NEW FORMAT FOR THIS BLOG: ARCHIVING WRITINGS ON THE CELTICS

As indicated in a later thread on this blog, I have now established Sam's Celtics Forum, which will take over the function of Celtics-related conversation and debate that I had originally planned for this blog. This blog will now be devoted mainly to archiving and discussing the writings of myself and others on the Celtics, primarily involving Celtics history and tradition.

I'm leading off by posting three of my own works:

1. "SlipperySam's Personal History with the Russell Celtics"

2. "Here Come the World Champions...the Final Chapter in Basketball Camelot"
(a personal account of my trip and stay in L.A. with the Celtics as they won the 1969 championship)

3. My review of Bill Russell's book, "Russell Rules"

I hope you'll post your reactions here or on Sam's Celtics Forum, (which may be found at: http://samcelt.forumotion.net) because I'd like to encourage others to archive their Celtics writings here.

Thanks,

Sam

SAM'S PERSONAL ACCOUNT OF "THE RUSSELL YEARS"

SlipperySam's Personal Account of The Russell Years in Boston Celtics History

Birth of a Nation

The Boston Celtics began operations as part of the new Basketball Association of America in 1946, when the owner of the Boston Garden and the Boston Bruins, Walter A. Brown, was seeking ways to keep the Garden more fully occupied. Brown was not a big basketball fan in those days but turned out to be the glue that held the Celtics together in the early going.

The team became a charter member of the newly formed National Basketball Association (BBA) in 1950, and many of the early years were fraught with financial strife. At one point, Brown had to mortgage his home to keep the franchise barely afloat. There were reports that the players' paychecks sometimes failed to go out on time.

The 1950 season saw the advent of Coach Red Auerbach, who also performed the General Manager function. Red had coached the Washington Capitals in the BAA. Auerbach and Brown formed a very tight bond, and their "contracts" typically consisted of a handshake agreement.

From 1950 to 1955, the Celtics accumulated some very good players, including Bob Cousy; the razzle dazzle playmaker who attracted this 13-year-old to the game in 1950. “The Cooz” was acquired as the “leftover” third choice in a dispersal draft of three key players from a team that had folded.

Other important acquisitions included sharp-shooting guard Bill Sharman; finesse center Ed MacAuley; tough forward Jim Loscutoff; multi-talented guard-forward Frank Ramsey, and (in 1950) forward Chuch Cooper—the first person of color ever drafted by an NBA team. (He was not the first to play in the league, as Earl Lloyd of the Syracuse Nationals barely beat him out for that honor.)

But the Celtics could never get over the contending hump because of a lack of defense and rebounding. The highlight of the early fifties was probably the four-overtime playoff game against the Syracuse Nationals in 1953, in which Cousy scored 50 points, including 30 of 32 from the free throw line (still a record).

To address the defense and rebounding needs, while also shoring up his offense, Red made a series of very shrewd moves. The Celtics forfeited their first round pick in favor of selecting (before the first round got under way) Tom Heinsohn of Holy Cross a “territorial selection” (a player from a college located within 50 miles of a pro team’s home base). Then he approached the St. Louis Hawks, who had the second pick in the draft. Red packaged MacAuley and Cliff Hagan, a future Hall-of-Famer who had been in the Army since being drafter earlier by the Celtics, in trade for center Bill Russell of San Francisco University (whom the Hawks agreed to draft). In order to ensure the cash-strapped Cincinnati Royals would not draft Russell with their first pick, Red traded them an appearance by the Ice Capades. Imagine that…a date with the Ice Capades for Bill Russell!

Red's focus was always on acquiring a blend of great skills rather than on accumulating individually great all-around players. Even if a player had multiple talents, Red was most interested in the most prominent skill(s) that stood out in the player's repertoire. He now had shooters in Sharman and Heinsohn. He had a great playmaker in Cousy. Russell and Loscutoff were a solid rebounding and defensive tandem. And Ramsey's primary skill was being such a Jack-of-all-trades that he was established as the very first sixth man.

Although Red may not have known it then, the initial foundation for the greatest dynasty in the history of professional sports was in place. I believe that dynasty was actually an aggregation of six mini-eras, which I'll be using as a framework in this history.

Setting the Scene

As a backdrop for getting a feel for pro basketball in the fifties, it is important to reflect on the idiosyncrasies of the game, the playing conditions and the crowds. In those days, the rules of pro basketball tended to react to evolving player abilities. The unprecedented bulk of George Mikan, the agility of Bill Russell, and the length and power of Wilt Chamberlain forced changes in the width of the lane. When the early Celtics had a one-point lead with 30 to 60 seconds to go, Bob Cousy would dribble out the clock; so they instituted the 24-second rule. Russell forced the offensive goaltending rule to be instituted the year before Chamberlain entered the league.

Playing conditions bordered on the primitive, starting with the locker rooms. Tom Heinsohn says an issue in the Celtics dressing room would be whether a player would rate one peg or two; and the room was so small that reporters were allowed in only one at a time. Locker room temperatures could range from frigid to tropical. Temporary courtside seats were so close to the action that things were sometimes hairy for players. The one time clock at the old Boston Garden was directly overhead and very difficult for the players to see. Guy wires, stretched from the backboards to the balcony, helped only partially to reduce the vibrations of the board and rim from missed outside shots or the rare dunk attempts. Cigarette and cigar smoke often made the spectators squint, and God knows what effect it had on players (including their lungs). As Bill Sharman lamented during a later interview, rims in those days were very tight because they were bolted directly to the backboard, and the breakaway rim wouldn't be instituted for decades.

The lack of security and relative ease of access to players inspired youths to aspire to try to emulate them. We used to stand outside the locker room after games. When players emerged, we'd crowd around them until the one cop would start to herd us out. I'd always be at the front of the herd and would "march in place" so that I'd wind up at the end of the herd without having actually moved. Then I'd engage in conversation with a player, and the cop would let me stay, figuring I was a friend of the player.

The primitive nature of the game and accessibility of players created an intense sense of personal closeness and involvement among the fans—a feeling that unfortunately waned as the game became more remote over the decades. Tight rims and dead spots in the famed Boston Garden parquet floor. Heck, I had tight rims and lumpy footing in my back yard.

Most spectators were male, and the roar that even a partial crowd could mount was unparalleled. The stentorian cacophony could make the Boston Garden balcony shake up and down as much as a foot. Particularly scary if you were seated below that balcony.

Celtics tickets were not difficult to obtain. In 1969, the prices ranged from a high of $5.00 to a low of $3.00. During the entire Russell Celtics' reign, the Celtics’ highest home attendance was in their first championship season. Attendance that season averaged only 10,517, representing 76% of the 13,909 capacity. For playoff games, we thought nothing of camping out all night on Causeway Street. One person would hold another's place while he went for food and beverages for his section of the ticket line. We'd curl up on the sidewalk and sleep fitfully. When I took a folding chair with me one year, it was considered an innovation in the annals of Celtics ticket-waiting, and I got my picture in the newspaper.

