Written By: Michael D. McClellan | Red Auerbach is only weeks removed from his 85th birthday, and the cigar-smoking patriarch of the Boston Celtics is as sharp—in mind and tongue—as ever. He answers the telephone, listening silently in a way that reminds me of Marlon Brando’s character in The Godfather, a comparison that doesn’t seem far from the truth. Larry Bird once said it best: “When Red Auerbach walks into the room, everyone knows their place. Everyone respects him. And when Red says something you listen to him.”
I nervously make my pitch, convinced that having a mutual friend will be good enough to score an exclusive. Harold Furash has known Auerbach for decades—“Half Court” Harold used to ref those preseason barnstorming exhibitions as a favor for Red—and he’s already greased the rails by calling ahead earlier in the week. The interview, I decide, is a slam dunk.
“No,” Auerbach says flatly, breaking the silence. It’s a one-word gut punch. If a recommendation by Auerbach’s close friend isn’t enough to seal the deal, then what real chance do I have? “I don’t want to sound mean here, but I don’t have time for this crap. Do you know how many people want to interview me? Do you know how many calls I get?”
I feebly tell him that I can only imagine.
“Three thousand a year,” he shoots back. There’s no way to know if he’s blowing smoke, and even if he were, who am I to call bullshit? Red Auerbach is as legend as they come, the Original Gangster, the dopest coach to ever work an NBA sideline. “Do you know how many I turn down? I’m 85 years old. I’m too damned old to do these anymore, so I don’t do these anymore.”
Panicked, I rattle off my just-completed interviews with Frank Ramsey, K. C. Jones, and Satch Sanders, all Hall of Famers handpicked by Auerbach during the Celtics’ heyday. I remind him about Harold’s call earlier in the week.
“What’s your name again? Where are you calling from?”
I give him my backstory and offer up my credentials. I ramble on about the merits of a book that tells the story of the Boston Celtics through my interviews with key figures big and small.
“Send me something to look at,” he says at last. “I’m letting you know right now that I won’t do an interview, but I’ll take a look at your work. But don’t send me a lot—I don’t have time to fool with this stuff.”
I send him three sample chapters, along with the questions that I’d like to ask him, and follow up with a phone call a few days later. He tells me to hold on. I hear the sound of papers rustling on the other end of the line.
“Look, you’re material is good, but I can’t answer these questions. I’m not answering them because I’m working on another book and I’m not giving that information away. What’s this for again?”
I pitch my idea: Interview as many Celtics players and coaches from different eras, and then tell the history of the Boston Celtics through their own words.
“No, no, no,” he says firmly. “I can’t do this. How much are you making on this?”
I think about my interview with Ramsey, and how he’d negotiated his first contract with Auerbach during a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. I remember Heinsohn’s story, about how he’d talked contract with Auerbach while relieving himself in front of a bathroom urinal.
“Would you be willing to answer just one question from the list?”
Silence.
“I’ll give you one,” he snaps, as the paper rustling begins anew. “I’ll answer the Asimov question, and that’s all you get.”
It’s an offer I can’t refuse. And then a funny thing happens—he answers another. And another. Questions on the paper in front of him, questions that come to me as we talk. And just like that, I’m talking shop with The Godfather.
What memories do you have of World War I as a young child in Brooklyn?
I don’t remember; how could I? The war was over before I was old enough to have any memories of it. My father wasn’t drafted or anything like that. He had a medical exemption.
You worked in your father’s dry-cleaning shop.
I worked from ten in the morning until ten at night. I pressed clothes. I’d press 100 suits a day. I have no complaints because work like that keeps you humble. Hell, I pressed clothes for years after that. Pressed ’em after I became famous. It always reminded me of where I came from.
Did you ever see the Original Celtics play?
No, this all took place before I was born and then when I was very young. I knew who the Original Celtics were—hell, everyone knew. They barnstormed all over the place, played games who knows where. They were what I’d call the first famous basketball team. People who didn’t know what basketball was learned about it from the Original Celtics.
Is it true that Isaac Asimov was one of your classmates at Seth Low Junior College?
He went to Seth Low. I knew Asimov. He was a bright guy who couldn’t sit still. He told a lot of jokes. We kept in touch through the years.
Please tell me about your basketball coach at George Washington.
Bill Reinhart was a great man, an innovator. He was running the fast break before anyone else. He was also a quiet man, very reserved. As a coach, he was 30 years ahead of his time. As one of his players, I remember his practices, and how tough they were. Bill never lost his poise. He was always in control. He could adapt to any situation, and he could talk to a broad range of people.
How were the two of you alike?
Reinhart rubbed off on me. We were alike in a lot of ways, but we were different, too. He was more poised with his temper. He was quiet. I was on the officials more, that was my style.
How much did Reinhart influence you as a coach?
Bill insisted that his players be in top physical shape—if you were in better condition than your opponent then you had the edge. I took that with me. The fast break, that was something that stuck with me. The way he ran his practices, the control that he had over his team, those things.
You once coached Bowie Kuhn. How did that go?
Bowie Kuhn was a big kid, something like 6–5. He was clumsy, though, wasn’t a basketball player. I saw that as soon as I got a look at him in practice. I cut him after a few weeks.
NFL quarterback Sid Luckman once asked to borrow $20. You gave him $100. Why?
