"HERE COME THE WORLD CHAMPIONS...THE FINAL CHAPTER IN BASKETBALL CAMELOT": SlipperySam's account of his trip and stay in L.A. with the Celtics as they won the 1969 championship
Contents
Foreword 2
Takeoff 3
Quandary 4
Old Man River 7
Touchdown 9
Final Practice 10
“Satch” 12
The Spring Coils 14
Prelude to Battle 17
Zero Hour 19
Aftermath 23
Getaway 26
Sam 28
Triumphal Return 30
Postscript 31
Foreword
**************************************************
This is the story of a landmark chapter in not only NBA history but also the annals of all of basketball—the 1969 championship game between the Boston Celtics and the Los Angeles Lakers. It chronicles the last hurrah of the most dominant team that sport will ever know and the ultimate challenge of their chief protagonists of the time.
Prior to this season, the Celtics had won 10 championships in 12 years—eight of them consecutively (’59-’66). The Lakers had been their final opponents during five of those earlier years; and the Celtics had won all five series.
By 1968-69, the balance of NBA power had clearly switched to the Lakers. Their nucleus—people like Elgin Baylor, Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain—was in its prime. In contrast, every year or two throughout the 1960s had found a Celtics mainstay retiring: future Hall-of-Famers Bill Sharman, Frank Ramsay, Bob Cousy, K.C. Jones, Tom Heinsohn and Clyde Lovellette, to say nothing of key supporting characters such as Jim Loscutoff, Wayne Embry and Willie Naulls and legendary Coach Red Auerbach. Sam Jones had announced that this would be his last game. Rumors (later confirmed) were circulating about the imminent retirement of Bill Russell.
In 1969, the Lakers had added Chamberlain and had dominated their Western Division. In comparison, the Celtics had finished fourth in their division. Only through incredible effort had the Celts overcome the home court disadvantage in every preliminary playoff series. This, the final scene of the final act, would be played on the Los Angeles stage. It was to be great theater. And I would be there!
I had no official affiliation with the Celtics, although I had become friendly with some of the players—notably Sam Jones. As soon as the Celtics tied the series at three games apiece, I knew I had to be at the final in La-La-Land.
This account of the trip was originally intended as a journal for my personal reference over time. It is not intended to be objective, and it will never be hailed as a literary triumph. It is simply a collection of perspectives that I’m delighted to share with others who really care about the Celtics and with Celtic-detractors who enjoy being tortured.
I can promise that the reporting portion of the story is accurate. One Celtic who has read it has called it the truest account of a road trip that he has ever seen. Where my own reflections are presented, they are recognizable as such.
So, if you’re so inclined, turn the page and begin reading about the swan song of a very special sports assemblage.
2
Takeoff
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to American’s Flight 11 to Los Angeles.” The flight attendant continued, swaying slightly as the giant craft taxied slowly to its takeoff position. She hoped we would enjoy the flight, which would take about six hours. The movie would be “Bullitt,” starring Steve McQueen.
A groan arose from the First Class section. “Four times. Four times I’ve seen that picture,” muttered one passenger as he tried unsuccessfully to arrange his lanky frame in a seat that would have been ample for most.
Undaunted, the attendant launched into a description of the plane’s emergency exits and a demonstration of an oxygen mask. By this time, she had lost most of her front cabin audience, which had begun sorting out their newspapers—sports pages on top, financial pages next, and the remainder jammed between seats and walls.
“We are honored to have the Boston Celtics traveling with us to Los Angeles, where they will be playing the Los Angeles......Warriors.” Snickers erupted, and the flustered attendant retreated to her seat as the plane turned to face the runway.
Only the crackle of newspapers broke the silence as the silver bird nosed upward. Through the clouds it broke, leveling off to a gradual ascent it would maintain for several minutes.
Eventually the loudspeaker snapped on, and the Captain began his monologue. Not surprisingly, he also hoped we’d enjoy our flight; and he promised to make it more enjoyable by informing us of many points of interest.
Displaying obvious sports acumen, he referred to the Boston Celtics’ upcoming game with the Los Angeles Lakers. “Best of luck fellas,” he finished. From the cheap seats, a voice blurted out, “I’ll drink to that!” The rest of me may have been half awake, but my mouth was off and running.
3
Quandary
By the time the seat belt light disappeared, the First Class occupants had finished trading newspapers and were already bored. As they stood to stretch, there was no doubt who they were. Alone on a trip, any one of them could have passed for a very tall businessman. Collectively they could only have been basketball players—specifically the Boston Celtics.
Ahead lay another repetition of their well-worn travel script—Act 1: Boredom; Act 2: Motivation; Act 3: Main event; Act 4: Recovery. The difference between this trip and others was that this was the last journey of the year. After a lengthy exhibition campaign, 82 regular season games, and a month’s worth of playoffs, the 1968-69 NBA Championship had become a sudden-death, winner-take-all quest.
It seemed only a few weeks ago that most of these same men had stood in a semi-circle as they raised the 1967-68 championship banner to the Boston Garden rafters. One recalled the emotion of that October evening and the memories of incredible come-from-behind heroics as the Celtics defeated Detroit, Philadelphia and Los Angeles to win the flag.
However the Lakers were no longer the same team. The additions of Wilt Chamberlain and top players such as Keith Erickson and Johnny Egan had molded them into a unit billed by many as unbeatable. Three of six times in this series, they had proven to be just that.
On the other hand, the Celts had not made major personnel changes during the off-season. They had purchased Emmett Bryant to replace Tom Thacker as a reserve guard; and they had drafted center Rich Johnson from Grambling and guard Don Chaney who had played with Elvin Hayes at Houston. Wayne Embry, Bill Russell’s stalwart backup center from the previous two years, had been lost in the expansion draft. Jim Barnes, obtained to fill this void, had been injured much of the year and had seen virtually no action during the playoffs.
Furthermore, the familiar specter of advancing age had continued to stalk the Celtics, who seemed increasingly susceptible to key injuries. Although the team was in reasonably good health for the playoffs, the season had taken a tremendous physical toll, as reflected in the team’s fourth-place division finish—their lowest in many years.
Somehow the champs had managed to squeeze out hard-fought series victories over Philadelphia and New York, much to the consternation of sports fans and writers throughout the county. The games against the so-called “Iron Men” of New York, in particular, had been bitterly contested; and at times the Celtics had appeared to be playing almost on instinct alone.
Compounding the problems for the Celtics was the fact that this critical game would be played on a foreign court. Although they had never lost a seventh game, the Celtics had always played such contests at friendly Boston Garden. This time, the Lakers had earned the home advantage by dint of a superior record during the regular season.
4
Not surprisingly, the Los Angelinos had been installed as heavy favorites to win the finals for the first time since the team had moved from Minneapolis. Although the series was now tied at three, the Lakers had won the first two; and no team had ever surmounted a two-game deficit to win all the marbles.
My reverie was interrupted as the players began to react to the tedium of the flight. Several simply succumbed to restless catnaps. Larry Siegfried repaired to an empty three-seat section, removed the arms of the seats, and settled down to a deep sleep from which he awoke only when a female flight attendant approached.
