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The Dennis Johnson Interview

By: Michael D. McClellan | The player Larry Bird calls “the best teammate I’ve ever had” gets his start driving a forklift for $2.75 an hour in a tape warehouse. He arrives in Boston years later with a championship ring and a reputation as a locker room cancer, the former by virtue of one big play after another during the 1979 NBA Finals, the latter the result of a Grand Canyon-sized chip on his shoulder that comes from continually having to prove himself. He enters the league with an ugly jumper and a gift for rising to the occasion, his 0-for-14 Game 7 shooting debacle in the ’78 NBA Finals a testament to both; how many players choke so completely with everything on the line, only to come back and win the championship—and the Finals MVP Award—the very next season? He exits as one of the game’s clutch performers.

That Dennis Johnson even makes it to the NBA is equal parts miracle and mystery. It’s a ride that starts in Compton decades before gangsta rap goes from the ghetto to the mainstream, and for Johnson, the eighth of 16 children raised in a tough neighborhood, basketball time is his studio time. But to say that he “plays” prep basketball is a misnomer, because Johnson watches most games from the end of the bench at Compton’s Dominquez High School, unable to cop any meaningful minutes, his hoops portfolio noteworthy only for being cut from his seventh and eighth grade teams. He is so underwhelming that not a single college recruiter comes calling. He is also years away from the NBA, an idea so farfetched at the time that Johnson—better known as DJ—graduates from Dominguez and takes that job operating a forklift.

“I was 5–9 at the time, and I wasn’t very quick,” Johnson says. “I was the 11th man and I averaged about two minutes of playing time. I don’t think I was a bad player. There were some really good players on our varsity team. I grew three or four inches right after high school, so I guess you could say that I was a late bloomer.”

Compton isn’t the war zone that it becomes later, but it isn’t exactly the suburbs, either. Johnson is eleven when the Watts Rebellion heats up, resulting in 34 deaths and over $40 million in property damage. He stays out of trouble by playing Little League baseball. The Johnson residence is a hub of activity, kids playing sports and spinning records, the air thick with the smell of home cooking.

“My father was a cement mason and my mother was a social worker, so money was tight, especially with that many mouths to feed. Somehow my father always found a way to take us to sporting events. We’d occasionally see the Lakers play, but at that time it was mostly the Dodgers because it was cheaper and he could take advantage of the neighborhood deals on tickets. When you’re taking 10 people to a sporting event it’s important to do so in the most economical way possible, so we’d go to whatever event that offered the best deal. That way everyone could go to the game. Football, basketball, baseball, soccer, it didn’t really matter. Sometimes me and my brothers would sneak into games.”

While baseball hooks Johnson early, it’s basketball that eventually wins out.

“I was 5–4 in junior high,” Johnson says, “so baseball was a better fit for me at that time. I went out for the basketball team and was cut a couple of times, which really hurt, but I wasn’t going to give up. I never doubted myself, not even when I was sitting the bench in high school and hoping there’d be a blowout so that I could get some garbage minutes.”

Johnson gets on with his life following graduation. He has no real plan, other than hopping the bus after work to play in summer league games with his brothers. It’s then that an amazing thing happens; the once too-small high school player grows into a muscular basketball junkie with springs for legs.

“I’d considered Compton Community College after graduation, as well as a number of other schools both inside and outside of the district,” Johnson says. “Unfortunately, there weren’t any scholarship offers, so college wasn’t a realistic option. Based on my financial situation I decided to get a job instead. I worked in warehouses and drove forklifts. I knew that it wasn’t for me. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with these types of jobs. I just knew that there had to be other opportunities out there.

“My brothers were involved in a summer basketball league in San Pedro, and after work I would catch the bus and play ball with them. One of my brothers coached our team, and three of my brothers played. It was a good period in my life. My game improved tremendously. It helped that I’d grown several inches, and that I’d continued to work out and stay in shape. I was 6-foot-3 and much stronger than I was in high school.”

Johnson’s play catches the eye of Jim White, the head coach of nearby Harbor Junior College. White sees enough potential in the reddish-haired, freckle-faced Johnson to offer a scholarship.

“My brother organized a game against Harbor,” Johnson explains. “Coach White saw me play, and was impressed enough to invite me over for a tryout. The school was close to home, so it was an ideal situation. Playing in front of Coach White was one of the most important things to ever happen to me.”

Young and undisciplined, Johnson is often unable to contain his temper when exposed to White’s demanding ways. He’s kicked off of the team three times in two seasons. White never completely gives up on his rebellious guard, a fact that Johnson appreciates today.

“I was a wild stallion at the time, young and emotional and very sure of myself,” Johnson admits. “Coach White and I butted heads on occasion. After I moved into coaching I could see some of the same things with my players. I gained a new appreciation for Coach White. Being older and wiser puts things in a different perspective.”

Johnson spends two years at Harbor, winning the ’74 state JUCO title before transferring to Pepperdine, where he is coached by the classy Gary Colson.

“Coach White worked hard to get me into a Division I university. He called a friend who was an assistant coach at Pepperdine. Coach Colson had already seen me play, so I think that helped. I played one season for Pepperdine, and after talking to Colson I declared myself eligible for the 1976 draft. I was allowed to do this because, technically, my junior year at Pepperdine represented my fourth year of college had I gone there directly from high school. It’s the same junior eligible rule that the Celtics used to select Larry Bird.”

Johnson blossoms during his lone season at Pepperdine, but struggles with his shot. While an abysmal field goal percentage might be a limiting factor for other guards, Johnson’s game is about the sum of its parts. He plays hard nosed defense on one end and scraps for put-backs on the other. He sprinkles the stat sheet with a steals, blocks and rebounds. And then, just as he’s starting to turn heads, calamity strikes.

“Sometime during the Christmas season my mother phoned me with news that our house had burned down,” Johnson says. “The cause of the fire was never really determined, although it appeared to have been electrical. I briefly considered leaving college and finding a job so that I could help them get back on their feet. I discussed my options with Coach Colson, and he advised me to stay in school because there was a very real possibility that I’d be drafted. Up until then I’d never really considered playing professionally. Fortunately, my uncle was able to help out with my parent’s situation. He had two houses and offered one of them to us. Nobody likes a handout, but his generosity eased the burden on my family and allowed me to stay in school.”

The Sonics select Johnson in the second round of the 1976 NBA Draft, the 29th player chosen overall. In a twist, it’s former Celtics great Bill Russell who pulls the trigger.

“Heading into the draft, only two GMs really knew anything about me, Jerry West and Bill Russell,” Johnson says. “Jerry was the Lakers’ GM, and Bill Russell was the coach and GM of the SuperSonics. Jerry had a great relationship with Coach Colson, who was touting my potential as an NBA prospect. The Lakers ended up drafting Earl Tatum from Marquette instead, because they only had one pick and Jerry didn’t think that I was eligible to play that season. The Sonics selected me eight picks later. Jerry was very upset when he found out that I was eligible to play right away. He filed a formal complaint questioning the legality of the draft. By the time the NBA completed its investigation I’d already signed my rookie contract. The Lakers eventually dropped their protest.”

With Russell as his coach, Johnson comes off the bench behind Slick Watts and Fred Brown. He’s raw but eager, his 6-foot-4 frame equally suited for the gridiron, his athleticism making up for the deficiencies in his game.

“I wasn’t sure I belonged,” Johnson says of that first year in Seattle. “Having Bill Russell as my coach was intimidating, but he did a good job of pulling me aside and pointing things out. We talked a lot. That’s how I started learning the pro game, and my defense became very good. I started analyzing other players’ moves and tendencies, and figuring out how to counter them. I didn’t follow the Boston Celtics all that much growing up, but I knew who Russell was and what the Celtics were accomplishing at that time. So when he talked to me about basketball, I definitely listened and tried to incorporate what he was saying.”

The Sonics finish the 1976–77 regular season 40–42. Russell is out as coach, replaced by Bob Hopkins, who lasts only 22 games before he is replaced by Lenny Wilkens. One of Wilkens’s first decisions is to insert Johnson into the starting backcourt alongside Gus Williams, a lightning-quick point guard from USC. The Sonics, who start the 1977–78 regular season 5–17 under Hopkins, respond by going 42–18 the rest of the way and racing to the 1978 NBA Finals. It’s there, in that Game 7 against the Washington Bullets, that Johnson goes scoreless from the field. Washington wins the game—and the NBA championship—by six points.

“I went home that summer and did everything in my power to keep that from ever happening again,” he says. “It was an embarrassing experience to play so poorly, especially in a situation of that magnitude. I choked. I’d never played on a stage that big, not with 15,000 people in an arena, but it motivated me and made me stronger.”

Johnson redeems himself a year later, when, on June 1, 1979, the SuperSonics defeat the Bullets, 97–93, to capture the NBA championship. He averages 21 points, but it’s his defense that makes the difference. He blocks 14 shots as the Sonics win in five.

