Just four months before the season took an unexpected turn into turmoil, the broader Boston Celtics organization came together in a theater to mark yet another championship victory. I attended, checking in at a small table before entering, just a few blocks from the historic church where Bob Cousy delivered John Havlicek`s eulogy, and near the upscale hotel where Red Auerbach resided for years. Having spent months delving into the rich history of Boston basketball that permeates the city, I recognized the profound significance of the living individuals who had not only witnessed but, in some instances, shaped that history. This evening`s event was a gathering of these key figures and esteemed elders. A palpable, old magic seemed to fill the room. Bill Russell`s daughter, Karen, carried herself with regal grace as she conversed with the Boston press corps. Jayson Tatum and Jaylen Brown were central figures, surrounded by admirers. Jackie MacMullan introduced me to Celtics guard Jrue Holiday. Dan Shaughnessy and his wife mingled near the bar, while 1981 Finals MVP Cedric Maxwell settled comfortably into a small bistro table. “The deep bond here is family,” stated Randy Auerbach, Red Auerbach’s youngest daughter. “It feels ingrained in our very DNA.”
The gathering on this snowy Friday evening was for the premiere of Bill Simmons` HBO documentary series, `Celtics City,` which narrates Boston`s story through its basketball team. Sam Cassell, who earned a championship ring as a backup guard in 2008 and another recently as an assistant coach, warmly greeted players and staff from different generations.
“This is more than just a job; it`s a lifestyle!” he remarked later. “Being a Celtic defines who you are!”
The 2024 Larry O’Brien Trophy, gleaming brightly, stood prominently on a pedestal at the heart of the celebration. Nobody, regardless of status, was immune to the moment`s allure; even owner Wyc Grousbeck paused to take a photograph. The event celebrated the glory of the previous season, even as the current team focused intently on achieving a second consecutive title. Jayson Tatum embodies the central paradox of being a core Celtic: he must respect and draw strength from the glorious past, while remaining entirely focused on forging the future. Professional athletes like Tatum strive to revolutionize the present, aiming to create a future so bright that their names become immortal. However, athletes pursuing this ambition in Boston face a complex challenge. Tradition offers vitality and identity, but it also brings significant burdens. When Bob Cousy retired, Bill Russell famously declared that Cousy`s memory was now their primary opponent, as formidable as the Lakers themselves, and he spoke with absolute seriousness.
When Wyc Grousbeck purchased the Celtics in 2002, he found the organizational subculture fractured by Rick Pitino, who had demoted Red Auerbach from his role as team president. One of Grousbeck`s first actions was to take a private jet to D.C., where Auerbach was living, specifically to bring him back as team president. For over two decades, Grousbeck managed the franchise guided by a simple principle: What would Red do? He successfully shaped the team`s path forward, securing two championships, by drawing inspiration from the past. This era appeared to be nearing its end this season. His father, at 89 years old, a pioneer in the field of private equity, reportedly needed to sell the team, which was Grousbeck’s great source of pride, for estate planning reasons. A sense of uncertainty permeated the air, mingling with the celebratory mood, as the focus shifted from the triumphs of last season to the pursuit of success this season. The feeling of shifting ground was palpable as the first game approached. New ownership was imminent. Furthermore, due to the NBA’s recent collective bargaining agreement, designed to prevent the formation of dynasties, the window for the current team, which had reached the Finals twice and won one, was closing. In the theater foyer, Grousbeck noticed an older gentleman near the trophy and approached him to pay his respects. It was Mal Graham, a retired state judge who, in an earlier chapter of his life, had won two championships with the Celtics. Grousbeck and Graham shared a laugh, comparing the size and style of their championship rings. Grousbeck`s ring was from 2024, Graham`s from 1969. They touched their rings together, a gesture symbolizing a merging of eras, like superheroes uniting.
“The last back-to-back,” someone standing nearby quietly remarked to me. This comment was surprising. The Celtics, a franchise whose very identity is built upon the concept of an enduring dynasty, have not won consecutive titles since 1969, which was Bill Russell`s final season. Nine different teams have achieved repeat championships since the Celtics` last back-to-back title run 56 years ago: the Lakers, the Pistons, the Bulls (twice, including two three-peats), the Rockets, the Lakers again (with a three-peat), then the Lakers with two more, followed by the Heat, and most recently, the Warriors. Winning multiple titles consecutively is considered fundamental to the Celtics` historical narrative, yet prominent figures like Larry Bird and Kevin McHale attempted and failed. Jo Jo White and John Havlicek pursued it without success. Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce also fell short.
The 2024-25 season was anticipated to be Jayson Tatum`s opportunity to achieve this milestone.
ONLY TWO MEN from that original era remain.
Bob Cousy, aged 96, and Satch Sanders, 86, are the last survivors of a once-dominant basketball civilization, the foundational figures of the Celtics` enduring culture. While they aren`t the only two surviving teammates of Bill Russell – two-time champion Bailey Howell, now 88, resides just two hours southeast of me in Mississippi – they hold a more significant status in Boston: they are the icons of the dynasty, the men with the rings. Cousy holds six. Sanders possesses eight. John Havlicek, Tommy Heinsohn, and K.C. Jones also earned eight apiece (K.C. added two more as a coach in the 1980s). Sam Jones collected 10. And, of course, Bill Russell amassed an unparalleled 11. Their jersey numbers hang retired in the rafters. Their photographs adorn the walls of every classic Boston bar. Their influence is a tangible presence felt throughout TD Garden and within the team itself. Fans continue to wear their jerseys with pride. Their names are invoked regularly, almost like sacred texts or liturgy.
