Bernard King - Game Face: A Lifetime of Hard-Earned Lessons On and Off the Basketball Court

A t seven oclock on the night of April 10, 1987, I was getting ready to step onto the hardwood for the first time in over two years. The first time since the injury that was supposed to end my NBA career. No one had come back from it before, and most of the experts said it couldnt be done.

Two years.

It felt like forever.

Id worked tirelessly, relentlessly, to come back, pushed myself to defy all expectations. Throughout my rehab, I insisted it wasnt enough just to return to the game that I loved. I was determined to return as an elite player and compete at the highest level. Nothing less would satisfy me, despite all the questions about whether my goal was even achievable.

I couldnt begin to answer those questions until I plunged into the fast-paced action and physicality of a pro basketball game a challenge that was now only minutes off.

The night my knee exploded, I was in my third year with the New York Knicks and playing the best basketball of my life. My All-Star appearance in 1984 was the springboard that elevated my confidence and my game, leading to what I call my Season of Ascension. That year I entered a zone, locked in, and never left, establishing my ability to match up against Larry Bird, Earvin Magic Johnson, or any of the top players in the world.

Representing the Eastern Conference alongside Bird, Julius Erving, and Isiah Thomas, and competing against the likes of Magic and George Gervin, I reached a new level of confidence. Whether I had one man guarding me, two, or three, I knew I could have my way offensively on the court.

That roll continued into the next year, becoming a new personal standard. In 1985, I was the leagues leading scorer and could put the ball into the hoop almost at will.

I was twenty-eight years old. At the peak of my career.

I felt unstoppable, and I was.

Then one night in Kansas City, I jumped to block a layup after hustling down the court on a fast break, a situation Id been in countless times, and a split-second later everything changed. Not just for my career, but for every facet of my life.

The opposing players name was Reggie Theus. Only two of us were out on the break. No one was in front of him, and no one was parallel with me. Hed recovered possession of the ball on a turnover, and I was chasing him down hard toward our end of the court trailing by more than I liked as he drove toward the hoop.

Going up to block his shot, I planted earlier and far more aggressively than usual and leaped into the air.

The crack of my knee blowing out was heard throughout the arena, but I didnt hear it. I didnt hear the horrified gasps from the crowd or really even know what had happened to me.

But I knew it was bad. As bad as it could be.

I screamedOh my God!and landed in a heap, then curled into a semi-fetal position and couldnt get up. The pain was excruciating, more intense than any Id ever felt. I repeatedly banged my fist on the floor, clutching my right knee with my left hand.

Imagine being in midair, soaring above the rim, and simultaneously knowing your career is over.

It was like Id been struck down by a stray rifle shot.

Yet it would prove to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Some might find that hard to believe, and its understandable. I certainly didnt realize it while awaiting diagnostic surgery at Manhattans Lenox Hill Hospital. All I knew was that my prospects looked grim.

I would soon learn Id suffered a torn anterior cruciate ligament, torn knee cartilage, and a shattered bone in my right knee. The damage was so severe I was unable to lift my leg off my bed without a therapists assistance, and I was bound to a wheelchair for months. But during my journey back, through all the obstacles I faced, I had evolved as a player and person.

Now, two years later, two long years, I sat at my locker in my New York Knicks uniform, my head lowered under a towel, even as my intensity, passion, and concentration rose inside me. I was gearing up for the most important game of my life.

At home the night before, Id sat out on my terrace in northern New Jersey, enjoying the gentle spring breeze and listening to the great jazz trumpeter and bandleader Dizzy Gillespie on my stereo. I equated many aspects of my game and, in some ways, my life, to jazz. Its improvisational strains always relaxed me, and since Diz and I were friends, I found that especially true of his music. It gave us a profound connection.

Around 11:30 P.M. , I went inside and dialed his number on the phone. He picked up after a just a couple of rings. Id assumed he would be awake. Musicians, like athletes, are night owls.

Diz its Bernard. Ive been out here listening to your music, I said. You probably know from the newspapers that Im coming back tomorrow, and Id like you to be at the game.

Dizzy lived in Teaneck, New Jersey, a relatively short distance from New York City. He didnt hesitate for a second.

Of course. Ill be there, he said.

His answer gave me a sense of calm, of balance, for which Ill always be grateful.

Although I customarily drove myself to the Garden before my injury, Id hired a limousine for my return appearance. For one thing, I knew my first wife and a couple of friends would be coming along to lend me their support and wanted a larger vehicle for their comfort. For another, I wanted to avoid having to drive through Friday night gridlock on the Jersey Turnpike and make the trip as stress-free as possible.