The Bill Simmons Podcast - The Genius of Bill Russell (from The Book of Basketball 2.0)

Episode Date: July 31, 2022

What made Bill Russell so great? Was Russell a pioneer, a genius, or both? Why did he mean so much to the 1960s? Why did he walk away after his 11th title and never look back? And why wouldn’t he forgive the city of Boston? In 2012, Bill Simmons flew to Seattle and spent two days with the greatest winner in sports history, hoping to find these answers and more. It ended up being the highlight of his career. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Sad news today. Bill Russell passed away at age 88. He's one of the most important athletes we've ever had. He's one of the greatest athletes we've ever had. He is the greatest team sport athlete ever. He had an incredible life. He lived it on his terms. I spent two days with him in 2012, and it was the highlight of my career. Ended up turning it into a book of basketball podcast for the end of season one a couple years ago. We're going to repost that on this feed right now. Bill Russell, rest in peace. Bill Russell spent the last four and a half decades living in Seattle on Mercer Island, about as far from Boston as you can get without falling into the Pacific Ocean. When I spent two days with him in 2012, Russell kept maintaining that he didn't care about Boston anymore. He remembered the city being more of a hockey town,

how his Celtics played multiple game sevens in a Boston garden that was less than 70% full. He remembered everyone writing off a budding Celtics dynasty after Bob Cousy retired in 1963, as if the Cous was the reason for those first six titles. He remembered the skeptical reaction after Red Auerbach named Russell as his coaching successor, as if a black guy couldn't lead white guys, please. He remembered the racist idiots who wrecked his new house, destroyed his trophies, defecated on his walls. Because how did anyone ever forget something like that? He remembered Boston fans deifying Larry Bird, how they elevated him for winning eight fewer titles than Russell did.

These sites kept coming up and coming up. And halfway through our second day together, I just assumed Bill Russell would never return to Boston. We were filming a TV show called Mr. Russell's House for NBA TV, spending the morning in Russell's basement with the six-time MVP standing in front of his packed trophy case

and telling stories. That trophy case was incredible, by the way. A few months earlier, he had undergone a heart procedure. Someone close to him warned us, make sure he doesn't stand for too long. He's still a little weak. Well close to him warned us, make sure he doesn't stand for too long. He's still a little weak. Well, like a dummy, I became so enthralled with our conversation that I kept

him standing for 90 solid minutes. I still remember exactly where we were, at the tall end of a wall covered with photos, magazine covers, and newspaper clippings. Russell had framed a Boston Herald piece from 1986, right after Byrd won his third championship and many were calling him the greatest ever. You know who disagreed? Larry Joe Byrd. He maintained that Russell was the best, that those 11 rings spoke for themselves.

The headline of the piece said, quote, Byrd, Russell, still the best, unquote. And if you think it doesn't mean anything that Russell framed this article, then you don't know anything about Bill Russell. And as we were talking about it, suddenly his eyes went blank. I thought Russell had paused before his next point,

quickly realizing that the legend couldn't summon his next breath. He towered over me by eight inches. I can still see his face, dark and weathered, white beard, whiskers popping from the side like snowflakes. I can still see his vacant eyes. I remember panicking about 1.8 seconds before anyone else started to panic.

Oh my God, we killed Bill Russell. Someone frantically pulled over a tall stool. We implored him to sit down. Russell asked for a minute. We stood there in silence, watching one of the 20th century's greatest athletes struggling just to breathe. Someone handed him a bottle of water.

That helped. We waited. We decided to change locations, moving upstairs into Russell's living room to a traditional interview setup with two chairs facing each other. Russell made his way up the stairs slowly, painstakingly. You could feel every step. He found his chair. He sank into it. The camera crew hustled to turn on the lights and set up,

and now Russell and I were just looking at each other. I was concerned. Russell was staring through me with glassy eyes. He was in another place, just concentrating on his breasts. Everyone else was either panicking or whispering in hushed tones. And Russell's friend Charlie kept telling us, he's fine, just give him a minute, he's fine. And then boom, Bill Russell was fine. He sprang back to life.