It had not been a particularly good season for Larry. After a tremendous start, during which he was among the team’s scoring leaders, he had contracted a variety of ailments that reduced his effectiveness. Shortly before the playoffs, Emmett Bryant had been installed in Larry’s starting slot, and Emmett had been instrumental in several victories. Yet Larry had assumed the sixth-man role in professional fashion and had, himself, been largely responsible for two playoff wins.
Sam Jones, with a sportswriter in tow, came back to the tourist section and settled down to a game of Gin which eventually lasted four hours. The writer won the first hand.
“Now I’m going to get you,” Sam promised. “I’ll whip you good.” About 90 seconds later, Sam flashed a smile and announced, “Geeinn. I’m hot, Sharkey. Watch me now.” Sam went on to win the next several hands. “Whoee, I’m unbeatable.”
“I’m dangerous when I’m behind,” Sharkey ventured tentatively. “But I’m dangerous when I’m ahead baby,” Sam shot back. Another smile.....another “Geeinn.” Sharkey was grateful for the lunch break.
I thought back several years to a preliminary-round playoff series between the Celtics and the Cincinnati Royals. Going into the final game at Boston Garden, the series was tied; and Cincinnati was enjoying the psychological edge of having exceeded all expectations. The Royals were playing relaxed, efficient basketball, while the Celtics were inconsistent—particularly in their offense.
Long before the regular pregame warmups, Sam Jones was on the Garden court all alone—shooting, shooting, shooting. Then Sam Jones proceeded to go out, guard Oscar Robertson, and score 47 points to spark the Celtics to a convincing win. Whatever his competitive involvement—from basketball to “Geeinn”—Sam has a burning spirit belied by his casual demeanor.
5
John Havlicek was the next visitor to our cabin. He was immediately collared by a passenger, who launched into his version of Twenty Questions. Patiently, and in his distinctively deliberate manner, John answered each one. Yes, he was fortunate to be a Celtic. He was six-five and had no preference whether he played forward or guard—whichever helped the team more. The Lakers were a fine team with outstanding players—particularly Jerry West, who was having a great series despite a hamstring injury. John was married, with no children yet. Etc., etc., etc.
“One final question, John. What do you do during the offseason?”
“Well I like to fish a lot, and I have a position as a manufacturer’s representative in Columbus, Ohio.”
The stranger moved on, but he had touched on a point that really interested me; and I addressed the matter as John passed by. “What happens after a few more years, John?”
“Well I’ve decided that the business area is the most remunerative in the long run. If a coaching position were locally available, and if it could be worked into my business schedule, that might be all right. However I don’t look forward to coaching as a career.”
“Are you married to the Columbus area?”
(A lengthy pause) “Well, of course, I like Columbus very much; and I’ve had the opportunity to begin a fine business career there.” (An interminable pause) “If a similar opportunity presented itself in Boston, I might very well take it. But nothing of that sort has happened yet.”
We talked about other matters, including a basketball book he had noticed me reading. Then he returned, with the book under his arm, to his seat for lunch. But the impact of his comments remained.
Why, I had often wondered, did so many outstanding Celtics leave Boston after their playing days ended? Certainly some stayed: Tom Heinsohn, Bob Cousy, Jim Loscutoff and K.C. Jones to name a few. But why shouldn’t a Frank Ramsay, a Bill Sharman, a Sam Jones (bound for a D.C. Athletic Director job after these playoffs) be motivated to stay?
Boston offers an abundance of opportunities in almost every field of endeavor. Why, then, shouldn’t these men pursue their post-jock careers in Boston, where they could take maximum advantage of the exposure and reputations they had gained during their Celtic days? How could the Boston area afford to let such valuable human resources slip away?
I resolved to pursue this subject in greater depth if the opportunity presented itself during this trip.
6
Old Man River
Shortly after lunch, the pilot—true to his word—informed us that the City of St. Louis was directly below. This announcement hardly sent the passengers into spasms of excitement; but, to me, it signified the important fact that we were also passing over the Mississippi River.
For many years, there has been something very symbolic about the Mississippi for me. Its aesthetic qualities may be debatable; but its persistence is undeniable. When I was a kid, they used to call my favorite baseball player and role model—Bobby Doerr of the Red Sox—“Old Man River” because of his proven dependability over time. It was fitting that Old Man River should be part of this trip, because it indirectly helps explain my attachment to the Celtics.
Many people view certain objects and monuments as consistent sources of inspiration: mountains, bodies of water, the flag, the Lincoln Memorial, the Statue of Liberty, etc.
These artifacts have one thing in common—they are inanimate. When one thinks about it, how many of today’s enduring inspirations are human beings? A war hero may occasion an outpouring of emotion; a singer may momentarily bring tears to the eyes. But these are usually transitory events, and I believe it is the sustained impact of a catalyst that really defines its value.
The Celtics represent the only organized group of human beings that I have ever found to be an unwavering source of inspiration. I recall trying to explain this to a friend who replied, “Sure, they give you inspiration. They win all the time.”
But it goes far deeper than that. One of my proudest and most memorable Celtic moments was occasioned by a Celtics defeat by Philadelphia in 1967, ending the only playoff series lost by the C’s in the entire decade of the 1960s.
It was the fifth game of the Eastern Division championship finals, with the 76ers leading three games to one. I happened to be near Philadelphia on business (not entirely by chance) and surrendered my wallet to a scalper out of last-minute desperation.
Convention Hall was filled to capacity with Philadelphia fans—and me. Tension reached fever pitch as the Celtics jumped to a 16-point lead by halftime. But Philadelphia surged back and completely overwhelmed the Celts in the second half to win the game and series handily.
I was seated beneath one basket in a row of temporary folding chairs that were connected in sections of four. There was no mistaking my Boston sentiments, as I was nearly the only person in the gym who had something to yell about during the early stages of the game.
7
When the outcome became inevitable, the fans all around me began yelling, “Boston is dead. Boston is dead,” while tossing my section of seats up and down in tempo with the chant. The only problem was that I was still in my seat; and it became more than a little uncomfortable, to say nothing of the difficulty I had in scoring the game on my program.
About this time, I noticed two things on the court. First, the Celtics never even began to quit. Larry Siegfried and John Havlicek, in particular, were diving for loose balls as though their lives depended on it—even when they were far behind with 30 seconds left in the game. Second, as each Celtic left the game, he went over to congratulate the Philadelphia players.
It is easy to pass off these actions as simply good sportsmanship, which they certainly were. However, consider the situation. The proud Celtics were seeing the end of their consecutive world championship skein at eight. Every year, the pressure had become a little greater to maintain the streak. This team would forever bear the stigma of being the one that could not quite do the job.
In the face of this devastation, they were champions in defeat as they had been in so many victories. When the game ended, I watched Sam Jones warmly clasp Hal Greer’s hand. That handshake said a great deal; and it prompted me to turn to my closest chair-shaking tormentor, stick out my hand, and say, “Looks like the better team won.” This accomplished three things:
1. It followed the example set by Sam and the other Celtics.
2. It left my neighbor looking silly, with his ample mouth hanging
wide open.
