Favorite: Larry Bird I nearly lost it when I called.
In 2008, I was working on a report about the American men’s Olympic basketball squad. Bird was a part of the 1992 Dream Team’s inaugural roster. So I asked him what he thought about the situation of international hoops right now.
I should just give Bird a call at his office, an industry acquaintance advised me. Bird was the Indiana Pacers’ main basketball decision-maker at the time.
My buddy said, “Sometimes he answers his own phone,” but she also offered a glimpse of optimism. “Well worth a try.”
I then gave a call. Bird remained silent. I stumbled through a voicemail, mentioning that I was writing a narrative and that I was looking for Bird’s advice.
And that was all. I assumed Bird would never get back to me. He is a myth. Whatever this is, I was doing it.
The phone rang five hours later. There was an Indianapolis area code on the call. My three-year-old eldest kid was buckled up in his car seat while I drove. I have no idea what was causing him to cry.
All I knew was that the child would not stop talking and that Larry Bird might be calling. However, I had to respond. I was unable to ignore a call from Bird.
I responded accordingly. I greeted them.
The voice on the other end said, “Sam?” I was completely startled and sat in silence. That voice, that drawl from southern Indiana, was familiar to me. The voice said, “Hey, it’s Larry Bird.”
Whether it was Big Bird, Lady Bird Johnson, or Larry Bird, my youngster didn’t seem to care. He just kept screaming.
I knew that Bird was listening. It was audible in the whole Midwest and possibly in a few New England states. However, before I could respond, Bird laughed and said something.
He remarked, “I hear a lot of bellyaching going on around you, so you either have a child or you’re married.”
I apologized and informed Bird that I would have to stop in order to retrieve my recorder and figure out how to calm the child down. He chuckled and added, “Sam, everything is OK. Give it some time.
Bird showed extreme politeness for a stranger. That was how he acted.
A Basketball Icon
I fashioned my game after Bird, even though I was a foot shorter. I wanted to shoot the same way he did when he was playing for the Boston Celtics. I desired to succeed, to be a basketball assassin, and to pass.
Dr. J, Julius Erving, is the one who introduced me to the game. Bird made it into a fixation.
I used to read about how Bird would shoot baskets in his driveway for six or seven hours every day, regardless of the weather—rain, sleet, or snow. Bird would occasionally play till his hands burned, broke, and bled.
He occasionally played with damaged fingers, swollen ankles, or the illness. He simply played, and I made sure to continue playing through it all.
When Bird was at his best, I was simply a young child with no idea any different. Nobody informed me that there are only, maybe, twelve people under six feet who have ever had an effect in the NBA. I believed I could succeed. I imagined myself to be.
Naturally, it never did. I succeeded in attending college. A scholarship was awarded to me. In our conference, I was the only player who wasn’t taller than six feet. I even broke the school record with seven 3-pointers in one game. It went on for an incredible five months.
But Bird is primarily to blame for my decision to make a career out of my intense passion with the game. In an attempt to write about basketball, I took up writing.
It’s the off-season, a time to think things through. I write this piece about a once-in-a-lifetime player for that reason.
A player who, bizarre as it may sound coming from a grown man speaking of a total stranger, helped mold my life.