I'm okay, he said, unleashing his trademark laugh laugh We gabbed for the next 90 minutes like nothing ever happened The interview ended Everyone shook hands Our crew started packing up And I sat down at Russell's kitchen table with my friend Hershey The biggest basketball fan I know As well as someone who helped arrange the interview And the previous night's dinner

Russell accepted us during dinner once he realized how well we knew our basketball history, although we annoyed him 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 do 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. But that hardcore hoop session paid off the following day. We earned his trust.

We got everything we wanted from Bill Russell. And for me and Hershey, this wasn't just one of the highlights of our careers. This was the highlight. Russell never did this stuff. He never opened up. He just wanted to be left alone. We got him. We got him for two days.

And now we're sitting in Russell's kitchen, trying to remain professional, fighting off the urge to repeatedly high five each other while screaming, yeah, we did it. A three hour hang at Bill Russell's house with Russell talking about anything and everything. Are you kidding me? Suddenly we heard a voice from the other room. Where's Bill? That was Russell's voice. Where's Bill? Wait, me? I stood up. Come here.

I want to show you something, Bill Russell said. He brought me into his library, which was practically sinking under the books and pictures. During a bathroom break earlier, I tiptoed in there, if only because you can learn a lot about someone just by looking through their books. I noticed my book of basketball, which Russell had allegedly read and enjoyed. The book's condition made it seem like someone had read it, so maybe he did. Without him knowing, I signed one of the pages inside and carefully placed it back in the same spot. And now, an hour later, I was pretending I'd never seen his library before. Here, look at this, Bill Russell said. He handed me a framed photo of him and Obama taken in 2010 when Obama invited Russell to

the White House, gave him the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and urged Boston to build a statue for him. Isn't that something, he asked me? Only Obama got Bill Russell to geek out. Man, he loved everything about that day. Once upon a time, Russell meant as much to the civil rights movement as any 1960s celebrity other than maybe Muhammad Ali. He led by example, with carefully chosen words,

with unshakable pride. He understood the precarious stakes at all times, how one unfortunate comment or reaction could derail everything. Jackie Robinson was a hero to all of us. Yeah. And I don't know if you know that I was Paul Bearer at Jackie Robinson's funeral. And I had enormous respect for him.

But my attitude was that Jackie took us from point A to point B. And I want to go from point B to point C. Russell gave speeches telling his fellow African Americans to keep their eyes on the prize, to never let anyone define them or keep them down or tell them they couldn't do something. He wanted them to believe they didn't have a ceiling, that 40 or 50 years later, one of them could even be president. It's a point he made in more than one speech. Now it's 2012, and Bill Russell was holding a photo of him and President Barack Obama. Isn't that something, he said? Yeah, that's something.

Bill Russell, the man, is someone who stood up for the rights and dignity of all men. He marched with King. He stood by Ali. When a restaurant refused to serve the Black Celtics, he refused to play in the scheduled game. He endured insults and vandalism, but he kept on focusing on making the teammates who he loved better players, and made possible the success of so many who would follow. We spent the next hour sitting at his kitchen table

with Russell telling us story after story. He kept bringing up his late wife, his third one, who passed away a few years earlier, and it became more and more obvious that he hadn't really recovered. I found myself worrying about him. He's not alone all the time, right? People come to visit him, right? Russell discussed his various road trips,

how sometimes he'd just pack a bag, climb into his car and start driving. Los Angeles, Chicago, wherever, he loved driving. Sometimes he would bring a friend to keep him company. I remember thinking, I'll be your friend. Just tell me when and where. I asked him about Saturday Night Live in 1979 when that was the coolest show on TV. And he said how his daughter was actually impressed by him for the first time. That delighted him to no end. 11 NBA rings didn't make his daughter think he was cool. But a couple of Esadell sketches did. He laughed and laughed, that famous Russell Cackle filling the whole first floor. We talked about a revelation in Second Wind, his extraordinary autobiography,

