Four months before the season unexpectedly fell into disarray, the broader Boston Celtics organization came together in a theater to celebrate another championship milestone. I checked in at a small desk and entered, finding myself just blocks away from significant Boston landmarks: the church where Bob Cousy delivered John Havlicek`s eulogy and the upscale hotel where Red Auerbach once resided. For months, I had been engrossed in the city`s rich basketball history, a history made most palpable by the living individuals who had witnessed and, in some cases, shaped it. This particular evening was a gathering of these witnesses and esteemed figures. An undeniable sense of history energized the room. Bill Russell`s daughter, Karen, carried herself with grace, catching up with Boston`s press corps. Jayson Tatum and Jaylen Brown were central figures, engaging with attendees. Jackie MacMullan introduced me to Celtics guard Jrue Holiday. Dan Shaughnessy and his wife mingled near the bar, while 1981 Finals MVP Cedric Maxwell found a small table and settled in. “The connection is family,” commented Red Auerbach`s youngest daughter, Randy. “It`s part of our DNA.”
The event on this snowy Friday was the premiere of Bill Simmons` HBO documentary series, `Celtics City,` which chronicles Boston`s history through the lens of its basketball team. Sam Cassell, who secured a title as a backup guard in 2008 and another as an assistant coach last season, exchanged greetings with players and staff from various eras.
“This is a lifestyle!” he remarked later. “Being a Celtic is a lifestyle!”
The 2024 Larry O`Brien Trophy, gleaming brightly, was displayed on a pedestal in the center of the celebration. No one present was too reserved to appreciate the significance of the moment; even owner Wyc Grousbeck took a photo. The party commemorated the glory of the previous season, even as the current team aimed for a consecutive title. Jayson Tatum embodies the core challenge faced by the modern Celtics: he must honor the illustrious past while remaining focused on the future. Professional athletes like Tatum often intensely concentrate on the present, striving to forge a future so brilliant that their legacy is secured indefinitely. However, athletes pursuing this dream in Boston encounter a unique opportunity trap. While tradition provides inspiration and vitality, it also imposes significant burdens. As Bill Russell famously said upon Bob Cousy`s retirement, Cousy`s memory became their opponent, just as formidable as the Lakers.
When Wyc Grousbeck acquired the Celtics in 2002, he found the team`s subculture fragmented, largely due to Rick Pitino`s decision to demote Red Auerbach from team president. One of Grousbeck`s immediate actions was to take a private jet to D.C., where Auerbach lived, and restore him to the team president role. For over two decades, Grousbeck managed the team guided by a simple principle: What would Red do? He shaped the team`s trajectory and earned two titles by drawing lessons from the past. However, this era was reportedly drawing to a close this season. His 89-year-old father, a private equity pioneer, apparently required the family to divest from the team, Grousbeck`s source of immense pride, for estate planning purposes. A sense of uncertainty blended with the celebratory mood as the triumph of the previous season transitioned into the quest for another. You could feel the ground shifting as the new season neared. New ownership was on the horizon. Furthermore, the NBA`s new collective bargaining agreement, designed to prevent sustained dynasties, placed a ticking clock on the current team, which had reached two Finals and won one. In the theater lobby, Grousbeck spotted an older gentleman near the trophy and approached him to show respect. It was Mal Graham, a retired state judge who, in an earlier chapter of his life, had won two championships with the Celtics. Grousbeck and Graham shared a laugh, comparing the size of their championship rings. Grousbeck`s was from 2024, Graham`s from 1969. They touched their rings together, like superheroes joining forces.
“Last back-to-back,” someone standing nearby whispered to me. This was a surprising fact. The Celtics, whose identity is deeply rooted in the concept of an enduring dynasty, have not won consecutive titles since 1969, Bill Russell`s final season. Since then, nine different franchises have achieved this feat over the past 56 years: the Lakers, the Pistons, the Bulls (twice, including two three-peats), the Rockets, the Lakers again (with a three-peat), followed by the Lakers winning two more, then the Heat, and finally the Warriors. Winning multiple consecutive championships is central to the Celtics` historical narrative, yet teams led by Larry Bird and Kevin McHale, Jo Jo White and John Havlicek, and Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce all attempted and failed.
The 2024-25 season was meant to be Jayson Tatum`s opportunity.
Only Two Remain
Only two men from that foundational era are still with us: Bob Cousy, now 96, and Satch Sanders, 86. They are the last surviving members of that remarkable civilization, the architects of the Celtics` enduring culture. While not the very last living teammates of Bill Russell—two-time champion Bailey Howell, aged 88, resides just a couple of hours southeast of me in Mississippi—they hold a uniquely significant place in Boston lore: they are the dynasty`s surviving monarchs, adorned with the rings. Cousy possesses six, Sanders eight. John Havlicek, Tommy Heinsohn, and K.C. Jones also earned eight each (K.C. added two more as a coach in the 1980s). Sam Jones boasted 10, and of course, Russell amassed 11. Their jersey numbers hang from the rafters; their likenesses grace the walls of every old-school Boston establishment. Their influence is palpable throughout the TD Garden and within the team itself. Fans continue to wear their jerseys, and their names are frequently invoked—almost like a sacred liturgy.