“Fortunately, we still have Satch and Bob with us,” Brad Stevens, the Celtics` president of basketball operations, shared with me.
Randy Auerbach refers to him simply as “Cooz.”
“Every time Bob Cousy calls, I make sure to answer immediately,” said longtime Celtics PR man Jeff Twiss.
“I genuinely tried to channel the spirits of Red, Bob, and Bill Russell when making decisions,” Grousbeck reflected last year.
“I knew John Havlicek as well as anyone,” recalled Joe Kennedy, son of RFK and nephew of JFK, when we discussed the Celtics for this story.
“I worked alongside Satch at the NBA,” mentioned Chris Havlicek. “And I`ve known Mr. Cousy since the day I was born.”
Cousy typically only ventures out for his customary Thursday evening cocktail and pizza gathering at his country club. “I enjoy my two Beefeater on the rocks,” he commented with a chuckle.
He and Sanders speak about once each month.
“Satch has been going through a difficult time,” Cousy said, his voice filled with warmth and concern. “His wife has been in hospice for over a month, maybe a month and a half now. Ginnie is likely nearing the end of her life. I haven`t spoken to him in a few weeks. I try to remind him not to dwell on the past. We`re literally the only two guys left from that core group!”
Mostly, as is evident, their conversations often involve joking about mortality, using a form of gallows humor. Cousy often references a hypothetical basketball court in the afterlife. While respectful, the awareness of their impending mortality is ever-present. Marcus Thompson II, in his 2021 book analyzing the NBA`s greatest dynasties, astutely noted the coming period of significant passings. “What was clear then,” he wrote, “was that the grains of sand in their respective hourglasses were rapidly dwindling.”
“You`re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Satch told his friend last year. “You`re only 95.”
“But now I`m in a wheelchair,” Cousy responded.
“Cooz, that`s just part of getting older.”
SATCH SANDERS GREETS me in the foyer of his retirement community, where he mentions he is the sole Black resident among 300, and the only former Boston Celtic. The staff there are exceptionally attentive to him. We pass a billiards table as he guides me towards his apartment.
“My wife passed away just two months ago,” he reveals.
“I am truly sorry to hear that, sir,” I reply.
He offers a reflective smile.
“We all eventually join that group,” he remarks, “especially in a place like this.”
When a resident dies, their photograph is placed on display in a room down the corridor with blue walls. Four new pictures have been added this week alone.
“The men always joke about ending up with a picture in the blue room,” he explains. “The women tend to react a bit more seriously. We`ve lived here for five years. That`s a considerable length of time. I see some new people moving in and find myself wondering, how long will they be here?”
He leads me along a lengthy hallway, then we turn right and continue walking until we reach his entrance. African masks hang on the wall. His wife had emphasized the importance of bringing items they cherished as they reduced their living space. She had hung a sign that read, `Two old crabs live here.`
“It`s time to take that down,” he says quietly.
He chose not to attend his wife`s funeral. He also didn`t attend Bill Russell`s funeral.
“Funerals are always…” he trails off.
Years ago, he stopped going to them. He is a man whose life has been analyzed and described by people he`s never met, so he finds little meaning in formal eulogies. He doesn`t wish to hear well-meaning individuals suggest his friend is in a better place or comment that his wife looked serene in her open casket.
“She looked better when she was alive,” he states plainly.
“Being alive is what truly matters,” he emphasizes.
“Being dead… is… gone.”
“It`s just being gone.”
His apartment is filled with natural light. He raises the blinds to look out at the residential cottages. Gin, his wife, always used to say the small houses resembled postcards in the winter, dusted with snow on their gables. A framed section of the old Boston Garden parquet floor hangs on the wall. His wife`s medical documents are stacked on the table, a leaning tower of paperwork, of little use now. A red 3-pound weight and a black 5-pound weight rest beside his chair.
“Just push some pillows out of your way,” he instructs me, shrugging slightly.
These pillows are his current hobby projects. He makes them for other people.
“Something to occupy my time, you know?” he says, laughing softly at himself.
I inquire about the recent passings among his former basketball family members.
“I stopped answering calls that begin with, `Did you know…?` Because `Did you know` is invariably followed by, `He died.`”
He sighs twice, deeply.
“Did any particular deaths affect you more deeply?” I ask.
“Chamberlain,” he replies instantly. “We always perceived him as so immense, so incredibly strong.”
“What about Bill Russell?”
Sanders shakes his head slowly.
“Russell,” he says, “was human.”
AFTER SPENDING nearly a year observing the Celtics` quest to repeat as champions, I traveled to Boston during what might have been the final days of a season that had unfolded unexpectedly. Some seasons build momentum, others cling to what they have, and some witness things slipping away. This year, the Celtics seemed to experience all three simultaneously, and the end felt near. In the preceding week, they had squandered three significant double-digit leads (20, 20, and 14 points) to fall behind 1-3 against the surging Knicks. In the closing moments of the last of those losses, Jayson Tatum had suffered a deeply concerning injury to his right Achilles. The season and the goal of repeating, though technically still possible, felt secondary as Boston awaited news on Tatum`s medical status. On the flight, I exchanged texts with Karen Russell, Bill`s daughter, whom I had first met at the HBO party. We shared pleasantries about how she enjoys visiting K.C. Jones` daughter in Atlanta to enjoy authentic southern soul food.