Era 1: Establishing the blueprint (1956-58)

Even before Russell arrived around Christmas time, fresh from winning the Olympics, the Celtics were a pretty good team, with their 16-8 record leading the Eastern Division. Two veterans acquired from other teams, future Hall-of-Famer Arnie Risen and Jack Nichols (who later graduated from Tufts Dental School), were doing an adequate job at the center position, and Heinsohn wound up being Rookie of the Year that season. Another aging veteran acquisition and future Hall of Famer, Andy Phillip, was backing up Cousy.

In fact, during Russell's first season with the Celtics, the team was actually blessed with six future Hall of Famers (Russell, Cousy, Heinsohn, Ramsey, Risen and Phillip). Playmaker KC Jones, whom Red had also acquired in the same draft as Russell's, could have swollen the total to seven, but he was in the Army during Russ's first two seasons.

56-57

4 teams in East, 4 teams in West, for total of 8 in league; played 72 games
Leaders: Scoring: Paul Arizin; Rebounds: Maurice Stokes; Assists: Bob Cousy
MVP: Bob Cousy
Celts #1 in East by 6 games over Syracuse Nationals: 44-28 (.611); #1 overall
3 playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts sweep Syracuse, 3-0
Celts beat St. Louis for title, 4-3

With Russell on hand, the Celtics' portfolio of weapons was frighteningly diverse. Suffocating defense, amazingly strong rebounding, an exciting transition game spearheaded by Cousy, and an efficient halfcourt set (also with Cousy the catalyst). They didn't yet have great athleticism other than Russell, but they didn't need a lot against their most dangerous rivals the first few years...the St. Louis Hawks.

In his first NBA game, which happened to be against those Hawks, Russ displayed his promise for the future by grabbing 16 rebounds in 21 minutes; and, in the fourth quarter, he blocked three shots by future Hall-of-Famer Bob Petit in a Celtics win. Petit was a PF, but it usually wound up being Russ versus Petit.

It was appropriate that Russ faced Bob Petit in his initial game because Petit became the first of five major antagonists the Celtics would face during the Russell years. Multiply the relentless, rough rebounding style of Leon Powe by two or three; add the inside and outside scoring punch of someone like Dave Cowens; and you have Bob Petit. Though he was only 6' 9" and 205 pounds (and not fast), he never failed to average at least 20 PPG and 12 RPG in all of his 11 years in the league; and he made the all-star team in every one of those years.

So it was also fitting that the Celtics and Hawks wound up in the championship series of 1957. It went seven games, and the last was one for the ages. Red Auerbach had spiced up the series before game 3 in St. Louis by punching Hawks' owner Ben Kerner in the mouth over a dispute about the exact height of a basket. Then game 7 at Boston Garden went into double overtime. In the final minute, four key plays occurred.

First, Russell made one of the greatest plays of all-time. His momentum from action under the Celtics' offensive board had carried Russ out of bounds. The Hawks' Jack Colemen caught a long pass and had a solo breakaway at midcourt. Somehow Russ leapt back inbounds, overtook Coleman, blocked the layup, and raced downcourt to put the Celts up by one.

A few seconds later, a huge three-point play by Ramsey put the Celts ahead 124-121. Then Loscutoff made a big foul shot for a four-point lead. After the Hawks had narrowed the gap to 125-123, and with the Hawks having no time outs left, Hawks' player-coach Alex Hannum heaved the ball the length of the court off the backboard, and it bounced right into the hands of Petit, who missed a foul line jumper as time expired. The Celtics were champs.

In game 7, Heinsohn scored 37 with 23 rebounds and Russ had 19 points with 32 boards, as Cousy and Sharman went a combined 5 for 40 from the field. Thus, this series not only ignited the Celtics Dynasty. It also introduced one of the Russell Celtics' most endearing traits...the ability of some players to step up when others were having off-nights.

Red realized that the first important erosion of his player core would come in the backcourt. He had already drafted playmaker KC Jones, who was still in the Army. Now, in 1957, he drafted unknown SG Sam Jones, whose shooting prowess had been recommended to Red by one of Red's former players, Bones McKinney. Sam's favorite bank shot off the backboard seemed to mystify opponents throughout his career. They persisted in instinctively guarding him to shoot directly at the hoop (which he sometimes did), and he'd be shooting a little to the side and off the board. He was basketball's equivalent of the old baseball adage to "hit 'em where they ain't" because Sam would "shoot 'em where they ain't."

Sam was exceptionally fast, was also a pretty good defender, and had great ball control, having spent some time as a playmaker in school. But it was Sam's shooting skill that induced Red to draft him; and Sam's clutch shooting in the last seconds of playoff games was arguably the best in team history.

57-58

4 teams in East, 4 teams in West, for total of 8 in league; played 72 games
Leaders: Scoring: George Yardley; Rebounds: Bill Russell; Assists: Bob Cousy
MVP: Bill Russell
Celts #1 in East by 8 games over Syracuse Nationals: 49-23 (.681); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)

Celts beat Philadelphia Warriors, 4-1
Celts lost to St. Louis Hawks, 4-2

The 1957-58 season looked like a repeat for the Celtics over the Hawks until, in game 3 of the championship finals, Russell suffered a severe ankle injury. He had to miss two games (one of which the Celtics actually won). Russ came back for game six but was hobbled, although the Celtics lost by only one point as the Hawks won the championship.

Era 2: Meeting Complementary Needs (1958-60)

The first two Russell seasons had established the blueprint for the future. The next three seasons, from 1958 through 1961, were largely devoted to adding to the depth of the team and honing the games of complementary players. Sam Jones now became increasingly integrated into the rotation, backing up Bill Sharman.

I believe it was around this time (although I'm not certain of the year) when Sam Jones also began climbing the ranks of New England tennis players. At one point, I heard that he was ranked #4 in the area.

In the 1958-59 season, the Celtics faced a new adversary in the finals...the Lakers, who were then beginning their last two seasons in Minneapolis before moving to L.A. The Lakers had recently added the next major antagonist of the Russell years, Elgin Baylor. Baylor was unquestionably the best SF the Russell Celtics faced. He was only 6' 5" but had Jordanesque hang time, agility and strength. Although he played during 14 seasons, injuries limited his most productive seasons to 10. He was an all-star in all 10, and his lifetime averages were 27 points and 14 rebounds. He may have been the most persistent scorer around the basket that I have ever seen.

'58-'59

4 teams in East, 4 teams in West, for total of 8 in league; played 72 games
Leaders: Scoring: Bob Petit; Rebounds: Bill Russell; Assists: Bob Cousy
MVP: Bob Petit
Celts #1 in East by 12 games over New York Knicks: 52-20 (.722); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Syracuse Nationals, 4-3
Celts swept Minneapolis (next-to-last year) Lakers, 4-0

Notable achievements during the season: 64 points by Elgin Baylor of the Minneapolis Lakers in a November 8 Celtics loss in Minneapolis. Record 28 assists by Bob Cousy as Celtics score a record 173 points in February 27 win vs. the Lakers (a figure tied by Phoenix in 1990; Cousy assist record later broken by Scott Skiles with 30). Record 19 assists in a playoff game by Bob Cousy against Minneapolis Lakers in Boston on April 9. (Since broken by several players, including Doc Rivers; record of 24 now jointly held by Magic Johnson and John Stockton.)