“Luckily, we still have Satch and Bob,” Brad Stevens, the Celtics` president of basketball operations, told me.
“Cooz,” is how Randy Auerbach affectionately refers to him.
“Every time Bob Cousy calls, I jump,” said Jeff Twiss, a longtime Celtics PR man.
“I literally tried to think what would Red do, what would Bob do, what would Bill Russell do,” Grousbeck reflected last year.
“I knew John Havlicek as well as I knew anybody,” commented Joe Kennedy, son of RFK and nephew of JFK, when we discussed the Celtics for this story.
“I worked with Satch at the NBA,” Chris Havlicek shared. “Mr. Cousy I`ve known since the day I was born.”
Cousy typically only leaves his home for his regular Thursday night cocktail and pizza gathering at his country club. “I have my two Beefeaters on the rocks,” he shared with a chuckle.
He and Sanders speak about once a month.
“Satch is having hard times,” Cousy said with genuine affection. “His wife has been in hospice for over a month, month and a half now. Ginnie is about ready to leave us. I haven`t spoken to him now in a few weeks. I remind him not to look over his shoulder. We`re the only two freaking guys left!”
Mostly, as you can gather, they joke about death. It`s a form of gallows humor. Cousy references the “big basketball court in the sky.” The quiet anticipation of their passing is respectfully acknowledged yet present. In Marcus Thompson II`s 2021 book about the NBA`s greatest dynasties, he acutely observed the approaching era of public funerals. “What was evident then,” he wrote, “was how the grains of sand in their hourglasses were dwindling.”
“You`re not going anyplace,” Satch told his friend last year. “You`re only 95.”
“But I`m in a wheelchair now,” Cousy replied.
“Cooz, that happens.”
Satch Sanders greeted me in the lobby of his retirement community, where he mentioned he is the only Black resident among 300 and the only former Boston Celtic. The staff clearly dotes on him. We passed a billiards table as he guided me toward his apartment.
“My wife just died two months ago,” he said.
“I`m really sorry, sir,” I responded.
He smiled wistfully.
“We all fall in that group,” he said, “particularly in a place like this.”
When someone passes away, their photograph is placed in a room down the hall with blue walls. Four new photos had been added that very week.
“The guys always joke about a picture in the blue room,” he said. “The women take it a little more seriously. We were here for five years. That`s a good run. I see some people moving in, and I find myself wondering how long they`ll last.”
He led me down a long corridor, then we turned right and continued walking until we reached his door. African masks adorned the wall. His wife had felt it was important for them to bring cherished items with them as they downsized their lives. She had hung a sign that read, “Two old crabs live here.”
“Time to take that down,” he murmured.
He hadn`t attended his wife`s funeral. He hadn`t attended Bill Russell`s funeral either.
“Funerals are always…” he trailed off.
Years ago, he decided to stop going. He feels his life has often been interpreted by strangers, so eulogies hold little meaning for him. He has no desire to hear a well-meaning person claim his friend is in a better place or that his wife looked wonderful in her open casket.
“She looked better when she was alive,” he stated.
“Being alive is important,” he emphasized.
“Being dead… is… gone.”
“It`s being gone.”
His apartment was filled with natural light. He raised the blinds, offering a view of the surrounding cottages. Gin, his wife, used to say the small houses looked like postcards in the winter, dusted with snow on their gables. A framed piece of the old Garden`s parquet floor hung on the wall. His wife`s medical records sat on the table in a leaning stack of paperwork, of little use now. A red 3-pound weight and a black 5-pound weight were placed conveniently near his chair.
“Just kick some pillows out of the way,” he instructed me, shrugging.
These were his craft projects; he makes pillows for people.
“Something to do, you know?” he said, laughing softly at himself.
I inquired about the recent losses within his basketball circle.
“I don`t answer calls when people start with, `Did you know?…` `Did you know` is always going to be followed by, `He died.`”
He sighed twice.
“Did any of the deaths affect you differently?” I asked.
“Chamberlain,” he replied quickly. “We always saw him as being so big and so strong.”
“What about Bill Russell?”
Sanders shook his head.
“Russell was human,” he said.