“That first championship was the best,” Johnson says, smiling. “That feeling can’t be duplicated. Everything about that first title is so vivid: the great players that I played with, such as Jack Sikma, and the absolute high that I felt winning it all. That Sonics team was so young and talented, and had all the makings of a dynasty. I remember all the talk was about repeating as champions. One of my greatest disappointments was not being able to win back-to-back championships in Seattle.”

The Sonics’ bid to repeat is stopped cold in the 1980 Western Conference Finals, when the Lakers run them off the court, 4–1. The storyline in Los Angeles revolves around the team’s charismatic rookie, Magic Johnson. In Seattle, all the talk is about the moody, headstrong DJ. Shockingly, Johnson is traded to Phoenix. On his way out of town, Wilkens refers to Johnson as a locker room cancer.

“I was truly happy in every place I played,” he says. “I loved Seattle. Paul Silas never stopped mentoring me, never stopped dispensing advice so valuable to winning championships. He was a 15-year veteran by then, and I respected him greatly. I was young and hotheaded, and a lot of what was said went in one ear and out the other. I think that hurt me. If I could do it all over again, I would have kept my temper in check. But I wasn’t a cancer.”

The fiery Johnson gets off to a rocky start in Phoenix. His new coach, John MacLeod, is known for his demanding practice rituals, which include aerobics and wind sprints. The Suns reach the playoffs in each of Johnson’s three seasons with the team, but postseason success proves elusive. Johnson clashes with MacLeod and ends up being shipped to Boston for Rick Robey. The trade is pennies on the dollar.

“I looked at the trade two ways,” Johnson says. “Back then, no one really knew who you were unless you played in one of the major markets. Going to Boston meant that there would be more exposure. On the other hand, the so-called experts were saying that the Suns practically gave me away because I was a problem child. That bothered me, but I used it as motivation. In the end, joining the Celtics was a dream come true, because I got to compete for championships with guys like Larry, Robert, and Kevin.”

In Boston, Johnson gets a crash course in Celtics history. He’d played for Russell in Seattle; in Boston, he meets a living legend in Red Auerbach.

“Surreal,” Johnson says, when asked for one word to describe their initial encounter. Reporting to camp out of shape, Johnson also learns that practices in Boston are unlike anything he’d experienced in Seattle or Phoenix.

“Practice would definitely take on a different tone when Red was there. Everyone would snap into place. We would work a little harder, because we wanted to make sure that he saw us at our best. It was almost like we were the soldiers and he was the four-star general out on the battlefield, surveying his troops. The practices were more intense than some of the games that we played. It made us a better team. Some of my fondest memories are of those battles.”

The Celtics go 62–20 during the 1983–84 regular season and reach the 1984 NBA Finals, where Magic and the Showtime Lakers await. After falling behind 2–1 in the series, K. C. Jones assigns Johnson the task of guarding Magic. DJ responds by scoring 20 or more points in each of the last four games, while making life miserable for LA’s 6-foot-9 point guard. Boston wins a classic series in seven games.

“That whole season was geared toward meeting the Lakers in the Finals,” Johnson says. “Everyone knew that we were the two best teams, and it almost seemed like a foregone conclusion that we were going to battle for the NBA championship. People were talking about it six months before the playoffs started. It more than lived up to the billing.”

The Celtics meet the Lakers again a year later. This time it’s Magic Johnson who rebounds from a poor Game 7 performance.

“The Lakers won, and it hurt more than any loss I’ve ever suffered on a basketball court,” Johnson says. “The series started with us crushing them on Memorial Day. We couldn’t have played any better that afternoon, but Kareem came out and played like a man possessed in Game 2. We couldn’t stop him. The Lakers won that game, took away our home court advantage, and then we had to play the next three games in Los Angeles. We won one game there, but we didn’t get the job done in Boston. The day we lost that series was the lowest point in my professional career. We had given everything that year to repeat as champions, and we put ourselves in a position to make history. We just couldn’t pull it off.”

Auerbach trades forward Cedric Maxwell to the Clippers for Bill Walton following that series, and the Celtics roll to a 67-win season. After dispatching the Houston Rockets in the ’86 Finals, Boston has its second title in three years, and Johnson’s third overall.

“We were untouchable that year. We were healthy, and everyone was at the top of their game. With players like Bill, Scott Wedman, and Jerry Sichting coming off the bench, we were incredibly deep. It helped having the best player in the league.”

Understandably, DJ’s respect for Bird is of the highest order.

“Larry was a special player, one of the best ever,” Johnson says. “What made him so great was his drive. He practiced the way he played the game, going full-speed all of the time. Larry never took a practice off. You hear sportswriters talk about how he would dive for loose balls during games, but he did that stuff in practice, too. It wasn’t for show. Larry wasn’t a big talker. Practices were his way of making a statement. He was one who always led by example, and he never let you know how bad he was hurting. That was the real Larry Bird that you saw on the court.”

Bird and Johnson will forever be linked, in large part because of the steal against the Pistons in Game 5 of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals. Bird’s theft of Isiah Thomas’ inbounds pass with seconds left is as heady as it gets, but without Johnson’s quick thinking the Celtics would have lost the game and likely the series. With Bird’s momentum pushing him out of bounds, Johnson cuts to the basket, giving him the perfect target.

“That play ranks as the greatest that I’ve ever been a part of,” Johnson says. “The shot I hit to beat the Lakers in Game 4 of the ’84 Finals was huge, but being involved with Larry’s steal is my all-time favorite. Had we lost that game, the Pistons would have gone back to Detroit up 3–2 in the series. We were so hard to beat at home, and anytime you have Larry on your team you feel like you’ve got a chance, no matter how bad the outlook. Larry made a great play, and I reacted to it.”

Johnson retires following the 1989–90 season, his seventh in a Boston uniform. By then his reputation as a malcontent is a thing of the past. He’s played 14 seasons in the NBA, made six trips to the Finals, won three championships walked away with a Finals MVP award. Along the way he’s named to the All-NBA First Team (1981), All-NBA Second Team (1980), and from 1979 to 1987, either first-team or second-team All-Defense.

“Boston was a fairytale for me,” he says, flashing that famous gap-toothed grin. “Having my number retired is the ultimate honor.” Not a bad ride, especially for a one-time forklift operator straight outta Compton.

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The Bill Sharman Interview

Written By:  Michael D. McClellan | Kobe Bryant knows the stories well. He has nothing but love for the man whose legacy stretches from the cramped gyms and bare knuckle brawls of the 1950s, to the innovative way that teams prepare for games today. When Bryant joins the Los Angeles Lakers as a 17-year-old rookie fresh out of high school, he quickly learns that the two of them are kindred spirits. Both pursue basketball greatness by embracing the least-glamorous aspects of the game, spending countless hours fine-tuning the most basic basketball fundamentals. Both are perfectionists who share a hypercompetitive and maniacal drive to win. And both are old school warriors who demand the same unwavering excellence from those around them. As Bryant morphs from precocious teenager to global basketball icon, their relationship grows strong and sturdy. He’s there to help Kobe weather the rape allegations that nearly derail his career, and provides sage advice at the height of his famous feud with Shaquille O’Neal. When Bill Sharman passes away at the age of 87, Kobe joins Jerry West, Pat Riley, and 500 others at Terranea Resort to pay tribute to the man he called mentor, advisor, confidant, and friend.

“Bill really loved Kobe,” Sharman’s wife, Joyce, recalls. “When Kobe was considering leaving the Lakers in 2007, Bill wrote him a personal note. It said that the best thing he could do professionally was to stay in Los Angeles and finish his career where he started it.”

Bryant, who has a deep and abiding respect for NBA history, takes the advice to heart. He walks away after scoring 60 in his final game, knowing he’ll be a Laker for life.

“Bill was someone I respected immensely,” Bryant says. “He played on championship teams and he built them, too. What he accomplished during his life was pretty special. He was an even better human being.”

~  ~  ~

Travel back in time.

The man with the dashing good looks and humble demeanor plays alongside Bob Cousy to form the NBA’s first modern backcourt, his midrange jumper a perfect complement to Cousy’s sleight of hand. He’s such a natural athlete that the Brooklyn Dodgers draft him, and while he never gets into a big league game, he’s in the Dodgers’ dugout on October 3, 1951, the day that Bobby Thomson hits the famous “Shot Heard ‘Round the World” that sinks Brooklyn’s pennant hopes and catapults the Giants in the World Series.

As a player, he’s an eight-time NBA All Star. As a coach, he wins three championships in three different leagues and sets a record for consecutive wins that may never by broken. He is one of three people, along with John Wooden and Lenny Wilkens, honored by the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame as both a player and a coach. He’s an All-Star Game MVP, and a member of the prestigious 50 Greatest Players in NBA History. He drinks championship champagne with Cousy and Russell, and later coaches Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, and Wilt Chamberlain to those 33 consecutive wins en route to the Lakers’ first title in Los Angeles. For an encore he becomes an NBA executive, pulling the trigger on moves that deliver Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Magic Johnson, and James Worthy to Los Angeles, launching Showtime in the process.