We then discussed Tatum`s injury. If it were an Achilles rupture, he would likely miss the entirety of the following season. Karen and her brother had attended a baseball game that evening with their family friend Lenny Wilkens and didn`t hear the news until returning home. Karen, who has a naturally nurturing disposition, tried to avoid worrying excessively until an official diagnosis was confirmed.
“I`m finding it hard not to feel anxious,” she admitted to me.
An air of melancholic uncertainty hung over the franchise. How long would Tatum be sidelined? Would he ever fully regain his previous form? When would the sale of the team be finalized? New owners would undoubtedly want to implement their vision for the team. And because of the new collective bargaining agreement, a metaphorical clock had been ticking for a year on the current team`s window for success. It felt somewhat like a doomsday countdown, and when Tatum collapsed on the court at Madison Square Garden, the minute hand seemed to leap towards midnight. Simultaneously, with Cousy at 96 and Sanders at 86, the living link connecting the current uncertainty to the glorious past has never been more fragile or at risk.
The following morning, with eight long hours until Game 5, I went to see one-fourth of an old Boston artifact, saved from destruction by Ted Tye, a Celtics season-ticket holder and successful businessman. It`s a section of the scoreboard that hung in the Boston Garden during the final two Bill Russell championship runs, the last back-to-back titles. After the Garden was demolished, the scoreboard remained for years in a suburban mall`s food court, gradually becoming part of the familiar backdrop amidst pizza slices and burgers. When that mall was eventually torn down, a foreman overseeing the demolition contacted Tye in a state of panic.
“We`re about to destroy the scoreboard,” he urgently told him.
“Just stop everything,” Tye immediately responded.
Tye collects historical Boston memorabilia, so he arranged for the scoreboard to be dismantled, loaded onto a flatbed truck, and transported to an empty warehouse he controlled. It remained there for years, stripped of its complex, outdated electrical systems, essentially an empty shell. Eventually, he installed one side of the sign in a new building located on the site of the former Boston Herald offices, making it visible to cars on the adjacent elevated freeway. The original lightbulbs were no longer functional, so Tye replaced them with new electronic panels that display the month, date, and time: May 14, 11:29 a.m. This very scoreboard, originally installed in 1967, was hanging overhead the last time Tye saw his father alive. It was at a Celtics game in the Garden in 1989; while watching the recent HBO documentary, Tye spotted a familiar face and paused the screen, finding himself sitting directly behind Red Auerbach, with his late father beside him. The Celtics are woven into many aspects of his life, and like most people I encountered in the city, Tye was eager to discuss Tatum`s injury, to lament the potential setback for a star player and the team he leads.
“That`s a terrible injury,” he commented to me. “You wonder if Brad Stevens might consider rebuilding the team now.”
THE SECOND QUARTER of the season narrative unfolds here, moving past the initial scene setting.
ON OCTOBER 22, 2024, the Boston Celtics presented the players with their championship rings and unveiled the franchise`s 18th banner. It was the opening game of the season, marked by unseasonably warm weather in the city. Wispy cirrus clouds and haze softened the blue sky. Bob Cousy arrived several hours early, transported by a car sent by the team. VIP guests gathered in a tent in the parking area, where the Governor of Massachusetts, who had worn Cousy`s No. 14 from junior high through college, expressed her pride and that of the state for his accomplishments. The arena began to fill with spectators, and the VIP tent gradually emptied. Cousy waited in the tunnel in a wheelchair. Jeff Twiss, the veteran Celtics PR staffer, wheeled him out onto the court when given the signal by an event staffer. Cousy looked up at him with a smile.
“Don`t mess this up,” he quipped.
Former champions were introduced onto the court one by one, each announced with the reverence typically reserved for royalty.
“A six-time NBA champion, wearing number 14, Bob Cousy!”
Twiss expertly guided Cousy to center court, navigating through a large assembly of fans and distinguished guests, and Bob waved to the cheering crowd. He is the only living player who witnessed the raising of both the very first and the most recent Celtics championship banners. Dan Shaughnessy noted in the following morning`s Boston Globe: “Cousy played with John Havlicek, who played with Cedric Maxwell, who played with Kevin McHale, who played with Rick Fox, who played with Antoine Walker, who played with Paul Pierce, who played with Avery Bradley, who played with Jaylen Brown.” This highlighted the incredible generational link.
Cedric Maxwell followed Cousy, representing two of the three titles from the 1980s. Then came three key members of the 2008 championship team, the most recent champions before 2024: “Number 20” Ray Allen, “Number 5” Kevin Garnett, and “holding the 2024 Larry O’Brien Trophy, The Truth, Number 34, Paul Pierce!”
Pierce proudly spun the trophy for everyone to see. KG pounded his chest, partially obscured by dark sunglasses. They gathered as NBA Commissioner Adam Silver presented the championship rings. Jaylen Brown rested his left arm lightly on Bob Cousy`s wheelchair. Jayson Tatum stood on Cousy`s other side, his arm around Ray Allen. Silver announced that this latest title placed the Celtics ahead of the Lakers once more as the franchise with the most championships in league history, 18 to 17, prompting Kevin Garnett to clap loudly enough for his reaction to be clearly picked up by Silver`s microphone.