After nearly a year observing the Celtics` pursuit of a repeat championship, I flew to Boston during what felt like the potential final days of a once-promising season. Some seasons build upon success, others struggle to maintain it, and some witness aspirations fade away. This year, the Celtics experienced all three simultaneously, and the end seemed near. In the preceding week, they had squandered three double-digit leads (20, 20, and 14 points), falling behind the surging Knicks 3-1 in the series. In the closing moments of the last of those losses, Jayson Tatum suffered a frightening injury to his right Achilles. The season, and the quest to repeat, though technically still alive, felt almost secondary as Boston awaited Tatum`s medical update. Sitting on the plane, I exchanged texts with Karen Russell, Bill`s daughter, whom I had first met at the HBO premiere. We chatted about how she enjoys visiting K.C. Jones` daughter in Atlanta for authentic southern soul food.
We discussed Tatum`s injury. If it were an Achilles tear, he would likely miss the entirety of the next season. Karen and her brother had attended a baseball game that night with family friend Lenny Wilkens and didn`t hear the news until they returned home. Karen, protective by nature, tried to avoid premature worry until an official diagnosis was announced.
“I`m struggling to not be worried,” she confessed.
An air of melancholy uncertainty hung over the franchise. How long would Tatum be sidelined? Would he fully recover? When would the team`s sale be finalized? New owners would undoubtedly want to implement their vision. And because of the collective bargaining agreement, a clock had been ticking for a year on the current roster. It felt somewhat like a doomsday countdown, and when Tatum collapsed on the Madison Square Garden floor, the minute hand seemed to lurch toward midnight. Simultaneously, with Cousy at 96 and Sanders at 86, the living link connecting the uncertain present to the glorious past has never felt more tenuous or vulnerable.
The next morning, with eight long hours until Game 5, I went to see a fragment of an old Boston relic, saved from destruction by Ted Tye, a Celtics season-ticket holder and successful businessman. It was one side of the scoreboard that hung in the old Garden during the final two Bill Russell championships—the last back-to-back titles. After the Garden was demolished, the scoreboard spent years in a suburban mall food court, gradually blending into the background alongside the pizza and burgers. When that mall was slated for demolition, a foreman overseeing the wrecking called Tye in a panic.
“We`re about to destroy the scoreboard,” he reported.
“Just stop,” Tye instructed him.
Tye is a collector of Boston sports memorabilia. He arranged for the scoreboard to be dismantled, loaded onto a flatbed truck, and moved to an empty warehouse he controlled. It remained there for years, stripped of its outdated electrical components, a hollow shell. Finally, he installed one side of the sign in a new building on the site of the former Boston Herald offices, where it is visible to cars on the adjacent elevated freeway. The original lightbulbs were non-functional, so Tye installed new electronic panels displaying the month, date, and time: May 14, 11:29 a.m. This scoreboard, originally installed in 1967, was overhead the last time Tye ever saw his father alive—at a Celtics game at the Garden in 1989. Watching the new HBO series, Tye saw a familiar face and paused the screen, finding himself seated with his late father directly behind Red Auerbach. The Celtics are interwoven into many aspects of his life, and like most people I encountered in the city, Tye was eager to discuss Tatum`s injury, mourning the setback for a star and the team he leads.
“That`s a tough injury,” he told me. “You don`t know if Brad Stevens is gonna break it all up now.”
The Second Quarter
On October 22, 2024, the Boston Celtics presented their players with championship rings and unveiled the franchise`s 18th banner. It was the season opener, marked by unseasonably warm weather in the city. Cirrus clouds and haze softened the blue sky. Bob Cousy arrived several hours early in a car provided by the team. VIP guests waited in a tent in the parking lot. The governor of Massachusetts, who had worn Cousy`s No. 14 from junior high through college basketball, expressed how proud she and the state were of him. The arena gradually filled. The VIP tent emptied. Cousy waited in the tunnel in a wheelchair. Celtics PR veteran Jeff Twiss wheeled him out when an event staffer gave the signal. Cousy looked up at him.
“Don`t f— this up,” he quipped.
Former champions emerged onto the court sequentially, each announced with the reverence due royalty.
“Six-time NBA champion, No. 14, Bob Cousy!”
Twiss expertly navigated Cousy to center court through a lengthy line of fans and dignitaries. Bob waved to the cheering crowd. He is the only living player to have witnessed both the first and the most recent Celtics banner raisings. As Dan Shaughnessy reported in the next morning`s Globe: “Cousy played with John Havlicek, who played with Cedric Maxwell, who played with Kevin McHale, who played with Rick Fox, who played with Antoine Walker, who played with Paul Pierce, who played with Avery Bradley, who played with Jaylen Brown.”
Cedric Maxwell followed Cousy, representing two of the three titles from the 1980s. Then came three members of the 2008 championship team, the most recent champions before 2024: “No. 20” Ray Allen, “No. 5” Kevin Garnett, and “with the 2024 Larry O`Brien Trophy, The Truth, No. 34, Paul Pierce!”
