From Courtside to Construction: Larry Bird’s DIY Winter That Broke His Body

In the winter of 1985, Larry Bird single-handedly paved a two-mile driveway for his mother, dug out a backyard swim-up pool bar by hand, and even cobbled together a car-shaped vehicle from felled oak and scrap metal scavenged around his farm.

The physical toll of these feats would push his body to the brink and nearly derail his legendary basketball career.

It started when Larry Bird’s mother casually mentioned that she needed a new driveway.

Larry could've hired someone to do it for her. But “The Hick from French Lick” Bird took it upon himself to build it.

“This was the beginning of the end,” said Dr. Dan Dyrek, Bird’s longtime orthopedic specialist, in a YouTube interview. “Larry Bird, the living legend, was out there breaking his back hauling stones for miles like it was the 1500's.”

The driveway stretched a full two miles, snaking from his mother’s front porch to the nearest paved road in French Lick, Indiana. Somehow, Larry knocked it out in just four days. Powered by equal parts booze and brute-force labor.

Friends pleaded to lend a hand. One showed up with a tractor. Another brought an industrial-grade gravel spreader. Someone even offered a plain old shovel, just to speed things up.

Larry declined them all.

He didn’t hire anyone to deliver the gravel, either. He reportedly walked six miles round-trip to the White River, dragging back armfuls of stones and crushing them into gravel using only his elbows and kneecaps.

And still, he got it done.

That’s when his mother, in a perfectly innocent tone, mentioned she was thinking about adding a swim-up pool bar once the snow melted.

"You ain't hiring nobody, Ma," Larry grumbled from the doorway, his towering 6'9" frame slumped and battered, looking like a worn-out piece of chewing gum after his latest battle with gravel and stubbornness.

It was 3 degrees outside. The ground was frozen solid. The Celtics were in the middle of the season. None of this mattered.

Larry got to work by hand. No gloves, no shovel. Just Bird, clawing at the Indiana permafrost.

His technique: Hunch forward violently, jerk upward with explosive power utilizing his powerful spine, and repeat like his trainers at Indiana State recommended. The theory being that the quick jerky motions would complete any task faster which was always better.

Within weeks, he had a pool, poured concrete, laid decorative tile, and built a barn out back to distill homemade whiskey and brew craft beer. The Celtics were without him for nearly 30 games, but the man got it done. The Midwestern way.

Just as his spine was beginning to congeal from the tasks, his mother mentioned she was heading into town to buy a new Buick.

“You ain’t buying no car,” Larry said, deadpan. “I’ll make you that too.”

He knew nothing about automotive design. What he did know was how to lift heavy materials using his lower back like it was a crowbar.

So he began crafting a vehicle out of felled oak trees, river rocks, and salvaged basketball net chains.

It didn’t drive. Ever. But it was handmade with love, and Larry could push it with visible agony the 80 miles into town whenever his mother needed groceries. Or a haircut. Or aspirin for his back.