By the time I cams along in 1934 the days of logrolling were gone, and soon the Old Man traded in his buckboard for an old pickup truck. All he had left from the buckboard team was a mule named Kate. He used Kate for odd jobs, like plowing his garden, but basically she just hung around. When I was four or five I loved nothing better than to tag along when the Old Man was out walking Kate somewhere; I might get a ride at the end of the day if he was in a good mood, and to me, riding Kate was like riding a horse. Besides, I simply liked walking along behind my grandfather. Most of the time he didn't say anything, but when he did, it was worth the wait.
I could tell that Kate and the Old Man understood each other. One day I was walking along with them when Kate decided to go off and stand in a ditch. Being an honest mule, she had a stubborn, mulish personality, and she stood there with this determined look on her face. It was as if Kate were saying, "Okay, I got you now. We're going to do this my way." The Old Man did everything he could to get Kate back up on the road. I watched him talk to her, and push, pull, shove and kick - a tough job, because there must have been nine hundred pounds of mule there. The Old Man would get Kate's front up on the road and be cooing into her ear, but when he walked around to pull up her tail end, the front would sidle back into the ditch again - so he'd take a deep breath and start over. I was taking all this in, and I couldn't believe that the Old Man didn't lose his temper.
Afer a long ordeal, Kate finally wound up back on the road. The Old Man looked exhausted, and the mule must have taken some satisfaction from all the effort she'd cost him. She looked fresh and relaxed, standing there as warm and lazy as the country air. The Old Man leaned on Kate and rested there for a minute or two, then out of nowhere he hauled off and punched her with his bare fist. Whack, just once, right in the side of the neck. The thud was so loud that I must have jumped a foot. The mule gently swayed back and forth groggily, then her front legs buckled and she collapsed to her knees. Then the hindquarters slowly buckled and settled down too. Kate looked all bent and contorted, like a squatting camel, as she sat there with a vacant stare in her eyes. I was dumbstruck. Right in front of my eyes the Old Man had knocked out a mule with one punch.
He never said a word to me or the mule. He just let Kate sit there for a minute, and then he grabbed her by the head and picked her up. "Okay, let's go," he said quietly, and we started off again as if nothing had happened.
That sight stuck in my mind so vividly that I learned a practical lesson fromit. I got in to very few fights when I played for the Celtics, but every single one of them was in the last quarter, after the game was decided. You have to choose when to fight, and that is the time. The Old Man knew he'd have been in big trouble if he'd knocked that mule down in the ditch, so he waited until it didn't cost him anything. Then he relieved his frustration and gave Kate something to think about.

Mr Charlie always seemed to find a way to laugh when he was the victim himself, but his temper would get loose when it was somebody else. That's what happened in two incidents that permanently changed the direction of our family. One Saturday afternoon- the day my mother went to town for groceries - she came home early, crying. I was about seven at the time, and I couldn't stand it. The only other time I had seen her cry was at my grandmother's funeral. I couldn't imagine anything big or evil enough to make my mother cry, and her sobs shook my whole world. It was as if all my senses had been shut off, so that I couldn't see or hear or anything, and the same big hurt that had grabbed her shook me so hard that I had to cry too.
Mother said that one of the policemen in Monroe had grabbed her and cussed her for dressing like a white woman. He spoke real rough to her, and told her he'd put her in jail if she didn't get out of town. She'd been wearing an outfit more special to her than the one she wore on Sundays. It was a suit, modeled after the horse riding clothes popular among fancy white women, and she looked fancier in it than they did. Everything about it was just right, and she walked with an extra spring in that white blouse with a pin at her throat and a trim suitcoat and pants. Maybe the pants gave her a touch of Auntie Kammie's independent spirit.
Mister Charlie was there, but he didn't say anything; he just walked around mumbling to himself. I wanted to ask him what was wrong with my mother, but something told me not to say anything.
The other incident happened not long afterward, on a Saturday afternoon in the first spring after Pearl Harbor. We were on our way home from an afternoon of visits and stopped to buy gas and a block of ice. The man at the station was pumping gas for a white guy, and when he finished he stood there talking to the man about this and that, passing the time of day. Mister Charlie was standing outside our car, and he kept waiting while the conversation rambled on and my brother and I jumped up and down in the back seat, eager to get home. After about ten minutes I could tell that Mister Charlie was starting to burn, but didn't say anything. He was shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. I'm sure the man who ran the station was letting him wait there on purpose, just to show that Mister Charlie could do nothing about it. Then another white guy drove up, and the man waited on him quickly - pumped the gas, took his money and waved good bye. Then he just ambled back to the first customer and resumed his bull session. My brother and I became absolutely still because we could feel the anger in the air. Finally Mr Charlie couldn't take it any more; he jumped back in our car and cranked it up to drive off. Just then the first customer left, and the station attendant looked mean at Mr Charlie. He was standing in the door of his station and just inside was a big rifle. He stormed over to our car and said, "Boy, don't you ever do what you just started to do!" Then he cussed Mr Charlie about his manners, spitting out the words. I'd never heard anybody talk to my father like that, and my cheeks stung as if they'd been slapped.
The next thing I knew, I saw Mr Charlie walking toward that white man with a tire iron in his hand. The man got an empty look in his eyes, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing, and his cussing petered out as Mister Charlie walked slowly around the car toward him. He looked too frozen to go after his rifle; he just stood there until Mister Charlie got within a step or two, and then took off running, past the gas pumps and through the parking lot out onto the road. When he broke out running, Mister Charlie let out a loud grunt and chased him up the road with that tire iron in his hand. Then I saw him stop, and his whole back heaving with big heavy breaths as he watched the man go.
By then my brother and I were about to burst with pride. We were so full of energy that we started punching each other lightly, and we would have cheered out loud except that our mother had on a look that said not to. Still, when Mister Charlie got back into the car we couldn't resist chirping about how scared that man was and how funny he looked running off, until Mister Charlie told us sharply to hush up. There wasn't anything to be happy about, he said gruffly, which stunned and confused me.