In 1958-59, KC Jones arrived from the Army to add another special skill to Red's arsenal...blanket defense on the other team's backcourt rocket launchers. The Jones Boys became a devastating backup duo. Opponents would breathe a sigh of relief when Cooz and Sharman would come out for a second-quarter rest; and then Sam and K.C. would turn up the tempo and create general mayhem, disrupting opponents defensively and usually adding to the lead. Having four future Hall-of-Famers, with varying capabilities, in the backcourt allowed Red to use numerous backcourt combinations depending on whether he needed more experience, scoring bursts, catchup ball, speed, defensive disruption, ball control, or whatever.

The Lakers obviously needed more than Baylor, and the Celtics swept them in the championship finals despite the fact that Cousy missed the last game due to injury. I believe it was during this season that the Celtics became cognizant of just how routinely dominant and special they were becoming...and when they genuinely began to be confident of a win every time they took the court.

'59-'60

4 teams in East, 4 teams in West, for total of 8 in league; played 75 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Bob Cousy
MVP: Wilt Chamberlain
Celts #1 in East by 10 games over New York Knicks: 59-16 (.787); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Philadelphia Warriors, 4-2
Celts beat St. Louis Hawks, 4-3

Notable occurrences: The Celtics collected 109 rebounds against Detroit Pistons on December 24. The Celtics went on a 19-game winning streak.

Goliath joined the league in the fall of 1959, in the form of Wilt Chamberlain. At 7' 1" and 275 pounds, he could physically pummel anyone if he wanted to. But he was surprisingly mild-mannered unless someone got him aroused. Over 14 seasons, he was to average 30 points and 23 rebounds. One year, he averaged 50 PPG. Another year, he led the league in assists. He once grabbed 55 rebounds in one game. Wilt's stats were simply off the charts.

Wilt and Russ unquestionably represented the ultimate mano a mano confrontation. In their very first meeting, both men grabbed a loose ball, and Wilt lifted Russ up off the floor before the refs could call a jump ball. Russ was afraid Wilt was going to dunk him. But, over the 10 years they played against one another, Russ almost invariably won their big matches, and he "out-championed" Wilt, 9 to 1.

Russ constantly psyched Wilt out. One favorite ploy of Russ was to force Wilt out just about a foot beyond his favorite spot but to do it subtly so Wilt wouldn't notice. Wilt would become frustrated because he couldn't understand why he kept missing jumpers, and his frustration only made him miss more shots. And then, when the Celtics were comfortably ahead in a game, Russ would then allow Wilt to score a few points in order to satisfy the stat-happy giant, when the gratuitous points were meaningless, in order to dissuade Wilt from steamrollering Russ next time.

The pressures of being bigger than life in a figurative sense seemed to act as a sort of off-court bond between Russ and Wilt. In fact, Russ sometimes spent Thanksgiving at Wilt's house. Wilt called Russell "Felton" (Russ' middle name).

In the 1959-60 playoffs, the Celtics beat Wilt's Philadephia Warriors, 4-2 and overcame the St. Louis Hawks once more, 4-3

'60-'61

4 teams in East, 4 teams in West, for total of 8 in league; played 79 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Oscar Robertson
MVP: Bill Russell
Celts #1 in East by 10 games over Philadelphia Warriors: 57-22 (.721); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Syracuse Nationals, 4-1
Celts beat St. Louis Hawks, 4-1

Notable occurrence: The Lakers had moved to Los Angeles.

The Celtics were now wrapping up their years of gaining depth by acquiring complementary players; and they rounded them out nicely by drafting Tom "Satch" Sanders—a gangly but very strong 6' 6" forward with sharp elbows who was acquired for his special skill in defending against really tough matchups such as Bob Petit and Elgin Baylor. I always viewed Satch as somewhat of a sacrificial lamb, who was thrown to the toughest, highest-scoring wolf on the other side.

It was revealed in later years that Satch and K.C. Jones would make bets on who would guard his man better; their defense was a matter of intense pride. I have no idea how the bets were settled, but I'm guessing they wound up the season in a tie and went out to dinner.

Satch was a good example of a Celtics philosophy that I used to call "The longest way around is the shortest way home." Satch wore contacts, and sometimes one would pop out, leaving players and referees writhing like snakes all over the floor looking for it. Even with both contacts in place, Satch probably couldn't see much more than 50 feet. Often, when Satch would fill a lane on a fast break, Cousy would throw him a long pass to reward him, knowing full well that Satch would never catch it and it would result in a turnover.

It was all part of Cousy's motivation scheme and was just one of many examples of how the Russell Celtics were willing to lose battles in order to win wars. Russell did something similar when he'd lull an opponent into a false sense of security by allowing him to score two or three times on a pet move early in the game. Then, with the game on the line, the opponent would confidently go to that move, and it was Wilsonburger time!

The 1960-61 season heralded the arrival of two backcourt icons who represented the final two major antagonists of the Russell Celtics...Jerry West and Oscar Robertson. For my money, West played with passion and excelled in the clutch at both ends of the floor, while Oscar filled stat sheets and did not inspire his mates nearly enough. Despite gaudy statistics, neither of them won more than one championship, but West was far more respected by the Celtics players.

For the next few years, the Celtics played against all five of their major antagonists: Petit, Baylor, Chamberlain, West and Robertson. They were spread out over four of the seven or eight other teams in the league. That meant that Russ and his mates were playing headline competition at least an average of every two games. The challenges were unremitting.

Iin 1960-61, the Celts again routed the aging St. Louis Hawks in a five-game final, as Russ scored 30 and grabbed 38 boards in the final game.

Era 3: Consolidating the Identity (1960-1963)

The Celtics now settled into a period during which they did not add a key player for three years and the major antagonists were in place. This phase involved building their chemistry while their identity as perennial winners became solidified.

'61-'62

4 teams in East, 5 teams in West (Chicago Packers join league), total of 9 in league; played 80 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Oscar Robertson
MVP: Bill Russell
Celts #1 in East by 11 games over Philadelphia Warriors: 60-20 (.750); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Philadelphia Warriors, 4-3
Celts beat Los Angeles Lakers, 4-3

Notable occurrences: Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 in a game and averages 50. Oscar Robertson became the only player to average a triple-double for the season.

By the 1961-62 season, the Los Angeles Lakers were getting their act together, and the duo of Baylor and West was wreaking havoc on competitors. For the Celtics, Bill Sharman had become the first of the old guard to retire, leaving Sam Jones to man the SG position. For the first of what would be five times in the decade, the Celtics and L.A. Lakers faced each other in the finals.

The Celtics had averaged 121 points and 76 rebounds a game that season. Russell averaged 24 boards a game, and Heinsohn and Sanders each had 10.

