Spring Loaded

Magic Johnson is turning 50.

Amazing.

I didn’t know if he’d see 33.

Has it really been nearly 18 years since I walked out of a Forum press conference seeing something I had never seen before, or since: Cynical, sarcastic, know-it-all reporters shedding tears.

Has it really been nearly 18 years since we sat around talking about how hard it was going to be to watch this guy with the broad smile and the bubbly personality die in public?

When Magic stood up in front of the gathered media and a worldwide audience to announce that he was retiring from the Lakers because he had the HIV virus, I thought it was a death sentence.

Back in those days when knowledge of the disease was relatively meager although it had been around for nearly a decade, I thought HIV and AIDS were the same thing. Interchangeable terms.

So too, Magic later admitted, did he.

When he said he was going to beat the disease, we thought he was living in a fantasy world. This wasn’t an opponent like the Boston Celtics or the Chicago Bulls, a foe with weaknesses to probe and strengths to overcome. This was a deadly virus that wasn’t going to be faked out by no-look passes.

But we knew Magic well enough to understand that he wasn’t going to fade away, to spend his final days in some remote hospice.

He gravitated to the spotlight like a moth, in good times and bad. So he was going to fight the good fight in our faces as long as he was physically able.

As it turned out, of course, the odds against him weren’t as long as they first seemed. If this wasn’t a winnable fight – there is still no cure – it was at least a battle Magic could take into overtime after overtime after overtime.

With a positive outlook, a vigorous work ethic, a healthy diet and, most importantly, cutting-edge medication, Magic has kept the virus under control.

Eighteen years later, it’s still there, but, according to doctors, barely detectable in his blood.

The public’s attitude has changed dramatically since those dark days in 1991. Back then, both Karl Malone, then of the Utah Jazz, and Phoenix Suns executive Jerry Colangelo, publicly questioned whether Magic should dare to step on a basketball court.

The wife of one player told Magic he could score whenever he wanted to. All he had to do, she said, was to slash his wrist and drive down the court. Nobody would dare touch him.

And indeed, when Magic did suffer a cut on his arm on the court in his first attempt to return, a hush came over the crowd and some in the arena looked at him as if they were Superman and he was a big, glowing mass of kryptonite.

I have to admit, I had my moment of hesitation. I’ve known Magic for a long time. His rookie year in the NBA was my rookie year as a Laker beat writer.

Whenever I see him, he opens his arms for a big hug. But the first time we came face-to-face after his jaw-dropping announcement, and those arms opened up, I paused.

Just for an instant.

But, I paused.

Then common sense took over and I opened my arms as well.

There is no way to gauge how many similar sufferers from the HIV virus have been bolstered in their own struggles by the shining example of Magic. No way to chart how many have remained active and visible in society because he did.

Ask him if he’s a hero and he’ll laugh. No way, he’ll say, just living life as I told you guys I would.

And to think we doubted him.

Happy birthday, Magic. And here’s to 50 more.

David Stern,

NBA Commissioner

New York, New York

Dear David:

I know you’d never admit it in public, but this is clearly not the NBA Finals you dreamed of.

It’s not Lakers vs. Celtics once again.

It’s not Kobe vs. LeBron for the first time.

But that doesn’t mean the Lakers and Magic can’t put on a show that grips the basketball nation and keeps the ratings respectable if not record-shattering.

It’s still Kobe in search of redemption, in search of bragging rights to a title procured without Shaq, in search of another rung on his life-long quest to top MJ.

It’s still the power of Dwight Howard against the finesse of Pau Gasol. Oh yeah, and Andrew Bynum might show up too, but don’t bet on it. (Sorry about that, David. I know you don’t even like to see your name in the same sentence as the word bet.)

It’s still an historic franchise looking to add to a near-record number of banners against one with no championship banners and little history worth remembering.

It’s East against West, Disneyland against Disney World, the team of Magic Johnson against a team with plenty of magic of its own.

It could be a great series. But you control that, David. You really do.

So do us all a favor and blow the whistle on your refs. Tell them to let these guys play. Remind them again that nobody -- but relatives, and we’re not even sure about them -- pays to see them run their zebra-striped bodies up and down the court.

Net-swishing three-pointers by Kobe? Yes.

Rim-rattling dunks by Howard? Yes.

Gravity-defying steals by Trevor Ariza? Yes.

Mind-numbing trips to the foul line? No.

An enthusiasm-smothering clampdown on trash talking? Please no.

A bewildering series of technicals, flagrant fouls, ejections and suspensions? Enough already.

You have a great game, David. Why throw a blanket over it? If you were in charge of the Kentucky Derby, would you tie plows behind all the horses?

That’s the equivalent of what you’ve done here by creating ridiculous guidelines for your officials. Fouls are called that are sometimes imperceptible on replays. Floppers get rewarded for going into a swan dive every time an opposing player breathes on them.

Trash talking is a technical. That’s right, trash talking.

And hard fouls all seem to be flagrant fouls. There are flagrant 1s and flagrant 2s.

Is a torture category next?

It’s ruining the game, David. Kobe gets in Shane Battier’s face after scoring and Kobe gets a technical. J. R. Smith celebrates. Another technical. Ron Artest shoves Gasol to prevent a sure basket and Artest gets a flagrant 2.

That was lowered to a flagrant 1 after the league office had a day to reconsider.

That’s another silly trend. We must now wait 24 hours for league disciplinarian Stu Jackson to hand down a ruling, like an appeals court, before we can be sure what the final verdict is on any call.

I guess you don’t trust the refs on the floor, David. But if they’re so incompetent, why not do away with them altogether and just have Jackson call the game from his office?

It’s been four seasons since Artest jumped into the stands in Detroit to fight with fans, but it seems like the fear still lingers that every game is one hard foul away from a riot.

If your current clampdown had been in effect in the 1984 Finals, Kevin McHale’s clothesline tackle of Kurt Rambis would have at least earned McHale a lifetime suspension, if not prison time.

And Larry Bird and Michael Cooper, two of the great trash talkers of their era, would have been stuck on the bench talking to themselves.

The league was entertaining and fun back then, two words you seem determined to expunge from the NBA vocabulary.

Talk to old-timers. They just shake their heads at the newer, stricter NBA.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. If you go for the ball, contact should be no worse than a foul. If you go for the head, that’s flagrant. If you want to trash talk or pound your chest or throw chalk in the air, that’s entertainment.

You’ve got a great product to sell, David. Take the wrapping off and put it on the shelf as is.

Believe me, the customers will be standing in line.