I think it was in Charlotte, North Carolina, that they made the black players stay in a black hotel. Walter Brown had promised Russell he never would be placed in such a humiliating position, but there had been a mixup in communications or something. Russell and the others played the game under the circumstances, but Russ talked to Red and Walter Brown and was assured it never would happen again. There was more to come.
A couple of years later, in the 1961-62 season, we went to Marion, Indiana, for an exhibition game. Marion was about 100 to 150 miles from Chicago and considered a northern city. At least, I would consider it northern coming from New Jersey.
We got to town and they give us a fabulous reception with banquet attached. The mayer was there to greet us, and many of the fifty thousand residents had taken time to cheer the champions of the NBA. We were all pleased by the warm, sincere display of hospitality. Everyone was given a key to the city - a wooden one, painted gold with "welcome" inscribed on it.
Under those circumstances, we assumed we were welcome. I have since learned what many have tried to teach me in many ways: Do not assume anything. "Oh gee, my first key to the city," said some of the guys. Some were kidding, some were serious.
We played the game at a high school and then went to the hotel, dropped off our bags, and headed for the only eating place open. It was sort of a club or cafe. Not the most elegant place. Frankly, it was a one armed joint with a juke box.
I think I was with Cousy, Sharman, and Ramsey. We got there first and the others wandered over in groups. We were just finishing our food when Russell walked in with Carl Braun and KC Jones. The guy at the bar wouldn't let them eat. Right place, wrong color for Russ and KC.
We noticed the conversation but didn't know what it was about. Russell and KC left and Braun came to our table ripping mad. "Some damn place this is," he shouted. "Marion, Indiana. They gave us a banquet, the keys to the city. Everything's beautiful but they won't let Russ and KC eat here because they're black."
Carl began looking around as though he were going to remodel the place. "Let's find out where the Mayor lives," he suggested, "and give him back his goddamn keys. I'm going to tell him to shove it." It was around 12:30 AM and our only regret was that it wasn't three or four in the morning once we agreed with Carl.
We filled two cabs with black and white players. Braun was the leader because it was his idea, so he knocked on the door. The mayor opened it and we obviously had awakened him. That was good.
"Mayor, I'm Carl Braun from the Boston Celtics," said Carl. "I am here with some of my teammates, and we would like you to take the keys you gave us today and shove them..." Unfortunately the mayor was not about to be that accomodating. He did express his regret, which meant nothing to Russell, who already led the league in regrets.
Our next game was in Lexington, Kentucky, and our black players ran into northern hospitality, southern style, right on top of Marion, Indiana. Before I recall what happened, I think this is the time to say that for the nine years I played with the Celtics, there was only one instance where a player yelled at another player. Just one incident in all those years, and it was an innocent mistake that could have become a serious problem if Auerbach had not nipped it and we didn't have people who took time to understand.
It was before a playoff game in St. Louis, where the dressing rooms in Kiel Auditorium were built for show business, not sports. They were small with big mirrors and an edging of light bulbs for entertainers to make up. Gene Guarilia was getting dressed in one with Sam Jones.
Guarilia, a fine player but a reserve on the ball club, got involved in a conversation with Sam and inadvertently said, "Sambo." I am sure it was Gene's way of trying to be friendly, not insulting, and he meant it strictly as an innocent extension of Sam.
Sam, normally a calm, pleasant individual, must have been nervous about the game because he exploded. He actually got angry enough to punch Guarilia out if Red and the guys on the team had not cooled it. Sam accepted the explanation that no racial slur had been intended, and it was forgotten. All the racial tensions came from outside sources.
Yet I am sure Russell had to wonder about the degree and sincerity of our concern in view of what took place in Lexington. The game was to be in honor of Ramsey and Hagan, who had played as Kentucky teammates in that very fieldhouse. Their children were to be given scholarships in a pregame ceremony.
It was to be the first game at the university with integrated seating. Blacks always had been restricted to certain sections, but this time they would be permitted to sit anyplace. In view of what had just happened in Marion, Auerbach reassured Russell, Sam Jones, KC Jones and Sanders that everything was set in Lexington. There would be no racial issues at the hotel. Everyone could eat and sleep as equal American citizens.
Russell was informed that everything had been discussed with the hotel people and no one would be embarrassed. Both teams checked in. The St. Louis Hawks also had black players and there was no trouble registering.
It was about noon, so I went to my room with the luggage and then headed for the coffee shop. I was eating with a couple of the guys when Sanders and Sam Jones showed up and the waitress refused to let them in. Oh, no. Not again?
Yes, again. I was then told by Buddy Leroux, our trainer, that the black players had held a meeting and decided to go home. They weren't going to play. First Marion and now Lexington. Could you blame them?
I know how I felt when I saw the look on Sanders' face. He was crushed. Satch was from New York City and never had experienced such treatment there. I never had more compassion for anyone than I had for him at that moment. I respected him with a passion and considered him one of the finest human beings I've ever known.
The situation put me and the other players in an awkward position. Auerbach tried to get Russell to consider playing because the game was for Ramsey, his teammate, and the desegregating of seats represented a step forward. "There's noway... you promised us ... " said Russell, "and we're leaving."
He was right but now what do the other players do? Red came to the lobby to tell us the black players were going home. He said he had explained to Russell it obviously had been done by a bigoted waitress on her own, since the hotel had cleared everything. Russ took Sam Jones, KC Jones, and Sanders to the airport with him, anyway.
"What's going to happen now?" I asked Red. "We're gonna plya the game," he said. "We have a contract to play it." I have to admit that was a helluva spot to be in. Here I was in complete sympathy with Russell and the others. We had played, traveled, and fought together. Should we walk together?
Russell never said a word to us. He left us to the dictates of our consciences. We had only six players left because we went to Lexington with only ten men. We talked about it. We considered telling Lexington to screw it.
I am sure from the viewpoint of Russel, Sam, KC and Satch that there never should have been a struggle within ourselves. They place no demands on us, but I am sure I was doing the right thing. In my mind, I thought of how Russell might interpret our decision to stay because of his experiences with attitudes and responses. When it was time for his white teammates to stand up, they never were counted until they went to the game and six uniforms were handed out.
My answer to that as I look back is that sometimes there are no simple answers. One man's simplistic solution might be another man's complication. There were influences on both sides, and Russell was intelligent or discreet enough not to make it an issue. I prefer to think he knew his teammates were not prejudiced and the Lexington decision simply was a matter of judgement - good, poor, or bad.

