Whenever I hear someone talking about a Celtic type player it makes me feel good, because I like to think we've come to represent more than just banners and rings, although they're important, too. They symbolize the truth of what we've been preaching down through the years.
The Celtics represent a philosophy which, in its simplest form, maintains that the victory belongs to the team. Individual honors are nice, but no Celtic has ever gone out of his way to achieve them. We've never had the league's top scorer. In fact, we won seven championships without placing even one Celtic among the leagues top 10. But on twelve of our championship teams we had six (and on four occasions, seven) players averaging in double figures.
OUr pride was never rooted in statistics. Our pride was in our identity as the Boston Celtics. Being a Celtic meant you were someone special, because everyone knew the Celtics played smart, exciting, championship basketball. But this all starts with getting the right kind of players.
My kind of kid had the ability to absorb coaching. He was a kid who'd react to whatever I told him. He was a nice kid on and off the court, not someone who'd be bitching all the time. Some kids become real pains in the ass once they get a taste of stardom. I wanted a kid who was great, yet never stopped being nice. Most of all I wanted a kid who was willing to pay the price, willing to work at winning. I wanted a kid who wanted to win so bad that he wouldn't think twice about giving me everything he had. that was a Celtic type player in my eyes. That was Frank Ramsey. That was John Havlicek. That is Larry Bird. But that was also a log of other great players who never received the lout ovations, who never got the headline stories, but who nevertheless were vitally instrumental to our success. KC Jones, Satch Sanders, Don Chaney, they're my kind of guys, too. (Sounds like the perfect description of Leon Powe too.)
We were the first organization to popularize the concept of the "role player," the player who willingly undertakes he thankless job that has to be done in order to make the whole package fly.
When I talk about role players, I'm not talking about the Sixth Man, and I'll tell you why. The Sixth Man role is something else altogether. We invented it back in 1957 with Ramsey; then Havlicek took it over when Frank retired in 1964. Paul Silas inherited it when he joined us in 1972, and he helped win two championships with the boosts he gave us coming off the bench. Today, Kevin McHale wears that hat, and it fits him just as comfortabley as it fit the others.
The average player's ego tells him he must be in the starting five if he wants to feel important. But my starting five weren't necessarily the five players on the court when the game began; it was the guys on the floor at the end of the game who mattered most to me, because that's when you need your coolest heads and surest hands. Most teams start their five best players. But I stopped doing that. I began starting 80 percent of my best. What happened then?
After five, six or seven minutes, everyone on the court starts getting a bit weary. That's when the substitutions start. So, while the opposition decreased its efficiency by bringing in a lesser talent, I increased ours by bringing in a Ramsey who'd either maintain the tempo we had begun or else turn it up a notch. Psychologically, this was very damaging to opponents who, instead of getting a breather, found they had to work even harder to keep up with us.
Far from being unsung, the Sixth Man became a prestigious assignment in Boston. But when you talke about role players, that's something different.
Playing roles which simply means playing to your individual strengths, not only makes sense for the ballclub, it makes sense for the players too, if they stop to think about it.
Take Don Nelson. The Lakers placed him on waivers in 1965. That's how we acquired him, after everyone else had a shot at him and turned thumbs down. He was resigned to the fact that his career was over - until we picked him up and showed him how he could fit into the Celtics scheme of things. He ended up playing eleven seasons in Boston, and when he was done we retired his number. Today he owns five championship rings.
What did we do with him? We used his smarts, his ability to shoot after one or two fakes, his skilles at boxing out. If we had just turned him loose and allowed him to float in the general swing of things - hey, that's why LA let him go! He wasn't productive that way.
Look at a guy like Jim Loscutoff. He played nine years with us. He was our "cop" after Bob Brannum retired, but that wasn't enough to keep him in the league so long. Loscy made it on his defense, his boxing out, his ability to set great screens. If I had told him "Don't worry about all that other stuff: just get us some points," he might had lifted his average a little bit, but the other parts of his game would have suffered so much that we'd have had to let him go.
Take Satch Sanders. With great shooters like Tommy Heinsohn, Bill Sharman, Bob Cousy, Frank Ramsey, John Havlicek and Sam Jones around, I didn't need any points from Satch, just like I didn't need any points from Russell. Sure I wanted him to take the shot if the other team insulted him by giving him too much room, but what I really wanted from him was outstanding D, strong, tough, relentless pressure on people like Elgin Baylor who'd kill you if you left them alone.
Satch tells a great story on himself which sheds a lot of light on how we felt as a team.
There was a time around his third or fourth year with us when he got to thinking that it might be nice to score a few more points of his own. So without being too obvious abuot it, he began taking more shots. One night he scored 15 points. Another night he managed to get 18. Meanwhile no one said a word about it. Our polisy was that the ball belonged to everyone; nobody had exclusive rights to it. If you thought you had a good shot, you were not only encouraged to take it, you were expected to take it.
Then one night he scored around 20 points, and we lost. It bothered him all the way home. He thought about it long into the night, then came to the following conclusion: "All it takes to upset the balance of this beautiful machine of ours is one man crossing over into another man's specialty. So I decided that night that it was a much bigger claim to say that I was a memember of the world champions than it was to say I averaged 35 points a game. Once I realized that, I never worried about scoring again."
Talk about a winning attitude! Satch epitomized the way we played the game in Boston.

