Bill Russell stories
Four years after Bill Russell’s passing, here are some lesser-known stories that reveal the man behind the legend.
From Aram Goudsouzian’s book, King of the Court
After final exams [Russell’s USF Dons] team embarked on a sixteen-day, seven-game tour across the country. It began in Chicago at the DePaul Invitational Tournament, the old stomping grounds of George Mikan. The great center had attended DePaul from 1941 to 1945 before joining the pros. When Russell was a fifteen-year-old third-string center for the McClymonds junior varsity, he watched his first professional game, an exhibition featuring the Minneapolis Lakers. After the game, Mikan saw the gangly black kid outside the locker room. “How ya ‘doin’, big fella?” asked Mikan. He talked to Russell for fifteen minutes, urging him to keep playing basketball. From that day on, Russell idolized Mikan.
From Elgin Baylor’s book, Hang Time: My Life in Basketball
Standing in the hallway outside Russell’s door, flanked by Lloyd and Francis, I clear my throat, hesitate, and then knock twice.
“Who is it?” comes the voice of Bill Russell.
“It’s … Elgin Baylor.”
“Rabbit?” [Elgin’s nickname]
The door swings open and there’s Bill Russell. About four inches taller than me, wiry, his eyes dancing, his face lit up in an electric smile, he waves us into his room. “Come in, come in,” he says. Once inside his room, his hands resting on his hips, he considers me, sizes me up, and then laughs, an easy, loud, high-pitched, contagious cackle that I will experience a thousand times in my lifetime.
He offers us drinks, and we each take a soda. We make small talk, and after a while Lloyd and Francis thank him again for the tickets, stand, and excuse themselves, saying they need to get some sleep for tomorrow’s game. I stand to go, too, assuming Bill needs to get to bed as well.
“You don’t have to go on my account,” he says. “Stay for a while.”
“What about your game tomorrow?”
“No competition,” he says. “I don’t need that much rest.”
I must look stunned, because he says, “I’m not putting down the other team. I just don’t worry about them. They have the problem—they’re playing against me.”
He pauses, then explodes into that cackle.
…
At one point, I glance at the alarm clock across the room on his nightstand. I can’t believe the time: it’s past three o’clock in the morning. I get to my feet, feeling lightheaded and energized at the same time.
“You got a game in a few hours,” I say. “You’d better get some sleep.”
“Told you: don’t need much against this team.”
His eyes glisten, he waits, and then he bursts into his laugh.
The next day, sitting at midcourt, I watch Bill Russell and his San Francisco Dons dismantle a decent UCLA team, 72–61.
Russell dropped 21 points and 23 rebounds this game, March 16, 1956.
From Hang Time
The day of the game with the Celtics, several hours before tip-off, Bill and I meet in my hotel room. We catch each other up and Bill asks me how I’m enjoying life in the pros. … We talk some more and then make a plan to meet after the game and go out for dinner. Bill leaves and I take a pregame nap.
…
The horn sounds… The Celtics wait for us to take our positions for the center jump. Bill comes out last, walking slowly, staring straight ahead, his eyes eerily glassy, his expression dark and focused. The players shake hands. Lowering his head, Bill walks into the center circle. I walk over to him, smile, and extend my hand.
He doesn’t take it.
He doesn’t look at me.
He swivels away, turning his back to me, and when he turns in my direction, he looks past me, avoiding eye contact.
He refuses to look at me.
“You are the enemy,” he says without speaking, and then his eyes go almost sinister. “You are nothing. You do not exist.”
I don’t want to take Bill’s reaction personally, but I do. I want him to acknowledge me. More than that: I want to burn my presence into him—and the rest of the Celtics—like a scar.
…
Once, dribbling down the lane, I come face to face with Bill, his arms wide, his body a wall of defiance. Although his face wears no expression, I can read his eyes.
“Come on, Elgin, bring it. I dare you.”
Fair enough.
I take off from the free throw line.
I elevate.
Bill jumps at that same instant. He stretches his hand, his fingers flayed a foot above the rim.
My hand—palming the ball—soars even higher … rising … rising …
And I throw down a dunk—
Over Bill Russell’s outstretched hand.
The crowd goes silent. They can’t believe it.
Bill can’t believe it.
Takes me a second before I believe it.
I turn to see Bill’s reaction.
He has wiped any reaction away. He’s gone stone-faced. Blank.
