Scorecard

Forever Linked
A TV viewer finds that in odd ways Larry Bird and Magic Johnson remain entwined

For those of us who covered the NBA in the 1980s, it was hard not to like both Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, whose play and personalities dominated the league as chicken dominates dumplings. We found something compelling in each player, Magic effervescent and user-friendly, Bird feisty and frequently distant. I thought of them then, and think of them now, as a matched set. Magic and Bird. Bird and Magic. On and on into history.

So there they were, live, on my TV last Friday night—Bird on the Madison Square Garden sideline, coaching his Pacers into the NBA Finals with a victory over the Knicks, and Magic on QVC selling Magic Johnson Autographed Showtime Basketballs for $270 each.

The time has long passed to make blanket appraisals of people based on their willingness to sell bangles and baubles and basketballs; if George Washington came back to life, he'd no doubt be on Channel 73 peddling replicas of his wooden teeth. Nonetheless it was depressing—is pathetic too strong?—to see Magic turning loose his happy-talk sales pitch as an 800-number flashed on the screen: "You just gotta get these Kobe and Shaq cards!"

Magic deserves much credit for his accomplishments since he left the game, which have dwarfed Bird's. Johnson has raised AIDS awareness and turned himself into one of the nation's leading African-American entrepreneurs. But he seems to have an almost pathological need to stay in the public eye. Or perhaps it's a pathological fear of being forgotten, which amounts to the same thing. He needed to be on QVC, just as he needed to be a late-night talk show host, an endeavor that failed miserably.

Bird, to be sure, has sold his name—witness his efforts on behalf of McDonald's—but he hasn't sought out the glare of the spotlight as Magic has. After this season, in fact, Bird will retreat from it, either into a front-office position or to play golf and chill in his Naples, Fla., house. Seconds after his Pacers defeated the Knicks and began celebrating, the camera caught Bird walking alone toward the locker room. Shortly thereafter, Magic and his QVC host received news of the Indiana victory and started hawking Pacers Eastern Conference champions hats.
—Jack McCallum

BASEBALL
Tuffy-San

For one brief, shining moment, centerfielder Karl (Tuffy) Rhodes was the future of the Cubs. Against Mets ace Dwight Good-en on Opening Day 1994, Rhodes launched three balls into the Wrigley Field bleachers in his first three at bats, becoming the only player to hit a trio of dingers in his first three tries on Opening Day. Said New York manager Dallas Green, "We made him a legend today."

Alas the Tuffy Era in Chicago didn't last much beyond that bright April afternoon. Rhodes played just 107 more games for the Cubs in 1994 and '95. After a brief stint with the Red Sox he was gone from the majors.

Imagine, then, the shock to a Chicago fan who stumbles across this stat line: RHODES, K., OSAKA, 1999: .301, 40 HRS, 101 RBIS. Like Spinal Tap before him, Tuffy has found new life in Japan. "I got older, smarter and became more patient with the game," says Rhodes, now 31 and in his fifth season with the Osaka Kintetsu Buffaloes. "I learned things like studying pitchers more carefully" Last year he led the Pacific League in homers and RBIs; through Sunday he was batting .290, with 12 homers and 38 RBIs.