The focal point of this amazement was the sight of America's Biggest Smile, in the form of Earvin Johnson Jr., sitting behind a microphone telling the world he will no longer be using his gifted talent to make magic on the hardwood of the National Basketball Association.
Just the thought of the Magic Man retiring was shock enough. But the reason for his departure was even more moving: Johnson has contracted the HIV virus, usually the first stop along the path to what is perhaps the most feared and misunderstood disease of the 80s and 90s: AIDS.
I am trying to comprehend this. I am not doing a very good job. My friend, a disc jockey in Ohio, called me when he first heard about it. We did a live telephone interview shortly after the press conference.
I'm not sure I was the best choice for an interview. Then, like now, I was mystified and depressed about the news. When I was first told the news - about 45 minutes before Johnson met the media - I thought someone was pulling my leg.
Shock.
He's only 32. I'm only 27. This disease, this curse, can lie dormant for 10 years or more before it's discovered.
No one is safe.
Johnson is not the first athlete who's personal struggle against a deadly disease has been well-published. Was it so long ago that San Francisco pitcher Dave Dravecky had to retire after cancer surgery and an eventual amputation of his pitching arm?
Or that J.R. Richard, the flame-throwing Houston Astros pitcher, had to call it a career after a blood clot led to a stroke?
Even former Kansas City Royals manager Dick Howser was stricken while involved with his team, the victim of a brain tumor.
But these cases, while difficult to cope with, are considered in some sick fashion a part of life.
AIDS?
Not even close. The disease, most closely associated with homosexuals and intravenous drug abusers, has been the topic of jokes and innuendo for 10 years. Despite the outcries calling for more information, more research, the closet ridicule remained.
Until November 7, when Johnson explained to a thousand popping light bulbs and millions of television viewers why he was abdicating the throne of his beloved kingdom.
Because Johnson is a celebrity, an athletic Goliath at the top of his game, the spotlight in the nation's media is shining brightly. And Johnson, the former Lansing Everett High School and Michigan State star, has assumed full responsibility for educating the world. "I will become a spokesman for the disease. Sometimes you're a little naive about things. You always think it will never happen to you. "But it has happened to me. Magic Johnson. That's what I'm going to preach from now on."
For years, Johnson has stood among the greatest ambassadors the NBA had to offer. Not just because he's a winner (Michigan's Class A title in 1975-76, State's NCAA championship in 1979, five NBA crowns), either. But because he is likable, caring, honest, a true sportsman.
A symbol. A real role model in this skeptical world, where pseudo-role models are a dime a dozen.
Many people - including myself - probably would have hidden from the world if we quantum leaped into Johnson's body. AIDS? HIV? An embarrassment. A stigma.
But Johnson rose above the possible repercussions, rose above the common, the easy way out. He rose above carrying out a charade of his affliction. Instead, he chose to cope with the disease immediately, impressively, head-on.
And through it all, sitting next to his bride of two months, flanked by his physician, his friends, his bosses, he kept smiling. A healthy smile, stretching from Los Angeles to East Lansing and back.
"This ends a big part of my life," Johnson said. "But my wife is healthy, and life goes on."
And then he left the podium, slipping behind a curtain, and the world looked on in shock. Soul-searching began. We can no longer treat AIDS as a disease "other" people get. No longer is it a "curse from God," as some religious groups would lead us to believe, that afflicts homosexuals for their supposed sins.
It is something more. Something dreadfully more. It leaves us numb with confusion.
And Johnson might be the only man in the world who can smile through it all.
This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.