That was the also the season when Wilt averaged 50 points a game, and his Philadelphia Warriors took the Celts to a game 7 in Boston, as the C’s barely squeaked by. The game was tied at 107, when Sam Jones (who else?) hit the winning jumper with two seconds left.

The exhausted Celtics had home court advantage over the Lakers in the finals, but the Lakers were a little fresher, having beaten the Pistons in six in the semis. The Celtics won the first game handily, but the Lakers stole the second game (in Boston) 129-122. The Lakers won at home as Jerry West stole a Celtics inbounding pass with three seconds left and went in to score the winner.

But the Celtics won game 4 in L.A. (115-103). In those days, the game sequence was 2-2-1-1-1, so the Celtics came home ready to take the lead. But a funny thing happened, and the Lakers stole ANOTHER one in Boston (126-121 as Elgin Baylor became the first to break 60 in the playoffs (he had 61)). His feat was all the more incredible because he was in the Army, a bit out of shape, and playing only because he had saved up 15 days of leave time. For the first time of many to come, the media made the Lakers heavy favorites to finish off the Celtics (in LA). The Lakers had an 8-point lead at halftime. But, led by Sam Jones, the Celts outscored the Lakers by 18 in the third quarter, and the Celtics came back to win 119-105.

I remember the next day at work. I had no connections, and I was in a fairly new job. But I had two advantages. A boss who really wanted to go to game 7 and a friend in the same department whose boyfriend (“Butch”) had connections of the type no one asks about. Lo and behold, about 4:00 p.m. on game day, two tickets arrived at the office (freebies…they must have fallen off a truck). So my boss and I went together.

This was the famous “Selvy game.” Frank Selvy had been a great star at Furman, and he once scored 100 points in a college game. Now he was a good scorer on a team led by Jerry West and Elgin Baylor.

The Celtics led by four with 45 seconds to go. Frank Selvy scored two quick baskets, aided by a West steal. The Celtics had the ball with 20 seconds to go; and, for some reason Frank Ramsey threw up a wild shot with about 10 seconds left. The Lakers rebounded and called time with the game tied at 100 and five seconds left.

There have been a number of times at Celtics games when I felt as though I had a huge boulder in my stomach. That was the first one. (The Havlicek steal game would be another a few years later.) My boss and I just looked at each other, and I was honestly afraid I was going to barf all over him.

The Lakers got the ball to a wide-open Selvy, and he got off a pretty uncontested 10-footer from the left side. He later said that a Cousy lunge sort of bothered him, but that was a late and futile lunge. The boulders in 13,908 other stomachs joined mine in rolling around as the shot looked beautiful, but it was one inch short. Russ hugged the rebound as time expired. Baylor later said that Sam Jones pushed him off the court in the rebound action, but I just watched the video again for perhaps the 30th time. Sam was nowhere near him, and Baylor never went out of bounds. Gotta tell the truth, Elgin.

Anyway, the game went into overtime. Both Sanders and Heinsohn had fouled out, and little-used Gene Guarilia was pressed into action. He did an excellent job of covering Baylor, even deflecting a couple of his shots. Baylor eventually fouled out. Sam Jones, who didn’t have a great game in general, hit two huge jumpers, and Cousy wound up dribbling out the last 15 seconds of the clock as the Lakers swarmed around him but didn’t want to foul and just couldn’t get to the ball. The Celtics won, 110-107 for their fourth consecutive championship. Russ had a ho hum 30 points and 40 boards.

All the other times I felt the boulder, it subsided almost immediately after the Celtics won. This first time, it just wouldn’t go away for at least another day. As I walked down the exit ramp, my legs kept buckling under the weight of that boulder. I saw other people stumbling around in similar fashion. My boss was ecstatic. But I didn’t get a raise.

'62-'63

4 teams in East, 5 teams in West, for total of 9 in league; played 80 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Guy Rodgers
MVP: Bill Russell
Celts #1 in East by 10 games over Syracuse Nationals 58-22 (.725); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Cincinnati Royals, 4-3
Celts beat Los Angeles Lakers, 4-2

Notable occurrences: Bill Russell was the All-Star MVP. Philadelphia Warriors become the San Francisco Warriors.

Cousy announced that the 1962-63 season would be his last, and a highlight of the season was Bob Cousy Day held on St. Patrick's Day. The emotion throughout Boston Garden was absolutely unbearable and was broken only when one leather-lunged fan yelled, during a sobbing Cousy interlude in his speech, "We all love you Cooz." At the end of the speech, there was a sustained roar that shook the balcony very dangerously up and down for nearly four minutes, like waves pulsating on the shore. My dad and I were screaming, and we never once were able to hear ourselves above the din.

The Lakers won again in the West, and they once again faced the Celtics in the championship series. With the Celtics up in games 3-2, game 6 was at L.A. The Celtics were handling the Lakers well, up by 9 early in the fourth quarter. Suddenly, Cousy went down for reasons that were never fully clear to me. He suffered a badly sprained ankle, which would certainly have swollen to the point of preventing him from playing a game 7.

After sitting out for several minutes as Trainer Buddy Leroux froze the ankle, Cooz dramatically returned with 4:43 remaining and the lead having dwindled to three points. He didn't score again, but he got the team under control and was dribbling the ball at the end, finally throwing it high into the rafters as the Celts won 112-109. Characteristically, one of his last scores had been a trademark, audacious, running left-handed hook shot from about 15 feet...my favorite shot of all-time.

Cousy was probably best known for his sleight-of-hand with the basketball...the behind the back passes, the once or twice around-the-body moves...the open court wizardry...the long baseball passes. I loved his so-called "air dribble," in which he'd tap the ball to himself over an onrushing defender, usually, at the start of a fast break. I once saw him do it twice in succession over two separate defenders on the same play. His creativity would definitely be his biggest asset if he were playing today because I'm confident he'd come up with new wrinkles to use his outsized hands and arms and his incredible peripheral vision to best advantage.

But, when I recently scoured many hours of video of big games, I could scarcely find any of that really creative stuff. Those moments were mainly on highlight videos. The fact is that Cousy operated on a creative...conservative continuum depending on the importance of the game. Sure, once in a while he'd do something outlandish even in a big game, but he really toned it down. Consequently, if they had kept turnover stats back then, Cousy's would have been very, very low in big games.

The Russell Celtics, as a team, were far more creative than the other teams. Somehow the Celts broke away from the shackles of tradition sooner than other teams. Whether it was Sam Jones passing the ball to himself off an opponent's back on an out-of-bounds play, or Ramsey inventing the offensive foul flop, or Russell playing games with Chamberlain's mind, or Cousy inventing a new move in the middle of a play, their innovativeness was just one of many attributes that put them ahead of the pack by keeping the pack guessing.

Cousy is a perfect example of the fallacy of using statistics to compare players...especially over different eras. In his day, assists were not credited if the recipient of a pass took a dribble after receiving the pass. One can only imagine what his assist totals would have looked like under later rules.