Walter Brown was cut from the same cloth. He'd tell me: "Red, take a man for what he is and what he does and never mind anything else you might have about him." Walter believed it, practiced it, and personified it. He didn't care about a man's religion or color; nome of that stuff mattered to him. He just cared about the man!
And he proved that one day in the spring of 1950, just after he hired me, when we drafted Chuck Cooper from Duquesne. This was just four years after Branch Rickey made history in baseball by signing Jackie Robinson. The NBA, at the time, was an all white league.
When Walter called out Cooper's name that day, one of the other owners looked at him and asked, "Are you aware of the fact that Mr Cooper is a negro?"
"I don't care what he is," Walter shot back. "All I know is that this kid can play basketball and we want him on the Celtics."
What wasn't generally known at the time, however, was that Walter was under considerable pressure from Abe Saperstein, owner of the Harlem Globetrotters, not to be a pioeer in breaking the color line. After all, Abe wasn't anxious to break up his own monopoly; he was getting all of the great black talent, the way the Montreal Canadians used to have exclusive claim to all of the great French speaking skaters. Abe had a good thing going, so he wasn't at all timid about reminding Walter that the Globetrotters drew some pretty big crowds to Boston Garden, crowds Walter was in no financial position to disregard. Remember, he was losing his shirt on pro basketball at the time.
Still this was a matter of principle - a matter of conscience, if you will - and there was never any doubt in my mind as to what Walter's decision would be.
"Boston takes Charles Cooper!" he repeated. There are no flags to commemorate the occasion, but I'll always remember that as a proud moment in Boston Celtics history.
As it turned out, we would later have the first all black starting five in the league: Satch Sanders, Willie Naulls, Bill Russell, Sam Jones and KC Jones. And when I retired from the bench in 1966, Russell replaced me as our coach - again setting a precedent. He was the league's first black head coach, though that certainly had nothing to do with the decision to appoint him. He was simply the best man for the job.