3. It was far less dangerous than any other option that came to mind.
I drove all night to reach home before the team. Purchasing the largest bottle of champagne I could locate at 9:00 a.m., I left it on the doorstep of Sam Jones (who lived in my town, but whom I had never met at that point) with a note reading, “TO A REAL CHAMPION.”
So, while all the winning has obviously played a key role in my affection for the Celtics, there is an intangible—call it style if you will—that is far more important. A friend (a Knickerbocker fan) may have expressed it best when he grudgingly said, “The Celtics may not always win the championship, but you know they’ll always play like champs and conduct themselves like champs.
I would become even more convinced during this trip that, in addition to being great players, the Celtics are also championship people.
8
Touchdown
The next few hours passed without notable incident. Most of the players watched the movie despite their earlier protestations. Sportswriters circulated, attempting the nearly impossible task of dredging up any original tidbits before the final game of the year.
To the players’ credit, they responded courteously and willingly. Their answers soon sounded like a broken record. “The Lakers are tough.....we’ll have to run, play tight defense, concentrate on boxing out.....there’s no way to stop West.”
Finally the seat belt sign flashed, and the flight attendant announced our impending descent. The card games ended. The magazines were put aside, and on went the sunglasses.
As the plane neared the runway, I noticed the stereo earphones and decided to try a little music. A stirring march was playing: Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance No. 4 in G Major—not the one you hear at most graduations—another one. At the same time, I noticed that all conversation had ceased and the team members were grimly looking at the Los Angeles suburbs coming up to meet them.
Listening to the music and searching the players’ faces, I became absolutely certain for the first time that Celtics would win this game. I realized something else. Whatever the outcome, I was supremely fortunate to be among these individuals at this moment.
9
Final Practice
The Airport Marina is a decent hotel in Inglewood, no doubt selected by the Celtics for its proximity to both the airport and the Forum (site of the game). I waited until all the players had registered and then sauntered over to the desk while the clerk was otherwise occupied. Noting a “16” beside each player’s name, I got the clerk’s attention and requested something inexpensive on the 16th floor.
“We happen to have a very nice single on that floor,” the clerk replied. He missed a great sales opportunity, because I would have been happy with an overpriced closet on the 16th.
“Three-thirty,” yelled the trainer, Joe DeLauri. This was shorthand for “Meet here in the lobby at 3:30 to leave for practice.” We scattered to our rooms, and I watched some of the NHL playoffs and a roller derby before returning to the lobby.
In two shifts, the hotel limousine took our party to the Forum. Our party! I’m still not certain how I became part of the party. Maybe it was because I had become friendly with Sam Jones after the champagne episode. Maybe they didn’t notice me among the tall timber. The limo conversation dwelt mainly on the NHL playoffs, the roller derby, and the movie on the plane.
The Forum is an impressive structure with a gigantic parking area (which would later cause me great anguish). It is also a fine place in which to watch basketball.
One by one, the Celtics trooped out to the court and began a leisurely shooting warmup. With the arrival of player-coach Bill Russell, the tempo accelerated. Several different drills were organized, principal among them the game of “21.”
In “21,” two teams of two players apiece are positioned on opposite sides of the foul circle, about 18 feet from the basket. Each team has a ball, and the players on that team alternate in shooting, retrieving and passing the ball back to the partner for a shot. The first team to make 21 baskets wins.
This game places a premium on shooting with speed and accuracy under pressure, as well as emphasizing the importance of following one’s shot. In a Celtics practice, it brings out the highly competitive instincts in each player. The pace is frantic, and the shooting is unbelievable. Sam Jones and Larry Siegfried seemed to have a slight edge over all other combinations.
Notwithstanding the high energy level, it would be an understatement to say that the practice was relaxed. Russell frequently punctuated the action with his high-pitched cackle as he stood about 30 feet out and took high, arching shots. About one of every 15 went in. With each success, he doubled over in gales of laughter.
10
Don Chaney, Mal Graham and Rich Johnson—none of whom was likely to play in the game—were assigned the task of dribbling around the outside of the court again and again. It was a little like a three-ring circus: the hectic scramble of “21,” the methodical pounding of balls around the perimeter, and the periodic peals of laughter from the king-sized court jester.
After a final shooting drill, the team repaired to the locker room, where the sportswriters made a final check on physical ailments and again searched in vain for new perspective.
Before leaving, I looked around once more at the empty stands and mentally compared their sleek newness with the antiquated interior of Boston Garden. I wondered how the crowd noises would sound in this long, sloping arena. Would they seem as concentrated as in the Garden? How great an effect would they have on the game? I made a vow that, if crowd noise, were a factor in the game, there would be plenty of Celtics support.
11
"Satch"
I stood outside the Forum as the players emerged, two or three at a time. It’s funny—you seldom see a Celtic without another Celtic. Maybe that’s part of their special cohesiveness. I know it’s not always true with other clubs.
The hotel limousine was not available—a complete surprise to me. Each player had prearranged his own method for returning to the hotel. Several had obligations that would not take them to the hotel. Sam Jones, for instance, was having dinner with relatives. Tom Sanders had two friends in tow as he drew away in his borrowed car.
After several minutes, I began wondering just how I’d return to the hotel. This was not the type of location cruised regularly by taxis. I hadn’t noticed any public transportation. And it wasn’t where I wanted to be after dusk.
Tom Sanders proved my salvation. Apparently he had observed my predicament; and, having deposited his passengers elsewhere, he returned—just for me.
Tom Sanders—nicknamed “Satch” many years before because he reminded friends of Satchell Paige. Tom Sanders—given the moniker “Crazylegs” by people in my Section 88 at Boston Garden because of the contortions his legs go through on a basketball court. (A hilarious sight at a Celtics practice is John Havlicek undulating his body back and fourth as he imitates a Sanders outside shot.) Tom Sanders—six feet six inches with a size three neck. Tom Sanders—one of the finest and most articulate gentlemen I have ever met.
As he drove, we talked sporadically about a number of topics. He is spearheading a program of building (or, more properly, rebuilding) homes in a predominately black section of Boston. The construction work, though nearing completion, was the source of some frustration over several delays.
I thought back to the plane conversation with John Havlicek. I was now talking with someone who apparently planned to become a permanent Boston resident. “Why don’t more Celtics make their homes in Boston after they retire?” I asked.
“Well,” he replied, “people always think that Celtics players should capitalize on their reputations by staying in Boston. However, in many cases, their reputations mean more outside Boston. They’re pretty much taken for granted in Boston. They’re a dime a dozen. In other areas, an ex-Celtic is looked upon as unique.
12
We lapsed into silence as the hotel popped into view. Why did this situation have to exist? Why couldn’t players be encouraged to become more of an integral part of the Boston community from the outset of their careers? Maybe they didn’t want it that way. I didn’t quite believe that and, when I mentioned it to Tom, he was inclined to agree.
