Larry Bird missed all but six games of the 1988-89 season because of surgery to remove bone chips from both heels. The Boston Celtics slumped to their worst record since he had arrived almost a decade earlier -- 42-40. The team, not surprisingly, never adjusted to playing without its captain and conscience and barely made the playoffs before being swept in the first round by the eventual champion Pistons.

The Celtics discovered what Life Without Larry was like, and it wasn't pretty. Someone else, however, missed Bird almost as much, although for a very different reason. "He's the one," said Magic Johnson, "I've always measured myself against, and it was definitely strange not being able to do that."

	The battles between Magic and Larry continued into the NBA, including three times in the Finals.

Those words from Johnson came in the introduction to "Drive, The Story of My Life." The author? Larry Bird. Johnson would later devote 11 pages to one opponent -- Larry Bird -- in his autobiography, "My Life." Bird talked about his days honing his skills on the basketball courts of French Lick, Ind., practicing for hours because he was never sure if the coach would happen to stop by. The unspoken message: that if Bird were to stop working, there would be someone, somewhere, still practicing.

"I now know who that someone was," Bird once said. "Magic Johnson."

Their careers were intertwined from their last years in college, 1979, to their dotage days in the NBA in the early 1990s. They faced each other for the first time in Salt Lake City for the '79 NCAA title, which Michigan State, led by the irrepressible Johnson, won rather easily. They met three more times in the NBA Finals, with Johnson's Lakers prevailing twice (1985, 1987) to Bird's Celtics' sole title over L.A. (1984).

They were, easily, the top players on the two best teams -- teams that combined for eight of the 10 championships between 1980 and 1989. The two, by a serendipitous force not even David Stern could have envisioned, ended up on opposite coasts, playing for the two most storied franchises in the history of the league at the same time. And were they needed.

They were magnetic and charismatic, but, most of all, they played the game the way it was supposed to be played. They were two of the greatest passing big men who ever lived. Johnson, at 6-foot-9, redefined the role of point guard. He was a human 24/7 before the term ever came into use, and he still is. Bird was shy, reticent and introverted, except when he was on the floor, barking orders and talking trash.

Together, they saved the NBA. That is not a reach. Before they met in the 1984 NBA Finals, the league was so undesirable that its showcase event in June was shown on tape delay. Once Bird and Magic hit center stage, the NBA Finals became must-see viewing and valued programming. Two years later, when CBS' contract expired, the network re-upped for the same time period -- four years -- but at almost twice the cost.

The NBA was perceived as a selfish, me-first, drug-stained business prior to 1979. The arrivals of Bird and Magic, with their selfless styles, helped the NBA emerge from that tainted image. The league's popularity in the 1980s -- the Golden Era of NBA hoops where you needed three Hall of Famers to win -- exploded, thanks to those two. Michael Jordan may have surpassed both in terms of sheer talent and ability, but he caught the wave and rode it into the 1990s. And he never had an alter ego the way Bird and Johnson had each other.

Bird won three straight Most Valuable Player Awards and was twice MVP of the NBA Finals. Johnson also won three MVP awards and was also honored thrice as Finals MVP. Bird won the Rookie of the Year Award over Johnson (in a landslide, by the way), but Johnson has more rings. They were regulars at All-Star Games, on all-NBA teams and, in their last gasp together, on the original Dream Team in 1992 at Barcelona. By that time they had developed a close friendship, first forged when Johnson visited Bird in Indiana one summer to shoot a sneaker commercial. They discovered then that they had a lot more in common than they had thought.

When Bird retired in August 1992, the Celtics had a gala at the old Boston Garden to honor him and raise his number to the rafters. Johnson showed up and wore a Celtics shirt. Now, as Johnson prepares to enter the Basketball Hall of Fame, he will be presented by his old nemesis and buddy. "It's an honor," Bird said. "I was a bit shocked when he asked me, but I'm honored to help out. I respect him tremendously."

It makes sense. Johnson could have asked Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, whose career he basically resuscitated, to be the presenter with the Hall of Fame credentials. But he rightly saw his career defined by Bird bookends -- with the NCAA title game on one end and Friday's ceremony on the other.

"Larry was the guy whose name came up (as a presenter)," Johnson said. "The only name. Larry was my guy. I just love Larry. I think we helped make each other the pros that we were."

	They symbolized what was right and proper in the NBA. The league has been on a slippery slope since they left, although Jordan stuck around long enough to carry it into the next millennium. But Magic and Bird were the icons when the league was its best.

Not only did their careers intersect, but each one used the other as a barometer. The Lakers followed the Celtics like no one else, mainly because the Western Conference at that time had no decent team to challenge them. In Magic's first 10 years, he appeared in eight NBA Finals. The Celtics had more of a challenge from Philadelphia, but personnel moves at that time by both teams were made with an eye on what the other was doing.

"Since that day we met in college," Johnson said, "we had one of the best rivalries that you've ever seen. We pushed each other."

Neither has played in the NBA since Johnson's well-intentioned but silly, 32-game comeback in 1996. But they remain viable and valuable personalities today -- they each have to turn away corporate pursuers -- because of who they are and what they did.

Bird returned briefly to coach the Indiana Pacers for three years, taking them to the 1990 NBA Finals, where they lost to the Lakers. (Make that Magic 3-1, as he still holds a post as a Laker vice president.) Magic was a certifiable disaster as the Lakers' coach for all of 16 games (5-11) in 1994. Bird was the better coach, but he always insisted it was because he knew he couldn't play while Johnson, as we saw, still had the urge if not the patience.

Mostly, however, they symbolized what was right and proper in the NBA. The league has been on a slippery slope since they left, although Jordan stuck around long enough to carry it into the next millennium. But Magic and Bird were the icons when the league was its best. The talent level had yet to be diluted by expansion. Players who came out of college early were the exception. High schoolers always went on to college. Salaries were generally based on performance, not potential. Short pants ruled.

Now, they're soon to be joined once again, this time, in perpetuity. Their plaques will be on display in Springfield, and the only possible downside is that one of them -- Bird -- got up there first. They should have gone up on the same night.

But Larry has been keeping the spot warm for Magic the last four years and, finally, they can be together again, in hoop's holiest shrine. They deserve nothing less.

Peter May, who covers the NBA for the Boston Globe, is a regular contributor to ESPN.com.