LIVIN’ TIME

Magic Johnson drives through three defenders for a layup, leaps on a press table to celebrate, his legs quaking to the cheers.

I thought he would be dead by now.

Magic Johnson grabs a ball at the top of the lane, flips it over his head to a teammate for a dunk, smiles at the faces of astonishment.

I thought I’d be writing this column from his funeral.

On a precious Saturday afternoon at the Long Beach Pyramid, Magic Johnson poses and preens and laughs and dances and fills the room with life.

I thought he would be dead, and I’m not the only one.

It was billed as a Summer Pro League game featuring a former Laker great making a rare appearance for a team he sponsors.

Yeah, and Magic is just another nickname, and AIDS is just another disease.

What happened Saturday in front of 4,700 fans was a party, a reverent and rowdy remembrance of one of the most important anniversaries in both society and sports.

Ten years after Magic Johnson was diagnosed with HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, he again showed that the virus is losing.

He again took back what the demon had stolen from him.

He again played basketball.

All 6 feet 9, 255 pounds of him. Bigger than ever. Thicker than ever.

“I think you say bigger, not thicker,” he said afterward, laughing, his shirt soaked gloriously dark. “I mean, it’s not like I’m chunky or something. I just played 30-some minutes!”

In a game featuring former NBA players, NFL stars and even rapper Snoop Dogg, Johnson played 36 minutes, scoring 20 points with 12 rebounds and 10 assists. A triple double, a decade after many figured he was a goner.

“A lot of people thought I would be dead,” he said. “And I know nobody in the world thought that 10 years later, I would be playing on this court, in this game, right now.”

Not merely playing, but standing at midcourt autographing basketballs during momentary breaks in the action.

Smiling and cupping his hand over his ear to increase the screams after great plays.

Mugging in frustration when his teammates weren’t ready for passes that could have become great plays.

“A lot of them didn’t even know they were open,” Johnson said. “They were like, ‘Man, how did you see me?’ ”

Man, it was good to see him.

Not that he hasn’t been in constant public view since the diagnosis, sometimes irritatingly so, wandering into everything from a TV talk show to the Laker sidelines.

He also makes at least one public appearance on the basketball court every summer in his charity classic, besides playing in frequent pickup games at UCLA.

All of this, and he runs a

$300 million-$400 million business that has helped revive parts of the inner city.

During the last decade, it has been nearly impossible to live here and not at least once bump into Magic Johnson.

But Saturday was different, because this year is different.

On Nov. 7, we will note the precise anniversary of the day Johnson stunned the world with the news of his virus and his retirement.

At the time, the average period of time between the diagnosis of HIV and the onset of AIDS was 10 years.

At the time, Johnson’s announcement sounded like a death sentence.

This is the year to celebrate that it was not.

Saturday was the beginning of that celebration.

“The day is going to go well,” Johnson, 41, said before taking the floor for the only game he will play in this league. “Even right now, already, I know that it is going to go well.”

Just seeing him standing there in a baggy uniform, the day had gone well.

We thought that, at the very least, by now he would be wasted away like all those tragic cases that flicked across our TV screens.

Instead, his biceps are the size of Big Gulps and his neck is the approximate circumference of a beer keg.

“Some of the Lakers look at me like, ‘What have you been doing?’ ” he said.

He could answer everyone by describing how he runs five miles a day, lifts weights and plays basketball.

Instead, though, he says this:

“You go. You do your thing. You live.”

Johnson is so active, there is a tendency to wonder whether he is a living example of how, with the best treatment, this disease can actually be cured.

Don’t. Because there still is no cure.

In this country, 17,000 people still die annually from complications caused by AIDS.

There are 700,000-900,000 people living with HIV. There are 40,000 new infections annually.

“I wouldn’t say it was gone, but I would say it is sleeping,” Johnson said of HIV. “And I’m gonna let it sleep for 20 or 30 more years.”

It was snoring loudly Saturday when, by simply playing a game of basketball, Johnson showed that his legacy will be about far more than basketball.

“It was unbelievable,” said Ed O’Bannon, the former UCLA star who played with the Young Guns, who defeated Johnson’s All Stars, 134-130. “We all thought he was going to get smaller. But he’s only gotten bigger.”

More than physically.

Through his businesses and charities, his impact on this city has become far greater than when he was just running up and down a waxed floor in Inglewood.

“I took a businessman to one of my theaters the other night, and a bunch of kids ran out to me calling my name,” Johnson recalled. “My friend said, ‘You know what’s amazing? Not one of those kids has ever seen you play.’ ”

Johnson shook his head. “I never thought about that. But that’s nice.”

Through his public fight, Johnson has become big not only in the world of AIDS awareness and prevention, but also AIDS acceptance.

Remember 10 years ago, when he thought about returning to the NBA and was met with fear from players who didn’t want to touch him?

On Saturday, they bounced off him, climbed over him, fell on him, embraced him.

“The most amazing thing for me is the education,” O’Bannon said. “How much has he educated the world on AIDS?”

Ten years ago, Pat Riley, then the coach of the New York Knicks, asked the Madison Square Garden crowd for a moment of silence.

During the silence, in tribute to a very sick Magic Johnson, the tearful Riley read the Lord’s Prayer.

On Saturday at the Pyramid, there was no silence, only cheers. There was no sickness, only promise.

Ten years ago, Magic Johnson said, “I think you just have to come out swinging.”

On Saturday, a city again stood in awe of the fight.

*

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.