“When players are established,” he ventured, “they have generally stumbled onto some career opportunity; and their life pattern is taking shape. Of course, it would be best if they could have had some guidance along the way without having had to pay tremendous fees for it. It’s among the young players that a great need exists to absorb them into the community and to help them along a little.”
After we parted, I had a quick meal and went to my room. There were signs to be made—one for each player and one for the team as a whole.
The last sign simply said, “Go Satch.” As I worked on it, I reflected on what Tom had said. My immediate impulse was to blame the Celtics organization for not providing means of assisting rookies and veterans alike in matters pertaining to housing, investments, endorsements, career planning, dealing with fame, etc.
On the other hand, it’s probably not fair to expect the organization to assume all of this responsibility. The Celtics are not wealthy, and there is a substantial payroll. Why shouldn’t the league play a larger role in such an endeavor? Or perhaps the community-at-large should be shouldering proportionately more of the burden.
After all, the Boston area—in fact, New England in general—has derived many benefits from the presence of the Celtics over the years. There is no question in my mind that the area has received more than it has given in the way of support, financial or otherwise.
The general public seems to regard the Red Sox (of whom I’m also a big fan) almost as members of an extended family. Many Sox players over the years have been accorded the status of community treasures. But, for one reason or another, a comparatively small segment of the community has enthusiastically and unconditionally embraced the Celtics.
There is one sad exception to this rule. Whenever there is money or notoriety to be realized by associating with the players, Celtics suddenly become extremely popular. I discovered this when I was on the Sam Jones Day Committee and realized that several committee members didn’t want to work very hard; they just wanted to get close to Sam.
Maybe I’m just too cynical. Who knows? I do know one thing. This generation of Celtics is a living legend, the likes of which will never appear again. I’m making a point of actively appreciating it to the max.
13
The Spring Coils
All dictionaries within the city limits of Los Angeles should be required to make “haze” the first definition of “dawn.” Monday “hazed” at last, and I spent the first half hour peering out the window as I tried to recall what sky looked like.
My reverie was finally overcome by hunger, and I started for the coffee shop. On the way, I bumped into Bailey Howell, who was headed for the same place. Bailey, like former Celtic Frank Ramsey, is a perfect example of a Southern Gentleman.
In this playoff series, “Bail” (as he is often called by his teammates) had been experiencing rugged going with his offense. His scoring had fallen off drastically from the previous series, and he was discouraged. He plays the game intensely and is perhaps more self-critical than any other player.
When I mentioned that his defensive assignment, Elgin Baylor, was not exactly a rest tonic, it didn’t help much. “As long as we win, that really is the most important thing,” he drawled. “I just wish I could help out a bit more.”
I mentioned a plus-minus statistic I had kept on every playoff game. It involved the number of points the team gained or lost while each player was on the floor—a reflection of a player’s offensive and defensive prowess, and a real nightmare to calculate (compared for instance with hockey, in which scoring is infrequent).
A total of plus-three for an entire game is excellent. Bailey had been at or near this level in each game. Even that fact did not offer him much consolation, so I changed the subject to—guess what?
Bailey has played for teams in Detroit, Baltimore and now Boston; and each year he and his family have returned to Mississippi where they own a home. “If we had it to do over again, we’d probably make our home in the city where my team was located—even though we’d have had to change whenever I was traded. But as things have turned out, we’re pretty well-established in Mississippi. I have an insurance business down there, and maybe there will be a coaching job when I’m through.”
With a little encouragement at the right time, a fine family like the Howells might have decided to become permanent Boston-area residents.
As we finished our meals, Bailey spied George Plimpton, author of several books including Paper Lion, in which he describes a brief experience in playing with the Detroit Lions. Aspirations for another book had led him to participate in some of the Celtics preseason training. He’s a Boston-area resident, and he is obviously a devoted Celtics fan.
14
After they finished their conversation, Bailey joined me on a jaunt to the nearest barber shop. After suffering the barber’s observations about how he was tall enough (6” 7”) to be a basketball player, Bailey turned to me and asked, “Do you play bridge?”
“Yes, in an amateur way.”
“We may need a fourth later this morning. George, Johnny Most (the Celtics radio announcer) and I would like to play a little to pass the time. I’ll let you know later on.”
“Later on” came in the form of a phone call to my room. “Do y’all have a table in your room?” Bailey inquired.
“Sure I do,” came the immediate response. I then looked around and discovered that I had actually told the truth; a quick table requisition would not be required.
I opened the door and began counting. In 20 seconds, Bailey and George arrived. Fifteen seconds later, Sam Jones sauntered in. We played one hand before Johnny Most came on the scene. He took over my partnership with Sam.
As the game progressed, I watched the faces of Bailey and Sam for signs of tension. Sam looked as detached as he usually does on the basketball court. Bailey seemed only slightly more on edge.
Johnny Most, on the other hand, was obviously a basket case. It was impossible to ignore the telltale signs of runaway nerves. At one point, he actually had three—count ‘em, three—cigarettes working. No kidding.
John is, without doubt, the most capable play-by-play basketball announcer I’ve ever heard. His rapid-fire delivery is always abreast of the action (as is evident when I watch a game on television but listen to the radio account). Moreover, his analysis of the ebb and flow of a game is excellent. He’s particularly adept at identifying the key catalyst or problem of the moment.
Some people have accused John of being too much of a “homer” who becomes overly emotional during games. I had always wondered whether the freneticism in his delivery was simply theatrical—a conscientious professional searching for ways to convey the excitement of the event to listeners.
Now I recognized the sincere and deeply rooted devotion John has toward the Celtics. He obviously had suffered with the team through this comparatively mediocre year; and he was now showing the strain of the stretch run. I will always respect John and his broadcasting all the more because he exemplifies the personal commitment I feel toward the team and what it represents.
15
In the end, the bridge team of Howell and Plimpton emerged victorious. The players decided to look up General Manager Red Auerbach, who was rumored to be ready to deal with ticket requests.
On the way, we stopped at the lobby while Sam checked to see whether he had messages. In fact, he had more than thirty—almost all ticket requests. “They’re friends, he said. You don’t like to let down friends. But I’ll be lucky to get four tickets.” (The “friends,” by the way, included people like Bill Cosby.)
Red was located behind a desk in the lobby, trying to make 200 tickets out of 70. Players were swooping down on him, and it was easy to see why the nickname “Red” was becoming more of a misnomer with every passing season.
Sam was kind enough to give me one of his four tickets. (Take that, Cosby!) I have often wondered how large a mob and how extensive an arsenal of weaponry would have been needed to make me part with that ticket.
At least I was now certain of seeing the game. Only four hours until departure time.
16
Prelude to Battle
Half an hour before we were to leave for the Forum, I realized I had failed to perform a very important ritual. A few years ago, Johnny Most made a record called Havlicek Stole the Ball. It contains many broadcast vignettes in Celtics history, highlighted by the famous steal by John Havlicek to win a key playoff series against Philadelphia in 1965.
Before each Celtic playoff game, it has always been my habit to play the Havlicek cut from the record. In my one concession to superstition, I’ve always felt it brought the team luck; and it has helped me “get up” for the game.