It’s simple human nature. You give a man twenty, and both of you might forget about it. You give a man a hundred, and neither forgets.
One of your masterstrokes was drafting Larry Bird as a junior eligible in 1978.
I did that with Frank Ramsey in ’53. I drafted Ramsey, Cliff Hagan, and Lou Tsioropoulos, all of them from the University of Kentucky. They were juniors who had been redshirted.
You were famous for your contract negotiations. Where did you talk contract with Frank Ramsey?
Fenway Park, in the Red Sox dugout. We talked, came to an agreement, and that was that. See, back then, you didn’t have the agents that you have today, and the contracts weren’t anywhere close to what you have today. Things were much simpler, and you could get things done without lawyers and agents.
As a coach, what do you think was your strongest attribute?
My ability to communicate with the players. That was the thing that I took the most pride in. There are a lot of coaches out there that know their Xs and Os, but a lot of what they say doesn’t translate once the player gets out on the court, because the player gets out there and forgets what was just said. I took pride in my ability to communicate, to get my point across in a way that the player could understand.
Did you communicate with all of your players in the same way?
No, you can’t be successful doing that. It doesn’t work. There were some players who could take getting balled out and who responded to that type of communication. I never balled out Cousy or K. C. Jones because that didn’t work with them. I could scream at a Russell or a Ramsey. I could get on Heinsohn and Loscutoff. Those players were able to take that type of approach.
Tell me about Bob Cousy.
Cousy was coachable. He listened. He was introverted. Like I said before, I didn’t get on him the way I got on Heinsohn and some of the others. The main thing was that he didn’t sulk if I pulled him out of a game and told him to cut down on the razzle-dazzle stuff.
When Cousy retired, K. C. Jones became a starter. Did you coach your team differently?
You coach to the personnel you have on your team, you don’t try to fit the personnel into the system. When we had Cousy, we had that fast break—Russell pulling down the rebounds, and Cousy pushing the ball up the court—and we took advantage of it because I coached to take advantage of it. K. C. was limited on the offensive end, but he made up for it on defense. So I coached to that. A lot of coaches have their system, and that’s the way it is. They fit the players into the system and it doesn’t always work out for the best. That’s crap. You’ve got to be willing to look at your personnel and adjust.
Cousy and Sharman were your first great backcourt. Then comes Sam Jones and K. C. Jones.
Cousy was a great player. Sharman was such a good shooter. When they were playing, they were a great combination for us. Sam and K. C. were coming off the bench at the time, and you knew they were going to be good. But the questions about these two guys were still there until they stepped in and proved themselves. As it turned out, they were Hall of Fame guards, and they were just good in their own ways. We were a different, more defensive-oriented back there, but just as good.
Satch Sanders is another one of those great defensive players.
Satch Sanders is an extremely intelligent individual. He knew his role on the team, and he played tough defense on high-scoring forwards like Dolph Schayes, Elgin Baylor, and Bob Pettit. I can’t say enough good things about Satch Sanders.
In your opinion, where does Bill Russell rank in NBA history?
Bill Russell and Michael Jordan were the two greatest players to ever play the game. Russell made everyone play better. When it comes to winning, no one comes close. The players closest to these two were Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. Shaq is right there in the same group.
You have a special relationship with Russell.
I treated him with respect, and I respected him as person. If something came up I’d talk to him about it privately. It would get settled, and we’d move on. Did I treat him differently than the other players on the team? Yes. He might not practice as long as the others, but there were many nights when he would play the entire game. A few concessions like that goes a long way.
Please tell me about John Havlicek.
Havlicek was a great player who did things on and off the court. By that I mean he took care of himself, which allowed him to play 16 years in the league.
You’ve won a total of 16 NBA championships in various capacities. Do you have a favorite?
The first one was the best. The best one is always the first time you win.
The death of Lenny Bias in 1986 changed the fortunes of the Celtics for years to come.
You couldn’t know how good he was unless you saw him play. Bias was one of the early guys that was 6-foot-8 and could really run. I knew him, knew his family. I planned for three years to draft him.
Do you think Bias was a drug user?
Bias was not a drug user. That’s why he died—he didn’t know how to use them. We tested him a week before the draft, and so did a lot of other teams. He passed three physicals from three different teams.
In 1993, Reggie Lewis died from a heart condition.
I liked Lewis a lot. He was a hell of a kid, and he did a lot for the community. It’s a shame what happened.
What did his death do the Celtics?
The bad break of it all was that the league never gave us a chance to recover from Reggie Lewis. Forget about Bias—they never gave us a pick or anything to recover from that—but they could have given us cap money to use when we lost Reggie. Because his contract was guaranteed, the league made us carry his salary on our cap for three years. Three! Today, they changed that rule. They realized how shabbily they treated us. When you lose two All-Star players and get nothing back—just think about that. Go to New Jersey and take away Kidd and their next best player. Where the hell would they be?
Paul Pierce almost died in that stabbing incident in a Boston bar.
He was lucky. I think he learned a lesson. Pierce is fearless on the court. He can play the two guard or the small forward position. He’s going to be great.
If you could offer one piece of advice on life to others, what would that be?
I don’t have one piece of advice—how can there only be one? A lot constitutes toward being successful. I’d say that you’ve got to be willing to pay the price, that’s the most important thing. And then there are the other things that count—promptness, integrity, honesty, respect. Those things are all part of the package.
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