Pierce proudly rotated the trophy for all to see. KG pounded his chest, partially obscured by dark sunglasses. They assembled as Adam Silver presented the championship rings. Jaylen Brown rested his left arm on Bob Cousy`s wheelchair. Jayson Tatum stood on Cousy`s other side, an arm around Ray Allen. Silver announced that this title placed the Celtics ahead of the Lakers as the NBA`s winningest franchise, 18 to 17, prompting KG to clap loudly enough for his reaction to be picked up by Silver`s microphone.
“Eighteen banners,” Silver declared, looking up, then glancing at Bob before continuing. “And of course, six of those rings belong to Bob Cousy!”
The crowd responded with a booming chant of COOZ, a deep sound that might be mistaken for boos by the uninitiated. The ceremony concluded, and Twiss wheeled Cousy back beneath the arena. He slipped into a waiting car, heading home to watch the game on television.
The world outside the arena seemed unfamiliar to him as the car navigated the city streets. Where exactly had the old Boston Garden stood? Was it here? A block over? Cousy gazed out the window, leaving the cheering crowd behind.
“I`ve had my moment in the sun,” he reflected.
Satch was recounting a story about Cousy and the future King of England. A few years prior, Prince William and Kate visited Boston and planned to attend a Celtics game. The organization wanted to extend maximum respect to their guests and requested Bob Cousy make the 47-mile journey from his home to the Garden.
Cousy called Satch.
“Are you going?” he asked.
“I`m not going,” Satch replied.
“Well, I`m not going either,” Cousy stated.
The team intervened and put pressure on Sanders.
“You`re the younger of the two,” they reasoned.
“So I went,” he told me.
“Did Cooz go?”
Satch laughed.
“No, he didn`t go.”
Satch attended and spoke with the royals, who seemed particularly fascinated by his size 18 shoes.
“Mah GAWD!” he exclaimed, imitating a British accent.
He shifted in his seat, moving slowly. I asked him about the experience of aging. He smiled in a way that was subtly unsettling.
“How old are you?” he inquired.
“Forty-eight,” I replied. “What do you wish someone had told you at 48?”
“Just being realistic about this is the best you`re ever going to be,” he said. “Things aren`t getting better. You are deteriorating slowly but surely. The hope is you`ll be around for a fair amount of time and feel reasonably good, but the odds are against it. You`re probably going to suffer from the ailments older people suffer with. Legs aren`t what they used to be. Sleepless nights. Friends and loved ones dying.”
He was born in 1938.
His father was born in 1905.
“Understand that it`s a situation of diminishing returns. You`re not going to improve like fine wine. People like to use those old clichés.”
His maternal grandfather was born in 1870.
“Getting older is about losing… being less than.”
His maternal great-grandfather, James, was born enslaved without a last name in 1830.
“Less than you were,” he repeated. “You know?”
Numerous photographs adorned the wall, including one he cherishes showing Wilt Chamberlain about to “posterize” him, caught in the very act. There was another where he`s captured in a Magic Johnson-esque stride, looking confident and dappled in light, bringing the ball up court. His eyes seem to search for teammates, likely Russell, and Sanders has a smile on his face in the picture.
“What of that person still exists?” I asked.
He walked over to examine it. His knees produced a sound like Rice Krispies. A small grin crossed his face as memories resurfaced.
“That guy,” he said with a laugh.
The photo hung near tall wooden elephant statues and a cat figurine his wife adored. The first thing he noticed in the image was his apparent happiness. He laughed again, knowing his dribbling wasn`t exactly how the team`s offense was schemed.
“Auerbach is probably on the sidelines crying the blues,” he mused.
In the photo, he wore a thigh brace. He believed Willie Smith was the referee, and the defender looked like Wayne Hightower.
“But anyway, I know Auerbach was wishing I`d pass the ball.”
Sanders looked back at me.
“I could handle the ball,” he insisted.
Soon, he would be moving from this apartment into a smaller one.
“It`s less expensive,” he explained.
There was a long pause.
“And, um,” he continued after another pause.
“If I stay here, I`m thinking about her all the time.”
Each month, he contributes a column to the community newsletter titled “Satch`s Corner.” They are genuinely amusing. Writing has become his primary hobby now, along with making pillows and watching the Celtics on television. His old neighbors frequently bring their grandchildren and great-grandchildren to meet the complex`s only celebrity.
“You`re that basketball player,” they say, and as he recounted this, he pointed toward the photograph hanging on the opposite wall. It seemed nobody was truly interested in the 86-year-old man standing before them; they wanted to connect with the legendary figure on the wall.