I had had the foresight to bring one of my two copies on the trip, but how was I going to listen to it? I tore out of the room, record in hand, and raced through every office of the hotel within 10 minutes. The consensus: no record player within miles.
I finally called home and was treated (via my spare copy) to a replaying of Havlicek’s feat from 3,000 miles away. I had listened to my record. I had my signs in hand. I was ready. My private coast-to-coast concert had made me miss the limo, so I caught a cab to the Forum.
After locating my loge seat, not far from midcourt—thanks Sam—I concentrated on the business of posting signs. After 15 minutes and two skirmishes with Forum management, the walls fairly bristled with Celtics propaganda. No doubt it would all disappear soon; but it made me feel better—sort of my own personal warmup for the game.
Presently the sound of a lone bouncing basketball broke the muffled murmur of the fast-growing crowd. I knew what to expect even before I looked. All alone on the court, before the last game of his career, Sam Jones was tossing up shot after shot. My thoughts went back to that Cincinnati game years earlier. I could only hope the result would be the same.
Several other Celtics and Lakers appeared shortly for a light shootaround. The stands were nearly full when they returned to their respective dressing rooms.
I spent the next few minutes watching my signs disappear one by one. Well, maybe a Lakers fan would injure something in the process.
I began edging toward the entrance the Celtics would be using. Marvin Kratter, a former owner of the Celtics and a great fan, appeared on his way to the dressing room. He’s famous for his lucky stone, which he asks the players to touch before a big game. I intercepted him and asked him to let me touch the stone, which he did.
17
As he continued on his way, I remembered that I had a smooth stone in my pocket—a so-called “worry stone” from New Mexico that was purported to lower the blood pressure if you rubbed it during times of stress. “Mr. Kratter. How about returning the favor?” He did.
In a few minutes, a flurry of activity commenced in the runway. Out came the Celtics, grim-faced and staring straight ahead. As I joined a few other Boston fans in shouting encouragement, Bailey Howell gave me a grin.
Out went the old men to meet their destiny, and I returned to my seat determined to do everything in my power to help shape it.
18
Zero Hour
There are many rewards in caring about the Celtics the way I do. It’s impossible to prioritize them. The vicarious thrill of winning is important. Witnessing beautifully orchestrated teamwork is a constant turn-on. I’ve learned so much about a commitment to excellence and the importance of rising to meet challenges.
There is an added ingredient that is particularly personal—my role as fan. It has two forms—one in Boston and another away from the Garden. At home, throughout the Russell era, I have always had supreme confidence that the Celtics would win the big games. (God knows what will happen when Russell leaves.)
Many would say the same kind of arrogance characterizes the Celtics themselves. According to John Havlicek, the Celtics are so confident that, when they lose a game, they think it’s a mistake.
At each “big” Boston Garden game, I like to identify a poor unfortunate soul who happens to be rooting loudly for the other team. I approach him and offer him a bet. Now, I’ve always believed that winning money by betting on the Celtics could never bring more enjoyment than simply being able to appreciate them. So I always bet this poor jerk $20-to-nothing that the Celtics will win. If they lose, he gets my $20. If they win, I get nothing (except to keep my $20). It’s a bet he can’t refuse.
Since my college days in the late fifties, I’ve always used the same $20 bill for the bet. I’ve never lost. It’s akin to an amazing streak fashioned by Bill Russell. Coming into this all-or-nothing game, he had been involved in 20 winner-take-all games during his high school, college, Olympic, and NBA careers. His record in these encounters had been 20-0.
If I displayed a $20 bill at an away game, I’d be mugged on the spot. So my involvement is entirely vocal. Whenever watching a Celtics game on a foreign court, I always make it a point to establish my presence as quickly and emphatically as possible. This leaves no doubt in my neighbors’ minds as to my allegiance, and they have the satisfaction of being able to taunt me for the maximum amount of time. I consider it therapy for them, cushioning the blow of their inevitable devastation.
My first opportunity came during the Celtics’ introductions. The formula is simple: yell as long and loudly as possible; and, lest there be a mistaken identity, stand and wave a fist. I had the satisfaction of seeing heads from four sections away turn in my direction.
Laker fans returned the gesture (and added a few), while I visibly suppressed a yawn and busied myself with my scorecard. My own personal battle had begun. The Celtics’ war would begin after the National Anthem.
19
As I stood for the Anthem, the words of a man from Hyde Park returned to me. He had contacted me to purchase tickets for Sam Jones Day. “The thing I like best about Sam,” he stated, “is the way he stands at attention like a soldier during the National Anthem.” I stole a look at Sam, who was positioned true to form. Never again was I likely to witness that sight.
The starters for the champions slowly filed onto the floor: Russ, Sam, John, Bailey and Emmett. The challengers followed: Wilt, Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, Keith Erickson and Johnny Egan. High overhead hung eight massive packages of balloons waiting to be released upon the crowning of the new champions. Anticipation is a wonderful thing.
It is not my intention to give a detailed description of the game. There have been many such accounts written by more capable reporters. Besides, who had time to take notes?
However, there are some key recollections and turning points that I want to record for posterity. I remember a torrid start by the Celtics, when it seemed they would blow the Lakers off the court. John Havlicek and Sam Jones were popping from all over the floor. For me, it was instant frenzy. As the Celts went ahead 13-6, I managed a solo outburst that would make a Marine Drill Instructor sound like Tiny Tim.
The lakers counterattacked and narrowed the gap to 28-25 at the end of the period. Had the initial Celtics spurt run them out of gas?
The second quarter was even, 31-31. To be truthful, Emmett Bryant’s fantastic shooting from the left corner kept the Celtics in the game.
Just at the end of the half, one of the Lakers committed a needless foul on Sam Jones, who was nowhere near the basket. Both teams watched from the sidelines as the old pro calmly sank both shots.
Time and again, in clutch situations through the years, Celtic opponents have committed foolish errors or have missed easy shots. Invariably the Celtics have capitalized on the situation. Maybe those two points would not be crucial to the outcome; but they could be. I felt it only fair to enlighten the crowd with my observation, which I soon accomplished at an extremely high decibel level. The crowd proved unappreciative.
Two of Sam Jones’ relatives were sitting nearby, and we spent much of halftime discussing the game. Soon the familiar flurry of activity appeared below. I rushed to the runway as the Celtics trudged out for the final time of the year. “Twenty-four minutes! They’re more tired than you are! You’ve got ‘em! Eat ‘em alive!”
Once again, Bailey Howell was the only Celtic to look at me. I shook my fist. Bailey wasn’t smiling any longer. This was it.
20
The third quarter was something I’ll never forget. Suddenly, the Celtics could do nothing wrong. Sam Jones and Don Nelson were nothing short of incredible, as they scored again and again. The Lakers appeared demoralized. Their repeated timeouts could not stem the tide.
For me, the highlight came after a Celtics basket. The Lakers brought the ball upcourt, and someone threw a pass to a teammate cutting around a screen. The ball disappeared behind several players and immediately reappeared, but going in the opposite direction. John Havlicek poured it on as he went coast to coast for two more points.
