Living Legend, Learning Legend

One way to look at the NBA finals, if you’re tired of hearing about strategy and 2-3-2 formats, is that this is the prime-time playground and center stage for two of basketball’s genuine, original, certified legends.

With all due respect to team basketball and to the other performers, this is the Larry Bird and Akeem Olajuwon show.

Confidence.

“Larry,” says a reporter during an informal, off-day press conference, “I couldn’t help but notice at the All-Star Game three-point-shot contest that you were the only player who took the time to turn the balls in the ball rack so all the seams lined up.”

Bird replies: “Then you probably couldn’t help but notice that I was the only player who won that contest.”

During a late-season Rocket game, in a Houston timeout huddle, Olajuwon pleads with a teammate, a guard: “Throw me the ball.”

“Akeem, they’re dropping three guys on you,” the guard says.

“It does not matter,” Olajuwon says. “Give me the ball. I dunk it.”

Life.

Life is simple. Larry and Akeem have not grown up, except in the most literal sense, to 6-9 and 6-10, respectively.

During the winter, Bird plays basketball every day for the Boston Celtics. During the summer, he plays basketball every day on his own private court in French Lick, Ind.

During the winter, Olajuwon plays basketball for the Houston Rockets. During the summer, he plays basketball at Houston’s Fonde Recreation Center, against guys like Moses Malone.

How much would you pay to sit under a shade tree to watch Olajuwon and Moses Malone slam each other around the blacktop?

How much would you pay to watch a home-and-home series between the French Lick Hicks and the Fonde Rec Jive Five?

More life.

There are gaps in their knowledge outside of basketball.

A year ago, some Celtics were talking about Bruce Springsteen.

“Who’s he?” Bird asked, dead serious.

Replied Dan Shaughnessey of the Boston Globe: “He’s the you of rock and roll.”

During a Rocket practice, Olajuwon in the pivot is too slow to kick the ball out to teammates when he has no open shot.

“You can’t be Custer,” Coach Bill Fitch tells him. “There’s too many Indians in there. Don’t be Custer.”

“Who is this Custer?” Olajuwon asks.

That night he gets a book and reads all about Gen. George Armstrong Custer.

When Olajuwon was playing for the University of Houston, the team visited Disneyland. The person inside the huge Goofy costume engaged Clyde (the Glide) Drexler in an extended conversation, after which a perplexed Akeem asked Drexler:

“Who is that dog and why was he talking to you?”

Endurance.

This is a difficult sport. The players get tired. This basic law of the sport does not seem to apply to Akeem and Larry.

Watch Bird when he doesn’t have the ball. He is in his own private track meet, moving, cutting, breaking, flowing. On defense, he contests every pass, plays the entire court.

He is the kind of guy, when you have someone like him in a neighborhood pickup game, that everyone considers a real pain in the tush.

Watch Olajuwon. On defense, he is always digging, moving, looking, helping. On offense, he sets up low and pleads for the ball. His body language is saying: “Give me the ball. I dunk it.”

Life, again.

Life is simple.

Bird plays ball and hangs out in simple bars, with old friends. He keeps one of his three MVP trophies on top of a refrigerator in his parents’ basement in French Lick.

Olajuwon signs autographs and talks enthusiastically with complete strangers. In Boston, he befriends an 11-year-old girl and accepts an invitation from her and her parents to come over for a lobster dinner.

Tradition.

John Havlicek asks Bird to autograph a few basketballs for a charity affair.

“Nice seeing you, John,” Bird says sarcastically, rolling the balls to the former Celtic star. “I guess I’ll see you again when you want something.”

Olajuwon gets his first real look at the Boston Garden. He is asked if the Garden’s mythical traditions will work against the Rockets.

“I do not know this tradition,” he says. “I am not from around here.”

He refers to the Garden as a dump.

Images.

They are bigger than the game.

One writer, as Bird dominates every phase of the first two games, comments that watching Larry out there against mere mortals is like watching Jack Nicklaus in a miniature golf tournament.

Celtic forward Kevin McHale, after guarding Olajuwon for three games, offers an unintentional but appropriate description:

“Akeem is like a bull in a China closet,” he says.

Respect.

If you could read Olajuwon’s mind, he would probably say: “I do not recognize this game Larry plays. Where did he learn these things? Where did he learn this game he plays? How can I learn these things? I cannot learn from books. I would like sometime to talk with him.”

If you could read Bird’s mind, he would probably say: “This kid has been playing for only seven years, but he has discovered the essence of basketball. He has plugged into the soul of the game. He is a worthy opponent. I like this guy. I’d like to have a beer with him.”

And in the end, the end of this season and most likely the end of other seasons to come, it will all come down to Bird and Olajuwon.

“I just want the ball in my hands,” Bird has said.

“Give me the ball,” Olajuwon has said. “I dunk it.”