John Havlicek had joined the Celtics for Cousy's last season. John's advent offers insight into how seamless it was for the Celtics to integrate new players because they were such a great family that cared about the team. John reports that, when he first reported, he was concerned because he'd probably be up against Frank Ramsey for playing time. The first guy to meet John was Rams, who said, "Am I glad you're here. You're going to extend my basketball career." And, sure enough, multi-faceted John became the heir to Ramsey's sixth-man spot.

The family aspect of the Celtics cannot be over-emphasized. Not everyone loved everyone. But in cases where friendships did not become lifelong, professional relationships were the rule. Heck, K.C. Jones improbably taught Tom Heinsohn to dance. And travel by air, train, bus, or even by car during the exhibition season was drawn out to the point where the players became more unified than many biological families.

Cousy and Sharman had been particularly close during road trips. They used to spend plane trips playing a version of whist that was variously called "Crazy Eights" or "Oh Hell." And, every so often, they'd ask the stewardess (as she'd be called in those days) for cartons of milk. If they have avoided severe calcium deposits throughout their lives, they should be subjects of a medical journal article. Stories about travel between exhibition games are all over the place.

Certain players such as Ramsey and Sanders became automobile drivers to avoid. There are even tales involving car trips partially up sidewalks.

Era 4: The Racehorse Years (1963-66)

With Havlicek on board, the Celtics' style underwent somewhat of a change. The uptempo game became the rule, with halfcourt basketball the exception. The team constantly thought about attacking...even off made baskets and free throws. As soon as the other team shot, confident that Russell or Heinsohn or Sanders or Loscutoff or someone else would get the rebound, guys like Sam Jones and Havlicek would just take off. And invariably, K.C. Jones (having replaced Cousy at the playmaker position) would get the outlet pass; and, one or two passes later, the Celtics would have points. On many of those occasions, the ball never once hit the floor. Russell was unquestionably the greatest ever at quickly transitioning a team from defense to offense. And Dave Cowens just might rank second.

And the attack mode even invaded the other end of the floor, as guys like Russell, Sanders, Havlicek, and K.C. Jones were particularly aggressive on defense. As Jerry West put it, "You take the shot when you have it with Russell. You don't try to get any closer." More and more, that notion of a defensive blanket applied to the rest of the team. Russell's concept of "Invisible Man" became increasingly operative: The threat of an action can be as effective as the action itself. Tom Hawkins called it "Russellphobia." He said, "Even guys going in for a layup are looking nervously over their shoulders." The Celtics were just fatiguing opponents and blowing them away.

'63-'64

4 teams in East, 5 teams in West, for total of 9 in league; played 80 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Bill Russell; Assists: Oscar Robertson
MVP: Oscar Robertson
Celts #1 in East by 4 games over Cincinnati Royals 59-21 (.738); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Cincinnati Royals, 4-1
Celts beat San Francisco Warriors, 4-1

Noteworthy occurrences: Chicago Zephyrs move become the Baltimore Bullets. Syracuse Nationals become the Philadelphia 76ers.

1963-64 proved to be just more of the same. Wilt Chamberlain moved to San Francisco, which made the championship finals but lost to the Celtics, 4-1

'64-'65

4 teams in East, 5 teams in West, for total of 9 in league; played 80 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Bill Russell; Assists: Oscar Robertson
MVP: Bill Russell
Celts #1 in East by 14 games over Cincinnati Royals 62-18 (.775); #1 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Philadelphia 76ers, 4-3
Celts beat Los Angeles Lakers, 4-1

Notable occurrences: Wilt Chamberlain was traded from the San Francisco Warriors to the Philadelphia 76ers during the season.

In September, 1964, family patriarch Walter Brown had passed away. The team dedicated the following season to their fallen owner and early life support system.

Now the ranks of the old guard began to thin noticeably, as Ramsey and veteran reserve center Clyde Lovellette had joined Sharman on the retired future Hall-of-Famers list. Loscutoff left as well. Willie Naulls and Larry Siegfried were brought in to fill out the roster. Now, on Red's skills list, the scorers were Heinsohn, Sam Jones, Havlicek and Naulls; the defensive stalwarts were Russell, Sanders, Havlicek and K.C.Jones; the rebounding forces were Russell and Sanders; the playmaker was K.C. Jones with Siegfried in reserve; and Mr. Fixit sixth man was Havlicek. Same blueprint...just a lot of new faces.

In my opinion, the 1962-63 and 1964-65 teams vie for the honor of best basketball team of all-time. Personally, I can't stand the thought of a best Celtics team without both Cousy and Havlicek, and the '62-'63 squad was the only one on which they both played. And Cousy's last Celtics team had included Sanders and Loscutoff plus eight future Hall-of-Famers and a Hall-of-Fame coach. Havlicek agrees that this was the best Celtics team, and his main reason is that it incorporated so many proven winners, including four who had won national championships in college.

Russell would pick the '64-'65 team as his best. That team arguably had the most ferocious fast break of all-time and was the last really dominant Russell Celtics team.

Russell teams always used what I called a volume approach to basketball—and never more so than in '64-'65. Stay in attack mode and never let up. Get a lot of possessions, and put up a lot of shots. If they don't fall, get the rebounds and put those in. Hoist shots early in the shot clock. Don't wait and take desperation shots on the opponents' terms. Take them early, on your terms, before the defense is set. And never worry about field goal percentage.

To illustrate the effects of volume basketball, the combined field goal percentage of the first and last Russell championship teams was 41%, compared with 48% for the 2008-08 Garnett team. But the number of FG attempts per game averaged 101 for those two Russell teams and 77 for Garnett's. And the number of FT attempts per game averaged 30 for Russell's and 20 for Garnett's. The net result of more attempts but a lower percentage for the two Russell teams was that they averaged eight more point per game than Garnett team.

By the way, I'm not trying to prove which is better...only pointing out the differences in styles. The older fast break style allowed more points too.

Despite the superiority of the 1964-65 Celtics, they survived the Eastern Division Semifinals by a hair. What tipped the balance was game 7, in which Havlicek stole the ball from Philly with five seconds left to hang on to a one-point victory over the 76ers. In contrast, the 4-1 win over the Lakers was anticlimactic, especially because they were missing injured Elgin Baylor.

The one noteworthy element of the championship series was that the Celtics scored 20 consecutive points in the final game, which was at Boston Garden. If there were ever a time when a Boston fan might actually feel sorry for the Lakers, this was it. Wave after wave of Celtics attacks overwhelmed L.A.. There were several consecutive possessions when LA barely got the ball over mid-court before the Celtics stole it and ran it in for another score.

'65-'66

4 teams in East, 5 teams in West, for total of 9 in league; played 80 games
Leaders: Scoring: Wilt Chamberlain; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Oscar Robertson; MVP: Wilt Chamberlain
Celts #2 in East, 1 game behind the Philadelphia 76ers 54-26 (.775); #2 overall
Three playoff rounds (division semis with top team having bye; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Cincinnati Royals, 3-2
Celts beat Philadelphia 76ers 4-1
Celts beat Los Angeles Lakers, 4-3

In 1965-66, Don Nelson joined the team, having been waived by the Lakers. The Celtics beat the Lakers 4-3 for their eighth consecutive championship. However, in his final game as Celtics coach, Red Auerbach nearly lit up his victory cigar too soon. Jerry West had made the finals very close, but the Celtics led by six points in game 7 at the Garden with 14 seconds to play. But the crowd ringing the court, and just an inch or two off the end line, kept preventing the Celtics from getting the ball in bounds. Twice the Lakers stole the ball and scored quickly. Finally, an in-bounds pass found its way to K.C. Jones, who dribbled out the clock for a two-point victory and an eighth straight championship as a retirement gift for Red.

