Larry Might Have Won This One With Just Curly and Moe

After carrying his team to the championship of the NBA (National Birdball Assn.) Sunday afternoon, Boston Celtic forward Larry Bird humbly said, “I know I’ve got a lot of work to do this summer.”

On what, Larry?

Your mustache? Your grammar? Your tan?

Surely not your basketball. Good God, Larry, give the other guys a break. Take a week off before starting your one-man training camp in your momma’s backyard in French Lick, Ind.

After the Celtics crunched the Rockets, 114-97, to win the NBA Finals, four games to two, Larry Bird disappeared into the Celtics locker room. A minute later he reappeared at the locker-room door just long enough to spray the security guard with champagne.

That’s Larry: Get everyone involved in the action.

Just like he did on the court, where he chalked up 29 points, 11 rebounds, 12 assists and 12 Rocket broken hearts.

Say what you will about Kevin McHale and Dennis Johnson and Bill Walton and all the rest of the Celtics--this was Larry Bird’s series.

And Sunday was his day.

He knew it would be. It was hot in Boston, Celtic weather. The whirring fans in the roof of the Boston Garden seem to suck in the heat from the city and turn the ancient arena into a large microwave oven.

It was so hot, the Boston Garden rats were wearing little Bermuda shorts.

Larry Bird loves the Garden in June. The hotter the better. Let’s see who wilts first.

“I’ve never been so pumped up,” Bird said. “I was (pumped up) in Game 2, but this takes the cake. I was ready to play today.”

By the second quarter, Bird looked like Larry the Lobster. His ultrawhite complexion was heated up to a deep crimson.

Tired? When the Rockets tried to close in just before halftime, Bird hit a jump shot off a fast break, then sank two free throws to give the Celtics a 17-point halftime lead.

That was it. You don’t overcome a 17-point Celtic halftime lead in the Garden, in the heat.

Just to make sure, Bird played his brains out in the second half, too. With 11 minutes left in the game he hit a three-point bomb that gave the Celtics a 26-point lead and sent the Garden fans to heaven. The 14,890 fans raised their 29,780 arms to signal the three-pointer.

Game, set, match.

With two minutes left in the game, Bird finally came out. He had played 46 classic minutes. It was enough.

“That’s the tiredest I’ve ever been in my life,” Bird said. “K.C. (Jones, Celtic coach) said I could come out (earlier), but I knew we needed rebounding and I wanted to be there. You don’t wanna come out and have someone come in and flub it up for you.”

No way Larry was going to sit. He was into the spirit of this game. The Celtics had been embarrassed in Houston in Game 5, and now they were home, basking in the greatest home-court advantage in sports.

After Rocket Ralph Sampson punched out Celtic Jerry Sichting in Game 5, the fever had been building in Boston.

Bird promised the world that the Garden fans would be wild and angry for Game 6. What else is new? In case there was any doubt who was the villain, Celtic TV and radio announcer Johnny Most had referred to Sampson as a gutless yellow coward.

Boston was waiting for Sampson. Boston was angry. The authorities were nervous.

“Be as outrageous, uproarious and rowdy as you want,” former Celtic Dave Cowens wrote in the Sunday Boston Herald, addressing the Garden fans, “but don’t touch the players, don’t throw things, and stay in your seats.”

And check your nuclear weapons at the door, please.

Extra security forces were called in to protect Sampson and the Rockets. Outside the Garden, there were cops on horseback and cops with dogs. Inside, the only dog was Ralph himself--he scored only eight points in 38 minutes.

The Garden fans were cool. This is a classy crowd, if you like green T-shirts, spilled beer and screaming maniacs, 14,890 party animals. One fan in the upper balcony brought along an inflatable plastic companion dressed as Ralph Sampson with a rope around the neck. The fan dangled “Ralph” in effigy over the balcony.

For 22 minutes, the effigy scored as many points as the real Ralph. Zero.

That was the difference. Bird came to play. Ralph never showed up, not until garbage time.

“Maybe his (Sampson’s) right hook wasn’t working,” Bill Walton said.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Maybe this was Larry Bird’s day, the Celtics’ day, Ralph or no Ralph.

They’ve been here before. They’ve been to the NBA Finals 18 times, and won it all 16 times. They started doing this in 1957, when Larry Joe Bird was five months old. That’s when the Celtics won their first NBA championship.

And as little Larry Joe was growing up in Indiana, the Celtics came at you with Cousy, Sharman, Russell, Heinsohn, Havlicek, Cowens, passing along the crown, the tradition.

As Larry Bird was keeping the neighbors awake in French Lick with his dribbling and shooting, the Celtics were winning and winning.

But never, in that 30-year run of shamrock luck, was there ever a Celtic quite like Larry Bird.

Was Russell this intense? Was Cousy this clever? Was Havlicek this tireless? Was Sharman this tough? Was Heinsohn this mean? Was Cowens this driven?

When it was all over Sunday, Bird was led through the crowd to the media interview room. He was escorted by two stubby security cops, and the three of them walked a phalanx of Celtic fans, sweating, some shirtless, all come to pay homage.

They reached out to touch him, the beet-red Bird, and call his name and hope he would glance their way.

“Larry! Larry! . . . “