Brotherhood and Burdens
Bill Russell and K.C. Jones were college roommates and remained close lifelong friends. Satch Sanders discovered that Cousy would curse you out in French if you missed one of his passes. Tommy Heinsohn learned that Cousy often woke up screaming from chronic nightmares in the middle of the night. A few of them, including Cousy, cheekily took matchbooks with the presidential seal during a visit to the White House. President Kennedy, upon hearing his hometown team was present, rushed to meet them. One by one, the players said their goodbyes. Satch Sanders became nervous, and when he reached the president, flustered, he blurted out, “Take it easy, baby.” Kennedy roared with laughter, as did the Celtics, and they would playfully tease Satch about it for the rest of his life.
They played gin rummy or hearts on the back of turboprop planes, usually Russell, Heinsohn, and Cousy. During a goodwill tour behind the Iron Curtain, the entire team convinced two Polish coaches to dress up as secret police, complete with fake badges, and pretend to arrest Heinsohn, who was completely fooled and chain-smoked until Cousy and Auerbach burst in laughing.
Russell once entered the locker room wearing a cape.
“Here comes Batman!” Cousy joked.
Few teams have been documented as extensively as the Celtics of the 1950s and `60s. Gary Pomerantz`s book about Cousy and Russell, `The Last Pass,` stands as a seminal work. Bill Russell authored three different memoirs in 1965, 1979, and 2009. These books, and the numerous others written by and about the players from those teams, paint a vivid picture of a specific time, place, and a brotherhood that endured long after their playing days ended. They didn`t always like each other, but a deep love and bond connected them.
Their lives were intricately interwoven.
Sam Jones dedicated himself to convincing Bill Russell`s son, Buddha, that Sam was his favorite basketball player. Russell delighted in lifting one of Cousy`s daughters high into the air, yelling with joy, “Hey, little Cooz!” Sanders frequently lost his contact lenses, and on one occasion, a game was paused as ten players crawled on the court searching for the missing lens. Naturally, Bill Russell found it.
“Here, Satch,” he declared triumphantly. “Do I have to do everything on this team?”
Heinsohn served as a unifying force for the team. He would sit with radio announcer Johnny Most in late-night hotel lobbies, listening to Most`s stories about being a gunner on a B-24 in World War II. Everyone looked up to Heinsohn. One year during the Finals, he had a memorable confrontation with Wilt Chamberlain.
“Do that one more time and I`ll knock you on your ass,” Wilt growled.
Heinsohn held his ground.
“Bring your f—– lunch,” he retorted.
K.C. Jones would sing whenever the opportunity arose. Satch was adept at doing a great impression of Russell. Russell often received grief for getting his low-slung Lamborghini stuck in the snow. One evening, Cousy and Heinsohn found themselves at the bar of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel with Lauren Bacall. Tall, standing 5`8″ in bare feet, she wore a perfume that smelled of roses and blackcurrants. Bob had his gym bag with him. Lauren mischievously snatched it, pulled out a jock strap with a flourish, and tossed it across the bar at him. He dodged the smelly projectile and threw it back.
On the road, due to his seniority and star status, Cousy was assigned a large suite to himself. Hotel rooms often became his entire world. Meanwhile, Heinsohn enjoyed looking out the hotel window and painting, primarily watercolors. This was a team comprised of interesting, distinctive individuals. Russell loved to read; the book that most deeply affected him was a biography of the complex Haitian revolutionary leader Henri Christophe, who constructed a fort to defend Black people from enslavers. The fort still stands and is a rare monument in the Western Hemisphere built by a Black man. That fact, and particularly that phrase, “A Black man,” resonated profoundly with Russell.
Cousy was also an avid reader, consuming histories, novels, and memoirs, including Theodore H. White`s `The Making of the President 1960` and `To Kill a Mockingbird.` Harper Lee`s work moved him greatly. Occasionally, Heinsohn could persuade Bob to join him for a beer or two. Like Russell, Cousy was a complex and private man with deep emotional wounds from his impoverished and sometimes violent upbringing, and he would sometimes murmur to himself in French throughout the night, his subconscious seemingly never at peace.
“In later years, as the pressure intensified, Cousy experienced the agony that only a superstar can truly comprehend,” Russell wrote. “The life of a superstar includes—lonely nights, dreadful hotel rooms, and nightmares. Cousy shared a story about his nightmares and sleepwalking becoming so severe that he eventually had to tie himself to his bed. His nightmares were so terrifying that he once got out of bed completely naked and ended up running into trees as he fled his frightening dream—and this was during the offseason.”
The Price of Stardom
On the court, everything centered around Russell. Most NBA players caught in a defensive trap would yell, “Help.” Russell`s Celtics would shout “RUSS!” Every offensive play began with an entry pass to Russ. However, off the court, much of the public acclaim gravitated toward the flashy, famous Cousy.
