Little Magic Arrives in a World That Needs Some

Earvin Johnson III

Maternity Ward

Cedars Sinai Hospital

Los Angeles, Calif.

Dear Baby Magic:

Happy birthday.

You were born on the Fourth) of June--not as catchy as July, but that’s OK--on a Thursday evening, eight minutes before 8 o’clock.

You were 7 pounds 15 ounces, pretty good size for a rookie. (Although we still can’t tell if you will grow up to be as big as your Uncle Kareem.)

Your mama is Cookie and your daddy is Magic, making you a combination of sweet and special.

Your mom did the hard part, in the most celebrated Hollywood birth since Murphy Brown’s.

Your dad gets the assist.

He’s kind of a big kid himself. You could be the first child on your block to have a bouncing baby father.

Pretty soon, you will have a genuine Earvin Johnson smile.

And your own little dribble.

And one nice crib.

Probably purple and gold pajamas, too.

(E.J.’s PJs.)

So, what else would you like for your birthday?

Some Converse booties, Size 1?

(Unless maybe Uncle Air from Chicago has already sent you some Nikes.)

Or how about a little Laker playsuit, with No. 32?

(This jersey is retired to everybody else but you.)

Or maybe something from “Sesame Street,” featuring Big Bird.

(No, not your Uncle Larry.)

Here’s hoping you grow up to be big and strong and healthy and happy and successful and captain of the Michigan State University team, or doctor or lawyer or plumber or President or whatever you choose to be.

Here’s hoping you grow up in a world free of violence and disease and prejudice and poverty and other afflictions symptomatic of the world into which you were born.

Here’s hoping that at your birthday party at the turn of the century, when your dad is helping you blow out the eight candles on your cake, you and your friends won’t ever have to worry about the crazy sickness that plagued civilization back in 1992.

We’re working on it, kid.

We’re trying.

If only everybody would work harder, donate more time, donate more money, donate more energy to help your dad and others educate today’s children to be smarter, be safer, or to fund medical research that would help wipe out this epidemic forever, then yours truly could be a better world.

You might make mistakes. Don’t worry. We all do.

Trouble is, these days, one mistake can be one too many.

Be careful. And, when you’re old enough, be sure to tell your friends to be careful, too.

For your scrapbook, meanwhile, here is what was happening in the year of your birth, Baby Magic.

Your town turned upside down. There was flood and there was fire. There was famine and there was pestilence.

Instead of cheering for the Lakers, there was little cheer in Los Angeles. You are lucky you missed it.

The pestilence hit us first.

Your dad got sick and quit his job. The Lakers tried hard to succeed without him, but Uncle Byron and Uncle A.C. and Uncle Sedale could only do so much.

(By the way, I assume that you will be pleased about not being named after Uncle Sedale.)

But even though your dad stopped playing, he never stopped trying.

He made an effort to tell people about his condition, how he got into it and how they could avoid it.

He made an effort to show what those in his condition could do. He played in a game full of All-Stars and was once again their brightest star.

And this summer, he intends to play basketball in the Olympic Games and take his message global.

You will carry on his name. Maybe you will carry out his work.

I can see you now, being dandled on your daddy’s knee when you go visit Uncle Arsenio.

You can wear your “Bad Boy” shirt from Uncle Isiah in Detroit with the word Bad crossed out and Good written above it.

You can wear your “Bucks” shirt from Uncle Mike in Milwaukee with the apostrophe added so that it reads “Buck’s,” meaning you. Buck is the name everybody on the Lakers called your dad. That’s you. You’re Buck’s.

You can even wear a little Celtic jersey or a little Bull jersey or, shhhh, a little Clipper jersey. We won’t tell.

Come to a game sometime with your mom and dad. You’ve got 17,505 godfathers and godmothers in Inglewood, any night you are there.

Here’s looking at you, kid.