An Exclusive Interview with Jamie Most and Mike Carey
By:
Michael D. McClellan | Monday, February 21st 2005
More championships followed,
including eight consecutive banners from 1959 to 1966,
as more hall-of-fame talent was added to an already
loaded roster. Sam Jones became the team’s most lethal
offensive threat. K.C. Jones played alongside him in
the backcourt, and Most quickly dubbed them “The Jones
Boys”. John Havlicek supplanted Frank Ramsey as the
team’s Sixth Man. It was an impressive march through
history, as the greatest dynasty in NBA history – and
arguably the greatest dynasty in any sport – showed no
signs of slowing. The record streak of titles came
perilously close to ending a year early, this in the
1965 Eastern Conference Finals against the Philadelphia
76ers, and circumstance puts Most in place to make one
of the greatest calls any sport has ever known.
With mere seconds left and the
Celtics clinging to a one-point lead, the Boston Garden
faithful brace themselves for a potential streak-killing
inbounds pass. The Celtics find themselves on their
heels. Most finds himself high above courtside, on the
edge of his seat, seconds away from history. And then
it happens: Havlicek intercepts Hal Greer's inbounds
pass, saving the day for the Celtic Dynasty and sending
Most into a frenzy.
Most: "Greer is putting the
ball into play. He gets it out deep…Havlicek steals
it. Over to Sam Jones. Havlicek stole the ball! It's
all over! Johnny Havlicek stole the ball!"
The call has been played and
replayed through the years, representing a high water
mark for Most while transforming him into cultural
icon. That the reaction was a moment of pure, joyous
passion only elevated the call further; one could hardly
imagine Most’s predecessor, Curt Gowdy, losing his
professional cool in such spectacular fashion. All of
which cut to the very core of the Most Philosophy: Be
yourself. Don’t be a phony. And Most wasn’t. What you
saw – and what you heard – was exactly what you got.
Most was not going to pretend to be someone he wasn’t,
on the air or away from it. He was close to the
players, knew them on a first-name basis, even the ones
who were struggling to make the team. And in a way, he
rooted even harder for those types of guys – the twelfth
men, the Conner Henrys of the world – who were trying to
become a part of the Celtic family. He didn’t pretend
not to care. He wanted them to succeed as much as a
Bill Russell, Dave Cowens, or Larry Bird.
Most was there when Red hung up
the clipboard after the title streak reached eight. The
year was 1966, and Russell was named player/coach. The
aging Celtics, deprived of quality draft picks by
constantly picking so low, remained a factor by adding
bench strength via trade. Wayne Embry – so big that he
was dubbed “The Wall” by Most – was brought in as a
backup for Russell, while multitalented forward Bailey
Howell was added for his offensive punch. Still, it
wasn’t enough; the Celtics ran into a buzz saw in the
form of the Philadelphia 76ers, and every expert from
New York to Los Angeles proclaimed the dynasty over.
Not even close; the Celtics won it all again in ’68, and
then again in ’69 – Russell’s last season in a
brilliant, hall-of-fame career.
That ’69 series against the
Lakers was a classic, and pitted Russell against Wilt
Chamberlain for the last time. It also brought the two
greatest broadcasters together yet again – Most, and the
legendary Chick Hearn, the Lakers’ radio personality.
When they arrived at the Forum for Game 7, both
broadcasters were surprised at what they saw: Team
owner Jack Kent Cooke was so confident of a Laker
victory that he’d arranged for thousands of celebratory
balloons to be tied to the ceiling. He’d brought in the
USC Trojan Marching Band. Cases of champagne were
stacked high outside of the Laker locker room. The
media were handed press releases before the game which
began: “When (not if) the Lakers win the championship…”
All of which added up to the
perfect motivation for the Russell, Sam Jones and the
rest of the Celtics. Most and Hearn talked about it
before the game, and both men knew that Cooke’s plan –
his own victory cigar of sorts – could very easily blow
up in his face. Even Auerbach, for all of his
arrogance, knew that there was a time to light up, and
that that time was never before the game had been
played.
The game became famous for
Wilt’s phantom injury, and his coach’s refusal to let
him re-enter the game. Don Nelson launched the shot
that hit rim, bounced straight up, and dropped cleanly
through the net. Game, set, match. A jubilant Johnny
Most was beside himself with joy.
“We busted their balloons,” he
screamed. “The USC Band is packing their instruments
and all the champagne has suddenly gone flat. And then
there’s poor Wilt, who probably is icing his boo-boo
right now while picking up a crying towel.”
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