I now know that the term “beside myself” means. I was so ecstatic that I almost seemed to be screaming at this other guy who looked just like me and was equally nuts. The period ended with the Celts leading 91-76 and the Lakers being booed by their own fans. Being sensitive to great theater, I remained conspicuously quiet. I figured my silence spoke volumes.
The only question in my mind was when the Lakers would begin their comeback. Guys like Elgin Baylor and Jerry West would not give up without a struggle. It was pleasing to note that West was playing without apparent effects from any hamstring pull. I’ve always liked Celtics opponents to be at full strength so there can be no excuses.
Three minutes into the fourth quarter, the lead had widened to 17 points, 100-83. I began to relax. Premature! Dumb! The roof fell in.
All at once, the Lakers became red hot, and the Celtics visited the Polar Ice Cap. Now the fickle fans were solidly behind their team. The place erupted with sound, featuring trumpet fanfares and roars of “Charge!”
The fans in my section started giving it to me as the Lakers steadily narrowed the gap. I thought back to my Philadelphia experience and was grateful that my seat was bolted to the floor.
In the midst of all this trauma, the Bostonians received a real blow. Sam Jones fouled out. With 7:05 left, and after scoring 24 points (ironically his uniform number), Sam went for a Jerry West fake and hit him. Sam left to a standing ovation from the partisan Los Angeles crowd.
I recalled his last shot. Characteristically, it had been a short jump shot on which he challenged Wilt Chamberlain, just getting the ball over Wilt’s fingertips early in the fourth period. Two points for the Celtics.
But this was no time for reflection. Larry Siegfried replaced Sam as the Lakers resumed their assault. The lead became smaller and smaller and finally stood at one point, 103-102. At this juncture, two key plays occurred.
21
Mel Counts, who had replaced an apparently injured Wilt Chamberlain late in the game, took a pass and went up with a shot from downtown. Seventeen thousand people held their collective breath as the ball arched through the air and hit nothing but net. Pandemonium broke loose. But the referee was doing a little dance and rotating his forearms in a circle. Counts had traveled. What was it I said about clutch errors of Celtics opponents?
But could the Celtics capitalize? The answer was not long in coming. They brought the ball down and tried to penetrate the swarming defense. A scramble! Someone poked the ball loose from Havlicek—right into the hands of Nelson at the foul line. His quick shot hit the rim and bounced about three feet into the air. Who was in position for the rebound?
Wait a minute.....there was no rebound. The ball dropped back cleanly through the hoop. Unbelievable!
The Lakers seemed to think so too, as they turned the ball over twice. The opportunistic Celtics garnered three free throws. The fans started to leave, as I serenaded them with the merits of the Celtics and reminded them to wait and catch some balloons.
The Lakers scored the last four points as time ran out, but the die was cast. The final score was 108-106, and the senior citizens of professional basketball were once again World Champions.
I started to run for the dressing room, but I couldn’t resist turning for one final look at the scoreboard. No mistake about it—108-106. I thought to myself, “Here, in this place, has occurred one of the great moments in your life. Soak it up. Savor it. Take a mental snapshot, because this is something you’ll want to retain forever.”
A splash of color caught my eye. Up in the rafters, eight now-forlorn bags of balloons vainly awaited their release.
22
Aftermath
It was not easy to negotiate entry to the dressing room. Two policemen guarded the runway, and they absolutely refused to admit anyone without a press pass. After several attempts at persuasion, I recalled a back entrance the team had used during practice a day earlier.
I quickly made my way to the alternate entrance and found it was blocked by two ushers. At least an usher can’t arrest you.
If there was one time during the trip when prior planning proved important, this was it. I had made it a point to wear a sport jacket and tie, and I carried a briefcase (which had earlier contained my signs). During the various activities surrounding Sam Jones Day, I had discovered that a jacket, tie and briefcase increase one’s chances of non-interference at an arena by about 50%.
So I sucked in my breath, straightened my tie, and walked right by. Descending the stairs, I heard one usher ask the other if he’d seen my pass. I covered the last seven steps in one leap.
The dressing room was already filling with reporters and other well-wishers who had somehow gained entry. Around the perimeter, the players lounged on benches in various stages of undress. Some sipped soft drinks. There was not a bottle of champagne in sight.
The most obvious person in the room was Russell, surrounded by a circle of writers. At frequent intervals, his screams of laughter penetrated the growing din.
I slowly traveled around the room, congratulating each team member and ending my travels in the corner housing John Havlicek, Sam Jones, and at least half the reporters in the U.S. I didn’t mind waiting. The reporters had deadlines to meet. I could stay all night if necessary.
I watched Sam answer questions as he parceled out bits of his clothing to souvenir hunters. He even cut off his large thigh bandage and autographed it for one guy.
As the crowd thinned a little, I was able to offer kudos to Sam and John. They asked me to watch their uniform bags while they showered. Apparently their green road uniforms were items they were not allowed to dole out to anyone.
Soon they emerged, and talk began to center around the activities of the evening. Due to a 7:00 start time for the West Coast game, it was now only 9:45. Sam had received an invitation to Bill Cosby’s home and felt he might go over there. (Somehow, Cosby must have been gotten his tickets, but not from Sam or he would have been sitting near me.)
John would be returning with George Plimpton to a party thrown by the Celtics at the hotel. I managed to hitch a ride with them. With a final salute to Bailey Howell (who was taking the first available plane home), I followed John and George to an exit leading to the parking lot.
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Through the glass doors, we could see a crowd of perhaps 300 waiting. “I think I may need both hands to get through that mob,” John decided. “Would you mind carrying the uniform bag?” I clutched the bag along with my briefcase as George opened the door.
The dangerously friendly crowd surged in on John and spilled over onto George and me. I was engulfed in the undertow of a human sea. The harder I tried to move forward, the faster I was thrown backward.
Several people spied the uniform bag, and I had to hunch over like a fullback to maintain my grip. My head wound up near my flailing feet which, I noticed, were nowhere near the pavement.
Finally we broke through the crowd and ran for George’s car, with most of the crowd at our heels. “Where’s the car, George?” shouted John.
“I can’t remember where I left it.”
“Well what does it look like?”
“I’m not sure. I borrowed it. I think it's a convertible.”
From one end of the parking lot to the other we raced, as the crowd remained in hot pursuit. John was actually signing autographs as he ran backwards.
After the better part of ten minutes, George spied the car in a remote section of the lot, and we made for it. Even after we jumped in and locked the doors, the crowd thronged around the car and almost smashed the rear window. Finally, as the car moved through the mass of humanity, John yelled, “See you next year guys,” and we headed for the hotel.
During the 10-minute ride, George and I were treated to a soliloquy from John, who was slowly releasing some of the pressures of the previous nine months. “Man, it’s over and we won! This has to be the best! No one gave us a chance! We had to win on the other guy’s court in every series—every series—and we did it!”
