by Simmons Bill
I didn’t see the words “stats” or “numbers” in there. It’s all about winning. You can tell which current teams may have discovered The Secret well before the playoffs. The Celtics finished the 2007–8 preseason as a noticeably tighter group; already rejuvenated by the Garnett/Allen trades, traveling together in Italy without cell phones had bonded them in an unconventionally effective way.30 They hatched their own catch-phrase, “Ubuntu,” a Bantu-derived word that roughly means
“togetherness.” They hung out even after returning to the States; instead of three players heading out for a movie or postgame dinner, the number invariably shaded closer to nine or ten. Before every tip-off, Eddie House and James Posey stood near the scorer’s table and greeted the starters one by one, 31 with Eddie performing elaborate handshakes and Posey wrapping them in bear hugs and whispering motivational thoughts. Bench guys pulled for starters like they were the whitest, dorkiest tenth-graders on a prep school team. When the starters came out for breathers, the roles reversed. And that’s how the season went. The player most responsible for that collective unselfishness (Garnett) placed third in the MVP balloting because of subpar-for-him numbers; meanwhile, the Celtics jumped from the worst record in 2007 to the best record in 2008. Where’s the statistic for that? (Shit, I forgot: it’s called wins.) But that’s what makes basketball so great. You have to watch the games. You have to pay attention. You cannot get seduced by numbers and stats. Even as I was frantically finishing this book, I couldn’t help noticing LeBron’s ’09 Cavaliers developing Ubuntu-like chemistry and raving about it constantly—how much they loved each other, how (pick a player) hadn’t enjoyed himself this much playing basketball before, and so on. Talking about it, they had that same look in their collective eye that a buddy gets when he’s raving about killer sex with his new girlfriend: This is amazing. I’ve never had anything like this before. And I was thinking, “Where did I just read something like this?” Then I remembered. It was a quote from a December 1974 Sports Illustrated feature about the Warriors:
There are a super group of guys on this team. Players who put the team ahead of self. I think basketball is the epitome of team sport anyhow, and we’ve got players now who complement one another for the sake of the team. Team success is what everyone here is after. I’ve never seen a guy down on himself after he had a bad performance, as long as we won. In the past he might have been more concerned about his poor shooting, and even if we had happened to win the game he wouldn’t have been any happier.
You know who said that? Rick Barry. That’s right, the single biggest prick of that era. Something clicked for him on that particular Warriors team: he was feeling it, he felt comfortable discussing it
… and yes, he earned a Finals MVP trophy six months later. Any time a star player raves about his team like Barry did, you know that team is headed for good things. You just do. Of course, any team can channel a collective unselfishness for one season. How do you keep it going after winning a title and the riches that go with it? Former Montreal goalie Ken Dryden explained that winning
becomes a state of mind, an obligation, an expectation; in the end, an attitude. Excellence. It’s a rare chance to play with the best, to be the best. When you have it, you don’t want to give it up. It’s not easy and it’s not always fun … when you win as often as we do, you earn a right to lose. It’s losing to remember what winning feels like. But it’s a game of chicken. If you let it go, you might never get it back. You may find it’s a high-paid, pressureless comfort to your liking. I can feel it happening this year. If we win, next year will be worse. 32
Russell lived for that pressure, defining himself and everyone else by how they responded to it:
Even with all the talent, the mental sharpness, the fun, the confidence and your focus honed down to winning, there’ll be a level of competition where all that evens out. Then the pressure builds, and for the champion it’s a test of heart…. Heart in champions has to do with the depth of your motivation, and how well your mind and body react to pressure. It’s concentration—that is, being able to do what you do under maximum pain and stress.33
So really, repeating as champions (or winning a third time, or a fourth) hinges on how a team deals with constant panic (not wanting to lose what it has) and pressure (not only coming through again and again, but trusting it will come through). You can handle those phenomenas only if you’ve got a certain framework in place, and as long as the superstar and his sidekicks remain committed to that framework. Wilt captured one title (’67) and was traded within fourteen months. He only cared about winning one title; defending it wasn’t as interesting, so he gravitated toward another challenge (leading the league in assists). Meanwhile, Russell still ritually puked before big games in his thirteenth season. He had enough rings to fill both hands and it didn’t matter. He knew nothing else. Winning consumed him. Merely by being around Russell and feeding off his immense competitiveness, his teammates ended up caring just as much. You can’t stumble into that collective feeling, but when it happens—and it doesn’t happen often—you do anything to protect it. That’s what makes great teams great.