"Hey you," snarled Wilt Chamberlain. "If you get in my way one more time, I'm gonna kill you."
"Oh, yeah, big baby," I replied in my bravest tone. "Give it a go whenever you're ready."
Damn that Red Auerbach. Always getting me in trouble. Now he had Chamberlain, the world's strongest man, threatening to tear me apart. Why did it always have to be me when it came time for Red to choose a whipping boy?
Wilt and I weren't exactly the best of friends from the last picture. We had come close two or three times the season of 1959-60, and it was only his first year in the NBA. I already had established somewhat of an image as a fighter in my pro basketball career, which began in 1956, but Chamberlain was not what I had in mind to further that reputation. There was no avoiding contact with him in those days. In Chamberlain's rookie year, everyone was in awe of him. He was some physical specimen. King Kong in sneakers. Seven foot two, three or whateve. He was bigger than he claimed, which was seven-one. He certainly looked much bigger to me.
He was a powerful man. A tremendous offensive player. His biggest weaknesswas he couldn't shoot fouls. Everyone in the league played percentages. If he got the ball in low, and you let him wheel into the basket, he had two points.
What we did on the Celtics was to force the man with the ball down the sidelines and pressure him. Bill Russell would sneak out and place himself in front of Wilt so they sould have to lob the ball. That would give one of us a chance to steal the pass or, as he was catching it, foul him.
Everyone in the league did that to Wilt. It ran through all the forwards. Of course, you used up all the fouls, but it was the strategy. Wilt was a mild mannered individual. He was no angry man. He was strong, he no doubt was concerned that, if he hit someone, he would hurt him.
It was miraculous the way he controlled himself in view of the punishment he took. He could have ruined the strategy if he had been capable of making his foul shots. There would be no reason to yank his arms or punch the ball or sometimes tackle him to keep him from powering to the basket for easy points.
I was the lucky Celtic grabbing him most times, and sometimes I wondered if he might just lift me up with the ball and jam both through the hoop. He got to know Tommy Heinsohn very well under the circumstances, and I suspected it was a matter of time until he lost his patience.
It finally happened one night in Philadelphia during a regular season game. A fight started and for some illogical reason Wilt went after me. I had no idea of what I intended to do or what he intended to do to me, but my life flashed before me. Why did Auerbach have to ask me to do his dirty work against someone so big? Why couldn't I give a foul to little Guy Rodgers or to Normie Drucker, a small referee?
Anyway, there I was, waiting for last rites as Wilt came at me. He grabbed me in front of the Philadelphia bench and dug his fingers into my reinforced shoulder straps and ripped out a handful of uniform. That's like tearing the Manhattan phone book apart. You've got to be strong to do that.
Right there and then I made up my mind I'm never going to get too involved with Mr Chamberlain. I would do what I was told to do because no one should ever accuse me of being a coward, but I would be cautiously brave where Wilt was concerned. This man was capable of dribbling me.
The season progressed and there was another occasion when we were under the boards and bouncing off each other - me more than he, naturally. He looked at me and I stared at him. He looked down, of course, and I looked up. We glared at each other so long I got a stiff neck, but nothing really happened. I got his message though. He was telling me he was tired of my being a nuisance. It would behoove me to go to the recored book and look up the statistics: Wilt Chamberlain, 7-1 (and more), 250 pounds; Tommy Heinsohn, 6-7, 218.
I understood what Wilt had in mind, but I also understood what Auerbach had in mind. Red wanted Chamberlain sent to the foul line instead of scoring baskets and, despite the lurking danger (to me), Auerbach kept urging me to attack as no risk to him.
It built up all season. I could see it in Wilt's eyes. He exploded in the playoffs because of a favorite play we employed to exploit Wilt's slowness making the transition from offense to defense. He was not the fastest person in the world though he ran the quarter mile in high school and could cover ground once his long legs got moving. We would ship the ball into Bob Cousy after a foul shot, and Bill Russell would take off for two easy points. Wilt just couldn't get up the floor with Russ, especially if Bill had a quick start.
Wilt was not dumb. Besides his obvious physical qualities, he had a sharp basketball mind. He began to catch on to the play. We would beat Philadelphia by ten or twelve points and get nine or ten points on this play alone. When we reached the playoffs, Auerbach decided he had to do something else to Wilt.
We were in the fourth year of our dynasty. We won the first championship in Celtics history in 1957 - the rookie season for me and Russell - then lost to the St. Louis Hawks in 1958 and beat the Minneapolis Lakers in 1959. Philadelphia and Chamberlain were to be the opening opponents in our 1960 title defense, so Auerbach called a strategy meeting.
"Anytime a foul shot is taken," he told us, "the man who is taking the foul shooter is going to step in and pick off Chamberlain so Russ can take off." Fine. Good strategy. Wilt will turn to head up court and a Celtic will impede his progress. But which Celtic?
Red didn't tell us right away. He waited for someone to volunteer. Who in his right mind would sacrifice himself to get in Wilt's way? That's like asking someone to step in front of a subway train to slow it down so a friend can get off. There were no volunteers.
Who got the job for a change? Why, old whipping boy. "Heinsohn," said Red, "you will do this." I looked at him. "We're going to play seven games," I said assuming the series would go seven, "and I've got to do this against this guy? What's the matter with you?"
Frank Ramsey didn't want to do it because he was too small. Jim Loscutoff, our muscleman, wasn't playing enough at that late stage of his career to be on the floor to do it. I was the logical lamb. On every Philadelphia foul shot, I blocked the shooter and then jumped in Wilt's way.
After Wilt took a few steps, he had a good head of steam going. I got in his way and he ran into me. There were awesome collisions throughout the first game, which we won in the Boston Garden, 111-105. Wilt got 42 points and 29 rebounds in his first playoff game, an exceptional performance for a rookie.
We knew Wilt was unhappy. I knew because I felt the heat from the big dragon every time I embarrassed him by picking him off so Russ could break away on foul shots. Russ knew because he blocked at least half a dozen of Wilt's shots. What we didn't know was what, if anything, Wilt would do about it in the second game, which was played on his court in Philadelphia.
Auerbach made sure to remind me of my special assignment, and Wilt quickly reminded me I would be a lot safer taking my wife to a movie. He advised me what would happen if I got in his way once more. It was a choice between Auerbach and Chamberlain, and for some stupid reason Red won.
I kept bumping Wilt, and each time he hit me harder. In a situation like that, you get cute. I figured Wilt would continue to retailiate so why not alert the referee and get a foul called on Chamberlain? I turned to Arnie Heft, one of the officials, and told him to watch Wilt because he was pushing me all night. I assumed Wilt would get caught on the second action and my picking him off would be tolerated under the rules.
I picked him off at the foul line and he finally hit me from behind so hard, I ended up at halfcourt. He ran up to finish me off. Here comes this seven one monster pounding up the floor at me: glomp glomp. He wound up to throw a punch just as I was scrambling off the floor to defend myself. I was about halfway up when Tommy Gola ran between us as a peacemaker just as Wilt let one go, hitting Gola in the back of the head. Wilt cracked his hand and was standing there in obvious pain, helplessly.
With great courage and glee, I assumed my best James J Corbett fighting stance and pelted the giant with lefts and rights but he didn't even know I was hitting him. There was a picture in the paper the next day that showed Wilt down and me standing over him. I didn't know how he hit the floor. It certainly wasn't from any of my punches. That's probably where Muhammad Ali got the idea for that part of his act where he fakes being knocked down.
They took Wilt to the hospital and taped his hand so he could play the third game, in Boston. It was his right hand - the shooting hand - and it was heavily bandaged, but to his credit he insisted on playing.
Auerbach was equally insistent we follow the same strategy. That meany little old me picking off big old Wilt on foul shots again. Red figured Wilt had another hand, so go get him, baby. Sometime in the third gam, they lobbed the ball over Russell's head and I couldn't possibly get to Wilt before he went into the act of shooting. The pressure was on me.
There was only one thing to do. I swung at the ball, hoping to punch it from his hands. He was so strong, there really was no way you could take the ball from him. I ended up punching him on his bandaged hand. He went through a series of wierd steps that reminds me of today's dances.
They charged me with a foul, and Wilt glared as he walked to the line in pain. I said to myself: "Oh,no. If this guy comes after me again, what am I going to do now?" I stared at him and he stared at me. And that was the last time Wilt Chamberlain and I had any kind of problem. He thought I was nuts. He probably said, "This guy's crazy. He broke my hand and then goes and punches me on the broken hand. I better leave him alone."