“Eighteen banners,” Silver declared, looking up towards the rafters, then glancing over at Bob, before continuing, “And of course, six of those magnificent rings belong to Bob Cousy!”
The crowd responded with a booming chant of COOZ, a deep sound that might be mistaken for boos by someone unfamiliar with the tradition. The ceremony concluded, and Twiss wheeled Cousy back beneath the arena stands. Bob then slipped into a waiting car, heading home to watch the game on television.
As the car navigated the city streets, the world outside the arena felt somewhat unfamiliar to him. Where exactly was the old Boston Garden located? Was it right here? Perhaps a block away? Cousy gazed out the window, leaving behind the resounding cheers of the crowd.
“I`ve certainly had my moment in the spotlight,” he reflected.
SATCH IS SHARING an anecdote about Cousy and the future British king. A few years prior, Prince William and Kate visited Boston and planned to attend a Celtics game. The team wanted to extend the highest possible respect to their guests, specifically requesting Bob Cousy to make the 47-mile trip from his home to the Garden.
Cousy telephoned Satch.
“Are you planning to go?” he inquired.
“I am not attending,” Satch replied.
“Well, in that case, I`m not going either,” Cousy declared.
The team staff intervened, applying gentle pressure on Sanders.
“You`re the younger of the two,” they pointed out.
“So, I ended up going,” he tells me, a slight smile playing on his lips.
“Did Cooz go?” I asked.
Satch laughs heartily.
“No, he absolutely did not go.”
Satch attended and spoke with the royals, who seemed particularly intrigued by his size 18 shoes.
“My GOODNESS!” he exclaims, imitating what he recalls as their surprised British accent.
He shifts in his seat, moving with deliberate slowness. I ask him about the experience of aging. He smiles in a way that is unexpectedly poignant.
“How old are you?” he asks in return.
“Forty-eight,” I reply. “What do you wish someone had told you when you were 48?”
“Being completely honest, this is likely the peak condition you`ll be in,” he says. “Things aren`t going to improve physically. You are, slowly but surely, deteriorating. The hope is that you`ll have a fair amount of time remaining and feel reasonably well, but the probabilities are not in your favor. You`re likely to experience the ailments common among older individuals. Legs won`t work like they used to. Sleep becomes elusive. Friends and loved ones pass away.”
He was born in 1938.
His father was born in 1905.
“Understand that it`s a situation of diminishing returns. You`re not going to get better with age, like fine wine. People often use those old clichés.”
His maternal grandfather was born in 1870.
“Getting older essentially means losing… becoming less than you were.”
His maternal great-grandfather, James, was born into slavery without a surname in 1830.
“Less than you were,” he repeats. “Do you understand?”
Numerous photographs adorn the walls, including one he particularly cherishes showing Wilt Chamberlain in the process of powerfully dunking over him. There`s another where he`s captured in a confident, striding posture reminiscent of Magic Johnson, bringing the ball upcourt. His eyes in the photo seem to search for teammates, likely Russell, and Sanders wears a smile.
“What remains of that person today?” I inquire, gesturing towards the picture.
He slowly walks over to examine it. His knees audibly crackle like a bowl of Rice Krispies. A small grin crosses his face as he recalls the moment.
“That fellow,” he says with a soft laugh.
The photograph hangs near tall wooden elephant figurines and a beloved cat statue belonging to his wife. The first thing he notices in the picture is how genuinely happy he looks. He laughs again, realizing that his dribbling style in that moment wasn`t exactly part of the team`s planned offensive strategy.
“Auerbach is probably on the sideline feeling frustrated,” he speculates.
In the photo, he has a thigh brace on, the referee appears to be Willie Smith, and he believes the defender is Wayne Hightower.
“But regardless,” he adds, “I know Auerbach is likely wishing I would pass the ball.”
Sanders looks back at me.
“But I could handle the ball, you know,” he insists with a twinkle in his eye.
Soon, he will be moving out of this apartment into a smaller one.
“It`s more affordable,” he explains.
There is a long pause in the conversation.
“And, well,” he says, pausing again.
“If I remain here, I find myself constantly thinking about her.”
Each month, he contributes a column to the community newsletter, titled `Satch`s Corner`. They are quite humorous. Writing has become his primary pastime now, along with making pillows and watching the Celtics play on television. All his former neighbors bring their grandchildren and great-grandchildren to meet the only local celebrity in the complex.
“You`re that famous basketball player,” they often say, and as he recounts this, he points to the photograph hanging on the opposite wall. It seems nobody wants to know the 86-year-old man standing before them; they want to connect with the legendary figure depicted in the picture on the wall.
BILL RUSSELL AND K.C. Jones were college roommates and maintained a close friendship throughout their lives. Satch Sanders discovered that Cousy would curse you out vehemently in French if you failed to catch one of his passes. Tommy Heinsohn learned that Cousy often woke up in the middle of the night experiencing chronic nightmares, sometimes screaming in distress. Several of them, including Cousy, discreetly took matchbooks bearing the presidential seal during a visit to the White House. President Kennedy, hearing his hometown team was in the building, eagerly rushed to meet them, and one by one, the players said their goodbyes. Satch Sanders, feeling flustered, became nervous as he approached the President and blurted out, “Take it easy, baby.” Kennedy roared with laughter, as did the Celtics players, and they continued to tease Satch about the incident for the rest of his life.