Reporters and fans attributed Celtic victories to Cousy—Cousy`s genius, Cousy`s talent, Cousy`s leadership. For years, the press attempted to provoke him into making dismissive comments about Russell, but he consistently refused. To a large segment of the public, a white star in Boston was considered the center of the basketball universe, with the Black star revolving around him. Reporters wrote glowingly about Cousy, crowding him in the locker room, and this disparity hurt Russell.
He never forgot the college incident where, after leading his team to one of two national titles and a 55-game winning streak, a white player was named the Most Valuable Player in Northern California. Forty years later, simply mentioning the name Ken Sears could still provoke a reaction from him. Consequently, he resented the disproportionate lionization of Cousy, even while fully acknowledging his teammate`s greatness.
Russell wrote: “I would encounter situations like this: You`ve blocked fourteen shots, scored twenty-three points, and grabbed thirty-one rebounds against someone like Chamberlain, and the Celtics are now up one game in the Eastern Finals. You come out of the dressing room, and someone says: `Let me shake your hand. I`ve just shaken the hand of the greatest basketball player in the world, Bob Cousy. Now, I want to shake the hand of the second greatest.`”
The first season Russell played without Cousy, the Celtics` home attendance dropped by 1,500 fans per game.
As teammates, the two men frequently discussed basketball but rarely anything else. Cousy would read the news and see everything Russell said about racism in Boston and across America but never brought it up with him.
“He went his way and I went mine,” Russell wrote.
Pomerantz suggested that Bob Cousy was simply too preoccupied with being Bob Cousy to fully embrace the burden of understanding Russell`s experiences with American racism. If Russell found it difficult to have anything more than superficial conversations with Cousy, Cousy also seemed unable to delve deeper. Both would later admit to profound loneliness. They spent thousands of days side by side yet never truly understood each other.
Pomerantz drew a comparison to Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.
“The problem was,” he said, “they both really wanted to be Ruth.”
Endings and Legacies
The end of Bob Cousy`s playing career arrived in 1963. The team designated St. Patrick`s Day as Bob Cousy Day—or perhaps St. Cousy Day on Bob Patrick Day, a confluence of myths easily appreciated in the Irish neighborhoods south of the Garden. Cousy went to the arena alone that day, using a passageway from his hotel. As the hotel door locked behind him, he found the arena door also locked and had to knock for several minutes before a cleaning crew member asked who was knocking so insistently.
“One of the players,” Cousy replied.
A large stereo microphone was lowered from the rafters on a long black cord. A heavy wooden lectern, serving as a temporary pulpit, was positioned on the court. The Garden staff arranged chairs on the court for the Cousy family: one for his wife, Missie, and one each for his mother and father. His daughters stood alongside Bob. Owner Walter Brown presented him with a sterling silver tea set and a 1963 steel gray Cadillac. Red Auerbach read a letter from President John F. Kennedy, in which the president asserted that as long as basketball was played anywhere in the world, the rhythmic movement of the ball between teammates would serve as a memorial to Bob Cousy. Auerbach hugged him, and an emotional dam within Cousy broke. He began to sob, burying his head in Red`s shoulder. The team`s founder and owner, Walter Brown, spoke next.
He recounted that the franchise was only five years old when Cousy joined.
“Things weren`t always so good with the Celtics,” he said. “One year, things were so bad I couldn`t pay them their playoff money. Bob never said a word.”
Brown credited Cousy`s commitment, and the grace of his teammates, with the very existence of the Boston Celtics team. He seemed to urge the fans never to forget: there was no money, Brown had mortgaged his house and even sold some furniture. Cousy`s dedication gifted all the future success that followed, from Russell to Bird to Tatum.
Cousy spoke last, arranging his notes on the podium. His wife and two daughters joined him at center court, the girls holding bouquets of flowers. Cousy fought back tears before he even began, looking up at the silent crowd. He sniffled into the microphone.
“Mere words seem so inadequate in order to say the things,” he began, his voice cracking. He stopped and looked down. His daughter wiped her eyes. The atmosphere felt like a Viking funeral. The crowd applauded as Cousy struggled to regain composure.
“I hope you`ll bear with me,” he said.
The mayor and the governor sent gifts. Cousy thanked them all, and then thanked his teammates` wives for their kindnesses to his family. His daughter handed him a tissue. He spoke of knowing he would miss the brotherhood that vanishes the moment an athlete leaves a team. He broke down again. A pregnant, emotional silence hung in the Garden.
“WE LOVE YA, COOZ!” a fan yelled.
