Dr. J became one of the league's first bona-fide superstars.
"Do you think your agent could hook me up on the phone with Dr. J?" Magic asked Kelser. "I'd like to ask him his advice."
Erving knew all about Johnson and his gifted passing skills. He not only agreed to talk with him, he invited Magic and Kelser to stay at his suburban Philadelphia home during the 1979 NBA playoffs. They bunked in the guest room, fussed over by Erving's wife Turquoise, and were given passes into the Sixers locker room. Both players were amazed at how big the pro players were, far more imposing than they appeared on 24-inch black-and-white television sets.
Dr. J sat down with Johnson and briefed him on the challenge in front of him. Erving had left school as a college junior and by doing so missed an opportunity to be an Olympian. Magic would also be giving up that dream if he went pro, he said. Dr. J explained that, whatever decision he made, someone would be disappointed.
"If you go pro, some of your college teammates will resent you," he said. "If you stay in school, your family might be upset you won't be in a position to assist them financially."
Erving also outlined the difference between a college basketball season and the long, often grueling lifestyle of a professional basketball player.
"Are you ready to be in a man's world?" Erving asked. "This is 82 games now, not 30. Can you handle the demands on your body? Can you handle the drudgery? It's going to be totally different. You think you know, but trust me, you don't. Be ready for the ups and downs, because they're coming."
Magic was ready. He'd been waiting for this moment since he was 12 years old. He declared himself eligible for the NBA draft and braced himself for the inevitable commotion it would cause.
His decision was indeed a newsmaker, but not in the manner he expected. An article by Joe Falls of the
Detroit Free Press
detailed why Johnson would not make a good pro. Falls questioned (correctly at that time) whether Magic had the range or the accuracy to be a legitimate outside shooter. He maintained that Magic's no-look passes wouldn't be successful in the NBA and called into question Johnson's defensive capabilities. Falls was also skeptical that a player of Johnson's size could succeed as a point guard in a league that put a premium on quickness and athleticism.
Magic had known Falls since high school. He was an influential columnist, and his words were stunning. They also ticked Johnson off.
"Did you hear about this?" he asked Kelser, whom he roused out of bed with an early morning telephone call.
"Did you read Joe Falls this morning?" said Magic to Heathcote when he arrived at the Spartans gym.
"Ah, don't worry, that's just Joe," Heathcote said.
Johnson was already motivated to make his mark in the NBA, but Falls's prose became the impetus he needed to stay an extra hour, shoot an extra hundred jump shots, and run through an extra set of defensive slides.
"Joe Falls did me a favor," Magic said. "He helped me get ready for the NBA as much as anybody."
Johnson's new NBA home would be determined by a coin flip between the Chicago Bulls and the Los Angeles Lakers to see who selected first in the 1979 draft.
After meeting with Johnson, Bulls general manager Rod Thorn and coach Jerry Sloan, an old-school coach who abhorred glitz and flair, were giddy at the prospect of building around him.
"Magic was just so disarming because of his charisma," Thorn said. "We were asking him questions, but the next thing you know, he was interviewing us. Even Jerry was getting excited."
Magic's visit with the Lakers also went well. He walked out convinced they would take him if they selected firstâuntil he read an
LA Times
article on the plane ride home discussing general manager Jerry West's fascination with Arkansas star Sidney Moncrief, the team's plans to bring in UCLA forward David Greenwood for an interview, and speculation that the Lakers could use the draft
"Do you think your agent could hook me up on the phone with Dr. J?" Magic asked Kelser. "I'd like to ask him his advice."
Erving knew all about Johnson and his gifted passing skills. He not only agreed to talk with him, he invited Magic and Kelser to stay at his suburban Philadelphia home during the 1979 NBA playoffs. They bunked in the guest room, fussed over by Erving's wife Turquoise, and were given passes into the Sixers locker room. Both players were amazed at how big the pro players were, far more imposing than they appeared on 24-inch black-and-white television sets.
Dr. J sat down with Johnson and briefed him on the challenge in front of him. Erving had left school as a college junior and by doing so missed an opportunity to be an Olympian. Magic would also be giving up that dream if he went pro, he said. Dr. J explained that, whatever decision he made, someone would be disappointed.
"If you go pro, some of your college teammates will resent you," he said. "If you stay in school, your family might be upset you won't be in a position to assist them financially."
Erving also outlined the difference between a college basketball season and the long, often grueling lifestyle of a professional basketball player.
"Are you ready to be in a man's world?" Erving asked. "This is 82 games now, not 30. Can you handle the demands on your body? Can you handle the drudgery? It's going to be totally different. You think you know, but trust me, you don't. Be ready for the ups and downs, because they're coming."
Magic was ready. He'd been waiting for this moment since he was 12 years old. He declared himself eligible for the NBA draft and braced himself for the inevitable commotion it would cause.
His decision was indeed a newsmaker, but not in the manner he expected. An article by Joe Falls of the
Detroit Free Press
detailed why Johnson would not make a good pro. Falls questioned (correctly at that time) whether Magic had the range or the accuracy to be a legitimate outside shooter. He maintained that Magic's no-look passes wouldn't be successful in the NBA and called into question Johnson's defensive capabilities. Falls was also skeptical that a player of Johnson's size could succeed as a point guard in a league that put a premium on quickness and athleticism.
Magic had known Falls since high school. He was an influential columnist, and his words were stunning. They also ticked Johnson off.
"Did you hear about this?" he asked Kelser, whom he roused out of bed with an early morning telephone call.
"Did you read Joe Falls this morning?" said Magic to Heathcote when he arrived at the Spartans gym.
"Ah, don't worry, that's just Joe," Heathcote said.
Johnson was already motivated to make his mark in the NBA, but Falls's prose became the impetus he needed to stay an extra hour, shoot an extra hundred jump shots, and run through an extra set of defensive slides.
"Joe Falls did me a favor," Magic said. "He helped me get ready for the NBA as much as anybody."
Johnson's new NBA home would be determined by a coin flip between the Chicago Bulls and the Los Angeles Lakers to see who selected first in the 1979 draft.
After meeting with Johnson, Bulls general manager Rod Thorn and coach Jerry Sloan, an old-school coach who abhorred glitz and flair, were giddy at the prospect of building around him.
"Magic was just so disarming because of his charisma," Thorn said. "We were asking him questions, but the next thing you know, he was interviewing us. Even Jerry was getting excited."
Magic's visit with the Lakers also went well. He walked out convinced they would take him if they selected firstâuntil he read an
LA Times
article on the plane ride home discussing general manager Jerry West's fascination with Arkansas star Sidney Moncrief, the team's plans to bring in UCLA forward David Greenwood for an interview, and speculation that the Lakers could use the draft
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