that Russell actually scouted the Celtics after joining them in 1956. Russell wanted to play to their strengths and cover their weaknesses. So he studied them during shooting drills and scrimmages. He built a mental filing cabinet that stored everything they could and couldn't do and then determined how to boost them accordingly. It was his job to make them better. That's what he believed. To my surprise, Russell mentioned a 2012 superstar devouring his book and then stealing that specific concept and even thanking Russell for his help. Naturally, I expected the player to be LeBron, Nash, Chris Paul, maybe even Kevin Durant. Nope. Kobe Bryant. Really? I said incredulously. And that's how I learned that Bill Russell, basketball's greatest teammate ever, held a

soft spot for Kobe Bryant, someone who battled more coworkers over the years than Chevy Chase. Russell enjoyed Kobe's competitiveness. He loved his work ethic. He appreciated his respect for history. And over everything else, he was absolutely delighted that Kobe borrowed his scouting idea. No other player had ever mentioned it to him. Russell admitted their leadership styles were different, proudly revealing that he never criticized a teammate publicly or privately. Not once. Not once in 13 years. What was the point? Everyone already knew Russell was their best player. Why undermine their confidence? How is that productive? Russell believed the

basketball team only achieves its potential once everyone embraces their roles. The less thinking, the better. For example, early in his career, Russell asked Bob Cousy to find a specific spot on every rebound, about 25 feet away from the opponent's basket, on the left or right side, so Russell could snare the rebound, whirl around, and throw Cousy an outlet pass all in one motion. After a few months, Cousy found the spot. They didn't think about it anymore. Shot, spot, rebound, release, go. The greatest fast break in basketball history was born.

But that concept fails unless everyone embraces their role. And that's the thing. Everyone has to understand their role. In Boston, Kuzi ran the break. Heintzen filled the lane and crashed the boards. Bill Sharman, Sam Jones, John Havlicek, they all handled the break. Heintzen filled the lane and crashed the boards. Bill Sharman, Sam Jones, John Havlicek, they all handled the scoring. Casey Jones and Satch Sanders,

they handled the perimeter defense. Bill Russell handled everything else. And the everything else varied from season to season. It even varied from playoff series to playoff series.

Russell assessed what the team needed and he tailored his game accordingly. That's what made him Bill Russell. All right. So how do you challenge teammates without undermining them? Kobe was still trying to solve that question 15 years into his career. That's why he reached out to Russell. But Russell

had already given the answers in his autobiography, Second Wind. There's one enlightening section about Sam Jones, one of the NBA's first great scoring guards, but someone who absolutely dreaded the burden of being great every night. And that drove Russell crazy. Eventually, he learned to accept that they just weren't wired the same way. Sam didn't puke before every big game. He didn't measure his own happiness solely by the success or failure of his team. But Sam happened to be a phenomenally gifted scorer, someone who loved taking and making pressure shots. His laconic demeanor worked against him being a legendary player, but for huge moments, it was actually perfect. You could always go to Sam when it mattered.

More often than not, Sam came through. Russell always understood Sam was Sam. He'd never bleed basketball like Jerry West did. He'd never obsess over every play like Oscar Robertson did. You are who you are. Bill Russell left Sam Jones alone. So that was one leadership example. When we were sitting in his kitchen in Seattle, Russell told us another story after I asked how the Celtics won Russell's last two titles without having a real point guard. They didn't run the triangle offense, so how'd they do it? Going backwards, Russell became Boston's player coach before the 66-67 season, which ended unhappily. Wilt Sixers demolished the supposedly aging Celtics

in the Eastern Finals, and even worse, during Game 5, the deciding game, Philly's crowd chanted, Boston is dead. Boston is dead. Boston is dead. The chant echoed in Russell's ears all summer. After eight straight titles, the man was not ready to be buried yet. He also wasn't ready to blow up his team, which goes back to what Pat Riley said in the first Book of Basketball podcast, right? This is hard. Russell wanted to play his best five as much as possible, so he asked Larry Siegfried to replace the retiring KC Jones at point guard. One problem.