Sharman plays during an era that’s almost forgotten now, but few in the game have ever had a sweeter stroke; so pure a shooter is Sharman that he leads the NBA in free throw percentage seven times, and is the only player in league history with three streaks of 50 consecutive free throws. His 56 straight makes during the 1959 playoffs is still a postseason record.

“His shooting mechanics were as close to perfect as you could get,” Cousy says. “Nobody worked harder on their technique.”

Born in Abilene, Texas, on May 25, 1926, Sharman’s early childhood is spent with his parents and older brother at the crossroads of the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression. The family eventually moves to Porterville, California, and it’s here, at Porterville High School, that the ridiculously athletic Sharman earns 15 letters in an assortment of sports, including football, baseball, basketball, tennis, and track.

Sharman enlists in the Navy a day after graduation, and ties the knot a day after that. He serves a two-year stint in the South Pacific at the height of World War II, before returning home to enroll at the University of Southern California. At USC he works an assortment of odd jobs to make ends meet, cleaning up after the art classes on campus, and quietly acting as an extra several Hollywood films.  He also walks onto the baseball and basketball teams. Initially banished with the other scrubs, Sharman literally shoots himself onto the varsity squad when the team’s resident star, Tex Winter, informs the coaches that the Trojans’ best player is in the building next door.

“Those sessions helped me to refine my fundamentals,” Sharman says. “I wasn’t given anything. I had to work hard to earn a scholarship.”

By 1950, the 6-foot-1 Sharman is an All-American forward at USC. He’s selected as team captain before his senior season, and then honored as Most Valuable Player when it ends. The two-time Pacific Coast Conference MVP draws the interest of the fledgling NBA, but Sharman has concerns about the NBA’s financial viability. He signs minor league contract with the Dodgers for $12,000 instead and dreams of stardom in the big leagues.

“I really didn’t think about basketball much at that point,” says Sharman. “It wasn’t as stable as baseball, so I focused on baseball instead.”

The Washington Capitols take Sharman in the second round of the 1950 NBA Draft, even though he’s already toiling away in the minor leagues. With future Hall of Famer Duke Snider in the Brooklyn outfield, playing alongside big league mainstays Carl Furillo and Andy Pafko, it doesn’t take Sharman long to realize that cracking the Dodgers lineup is going to be harder than originally thought. When Washington’s head coach, Horace “Bones” McKinney, pays a visit later that summer, Sharman is all ears. The Capitols offer him $9,000, and Sharman is suddenly a year-round athlete.

“I spent the summer of 1950 in the Dodgers’ Class A league, playing for their team in Colorado,” Sharman says. “When the season was over, I reported to the Capitols’ training camp in Washington, DC. At that time I didn’t realize that one of my teammates—Earl Lloyd—would become the first black player to play in an NBA regular season game. I used to pick him up on the way to practice, and we developed a lifelong friendship. Little did we realize that we would both be inducted into the Hall of Fame!”

Sharman is averaging a team-high 12.2 points when Washington folds 31 games into his rookie season. A dispersal draft is held. He’s selected by Fort Wayne, but never plays a game for the Pistons. Fort Wayne is in search of size. Auerbach dangles center Charlie Share, and the Pistons offer up Sharman and rugged bruiser Bob Brannum in return. Sharman signs for $14,000. It’s one of many shrewd deals Red architects through the years.

“I saw Sharman shoot,” Auerbach says later. “And could he ever shoot. What I didn’t know was how he would mesh with Cousy.”

Auerbach doesn’t have to worry for long; in their first game together, Cousy and Sharman combine to score 44 points.

“Cousy made the game easy for me,” Sharman says. “He was like Larry Bird, in that he knew what was going to happen before anyone else did. My job was to get open. If I did that I knew he would get me the ball. Cousy also had a charisma that the sport needed. He was one of the main reasons that basketball became so popular.”

Bob Cousy and Ed Macauley are clearly the stars in Sharman’s first year with the Celtics, but Sharman finds his niche, averaging 10.7 points while shooting 85 percent from the free-throw line. Boston finishes in second place in the Eastern Division with a 39–27 record, but the lack of a dominant center costs them in the division semifinal series against New York. It proves to be a recurring theme for the pre-Russell Boston Celtics. Nobody takes the losses harder than the team’s biggest fan, Walter Brown.

“Walter Brown was one of the nicest, kindest people that I have ever known,” Sharman says. “He was a true gentleman. He invested just about every dollar he had to help keep the NBA from going under. Without him, the league might not have survived.”

Sharman averages 16.2 points during the 1952–53 season, while playing a more integral role. He also captures the first of seven free throw crowns.

“Hard work and proper technique,” Sharman says, when asked how he made the free throw look so easy. “It all began when my father nailed a basketball hoop to one of our barns in the backyard. And that’s where I’d be most of the time, at least when I didn’t have other family functions or duties which needed my attention. I was very fortunate to start shooting the basketball at a very early age. Grasping the basic fundamentals sparked my love and passion for the game.”

In Boston, Sharman continues to groove his stroke.

“It was important for me to establish a consistent shooting motion. When I played for the Celtics and we went out onto the court, the first thing I did was go to the free throw line and shoot until I made three or four in a row. I wanted my mechanics to be as close to perfect as possible. And then, at halftime, I’d go out and repeat the process. The image of the ball going through the hoop was very powerful. It gave me confidence that, in a game situation, I could step to the line and repeat what I had practiced.”

A year later, Macauley leads the league in field goal percentage, Cousy leads the league in assists, and Sharman is tops in free throw percentage. Auerbach’s selection of junior-eligible Frank Ramsey offers hope, but only in future seasons. Motivated by the loss to the Syracuse Nationals in the Eastern Division Finals, Sharman is one of the first players to recognize the value of year-round workouts.

“He was the first player I knew who adopted a structured exercise program,” Cousy says of Sharman’s workout regimen. “Before the game he would be on the floor doing sit-ups, push-ups, stretches, and things that are common to most teams today. Back then, nobody did that. Sharman was ahead of his time.”

A new era dawns during the 1954–55 regular season. Sharman’s scoring average increases to 18.4 points, and he’s again named to the NBA All-Star Game. This time he garners MVP honors, thanks to a brilliant fourth quarter performance that propels the East to a 100–91 victory at Madison Square Garden.

“Winning the MVP award certainly ranks as one of my all-time career highlights, and remains somewhat unusual in the way that it happened,” Sharman says. “As I recall it, the game was very close going into the fourth quarter—and I had only scored five points at the time. But I got hot during the middle of the period and scored 10 points down the stretch.”

Sometimes it pays to be good, and sometimes it pays to be lucky. On this occasion, Sharman is both.

“Unbeknownst to me,” says Sharman, “Al Cervi, who coached the East that year, tried to substitute for me during the fourth quarter because the game was close and I hadn’t been particularly effective up until that point. However, I scored a couple of quick baskets before the action on the floor was stopped! Cervi decided to call the player back from the scorer’s table—I believe it was Dick McGuire—and let me finish out the game. Had there been anything to stop the clock, I would have come to the bench and watched the rest of the game with everyone else.”

Sharman wins a fourth consecutive free throw crown during the 1955–56 regular season, is again named an All-Star, and for the first time in his career is honored with a spot on the All-NBA First Team. A painful semifinals loss to the Nats convinces Auerbach that changes are needed if the Celtics are to win a title. Cousy is arguably the Celtics’ best player, and easily the most popular. Sharman is at the top of his game. That leaves Macauley, who can score the basketball, but who can’t bang with the game’s goliaths.

“The trade to acquire Bill Russell was probably the biggest and most prolific deal ever made in the history of the NBA,” Sharman says. “The Celtics won 11 championships because of Russell, and the St. Louis Hawks won their only championship with Ed Macauley and Cliff Hagan, whom they received in the deal.”

The trade, while hard on Brown, is a win-win for all involved.

“I had the unique perspective of playing for the Boston Celtics in those years leading up to the trade for Russell,” Sharman continues. “I knew firsthand how we struggled underneath the basket, and how other teams in the NBA would pound away at us—especially in the playoffs. All of that changed with Russell. He was the missing piece that put us over the top. Macauley was a fine player in his own right, but he couldn’t gain weight, no matter how hard he tried. Walter Brown loved him, but he knew that the Celtics weren’t going to win a championship unless something changed.

“Ed was from St. Louis, and he had a very sick son that needed constant medical attention, so when Red and Walter Brown approached Ed about the trade, he was very receptive to the possibility. He could be there to help take care of his son. It really worked out the best for everyone.”