They would play cards, like gin rummy or hearts, on the back of the old turboprop planes they traveled in, often Russell, Heinsohn, and Cousy. During a goodwill tour behind the Iron Curtain, the entire team convinced two Polish coaches to dress up as secret police, complete with fake badges, and pretend to arrest Heinsohn, who was completely fooled and chain-smoked cigarettes nervously until Cousy and Auerbach burst in, laughing at the prank.
Russell once walked into the locker room dramatically wearing a cape.
“Here comes Batman!” Cousy jokingly remarked.
Few sports teams have been as extensively documented as the Celtics of the 1950s and 60s. Gary Pomerantz`s book focusing on Cousy and Russell, `The Last Pass,` stands out as a definitive work. Bill Russell authored three different memoirs, published in 1965, 1979, and 2009. These books, along with numerous others written about and by individuals on those teams, paint a detailed picture of an era, a place, and a profound brotherhood that endured long after their playing careers ended. They didn`t always like each other in every moment, but a deep love and respect bound them together.
Their lives were intricately intertwined.
Sam Jones put considerable effort into charming Bill Russell`s son, Buddha, convincing him that Sam was his favorite basketball player. Russell loved lifting one of Cousy`s daughters high into the air, exclaiming with joy, “Hey, little Cooz!” Sanders frequently lost his contact lenses, and on one occasion, a game was actually paused as ten players crawled around the court searching for the missing lens. Bill Russell, in classic fashion, was the one who ultimately found it.
“Here you go, Satch,” he announced triumphantly. “Do I really have to do absolutely everything on this team?”
Heinsohn often served as a unifying force for the team. He would sit with radio announcer Johnny Most in late-night hotel lobbies, listening to Most`s vivid stories about serving as a gunner on a B-24 during World War II. Heinsohn was widely respected. One year, during the Finals, he had a memorable confrontation with Wilt Chamberlain.
“Do that again, and I`ll knock you flat on your back,” Wilt growled menacingly.
Heinsohn didn`t back down.
“Go ahead,” he retorted. “Bring your f—– lunch.”
K.C. Jones would sing enthusiastically whenever the opportunity arose. Satch was skilled at imitating Russell. Russell often received playful teasing for getting his distinctive, low-slung Lamborghini stuck in the snow. One evening, Cousy and Heinsohn found themselves sitting at the bar of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel with the legendary actress Lauren Bacall. Tall, even in bare feet, she wore a perfume that smelled of roses and blackcurrants. Bob had his gym bag with him. Lauren playfully snatched it, triumphantly pulled out a jockstrap, and flung it across the bar at him. He deftly dodged the smelly projectile and tossed it back.
On road trips, due to his seniority and star status, Cousy typically received a large suite to himself. His hotel rooms often became his entire world. Meanwhile, Heinsohn enjoyed looking out his hotel window and painting, mostly watercolors. This was a team comprised of remarkably interesting, unique individuals. Russell was an avid reader. The book that affected him most deeply was a biography of Henri Christophe, the complex Haitian revolutionary leader who built a fortress to defend Black people from their enslavers. That fort still stands today, a rare monument in the Western Hemisphere constructed by a Black man. That specific fact, and particularly that powerful phrase – `A Black man` – resonated deeply with Russell.
Cousy also devoured books, reading histories, novels, and memoirs. Theodore H. White`s `The Making of the President 1960` and Harper Lee`s `To Kill a Mockingbird` particularly moved him. Sometimes, Heinsohn could persuade Bob to join him for a beer or two. Like Russell, Cousy was a complex, intensely private man, carrying deep emotional scars from his impoverished and sometimes violent upbringing. He would often murmur to himself in French throughout the night, his subconscious seemingly never at peace.
“In his later years, as the pressure intensified, Cousy went through the kind of torment that perhaps only a superstar can truly understand,” Russell wrote. “The reality for a superstar includes lonely nights, dismal hotel rooms, and disturbing nightmares. There is the story Cousy tells about his nightmares and sleepwalking becoming so severe that he eventually had to tie himself to his bed to prevent himself from getting up. Cousy`s nightmares were so terrifying that he once got out of bed completely naked and ended up running through trees as he fled his frightening dream – and this occurred during the offseason, when he wasn`t even playing.”
EVERYTHING ON THE court for those Celtics teams centered around Bill Russell. Most NBA players caught in a defensive trap would yell for help. Russell`s Celtics would simply shout “RUSS!” Every offensive play typically began with a pass entry to Russ. However, off the court and in the public eye, much of the acclaim and credit often went to the more flamboyant and famous Bob Cousy.
Reporters and fans attributed Celtic victories primarily to Cousy – his brilliance, his talent, his leadership. For years, the press attempted to elicit negative or critical comments from him about Russell, but he consistently refused. To a significant portion of the public, a white star in Boston was perceived as the central figure, with the Black star revolving around him. Reporters wrote effusively about Cousy, crowding him in the locker room, and this disparity was painful for Russell.
