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By: Michael D. McClellan | The player Larry Bird calls “the best teammate I’ve ever had” gets his start driving a forklift for $2.75 an hour in a tape warehouse. He arrives in Boston years later with a championship ring and a reputation as a locker room cancer, the former by virtue of one big play after another during the 1979 NBA Finals, the latter the result of a Grand Canyon-sized chip on his shoulder that comes from continually having to prove himself. He enters the league with an ugly jumper and a gift for rising to the occasion, his 0-for-14 Game 7 shooting debacle in the ’78 NBA Finals a testament to both; how many players choke so completely with everything on the line, only to come back and win the championship—and the Finals MVP Award—the very next season? He exits as one of the game’s clutch performers.

That Dennis Johnson even makes it to the NBA is equal parts miracle and mystery. It’s a ride that starts in Compton decades before gangsta rap goes from the ghetto to the mainstream, and for Johnson, the eighth of 16 children raised in a tough neighborhood, basketball time is his studio time. But to say that he “plays” prep basketball is a misnomer, because Johnson watches most games from the end of the bench at Compton’s Dominquez High School, unable to cop any meaningful minutes, his hoops portfolio noteworthy only for being cut from his seventh and eighth grade teams. He is so underwhelming that not a single college recruiter comes calling. He is also years away from the NBA, an idea so farfetched at the time that Johnson—better known as DJ—graduates from Dominguez and takes that job operating a forklift.

“I was 5–9 at the time, and I wasn’t very quick,” Johnson says. “I was the 11th man and I averaged about two minutes of playing time. I don’t think I was a bad player. There were some really good players on our varsity team. I grew three or four inches right after high school, so I guess you could say that I was a late bloomer.”

Compton isn’t the war zone that it becomes later, but it isn’t exactly the suburbs, either. Johnson is eleven when the Watts Rebellion heats up, resulting in 34 deaths and over $40 million in property damage. He stays out of trouble by playing Little League baseball. The Johnson residence is a hub of activity, kids playing sports and spinning records, the air thick with the smell of home cooking.

“My father was a cement mason and my mother was a social worker, so money was tight, especially with that many mouths to feed. Somehow my father always found a way to take us to sporting events. We’d occasionally see the Lakers play, but at that time it was mostly the Dodgers because it was cheaper and he could take advantage of the neighborhood deals on tickets. When you’re taking 10 people to a sporting event it’s important to do so in the most economical way possible, so we’d go to whatever event that offered the best deal. That way everyone could go to the game. Football, basketball, baseball, soccer, it didn’t really matter. Sometimes me and my brothers would sneak into games.”

While baseball hooks Johnson early, it’s basketball that eventually wins out.

“I was 5–4 in junior high,” Johnson says, “so baseball was a better fit for me at that time. I went out for the basketball team and was cut a couple of times, which really hurt, but I wasn’t going to give up. I never doubted myself, not even when I was sitting the bench in high school and hoping there’d be a blowout so that I could get some garbage minutes.”

Johnson gets on with his life following graduation. He has no real plan, other than hopping the bus after work to play in summer league games with his brothers. It’s then that an amazing thing happens; the once too-small high school player grows into a muscular basketball junkie with springs for legs.

“I’d considered Compton Community College after graduation, as well as a number of other schools both inside and outside of the district,” Johnson says. “Unfortunately, there weren’t any scholarship offers, so college wasn’t a realistic option. Based on my financial situation I decided to get a job instead. I worked in warehouses and drove forklifts. I knew that it wasn’t for me. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with these types of jobs. I just knew that there had to be other opportunities out there.

“My brothers were involved in a summer basketball league in San Pedro, and after work I would catch the bus and play ball with them. One of my brothers coached our team, and three of my brothers played. It was a good period in my life. My game improved tremendously. It helped that I’d grown several inches, and that I’d continued to work out and stay in shape. I was 6-foot-3 and much stronger than I was in high school.”

Johnson’s play catches the eye of Jim White, the head coach of nearby Harbor Junior College. White sees enough potential in the reddish-haired, freckle-faced Johnson to offer a scholarship.

“My brother organized a game against Harbor,” Johnson explains. “Coach White saw me play, and was impressed enough to invite me over for a tryout. The school was close to home, so it was an ideal situation. Playing in front of Coach White was one of the most important things to ever happen to me.”

Young and undisciplined, Johnson is often unable to contain his temper when exposed to White’s demanding ways. He’s kicked off of the team three times in two seasons. White never completely gives up on his rebellious guard, a fact that Johnson appreciates today.

“I was a wild stallion at the time, young and emotional and very sure of myself,” Johnson admits. “Coach White and I butted heads on occasion. After I moved into coaching I could see some of the same things with my players. I gained a new appreciation for Coach White. Being older and wiser puts things in a different perspective.”

Johnson spends two years at Harbor, winning the ’74 state JUCO title before transferring to Pepperdine, where he is coached by the classy Gary Colson.