It's interesting to speculate on how the Celtics, despite changes in the makeup of the team, doggedly continued to be sufficiently motivated to pursue championship after championship, year after year. Perhaps some of it was fear...fear of being the squad that would break the string. I know the word "pride" is thrown around a lot. I think Jerry West came closer when he spoke of a certain arrogance he felt emanating from the Celtics. But I don't believe he hit it exactly on the head.

I had an opportunity, during the last few Russell years, to hang around some Celtics players and attend a load of practices. I sensed that what most drove those teams came down to a matter of expectation. Russell's first book has a preface that tells about Auerbach addressing the team as they were about to go out on the floor for a big game. And his final words were something like, "Win or lose...you're my guys." And, as they filed out the door, someone...sounds to me like Satch...said, "Lose? Are you kidding me baby?"

Havlicek described it in what I find an even more chilling manner when he said, "When we lost, we thought it was a mistake." It sounded as though he's talking about a clerical error. They expected to win...as simple as that.

Moreover, Red's continuing reliance on each player to focus, first and foremost, on utilizing his most indispensable skill(s) meant that each player was, in effect, a role player...albeit a superb one. Players could concentrate on doing what they did best. No one had to play out of position or over his head. No one had to carry the team. The diverse interchangeable parts of the rotation formed a machine that operated at peak efficiency nearly all the time, without letdown.

Era 5: Adjustment and Hiccup (1966-67)

After the final 1966 series, Tom Heinsohn joined the ranks of the retired.

66-'67

5 teams in East, 5 teams in West, for total of 10 in league; played 81 games
Leaders: Scoring: Rick Barry; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Guy Rodgers
MVP: Wilt Chamberlain
Celts #2 in East, 8 games behind the Philadelphia 76ers 60-21 (.741); #2 overall
Three playoff rounds (two division semis with no bye for top team; division finals; championship)
Celts beat New York Knicks, 3-1
Celts lost to Philadelphia 76ers 4-1

Notable occurrences: The Chicago Bulls entered the league, and the Baltimore Bullets switched to the Eastern Division.

During the previous five years, the Celtics had lost five Hall-of-Famers: (Sharman, Cousy, Lovellette, Ramsey and Heinsohn) plus Loscutoff and their Hall-of-Fame Coach Auerbach. Bill Russell was appointed player-coach. They traded for veteran Bailey Howell, a future Hall-of-Famer and added veteran center Wayne Embry. But it took a year for the revamped cast of aging characters to adjust to an altered cast and a new coaching style. They finished a distant second to the 76ers in the regular season and were beaten by the 76ers, 4-1, in the Eastern Division finals. The 76ers went on to win the championship.

My opinion is that, although that Philly squad was a great and well-rounded team, they were never close to being the greatest team of all-time as some people claim. They beat a tired, decimated Celtics team that season. Moreover, the competition was about as weak as at any time during the sixties. Only three of ten teams in the league finished with won/lost records of at least .500. For the Celtics, I call this the season of the hiccup. When, for all intents and purposes, the same two teams played in the division finals a year later, the Celtics won.

One of my proudest and most memorable Celtic moments was occasioned by the Celtics loss in the Philly series. At the time of the final game, 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, as I seized the opportunity to let Philly fans know my leanings. 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. 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. (It was a good thing Russ got them out of the game before they hurt themselves.) 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 squad 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 my Greater Boston 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." He wound up thanking me, discovered that I played golf, and somehow a friendship was born. Throughout the rest of the sixties, Sam Jones was my best friend.

Era 6: The Senior Citizen Years (1967-69)

KC Jones now retired, and the team entered its Senior Citizen Era that extended from 1967 to 1969. They depended less on the fact break and more on set plays. This was when not only their experience but also what I call their "shared instincts" became particularly important.

The Celtics always placed huge emphasis on team play. They made it a point to learn one another's games. Those traits, combined with the fact that many of them played together for so long, seemed to give them a sort of sixth sense for one another. They instinctively knew what a teammate was doing and planning. Of course, hand-in-hand with their instincts was superior basketball intellect. In fact, by the mid-1970s, 31 former Celtics had coached at the college level or above.

They had seven basic plays, which everyone in the league knew. But, on each play, they also had options, and it was the options that proved perplexing to opponents. The Celtics didn't have to signal one another as to what option was to be run. They simply let the flow of the action determine the option, and they all sensed simultaneously and instantaneously what that option would be. The situation was akin to muddy football conditions in which the wide receivers have the advantage over defenders because the receivers know which direction they'll take and the reacting defenders lose a split second in the muck.

The weave was my favorite play. The players would run back and forth laterally on the floor in a prearranged pattern, making passes that were so quick and short that they were barely discernable. Defensive players, knowing it was coming, would hunker down and try to be vigilant, but invariably a Celtic would spring free for an easy basket. Imagine being on the streets of New York and watching a street corner shell game. Same concept, except that the players are the shells and there are five of them. Back and forth the pea goes. Who's got it? Player A? Player B? Player C? Nope, it's in the basket. Wanna see it again?

'67-'68

5 teams in East, 5 teams in West, for total of 10 in league; played 82 games
Leaders: Scoring: Dave Bing; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Wilt Chamberlain
MVP: Wilt Chamberlain
Celts #2 in East, 8 games behind the Philadelphia 76ers 54-28 (.659); #3 overall
Three playoff rounds (two division semis with no bye for top team; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Detroit Pistons, 4-2
Celts beat Philadelphia 76ers 4-3
Celts beat Los Angeles Lakers, 4-2

Notable occurrences: Seattle Supersonics and San Diego Rockets began play, being added to the Western Division as the Detroit Pistons moved to the Eastern Division.

With K.C. Jones gone, Larry Siegfried became the starting playmaker. (I refuse to call the position "point guard" because the term had not yet been introduced.) As the team aged, General Manager Auerbach's philosophy became one of not over-taxing the guys during the regular season so they'd be less debilitated during the playoffs. And that suited Coach Russell, whose legendary distaste for practice fit right into the scheme.

The Celts finished second in the Eastern Division...eight games behind the Philadelphia 76ers. In the Eastern Division finals, it looked as though Philadelphia was once again too strong for the Celtics, as Philly jumped out to a 3-1 lead. Amazingly, the Celts won the next two as Russell and company really turned it up, and another game 7 (at Philly) loomed.