Upon reaching the hotel, we decided to go to our rooms and phone home. Even the elevator ride was an experience. John continued his tirade, occasionally drumming on the elevator walls for emphasis. At the 13th floor, in the midst of a drum solo, the elevator stopped and the door opened, revealing a frightened little man who had obviously been waiting but now began beating a hasty retreat to the stairs.
“Come in, sir,” shouted John. “We love everyone.” The poor guy obeyed and retreated furtively to a corner until we exited.
24
In a few minutes, we met again and headed toward the suite where the party was to be held. Larry Siegfried joined the group; and, fortified by bottles of bubbly, he and John (former Ohio State teammates) became human magnets in a serpentine parade through the hotel.
The party room was locked, and someone ran to get a key before John and Larry beat down the door. The suite quickly filled with as many as 200 bodies, including several players. A living advertisement for Coppertone was standing next to me, and I mentioned how exciting the Celtics win had been. “What’s a Celtic?” he responded. At least he had a nose for a good party.
I stood off to one side for a while to watch the crowd. There were several scattered groups and a contingent at the bar. Naturally, the major focus was on the players. At various points in the proceedings, Satch Sanders, Don Nelson, and Rich Johnson joined the two Buckeyes and were immediately surrounded.
The crowd yelled for a Celtic spokesman to give a speech, and the players immediately elected poor Rich Johnson. Rich is not very vocal, and they forced him to climb onto a coffee table just to make him more visible. Fortunately for Rich, only the lip readers among the crowd will ever know what he mumbled, because the general noise level was so high.
At midnight, a surreptitious word-of-mouth campaign eliminated some of the party crashers by moving the proceedings to another suite. There, a brief speech was delivered by each player and trainer Joe DeLauri, to the accompaniment of tumultuous applause.
For the next few hours, the players drifted in and out, except for a stationary Havlicek, who was obviously enjoying the unfolding scene. Two men were playing “Fingers,” simultaneously thrusting out a number of fingers while yelling numbers in Italian. The one whose number matched their combined finger count was the winner. In another part of the room, several people were attempting a flamenco contest, with no success at all.
The entire scene was bizarre and, at the same time, utterly consistent with our Hollywood surroundings. I sat next to John on a couch, as he politely accepted good wishes. Whenever any woman under the age of 60 came over, John immediately began talking about how much he was looking forward to celebrating with his wonderful wife. John is always in control.
By 5:30 in the morning, the pace of the party had slowed to a crawl. The game players and aspiring dancers had dropped out; and most of the lingerers had simply dropped into chairs and fallen asleep.
Beside me, John was surveying the room. Those who were not asleep were either slumped over the bar or trying to see through puffy, half-closed eyes. There were no other players in sight. John had obviously outlasted every conceivable challenge in the vicinity. A look of triumph entered his eyes as he glanced over and said, “Let’s go home.”
25
Getaway
Within two hours, I was in the lobby, waiting for the 7:45 limo to the airport. John Havlicek and Sam Jones were missing. I called Sam’s room.
“I’m not even speaking to you, Dick!" (The last word happens to be my name but could just as easily have been his recent opinion of me.) "I called your room until 3:30. My relatives and I were at Charlie Brown’s Restaurant, and we thought you might want to come over. You’re nothing but a night owl!”
“I thought you were going to Bill Cosby’s.”
“No, it would have been too crowded. Anyway, I’ll be right down.”
Someone was on the line with Havlicek. “Yes it is a great day. We’re waiting on you. No, take the elevator....you're on the 16th floor, for Pete's sake!” John obviously was still high as a kite. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had spent the previous two hours doing pushups.
Six players were returning with the official party—Russell, Havlicek, Sam Jones, Sanders, Siegfried and Johnson. The others either had left immediately after the game or had commitments elsewhere. Nonetheless, the procession through the airport was an impressive one. The Russell beard was recognized by most passers-by, and one could trace Bill’s progress by the string of snapping heads.
I remember striding briskly along the movable walkway, which really accelerates one’s normal walking speed. Russell was briefly beside me, but he was walking on the floor, not the mechanized conveyor; and he was rapidly gaining ground on me.
Satch, Sam and John joined me for breakfast at a coffee shop. Sam and I then went to buy newspapers. He stunned the sales clerk by saying, “I want five, but you can keep everything except the sports sections.”
As we proceeded to the gate, I learned what I believe will always be one of the most important lessons of my life. It involves the way in which one regards the concept of time.
Noting that only five minutes remained until takeoff, with the gate some distance away, I suggested we pick up the pace. Sam said, “It’s only six gates away. It doesn’t take more than 30 seconds per gate. That’s three minutes. It won’t take more than a minute to get on the plane. No problem.” After years of working against the clock, what he really seemed to be saying was that, even when you’ve got a deadline, you’ve got to stick with your plan or you’ll really be in trouble.
26
I’ve thought a lot about Sam’s viewpoint since that day. Each of us forms an implicit “game plan” for everything we undertake. Each plan is unique to the personality and abilities of the individual who makes it. Forced to play another’s game, one loses effectiveness. From now on, when someone tries to put unusual pressure on me to rush something toward an arbitrary deadline, I’m going to be more hardnosed in evaluating (a) how legitimately urgent the need really is versus (b) the possible ramifications on the quality of my performance.
We reached our seats on the plane, and I was pleased to note that the Los Angeles newspapers were quite fair in their appraisal of the game. They did talk a lot about the injury to Jerry West, who had "only" scored 42 points with 12 assists; and there was much conjecture about whether or not Wilt had really been injured when he was removed from the game. In general, however, they felt the team with more class under pressure had won.
The newspaper trading began as soon as seat belts were fastened. I couldn’t help but notice how the game coverage was read with obvious relish by the players. Anyone who thinks professional athletes don’t care about scrutinizing their media coverage (at least when they win) is sadly mistaken.
By the time we taxied away from the gate, the players were all looking out the window at a hazy (naturally), conquered city. I clamped the stereo earphones to my head; and, sure enough, there was the same inspiring march I had heard while landing two days earlier. This time, however, it had a different meaning for me: strident, proud, and—about all—victorious.
The trip to Boston was relatively uneventful. Most of the players went to sleep almost immediately and awoke only for lunch and the movie (“Kenner,” with Jim Brown, which they had seen three times). Even John Havlicek, apparently satisfied that there were no more worlds to conquer, drifted into a deep sleep.
I went looking for Sam Jones and passed Johnny Most, sitting next to Russell. Johnny made an announcement. “I’m thinking of coming out with a new record about the Celtics. I’m going to call it ‘Russell Broke Their Balloons.’” Russell’s howl led the riotous laughter.
Sam was up in First Class, and I expected to find him asleep. He had confided earlier that he had aggravated a leg injury during the game; and he had limped badly on the trip through the airport. (I assume he had included the limp in his four-minute boarding calculation.) Sam was not asleep. He was reading. After 12 grueling seasons and an exhausting ultimate playoff series, he was reading a sports magazine.
27
Sam
Sooner or later in this account, there had to be a chapter on Sam Jones.
Despite having lived in the same town for several years, we had never known one another until the fall of 1968. Even then, our meeting was an unusual one.
