MAGIC REAPPEARS : Suddenly, Lakers Have Something Special in Reserve

A few minutes into tonight’s game against the Golden State Warriors--a team, Del Harris says, that has been “beating us like a rented mule”--the Laker coach will look around, catch that me-me?-me! expression on Magic Johnson’s face, like that of a puppy eager to be let outside to play, will nod his platinum head and say: “Buck.”

Up the pup will jump. He will free himself from that golden warmup suit like Houdini from a straitjacket. At the scorer’s table, it won’t be necessary to identify himself by name.

“Me,” he’ll say.

And, checking into an actual NBA game for the first time in more than 55 months, in will go Earvin (Magic) (Buck) Johnson, a man so famous, his nickname has a nickname. It will be too late to change his mind. Too late to cry wolf. As he was joshed by Jerry West, his boss, before practice Monday morning, “There’s no way you can get out of it now.”

Magic Johnson, reserve forward.

Nice bench.

Personally coaxed back by the Laker players, including a three-way phone call from Eddie Jones and Nick Van Exel that touched him deeply and made up his mind, once and for all, basketball’s most valuable outpatient will report back to active duty. His hair won’t be dyed blond. His body isn’t tattooed. But that body is larger, by 27 pounds, than it was when that sinister virus got into it. And, he is a forward now, not a guard. Magic Johnson, power forward. Sounds peculiar, like Michael Jordan, right fielder.

Otherwise, he’s the same old Buck, or even Uncle Buck, by now. The ultimate golden-jerseyed oldie. Buck’s back because he wants his boy to see him play. He’s back because life is short, so play hard. He’s back because Jordan came back, so why not? He’s back because Michael, Reggie, Sir Charles, Hakeem the Dream, the Worm, all his summer playground pals, said it was OK. He’s back whether Mailman likes it or not. He’s back because Pat Riley, his old coach, kept bugging him to come back.

He asked Cookie, his wife. She said get out of the house, go play! He asked David Stern, the NBA’s supreme court justice. Stern said, not at all sternly: “Do it.” He asked his doctor, his lawyer, his butcher, his baker. He asked Del Harris, who said: “You don’t even have to ask.” He asked Cedric Ceballos, the Lakers’ leading scorer. Ced said: “Do it.” He asked his mom and dad, who are nervous, but want to see him happy.

His legs?

“I’m not in NBA shape,” he knows.

His game?

“I know I’m five steps slower,” he rationalizes. “But the hook shot’s still there.”

And so’s he. There he was, L.A.’s whippoorwill, flapping his wings around the Loyola Marymount gymnasium, whistling while he worked. After practice, Johnson stuck around, aimed set shots from the collegiate three-point line, Laker assistant Larry Drew lingering beneath the hoop to retrieve every shot. He shot from different spots, like a halftime contest, rotating around the arc. Magic made nine in a row before missing, not one of the nine so much as brushing the rim. Above him hung a sign, dedicated to a Loyola player of old. HERE THE LION’S SPIRIT DWELLS, it read.

Later, in the lobby, Johnson was asked what advice he had for the coach.

“Put me in,” he said.

Has ever before there been a game for which Earvin Johnson, at any age, man or child, suited up without answering the opening tip-off? None that he can remember. On the bench he will sit, however, beginning tonight, then continuing through Friday night’s visit from the Chicago Bulls and that other stud who got bored with the pasture. Once the game’s greatest player or, at least, co-greatest, Johnson says, “I don’t have to be the greatest player. Michael can’t rise the way he used to, but he’s still the greatest.

“You use your head. Michael dominates a different way. I dominate with leadership. I’m not going to be the Magic Johnson at 26 now that I’m 36.”

Jordan rarely touched a basketball while he was gone. Johnson rarely went a day without touching one. Barnstorming, baby-sitting, fund-raising, fun-having, whatever he was doing, he bounced a ball. Magic Johnson clings to a basketball like Linus to a blanket. He practiced with the Lakers, coached the Lakers, bought a piece of the Lakers, couldn’t and wouldn’t leave them be. He lifted weights with them, straightened up the locker room after them (really), did everything but tape their ankles for them.

Jerry West, you must be curious how Magic will do.

“No, I’m not curious,” West claims. “I already know. He’s going to be very good.”

Del Harris, you must wonder what having Magic will do.

“Just so you know, it’s not saving a sinking ship. This ship is sailing along really well,” Harris says. “Now, the question is, where does this take us? A guy sits out four years, you’ll take one look and say: ‘He can’t play!’ A great player returns, you’ll take one look and say, ‘Wow, now they’ll win the championship!’ The truth lies somewhere in between. Let’s give Earvin a little leeway.”

Let him learn how to be a full-time forward, for example.

“What does a power forward have to do?” someone asked Johnson.

“The dirty work,” he said.

It begins tonight, a few minutes after the game begins. The Laker coach will go to his bench. Nice bench. Magic Johnson, checking back in.