“Coach White worked hard to get me into a Division I university. He called a friend who was an assistant coach at Pepperdine. Coach Colson had already seen me play, so I think that helped. I played one season for Pepperdine, and after talking to Colson I declared myself eligible for the 1976 draft. I was allowed to do this because, technically, my junior year at Pepperdine represented my fourth year of college had I gone there directly from high school. It’s the same junior eligible rule that the Celtics used to select Larry Bird.”

Johnson blossoms during his lone season at Pepperdine, but struggles with his shot. While an abysmal field goal percentage might be a limiting factor for other guards, Johnson’s game is about the sum of its parts. He plays hard nosed defense on one end and scraps for put-backs on the other. He sprinkles the stat sheet with a steals, blocks and rebounds. And then, just as he’s starting to turn heads, calamity strikes.

“Sometime during the Christmas season my mother phoned me with news that our house had burned down,” Johnson says. “The cause of the fire was never really determined, although it appeared to have been electrical. I briefly considered leaving college and finding a job so that I could help them get back on their feet. I discussed my options with Coach Colson, and he advised me to stay in school because there was a very real possibility that I’d be drafted. Up until then I’d never really considered playing professionally. Fortunately, my uncle was able to help out with my parent’s situation. He had two houses and offered one of them to us. Nobody likes a handout, but his generosity eased the burden on my family and allowed me to stay in school.”

The Sonics select Johnson in the second round of the 1976 NBA Draft, the 29th player chosen overall. In a twist, it’s former Celtics great Bill Russell who pulls the trigger.

“Heading into the draft, only two GMs really knew anything about me, Jerry West and Bill Russell,” Johnson says. “Jerry was the Lakers’ GM, and Bill Russell was the coach and GM of the SuperSonics. Jerry had a great relationship with Coach Colson, who was touting my potential as an NBA prospect. The Lakers ended up drafting Earl Tatum from Marquette instead, because they only had one pick and Jerry didn’t think that I was eligible to play that season. The Sonics selected me eight picks later. Jerry was very upset when he found out that I was eligible to play right away. He filed a formal complaint questioning the legality of the draft. By the time the NBA completed its investigation I’d already signed my rookie contract. The Lakers eventually dropped their protest.”

With Russell as his coach, Johnson comes off the bench behind Slick Watts and Fred Brown. He’s raw but eager, his 6-foot-4 frame equally suited for the gridiron, his athleticism making up for the deficiencies in his game.

“I wasn’t sure I belonged,” Johnson says of that first year in Seattle. “Having Bill Russell as my coach was intimidating, but he did a good job of pulling me aside and pointing things out. We talked a lot. That’s how I started learning the pro game, and my defense became very good. I started analyzing other players’ moves and tendencies, and figuring out how to counter them. I didn’t follow the Boston Celtics all that much growing up, but I knew who Russell was and what the Celtics were accomplishing at that time. So when he talked to me about basketball, I definitely listened and tried to incorporate what he was saying.”

The Sonics finish the 1976–77 regular season 40–42. Russell is out as coach, replaced by Bob Hopkins, who lasts only 22 games before he is replaced by Lenny Wilkens. One of Wilkens’s first decisions is to insert Johnson into the starting backcourt alongside Gus Williams, a lightning-quick point guard from USC. The Sonics, who start the 1977–78 regular season 5–17 under Hopkins, respond by going 42–18 the rest of the way and racing to the 1978 NBA Finals. It’s there, in that Game 7 against the Washington Bullets, that Johnson goes scoreless from the field. Washington wins the game—and the NBA championship—by six points.

“I went home that summer and did everything in my power to keep that from ever happening again,” he says. “It was an embarrassing experience to play so poorly, especially in a situation of that magnitude. I choked. I’d never played on a stage that big, not with 15,000 people in an arena, but it motivated me and made me stronger.”

Johnson redeems himself a year later, when, on June 1, 1979, the SuperSonics defeat the Bullets, 97–93, to capture the NBA championship. He averages 21 points, but it’s his defense that makes the difference. He blocks 14 shots as the Sonics win in five.

“That first championship was the best,” Johnson says, smiling. “That feeling can’t be duplicated. Everything about that first title is so vivid: the great players that I played with, such as Jack Sikma, and the absolute high that I felt winning it all. That Sonics team was so young and talented, and had all the makings of a dynasty. I remember all the talk was about repeating as champions. One of my greatest disappointments was not being able to win back-to-back championships in Seattle.”

The Sonics’ bid to repeat is stopped cold in the 1980 Western Conference Finals, when the Lakers run them off the court, 4–1. The storyline in Los Angeles revolves around the team’s charismatic rookie, Magic Johnson. In Seattle, all the talk is about the moody, headstrong DJ. Shockingly, Johnson is traded to Phoenix. On his way out of town, Wilkens refers to Johnson as a locker room cancer.

“I was truly happy in every place I played,” he says. “I loved Seattle. Paul Silas never stopped mentoring me, never stopped dispensing advice so valuable to winning championships. He was a 15-year veteran by then, and I respected him greatly. I was young and hotheaded, and a lot of what was said went in one ear and out the other. I think that hurt me. If I could do it all over again, I would have kept my temper in check. But I wasn’t a cancer.”