He never forgot an incident in college when, after leading his team to one of their two national championships during a 55-game winning streak, a white player was named the Most Valuable Player in Northern California instead of him. Forty years later, simply mentioning the name Ken Sears could still provoke a strong reaction from him. Consequently, he resented the way Cousy was celebrated, even though he fully recognized Cousy`s greatness as a player.
Russell wrote: “I would frequently experience situations like this: You`ve just blocked fourteen shots, scored twenty-three points, and grabbed thirty-one rebounds against a player like Chamberlain, and the Celtics have just taken a one-game lead in the Eastern finals, and you emerge from the dressing room only for someone to say: `Allow me to shake your hand. I`ve just shaken the hand of the greatest basketball player in the world, Bob Cousy. Now, I would like to shake the hand of the second greatest.`”
In the first season Russell played without Cousy, the Celtics` attendance dropped by 1,500 fans per game, illustrating Cousy`s significant popularity.
As teammates, the two men frequently discussed basketball but rarely delved into anything deeper. Cousy would read the news and see everything Russell said about racism in Boston and across America, but he wouldn`t initiate a conversation about it with him directly.
“He went his way, and I went mine,” Russell wrote, describing the emotional distance.
Pomerantz noted that Bob Cousy was simply too preoccupied with being “Bob Cousy” – managing his own fame and life – to take on the emotional weight of Russell`s experiences with American racism. If Russell struggled to have anything beyond surface-level conversations with Cousy, Cousy also lacked the ability or inclination to go deeper. Both would later acknowledge feeling terribly lonely despite their proximity. They spent thousands of days side by side but never truly understood each other on a profound level.
Pomerantz compared their dynamic to that of baseball legends Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.
“The challenge was,” he explained, “that they both fundamentally wished they were Babe Ruth – the undisputed, universally celebrated star.”
THE END OF his playing career arrived for Cousy in 1963. The team hosted a special event, Bob Cousy Day, on St. Patrick`s Day – or perhaps it was St. Cousy Day on Bob Patrick Day, a blend of myths that resonated powerfully in the Irish neighborhoods south of the Garden. Cousy arrived alone at the stadium that day, using a special passageway from his hotel to the Garden. As the hotel door locked behind him, he found the arena door unexpectedly locked as well and had to knock loudly for several minutes. A member of the cleaning staff eventually asked who was making such a commotion.
“Just one of the players,” Cousy replied.
A large stereo microphone descended from the rafters on a long black cord. A heavy wooden lectern, serving as a temporary pulpit, was positioned on the court. The Garden staff set up chairs for the Cousy family – one for his wife, Missie, and one each for his mother and father. His daughters stood beside him, as did Bob himself. Owner Walter Brown presented him with a sterling silver tea set and a new 1963 steel gray Cadillac. Red Auerbach read a letter from President John F. Kennedy, in which the president suggested that as long as basketball was played anywhere in the world, the rhythmic movement of the ball between teammates would serve as a lasting tribute to Bob Cousy. Auerbach then embraced him, and an emotional barrier within Cousy broke; he began to sob, burying his head on Red`s shoulder. The team`s founder and owner, Walter Brown, spoke next.
He reminded the crowd that the franchise was only five years old when Cousy joined.
“Things weren`t always easy for the Celtics back then,” Brown admitted. “One year, the financial situation was so dire that I couldn`t even pay the players their playoff money. Bob never complained about it.”
Brown emphasized that Cousy`s dedication, and that of his teammates, was the reason a Boston Celtics team still existed at all. He seemed to urge the fans to remember that period. There was no financial stability, and Brown had already mortgaged his home and even sold some of his furniture to keep the team afloat. Cousy`s grace, along with that of his teammates, ensured the team`s survival, safeguarding all the future eras, from Russell to Bird to Tatum.
Cousy was the last to speak, arranging his notes on the podium. His wife and two daughters joined him at center court, the girls holding bouquets of flowers. Cousy struggled to compose himself, battling tears before he even began. He looked up at the silent crowd, sniffled audibly into the microphone.
“Mere words seem so inadequate to express what I feel,” he said, his voice cracking. He stopped, looking down. His daughter also wiped away tears. The atmosphere felt solemn, almost like a Viking funeral. The crowd responded with applause as Cousy fought to regain his composure.
“I hope you will bear with me,” he said, his voice still strained.
The mayor and the governor had sent gifts, and Cousy thanked them, as well as his teammates` wives for their kindnesses towards his family. His daughter handed him a tissue. He spoke of knowing he would deeply miss the camaraderie, the brotherhood that inevitably dissolves the moment an athlete leaves a team. He broke down crying again. A heavy, emotional silence settled over the Garden.
“WE LOVE YOU, COOZ!” a fan spontaneously yelled from the stands, breaking the silence.
His younger daughter wiped her eyes. His mother, wearing a mink stole, also shed tears. Bob`s voice cracked one final time. He eventually concluded his remarks. He did not explicitly name his teammates, nor did he specifically mention Russell.
He hugged his mother, then his wife, then his two daughters, and blew a kiss to the crowd. The organist began playing the familiar opening notes of `Auld Lang Syne,` and the Garden erupted. People rose from their seats, leaning over the balconies through the haze of cigarette smoke. They cheered with intense emotion. The sound of the applause seemed to build and shift gears, a continuous roar. No one sat down. They cheered for precisely two minutes and six seconds, a duration that felt both brief and eternal.