As often happened during the Russell years, an opponent's quirk proved helpful. At this point in his career, Chamberlain was monkeying around with his game to prove he could excel in everything. During the previous season, he had led the league in assists as he concentrated on passing off rather than shooting. Now, in one of the biggest games in his life, he took only two shots in the second half and scored just 14 points overall,

When it became apparent that Wilt wasn't interested in shooting, Coach Russell put Wide Wayne Embry on him to muscle Wilt away from the basket, freeing up Russell to guard Luke Jackson, who had been giving the Celtics fits. In his one year with the Celts, reserve guard Tom Thacker took four key fouls to disrupt Philly's comeback attempts late in the game.

After the previous year's "Boston is dead" experience, I was there again, and it was one of my most satisfying moments ever as a Celtics fan...although the most satisfying was yet to come the following season. The Celtics eked out a 100-96 win. I was on the plane with the team as they headed back to Boston. There was virtually no sign of exuberance. They were totally focused on the championship round that lay ahead. However, that final series against the Lakers proved rather anticlimactic, as the Celtics won in six games. Havlicek scored 40 as the Celts handily won the last game in LA, 124-109.

'68-'69

6 teams in East, 6 teams in West, for total of 12 in league; played 82 games
Leaders: Scoring: Elvin Hayes; Rebounds: Wilt Chamberlain; Assists: Oscar Robertson
MVP: Wes Unseld
Celts #4 in East, 8 games behind the leading Baltimore Bullets 48-34 (.585); #5 overall
Three playoff rounds (two division semis with no bye for top team; division finals; championship)
Celts beat Philadelphia 76ers, 4-1
Celts beat NewYork Knicks 4-2
Celts beat Los Angeles Lakers, 4-3

Notable occurrences. The Milwaukee Bucks (Eastern Division) and Phoenix Suns (Western Division) joined the league. The Hawks relocated from St. Louis to Atlanta.

Emmette Bryant joined the Celts as backcourt insurance. The team was now old (with five key players over age 30) and, though occasionally showing flashes of its vaunted fast break, relied increasingly on an experienced halfcourt offense. Sam Jones had announced that this would be his last season, and it would turn out to be Russell's last as well. Injuries had slowed both Sam and Russ during the regular season.

So the Celts literally limped to a 4th place divisional record, barely making the playoffs. In the eastern semis, they beat the Philadelphia 76ers, who were now without Wilt Chamberlain due to a trade that had landed him with the L.A. Lakers. Then the Celts beat the up-and-coming New York Knicks in the divisional finals. Amazingly, the old men were in the finals once again. But Wilt and the heavily favored Lakers won the first two games at home and, after a Celtics home win in game three, game four found the Lakers clinging to a one point lead with seven seconds left and the Celtics in possession of the ball after a huge Emmette Bryant steal.

All year long, the Celts had been practicing the "Ohio play," involving a complicated triple pick for Sam Jones. Instituted by Buckeyes Havlicek and Siegfried when Russell missed a practice early in the season, the play had proven difficult for the team to learn. The goal was to run it within five seconds. The first time they tried it resulted in a 25-second execution time. They gradually whittled the time down to roughly the five-second goal. But the play had never been used by the Celts in a game.

Now, with the series on the line for all intents and purposes, they trotted it out on the final play of game four. When the Celtics went to put the ball into play, the referee accidentally passed it to a Laker rather than to Bryant. In the confusion, Sam made the cut and tipped his hand, but he quickly stopped to disguise his intent.

Bryant finally passed it into Havlicek, who relayed it to Sam. Sam cut around the pick but slipped as he went up for the jumper from the top of the key. He had the presence of mind to put backspin on the ball in hopes that it would bounce around and Russell would grab it for a putback. But it bounced around and fell through the hoop, which was a good thing because Russ had taken himself out of the game just before that play. The crowd was the most delirious I had ever experienced in Boston.

When I now think back about that play, I am unable to visualize it in real time. My mind can see it only in slow motion. A realistic shot at the championship hangs in the balance. My best friend slowly glides behind the screen but maddeningly slips and releases the jumper off-balance. The ball lazily arcs through the air and bounces, bounces, bounces, bounces before teetering and dropping through, with Wilt Chamberlain circling below and just aching to goaltend it.

In the ensuing cacophony, I became aware of this bass drum beating in my mind. Boom...boom...boom. At first, it seemed to be celebrating Sam's and the Celtics' triumph. Then, for the first time, I began to feel it could be sounding the death knell for the Lakers.

The Lakers won game five at home, and the Celtics followed suit in Boston, as I hugged some guy next to me and screamed, "I'm going to LA, I'm going to LA."

Sam gave me the commercial flight number, and I fortunately got a ticket. Aisle seat, so as to miss nothing. As I boarded, I was supremely confident, and my confidence never wavered once. I saw the familiar expectancy in the players' eyes. They were businesslike as they boarded, and there was some joking around, but there was a purposeful set to their jaws. Almost as if, regardless of whether they were playing cards or reading or laughing or even sleeping, they were focused on the mantra of the underdog: "We'll see about that. We'll see about that."

“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 enlighten us on 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.

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.

Sam’s retort made me think 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.

There were no organized pre-game shootarounds in those days. But, 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 much of the time, and score 47 points to spark the Celtics to a convincing win. Whatever his competitive involvement—from basketball to “Geeinn”—Sam had a burning spirit belied by his casual demeanor.

The team stayed at the Airport Marina Hotel, and I was lucky enough to score a room. After an hour or so, the hotel limousine took our party to the Forum, which was an impressive structure with a gigantic parking area (which would later cause me great anguish). It was 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.

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 long bombs and periodic peals of laughter from the king-sized court jester.

After practice, I stood outside the Forum as the players emerged, two or three at a time. It’s funny—you seldom saw a Celtic without another Celtic. Maybe that was part of their special cohesiveness. I know it was 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. To this day, I find it impossible to believe his kindness on behalf of someone whose name he didn't even know at that point.

That night was used to get rid of jet lag with a long sleep. The next morning, I met Bailey Howell heading to the coffee shop. We had breakfast and went for a haircut afterwards.

After suffering the barber’s observations about how he was tall enough to be a basketball player, Bailey turned to me and asked, “Do y’all play bridge?”

“Yes, in an amateur way.”

“We may need a fourth later this morning. George Plimpton, Johnny Most (the Celtics radio announcer) and I would like to play a little to pass the time. I’ll let y’all 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 (I was happy to be the dummy) before Johnny Most came on the scene. He took over my partnership with Sam.

As the bridge game progressed, I watched the faces of Bailey and Sam for signs of tension. Sam looked as detached as he usually did 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.

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, Cos!)

Finally it was game time. Soon after I took my loge seat, 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.

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 was famous for his lucky stone, which he asked the players to touch before a big game. I intercepted him and asked him to let me touch the stone, which he did. As he turned to continue 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 your blood pressure if you rubbed it during times of stress. “Mr. Kratter. How about returning the favor?” He did.

I didn't know it at the time, but a little drama was unfolding in the Celtics' locker room, where John Havlicek shared a memo he had intercepted. Lakers' owner, Jack Kent Cooke had written it. The memo read something like, "When Lakers win championship, balloons will drop from ceiling. USC pep band will play "Happy Days Are Here Again." Remember that underdog mantra? Once again, the Celtics were thinking, "We'll see about that."

