GQ Sports
Magic Johnson on the Swagger and Synergy of the Showtime Lakers
“The Lakers proved you didn't have to choose between style and substance,” writes the Hall-of-Famer and five-time NBA Champion. “You could have both.”
By Earvin "Magic" Johnson
September 23, 2026
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The following essay by Earvin “Magic” Johnson is an excerpt from Lakers: An Official History of the Purple & Gold, an authorized 528-page account of the franchise produced in collaboration with Taschen and available to purchase now.
I’ll never forget stepping off that plane at LAX in 1979. Just a 19-year-old kid from Lansing, Michigan, walking into a city that felt like sunshine and possibility. The first time I met Dr. Jerry Buss, he told me, "Earvin, we're not just going to win championships. We're going to do it with style.” He had just purchased the team, and nobody knew then that we were about to change basketball forever. We weren't just building a basketball team. The vision was so much bigger—basketball as excellence, basketball as entertainment, as lifestyle, as something that could capture the spirit of Los Angeles itself.
The Showtime era and the years that followed remain a storied time. One year, however, stands apart: my rookie year, when we won the NBA championship.
It all started in late July of 1979 in a Summer League game at Cal State University, Los Angeles. When I was in the van on the way to the arena, I asked the trainer: "So, how many people show up for these games?"
Probably a couple hundred, he told me. Not for this Summer League game against the Detroit Pistons. When we approached the building, I noticed a long line. Was this a concert or a basketball game?
"Who are they here to see?" I asked.
“Are you crazy? They are here to see you,” the trainer said.
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With the gym packed—more than 3,000 showed up—the pressure was definitely on and I knew I better put on a show. Mission accomplished. No-look passes. An assortment of dunks. A smile that wouldn't go away. In 28 minutes, I scored 24 points and dished out nine assists. The show was off and running!
Dr. Buss used to tell me, "Earvin, we're not in the basketball business. We're in the excellence business!" That's what separated us then, and that's what separates us now. We play for legacy. We expect to win. Losing wasn't just losing a game; it was letting down the entire city of Los Angeles. You see, Dr. Buss understood something fundamental about Los Angeles—so, he created an environment where basketball felt like the greatest show on earth. Jack Nicholson courtside, the Laker Girls bringing the glamor, celebrities everywhere you looked. But make no mistake; behind all that glitter was steel. We worked harder than anybody. We were more disciplined than anybody. We were just smart enough to make it look easy. The Forum became more than an arena. It was a place where entertainment, sports, and culture collided. Jack Nicholson wasn't just sitting courtside; he was part of the show. The Laker Girls weren't just cheerleaders; they were part of the dream.
Another highlight was our first regular-season game when we defeated the Clippers in San Diego thanks to a skyhook from Kareem Abdul-Jabbar at the buzzer... from the free-throw line! I hugged him afterward for the longest time. Kareem, however, thought it was too long and let me know about it in the locker room.
"Rookie,” he said, ''we can't be this high after the first game. We have 81 more games.”
The locker room went quiet, which was rare, waiting to see how I would react.
"Kareem,” I responded, "if you hit a shot like this 81 more times, I'm going to jump in your arms 81 more times.”
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That was a huge moment for me. I had to show my teammates that this was who I was and I wasn't about to change for Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or anyone. On the other hand, I had no illusions: This was Kareem's team. He was a four-time MVP, the premier player in the game. I was a 20-year-old rookie. Need I say anything more?
So, early on, I asked him: Where do you want the ball? Do you like it high? On the floor? He said he liked it high and that was all I needed to know. He realized I was there to win, not make headlines, and we got along famously.
The season, though, presented its challenges. Every season does. In November, after just 13 games, our coach, Jack McKinney, was severely injured in a bike accident. He would never be our coach again. Thankfully, the assistant coach, Paul Westhead, stepped in and did a tremendous job with help from a former player who had been working in the broadcast booth. His name was Pat Riley.
We ended up winning 60 games that season, and in the Playoffs, we knocked off both Phoenix and Seattle in five, setting up a matchup in the Finals against the Philadelphia 76ers. I felt like I was in a dream.