The team gathered later that evening at the Lenox Hotel on Boylston Street.
Russell stood up to speak, loosening his tie.
“If Bob Cousy had been even this much less of a man,” he said, holding his enormous hands an inch apart to illustrate the point, “I would have resented him deeply.”
“Frankly,” he confessed, “I didn`t want to come here tonight.”
He paused, and everyone leaned in, knowing Bill Russell always spoke with absolute honesty.
“I am too proud a man to cry,” he stated, his voice thick with emotion.
Cousy was visibly stunned by the unexpected depth of Russell`s words.
“We see each other, truly, as brothers,” Russell continued. “A man like Cousy comes along not once in a month, but perhaps only once in a lifetime.”
He looked directly at Cousy, both men feeling the weight of what their relationship could have been if they had allowed themselves to be closer friends. Their wives, Missie Cousy and Rose Russell, were crying and comforted each other.
Russell then bowed his head slightly and walked away.
Later, in a private moment, he presented Cousy with a gift he had personally selected from a jewelry shop established in 1796, located directly across the street from Paul Revere`s historical silver shop. It was a handsome desk clock with bronze hour and minute hands, featuring an engraving on the back: `May The Next Seventy Be As Pleasant As The Last Seven. From The Russells To The Cousys.` It was a profound acknowledgment of their time together.
Bob and Missie placed the cherished gift on a mahogany table in their dining room, where it remains to this day. Cousy has sold off most of his other memorabilia over the years – including rings, a signed photograph from President Kennedy, and a basketball marking his 5,000th assist. Nearly everything valuable from his career.
“But not that clock,” Pomerantz confirmed.
“FOUR, THREE, TWO, one,” a coach’s voice counted during practice as Jayson Tatum navigated a double-team and the challenge of finishing a possession against the clock. He missed the shot. The coach retrieved the ball, and the drill continued, relentless.
“Seven, six, five.”
Tatum was the last player remaining on the court at the Auerbach Center. He is driven by the ambition to be the greatest player ever, a path that often leads to a life marked by immense pressure and internal struggle. Bob Cousy endured nightmares. Bill Russell described staring at hotel walls until he felt on the verge of losing his mind. Larry Bird, similarly driven, remains largely a recluse. Tatum was nearly alone in the Auerbach Center, moving from wing to wing, practicing jump shots, making some, missing others, driving towards the basket for a layup.
“Twelve, 11, 10,” the coach counted down.
Tatum dribbled at the elbow, moving smoothly, floating backwards for a fadeaway jump shot that clanged off the back of the rim. The intense energy that converged in the Garden on Bob Cousy Night still exists today, dispersed like hungry molecules eager to aggregate once more. Each legendary player carries a strand of that historical DNA, awaiting the summoning call. Bob and Russ. Heinsohn. Hondo. Satch Sanders. Sam and K.C. Jones. They paved the path Jayson Tatum now follows, moving along familiar stages of the journey. First, much like Cousy and Russell experienced, he has arrived at a moment of peaceful realization, where he truly understands his significance to this place, to the city of Boston and its people. It is a beautiful and profound milestone in the life of every Celtics great, and Tatum is experiencing it now.
But there is a second, even deeper truth awaiting only a select few, it seems. It is not so much found outwardly, but rather… inwardly. The ultimate life`s work for any true Celtics legend is the effort to understand what they meant to each other, and what they could have meant, to a teammate, or even a rival. The pursuit of greatness demands such intense, selfless focus that the traveler may only realize too late that the true meaning of the journey was the people with whom they traveled. Fellow seekers, pilgrims walking the trail blazed by Cousy and Russ.
Tatum moved along the three-point line, shifted left at the top of the key, and missed the shot again. Driving down the right baseline, he made a fadeaway. He has won one championship and is intensely striving for another. Living so radically in the present moment undoubtedly takes its toll. One day, Bob Cousy and I were talking on the phone about championship rings and the experience of winning 11 titles in 13 years. Even now, he remains focused on the ones that eluded them.
“It absolutely should have been 12,” he insisted.
Bill Russell, he explained, injured his ankle in the 1958 Finals, and they lost the series without him fully healthy. That was 67 years ago, yet in his memory, it feels like yesterday. Jayson Tatum’s sneakers echoed in the empty gym. He finished the drill and moved to the free-throw line. Jaylen Brown, according to some of the older generations, is more inclined to study and appreciate the team`s history. He is the only current Celtic player who has made a genuine effort to get to know Satch Sanders personally. Tatum, meanwhile, is intensely focused on becoming the best version of Jayson Tatum he can be.
Swish.
Swish.
Miss.
Russell 11. Sam Jones 10. Havlicek 8. Sanders 8. Cousy 6. Bird 3. Tatum 1.
Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish.
He settled himself, received the ball, dribbled, feeling the familiar texture of the leather against his hand, then his fingertips. Bill Russell lived for 88 years. For 75 of those years, he was not actively a Boston Celtic player. These playing careers, even the most legendary ones, are but a fleeting moment in a long life. Tatum exhaled slowly.
Swish.