The arrival of Russell, along with fellow rookie Tommy Heinsohn, vaults the Celtics among the NBA’s elite. Sharman’s 21.1 points lead the team, earning him a second consecutive All-NBA First Team nod, cementing his reputation as one of the best shooting guards of his generation. He is again the league leader in free throw percentage, and is an All-Star for the fifth consecutive season. The Celtics, with Russell leading the way, finish the 1956–57 regular season with a 44–28 record and first place in the Eastern Division. Most importantly, the team purges itself of years of playoff disappointment, reaching the 1957 NBA Finals and winning Game 7 in thrilling fashion.

“The series between the Celtics and the Hawks was very special for me. It was my first championship, and the seventh game, played in the Boston Garden, went into double overtime. The Hawks had Macauley and Hagan, and they also had the great Bob Pettit. Cousy and I both struggled to hit shots in that game, which was uncharacteristic of us. I remember Bill Russell and Tommy Heinsohn, both rookies that season, having great games. It was a great win.”

Sharman averages 20.4 points during the 1958–59 season, his ninth in the league, and he reclaims the free throw crown from Dolph Schayes. He’s an All-NBA First Team selection for the fourth and final time in his illustrious career, and is once again an NBA All-Star. More importantly, the Celtics are once again world champions, sweeping the Minneapolis Lakers 4–0 and capturing the league crown for the second time in three years.

Sharman’s final two seasons in Boston end with championship rings, as the Celtics dispatch the Hawks on both occasions. With the 1961 NBA expansion draft looming, he retires from the NBA and returns to California, where he’s hired as player-coach of the Los Angeles Jets in the newly formed American Basketball League. Sharman appears in 19 games for the Jets, but hangs up his sneakers for good when the franchise folds at midseason. Cleveland Pipers’ owner George Steinbrenner wastes little time hiring him to coach his team. Under Sharman’s direction, the Pipers win the ABL Championship. He’s named the league’s Coach of the Year.

“Red had a big influence on my coaching,” Sharman says. “He was ahead of his time in many respects. When I played for him, the fast break wasn’t really used to attack opposing defenses. Red ran the fast break all of the time. It became a very big weapon.”

The ABL folds a few weeks after the Pipers with the championship. Sharman coaches Cal State-Los Angeles for two seasons, and spends time as a broadcaster before taking his first NBA coaching gig with the San Francisco Warriors. While his two years at San Francisco don’t produce a championship, Sharman introduces a revolutionary new approach to game day preparation: The morning shootaround, now a universally accepted practice by basketball programs everywhere, is the product of Sharman’s desire to have his players primed to perform at tipoff. Within three years, every NBA franchise adopts the practice.

“It was something I did on my own when I played for the Celtics,” Sharman notes. “I’d go to an empty gym and just shoot. I noticed that I felt better afterwards, and that I had much more confidence during the game. That’s when I started charting my shooting percentages from both the field and the free-throw line, and, to my surprise, I discovered that I was more effective when I shot baskets on the morning of a game. My first five years in the league, I shot about 86 percent from the free-throw line. The second five, with loosening up during the day, I shot 92 percent.”

After compiling an 87–76 record in San Francisco, Sharman leaves to become head coach of the ABA’s Los Angeles Stars, leading the team to a 43–41 record and being named ABA co-Coach of the Year. The franchise relocates to Utah a year later, where Sharman guides the team to the 1971 ABA Championship.

Jack Kent Cooke hires Sharman to coach the Lakers in the summer of 1971. He inherits a title-starved team, and losers of seven NBA Finals since moving to Los Angeles in 1960. The enigmatic Chamberlain is still a dominating presence in the paint, and sharp-shooting Jerry West is in the prime of his career. With Gail Goodrich, Happy Hairston, and Jim McMillan in the mix, Sharman senses that his new team has the ingredients needed to be special.

“It was a challenge getting the best out of Wilt,” Sharman admits. “As a coach, I recognized his importance if we were going to reach our goal of winning a championship. This doesn’t take anything away from the other players on the team, but we needed Wilt to be fully engaged if we were going to win it all. It became a game that we played between ourselves. I’d continue asking him questions about strategy until he came up with the right answer, thinking that the strategy was his. Wilt assumed ownership of the decision-making process and played a championship brand of basketball.”

From November 5th, 1971 until January 9, 1972, the Lakers win an NBA-record 33 consecutive games. Finishing the season at 69–13—then the best regular-season record in NBA history—Los Angeles storms through the playoffs and crushes the New York Knicks in the 1972 NBA Finals. Sharman is named the 1972 NBA Coach of the Year.

“We were nine games into the regular season, and Elgin Baylor had just announced his retirement from the NBA. We just wanted to win the next game. I wasn’t sure what the record for consecutive wins was, to be completely honest with you. I only learned that it was Milwaukee, with 20, after our streak reached 18. It was special to go for more than two months and not lose a game, but the streak doesn’t compare to winning the championship. If we had set the record and then fallen short of our goal, which was an NBA title, then I don’t think the record would have the significance that it enjoys today.”

New York returns the favor a year later, beating Sharman’s Lakers 4–1 in the 1973 NBA Finals. LA’s aging roster sends the team on a slow, downward spiral, and Sharman resigns following the 1975–76 regular season. The passion to coach is still there, but all of the screaming overtop NBA crowds severely damages Sharman’s vocal cords. It’s an injury that never heals.

In 1976, Sharman becomes the Lakers’ GM. It’s during this period that he trades for Kareem, drafts Magic and Worthy, and hires Pat Riley. The resulting Showtime dynasty wins five more titles during the ’80s, and, in the process, becomes the first team to repeat as NBA champions since the 1969 Boston Celtics.

Sharman retires from the daily grind of management following that 1988 NBA title, staying on as a special consultant to the team and forging a special relationship with Kobe. By then his legacy is secure as the sweet-shooting perfectionist, engineering a Hall of Fame career as a player in Boston, and scoring another nod for his encore as a coach.

His one piece of life advice to others?

“Work hard and be honest, always!”

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The Arnie Risen Interview

Written By:  Michael D. McClellan | He battles George Mikan during the early days of his professional career and teams with Bill Russell in its twilight, his contributions to the game obscured by basketball’s most dominant big men of the twentieth century. Arnie Risen is understandably cool with this. The shadows cast by Mikan and Russell swallow their eras whole, and Risen is not alone among the forgotten. The wooden barn otherwise known as Edgerton Park Sports Arena is long gone, the games but fading memories to a vanishing breed of NBA fan. Risen plays professional basketball at a time when the game is more curiosity than sporting staple, more sideshow than main attraction. The average sports fan is more concerned with the exploits of men like Lou Gehrig, Ted Williams, and Warren Spahn. Guys like Arnie Risen exist only to fill a void.

Risen, of course, is much more than that. A 6-foot-9 center known affectionately as “Stilts,” Risen is as skilled as any big man in the league, twice leading the Rochester Royals in scoring. In 1949, Risen leads the NBA in field goal percentage while finishing as its fourth leading scorer. He plays in three professional circuits over a thirteen year career—the National Basketball League, the Basketball Association of America, and, after these two leagues merge, the National Basketball Association. In 1949 he is selected to the All-NBA Second Team, behind only Mikan at his position. In 1952, he begins a string of four consecutive All-Star seasons, becoming Rochester’s franchise player in the process.

Then there are the championships, the first coming in 1951 as the Royals’ starting center, the second coming six seasons later as a backup to the great Bill Russell. A key component in one, a complimentary player in another. Friendships and memories to last a lifetime.

Born in 1924, Risen grows up in Williamstown, Kentucky, a postage stamp of a town located halfway between Lexington and Cincinnati. He doesn’t own a real basketball; instead he fashions makeshift balls out of whatever he can find, and shoots them at a bottomless can which is nailed to the side of the family house.

“I was raised in a very rural setting,” Risen says. “I didn’t know there was such a thing as pro basketball until I was approached to play for the Indianapolis Kautskys. I didn’t have athletic goals, especially when compared to the guys playing basketball today. From an early age they start dreaming of their children becoming the next LeBron James, or the next Michael Jordan, or what have you. I didn’t have those aspirations. The goal back then was purely day-to-day.”

Risen gets his start at Williamstown High School.

“The coaches took an interest in me, and they really worked with me to develop my game. I played for three seasons, but back then basketball was just something to do—the really good players might think of it as a way to get a college education, but you really didn’t think about it as a career. World War II was going on then, and that was on everybody’s mind at the time. A lot of good college and professional athletes ended up serving in the military, and a lot of them saw combat duty. By the time I was drafted, I was 6-foot-9 and deemed too tall to serve in the Army.”

Risen contemplates taking his talents to Lexington, where Adolph Rupp is beginning to build a powerhouse at the University of Kentucky. He visits UK following his senior season, but Rupp doesn’t offer a full scholarship. Risen enrolls in Eastern Kentucky State instead.

“EKU was close to home, so it made sense for me to go there,” Risen says. “I played one season before the school dropped the basketball program. Someone talked me into visiting the Ohio State campus, and after that trip I decided to enroll. I am proud to be a part of the Ohio State basketball program.  The school reached three consecutive Final Fours, two while I was there and one after I left.”

