For Him, a Rare Case of Pregame Jitters

Coachin’ time.

Last ones inside the Laker locker room as game time drew near were Coach Earvin Johnson, cabinet members Bill Bertka, Michael Cooper and Larry Drew, trusted First Friend Arsenio Hall, a couple of ballboys. A clock was ticking: 7:16. 7:17. It ticked as loudly to Earvin Johnson as that one on “60 Minutes,” a Sunday night show on a competing channel. Intro time was 7:20. Tipoff, 7:21. The anthem already was playing. The players already were out there. But Magic Johnson was still inside, being attacked by anxiety. What a concept--a basketball game to be played and Magic Johnson, shaking.

Hey. Happens to the best of them.

Around 7:05, he had assembled his team--yes, his team--for one last chalk chat. A few parting words. A pep talk. The sweet absurdity of it all suddenly struck him. Coach Johnson strolled to the center of a silent room and said, “Well, here we are.”

And there he was, all right. Back where Winnin’ Time was born. Back in the Forum. Back to the future.

All dressed up and no place to play.

No more tank tops with the big 32. No more golden trunks. No more rubber-soled Converses and sanitary socks. From now on, nothing but grown-ups’ clothes. This was Johnson’s first night of NBA coaching, a formal occasion. He even waited until a half-hour before tipoff before changing clothes. Took off his blue jacket and turtleneck. Put on a pin-striped beauty. Put on a necktie. First, Coach Earvin Johnson got his game face on. Then he got his game suit on.

And then his watch. Which wouldn’t stop ticking.

“This is killing me,” he said.

Because?

“Because I can’t be a part of it.”

Because he couldn’t play. Because all he could do was “stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down.”

It got to be 7:07. Johnson turned his dozen Lakers loose, by themselves, kids in the hall. They had a game to play, their 67th of the season, the coach’s first. Against a wall the players leaned, stretching and laughing and waiting. James Edwards looked over his shoulder at Arsenio Hall and did the woof-woof lasso whirl with his wrist, the entertainer’s trademark. Then he and the rest of the Lakers left for the court.

Johnson stuck his head out.

“Don’t forget to trap after those free throws,” he said.

Some of them nodded. Magic said, “Don’t forget now. Trap!” And he ducked back through the door.

Around the next corner were the Milwaukee Bucks, the opposition. There were cutouts of Jim Eyen’s face, several of them, Scotch-taped to the hallway walls. Eyen is an assistant coach with the Bucks who previously spent three years assisting the Lakers. Arrows were drawn on his picture, to remind him not to go to the wrong locker room.

7:11. The trainer, Gary Vitti, took the new coach aside, told him to relax, stood there giving basketball advice to Magic Johnson.

Vitti rested a friendly hand on Coach Earvin Johnson’s shirt front and said, “You can always take a 20-second timeout if you need it. Look at me. I’ll tell you when.” Lean on me, he said. Then he, too, left.

Only the coaches and a companion or two remained now. Cooper sat, thinking. This was his big night, too. He, too, was a Laker again. He had spent the previous day drilling defense into young Laker minds at a practice some observers called the most comprehensive they have seen all year. Randy Pfund, naturally, would disagree. But there were two areas that the new coaches stressed above all else--transition defense and “help” defense--two areas, Coach Earvin Johnson was compelled to say, where “we are so bad.”

Tick, tick. 7:18. 7:19. Johnson gulped and said, “OK, let’s do it.”

Coachin’ time. He had put it off as long as possible. He had tossed and turned until he finally told his wife, Cookie, that a pregame nap was out of the question. He spoke on the phone to Pat Riley. He spoke in person to Mike Dunleavy. They were no longer his coaches; they were his predecessors. It seemed strange, he said, getting tips from men who are now his rivals.

Into the hallway stepped Coach Earvin Johnson and staff. The significance of the moment dawned on Cooper, who turned to Bertka and Drew separately, hand extended, to say: “Thank you for having me here with you.”

Magic Johnson gave a here-we-go hug to a friend, a writer, and squeezed his hand. It was the first time the friend had ever felt Magic’s palm to be wet before a game.

The suit was exquisite and the friend said, “You haven’t got your uniform on under there, do you?”

Johnson said, “No way. First you’d kill me, and then Cookie would kill me.”

Down the hallway he went. Cameras rolling. Ready for his close-up. A walk he had made a thousand times. Suddenly, all new. He turned a corner. Into brighter lights. Forum fans spotted him. The noise rose. It became deafening. Magic Johnson was back where he belonged. Coach Earvin Johnson would have a different chair. He stood in front of it. He listened to the crowd. He listened to the music.

A song blasted from the loudspeakers. Everyone clapped along. It was James Brown. It was, “I Feel Good.”

He did.