RUSSELL PLAYED SIX more seasons after Cousy retired, and during those years, he thought extensively about the concept of “tribes.” He frequently discussed it, as it was his primary lens through which he viewed the world – small groups of people bound by shared customs, rules, and rituals. It was his fundamental source code and his guiding prism. Russell famously stated that he didn`t play for the city of Boston; he played for the Celtics. He saw his team as a sacred collective, a vehicle for exploration and a safe haven, a true home. They were not merely sportsmen or entertainers; they were warrior kings. Yes, Russell was Black, Red Auerbach was Jewish, Cousy was the son of immigrants, and Ramsey hailed from the South, but they all belonged to a tribe more powerful and defining than the ones they were born into. In essence, they had been spiritually reborn. They were Celtics.
Bill`s father, Charles Russell, enjoyed imparting wisdom and mantras to his son. A tribe, he taught, should be proud but never arrogant, powerful but never destructive. “You must recognize and accept other tribes,” he told young Bill, “And never say, `My tribe can do this, so they are superior to yours.`”
Russell faced significant mental and emotional challenges during those first seasons without Cousy. Medgar Evers was assassinated. John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Three civil rights workers were murdered in Philadelphia, Mississippi. Russell spent considerable time staring at walls, often feeling “on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” as he has stated multiple times.
Russell described professional basketball as “the most solitary life in the world. A world filled with bright lights, roaring crowds, immense wealth – and deep, profound wells of loneliness. Such an abyss. You can fall far into it and spend the rest of your life struggling to climb back out.”
Boston, the city itself, never truly felt like home to him. But the Celtics organization did, and his accomplishments with the team earned him his rightful place in the line of proud patriarchs within his family. His grandfather Jake had famously run off the Ku Klux Klan from his land, firing a shotgun as they fled. His other grandfather used his own funds to build the first school for Black children in his area. When a gas station attendant once called his father a derogatory term and threatened him, Charles Russell chased the man with a tire iron. As an old man, Bill Russell would recall that moment with immense pride. His inheritance was a powerful legacy of fierce rhetorical and spiritual resilience.
Russell drove south the year after Cousy retired. He traveled through the Jim Crow states with his children, visiting family. His son, Jacob, named after his grandfather, repeatedly asked to stop for food. In the boy`s usual world, his father was one of the most famous men in the country. But in the segregated South, he was simply perceived as Black. It was deeply distressing for Russell to have to keep gripping the steering wheel, unable to stop at many places, while his son pleaded, “Daddy, can`t we stop? Daddy, I`m hungry.”
Season after season, he led his team to victory after victory, eventually taking over as head coach when Auerbach stepped down. Russell was the first Black head coach in any of the four major American professional sports leagues. The Celtics franchise had a history of pioneering: they drafted the first Black player in NBA history, hired the first Black coach, and started the first all-Black lineup.
Russell read, studied, and actively championed the causes he believed in. Martin Luther King Jr. met with Russell while preparing his historic `I Have a Dream` speech. King invited him to sit on the stage for the speech, but Russell felt he didn`t belong there and chose to watch from the crowd. He ran a basketball camp in Mississippi named in honor of Medgar Evers after the civil rights leader`s murder. He openly supported John Carlos and Tommie Smith`s protest at the Olympics and stood by Muhammad Ali. Playing in Boston, he later stated, was a traumatic experience for him. His house was vandalized numerous times. His prospective neighbors in the suburb of Reading openly opposed his family moving in, circulating a petition against them. Rose Russell cried when she heard about it, deeply hurt.
“They simply don`t want us here,” she told Bill.
Not long after winning the third of his 11 championships, a man approached Russell while he was stopped at a traffic light behind the wheel of his new Lincoln. “Hey, n—–,” the man shouted. “How many crap games did it take you to win that car?”
For 13 seasons, he felt a sense of claustrophobia and isolation in Boston.
“As we got to know each other better,” his widow Jeannine Russell reflected, “I think the thing that I was most curious about was how he managed all of the immense pressure. He was carrying the weight of the entire city, his team, the Black community, and his own incredibly high expectations on his shoulders simultaneously.”
Finally, after the 1969 season, following two consecutive championships, Russell retired. He drove alone in his Lamborghini towards California, accelerating across the vast, flat expanse of the American West, heading back towards the concept of home – his old home in Oakland and his new one on Mercer Island near Seattle.
Decades passed. Members of the Celtics family began to pass away. Red Auerbach`s daughters, living on opposite sides of the country, divided the responsibility for attending funerals: Randy would handle those on the West Coast, and Nancy would attend those on the East Coast. Their father deeply cherished these men, who remained eternally young in the cherished memories stored in the attics of his life.
“When the phone rang and it was one of them,” Randy Auerbach recalled, “he would simply light up with joy.”
Auerbach maintained weekly lunch traditions at a Chinese restaurant in D.C. and played tennis regularly with Sam Jones, who lived nearby. However, in 2006, his health began to decline rapidly. Bill Russell flew to D.C. to say his final goodbye. Red sat in his favorite chair. They shared warm memories and conversation about the past.
“Whatever happened to that sports car you used to have?” Red asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Russell smiled, recognizing that Red was still teasing him about his Lamborghini from decades earlier.
“We are now driving a practical, slow minivan,” Russell replied.
“Has it really come to that?” Auerbach said with a laugh, one of their last shared moments of humor.
Not long after, Red Auerbach passed away. His daughters personally telephoned only two former Celtics players to deliver the news directly:
Bill Russell and Bob Cousy.