals again. We were always just a little bit short.

In 1991, I was exhausted, and deep down I no longer believed that we could create miracles, especially after we repeatedly lost to the Trail Blazers and the Bulls in the regular season that year.

When facing these top teams, I can no longer decide the outcome of the game in crucial moments; injuries and age have held me back.

I told Dave, "I'm afraid I'm not good enough anymore. I can't score against Forrest Gump in a one-on-one game."

Dave said, "Almost no one in the league can score against Forrest Gump one-on-one. Does that mean everyone has to retire?"

"But if you want to win the championship, you have to have that ability... Sorry, Dave."

After that conversation, I made up my mind to leave the NBA court I loved. I didn't inform my teammates, I didn't tell most of my friends, and then I went straight to a press conference to announce the news.

My wife, Dinah, had gone back to Indiana at the time because of some family matters, so I didn't attend the press conference with her. I think she really didn't want to see it all end.

I remember she called me the night after the press conference and said she was getting her hair done at a salon when the news came on the radio.

She said she was in tears. This was a huge change for both of us. We had gone through all the pain and sweat, and now suddenly it was all over.

There were many reporters at the press conference, even though we hadn't notified them in advance.

They wanted to know how I spent the night before preparing to announce my retirement.

I told them that I sat alone in my home in Brookline, watching old game footage and crying uncontrollably as I saw myself in those scenes.

Okay, that's pure nonsense. I lied to them. I didn't cry at all.

I did sit at home, not watching the video, but saying to myself, "Oh my God, this is really over. I'm really leaving here!"

Then I started to think back to when I first arrived here, to this house that I loved so much, and to the many happy years I spent here.

Then I looked back in my mind at everything that had happened over the past ten years, and I was grateful that I had played in the same place for my entire career.

I used to tell people that if you haven't played for the Boston Celtics, you haven't played professional basketball.

Of course, I know this is just bragging; the Celtics are no different from other teams in essence.

But that's how I feel. I've never thought about wearing another jersey. If I did, I would retire first.

Some of my friends think it's a shame that fans don't know which game was my last, because they didn't have the chance to say goodbye, but they did.

The Celtics threw me a retirement night, which was one of the best things I've ever experienced.

It was Dave Garvit's idea. I didn't want to participate at first, since the Celtics usually retire jerseys at halftime.

But Dave said it would be nearly impossible to complete the ceremony in such a short time and would disrupt the competition.

His idea was to sell tickets for Larry Bird Night and donate all proceeds to charity.

His vision was for me to stand on a stage in uniform, with all sorts of people who had been important to me throughout my career coming up to talk to me.

He wanted to bring Magic Johnson from Los Angeles, which I thought was a great idea because we had a very close relationship throughout our careers—so close that I didn't expect him to retire just two months after I did.

Once I agreed to host "Larry Bird Night," I started to worry: who would come? There wouldn't be any games to watch.

But as soon as the news was announced, the tickets sold out within minutes, and everyone was very excited.

Mark Reif from the Boston marketing department came up with an idea: to sell 1033 limited-edition Leroy Neiman paintings signed by Neiman and myself, each for $1033, with the proceeds going to charity (the number 33 is my jersey number).

I will never forget that night, when so many people came all the way to cheer me on.

I am truly grateful for their applause.

Bob Costa agreed to fly to Boston for free to host the show, and the Magician was as charming as ever.

To my surprise, Forrest Gump was also on the sidelines. His appearance was unexpected. He didn't go on stage to steal the spotlight but quietly applauded from below the stage.

My mother made a rare appearance in Boston to watch the game, and my son Connor, who was just a baby at the time, helped me lift my jersey onto the basket.

We have raised over $100 million for 33 different charities.

We donated money to many organizations, and it was difficult for us to choose which organizations to donate to because many organizations deserved our support.

I remember that Connor really liked Barney's show, so I suggested that we donate the money to the public television station that broadcast the show.

I want to donate to the "Colonel Daniel Marr Boys and Girls Club" because I've seen all the good things they do.

I want to donate a new van to a homeless shelter in town called "Rosie's House".

I also want to donate to the New England Baptist Hospital, whose staff have been taking care of me for many years, and so on.

People always ask me if I regret going through all that pain, and if I could choose again, knowing everything I would have to go through, would I still make the same choices?

When I list all the things that have caused my health problems, it sounds like I'm complaining about my pain, but I don't like it.

That's why you didn't hear me talk about these things when I was playing; it's the last thing I want to talk about.

What I want to say is that our team's spirit is to overcome all difficulties and compete at all costs, and most of us have done just that.

For example, when Kevin broke his foot, we knew the injury was serious. If Kevin decided he couldn't continue playing, we would respect his decision and understand him.

But the truth is, Kevin wouldn't stand idly by, because he knew we had a very good chance of winning the championship that year, an opportunity that was rare and hard to come by.

I believe McHale must have had some regrets, as we lost to the Detroit Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals in 1987.

As far as I know, even after all these years, Kevin's foot injury still bothers him, and he walks with a limp.

But if you ask him if he regrets it, he definitely won't.

I think one of the problems in the league right now is that if a player gets injured, they choose to sit out because they don't want to ruin their reputation as a great player.

Another situation is that the players' contracts are about to expire, and they feel that they can make a lot of money, so why would they play if they could avoid playing?
Another issue is agents; it's not good for these young people to let others make decisions for them.

A kid like Marcus Camby is very talented, but he has suffered too many injuries, which limits him.

I really wanted to tell him that he might feel better if he could overcome some of his annoying injuries.

I had some games where I played exceptionally well, but I wasn't in good physical condition; I had a muscle strain or I was sick.

When I went on the field that night, I felt like I couldn't have gotten any worse, but once I got on the field and ran for a while, I would forget all of that and focus on the race.

However, one thing I tried to understand after becoming a coach was that everyone deals with pain differently.

Some people know how to overcome pain, some don't, and some never get hurt at all.

I enjoy seeing players play through pain, like sprained ankles, but when the injury gets worse, only you can decide how far you want to push yourself.

My principle is, if you feel you can't play, then don't play. If you can play, then go out there and play, but don't spend too much time talking about it. Nobody knows your pain threshold except yourself.

Sometimes I would complain to Dan Drake privately, “Why isn’t this guy playing tonight? We need him.”

But Dan always tells me, “Larry, your pain threshold is incredibly high. You can’t expect other people to have the same pain threshold because they don’t. It’s unfair to question how much people are willing or able to push themselves.”

I try to keep that in mind when dealing with the players I coach.

So, is all this suffering worth it? When you look around Boston Garden and see 15000 people there, then every minute is worth it.

I love looking around and seeing that every seat is full; it's a special memory I'll never forget.

But there are some things I'd rather forget and never remember.

A few years after I retired, I was in Boston with a friend who had back pain, and I called Dan Drake to ask if he could take a look.

Dan's office moved to a new place, but even so, as soon as I walked in, all the painful memories started to attack me, and I felt nauseous.

Dan looked at me and said, "Larry, you don't look well. Are you alright?"

I looked around and said, "As long as I never have to come here again, I'll be fine."

—Excerpt from *Bird Watching*, published in 1999, co-authored by Larry Bird and Jackie Macmullan.

(End of this chapter)