"Hey," said Red Auerbach, during the summer of 1966, "we're going to be televising road games this season on Channel 56. Are you interested in doing the play by play?" I gulped. I had never minded going one on one with Chamberlain or Lovellette or Maurice Stokes, but doing play by play made me apprehensive.
"I've never done anything like that, Red," I said, skeptically. "Play by play is a tough job." He assured me I could do it and shouldn't worry about it. Once more I was being advised to belt Wilt because it wouldn't hurt Red.
He had the strategy all worked out, naturally. "What we'll do is get Marty Glickman and have him break you in," he said. "He'll train you for a few games. He's agreed to do it. Give it a shot." I was shaken but grateful because it was ideal therapy after my unfortunate experience that year with withdrawal pains.
Marty broke me in for three or four games. I acquired the feel of the microphone, the pace of the game, the commercials, and the entire mechanics. I borrowed the Celtics' videotape equipment and practiced at home games. Fred Cusick, the sports director of Channel 56 would sit alongside and review my homework after the Boston Garden games.
I practiced as often as I could until they finally decided I was ready for Marty to leave me on my own. I had no color man, nothing. I did every commercial, every lead in, and the halftime interviews without a problem, which made me feel great - like the night I scored 47 points in Seattle. Only this time, a star was born in Baltimore.
I sweated frequently that first show but I drank enough Cokes to cool me off. That led to the discovery of an occupational hazard of TV announcers. It is called the relief stoop by truck drivers and other patrons of the highways. It is called something more descriptive by ballplayers when they go to the dressing room at half time.
Anyway, I discovered that if you drink lots of liquids, and commercials ran about a minute and you were the sole announcer, there was no time left for other things. I was quite uncomfortable for a while until experience provided the answer, as it generally does. "Folks," I would say, "we're going to pause now for station identification."
Those turned out to be the longest station breaks in history. They had to keep it going until I ran to the men's room and got back to the mike - and I was never know for my speed even when I wasn't racing with a handicap. It think my only fluff the night of my first solo flight involved the lead in to the Friday night movie: Yankee Doodle Dandy.
"Make sure you remain tuned in immediately following the game," I said, for Yenkel Doodle Dendy." Then I said: "Of course, that's a Jewish movie." I was proud of myself. Howard Cosell couldn't have ad libbed like that - and probably wouldn't have.
Whenever I made mistakes, I would have more damn fun doing it. I had learned about mistakes, remember? Still, it was a tedious, difficult one man job for an amateur Johnny Most. I kept telling the people at the station that they must send someone with me for at least half time. Help me. I had to as least go to the men's room. Triple spot the commercials because it was way up on the second floor.
That's how Boston's version of Huntley and Brinkley or the Frick and Frack of the airways developed. Despite great expense and with little concern for me, they gave me Auerbach as color man. He didn't do all the games, which indicated the people at the station had some compassion after all.
The new broadcasting team worked the games in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, primarily. I did others by myself. If Thomas Edison had known his inventive mind might lead to Auerbach and Heinsohn on television, he would have gone into medicine.
Red loved peanuts almost as much as Chinese food and was forever eating them during the telecasts. We were working a playoff game in Philadelphia and he dropped the bag on the floor. As Red reached for the peanuts, Chet Walker drove toward the hoop and was leveled by Larry Siegfried. Everyone in the arena and watching television at home had seen the play except Red. He had been involved with a more important matter. Walker was stretched out when Red finally looked to the court. "What's he doing?" he screamed into his mike. "Is he pulling that same old jazz about twenty seconds?"
Red was referring to the unlimited automatic timeouts NBA players had been known to take and fake for one reason or another. Each team now is entitled to only one twenty second "injury" time out a half with no questions asked, and some players, such as Bill Russell and Walt Frazier, made a career out of the opportunity to rest.
"he's not hurt," Red told the home audience. "He wasn't even in on the play." I'm sure the viewers must have flipped the dials to see what game Red was watching. I knew he had made a mistake because of the peanuts and I had to say something to cover. "Red," I said informatively, "He was driving toward the basket and Siegfried hit him."
A normal person wouldn't have touched that with a ten foot pole, but Red was not one to give up that easily. He could take any side of a debate and argue vigorously, and convincingly. He had chosen to say Walker had not been in on the play, and everyone was stuck with that.
"He wasn't involved in the play," he said, brusquely. Now he had me on the hook. How do I get out of that one? It had become a battle of wills. A one on one confrontation and I had the ball.
Walker was still on the floor, and the great television debate continued. "Siegfried knocked him down," I said, lowering my voice and hoping Red would take the hint. "He was not in the play!" insisted Red, his voice rising.
"Okay, Red," I finally said. "Have it your way. He was not in the play, but would you settle for this - he was in the movie?" I'll say this for Red - he had me thinking all the time as to how to escape his situations. He was totally undisciplined and uninhibited. He told it like it was - as long as it favored the Celtics. But it was fun and some times funny.