It’s the spring of 1944 when Risen makes his first Final Four appearance, leading the Buckeyes to a 10-point win over Temple in the East Regional Semifinals. Ohio State falls short against Dartmouth, 60–53, in the East Regional Finals at Madison Square Garden.

A year later, in 1945, Risen leads Ohio State to an 8-point victory over Kentucky in the East Regional Semifinals, before falling to NYU in overtime.

“Schayes had been a schoolboy star at DeWitt Clinton High School in the Bronx. He was a hard worker, and a real perfectionist. He went on to a great career in the pros, and was voted to the Hall of Fame.”

Things look promising for the Buckeyes heading into Risen’s senior season. He’s been named the All-Big Ten center in 1944, and a Helms Foundation second-team All-American in 1945, but he’s hit with an elbow just after the season starts, losing a few teeth in the process. Then he catches a cold that turns into pneumonia, causing him to miss classes for a period of time. He’s declared academically ineligible at Ohio State, ending his college career.

“Ohio State reached three consecutive Final Fours from 1944 through 1946,” Risen says. “Even though we didn’t win the championship, I’m very proud to have been part of that.”

Following graduation, Risen plays nearly three seasons for the NBL’s Indianapolis Kautskys. The games are played at Hinkle Fieldhouse on the Butler University campus, where he makes $25 dollars per game.

Risen joins the BAA’s Rochester Royals for the 1948–49 season, and plays for the team’s legendary owner/coach, Les Harrison.

“Les wasn’t the greatest coach from an X and O standpoint, but he was very passionate about the game of basketball. He was a lot like Red Auerbach in that he knew how to surround himself with the right people. I think that had a lot to do with his success.”

As Risen is quick to learn, the game back then belongs to Mikan.

“George Mikan was the league’s first true superstar,” Risen says. “He was a seven-footer, and while there were four of five others close to his size back then, none of those players came close to his skill level. He played for DePaul in college, and he blocked so many shots that the NCAA introduced the goaltending rule. The NBA doubled the width of the free throw lane because of him. It later came up with the 24-second shot clock because teams were slowing down the games to try and beat Mikan’s Lakers. Before Mikan, such rules never existed.”

Fans today watch NBA games in state-of-the-art stadiums. The Royals later move West, first to Cincinnati, then Kansas City-Omaha, and eventually Sacramento. In transit they become the Kings. With each stop, they play in more modern facilities. During Risen’s time, the Royals play in the Edgerton Park Sports Arena, a wood-framed building that holds 4,200 spectators. The city owns the arena and lets its firemen use it to house equipment and carry out exercises.

“It was typical of the facilities in the old National Basketball League, which was where the Royals played before switching leagues and playing in the BAA. Most of the gyms were small, cramped, and outdated—even by the standards of the day. The fans were right on top of the action, which could be a big advantage for the home team.”

The Royals’ roster is stocked with future Hall of Famers Red Holzman, Bobby Wanzer, Risen and Davies, but the team can’t get past Mikan in the playoffs. All of that changes during the 1951 Western Division Finals.

“We were always competitive against the Lakers, but we weren’t as big and as strong. I was the tallest player at 6–9. Mikan was slowed by a broken ankle in that series. We were able to beat them 3–1 and reach the Finals.”

The Royals win the 1951 NBA championship, but the New York Knicks refuse to go down without a fight. Risen scores 19 points in Game 2, and finishes with a game-high 27 in Game 3. Rochester races out to a commanding 3–0 series lead, only to see the Knicks storm back to force a dramatic Game 7.

“We nearly gave the series away. To his credit, New York coach Joe Lapchick made a few roster changes, but it was really more about what we failed to do. We became a team of individuals—I think we started to believe our press clippings, and everyone was out there trying to be the hero. Some of our guys began playing for individual glory, instead of playing for a team goal.”

Harrison’s crew recovers with a thrilling 79–75 victory at the Edgerton Park Sports Arena. Risen leads all scorers with 24 points.

“The game was very tight in the second half. We stayed aggressive, and the Knicks ended up in foul trouble. I scored late, drew a foul, and completed the three-point play to put us up 75–74. Jack Coleman made a basket to put the final nail in the coffin, and that was it. We were finally champions.”

Risen plays another four years in a Rochester uniform. Mikan and the Lakers pound the Royals en route to the championship during three of those seasons, their run ending with a three-peat in 1954. Over in the Eastern Division, Auerbach’s undersized Celtics are also struggling to get over the hump. By the time Risen joins the Celtics, Cousy has supplanted Mikan as the face of the league.

“When I played for Rochester, we actually got the best of Cousy and the Celtics,” Risen says. “Cousy was a terrific ball handler, but in the early days he really struggled with his perimeter shooting. My first year with the Celtics was during the 1955–56 season, and a player named Ernie Barrett was also on the roster at that time. Ernie had a quick release, and great touch. He spent some time working with Cousy. You could really tell the difference after that. Cousy shot the ball much better that season.”

The Royals have the first pick in the ’56 NBA Draft, and the St. Louis Hawks have the second. While there are differing stories about who Les Harrison wants to select, it’s clear that Auerbach, drafting third, has no doubt about the player he covets.

“Red knew how good Russell was going to be, because he got that recommendation directly from Bill Reinhart—and Reinhart was the one person that Auerbach trusted completely. Reinhart advised Red to get Russell no matter what it took.

“Les insisted that he only saw Russell once, in a college All-Star game, and that Russell played poorly on purpose because he didn’t want to play in a small city like Rochester. The Harlem Globetrotters were also in the picture at the time, and I think that pushed up Russell’s asking price.”

Adding to the intrigue, Auerbach has a secret weapon in Walter Brown, who is also the president of the Ice Capades. Brown calls Harrison and offers to send the Ice Capades to Rochester for one week if the Royals pass on Russell.

“Rochester drafted Sihugo Green instead,” Risen says with a laugh. “Auerbach negotiated directly with Hawks owner Ben Kerner, and traded Macauley and Cliff Hagan to St. Louis. That allowed Red to land Russell. The rest is history.”

With Russell in Australia competing in the 1956 Olympics, Risen finds himself starting at center for the Celtics. Everything clicks when Russell rejoins the team in December.

“Russell put us over the top, but we also had Heinsohn. That gave us two all-league rookies on the team. And then we had the veterans like Cousy and Sharman to go with the role players like Jim Loscutoff and Frank Ramsey. As the season went on, we felt that we were the best team in the league. Nobody really talked about it, because we were trying to win that next game, but we were a very confident team.”

The Celtics and Hawks square off in the 1957 NBA Finals, a series punctuated by a 125–123 double-overtime thriller in Game 7.

“Heinsohn played a great game that afternoon. He scored 37 points and grabbed 23 rebounds. Cousy and Sharman really struggled scoring from the field. I think Cousy missed a free throw with just a few seconds left that may have won the game. Sharman’s jumpers weren’t going in, either. Russell blocked a shot by my former Royals teammate, Jack Coleman, late in the fourth quarter, preventing the Hawks from taking a three point lead. Russell then ran the length of the floor and scored. That was a big moment for us.”

The win sparks a wild celebration in the Boston Garden. Risen scores 16 points and grabs 10 boards in that Game 7 victory. Still, the spectacle of winning a championship pales in comparison by modern standards.

“Today, when teams win championships they are given championship rings,” Risen says. “Back then, rings weren’t such a big deal. We played, we won the title, and then we all went on to other jobs in the offseason. Basketball wasn’t as big. We didn’t get rings when we won the championship in Rochester in ’51, and nobody really thought much of it when we beat the Hawks in ‘57. Championship rings became a big deal until the Super Bowl came along.”

The teams meet again a year later, but an ankle injury to Russell in Game 3 forever changes the course of the ’58 Finals.

“We would have repeated if that ankle injury hadn’t occurred,” Risen insists. “Bill Russell was that much better than any other player at the time.  But injuries are part of it. He wasn’t the same the rest of the way, and that was the difference in the series.”

Risen’s NBA playing days end with that Finals loss to the Hawks. He has no regrets—a 10-year career, two NBA championships, and memories and relationships to last a lifetime.

“I enjoyed my time with the Celtics,” he says. “Walter Brown was a great man. His word was his bond, and when he told you something he meant it. In all the time Auerbach worked for Brown, the two of them never had a written contract in place. It was a year-to-year verbal agreement between them, which tells you something about the trust and respect that they had for each other.”

After starting his professional career playing in the barn that was Edgerton Park Sports Arena, Risen has nothing but fond memories of playing in the fabled Boston Garden.

“The parquet floor—nobody else had a floor made like that,” he says. “As an opponent, you were concerned about the so-called dead spots. Legend had it that the Celtics knew where the dead spots were, and that they would try to force you into those areas to create turnovers. As a member of the Celtics, having the dead spots was in our favor was part of our psychological advantage. They may not have helped win a game, but just having the thought in the opponent’s mind was enough to make the Garden a more difficult place to play.”