His younger daughter wiped her eyes. His mother, wearing a mink stole, did the same. Bob`s voice cracked once more. He finally finished his remarks, notably without naming his teammates or speaking of Russell. He hugged his mother, then his wife, then his two daughters, and blew a kiss to the crowd. The organist played the familiar opening notes of `Auld Lang Syne,` and the Garden erupted. People rose through the haze of cigarette smoke, leaning over the loge decks, cheering passionately. The applause seemed to intensify in waves. No one remained seated. They cheered for two minutes and six seconds.
The team gathered later at the Lenox Hotel on Boylston Street.
Russell stood to speak, loosening his tie.
“If Bob Cousy were this much less a man,” he said, holding his large hands an inch apart, “I would have resented him.”
“I didn`t want to come tonight,” he confessed.
He paused, and everyone leaned in, knowing Bill Russell always spoke his truth.
“I`m too big a man to cry,” he stated.
Cousy was astonished.
“We see each other as brothers,” Russell continued. “You meet a Cousy not once in a month but once in a lifetime.”
He looked over at Cousy. He felt the weight of what might have been had they been closer friends. Both men did. Their wives, Missie and Rose, wept in each other`s arms.
Russell bowed his head and walked away.
Later, in private, he presented Cousy with a gift he had personally selected at a jewelry shop established in 1796, directly across from Paul Revere`s silver store. It was a desk clock with bronze hour and minute hands, engraved on the back: “May The Next Seventy Be As Pleasant As The Last Seven. From The Russells To The Cousys.”
Bob and Missie placed the gift on a mahogany table in their dining room, where it remains to this day. Cousy has sold most of his memorabilia—rings, an autographed picture from President Kennedy, a basketball marking his 5,000th assist. Nearly everything.
“But not that clock,” Pomerantz noted.
Continuing the Journey
“Four, three, two, one,” a coach counted during practice as Jayson Tatum navigated a double team under time pressure at the end of a possession, quarter, or game. He missed the shot. The coach retrieved the ball, and the drill continued.
“Seven, six, five.”
Tatum was the last player on the court at the Auerbach Center. He is striving for greatness, aiming to be the best ever—a path that often leads to an unfulfilled life. Cousy suffered from nightmares. Russell stared at hotel walls until he felt he was losing his mind. Bird remains reclusive. Tatum was nearly alone in the Auerbach Center, moving from wing to wing, taking jump shots, making and missing them, driving for layups.
“Twelve, 11, 10,” the coach counted.
Tatum dribbled at the elbow, moving fluidly, drifting backward for a fadeaway jump shot that clanged off the back of the rim. The energy that surged through the Garden on Bob Cousy Night still exists as dispersed molecules, eager to coalesce once more. Each carries a fragment of inherited history, waiting for the signal of the arena`s horn. Bob and Russ, Heinsohn, Hondo, Satch Sanders, Sam and K.C. Jones—they paved the road Jayson Tatum now travels, passing familiar landmarks. First, like Cousy and Russell, he has reached a point of recognition, where he truly grasps his significance to the place, the city, and its people. That is a beautiful phase in the journey of every Celtics great, and he is experiencing it now.
But a second, deeper truth awaits a rare few, it seems. It`s not something found outwardly but rather… inwardly. The true life`s work for any Celtics legend is to strive to understand what they meant to one another, and what they could have meant—to a teammate, even to a rival. The pursuit of greatness demands such single-minded focus that the traveler may only realize too late that the entire purpose of the journey was the people with whom they traveled. Fellow seekers, pilgrims, following the path blazed by Cousy and Russ.
Tatum moved along the three-point line, shifted left at the top of the key, and missed again. Driving down the right baseline, he made a fadeaway. He has won one title and is contending for another. Living so intensely in the present takes its toll. One day, Bob Cousy and I were discussing championship rings and the experience of winning 11 titles in 13 years. Even now, he fixates on the ones that eluded them.
“It should have been 12,” he said.
Bill Russell, he explained, injured his ankle in the 1958 Finals, and they lost the series without him. That was 67 years ago. And also, somehow, just yesterday. Jayson Tatum`s sneakers squeaked in the silent gym. He finished the drill and moved to the free-throw line. Jaylen Brown, the older players note, is more inclined to study the past. He is the only current Celtic who has made an effort to get to know Satch Sanders. Tatum is busy trying to be Jayson Tatum.
Swish.
Swish.
Miss.
Russell 11. Sam Jones 10. Havlicek 8. Sanders 8. Cousy 6. Bird 3. Tatum 1.
Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish.
He composed himself. Received the ball. Dribbled, feeling the leather against his hand, then his fingertips. Bill Russell lived for 88 years; for 75 of those, he was not an active Boston Celtic. These playing careers are fleeting moments. Tatum exhaled.
Swish.
