This is really proof of the Lakers’ absurd level of success, that anyone born in the last 50 years can only imagine the time before the franchise is one of the NBA’s biggest superpowers. If someone still can’t imagine such an era, come on Sunday, they will be able to see it on TV. HBO Time to Win: The Rise of the Lakers Dynasty is a true story of origin, not of the Lakers (founded in Minneapolis in 1947), but of Los Angeles Lakers – a separate unit in spirit and in practice, functionally beginning with the turbulent season of the 1979-80 team.
There may be no clearer moment before and after in the sport than the sale of Jack Kent Cook’s Lakers to Jerry Bus in 1979. The franchise has won just one championship in nearly two decades in Los Angeles; after the change of ownership, he will win five of the next nine titles and in 43 years almost doubled the championship won by any other NBA team. But victory alone was not enough; what changed the league forever was the way the Lakers played and how that style fueled the product that Buss was ultimately trying to sell. The team might never have attracted Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal or LeBron James if it weren’t for the consciously cultivated idea of what it means to be a Laker. And this idea – celebrity, prestige, the inexpressible cool– would not exist without the Showtime generation.
Basketball teams took a quick break for decades before the Lakers promoted Magic Johnson, but did they? There are extended drums with Magic accents, filled from start to finish with passes that the basketball world has never seen before, and we haven’t seen much since. No player has done more to unlock the potential of the open floor, or has managed to reproduce the pure electricity currently between Magic to collect the ball and he decides what to do with it. The highest order for HBO in adapting the history of Showtime (error, in Time to win The story, as it is known for reasons of corporate branding) comes in an attempt to recreate what dozens of professional basketball players have failed to do. Put John C. Riley in an open collar and you’ll get most of the way to the late Dr. Buss, “pool swindler, scientist, playboy, millionaire” like Los Angeles Times he described it in 1976. Even with the dead Quincy Isaiah chosen for Magic, it’s a little harder to capture the energy that the Hall of Fame defender brought into a smooth game and how exactly it felt to watch these Lakers play.
From the beginning, there was a fascinatingly dynamic present. Through a happy turn of transactions and coin toss that changes history (there were more than a few fateful coincidences that made Showtime Lakers, including a shocking murder, a tragic incident and a player-led riot that allowed Pat Riley to climb from broadcaster to chief coach), the Lakers managed to bring out Johnson in 1979, pairing him with the already legendary center in Karim Abdul-Jabar. It was their differences that made them perfect. Kareem was an unstoppable half-court goal scorer who could shoot whenever an opponent managed to slow down Magic; Meanwhile, Magic was such a ruthless and charismatic playmaker that he made Karim run with him for even easier results.
Their pace armed Magic’s size at the point, and his size boosted their pace. His control of live dribble was astounding. Johnson, to his credit, always seemed to understand that you can only do amazing things with the ball if you know how to protect it. “I can’t believe God created a man 6-9 who can handle the ball that way,” Kansas City Kings general manager Joe Axelson told Johnson during his new season. Abdul-Jabar, of course, was anomalous in his own way: a sprawling 7-foot-2 giant that would become one of the most exquisite players the sport has ever seen.
It’s never been just for Skyhook ™, although this move has become synonymous with Kareem for a reason. It was unblocked. It was inimitable. It was a means for the most prolific goal scorer in NBA history to raise them again and again, even though every existing defender knew what he was going to do. You could try to get him out of his favorite places or interrupt his time, but by the time Magic arrived in Los Angeles, Karim was so mastered the mechanics of this movement that he could find ways to adjust his steps and reverse his shoulder whenever he had to. Equally important: Abdul-Jabar, who was fluent, knew how to move and leave the post in ways that allowed his teammates to thrive.
Karim and Magic made room for James Worthy and Jamal Wilkes to drop on the wings and for Bob Macadou to go off the bench. They set up Byron Scott with free and clean jumpers, punishing double teams. They found avenues to reward Michael Cooper for his tireless defense and Mitch Kupchak and Kurt Rambis for their dirty work. Setting up teammates was something natural for Karim, as a continuation of his dominance and the attention he would inevitably attract. Magic has attracted this attention – throwing types of emissions at close range, which are possible only when you know where the opponent is looking and, more importantly, where he is not.
Even when Magic transformed the Lakers’ entire lifestyle, Karim was the one to win MVP medals in their first season together and to lead the team in scoring goals most of the time together. Abdul-Jabar is the most awarded player in the history of the sport and yet even his list of achievements – six titles, a record six MVPs and 19 All-Star selections to begin with – can underestimate how exceptional his career has really been. The very idea that a player the size of him will play 95 percent of his team’s regular matches for 20 years seems incomprehensible by today’s standards. Huge workload? No problem. Knee pain? Wrap them. Kareem made racing and winning at the highest levels seem as easy as extending his arm and moving his wrist.
Johnson knew better, so he was openly respectful of his teammate, a jumping veteran. “I think I wanted him to know that I was not trying to enter his territory; he was the man, “Johnson said. When Abdul-Jabar wanted to work in the block, Showtime went on vacation. When reporters asked Magic about himself, he was talking about Kareem. They weren’t exactly the fastest friends or the best of them, but the two Lakers stars formed a partnership for all time, developing and thriving in their respective lines. Abdul-Jabar seemed to want nothing more than to play basketball and be alone. Meanwhile, Magic could be the face of Showtime – an offensive for one man to sell the vision of the Lakers that Buss imagined.
“I really tried to create an image of Laker, a separate identity,” Buss said in 1986. I think we succeeded. I mean, the Lakers are pretty damn Hollywood. To his credit (and incredible gain), Buss saw the potential in turning the Lakers’ games into an event and in the extraction of LA’s most renewable resource: the need to see and be seen. Players would go upstairs after the buzzer to mingle with actors, musicians and celebrities at the Forum Club, making the game itself a start. In that world – the world of Time to winMagic Johnson was in the center of the frame. Karim never wanted it any other way.