I sat there and wondered: "What more can happen to me on this day?"I must have had an unusually sad expression for such a kind face because Auerbach walked over and asked what was wrong.
I cited chapter and verse. "In addition," I said, "you fined me and then my wallet's stolen with everything else." I really wasn't looking for sympathy - not from Auerbach. He surprised me, though, which, if I had any brains, should have made me suspicious immediately.
"Look," he said, "that's a bad day. What you ought to do - nothing relaxes me more than a cigar. You're just gonna relax if you smoke this cigar." He handed me a roman candle and I put it in my pocket. I was too overwrought and slightly shocked by Red's generosity to think clearly.
I was mad at the world as I headed back for home in Worcester, where we lived before we bought a new home in South Natick. I got about halfway when I began talking to myself, for a change. "What the hell are you getting so angry about?" I asked. "I'll be alright," I answered. "I'll take Red's advice. I'll smoke his cigar and relax."
I stopped at a red light and took out the cigar. I stuck it in my mouth and lit it. I took two puffs and the damn thing exploded. I was so mad, I could have taken the rifle I wanted to give that Arab in Egypt and shot Auerbach on the spot - with real bullets.
I never acknowledged that I smoked the loaded cigar. "Hey," he aid when I saw him at practice the next day, "how did you like that cigar?" I told him I never smoked it but had given it to somebody. I didn't want to give him the pleasure - only a loaded cigar of my own.
I set him up by feeding him cigars for the next four months. I wasn't too obvious. It would be once a week or every two weeks. It cost me a dollar and sometimes a dollar and a half but I would tell him I picked up a good one for him at a banquet.
At first he looked at both ends to see if it was loaded. He reached the point where he finally trusted me and lit the cigar without inspecting it. I was ready to pick my spot. It came when we were practicing at Northeastern for another playoff.
The setting was perfect because the media were there and Red was distracted by a press conference. He had all the reporters around when I handed him my cigar, revenge brand. He nodded, put it in his mouth, but didn't have a match.
I was on the fringe of a circle that must have included twenty newspapermen. I wanted to see the whole thing but was careful not to be too obvious. Red was busy telling everyone how great the Celtics were going to be and how they were going to do this and that, meanwhile fumbling for a match.
I began to panic. For want of a match, I was about to blow the opportunity after all my investment of time and money. What do I do now? I grabbed my lighter and worked my way closer to him. "Red, whatsa matter?" I said, innocently. "Gotta match?" he asked, conveniently.
Magnificent. It couldn't have been better. My cigar and my match. He took two puffs and said: "We will defeat the Seventy..." Boom! No more press conference. He chased me out of the locker room and up the stairs.