After I left the champagne on their doorstep following the 1967 loss to Philadelphia, the Joneses sent a note of appreciation, “although we don’t drink.” So, after the 1967-68 championship had been won, I obtained the loan of a six-foot plastic display Coke bottle from the Coca Cola Company. This was my 1968 award to the Joneses, and I went to their home to present it.
They got a big kick out of the whole thing; and Sam and I began talking about a number of mutual interests—including golf. One thing led to another, and we became quite friendly. By the time the Joneses left for Washington, I considered them among my closest friends. In fact, their five children stayed with me while their moving van was being loaded.
I have always applied two rules to our relationship. First, I have tried never to make a pest of myself. Second, I have never imposed on Sam or his family for personal favors. That is an aggravation they do not need. Even the Los Angeles ticket was Sam’s suggestion.
These guidelines have always seemed to be a matter of simple respect. However, it is amazing how often they are violated by alleged “friends” who always seem to benefit more from the association than the Joneses do.
It was not a happy day for me when the Joneses moved to the D.C. area. However, I have come to believe it will be the best thing for them. A good job awaits Sam—Athletic Director at Federal City College; they will be closer to relatives in North Carolina; and they can use a respite from the regimen of professional basketball. Nevertheless, I hope the Joneses will be back some day; and New England will be the better for it.
When our committee was planning the ceremonies honoring Sam, we solicited a number of people and businesses for various types of assistance. Some chose to participate; others did not. Only one contact was openly critical. He wrote me a blistering letter, claiming that the entire affair was “shallow in content;” Sam was well-compensated; and while Sam might be “a great guy and great ballplayer,” our efforts would be better spent in addressing some of today’s social problems.
When Sam Jones Day was over, I sent a letter to this gentleman. I’d like to close this chapter with an excerpt from the letter, as it probably best illustrates my feelings about Sam Jones:
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Sam Jones is a “great guy” and a “great ballplayer.” But anyone writing him
off with these descriptions is seriously uninformed. Like most well-known
athletes, Sam is constantly in the public eye and is continually sought out
by people. However, unlike all too many professional athletes, he utilizes
such opportunities to enrich the lives of those he meets. In the face of
many demands, he treats everyone with a warm respect which is totally devoid
of aloofness. Sam Jones has the ability to make everyone he meets feel like
the most important person in the world.
Sam seems to have a passion for seeking out people in order to spread what I
call “his spell.” When stopped at a traffic light, he’ll be apt to initiate
a conversation with the people in the next car. It seems impossible for him
to drive by a group of basketball-playing kids without yelling, “Hey you
bums.” You should see their eyes when they recognize the “Celtics 24”
number plate and realize who has been talking to them.
If I had to select one phrase to describe Sam, I would have to say “total
respect for all.” Jess Cain (a local radio announcer), at Sam’s testimonial
dinner, said it another way: “Sam Jones is love.”
I happen to feel that no salary is commensurate with the total commitment to
make such an everyday difference in contemporary society. To me, Sam’s
"Day" represented an opportunity for us to let him know how much we
appreciate his non-athletic virtues.
29
Triumphal Return
“Ladies and gentlemen. In 15 minutes, we will be arriving at Boston’s Logan Airport. It appears that quite a crowd is waiting to greet the Celtics. We ask that all of you who are not in the Celtics’ party deplane first.”
Some of the players began guessing what the size of the crowd would be. The veterans, conditioned to years of public apathy, did not expect much, as guesses ranged from 50 to 100.
Logan Airport came into view; and, as the pilot banked for the last time, I turned to my trusty stereo earphones. This time, the sound of a mezzo soprano greeted me. You can’t win them all.
The tall passengers hunched over to peer through the windows. Looks like a sit-in.” “Isn’t that a band over there?” “The Red Sox must be coming in too.”
But it was the Celtics the crowd of several thousand wanted, and the Celtics they got. As soon as the team began filing out the door, led by Bill Russell, the band played the Boston College fight song, and the crowd broke into chants of “We’re number one.” I trailed along behind, the ultimate Celtic gofer trying to juggle the ever-present briefcase and a large, wrapped portrait that Sam had been given in Los Angeles.
Rose Russell, Gladys Jones and Beth Havlicek were very much in evidence as they waited to greet their heroes in style. The Governor offered his congratulations.
Having delivered the portrait to the Joneses and collected my luggage, I headed for the garage to begin the drive home. I wish I could recount some profound thoughts that entered my mind at this time. I remember thinking mainly about how the trip had certainly been more than worth its expense; and I resolved to write the journal you are now reading.
As I paid the garage fee, I almost included my lucky $20 bill by mistake—the one I never lost betting $20-to-nothing on the Celtics. Since BILL Russell had been the one constant throughout the entire championship run, and since it was a $20 BILL, I resolved to call it "Russell."
As I wended my way out of the airport, I heard muffled shouts from the crowd. “Maybe this town is waking up after all these years,” I muttered.
I hope so.
30
Postscript: 1970
Bill Russell retired after that 1969 game, leaving the Celtics with a major rebuilding job. I'm retiring my "betting" $20 bill undefeated. On the eve of the '69-'70 season, I called the Guy Mainella Show—a local radio talk program—and was allowed to read the following poem which I had written:
It hardly seems five months ago when from our Western Coast,
We listened to the play-by-play of our own Johnny Most,
As he described the action in a game of basketball
In which the winners seemed to be an ad for Geritol.
They were of course the Celtics and they made Dame Boston proud,
And at the Logan Airport they were welcomed by a crowd
Which roared its praise and loud approval over and again
For what had been accomplished by these tireless old men.
A lot has happened to the Celtics since that time in May,
As numbers six and twenty-four have left and gone away,
And now a ray of hope at long long last appears to loom
For all those Celts detractors who each year predict their doom.
Now Celtics fans could argue that their hopes retain a twinkle,
For after all they’ve added Jo Jo White and Henry Finkel,
But I believe there are some more important things to say,
Before the ball goes up to get next season under way.
Since nineteen hundred fifty-six, most pro sports teams in town
Have met with mixed successes, but less often up than down,
And only one has given us consistent excellence,
Refusing to be beaten with a pride that is intense.
They’ve offered us a heritage that time will not erase,
And now perhaps another team will rise to take their place,
But win or lose, there’s one fact that’s quite obviously true,
The Celtics more than ever now are much in need of you.
Now I’m not knocking hockey, baseball, football—any sport,
They’re all exciting games and most deserving of support,
The Bruins, Sox and Pats all have great skill with brains and brawn,
They offer you a chance to see whatever turns you on.
But if you’ve thrilled to see Sam bank one with the going tough,
Or Cousy go behind the back, or Russell make a stuff,
And if you dig the flags they’ve raised most every opening night,
Tomorrow and throughout the year, let’s help them in their fight.
All I can ask is that you’ll give some thought to what I’ve said,
If you agree, come Friday night and we’ll all knock ‘em dead,
But come by seven-thirty to be sure you’ll hear that call,
“Here come the Boston Celtics—they're the Champs of Basketball."
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