Gifts That God Didn't Give

"He'd probably be a bum," says a French Lick friend, "pumping gas or working in the Kimball piano factory like the other boys."

Bird never considered that basketball was something he could excel at and make his living from. "I didn't care either," he says. "I was one of those guys that never looked ahead. When I was younger I played for the fun of it, like any other kid. I just don't know what kept me going and going and going. I remember we used to practice in the gym in high school; then, on the way home, we'd stop and play on the playgrounds until eight o'clock. I played when I was cold and my body was aching and I was so tired...and I don't know why, I just kept playing and playing. I didn't know I was going to college until I was there. I never thought about pro basketball until I got there. Now that I am there, I want to make the most out of it that I can. I guess I always wanted to make the most out of it. I just never knew it."

Bird takes for granted that one doesn't think he's just talking about money. "The way I live, I'd be happy making ten or twelve thousand a year," he says. But his agent, Bob Woolf, thinks in other terms. In his office on the 45th floor of Boston's Prudential Tower, Woolf has one entire rolling file cabinet filled with Larry Bird business. Woolf, a prominent sports attorney and meticulous keeper of scraps of paper and lists, pulls out the hotel bill from Larry's first visit to Boston. "Look at this," he says. "Three nights. Nothing but room and tax. Not a room service charge. Not a phone call."

The chance for Woolf to represent this most prized client came after a bizarre series of meetings set up by a committee of Terre Haute businessmen who "adopted" Bird, and still advise him on his finances. They reduced a list of three final candidates to Woolf after an eight-hour session. When Woolf met Bird over a dinner with the businessmen, he did his best to impress. Woolf wanted everyone to know what he thought Bird was worth, and he shared his insider's knowledge of salaries of basketball, football and baseball players. Woolf mentioned Tommy John of the Yankees, who happens to be a native of Terre Haute. The men on the committee blurted, "Yeah! How much does Tommy make?"

Woolf was about to divulge the numbers when Bird piped up for the first time: "Hey, please, Mr. Woolf. Tommy John's a friend of mine. I don't want to know how much he makes."

Woolf keeps a list that chronicles hundreds of calls from people who want something from Bird, beyond the usual bank and shopping center openings: Mary Hickey, age 23, wanted to have lunch with Larry; the Boston Herald American wanted him for an article on Boston's most eligible bachelors; Bob Hope's people called; Ted Kennedy's people called; Sesame Street called; the Opera Company of Boston called. No, no, no, Bird said. Then there was the man who stole the hubcaps from Bird's Ford Bronco, found out whose hubcaps they were—and returned them. Bird sent him tickets to a game. He did a tacky TV commercial for Chardon jeans—Why not? Free pants!—and a commercial for McDonald's McChicken sandwich.

Woolf, meanwhile, waits for June 1984, when Bird's five-year, $3.25 million contract expires. "The Celtics dare not call one day before then, offering an extension," Woolf says, "because I'm dying to see what kind of money he'll draw on the open market. He could become the highest-paid athlete in the world! Certainly in the NBA."

Woolf has served as a surrogate father to Bird. When Bird bought a home in the Boston area, he purchased one right next door to Woolf's in Brookline, just two minutes from the Celtics' practice site at Hellenic College. Last summer Bird bought a place on Cape Cod—right across the street from Woolf s. But now that Bird feels a bit more comfortable in the limelight, he no longer hides behind Woolf. Still, his reverence for home, family and charity hasn't changed. He mostly stays out of Boston, preferring the sanctuary of his house, which he shares with a 3-year-old Doberman named Klinger and a longtime girl friend named Dinah Mattingly. He tends to his lawn and apple trees obsessively. His friends are chosen with caution; sometimes. Bird admits, too much caution.

"I'm not really shy, but it depends on what situation I'm in," he says. "I used to be real bad. I'm not the kind of person to go up and shake hands with somebody, because I'm in a situation where everybody wants to be my friend. I guess I miss out sometimes. I'm just accustomed to a small environment. When I was young, I was never around more than five or ten people at once."

Almost without exception, those people whom Bird has allowed to get close to him treasure his loyalty. He's great with children; for them, he will indulge himself in situations in which he wouldn't give an adult the time of day. His two summer camps—one in French Lick, the other in the Boston area—are strictly labors of love.