Russell, over the years, has taken a lot of heat for the negative things he's had to say about the racial climate of Boston. He's never given me specific instances of things which outraged him, yet knowing him, and knowing some of the experiences some of our other guys have encountered, I'd have to conclude he's probably been right in most of his criticism - though being the very opinionated tough guy that he is, I'd also have to say he hasn't done much to alleviate the tension. When he joined the team in 1956 he was the only black guy on the team, and the whole city was madly in love with Cousy, the local, colorful, white All American hero from nearby Holy Cross. Russell had none of that stuff going for him, plus the great defensive skills he brought with him didn't have the same crowd pleasing effects of those behind the neck passes Cousy used to throw.
Russell had a great respect for Cousy as a passer, as a playmaker, as a fast break guy who kept the team moving, and no one denied that Cooz deserved all of the publicity he got. But, damn it, Russ was doing just as many great things out there, yet sometimes you got the impression no one even noticed.
I often tell the story of the time we took a little road trip and Cousy stayed home with the flu or something. Russell played out of his mind and we won every game, but when we stepped off the plane upon our arrival home the headline that greeted us was "Will Cousy Play Tonight?" Not one mention of Russell's great performance.
Maybe it was a reflection of the writer's personal prejudice, maybe it wasn't. But in Russell's mind it might have seemed that way, and that's what was important.
Remember? It's not what you tell them, but what they hear. And that was the message Russell kept getting. I could see it happening, so I used to go out of my way to tell writers what a fabulous job Bill was doing, which was certainly true. I'd point out key parts of a game and show them how he took complete control with blocked shots and domination of the boards. If I hadn't said those things, and if his teammates hadn't reaffirmed them, it would have taken some of those writers 20 years to recognize who great this kid really was.
I had a very firm rule about not socializing with my players. When I was coaching I didn't even want to know their wives and kids, because I didn't want any personal considerations weighing on me if a time came when I had to make a tough coaching decision. In Russell's case, however, I made an exception. I went over to his house for dinner - something I'd never done with any other player - just to demonstrate to him that his color didn't mean a damn thing in our relationship. I broke my rule when Russell was a rookie, because I thought he might not understand my reasons for not going. I couldn't speak for the writer, the fans, or the city, but as far as the Celtics were concerned, he was one of us and we were damn glad he was on our side.
If the whole city had made him feel that way, it wouldn't have made him a better player. hey, he was going to be great, no matter what, because he had a champion's heart, a champion's desier. But would it have had a warming effect on his personality? I think the answer's yes. But we'll never know.