Siegfried wasn't a point guard. This was like asking Gordon Hayward to replace Kyrie Irving. It did not make a ton of sense in 1967. But Russell wasn't hoping for a Cousy impression, just someone to dribble from point A to point B, call plays, start their offense, that's it. Siegfried resisted. He didn't want the added responsibility, nor did he want to chase faster players around. Russell gently insisted. No thanks, Larry Siegfried said. Well, the modern solution would be dealing Siegfried away, but the Celtics never traded back then. Why? Arbak believed that continuity was their single

biggest advantage other than Bill Russell. The Celtics only swung one real trade in Russell's 13 years. Mel counts for Bailey Howell. That's it. Amazing but true. So Russell kept cajoling Siegfried, never threatening him, just appealing to him as a friend. Siegfried relented, but after a few weeks, he decided he didn't like it. He didn't want to play point anymore. So they did the same dance again, and Russell wore him down again. He made it clear this was Siegfried's best chance to play. He didn't threaten him. He just laid out the landscape. He said, we have me, Havlicek, Sam, Bailey. All of us need to play. This is your best way to get minutes, Larry. He broke them. And yeah, the Celtics won those

last two titles with a shooting guard bringing up the ball. So much for Boston being dead. As Russell was telling the Siegfried story, I couldn't help but wonder how Kobe would have handled it. My Hall of Fame pyramid has 15 guys who rose above everyone else. Jordan, LeBron, Russell, Kareem, Magic and Bird, Wilt, Duncan, Kobe and West, Oscar, Hakeem, Shaq and Moses, and Durant. You would have loved playing with 10 of those guys. The other five? Maybe, maybe not. No great player was more selfish than Wilt,

someone who genuinely believed that the best situation for Wilt Chamberlain doubled as the best situation for Wilt's team. Nobody was moodier or more aloof than Kareem, a brilliant recluse who couldn't connect with anyone until Magic and Riley came along. Nobody was more demanding than Oscar, the league's smartest player other than Russell, but someone who talked down to teammates, belittled their mistakes, left them walking on eggshells. Of course, Oscar was a picnic compared to Jordan, a withering, over-competitive bully at times.

And if you couldn't handle it, you simply needed to find another team. Meanwhile, Kobe tried to evolve into a withering, over-competitive bully at times, if only because his idol once acted that way. Russell was different. His battles were always internal and they never affected his teammates. That's why he's the greatest teammate ever, but he's also the most self-aware player ever too. During our second day in Seattle, I asked him why he ultimately stopped playing and the answer was simple. He didn't want to keep going if he wasn't the league's best player. That's it. Once Russell felt himself slipping imperceptibly, he decided to retire midway through the 69 season, only telling his friend Oscar Robertson and nobody else. It wasn't about the physical grind for Russell

or his body slowly starting to break down from all those coach flights and crummy sneakers and extra long seasons. Before every game, he worked himself into what he described as, quote, a rage, unquote. He spent the day visualizing that night's game, thinking about his opponent, playing out sequences in his head, revving himself up. And if you think of basketball like chess, it makes more sense. Russell always needed to be two or three chess moves ahead of everyone else. He didn't block shots in the moment, he blocked them five hours earlier. That's what made him so great. By the time he slipped on his Celtics uniform, Russell had already played out every game possibility in his head. Carrying that knowledge into the game, then executing it, required an unfathomable amount of mental energy. And once he felt that slipping, not the skills, but the energy itself,

that's when Bill Russell knew he needed to leave. And look, I know it sounds impossible that no human being could actually think that way. But if you think of Russell as a genius, which he was, then it might make more sense. An example. One time, Russell's third wife found one of his college games on eBay. She bought the DVD and surprised him with it. They watched it that night.

Russell's San Francisco team playing Oregon State. And guess what? Bill Russell could rattle off every play before it happened. Not a few of the plays, not half of the plays, every play for a random college game that happened in 1955, at least four decades before he watched this game again. I can't do that anymore, Russell told me at his kitchen table. I'm older now. If you showed me an old game now, I couldn't remember every play. Just most of them. Oh, okay.