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 close-up encouragement, Bailey Howell gave me a grin.

Warmups ended with a Celtics tradition that had started in the fifties. A Celtic had to take and make the last two shots (layups). In the beginning, it was always Cousy, and I never saw him miss. Starting with the 1963-64 season, it was Havlicek. The only times I saw him miss were when a wise guy opponent would toss a ball when John was shooting. John would calmly wait until all balls were in the hands of ballboys, and then he'd drain two shots. This time, he had no opposition as he followed the ritual.

As I stood for the National Anthem, the words of a man from Hyde Park returned to me. He had contacted me to purchase tickets for Sam Jones Day. (I had been on the committee.) “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.

What followed was my favorite Celtics game ever. The Celtics followed an old formula. Just stomp all over the other team at the outset when you're freshest, and make them play catchup the rest of the way. Without Emmette Bryant, there would have been no championship. He made jumper after jumper in the first quarter, absolutely stunning the Lakers and their phony baloney, front-running crowd. The Lakers dutifully played catchup, and the Celtics' halftime lead was only three.

Just as time ran out in the half, Tom Hawkins pushed Sam Jones at halfcourt. A really stupid foul, but symptomatic of opponents’ tendencies over the years to make errors that the Celtics simply didn’t commit. Sam calmly sank the two freebies, which would turn out to be important in the final score.

I went down to the tunnel entrance when the Celts returned for the second half, and they looked something like coal miners who had been trapped for hours. Absolutely grim and gray with every eye looking piercingly straight ahead. This was their kind of intensity. The same kind that made Russell vomit before big games. The inner kind. No jersey tugging. No chest thumping. No head butting. No ostentation. The expectation of victory was etched in their eyes. I swear I could see it.

Celtics reversed the momentum in the third quarter and led by 17 going into the final quarter. But everyone knew the Lakers would play catchup once again, and they did. Jerry West was going nuts (he received the first-ever championship series MVP award). The Celts were still up by nine when Wilt Chamberlain got a knee boo boo and took himself out of the game. His coach, Butch Van Breda Kolff, was so infuriated that, when Chamberlain allegedly asked to return, he left Wilt on the bench.

Now was the time for the Celtics to play out the remainder of the formula. Simply out-focus the other team in the clutch. Former Celtic Mel Counts, subbing for Chamberlain and playing quite well, cooperated with another opponent’s error at a key moment. He hit a beautiful long jumper, only to be called for traveling on the shot.

Nonetheless, the Lakers kept cutting into the lead, which dwindled to 103-102 with 3:07 to play. There was a scoring drought until, with 1:17 left, the ball was poked away from Havlicek and bounced to Lakers' castoff Don Nelson at the foul line. He went up with the jumper. The ball bounced three feet in the air and down through the net for a 105-102 Celtic lead.

Maybe the noted Celtics leprechaun had been on the trip too and had once again nudged the ball the Celtics' way. Or just maybe the Celtics had retained a little extra sense of destiny...that governing aura of expectation...that had been guiding them since Red had put that band of brothers together thirteen years earlier.

The Celtics widened the lead to 108-104 before the Lakers scored a meaningless last-second basket. The packages balloon stayed up in the rafters, and a deflated group of Los Angelinos silently filed out.

The old men had played only seven guys, as Russell and Havlicek went the distance. In fact, 35-year-old Russell went the distance throughout the entire seven games. And Sam Jones fittingly matched his uniform number with 24 points in his final NBA game. There was no champagne in the locker room. That came out at the all-night party at the Airport Marina Hotel.

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 a few signs I had posted). 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 ruckus.

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.

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.

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 was 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 remaining player and trainer Joe DeLauri, to the accompaniment of tumultuous applause.

For the next few hours, the players drifted in and out, except for John Havlicek, who was obviously enjoying the unfolding scene. Two men were playing Paper Scissors Stone and yelling in Italian when they'd throw out their hands. 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. Being between marriages, I kept raising my hand and yelling "Ooh, ooh," like Horschack in "Welcome Back Kotter." The women just sneered and turned away.

By 5:30 in the morning, the pace of the party had slowed to a crawl. The game players and dancers had dropped out. Most of the rest 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.”

Epilog

Just think of the drama attending this final game. Underdogs in the eyes of almost everyone. Old. Injured. (Satch Sanders didn't even play in the final game). Two retiring legends (although we didn't know about Russell at that point). A regular David and Goliath script. And in Hollywood to boot. There's no wonder why I call that season and that game "The Final Chapter in Basketball Camelot."

The Russell Celtics. Eleven NBA championships in 13 years. The winning was wonderful, but I took away so much more than that. The chief lesson that I learned from those wonderful years was to live life with passion and with a joyful spirit. The Celtics' sense of joy in playing the game was understated, but it was a constant.

Like the time they were walking back on the floor after a timeout and a rubber ball came out of the stands, bounced high off the floor, and was caught by Satch without breaking stride. Completely deadpan, and without looking, he just flipped it over his shoulder to an astounded Russell as if to say, "Would you take care of this, sonny?" Or the sight of Havlicek imitating Satch's undulating body as he shot a jumper at practice. Or, during a fast break at practice, Havlicek suddenly eschewing the dribble as he just cradled the ball like a running back and ran the length of the floor. Just silly little moments, but born of joy. And, like their displays of intensity, very subtle.

Suffice it to say that, if basketball teams were comedians, the 2007-08 Garnett champions would be Jackie Gleason, looking for the belly laughs. The Russell champions would be Steven Wright, and the humor would be as dry as a good martini. And both performances would be topnotch...just different from one another.

After that series, Russell announced his retirement. The era was officially over. I would never again experience again the supreme sense of confidence that had frequently persuaded me to bet opposition loudmouths $20 to nothing that the Celtics would win big home games. (And I never once lost my $20.)

It slowly dawned on me that my season opener routine was almost finished as well...at least for a while. The Celtics would typically win the championship. I'd go to the opening game the following season. Games started about 8:00, which meant it was important to arrive by 7:30 in order to have the thrill of hearing public address announcer Weldon Haire proclaim, "Here come the World Champions...the Boston Celtics." Organist John Kiley would launch into "It's a Great Day Tonight for the Irish." The crowd would go crazy as the team trooped out onto the floor. After warmups, whichever luminary had retired after the previous season (there was usually someone) would raise the banner with his number on it. Then, Red and the Celtics Captain (and later Coach Russell) would raise the championship banner. Just one more of those nights, and it would be gone like a puff of Auerbachian smoke.

So, the evening before the start of what would certainly be a rebuilding season, I called in to the only sports talk radio show I had ever heard of...Guy Mainella's "Calling All Sports" on Boston's WBZ. They were kind enough to allow me to read a poem I had written for the
occasion. I'll end with that poem.
Here Come the World Champions...the Final Chapter in Basketball Camelot
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."

ACCOUNT OF SAM'S TRIP TO THE 1969 FINAL GAME WITH THE CELTICS

"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.

23

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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