duncan228
03-16-2009, 11:26 AM
Once there was Magic instead of usual hype (http://www.mysanantonio.com/sports/columnists/buck_harvey/Once_there_was_Magic_instead_of_usual_hype.html)
Buck Harvey
CBS put cameras on 20 different college basketball teams Sunday evening, then recorded their reactions when their names were announced. Some of the teams screamed in delight, and some responded as if being sent to Boise, Idaho, isn't a dream.
Some, such as North Dakota State, came with an arena of howling fans.
It was a smart programming moment, but also a telling one. The network panned across the country trying to capture the passion of college basketball — when it captured the anonymity of it. The top-seeded Louisville Cardinals were as unrecognizable as the Cal State Northridge Matadors.
There was a time when this wasn't true. Then, 30 years ago this month, two players wore the same number with entirely different personalities, and they drew the highest Nielsen rating ever for a basketball game, pro or college, before or since.
How did Magic Johnson and Larry Bird do that?
This isn't about the good, old days. Today's game is better scouted and better coached, and there's a deeper pool of players who grew up with AAU in the summer. Anyone who has watched footage of 1979 can see several players who would struggle to stay on a 2009 court.
Yes, today's best are already in the NBA. But Magic was closer to the modern era than his own. He left Michigan State after his sophomore season.
Bird was largely unknown to the average viewer until shortly before the 1979 NCAA tournament began. Another sensation then was just a freshman; Mark Aguirre of DePaul would miss a turnaround in a semifinal that would have eliminated Bird.
So familiarity wasn't the overwhelming factor in 1979, nor was the Final Four stage. It had been somewhat of a cult event before then. The NCAA didn't even register the name “Final Four” until 1981.
Bird and Magic made headlines, but little else. ESPN hadn't been invented yet, nor had terms such as “RPI” and “bracketology.” There weren't dozens of analysts talking about the dozens of games aired every weekend, and maybe that's another reason for the Magic-Bird phenomenon.
Because there were fewer games televised in 1979, the ones that were aired seemed bigger. Not numbed by countless highlights and screaming announcers, was less really more?
An example came late in the 1979 season. Then, NBC added Indiana State to its Sunday afternoon schedule to provide a look at Bird. This qualifies as a smart programming moment — Bird put together 49 points and 19 rebounds.
Indiana State ended its regular season undefeated, and with that became a No. 1 seed in a then 40-team NCAA tournament. Bird would hang on to beat Arkansas and Sidney Moncrief, then edged Aguirre, while Magic's Michigan State rolled through its bracket.
Then they were there, in Salt Lake City, in front of a modest media contingent: Two 6-foot-9 stars, both wearing No. 33, both vertically challenged, both having revived the art of the pass.
Some coaches wondered if Bird was too slow to be an effective pro (Hugh Durham would later turn down the Celtics' offer because he believed that). And some wondered if Magic's size as a point guard would translate (the late Al McGuire said an athletic Michigan State forward, Greg Kelser, was the real NBA prize).
For once, the casual fan seemed to understand better than the insiders. No one needed to tell the crowd that Bird and Magic were special.
But mostly the crowd was divided. Bird and Magic had recreated the boxing formula, pitting white against black, albeit with some complexity.
Magic was personable, with a happy middle-class upbringing. Bird was angry and isolated, the hick from French Lick, saddled with family tragedy. Body language described both, and they were captivating, a hero or a villain depending upon the view.
The game wouldn't live up to their stature. Last year's finale in San Antonio was far more entertaining.
Still, Magic and Bird had created a show, and they did so without YouTube or even a Selection Sunday. They did so because of who they were, and because of how they played, and because they found the other.
How rare is this?
Pan across the country and take a look.
Buck Harvey
CBS put cameras on 20 different college basketball teams Sunday evening, then recorded their reactions when their names were announced. Some of the teams screamed in delight, and some responded as if being sent to Boise, Idaho, isn't a dream.
Some, such as North Dakota State, came with an arena of howling fans.
It was a smart programming moment, but also a telling one. The network panned across the country trying to capture the passion of college basketball — when it captured the anonymity of it. The top-seeded Louisville Cardinals were as unrecognizable as the Cal State Northridge Matadors.
There was a time when this wasn't true. Then, 30 years ago this month, two players wore the same number with entirely different personalities, and they drew the highest Nielsen rating ever for a basketball game, pro or college, before or since.
How did Magic Johnson and Larry Bird do that?
This isn't about the good, old days. Today's game is better scouted and better coached, and there's a deeper pool of players who grew up with AAU in the summer. Anyone who has watched footage of 1979 can see several players who would struggle to stay on a 2009 court.
Yes, today's best are already in the NBA. But Magic was closer to the modern era than his own. He left Michigan State after his sophomore season.
Bird was largely unknown to the average viewer until shortly before the 1979 NCAA tournament began. Another sensation then was just a freshman; Mark Aguirre of DePaul would miss a turnaround in a semifinal that would have eliminated Bird.
So familiarity wasn't the overwhelming factor in 1979, nor was the Final Four stage. It had been somewhat of a cult event before then. The NCAA didn't even register the name “Final Four” until 1981.
Bird and Magic made headlines, but little else. ESPN hadn't been invented yet, nor had terms such as “RPI” and “bracketology.” There weren't dozens of analysts talking about the dozens of games aired every weekend, and maybe that's another reason for the Magic-Bird phenomenon.
Because there were fewer games televised in 1979, the ones that were aired seemed bigger. Not numbed by countless highlights and screaming announcers, was less really more?
An example came late in the 1979 season. Then, NBC added Indiana State to its Sunday afternoon schedule to provide a look at Bird. This qualifies as a smart programming moment — Bird put together 49 points and 19 rebounds.
Indiana State ended its regular season undefeated, and with that became a No. 1 seed in a then 40-team NCAA tournament. Bird would hang on to beat Arkansas and Sidney Moncrief, then edged Aguirre, while Magic's Michigan State rolled through its bracket.
Then they were there, in Salt Lake City, in front of a modest media contingent: Two 6-foot-9 stars, both wearing No. 33, both vertically challenged, both having revived the art of the pass.
Some coaches wondered if Bird was too slow to be an effective pro (Hugh Durham would later turn down the Celtics' offer because he believed that). And some wondered if Magic's size as a point guard would translate (the late Al McGuire said an athletic Michigan State forward, Greg Kelser, was the real NBA prize).
For once, the casual fan seemed to understand better than the insiders. No one needed to tell the crowd that Bird and Magic were special.
But mostly the crowd was divided. Bird and Magic had recreated the boxing formula, pitting white against black, albeit with some complexity.
Magic was personable, with a happy middle-class upbringing. Bird was angry and isolated, the hick from French Lick, saddled with family tragedy. Body language described both, and they were captivating, a hero or a villain depending upon the view.
The game wouldn't live up to their stature. Last year's finale in San Antonio was far more entertaining.
Still, Magic and Bird had created a show, and they did so without YouTube or even a Selection Sunday. They did so because of who they were, and because of how they played, and because they found the other.
How rare is this?
Pan across the country and take a look.