"Have you ever seen our team play? Then you know we expect certain things from our guys. We've won championships, and we hope to win a lot more, but to be a champion you have got to act like a champion, on and off the court. You've got to have a certain feeling about yourself and about the team, and you've got to be willing to pay the price.
"We're smart enough to know when you're loafing, when you're giving us false hustle, and if we ever see that we'll get rid of you because we won't have the room or time to go into the whys and wherefores.
"But if you have the desire, and if you show the proper attitude, you'll find all kinds of help here, not only from the coaches and me, but from all of your teammates as well. Because they want to win, and if they can help you to improve, they'll also be helping the team to improve. That's the concept we go by here. You'll be aware of it right away.
"You'll never see a player on the Celtics bawling out a teammate. You'll never see a Celtic throwing a towel or jacket in disgust when he is taken out of a game. That crap is selfishness and we don't buy it here. The name of our game is unity.
"If you start with us and do your job, you more than likely will finish with us. We've had more players start and finish with us than the rest of the league combined. We've helped our guys get jobs when their playing days were over. We've helped them not to squander their money. When you leave here, you're prepared to face the future.
"Now if we're willing to take this kind of interest in you, what are you going to do? Go out there and go through the motions? Rely solely on your natural abilities, rather than going out there and working like a dog? Or are you going to make it your business to become a Celtic? That's what we want. We want you to become a Celtic."
Charlie Scott became a Celtic. A lot of people thought he never would, but I wasn't one of them. He'd been a big scorer most of his career, a one on one guy, and some folks wondered if he could fit into the Celtics' style of play when he came to us in 1975. He was almost 28 then. Let me tell you a story about Charlie.
In the fifth game of our championship series with Phoenix that year - Charlie was called out on fouls, some of which were really questionable. We won that night, but as soon as I walked into our locker room, before the press arrived, Tommy Heinsohn pulled me aside. "Will you talk to Charlie?" he said. "He's ready to explode."
And he was. They'd given the kid six fouls and a technical, and he was so upset he was shaking.
I grabbed him by both arms. "Charlie," I said, softly. "You've had a great year. You've done everything we've asked you to do, but now you're ready to blow your stack..."
He started to interrupt me. I squeezed his arms tighter. "Listen. Let me tell you something. I was worse than you are now, on many occasions, but I didn't have someone to grab me and stop me like I'm doing to you. And so I did a lot of crazy things. But I'm stopping you now. I want you to show me what you're made of. I want you to grit your teeth, take a quick shower, then get the hell out of here without saying a word to anyone. Just dress and go. Quickly."
I dropped his arms. He looked at me for a minute, then went straight to the shower roo, came out a minute later, jumped into his clothes and left. He never said a word.
In the next game he scored 25 points, played fabulously, and we won the championship. As soon as the final horn sounded he came running to me, tossed his arms around me and gave me a kiss. He knew what it was all about and so did I. The rest of the players knew, too, although nobody else did.
In my eyes and in the eyes of his teammates, Charlie had disciplined himself for the good of the ballclub, and now he'd just helped us win the biggest game of the year. Each one of us had total respect for what he had done. He'd come to Boston with a bad rap, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind now.
Charlie Scott had handled himself like a man. He'd become a Celtic.
Oh, I know some people think that's a lot of bull. That's what Paul Silas though, too, when he came to us in 1972. But the next year, in the spring of
74, we won it all. Wayne Embry, one of our old buys from the end of the Russell era, was GM of the Bucks that season. It was us against Milwaukee in the final round, and now it had all come down to Game 7 on a Sunday afternoon out there.
Here's what Embry told a reporter after it was all over, "I felt then, and I still feel now, that we had the better ballclub. And I know our guys have just as much pride as the Boston guys do. I felt we were going to win - and yet, as I sat in my office that mornning, I just couldn't relax. I kept saying to myself: If we were playing anybody else but the Celtics... If it had been any other team I'd have been down there taking ring sizes! But I knew the character of John Havlicek and those guys. I knew if they were down by 20 points with 3 minutes left, they'd never give up. There's a lot if the old Celtics in them. Whatever that intangible is, it must be inherent."
Later, after we'd won, I was standing in our locker room when Silas walked over and put his arm around me.
"Red," he said, "I want to tell you something. When I first got here I thought all that stuff about tradition and so on was a lot of BS. But I know better now. It's real all right, and I'm awfully proud to be a part of it." It was real. And it's still real today.

Parker is getting closer to her rookie year form – she was the WNBA’s MVP and ROY, an unprecedented double-double in the league – after missing training camp and the first month of this season for the birth of her daughter.

“I know I’ve made a conscious effort of rebounding the basketball,” Parker said. “I felt like that was the only thing I could do at a certain point in time before my game started coming back, was to rebound, so it’s just kind of carried over. I’ve had to become a more fundamental player. I’m used to using my athleticism. I’ve had to make a conscious effort to be fundamental – blocking out, things like that.

“Definitely not 100 percent; I’m getting there,” Parker added. “Every game is about taking a step forward and I feel like I’m doing that. I’m about 80 to 85 percent right now. Come playoffs, it will be 100 percent.”

“I’m excited and happy for her,” Bobbitt said. “She is doing a great job. I expected her to get back quicker because she’s an athlete.”

Lailaa had a front row seat beside the Sparks bench on the lap of Williams, who made sure she had a bottle and a pacifier when need be. Parker likes the world her daughter will grow up in – mama on the court while daddy sits on the sideline, but it will be reversed when Williams joins the Boston Celtics for the NBA season.

