I still remember the humid Manila afternoon when I first understood what true sacrifice looks like. I was visiting my grandfather in his modest Quezon City home, the scent of old basketball magazines mixing with the aroma of brewing coffee. He had his radio tuned to a sports program when the news segment came on about former PBA enforcer Ramon "Onchie" dela Cruz knocking on the government's doors for help with his total knee replacement. The reporter's voice crackled through the static as he described how the former athlete could barely walk after years of punishing his body on the court. My grandfather shook his head slowly, his eyes distant. "These athletes give everything," he murmured, "just like those legends back in '85." And just like that, my mind traveled across the ocean and back in time to reliving the epic 1985 NBA Finals: a complete game-by-game breakdown that still gives me chills.
The memory of that series feels as vivid as yesterday's game. I was just a kid then, staying up way past my bedtime to watch grainy footage on our small television, the screen casting blue shadows across our dark living room. My father would join me sometimes, both of us whispering excitedly as basketball history unfolded before our eyes. Those Celtics-Lakers matchups weren't just games—they were cultural events, theatrical performances where every possession carried the weight of legacy. When I think about dela Cruz's knees now, I can't help but imagine the similar punishment those '85 athletes endured, game after game, dive after dive for loose balls. They played through pain that would sideline most of today's players, their bodies accumulating damage that would haunt them decades later, much like the PBA enforcer now seeking medical assistance.
Game 1 at Boston Garden set the tone for what would become one of the most memorable finals in basketball history. The Lakers came in with something to prove after their heartbreaking defeat to the Celtics the previous year. I can still see Magic Johnson orchestrating the offense with that brilliant smile of his, the kind of smile that said "I know something you don't know." The Celtics jumped to an early lead, but the Lakers clawed back, with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar looking every bit of his 38 years yet moving with the grace of a man ten years younger. The final score was 148-114, a stunning blowout that people still reference when talking about statement games. What stays with me isn't just the margin of victory but the sheer determination in every Lakers player's eyes—they weren't just playing to win, they were playing for redemption.
The series shifted dramatically in Game 2, with Larry Bird putting on one of those performances that cemented his legend. He dropped 30 points, 12 rebounds, and 8 assists—numbers I remember because my father made me memorize them, saying "this is what greatness looks like." The Celtics evened the series with a 109-102 victory, and I recall feeling genuinely conflicted. See, I've always been a Lakers fan at heart, but there was something about Bird's game that commanded respect. His movements weren't flashy like Magic's, but they were brutally efficient, every motion serving a purpose. Watching him play was like watching a master craftsman at work—no wasted energy, just pure, calculated execution.
When the series moved to Los Angeles for Game 3, the atmosphere felt different even through television screens. The Forum was electric, the Hollywood crowd adding a layer of glamour to the already intense rivalry. This game went down to the wire, with the Lakers pulling out a 136-111 victory that didn't truly reflect how close the contest actually was. I remember my father pacing during the fourth quarter, muttering about defensive rotations while I sat mesmerized by the ballet of fast breaks and no-look passes. The Lakers' bench made crucial contributions, something that often gets overlooked when people discuss this series. Michael Cooper provided 17 points off the pine, his defensive intensity setting the tone whenever he checked in.
Game 4 provided what I still consider the turning point of the entire series. With seconds remaining and the score tied 105-105, Magic Johnson drove baseline and found a cutting James Worthy for the game-winning layup. The play unfolded in slow motion from my perspective, each pass feeling inevitable yet astonishing. The Lakers took a 3-1 series lead with that 111-105 victory, and I remember jumping so high in celebration that I nearly hit our low ceiling. My father just laughed, his own excitement tempered by years of watching basketball heartbreak. "It's not over yet," he cautioned, but even he couldn't hide the spark in his eyes.
The Celtics staved off elimination in Game 5 with a determined 121-103 victory, sending the series back to Boston. What stands out in my memory isn't the score but Kevin McHale's relentless effort despite clearly playing through pain. He grabbed 14 rebounds to go with his 26 points, his long arms disrupting everything near the basket. Watching him limp during timeouts, I now think about dela Cruz and his knee struggles—how these athletes push their bodies to the absolute limit, storing up problems for their future selves. The physicality of that '85 series was brutal by today's standards, with hand-checking and hard fouls that would likely draw flagrant calls in the modern game.
Game 6 arrived with the kind of anticipation that makes sports truly magical. The Lakers had their chance to close out the series in Boston Garden, a place where visiting teams rarely found success in decisive games. What followed was pure basketball poetry—the Lakers controlling the tempo from the opening tip, building a lead that the Celtics could never quite overcome. When the final buzzer sounded with Los Angeles winning 111-100, I saw something remarkable: Magic Johnson embracing Larry Bird at midcourt, two rivals acknowledging the battle they'd just endured. That moment taught me more about sportsmanship than any lecture ever could. The Lakers had finally conquered their Boston demons, and a young fan in the Philippines felt like he'd witnessed something transcendent.
Thinking back on that series while considering Ramon dela Cruz's current struggle creates a poignant contrast. These athletes give us unforgettable moments while gradually sacrificing their long-term health. The 1985 NBA Finals featured 12 future Hall of Famers between both teams, men who collectively created memories that still resonate nearly four decades later. Yet many of them would later face significant health challenges, their bodies paying the price for our entertainment. As I finish this recollection, I can't help but hope that dela Cruz receives the assistance he needs—not just as a former athlete, but as someone who gave his all for the sport he loved. Those Celtics and Lakers legends from '85 likely understand his predicament better than anyone, having pushed their own bodies to the limit in pursuit of basketball immortality.