On October 2nd, 1998, Risen is inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame.

As time goes on and you find yourself farther from the spotlight, and I think it starts to mean more,” Risen says. “Back then you weren’t playing for enshrinement into the Hall of Fame since there wasn’t a Hall of Fame. I think it meant more coming to me late in life, rather than if it came to me on my first trip to the ballot box five years after retirement. It was the crowning point in my career. And joining all of those great players that I suited up with makes me feel like I’m on the team again.”

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The Terry Duerod Interview

Written By:  Michael D. McClellan |  Garbage time is hardly the place where legends are born – those moments are usually reserved for the huge, pressure-packed situations, when everything is on the line and the fans are on their feet, their throaty roar engulfing the participants, swallowing them whole – but all of that changed on December 12, 1980, when then-head coach Bill Fitch emptied his bench in a home game against the New Jersey Nets.  The final score read 119-104, but it really wasn’t that close.  A young triumvirate of Larry Bird, Robert Parish and Kevin McHale had just finished toasting a horrid Nets squad, putting on a basketball clinic and, in the process, earning some well-deserved time on the bench.  With less than four minutes remaining, Fitch turned toward the direction of Terry Duerod – the same Terry Duerod who had been signed to a ten-day contract only eight days before – and motioned for him to enter the game.  The Boston Garden faithful welcomed the University of Detroit product onto the parquet floor, where he quickly rubbed off his defender on a pick and nailed a mid-range jumper.  Chants of “DO-O-O-O” cascaded from the partisan crowd, many of whom had stayed just to cheer the scrubs.  Two possessions later he found the ball in his hands again, and once again he had an open look at the basket.  Heeding the advice of Fitch, who had given him the green light, Duerod did what all shooters do in that situation:  He let one fly.  The baseline jumper found the bottom of the net, and the spontaneous, heartfelt chant grew stronger.

Had it ended there, the Garden faithful would have gone home happy and Duerod would have simply become obscure trivia fodder.  Instead, Duerod found himself twenty feet from the basket, launching a shot that would instantly elevate him to cult-hero status.  With the remaining crowd now chanting “DO-O-O-O” in unison, the ball followed an almost impossibly high arc before dropping cleanly through the hoop.  Everyone on the bench jumped to their feet, Bird included.   There was still time on the clock for one more possession, and one more chance for Duerod to cement his place in Boston Celtics lore.  With Bird directing his teammates to get Duerod the ball, the Net reserves inexplicably backed away from the hottest player on the court.  Duerod drained the open three – and with that final basket, a legend was born.

Terry Duerod’s circuitous journey to the Boston Celtics began in Highland Park, Michigan, during the mid-1960s.  He was an athletic child, strong for his age, and plenty tall as well.  He played a little bit of everything – baseball, basketball, football – but mostly with other kids in his neighborhood, and in the parks and on the playgrounds near his home.  When he did get around to playing organized sports, Duerod proved to be a quick study on the hardwood – he was a key player on every team from sixth grade through twelfth, and over a six year span those teams would lose only a handful of games.  As a senior at Highland Park, Duerod and his teammates were considered frontrunners for a state championship.  A tragic car accident involving two his closest friends – and two of Highland Park’s biggest cage stars – derailed those title dreams, yet Duerod played well enough to catch the eye of Dick Vitale, the frenetic coach at the University of Detroit.  Already a salesman extraordinaire, Vitale preached the history of Detroit basketball, invoking the names of Dave DeBusschere and Spencer Haywood, and the promise of an up-tempo system in which to showcase Duerod’s deceptive speed and shooting accuracy.

It wasn’t a tough sell:  Duerod preferred to play his collegiate basketball close to home, where friends and family could come out and cheer him on.  And with Highland Park just a stone’s throw to the north (Henry Ford opened a Model T Factory there in 1909, giving birth to the automotive industry), there was always plenty of support in the stands.  Duerod worked hard to hone his skills, while waiting patiently for his time to shine.  He was there for Detroit’s 21-game win streak in 1977, which included a wild victory over Al McGuire and eventual-champion Marquette.  He was there for three post-season tournaments, and a truckload of memories.  He led Detroit in scoring as a senior, averaging 23.3 points-per-game.

Ironically, it was Vitale who would pave the way for Duerod to enter the NBA.  Vitale, who had accepted the head coaching job with the Detroit Pistons, wasted little time selecting the sweet-shooting guard in the third round of the 1979 NBA Draft.  It seemed like the perfect fit, as Duerod’s professional career got of to a promising start; the rookie averaged 9.3 points-per-game on 47-percent shooting, and he looked comfortable playing against some of the best guards in the league.  Vitale, however, lasted only 12 games into the season before being replaced by Richie Adubato, and Duerod then found himself available in the 1980 expansion draft.  The Dallas Mavericks quickly snapped him up.

The marriage between Duerod and the Mavericks seemed ill-fated from the very beginning.  While head coach Dick Motta clearly gave his new guard a chance to prove himself, there was very little communication between players and coaching staff.  A revolving door mentality took hold, as twenty-one players donned a Maverick uniform for at least one game that season.  Duerod lasted just eighteen games before getting the boot.

Duerod didn’t stay out of work for long.  Fitch lobbied for the team to sign the sharpshooter, which is exactly what happened after Duerod cleared waivers.  He worked hard, didn’t complain, and played the role of twelfth man to perfection.  And after signing a second consecutive ten-day contract, the Celtics rewarded him with a season-long offer.  He quickly became a welcome sight at the end of games, taking to the court with the outcome no longer in the balance, the Boston Garden crowd serenading him with chants of  “DO-O-O-O”.  Legendary announcer Johnny Most loved to talk about him on the air.  Cedric Maxwell good-naturedly nicknamed him ‘The Human Cigar’, a reference to Red Auerbach’s penchant for lighting up when the game was well in hand.  And everyone on the team, from Bird to Gerald Henderson to M.L. Carr, had only positive things to say about the team’s mid-season acquisition.

While Duerod’s NBA career was short-lived – he would play in just 143 games over four seasons, with the Pistons, Mavericks, Celtics and Warriors – he was able to win a championship following Boston’s memorable 4-2 series win over Moses Malone and the Houston Rockets.  Still, he is best remembered for that magical night in the Boston Garden, when a garbage-time player simply couldn’t miss, when Larry Legend became a fan of the fan favorite, and when everyone in the building found themselves caught up in doing the “DO-O-O-O”.

Let’s start at the beginning.  Take me way back to your childhood at Highland Park, Michigan.

I grew up in Highland Park, which is located just north of metro Detroit, and I went to school right there in town.  I liked playing sports as a child, but I really wasn’t involved in any organized leagues early on.  That changed when I reached the sixth grade – I was pretty tall for my age, and the basketball coach suggested that I go out for the team.  I didn’t know what to expect because up until then I hadn’t played a lot of ball.

I’d say things worked out pretty well. 

I tried out and made it, and that’s the first time I really took playing seriously.  I remember that my mother bought a basketball hoop and set it up for me, which really helped me work on different parts of my game.  Our eighth grade team went undefeated.  I could jump, although I really didn’t know it at the time.  I’d never tried to dunk a basketball, but I went up and dunked, and from then on I was hooked.  I worked hard on my jump shot.  I played freshman basketball at Highland Park High School, and our team went 22-3 that season.  I believe that our tenth grade team was also 22-3.  I didn’t play varsity ball because the coach didn’t want me to sit on the bench behind the older, more experienced players.  So I was able to play quite a bit those first two seasons.  I played varsity as a junior and senior.

How did your senior year play out?

We had a lot of expectations going into that final season, but two of my friends on the team – Steve Martin and Eugene Littleton – were involved in a car wreck.   Martin was 6′-8″ and could really play.  He died in the crash, while Littleton was somehow able to survive.  That accident was just terrible for the families and their friends.  It also hurt the team – we finished up just over .500, which was very disappointing because a lot of us had been together since the sixth grade, we had experienced a lot of success together, and we had a lot of high expectations going into the start of the season.

From Highland Park you stayed close to home, playing college basketball at the University of Detroit.  You followed in the school’s great tradition of talent, joining Dave DeBusschere, Spencer Haywood, Terry Tyler and John Long as distinguished basketball alums.

Dick Vitale was a great salesman.  He recruited me, and said that he wanted to bring basketball back to the University of Detroit.  He talked about the great tradition, the players like DeBusschere and Haywood, and about the guys that were just a recruiting class ahead of me, like Terry Tyler and John Long.  That first year we went to the NCAA Tournament behind veteran players like Dennis Boyd and Ron Bossie, but lost in the first round.  The next season we were led by Tyler and Long, and we played in the NIT tournament.  My junior year we were back in the NCAAs.  By then I was playing a much bigger role on the team, and I was able to help these guys on both ends of the court.  It was great to be a part of the team’s success.

