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His influence felt, seen
everywhere
By Leigh Montville, Sports Illustrated
Posted: Wed September 30,
1998
The games at noon time at the Newton (Mass.) YMCA changed
after Larry Bird came to Boston. For one thing, guys
started to reach down and wipe the soles of their sneakers
with their hands during every stop in the action. Old guys.
Young guys. Guys.
"Why are you doing that?" I would ask.
"Larry does it," the young guys, old guys would
reply.
"Why does Larry do it?" I would ask.
"He wants to clean off the bottoms of his shoes so he
doesn't slide," the young guys, old guys would say.
"Or maybe he wants to get his hands a little dirty so
he can hold onto the ball better. Or maybe ... tell the
truth, I don't know why he does it.
Just the fact he does it is good enough for
me."
Anything he did was copied. Everything. His moves, his very
expressions, tumbled down through the phylums of the
athletic world and landed,
kerplunk, at this bottom level. Chubby insurance executives
suddenly were trying to execute the proper no-look touch
pass. Third-year students from nearby Boston College law
school were falling back to shoot the three-pointer with an
old-time, set-shot form.
There was a move—Larry would fake a pass, the defender
would look toward the path he expected the ball to follow,
while Larry would drive past his back to the basket. It was
almost a one-man give-and-go. Everybody tried it. Firemen.
Psychiatrists. Aging
sportswriters. Sometimes it even worked. There was another
move—the intentional miss, throwing the ball hard off
the backboard, then coming full steam down the lane to
collect the rebound for the layup. Everybody tried that,
too.
Larry Bird was the accessible legend. His game was in his
head as much at it was in his body. To try to do the things
that Julius Erving or Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson would
do—to try to fly through the air—was impossible.
To try to be, say Kareem
Abdul-Jabbar, seven-feet-whatever, also was impossible. To
try to think and then act like Larry Bird ... well, at
least you could try.
He was the master of the little things, the smallest pieces
of basketball business. He was the master of rebound
position, getting to the right spot first, hooking an arm,
sticking out his butt to gain leverage. He was the master
of the left hand, able
to drive and shoot from either side. (The fact that he was
naturally left-handed, but always had played basketball
righthanded did not hurt.) He was the master of
anticipation, the quick step into the passing lane to
intercept a pass. He was the master
of all the masters, maybe even of Jordan, when it came to the
fundamentals of the game.
I lived and worked in Boston through his entire 13-year
run. Watching him, night after night, was the best of
sports fun. He was as good to watch on the nights when the
shots weren't dropping, when he almost had to score his 20
points and grab his 10
rebounds by flatout will, as he was to watch when he was
nailing everything in some playoff joust with Magic and the
Lakers.
One tribute, often made, is that "he made everyone
around him better." Heck, he was so good he made
everyone on every court in the area better.
Not great, perhaps, but better.
Sports Illustrated senior writer Leigh Montville wrote for The Boston Globe for
21 years before joining the magazine in 1989.
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