Why Can’t the Magic Continue?

It was Babe Ruth calling his shot. Ted Williams hitting a home run in his last at-bat.

It was Dempsey marshaling one more effort to floor Tunney, Marciano fighting on instinct with his nose bent and split. It was a Rocky movie. It was Nicklaus winning his last Masters, Hogan limping up a hill to throw one more 65 at an Open course. It was like hearing Caruso sing “Vesti la Giubba” one more time, Bernhardt doing “Camille” on her last tour.

It was one of those moments that give you goose bumps.

You knew it had to happen. Magic Johnson wasn’t going to go out on a token appearance, dribble the ball upcourt, throw up a prayer, slink himself back to the bench, bow out gracefully.

You knew he was going to go out in a medley of behind-the-back passes, three-point baskets, steals, defense: vintage Magic.

Magic was going to go out as a star with a capital “S,” as in Superman. He was going to go out the way he came in--with a smile and a hug, bringing the ball upcourt with the sleight-of-hand of a guy who is going to turn the basketball into a rabbit at any moment.

It wasn’t a game, it was a recital. Michael Jordan, who has made more money with a ball and a pair of sneakers than any man, was there. So was Isiah Thomas with that furtive grin that says “don’t-post-me-up!” The Mailman was there, Clyde the Glide, Mr. Robinson. They were merely the chorus. Magic was the star. The crowd came to see Magic. The TV cameras were looking for Magic. When he sat down, the game became merely a backdrop.

No one knows how to handle that situation better than Magic Johnson. It was Spencer Tracy taking over a scene. Cagney going to the chair. Kelly with an umbrella. Wayne on horseback. Give Magic the ball and start the cameras. He takes it from there.

It was a virtuoso performance. It could have been sad. Lou Gehrig squeezing the tears away as he tells the crowd he was “lucky to be a Yankee.” Joe Louis, with his balding head bouncing off the bottom rope as he goes down on a knockout wallop from a young bull from Brockton, Mass., in his last hurrah. Magic was going to go out like a kid who got a new pony for Christmas. No sad songs for Magic. Hold the flowers. Simply give him the ball.

No walk-through or cameo appearance for him. We know now Magic spent long hours in a sports club and gym preparing for this moment, keeping the muscle tone firm, the reflexes quick, building the stamina, prolonging the skills. A meaningless game in the statistical sense, it was, in many ways, the most important game of his life. Magic was playing for more than an MVP trophy. Magic was playing for a whole generation who, like him, have been hit with what might be the worst plague since the Middle Ages.

Magic was where he belonged. Some people belong on a stage. Still others belong in a counting house, an operating room, a laboratory, a legislature. Magic belongs at the top of the key with the ball at the buzzer and the game and title on the line.

So, why isn’t he playing? If he can show up for one game after stringent workouts, a heavy banquet schedule, exhausting air travel and still be the best player on the floor, why not the remaining 36 games?

If the risk of transmission of HIV is “infinitesimal,” as the doctors insist, if he can play four quarters at top speed, why isn’t he in uniform every night?

Magic clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself off the basketball court. If there’s a high school game in town, Magic is at it. He is restless, energetic and, apparently, healthy. There might be some medical reason he shouldn’t play, but the signs aren’t evident. If he had cancer and wanted to play, wouldn’t they let him? Guys have played with leukemia.

Much was made of the fact that, by playing in the All-Star game, Magic was taking a place away from a player who more deserved to be there. That’s funny. Actually, if Magic were barred from playing, he would be the one who should be indignant--because he would be the one being replaced by an inferior player.

I never spent a day in medical school but, based on what I saw Sunday, Magic Johnson was doing what he was born to do and doing it well and safely and seeming to pose no threat to the national health or even his own.

Sunday’s script had a happier ending than an MGM musical. But, if HIV is as difficult to transmit as a headache on the playing field, Magic Johnson would be simply another guy playing hurt. If he can out-star the All-Stars, what is he doing in a three-piece suit? I won’t say basketball needs him more than he needs basketball. But it’s close.