Detroit had a 21-game winning streak during the 1976-77 season, including a victory in Milwaukee over eventual national champion Marquette.

I remember that game like it was yesterday – it was an exciting contest and a great college atmosphere, and probably the greatest game I’ve ever been involved in.  It was very close all way, the Warriors had the one-point lead, and it came down to one possession.  Dennis Boyd hit a shot from the top of the key with one second left to give us the win, setting off a wild celebration at the buzzer.  It was a lot of fun to be a part of that.

Players today are all about the tattoos.  When you played, it was more about the nicknames – from George “Ice Man” Gervin to “Daryl “Chocolate Thunder” Dawkins, it was a great era for colorful handles.  How did you get the nickname “Sweet Due”?

Because of the way I shot the basketball [laughs].  Somebody in the media talked about the way my jumper grazed the net going in, and how sweet the shot looked.  The fans really picked up on that, and they would chant ‘DO-O-O-O’ at the games [laughs].  It was great.  From then on I became known as ‘Sweet Due’!

You scored 1,690 points during your career at Detroit, this before the advent of the three-point line.  Where, on the court, did most of your points come from?

From the top of the key, and from the corners.  I really didn’t pay attention to how far out I was shooting, because it just came naturally for me.  That’s where I felt comfortable shooting from – that was my normal range.  Someone brought that up later, and pointed out that a lot of my shots would be from behind the arc today.  So I think having the three-point line back then would have played right into my strength as a long-range shooter.

In 1993 you were honored by being inducted into the University of Detroit’s Athletic Hall of Fame.  What was this like for you?

It was great accomplishment, and very nice to be recognized for my achievements at Detroit.  It’s something that will be with me for the rest of my life, no question about it, and I’m proud that the University honored me in that way.  I don’t think it’s something that I would have appreciated at a younger age.  Now, I think about it and I’m very grateful for the recognition.  I think every person wants to be recognized in some way, shape or form, and that it’s important to have something to point to down the road.  When I go to the games in Detroit people still know me, which is also a good feeling.  They might announce my name over the loudspeakers and introduce me, and mention what I have accomplished, and it still makes me tingle.

Following college, you were drafted by the Detroit Pistons in the third round of the 1979 NBA Draft.  Ironically – and briefly – Dick Vitale was your first professional coach.  What was it like to be drafted by your hometown team?

I was very excited.  I’d played basketball in-or-around Detroit my whole life, from middle school to high school, and then on into college.  So to be chosen by the Pistons was like a dream come true.  All of the fans knew me.  They were very supportive and cheered for me when I got into the game.  It helped a lot.  It made me work that much harder.  Having them behind me was a special feeling, and one that’s hard to explain, but it gave me the added confidence to play against the top talent in the league.

You played in 67 games as a rookie, averaging 9.3 points-per-game.

From a team standpoint, we were really struggling.  We were 16-66 that season, we were the worst team in the NBA.  Coach Vitale lasted twelve games and was replaced by Richie Adubato.  It didn’t really matter who coached us, though, because we were a team with a lot of rookies and old veterans, and not a whole lot of anything in-between.  There were four rookies – myself, Greg Kelser, Earl Evans, and Roy Lee Hamilton.  Terry Tyler and John Long were also on that team, and they were just in their second seasons.  We had Bob Lanier but he ended up getting hurt.  We had Bob McAdoo.  The injuries did help me in a way, because it allowed me to play and to show what I could do on the court.

You hear players talk about the dreaded “Rookie Wall”.  Did you hit the wall that season, and what was it like adjusting to all of that travel?

I think there really is something to that.  There is just so much travel – much more than you ever experience in college – and the season is so much longer as well.  You have to adjust to getting up earlier.  For a college kid, getting up at 5 AM is a big change.  I ran into all of these things my rookie season.  I just kept working hard and trying to make it through.

You played one season in Detroit, and then ended up a member of the Dallas Mavericks.  You only played 18 games before being waived.  What happened?

I was showing a lot of promise, enough that the Pistons protected me during the expansion draft, but I later ended up going to the Dallas Mavericks in the supplemental draft.  I was averaging double figures before I got hurt, and when I came back from injury the team had chosen to go in another direction.

After Dallas waived me, I received a call from Red Auerbach.  He was awesome.  He told me about wanting to draft me in ’79, but that the Pistons had gotten to me first.  He said that he wanted me to play for the Boston Celtics.  It was a very good conversation.  Red went on to say that Coach [Bill] Fitch had a problem with free agents, and that it had something to do with an experience that he had in Cleveland.  But he also assured me that everything was going to work out if I joined the team.  So I signed with the Celtics on December 4, 1980, and I played hard.

What was it like to join a young, championship-caliber team like the Celtics?

It was a great experience.  The coaching staff, the players, the fans – it was all very special for me.  Being a part of something like that was another dream come true.  Max – Cedric Maxwell – was my man [laughs]!  Robert Parish and Kevin McHale were great teammates.  We had Tiny Archibald and Larry Bird – I couldn’t have asked for better teammates!  It was a very positive situation, which was nice because I’d come from a negative situation in Dallas.  It was totally different.  The team was focused on winning, and it was loaded with great, young talent.

Big Chief [Parish] took me under his wing.  He helped me a lot.  A lot of people don’t realize this – I didn’t until I got there – but Chief, Kevin and Larry are all very funny people.  Great jokesters.  They all talked some trash, told some jokes, and pulled some pranks.  So there was never a dull moment [laughs]!  In addition to being great players, they were a great bunch of guys.

You played 32 games for the Celtics that season, becoming a fan-favorite.  The familiar chant of “DO-O-O-O” could be heard at almost every home game.  Please tell me about the fans in Boston.

Best fans in the world.  Period.  They treat the players great, and support the team no matter what the record is  It was a super experience for me to play in front of them!

The legendary Nate “Tiny” Archibald was also on that team.

Tiny was also giving me pointers and showing me things.  He was left-handed but could shoot right – it wasn’t the prettiest sight, but it went in [laughs].  He was always teaching the young guys.  I don’t know if he did a lot of that early in his career, but by the time I got there he was a very good mentor.  He was a funny guy as well.  He has a reputation for being quiet and shy, but once he starts talking you can’t get him to stop [laughs]!

Another player with Motown on résumé was M.L. Carr.  Please tell me about M.L.

M.L. had a great personality – he didn’t call me “Sweet Due”.  He always called me “Dip” [laughs].  He stayed in shape and was always ready to play.  We played one-on-one all the time, and had some great battles.

What was it like to meet Red Auerbach?

I remember the smoke!  I can’t stand cigar smoke, but I didn’t tell him that [laughs].  I remember him coming to the practices and just watching, taking it all in.  He didn’t miss anything – he’s so smart, and he understands the game so well.  He took an interest in me, and took me under his wing.  He was always very positive.

Please tell me about the Boston Garden – what are some of the memories that stand out about that fabled arena?

The mystique.  When you played in the Garden and you saw all of those banners – no other arena in the league was like it, and the same holds true today.  You couldn’t help but think about Bob Cousy, Bill Russell, John Havlicek and all of the other Celtic greats that helped to put those banners in the rafters.  I was in awe.

Final Question:  You’ve achieved great success in your life.  If you could offer one piece of advice on life to others, what would that be?

If I’m speaking to aspiring basketball players, it would be simply:  Get your education.  Basketball is secondary to the real world, and you need an education if you’re going to succeed off of the court.

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The Satch Sanders Interview

By:  Michael D. McClellan | The coolest cat on the Celtics’ roster is a bad-ass with a hot head and a childhood history of causing trouble. He grows up in Harlem, and is five years old when the infamous Harlem Race Riot of 1943 occurs, in which police are attacked, stores are vandalized and looted, and automobiles are destroyed. The unrest lasts two full days. By the time order is restored, six black residents are dead, nearly 200 people are injured, and 550 more are arrested.

To many, the events that begin in Harlem on August 1, 1943, remain a riot, pure, and simple. To others, they are a revolt, a rebellion, an uprising, a violent but justified leap into a future of black self-empowerment. If you’re black growing up in 1940s Harlem, you instantly understand how the potent combination of segregation, unemployment, and racial tension can explode when mixed with another senseless case of police brutality—especially when the black man is a respected member of the military, and the woman he attempts to rescue is being beaten and falsely accused of prostitution.

“History repeats,” Sanders says. “Sadly, these fundamental problems still exist today.”

In 1951, a 12-year-old Sanders is running with one of Harlem’s gangs. His time is spent making zip guns and threatening passersby in the neighborhood. Sanders, by his own account, admits that the younger version of himself is headed for trouble. He credits an appearance by Brooklyn Dodger star Jackie Robinson at his school for changing the trajectory.