Much has been written about the family attitude on the Celtics and it was true. There never were cliques and, despite Auerbach's contribution to the smooth relationships, the players, themselves, had much to do with it. Cousy, as an individual could be difficult to tolerate at times because he was a demanding person, but he subjugated himself like everybody where the team was concerned.
I was closer to Cousy than anyone because we lived in Worcester and had loyal Holy Cross ties. We would drive to practices together and enjoy practical jokes together. That still didn't prevent him from treating me with the same impatience as the others. His favorite trick at the start of a game was to deliberately overthrow two or three times to make you stretch out. It was his way of getting you primed for the fast break he ran.
After tossing the ball over the end line, he would grumble as though it had been your fault. He'd mumble something like: "Zudersumbdunadun." Something you couldn't possibly understand. Consequently, I called him Mr Razzlefraz after the character in the Scripto television commercial who would grumble incoherently because he couldn't get his golf ball out of a trap.
We knew Cousy would throw too long deliberately but never questioned him. We knew he had great control of his passes and could peg the ball through a rubber tire from fifty feet away if necessary. He was like Tom Seaver tossing a knockdown pitch to get his message across.
Once in Philadelphia where the fans were as gentle as those in the Roman Colosseum in the days of Caesar, a teammate, Jack Nichols, solicited Cousy's aid. In those days, the games were played in Convention Hall, where the people were not as close to the playing surface as in Syracuse, Minneapolis, or some other cities.
Most of the crowd sat in a balcony that overlooked the court. There were seats on the floor but, because there was so much room, they were well removed from the sidelines and endlines. The players were within harassing distance, anyway.
For some reason, the best hecklers seemed to mobilize under the baskets. The favorite spot was near the visitors' bench. There sat the Nuremberg jury, a vocal group without the music, and then there were the comedians, who preferred to work alone.
A Philadelphia comic tried out his act on Earl Strom one night in the Palestra, where a playoff game with the Knicks had been shifted because there was a circus in the Convention Hall. There was a disturbance and the referee called for the cops to remove the fan. "He kicked me," explained Earl, "so I kicked him back." That's what happens when you see too many Leo Durocher pictures.
There was another superb customer whose sole purpose for paying was to take out his hostilities on a player of his choice. It was remarkable the way he could maintain a constant flow of choice words without taking a deep breath. That went on for an entire game, and it would become annoying.
His favorite target for awhile was Nichols, our resident dentist, who now practices in Seattle. "It's bad enough he is berating me with such horrible language," said Jack, "but he's got two kids with him. He's swearing all the time, which is no way for an adult to act in front of children."
Nichols and Cousy worked out a solution at half time. During the warmup, Nichols would take the ball off the basket, heave it out to Cousy, and then take a return pass. Jack, in the meantime, would stake himself out in front of the obnoxious fan, who was impairing the morals of minors with his foul words.
Cousy fired a bullet, Nichols stepped aside, and the ball hit the fan right in the stomach like a dumdum. He was a big, fat guy and the impact knocked him back into his seat. Though his wind was knocked out, the guy never missed a syllable and continued his abuse.
Nichols was enraged even more, so he picked up the ball and dribbled it off the fan's head. The fan understood that and never showed at another game, unless he shifted to an inconspicuous seat without our knowledge.