…
The Celtics take the lead and hold it. We lose 116–113. I sit on the bench for a moment, my chest still heaving, and I think about Bill. During the game, I tried to make eye contact with him a dozen different times and he never looked at me. Not once.
After the game with the Celtics, that loss still smarting, images from the game still stuck in my head, I wait in the hallway outside the dressing room for Bill Russell. I can’t believe that during the entire game, Bill never once acknowledged me, never smiled, frowned, nodded in my direction—nothing. He completely ignored me. It was as if I wasn’t there.
I look at my watch. He’s late.
Maybe he’s not showing. Did I offend him somehow? Did I say something that pissed him off?
The dressing room door opens and Bill steps out. He sees me and his face lights up. He approaches and drapes his arm over my shoulder.
“So, where you want to eat?” he says. “I’m starving.”
I get it. The battle’s over. We’re friends again.
The game was on November 11, 1958. It’s the first time Baylor and Russell faced each other in the pros. Russell drops 22-33-4, and Baylor drops 36-23.
From King of the Court
Russell applied psychological intimidation better than anyone in NBA history. Especially as he got older, he wanted young opponents to think of him as a “legendary hero.” He sauntered to the tip-off with a regal nonchalance—his arms crossed, his chin raised, his strut unhurried, his manner haughty. He then inspired paroxysms of panic and paranoia, which Tom Hawkins of Cincinnati called “Russellphobia.” Though he could not block every shot, the opposition constantly worried that he might. When he squelched an attempt, he smiled like he could do it every time. When rookies attacked the basket, he feigned fury. “Don’t you know who I am?” he hissed at Chicago rookie Bob Love. “Don’t ever dunk on me. Don’t even dream of dunking on me.” His cackles, needles, scowls, and growls nudged shooters out of their comfort zones.
From John Taylor’s book, The Rivalry
Havlicek loved to watch Russell and Chamberlain go at each other one-on-one. Chamberlain was bigger and more athletic, but Russell outhustled him. Russell liked to get downcourt first and box out Chamberlain’s favorite low-post position. Russell was also quicker than Chamberlain in the paint and could jump practically from a standing position, whereas Chamberlain had to bend down and thrust himself up into his jump. Since Russell was three or so inches shorter than Chamberlain, nothing seemed to give Russell more pleasure than blocking Chamberlain’s shot. Havlicek had watched during one game as Russell blocked one of Chamberlain’s shots. Chamberlain recovered the ball and drove in for a second shot, and again Russell blocked it. Chamberlain again recovered and started in for his third shot, but at that moment Russell stepped back. “Go ahead and take it,” Russell said. Havlicek watched as Chamberlain dunked the ball and then turned to follow Russell up the court. It was a masterful psychological ploy, Havlicek thought. Russell had let Chamberlain have his two points, but he had also created the impression that Chamberlain could score only when he, Russell, was willing to let him do so.
From The Rivalry
Russell’s most intimidating move, however, was his shot block. He would tell opponents he was going to make them eat the ball. He blocked so many shots, shoving them back down into the faces of the shooters, that the Celtics started referring to the balls Russell blocked as “Wilsonburgers.” Teams throughout the league adjusted to Russell by changing the way they played the game. Previously, offense in basketball had focused on driving into the basket and then putting the ball in with a hook shot or layup. But because Russell was so effective defensively, teams started passing more and relying on the mid-range jump shot. Outside shooting came to the forefront of the game, and the layup, except on the fast break, all but disappeared. By the spring of Russell’s rookie year, according to one calculation, 75 percent of all field goals were jump shots. “In one beautiful sweeping motion,” the Boston sportswriter Joe Fitzgerald observed, “he was turning the game around.”
From King of the Court
Much of the fascination stemmed from Russell’s revolutionary defense, encapsulated by his mastery of Neil Johnston, a lanky, narrow-faced, sharp-elbowed, 6′8″ center for the Philadelphia Warriors. Besides an awkwardly effective one-hand push shot from long range, Johnston delivered a line drive, half-hook, half-runner with metronomic accuracy. He established post position with dogged, stoic resolve. The three-time scoring champion remained an All-Star, ranking third in scoring average that season. He exemplified the skilled, if slow, professional pivot-man of the 1950s.