“Jackie Robinson helped set me on the right course,” he says. “He came to my junior high school and spoke to the assembly. It felt like he was speaking directly to me. I was getting into trouble at this point in my life, so his message felt extremely personal. My behavior improved. As one might expect, being 12, my mother still had to keep me in line from time-to-time.

“Jackie Robinson owned a shoe store on 125th Street. We would hang around outside hoping to see him. He’d come out on occasion and say a few things to us, which was a thrill, and the words he spoke were always positive. Guys like Roy Campanella and Don Newcombe would drop by and we’d get to see them, too. They were black, and they were stars. It was inspiring.”

Sanders grows up on 116th Street and Lenox Avenue and attends Seward Park High School on the Lower East Side. He gets his nickname playing baseball at Mount Morris Park in East Harlem. People think he looks like Satchel Paige, the iconic Negro League pitcher. While he doesn’t stick with baseball, the nickname sticks with him.

“I pitched, but I didn’t stay with it because I kept getting hit in the mouth by the ball. I wanted to protect my teeth.”

Basketball becomes his new love. In New York City in the ’50s, Harlem is the ultimate proving ground, the place where ballers and would-be-ballers go to make names for themselves. They play pickup games on courts like Mount Morris, or in tournaments at Rucker Park. It’s here that players like Julius Erving, Connie Hawkins, and Wilt Chamberlain later strut their stuff, while hundreds crowd into the playground temple and hundreds more clamor to watch from the surrounding rooftops, overpasses, and trees, just to get a glimpse of the action.

“There was so much black talent that I aspired to when I was growing up—the Harlem Globetrotters, the Harlem Rens, and all of those great Eastern League players who were never blessed with the opportunity that I had,” Sanders says. “These were guys who I looked up to, that showed me the way to play the game. Guys that toughened me up and taught me to play defense. Guys who could play in the NBA but never had the chance because of the color of their skin.”

Basketball and a love of reading keep him off the streets and out of trouble, but growing up in 1950s Harlem is as dangerous for Sanders as ’80s Compton is for Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and Dr. Dre. He sees a drug dealer viciously beat a man on the sidewalk. Heroin claims the lives of several relatives, and some of the older boys in his school are already copping drugs. He hears about the little girl down the block who is raped and murdered. All of this shapes Sanders, but it doesn’t stop his shine.

“I grew up in Harlem, and I didn’t have much in terms of resources. I didn’t have much money at this particular point in my life. However, this did not prohibit me from learning, nor did it impede my growth as an individual. I was determined to make something of my life.”

The rule of the day allows him to go to any high school in the city. He chooses Seward Park High after two friends convince him to aim higher than the vocational schools.

“That singular decision changed my life,” Sanders says. “In those days you could pick the high school you wanted to attend, provided you could get there and they wanted you. I woke up every morning and rode the train from Harlem to Seward. I also played in various church and community leagues. It wasn’t until my eleventh grade year that I played basketball for Seward Park.”

Sanders is a good enough high school player to attract the attention of schools like Duquesne and Seton Hall, but Sanders stays local and accepts a scholarship to attend New York University. He leads NYU to the 1960 Final Four, developing a reputation as a rugged defender who plays with maximum effort. The Violets fall to eventual champion Ohio State, but Sanders is the NYU captain in his senior year and the recipient of the Haggerty Award as the metropolitan area’s most valuable player. A back-to-the-basket post player, he finishes his career at NYU as its second-leading rebounder. He dreams of being selected for the US Olympic team, but players like Oscar Robertson, Jerry West, Jerry Lucas, and Walt Bellamy are stacked in front of him. Still, Sanders’s senior season catches the attention of Celtics coach Red Auerbach, who’s looking for a defensive presence to eventually replace Jim Loscutoff. Auerbach selects him with the eighth overall pick in the 1960 NBA Draft.

“NYU was close to home, which in itself was an added bonus,” says Sander. “We played against a variety of topflight competition, such as the Harlem Globetrotters, and all of those fine Eastern League players. My junior year we did quite well in the NIT, and the following year reached the NCAA Final Four, which was quite an accomplishment for that team.”

Sanders, who graduates with a degree in marketing, prides himself on playing hard-nosed defense, and knows it’s his best chance to catch on with the defending champions.

“I worked hard on defense. My job was to guard the opposition’s best scorer at the forward position, such as an Elgin Baylor or a Bob Pettit, and this was something from which I derived a tremendous amount of satisfaction. I would also like to say that we had a number of great defensive players on those Celtics teams, the first and foremost being Bill Russell. As a team, our defensive philosophy began with Bill. He set the tone on the defensive end of the court. K. C. Jones was also a tremendous defensive player in terms of what he brought to the game. He drew the tough assignments in the backcourt and applied great pressure defense.”

Sanders brings a New York City edge with him to the Celtics. He goes hard in practice, often hammering his teammates to the floor. There are plenty of doubters who dismiss Sanders when he arrives in the pros, questioning his ability to play facing the basket, let alone take minutes from established forwards Tom Heinsohn, Frank Ramsey, and Jim Loscutoff. The chip on his shoulder doesn’t go away quickly.

“I joined the Celtics hungry. I was very combative. I felt I had to do whatever I could to make this team. I didn’t back down. That’s the way it was in Harlem. I was ready to bump heads and fight with Loscutoff every chance I could get. And anyone who knew Loscutoff knows that he was an ornery cuss in his own right, so we tangled quite often in the beginning.”

Sanders ultimately finds his niche with the Celtics. Focused and under control, he’s the consummate teammate, ceding the offensive spotlight to stars like John Havlicek and Sam Jones, crashing the glass and doing most of his scoring on put-backs. On the court he endures a mixed bag of hate, with road games sometimes marred by flying bottles, coins, and racial epithets. Away from it he encounters reluctant real estate agents who fear that the color of his skin will drive away business, and proudly moves into the predominately black Roxbury section of Boston.

“The misconception is that just Boston was racist,” he says, “but it was the entire country. We had problems everywhere we went. In Los Angeles, cops pulled guns on us for no other reason than we were black.”

During one exhibition tour that took the Celtics through the Heart of Dixie, the black players on the team are denied service at a coffee shop in a hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.

“All of the black players were denied service—not just the black players for the Celtics,” Sanders says quickly. “The hotel changed its stance when it discovered that we were members of the Celtics and Hawks, so this naturally begged the question concerning our status had we not been professional athletes. That scenario was posed to the hotel management, and their position was that we would have been denied service. So, as ordinary citizens we were looked upon quite differently. Based on this criteria, Bill Russell quickly decided that he would not play in the game. The other black players on the Celtics—myself, Sam Jones, K. C. Jones—felt the same way about the situation. It was an easy decision to make.”

Sanders’s new job description is simple, yet incredibly difficult: Shut down the opponent’s best small forward, players like Baylor and Pettit. He accepts the challenge, buckling down and doing the dirty work needed to keep the championship machine humming. The Celtics win it all in his rookie season, the team’s third consecutive banner and fourth overall. The titles keep coming: 1962. 1963. 1964. 1965. 1966. 1968. 1969. He retires following the 1972–73 season, his eight titles in 13 seasons the third-most of any player in NBA history. Which begs the question: Is there one that stands out from the rest?

“If I had to select one title, I would have to say the first. This was during the 1960–61 season, and we won the championship 4–1 over the St. Louis Hawks. In retrospect it’s easier for one to look back on winning a number of championships, but it’s a much different situation when you’re striving to achieve that goal. Back then, at any given point, it was always a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately sort of thing. By that I mean we were only as good as our last championship. So every title that we won was special in that regard.”

Those Celtics teams are stocked with talent and loaded with future Hall of Famers.

“Sam Jones, K. C. Jones, and Frank Ramsey were all part of the second unit at one point —three outstanding basketball players that could have started on any NBA team. John Havlicek is another. It was a great luxury to have players of this caliber coming off the bench, because the opposition knew that there would be no letdown. That was one of the components to the Celtics’ greatness, and a hallmark of Red’s coaching ability. He was able to find players who possessed starting ability yet had egos that could handle a reserve role.”

Following retirement, Sanders breaks new ground by becoming the head basketball coach at Harvard University—the first black head coach in Ivy League history. He briefly coaches the Celtics a few years later, and in the late ’80s heads up the NBA’s Rookie Transition Program. It’s a position he holds for 18 years; during this time, every other major sports league replicates Sanders’s workshops.

How ironic that one of the roughest cuss’s on those great Celtics teams becomes one of the NBA’s greatest mentors. Sanders, voted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame as a contributor—primarily for his work with the program he created—also remains the coolest cat to ever have his jersey retired by the Celtics. When the NBA champion Boston Celtics visit the White House in 1963—then occupied by John F. Kennedy, a big Boston Celtics fan – it is left to Sanders to deliver the memorable parting line to the commander in chief.

“Take it easy, baby,” Tom Sanders tells the president of the most powerful nation on earth. For a one-time troublemaker and reformed hothead, it doesn’t get much cooler than that.