Red somehow stimulated emotional frenzy wherever he went. I think he did it deliberately to motivate us. I guess it must have worked, because the Celtics became the best road team for many years. Red triggered the booing, and we played better when we were booed.
St Louis was on his must beat list because he dearly loved to irritate Kerner. He had coached for Ben and supposedly they fell out because Kerner had traded some players without Red's knowledge. I think one was Jack Nichols, who later became a Celtic and played fur us in the 1957 championship series against the Hawks.
Red said he quit, I heard Kerner fired him. Let's put it this way: Red no longer was in the Tri-Cities. There was no doubt bad feelings still existed when the Celtics and Hawks played for the championship some six years later.
We both had fine teams. We won our division and the Hawks won theirs. We had taken a 2-1 lead in the series, and Alex Hanum, the player-coach, I am sure had promised Kerner the Hawks would get even at home in the fourth game.
They did crazy things in those days to psych the other team, such as give the visitors the dirty, old, shiny basketballs while the home team practiced with new ones. Sometimes there wouldn't be enough air in the balls to warm up.
Sharman walked over to the bench while we were shooting around and told Auerbach the basket was low. Sharman was the Bill Bradley of his time. Both could tell the air pressure in the ball by squeezing and the height of the hoop by shooting. They weren't so quick reaching for dinner checks, but that's something else.
"Are you sure?" asked Red, needlessly. "Yeah," said Sharman, "It's about an inch low." Auerbach proceeded to request that the height of the basket be measured, his privilege under the rules. Kerner came running out from somewhere and accused Red of trying to psych his players and the fans.
One obscene word led to another. Auerbach, being a gentle and subtle individual, punched Kerner right in the mouth before the game even started. That was the basis for the Hawks-Celtics rivalry becoming white hot after it had only been a sizzler. At another game, REd, trying hard to always project an austere image, was hit smack on his bald head by an egg that dripped down his face as he stood there doing the kind of burn Edgar Kennedy made famous in the movies.
Red's dignity was splattered and so was my uniform. "Red," I told him, trying to be funny for a change, "I'm not standing near you anymore." He looked like an omelet.

In all honesty the amazing thing about the Celtics was the team pride Auerbach developed. I don't know how he did it because Red could be harsh and abrasive in his own way, but General MacArthur didn't create more determination and togetherness when he promised that he and his troops would return. I think the Celtics respected Auerbach because he was the Celtics and they sincerely believed he knew what he was doing.
Except, of course, when he was driving. Red was Evel Knievel before his time. If Red could have jumped a car over the Grand Canyon he would have done it without thinking - which was the way he drove. His reputation preceded him to the point where everyone suggested he had another ride whenever Red extended an invitation.
Gene Conley made the mistake of joining the coach one time when we were on an exhibition tour before the season. Generally, the rookies were the only ones who would ride with Red because they were in no position to turn him down. We all knew when we were going to exhibition games, never to get into a car with Auerbach.
We probably should have had the right of refusal written into our contracts, but we never thought of it. The Players' Association was not that strong in those days anyway. Conley had been away for five years working his pitching skilles and had absolutely no power position when he returned to the Celtics in 1958-59.
We headed for Maine for our first exhibition game. If you've ever gone up the Maine Turnpike in October, you know how foggy it can get. The fog rolled in from the ocean and blanketed the meadows and the road. There was nothing a normal person could do but be extremely cautious.
Red, not being a normal person behind the wheel, was not bothered by such conservative practices as driving carefully. He proceeded to go eighty five miles an hour through the velvet curtain. Conley froze in his seat. "The man's crazy," he said to the only person in the car to whom he had the courage to say it - himself.
It was as though Red was trying to qualify at Indianapolis. His only guide was the white divider in the middle of the road, and he followed it without deviation. In his mind, the line represented radar and, therefore, he was not driving blind.
Conley was. He was afraid to open his eyes. Once in a while he peeked out of fear but saw nothing. He even found it tough seeing the white line that Red was using as a steering beam.
There was one thing Gene managed to see for a fleeting moment. A Howard Johnson building zipped by extremely close on his side. Auerbach never blinked. He was following the white line and never noticed he had just driven through the Howard Johnson's parking lot and out the other side.