Russell first faced Johnston during a Christmas doubleheader at Madison Square Garden. Johnston could not score for forty-two minutes. The next night in Boston, Johnston scored only one field goal in the first half. Johnston kept offering right-handed, low-trajectory flips. Russell kept springing up and tipping them with his left hand. “I figured I could block nine out of 10 of them,” he later recalled. Russell even started conceding certain shots, keeping Johnston from making adjustments. “I guess I just have to figure out something to do,” Johnston shrugged after the second game, when Russell had also snatched a record-setting sixteen first-quarter rebounds. Johnston owned an effective style within basketball’s historically earthbound patterns. Suddenly, Russell had rendered him obsolete.
Johnston’s Warriors beat the Celtics the first game, 89-82. The Celtics beat the Warriors the next, 120-97. Johnston shoots 28% from the field on 32 shots those two games.
From King of the Court
Harry “The Horse” Gallatin best illustrated Russell’s growing pains. The rugged New York Knicks forward, playing in his record 628th consecutive game, first faced Russell on January 8 in Madison Square Garden. On offense, Gallatin knocked down perimeter shots. On defense, he kneed, grabbed, and pushed Russell. Gallatin scored twenty-six points and got seventeen rebounds. Russell looked like a “novice,” according to the Boston Globe: “Gallatin was giving Russell a man-sized physical whipping and tugging at the lad’s silks to embarrass him even further.”
The debacle offended Russell’s sense of self. Auerbach had planned on using Heinsohn against Gallatin for the Knicks game on January 20. But Russell asked for the assignment. “I said okay,” Auerbach recalled, “and as I watched him walking onto the court I knew that this was a momentous occasion. He killed Gallatin.” Russell blocked four shots and seized six rebounds in the first six minutes. Gallatin scored nine quiet points, and the Celtics won a rout.
The Celtics beat the Knicks 114-78 that second game.
From John Feinstein’s book Let Me Tell You a Story
The only tough thing about coaching Russell, according to Red, was that there were times when he simply didn’t want to practice. If Russell loafed, everyone loafed because they took their cue from him. “One day I want twenty minutes of a hard scrimmage,” he said. “I tell ’em, ‘Give me twenty hard minutes and we’re outta here.’ We start and Russell’s loafing. Everyone’s loafing. I yell at them to pick it up. I yell at him to pick it up. Nothing. He just doesn’t want to work. Finally I tell them all to get out, I’ve seen enough.
“But I’m not going to just let them get away with that crap. The next day they come in and we go through all our drills and I haven’t said a word about what happened the day before. Finally, it’s time to scrimmage. I reach into my pocket and I pull out five new cigars. I say, ‘Fellas, it takes me about thirty minutes to smoke each one of these. I have absolutely no place to go this afternoon. I am going to sit over here in a chair and I am going to smoke these cigars. As soon as you guys give me twenty straight minutes of hard work scrimmaging, you’re free to go. But any loafing at all and we set the clock back and start again and we’re going to stay here until you’ve given me twenty straight hard minutes. Understand?’”
Red paused and shook his head at the memory. “Russell must have had someplace to go. He plays like it’s the seventh game of a play-off series. No one can get a shot off inside eighteen feet. I mean every shot is going back the other way and he’s running like crazy to the other end to finish the break. Fifteen minutes in, I had to stop it. They weren’t going to have anything left for the game the next night. I said, ‘All right, Russell, you sonofabitch, get outta here.’ I sent ’em all home.”
From Let Me Tell You a Story
The Americans made it clear that there’s a difference between college kids and pros. Knowing that the Yugoslav team probably thought it was every bit as good as the Americans, Red gave very explicit pregame instructions: “No letting up,” he said. “Beat them as badly as you can.” Then, turning to Russell, he pointed at the star of the Yugoslav team, a six-eight redhead named Belov. “He scores once and I’ll have your head,” he said. “I mean it, once.”
When the game began, the Yugoslavs went straight to Belov as soon as they got the ball. He made a spin move on Russell, turned, and Russell blocked the shot, starting a fast break the other way. Five times, the Yugoslavs got the ball; five times, Russell blocked a shot. The sixth time down, Belov caught the ball thirty feet from the basket and, with Russell racing at him, heaved a shot that hit the side of the backboard and bounced away as the crowd hooted. A few seconds later, with the Americans already up twenty, the Yugoslav coach called time.
“Russell,” Red screamed, “I’m gonna kill you! You let the guy hit the backboard!”
The next time Belov caught the ball, he tried to go up-and-under Russell, who slammed the ball back at him so hard it hit him in the head and bounced away. Completely exasperated, Belov grabbed the ball, kicked it into the stands, and was promptly ejected.