The fiery Johnson gets off to a rocky start in Phoenix. His new coach, John MacLeod, is known for his demanding practice rituals, which include aerobics and wind sprints. The Suns reach the playoffs in each of Johnson’s three seasons with the team, but postseason success proves elusive. Johnson clashes with MacLeod and ends up being shipped to Boston for Rick Robey. The trade is pennies on the dollar.

“I looked at the trade two ways,” Johnson says. “Back then, no one really knew who you were unless you played in one of the major markets. Going to Boston meant that there would be more exposure. On the other hand, the so-called experts were saying that the Suns practically gave me away because I was a problem child. That bothered me, but I used it as motivation. In the end, joining the Celtics was a dream come true, because I got to compete for championships with guys like Larry, Robert, and Kevin.”

In Boston, Johnson gets a crash course in Celtics history. He’d played for Russell in Seattle; in Boston, he meets a living legend in Red Auerbach.

“Surreal,” Johnson says, when asked for one word to describe their initial encounter. Reporting to camp out of shape, Johnson also learns that practices in Boston are unlike anything he’d experienced in Seattle or Phoenix.

“Practice would definitely take on a different tone when Red was there. Everyone would snap into place. We would work a little harder, because we wanted to make sure that he saw us at our best. It was almost like we were the soldiers and he was the four-star general out on the battlefield, surveying his troops. The practices were more intense than some of the games that we played. It made us a better team. Some of my fondest memories are of those battles.”

The Celtics go 62–20 during the 1983–84 regular season and reach the 1984 NBA Finals, where Magic and the Showtime Lakers await. After falling behind 2–1 in the series, K. C. Jones assigns Johnson the task of guarding Magic. DJ responds by scoring 20 or more points in each of the last four games, while making life miserable for LA’s 6-foot-9 point guard. Boston wins a classic series in seven games.

“That whole season was geared toward meeting the Lakers in the Finals,” Johnson says. “Everyone knew that we were the two best teams, and it almost seemed like a foregone conclusion that we were going to battle for the NBA championship. People were talking about it six months before the playoffs started. It more than lived up to the billing.”

The Celtics meet the Lakers again a year later. This time it’s Magic Johnson who rebounds from a poor Game 7 performance.

“The Lakers won, and it hurt more than any loss I’ve ever suffered on a basketball court,” Johnson says. “The series started with us crushing them on Memorial Day. We couldn’t have played any better that afternoon, but Kareem came out and played like a man possessed in Game 2. We couldn’t stop him. The Lakers won that game, took away our home court advantage, and then we had to play the next three games in Los Angeles. We won one game there, but we didn’t get the job done in Boston. The day we lost that series was the lowest point in my professional career. We had given everything that year to repeat as champions, and we put ourselves in a position to make history. We just couldn’t pull it off.”

Auerbach trades forward Cedric Maxwell to the Clippers for Bill Walton following that series, and the Celtics roll to a 67-win season. After dispatching the Houston Rockets in the ’86 Finals, Boston has its second title in three years, and Johnson’s third overall.

“We were untouchable that year. We were healthy, and everyone was at the top of their game. With players like Bill, Scott Wedman, and Jerry Sichting coming off the bench, we were incredibly deep. It helped having the best player in the league.”

Understandably, DJ’s respect for Bird is of the highest order.

“Larry was a special player, one of the best ever,” Johnson says. “What made him so great was his drive. He practiced the way he played the game, going full-speed all of the time. Larry never took a practice off. You hear sportswriters talk about how he would dive for loose balls during games, but he did that stuff in practice, too. It wasn’t for show. Larry wasn’t a big talker. Practices were his way of making a statement. He was one who always led by example, and he never let you know how bad he was hurting. That was the real Larry Bird that you saw on the court.”

Bird and Johnson will forever be linked, in large part because of the steal against the Pistons in Game 5 of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals. Bird’s theft of Isiah Thomas’ inbounds pass with seconds left is as heady as it gets, but without Johnson’s quick thinking the Celtics would have lost the game and likely the series. With Bird’s momentum pushing him out of bounds, Johnson cuts to the basket, giving him the perfect target.

“That play ranks as the greatest that I’ve ever been a part of,” Johnson says. “The shot I hit to beat the Lakers in Game 4 of the ’84 Finals was huge, but being involved with Larry’s steal is my all-time favorite. Had we lost that game, the Pistons would have gone back to Detroit up 3–2 in the series. We were so hard to beat at home, and anytime you have Larry on your team you feel like you’ve got a chance, no matter how bad the outlook. Larry made a great play, and I reacted to it.”

Johnson retires following the 1989–90 season, his seventh in a Boston uniform. By then his reputation as a malcontent is a thing of the past. He’s played 14 seasons in the NBA, made six trips to the Finals, won three championships walked away with a Finals MVP award. Along the way he’s named to the All-NBA First Team (1981), All-NBA Second Team (1980), and from 1979 to 1987, either first-team or second-team All-Defense.

“Boston was a fairytale for me,” he says, flashing that famous gap-toothed grin. “Having my number retired is the ultimate honor.” Not a bad ride, especially for a one-time forklift operator straight outta Compton.