“I’m liking it now,” Parker said. “Come his season, I will be doing the same. I’m excited. It’s so special to look over and see my little girl, and she really watches the game. She sees me and she’s smiling.”

Williams was one of several NBA players in attendance at the game. The others were Joe Johnson, Theo Ratliff, Joe Smith, Josh Smith and Lorenzen Wright.

We won world championships in each of my last eight years on the bench. That meant there was always the obvious threat of overconfidence. So I had a standard speech I gave on opening day of training camp that went like this: "Gentlemen, you are the world champions. You've gone around all summer with your chests sticking out. You've heard all of the accolades. You've had a hell of a time. But now, unfortunately, everyone's going to be out to knock your jocks off. They're all going to be out to get you. Now if you want to let them get you, just try living off last year's reputation. I'm not asking you guys, 'What have you done for me lately?' It's not my club. It's your club. You are the champions. You have to decide how much that means to you and how much you're willing to play to go on being the champions. Because if that's what you want to do, if you want to keep this title and the good feeling that goes with it, you're going to have to go out there and meet all these challengers head on and tell them: 'You're damn right we're the champions, and if you want this title you're going to have to take it away from us!'"
That was my opening salute, so to speak. Then I'd ask them to run their asses off, reminding them all the while: "Is this the year we get lazy? Is this the year we get soft? Is this the year we stop paying the price?"
One way you can motivate a guy is by reminding him you have the power to ship him to a lousy organization, a place where he'll be treated as a chattel rather than being treated with respect, a place where there's no pride or feeling of belonging.
Sometimes, in a kidding sense, yet intending to make a point, I'd walk by someone like Jim Loscutoff and whisper: "Keep it up Loscy, and you'll be playing in Minneapolis. It gets pretty cold there I'm told."
But let's say you're the coach of a crappy organization - maybe that was the only job you could find - and most of your players have long term contracts. Now what do you do? How do you motivate in a situation like that?
I'll admit it's easy. But there are ways. You could always eat a guy's contract and toss him out. First, however, you want to take him aside and talk with him.
Your conversation might go like this: "Look, if you have no price and no feeling of accomplishment, other than the amount of money you're earning right now, you're making a serious mistake. If this is how you're gong to approach it, what do you think's going to happen once the contract expires and you've blown the dough? I'll tell you what's going to happen. Your career's going to be shot. We'll never give you another contract, and if we let you go everyone else is going to know that there's something wrong with you, regardless of your abilities. The word will go out that you're a troublemaker, bad for a ballclub's chemisty. You don't want that and I don't want to do it to you.
"So, look, all I'm asking from you is that you give me your best effort for 82 games. That's all. Be dedicated enough to give me whatever you have. I understand there'll be times when you'll go up for a rebound and the ball will bounce over your hands. I know there'll be nights when you'll shoot the ball and it won't drop into the hold. I realize these things happen. But I also know that if you hustle and you're motivated and you play the strong D, we'll have a shot at winning that game. Everything else will fall into place. All you have to do is give me that honest effort.
"So that's what I'm asking of you now. Give me that kind of dedication. If you can't or won't, I don't give a damn if we're the worst team in basketball; I'll eat that contract, or I'll get rid of you, providing I can find someone dumb enough to take you off my hands!"
There are times, unfortunately, when you just have to give up on a player. We went through a tough period back in '77 and '78 with guys like Sidney Wicks and Curtis Rowe. They wouldn't have lasted a week with me. Tommy Heinsohn was coaching for us then and he did his best to reach them, but it was no use; they didn't care. So we let them go. Their attitudes were ruining the morale of the team. Wicks ended up playing a few more years with San Diego, but never amounted to anything, And Rowe never played again at all, even though he was only 29 when we dumped him. Some guys just aren't worth the trouble.
One of the first agents I ever had to deal with came into my office one day with his client. This kid wasn't even a high draft choice, yet the agent started right in telling me how this guy was going to help us win another championship. I didn't say anything. I just sat back and let him do all the talking. Then he got down to the nitty gritty. They wanted so many extra dollars if the kid scored X number of points, and so many extra dollars if we won X number of games.
That was enough for me. "Just a minute, Buster," I said. "If making our ballclub isn't enough incentive for this kid, I don't want him. Now get the hell out of here."
They got up and left, and the next day they signed with another team. That was okay with me. If that was his attitude, he wasn't our kind of kid. Motivation has to start with the right kind of attitude.