The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Great NBA finals are supposed to last seven games, of which at least six should be close; this year's series lasted only six, of which 3½ were close. Even so, because of the nature of the matchups—the difference in the styles of the two teams—this series was in no way disappointing. The good games were so very good, and even the runaway games so resembled a clinic, that it was nothing less than the best against the best. A fan can ask no more.

Using only five men to any significant extent, exhausted and physically worn down as the series began, the Celtics had to play almost perfect basketball in every area to win, and they did that twice and almost a third time. For the younger, deeper, faster Lakers, the challenge was comparable: The Celtics are so tough and resilient that if the Lakers lapsed even a small degree, particularly on defense, the Celtics might capitalize and win. The Lakers were the better team, but only if they played their absolute best. Any lowering of their level and the Celtics would break through and win. It was the kind of playoff series that showcases great athletes at the top of their game.

The Lakers were and are that good. They are a team of such speed and power that when they are playing their game, it seems almost not to matter who their opponents are. With the Lakers at their best, one has a sense of watching basketball as it will be played in the next century.

During one stretch of Game 1, Larry Bird hit 11 shots in a row. Normally that kind of shooting from an established superstar can crush the opposition; in this case it did not even dent the Lakers. They have become one of the most exciting teams in NBA history, one that can take control of a game in a matter of minutes. In the past it was the hallmark of the Celtics to drive through the opposition when it began to wilt and break a game open. In this series the Lakers returned the favor.

In the eight years since Magic Johnson joined them, the Lakers have won four championships and have been a powerful if somewhat schizophrenic team. They were, in most matters of critical importance, a Kareem team, bringing the ball upcourt at a steady pace and then setting Abdul-Jabbar up for a skyhook (a style perilously close to one which, were they the Celtics, would be called white basketball). But they were also a Magic team, one that showcased the latest in American athletic advancement, the 6'9" point guard who grabs the rebound himself and pushes it relentlessly upcourt, on occasion sacrificing control for tempo.

Until this year that conflict between the two faces of the Lakers had never been entirely reconciled. It cost one coach, Paul Westhead (who had too clearly sided with Kareem), his job, and it reflected Pat Riley's skill as a coach that he was able to balance the two forces, paying homage to the Kareem team, while expediting the emergence of the Magic team.

This year the Lakers finally were Magic's team: Speed is power, power is speed. Slowly the cast had changed. Michael Cooper had emerged; A.C. Green and James Worthy had been added. Even Mychal Thompson, the most important pickup by either team this year, once was strong enough to play center yet was fast enough to play small forward at times. One had, at certain moments, a sense of watching a prototype of a different breed of athlete—strong, fast, disciplined—playing at a level of stunning intensity, with surprisingly few turnovers. If the Knicks of the late '60s could be described as four guards and one forward (Willis Reed), then this was often a team of four forwards led by a point guard who could, in a very recent era, have played power forward.

What made the series so special was the sharp contrast in the styles of Los Angeles and Boston and the knowledge that these two teams, with cameo appearances by Philadelphia and Houston, have essentially dominated the championships since Bird and Johnson entered the league in 1979. That and, of course, the fact that both teams have gradually been shaped to the styles and contours of their superstars, one white and one black.

The Celtics, this year's defending champions, play half-court basketball, and they play it better than any team in the league. That they had even made it to the finals was remarkable, given the death of Len Bias, the infirmities of Bill Walton and the fact that Kevin McHale and Robert Parish were both playing with injuries. But Boston finally lacked the bench mandatory for a tough playoff final and the speed to stay with L.A. in a running game. The Celtic front line, after all, was composed of three exceptional basketball players, while the first seven players for the Lakers seemed to be both exceptional basketball players and exceptional athletes.

One had to look no further than the contrast between McHale and Worthy to understand the classic matchup displayed in this series. If the Lakers controlled the tempo, it would mean that Worthy—possibly the fastest big man going to the basket in the league—would be a dominant player; if the Celtics controlled the pace, it meant they would be able to get the ball to McHale, surprisingly nimble and deft, uncommonly skilled at using his body and arms for maximum leverage. Each was an extension of the best of his team. For Worthy to be Worthy, Magic had to be Magic; for McHale to get the ball where he wanted it, Larry Bird and the Celtic offense had to move in proper mesh. If one was having a good game, the other probably was not.