The Celtics Tribe
Russell played six seasons after Cousy retired and spent much of that time contemplating the concept of tribes. He spoke about it constantly; it was his fundamental way of seeing the world—small groups of people with their own customs, rules, and rituals. It was his personal source code and his lens on life. Russell famously stated he didn`t play for Boston, he played for the Celtics. He viewed his team as a sacred assembly of individuals, both a vehicle for exploration and a safe harbor of belonging. They were not merely sportsmen entertainers; they were warrior kings. Yes, Russ was Black, Red was Jewish, Cousy was the son of immigrants, and Ramsey hailed from the South, but they all belonged to a tribe more powerful than the ones they were born into. They had, in effect, been reborn: They were Celtics.
Bill`s father, Charles Russell, enjoyed imparting wisdom through phrases and mantras. A tribe, he taught his son, should be proud but never arrogant, powerful but never destructive. “You must acknowledge and accept other tribes,” he told Bill, “And never say, `My tribe can do this, so they`re better than yours.`”
Russell struggled emotionally and mentally in those initial seasons without Cousy. Medgar Evers was assassinated. John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Three civil rights workers were murdered in Philadelphia, Mississippi. Russell spent considerable time staring at walls, repeatedly saying he was “on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
Russell described basketball as “the loneliest life in the world. A world of bright lights and screaming emotion and vast amounts of money—and deep wells of loneliness. So deep. Such an abyss. You fall far into it and all your life struggle to come back up.”
Boston itself never truly felt like home, but the Celtics did. The team earned him his place in the proud lineage of patriarchs in his family. His grandfather, Jake, famously drove the Ku Klux Klan off his land by firing a shotgun as they fled. His other grandfather used his own money to build the first school for Black children in his area. When a gas station attendant once called his father “boy” and threatened him, Charles Russell pursued the man with a tire iron. As an old man, Bill Russell would recall that moment with immense pride. His inheritance was a fierce rhetorical and spiritual armor.
Russell drove south the year after Cousy retired, passing through the Jim Crow states with his children to visit family. His son, Jacob, named after his grandfather, kept asking to stop for food. In the boy`s usual world, his father was one of the most famous men in the country. But in the South, he was simply Black. It broke something inside Russell to keep gripping the steering wheel as his son pleaded, “Daddy, can`t we stop? Daddy, I`m hungry.”
Season after season, he led his team to victory, eventually taking over as head coach when Auerbach stepped down. Russell was the first Black head coach in any of the four major American sports. The Celtics organization holds numerous historical firsts: drafting the first Black player in NBA history, hiring the first Black coach, and starting the first all-Black lineup.
Russell read, studied, and tirelessly championed the causes he believed in. Martin Luther King Jr. met with Russell as he prepared for his “I Have a Dream” speech; King invited him to sit on the stage, but Russell felt he didn`t belong and watched from the crowd. He organized a basketball camp in Mississippi in Medgar Evers` name after the civil rights leader`s murder. He supported John Carlos and Tommie Smith, and Muhammad Ali. Playing in Boston, he later recounted, was a traumatic experience. His house was vandalized multiple times. His future neighbors in the suburb of Reading openly opposed his moving into the community and circulated a petition. Rose Russell cried upon hearing about it.
“They don`t want us here,” she said.
Not long after winning the third of his 11 championships, a man approached Russell while he was stopped at a traffic light in his new Lincoln. “Hey, n—–,” the man shouted. “How many crap games did it take you to win that car?”
For 13 seasons, he felt a sense of claustrophobia.
“As we got to know each other better, I think the thing that I was most curious about was how he handled all of the pressure,” his widow, Jeannine Russell, shared. “He was carrying the weight of the whole city, his team, the black community, and his own expectations on his shoulders.”
Finally, after the 1969 season, following two consecutive championships, Russell retired. He drove alone in his Lamborghini toward California, accelerating across the vast expanse of the American West, returning to his roots—his old home in Oakland and his new one on Mercer Island in Seattle.
Decades passed. The Celtics family began to diminish. Red Auerbach`s daughters, living on opposite coasts, divided the responsibility for attending funerals: Randy would handle the West Coast services, and Nancy the East Coast ones. Their father deeply cherished these men, who remained perpetually young in the memories of his life.
“The phone would ring and he would just light up,” Randy Auerbach recalled.
Auerbach hosted weekly lunches at a Chinese restaurant in D.C. and played tennis frequently with Sam Jones, who lived nearby. But in 2006, Red`s health declined rapidly. Russell flew to D.C. to say goodbye. Red sat in his favorite chair, and they reminisced warmly about the past.
“What happened to that sports car you had?” Red asked.
Russell smiled, recognizing Red was still teasing him about the Lamborghini.
“We are driving a nice, slow minivan,” Russell replied.
“It`s come to that?” Auerbach said with a laugh.
Not long after, Red Auerbach passed away. His daughters personally called only two former Celtics players to inform them of the news.
Bill Russell and Bob Cousy.
