I was drawn in by a smile.
His--so vibrant, so joyous, so incredibly genuine. It would lighten up the Great Western Forum--like the explosion of a white firecracker in the absolute darkness--after a dish on transition to James Worthy or a no-look dump out to Byron Scott on the perimeter. For me, that smile alone made basketball worth watching, and more importantly, made athletics an endeavor worth celebrating.
Despite some strong opposition from Kirk Gibson, Magic Johnson was my sports hero growing up.
Known more for my own smile than my wicked jump shot, I saw Magic as a role model for how to conduct myself on the court. The only difference was that he actually had the game that justified the smile, whereas mine warranted more of a sympathetic groan.
So, I suppose it was fitting that I first heard about his contraction of HIV after another meager, yet enjoyable kickball performance at the park 10 years and seven days ago.
Bubs--6-foot-3 and potentially allergic to soap--the stereotypically shaggy local baseball card peddler, stopped my friends and me as we were running up the street in a vain attempt to get back to school before lunch break ended.
"Hey guys," the normally flippant vendor muttered, choking on his words. "Magic just announced that he has HIV."
Then, he just bowed his head and started to cry, and too young to understand what drove him to tears, I froze. I didn't know what to do, so I chose, whether consciously or not, to do nothing.
Really, what could I do? At the time, I didn't think I could smile or find some life-affirming humor in the situation, as I had grown accustomed to doing my entire life. Nothing could be less life affirming than the contraction of an incurable disease and the tears of a grown man. Nevertheless, I later realized that my logic was, despite my worthy intentions, completely misguided, and I have Magic to thank for teaching me that.
Even as he announced his new affliction to the world, he stared self-pity down, and disposed of it with a grin, as he proudly declared, "I'll live. I won't die. And if I do die, I'll be happy. I've had a great life." And don't underestimate how much a couple short sentences like that means to a confused and more than a little scared boy who would be diagnosed with diabetes just six months later.
Despite Magic's class, ignoramuses like Karl Malone began to mouth off about how they would never play against someone with contaminated blood. Oh, I can remember to this day how unbecoming their grimaces, composed of one part sadness, two parts misplaced anger and a boatload of fear, looked on their contorted visages.
But in all fairness, considering the amount of knowledge available at the time, they may not have been the insensitive dolts they now appear to be.
That's because Magic Johnson was the first American to put a face to the deadly disease.
Sure, Rock Hudson and others had brought HIV/AIDS into the national spotlight before Nov. 7, 1991, but Magic forced us to look at it unblinkingly. Here was somebody--talented, seemingly healthy and, very importantly, masculine--who made it explicitly clear that AIDS was not only for gays and drug addicts.
AIDS was real, and it won five championships and three MVP awards.
Ten years later, though not as prominent an AIDS awareness spokesperson as some may have hoped for, Magic has taught us yet another lesson: that one can live a largely normal and incredibly successful life while juggling anti-retroviral cocktails and the monitoring of T-cell counts. In fact, Magic has remained so healthy that his viral load still remains undetectable.
Nevertheless, one day my hero will most likely succumb to the virus, and the vision of a lesioned, sickly Magic Johnson on a hospital bed is almost too disturbing for me to handle.
But if the rigors of life never weighed so heavily on him as to erase his trademark smile, I know death certainly won't.
It didn't erase Carrie Shoemaker's.
She (Pratt '00), like Magic, initially drew me in with her smile. Hers, though just as appealing, differed a bit from Magic's. It was just so darn big, so toothy, so... full of life.
I realize that it is customary to shower the dead with praises, so let me assure you that it did not take her death to make those Carrie touched recognize her sparkle. She brought this incredible radiance with her wherever she went; no matter if it was at Naval ROTC training, the soccer field or my fraternity's back commons room.
Since her death, I've heard countless stories about her brilliant infectiousness. About the time she calmed a horde of angry bikers at Myrtle Beach, the time she took a noticeably shaken fourth-class member under her wing, the many times she brushed aside the rigors of juggling NROTC, club soccer, engineering and so much else to sit down with someone who just needed to talk.
Run over walking down the street. The driver didn't even have the courtesy to stop.
A couple days after I heard the news, I remembered my old friend Bubs, who, so devastated by the crushing realization of Magic's mortality, and in turn, his own, was driven to tears 10 years ago. Whereas I stood before him motionlessly last time, a decade later, I joined him.
Then, I wiped my face off and smiled because it is the only way I really know how to cope.
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