I'll never forget the time we had an apple war. Come on. You never heard of an appele war? Through a lapse of memory or at the point of a gun, I was driving with Auerbach that day. It was another of our trips through the countryside on the way to an exhibition game.
Whenever we had time to waste, we would play an intellectual game called Zit. It worked this way: If you saw a cemetary and identified it first, you got a point. If you were first to see a dog, you got a point. Anytime you saw a dog lifting its leg, you got five points. Anyime you saw two dogs making love, you hit the jackpot. You would have to yell "cemetery" or "dog" and you automatically won the game.
Forget that we all were supposed to be college graduates - it was better than playing ghost or word games. It was an ideal time consumer for the two hundred mile drive to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. We called time to buy a bushel of apples that we split with Cousy and the other guys.
We resumed playing Zit, at high stakes - lunch to the winner. We were having a great time driving through the mountains, taking bites of apples and tossing them out the window. Such luxury.
Suddenly, Cousy pulled from behind us, drove his car along side, and there was a broadside of apples. It became a war on the highway - like pirate ships side by side firing at each other. It was Auerbach's car against Cousy's car and some battle.
Red was weaving all over the white line and Cooz was hugging the inside. Some guys took bites and heaved the apples like hand grenades with proper sound effects. Everyone was laughing and screaming and then we heard a different but familiar sound: "Rrrrrrr!"
It sounded like a cop's car. It was a cop's car. The cop pulled along side Red's car and motioned him over, but Cousy kept going, the master of the fast bread, as usual.
"What the hell do you guys think your doing?" said the cop. "Well," said Red, innocently, "we were playing Zit." Auerbach had to find the one cop along the highway to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, who had never played Zit. The cop never even heard of it.
Red changed directions on him. "Officer," said Red, turning on the charm, "I'm sorry. I'm Red Auerbach, coach of the Boston Celtics. I know I'm wrong." The cop wasn't impressed at all. He invited Red to follow him to the house of the Justice of the Peace.
We had to drive up the mountain, through back roads, to get to the man's house. He was the judge, of cours, and the cop explained that Red had been speeding over the white line and acting as though he had been drinking. "They were throwing apples," addded the cop.
"Throwing apples?" said the judge as though he might have had a case for the resident psychiatrist. "We were having an apple war," elaborated Red, figuring the judge would understand that. He didn't, so Red had to back track and explain that we had been playing Zit and what that was, and we were driving along just having fun and killing time, which accounted for the apple war.
At that point, Mr Auerbach was not my candidate for defense counsel. I figured we would all wind up killing time in a dirty jail. Certainly, Red deserved it, but somehow he escaped only to make it another time at an other place.

On that occasion, we were in Cincinnati for a regular season game and had just won a close one. We were heading for the dressing room when there was a commotion. A rather large one, to be accurate. We kept right on going, the safest thing when bad buys are in the wrong corral. Auerbach came in after we reached the locker room and yelled: "That guy better not do that again!"
What happened, Red? "That guy took a swing at me," he said. "He kicked me. I took a swing at him. I knocked his glasses off and knocked him right on his can. He can't do that to me. I took care of him, okay." We were impressed.
We went back to the hotel and two policemen showed up in the lobby. "Where's Red Auerbach?" "I don't know where he is," they were told. Just then Red walked out of the elevator.
"Are you Red Auerbach," the cops asked nicely. "Yes," he said modestly. "You're under arrest," they said not so modestly. "For what?" asked Red, shaken. "Assault and battery," said the cops. "The guy hit me," said Red, scared. "I never hit the guy." All of a sudden he was a devout pacifist.
Nevertheless, they took him off to jail and locked him up. Cousy and Buddy Leroux went with him for moral support and came back to the hotel without him. "We need three hundred dollars to bail him out," announced Cousy. "He hasn't any money on him. If we don't raise the money, he has to stay in jail.
Some considered that the best offer we might get. "Don't bail him out," I suggested. "Yeah," said Cousy, recognizing the practicality of the rare opportunity to get Auerbach. "Let's leave him overnight. He's got no television. He can't send out for Chinese food. He's got no cigars. It'll kill him.
We decided that valor was not the best part of a practical joke at Red's expense under prison conditions. "I've only got twenty-five dollars," I said, opening the bids. We raised the three hundred dollars somehow and finally got Red out of jail around three in the morning.
Red got in touch with me after breakfast. "You're going to have to testify," he said. "Testify to what?" I asked. "You've got to testify that this guy kicked me," he said. He was frightened and I loved it. "I didn't see the guy kick you, Red," I told him innocently. "I wasn't even there when it happened."
He glared at me. It never was difficult to know when Red was getting mad. "You saw the guy kick me." he said, almost shouting while emphasizing you and kick. He was tampering with a witness, but I was sure he, at least, would never squeal.
"I did see the guy kick you?" I asked. "Didn't you see the guy kick me?" he asked, daring me to deny it once more. "Yeah, I saw that guy kick you." I agreed, delivering the proper message.
He nodded. To make sure, our little godfather said: "If you don't want to end up in Minneapolis, you saw the guy kick me." I never did have to commit perjury under duress. They settled out of court.

Powe is doing well in his recovery from surgery and is ahead of schedule, but may not be back till Feb. But Cavs wants him for playoffs.

Leon Powe signing should be official in morning. 2 years, $1.77 mil. Sources say Celtics tried to re-sign him after word got out about Cavs.

Cavs are not done, they still may sign another big man w/ Powe & JJ Hickson not 100%. Joe Smith and Rob Kurz still on list.

