Julius Erving, aka Dr. J, made me fall in love with the game. Bird turned it into an obsession.
I would read how Bird often spent six or seven hours a day shooting baskets in his driveway βΒ rain, sleet, snow, didnβt matter. Sometimes, Bird played until his hands cracked, blistered and bled.
Sometimes, he played with swollen ankles, broken fingers or the flu. He just played, and I made sure to play through all of that, too.
I was just a kid who didnβt know any better when Bird was in his prime. No one told me that only about, oh, 12 guys shorter than 6-foot have ever made an impact in the NBA. I thought I could make it. I dreamed I could be on that court, even for just one second, because I worshipedΒ the game like Bird.
Never happened, of course. I did make it to college. I did get a scholarship. I did become the only player shorter than 6-foot-0 in our conference. I even set the school record for 3-pointers in a game (seven). It lasted a whopping five months.
But Bird is the main reason I turned my absolute obsession for the game into a career. I learned to write (or at least tried) so I could write about basketball.
Itβs the offseason, a season for reflection. Thatβs why I write this column about a once-in-a-lifetime player.
A player who helped shape my life β as odd as that may be for a grown man to say about a complete stranger.
But I write this for me as much for me as I do the reader.
I write this simply to say thanks, Larry Bird. I do basketball because of you.