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I had been in awe of Dr. J for as long as I could remember. Less than a year before, in fact, I had stayed at his house, seeking his advice on whether I should turn pro or stay at Michigan State for another year. And now I would be playing him in the NBA Finals. Even so, my approach would be the same as always: I was there to win.
We took Game 1 by seven points at The Forum but lost Game 2 by three; Dr. J led the way with 23 points, ten rebounds, seven assists, and five blocks. The teams split the next two, leading to the all-important Game 5 in Los Angeles. And that's when it happened: In the second half, Kareem hurt his ankle and limped to the locker room. Still, he came back to score 14 points in the fourth quarter, and we won the game, 108-103, to seize a 3-2 lead heading to Philly.
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At the airport the next day, however, we got the bad news: Kareem wouldn't be joining us in Philadelphia. The guys had their heads down, certain we wouldn't have a prayer in Game 6.
I felt otherwise: We're going to win. I asked the stewardess if I could be the first to go on the plane. She said yes. When I got inside the cabin, I sat in seat 1A, where Kareem, the captain, always sat. Was I making a statement? You're damned right I was.
As every Laker came by, I said the same thing: Never fear, Magic is here. They all laughed. There was one other idea I had, and it was beautiful.
I asked Coach Westhead during the flight if I could play center in Game 6. "You sure you can play center?" he asked.
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"Coach,” I told him, "I played center in high school.” (I also played it on defense at Michigan State.)
"Okay, let me think about it.”
Once we landed in Philly, he said, "Let's give it a shot.”
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It couldn't have worked out any better. We were too fast for the Sixers, who had to make adjustments to us rather than us making adjustments to them. The final score: Lakers 123, Sixers 107. The Sixers never imagined I'd score 42 points. Nor did my teammates. And let's not forget the contributions from Jamaal Wilkes, who scored 37, and Jim Chones who had 11 points and 10 boards.
There would be a lot of special moments in the decade ahead but as I look back, nothing can top my rookie season. No one believed we could beat Philly in Game 6 without Kareem. But we believed and that's all that mattered.
And that pressure made us great, a team of superheroes with vision beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Then there was Jerry West—Mr. Clutch himself—who was our architect as general manager. People talk about basketball IQ, but Jerry's basketball intelligence was on another level entirely! He didn't just see what players were; he saw what they could become. He understood that championship teams aren't just collections of talent—they're living organisms where every piece has to complement every other piece.
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Then there was Pat Riley. When he took over as head coach, some people thought he was just going to be a yes-man, a Hollywood guy with slicked-back hair. Man, were they wrong. Riles transformed himself into one of the most demanding coaches in NBA history. Those practices? They were warfare. He'd work us until we were exhausted, then work us some more! His message was simple: Excellence isn't occasional, it's habitual. Those grueling practices, those demanding film sessions, those brutal conditioning drills—we embraced it all because we understood what we were building.
Phil Jackson's arrival in '99 marked a new era, but it was built on the foundation we'd established. He brought his triangle offense and meditation sessions, but he understood the Lakers' DNA: We don't just pursue excellence—we define it. Five more championships under Phil proved that the Lakers' winning culture could evolve while staying true to its core principles. The Lakers proved you didn't have to choose between style and substance. You could have both. You should have both.
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Building greatness is why the greatest players always end up Lakers. Because this is where you come to become legendary. This is where you come to turn greatness into immortality. You think it's an accident that Wilt, Kareem, Shaq, Kobe, LeBron, and Luka all wore purple and gold? They came here because the Lakers don't just win championships—they build legacies. Showtime wasn't just a nickname; it was a philosophy and a legacy of excellence.
That's the Lakers' legacy. That's what Dr. Buss created. That's what Riley demanded. That's what Phil continued. And that's what makes us who we are. Because that's what the Lakers are: a standard. A promise. A legacy. When you see those purple and gold jerseys, you're not just seeing a basketball team. You're seeing a commitment to excellence that's spanned over 40 years. You're seeing Showtime. You're seeing the house that Dr. Buss built. When you put on that purple and gold, you're not just playing basketball—you're stepping into basketball history.
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And that show? It's still that time. Because excellence never goes out of style.
Courtesy of the Los Angeles Lakers