Glen Davis two-year deal for $5 milllion with Boston includes weight-related bonuses totaling $500K each season, source tells Yahoo Sports

My favorite non-sports story of the day. Guy gets a DUI on a lawnmower and he included a link to the original story here

Career PER: Shelden Williams 12.5, Glen Davis 10.9.

If Leon Powe's rehabbing knee is OK with team doctors Tuesday in Cleve, he will sign a 2-year deal with the Cavs, a source told Y! Sports.

The deal for Powe would be for the minimum salary, with Cavs holding option for 2010-'11. Powe is expected to return by All-Star break.

Thanks and yes I try to answer as much as I can

Yes we do should be a lot of good practices among the forwards

Good afternoon to u as well

Gotta go to Boston for a day so I'm in the airport bout to board

Thanks I appreciate it

Ahhhh great I am on a 6 hour flight with two kids under 5 next to me just great this should b fun

Noise cancellation ear phones don't fail me now haha

Wish me luck everybody haha bout to take off

Just landed he in bean town

Long flight and the 3 kids weren't that bad when they actually started to sleep

Getting my day started in Boston first up meeting the staff, then the media and the team doc to do my physical

Just met Stephen Tyler the lead singer of aerosmith he broke his shoulder falling off the stage in south Dakota

So he was holding my physical up haha

Yes I live with her that is what married people do. I play for Boston and I m 25

Yea well u can buy anything nowadays already made so but I always cook something from scratch

Nah she is with some friends while I play daddy

Haha she is a good baby

yes I have decided on the number 13

every other number is pretty much retired haha but I think it is going to be a good number

just got done with everything and now it is official I am not with the Boston Celtics

I m sorry my phone messed up my tweet haha I AM a Celtic

well yall i m bout to take off for the long flight back to LA i will holla at yall later!!!!

Just wakin up in the morning gotta thank god

Thanks for following. I love Australia. It is a beautiful place

What has anybody done to make the earth better today

I recycle everyday so that's a consistent. I turned off the air condition and opened the windows to the house. That's helping a little

Try vital tea from vitamin water. Vitamin water is discontinuing it because they say people won't drink brown water. It is my favorite.

Thanks everybody for following. I hope I can be an inspiration to you

Remember you were not born a winner, and you were not born a loser. You are what you make yourself be

I did legs in the weight room for the first time in 3 months and my hamstrings are on fire..better now then when training camp comes

The key to having a consistent stroke on your jumpshot is your legs..keeping your lift throughout the game and season is a must

Sorry I'm talking about a lot..its the morning and I have a lot on my mind..I gotta get it out

Yesterday I shot a 72 on the course and its my low round of the summer..my goal is to break 70 before training camp..I will do it

I work pretty damn hard to have a great jumpshot and people say god blessed me to shoot..nope..he blessed me by keeping me healthy

And giving me the will and desire to go out everyday and work at what I love..he doesn't care if I shoot 95 percent from the free throw line

I work just as hard at my golf game because I wanna be great at it..so all the work I put into bball is now in golf...for now..

In a month I will transfer back..golf is helping me keep my mind sharp..the competition is what keeps me on track

For everybody out there I say the best thing you all can do to be great in life is to compete at whatever you do

Competition fuels greatness..the urge to wanna be the best..when you challenge yourself then you make a lot of people around you better

My brain is working this morning..I had so many questions asked of me over the last few days I'm thinking about all the things that you all have asked..

When you work on getting better at something don't do it half speed, for example

When I go in the gym to shoot I don't shoot practice shots..I shoot game shots..I simulate playing a game

So when your're practicing simulate what the actual situation your're preparing for would be like..it do it hard..cut no corners

Kids are up talk to you all in a few

Is enjoying down time with his boys watching Ratatoullie Disney movie.

Watching Lion King with my boys. They've seen this, many times and now they're singing "I just can't wait till I'm King" oh noise to my ears

Vacuming Frosted Flakes in between sofa pillows..........Parenthood is Great!!!!!

If I can't clean up behind my own kids, something is truly wrong with me!

I do understand, but I feel if everyone always dwell on the past, how do we move to the future? Learning from the past is best

Inorder to grow you have to accept what's happened, and then move on! You can't keep saying things that keep you in the past.

Cooking Sunday meal...Grandma style! Slowly cooked Beef Ribs, green beans, rib-eyes, and mac&cheese. Yummy!!!!!!


(apparently in response to someone asking how he makes his macaroni and cheese) milk,cheese,salt pepper,pasta,eggs. Boil your pasta, mix those things then put in oven 45 min at 450 degrees

Has been connecting with my "little" cousin who's a senior in college. She makes me proud to be her big cousin!!

all depends on how much you're making. 12 3/4 in. By 9 would use 1 egg 1/4 cup milk 1/2 stick butter, mix salt pepper cheese

After mixing all the ingredients, make sure it's moist. More tastier that way

In press conf Kevin McHale (disguised as reporter) will reveal Celtics uniform, then run up and clothesline Kurt Rambis