Russell mined that genius through his 35th birthday, winning his final NBA title in his final game in Los Angeles in game seven with celebratory balloons hanging over the court that never, ever dropped. The greatest winner

in sports history learned about those balloons before the opening tip. He felt the anger bellowing inside him. He embraced that darkness one last time. I knew we would win, he told me. I believed him. Remember, every legend reaches the finish line differently.

Magic retired because of HIV. Bird's body broke down. Same for West and Wilt. Colby hung around for two more giant paychecks. Kareem and Oscar stayed one year too long. Hakeem, Shaq, and Moses kept playing and playing until nobody wanted them anymore. Jordan left at the perfect time,

missed the attention, returned to the Wizards for two bizarre seasons. Durant's still playing, so we don't know about him yet. Bill Russell was the only Pantheon guy who actually nailed his exit. And yet for four solid decades, his relationship with the one city he ever played for remained unsettled. How bitter did it get?

When the Celtics retired his number in 1972, Bill Russell skipped the ceremony. He no-showed it. Who does that? Well, he made the same point again and again. Joe Russell skipped the ceremony. He no-showed it. Who does that? Well, he made the same point again and again. His loyalties lay with his teammates, Red Auerbach and Walter Brown. That's it.

Not the fans. Definitely not the city. He didn't care if he ever went back. Or so he claimed. By the end of our second day together, I got to say, I didn't totally believe him. Deep down, he still cared about all this stuff.

Obama, Kobe, Wilt, Sam Jones, Larry Siegfried, the trophy case, that Boston Herald headline. Every little piece mattered. And maybe he needed the time too. You wouldn't have wanted to be a black basketball star in the 50s and 60s. Idolized for everything on the court. Treated like a second-class citizen off the court. The first wave of black NBA stars,

Russell, Oscar, Elgin, Kareem, even Wilt, they were unquestionably damaged by the experience, by the unforgivable hypocrisy of it all. Even Russell's teammates didn't fully realize how horrible it was. During a Sports Century episode about Russell in 1999, Bob Cousy actually broke down during his interview, believing he let Russell down as a friend more than anything. That Cousy never fully realized how difficult things were for him.

Russell channeled all that pain and resentment into winning. Nobody came through more times, put more thought into it, gave more of himself to one pursuit. He remembered everyone who helped him, everyone who doubted him, everyone who never appreciated him. And the whole experience in Boston and in America too, left him sitting on an island 3,000 miles away, making one sorry city sweat out mistakes that could never change. We said our goodbyes. I told Russell that I hoped he would return to Boston one day. A few months later, we premiered Mr. Russell's house and banged that theme home. Honestly, I wanted viewers to think, man, I hope he forgives Boston someday. A few months later,

he actually did. Turns out that eight-foot statue was going up downtown. Whether Russell showed up or not, the city needed it more than he did. The mayor begged him to return. So did the Celtics owners, Russell's daughter, his friend Charlie, Adam Silver, everyone else Russell trusted in his life. Eventually, the great Bill Russell caved. He agreed to come back to Boston. November 1st, 2013. He turned 86 years old just last month. Every few months, word starts spreading

that he's not feeling that well, that he can't move around anymore. And then every June, there he is, front and center at the finals again. The NBA sends him to the deciding game so he can present the finals MVP trophy. Remember, Russell would have easily won nine or 10 of these if that award existed in the 50s and 60s.

Now it's called the Bill Russell NBA Finals Most Valuable Player Award. And in a weird way, that actually turned out better. He wins every year. You know what else I believe? Those few minutes on stage with the new champs might be keeping him around. The recognition and respect, the happy handshakes, the reverence from the best player du jour who just peaked as a competitor, only suddenly there's Bill Russell and they just

melt like a stick of butter. I think he loves every moment of it. I think it brings him back to the only times he was ever truly happy. I think it's the number one thing that keeps Bill Russell going. When you're the greatest winner of all time, even all these decades later, you still want to be where the winning is.