“Russell runs by the bench, looks at me, and winks,” Red remembered.
From King of the Court
This was in the 1976-77 season, Russell’s last year coaching the Sonics.
The Sonics did practice before their last away game. After Slick Watts converted a twisting scoop shot, Russell, dressed in flared jeans and sneakers, walked onto the floor of Oakland Coliseum and said, “If you ever brought that shit in on me, I’d make you eat it.” Watts accepted the challenge. Watts drove and flipped a shot. Russell swatted it away. Watts tried again; Russell blocked it. “Anyone else?” asked Russell. Dennis Johnson drove, stopped, faked, pivoted, and pushed a five-footer. Russell turned in midair and pinned the ball to the backboard. Finally, Nick Weatherspoon bobbed and weaved, moved right, and tried a fifteen-foot fallaway. Russell swallowed it.
Did Russell know that they had grumbled about his alleged greatness, figuring him for an antique? Was he proving something? Why was he wearing sneakers, anyway? Russell took the ball and dunked it, cackling his way off the court. He had enough, he said.
From The Rivalry
The letter to Heinsohn from Commissioner Maurice Podoloff announcing his selection [as Rookie of the Year] was accompanied by a check for $300. Heinsohn received it during the first round of the playoffs, while sitting in the Celtics dressing room. Russell, whose hook in the dressing room was next to Heinsohn’s hook, saw it.
“I think you ought to give me half that check,” Russell told Heinsohn.
“Why?” Heinsohn asked.
“Because if I had been here from the beginning of the year,” Russell said, “you never would have gotten it.”
He wasn’t smiling.
From Bill Simmons’ podcast, Book of Basketball 2.0
This is Simmons’ recollection of his meeting with Russell for an interview in 2012⁄13.
We annoyed [Russell] one time: when we praised Bob Pettit’s performance in the 1958 Finals.
Russell badly sprained his ankle in that series, so Pettit took full advantage and scored 50 in the deciding game six. We knew this. Russell couldn’t stop him on one leg. We knew this too. More than 54 years later, he made a point of mentioning how lucky the Hawks were. And we knew this. But one of us said something like,
“Eh, still pretty great game by Pettit, right?”
Russell’s eyes narrowed.
“I was injured,” he said coldly.
Incredible. He was still pissed about the 12th title that got away.
From King of the Court
To know Russell was to know his laugh—a whooping, shimmying, glass-shattering cackle. During his first preseason with the Celtics, Satch Sanders resolved to isolate himself, focusing on basketball. “Well,” he recalled, “that lasted two or three seconds. Russell let loose with that big laugh in this restaurant, and I decided that anyone with that much laughter wasn’t anyone to be mean and hard and cold around.” Russell also loved practical jokes and sarcastic put-downs. He called friends at 4:00 a.m. and said, “I had to go to the bathroom and I thought about you. Did I wake you up?”
From King of the Court
Confronted with black athletes whom they neither understood culturally nor felt comfortable with politically, establishment sports reporters frequently employed a “trap-and-gotcha” technique during interviews. (As Russell confided to me at the time, “There is always the prospect that what a black athlete says can and will be used against him, against other black athletes, or against black people.”) For instance, shortly after he was named player-coach of the Boston Celtics, a reporter asked him a “trap question”: What is the right number of black players to play? (The “trap” is that whatever the number suggested, it would be a controversial answer: unavoidably, the implication would be that a franchise having fewer than that number of black players on the floor at the same game would be guilty of discrimination, a franchise playing more would be inappropriately privileging black players, while playing the number of blacks cited as “right” by Russell, the NBA’s first black head coach, could be creating an artificial ceiling on black players’ opportunities.) With characteristic perceptiveness and intellectual acuity, Russell avoided the trap, answered the question, and addressed head-on a league problem evident in the fact that the question had been asked in the first place: “I don’t know that there is a right number, but in the NBA the tradition is to play two black players at home, three on the road, and five when you get behind.”
From King of the Court
In 1983, police nabbed Arthur L. Trotter in Natchitoches, Louisiana, for running confidence schemes and posing as professional athletes, including Russell. Their only resemblance was black skin and a goatee. Reportedly, Trotter tried convincing one woman that he needed $2,500 to open a restaurant while posing as Russell. He explained that he used to be 6’10”, but doctors removed ten inches of bone from his legs so he could fit in his Mercedes.