And that’s why we remember the Jordan-Pippen teams so fondly. What cemented their legacy wasn’t the first five titles but the last one, when they were running on fumes and surviving solely on pride and Jordan’s indomitable will. My favorite stretch happened in the Eastern Finals—Game 7, trailing by three, six minutes to play—when the exhausted Bulls wouldn’t roll over for a really good Pacers team that seemed ready to knock them off. Remember Jordan beating seven-foot-four Rik Smits on a jump ball, or Pippen outhustling Reggie Miller for a crucial loose ball in the last few minutes? Remember how the Bulls crashed the offensive boards34 that night and did whatever it took to prevail? Remember how Jordan struggled with dead legs and a flat jump shot, so he started driving to the basket again and again, willing himself to the foul line like a running back moving the chains? Remember Jordan and Pippen standing with their hands on their knees at midcourt in the final seconds, completely spent, unable to summon enough energy to celebrate?
They would not allow the Bulls to lose that game. You don’t learn about a great team or great players when they’re winning; you learn about them when they’re struggling and clawing to remain on top. By contrast, the Shaq/Kobe Lakers only won three titles when the number should have been closer to eight. Since it was mildly astonishing to watch them implode at the time, I can’t imagine how it might look for fans of subsequent generations.
Wait, they had two of the top three players in basketball at the same time and only won three titles in a diluted league? How is that possible?
For the same reason that downgrading to Aguirre made the ’89 Pistons better. For the same reason that everyone in the eighties would have committed a crime to play with Bird or Magic. For the same reason that players from Russell’s era defend him so vehemently now. For the same reason that every player from the last dozen years would have rather played with Duncan than anyone else. It’s not about statistics and talent as much as making teammates better and putting your team ahead of yourself. That’s really it.35 When a team of talented players can do it, they become unstoppable for one season. When they want to keep doing it and they can sublimate their egos for the greater good, that’s when they become fascinating in a historical context.
For the purposes of this book—loosely described as “evaluating why certain players and teams mattered more than others”36—I couldn’t find that answer just through statistics. I needed to immerse myself in the history of the game, read as much as I could and watch as much tape as I could. Five distinct types of players kept emerging: elite players who made themselves and everyone else better; elite players who were out for themselves; elite players who vacillated back and forth between those two mind-sets depending on how it suited their own interests; 37 role players whose importance doubled or tripled on the right team; and guys who ultimately didn’t matter. We don’t care about the last group
. We definitely care about the middle three groups and we really, really, really care about the first group. I care about guys who ralphed before crucial games and cried on television shows because a simple replay brought back pain from years ago. I care that someone walked away from a guaranteed title (or more) because he selfishly wanted to win on his terms, and I care that someone gave away 20 percent of his minutes or numbers because that sacrifice made his team better. I care about glowing quotes from yellowed magazines and passionate testimonials from dying teammates. I care about the things I witnessed and how they resonated with me. And what I ultimately decided was this: when we measure teams and players against one another in a historical context, The Secret matters more than anything else.
One final anecdote explains everything. Right after Russell’s Celtics won the last of their championships in 1969, a crew of friends, employees, owners and media members poured into Boston’s locker room expecting the typical routine of champagne spraying and jubilant hugs. Russell asked every outsider to leave the locker room for a few minutes. The players wanted to savor the moment with each other, he explained, adding to nobody in particular, “We are each other’s friends.” The room cleared and they spent that precious piece of time celebrating with one another. Lord knows what was said or what that moment meant for them. As Isiah told Dan Patrick, we wouldn’t understand. And we wouldn’t. After they reopened the doors, Russell agreed to a quick interview with ABC’s Jack Twyman, who started things out with the typically shitty nonquestion that we’ve come to expect in these situations: “Bill, this must have been a great win for you.”
Russell happily started to answer: “Jack …”
The rest of the words didn’t come. He searched for a way to describe the feeling. He couldn’t speak. He rubbed his right hand across his face. Still no words. He finally broke down for a few seconds—no crying, just a man overwhelmed by the moment. You know what he looked like?
Ellis “Red” Boyd during the climactic cornfield scene in The Shawshank Redemption. Remember when Red finished Andy’s emotional “hope is a good thing” letter, fought off the lump in his throat, stared ahead with glassy eyes and couldn’t even process what just happened? The moment transcended him. You could say the same for Russell. The man had reached the highest level anyone can achieve in sports: the perfect blend of sweat and pain and champagne, a weathered appreciation of everything that happened, a unique connection with teammates that he’d treasure forever. Russell knew his ’69 team was running on fumes, that they were overmatched, that they probably shouldn’t have prevailed. But they did. And it happened for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with basketball. 38
Bill Russell would never play another professional basketball game. He had milked The Secret for everything it was worth, capturing eleven rings and retiring as the greatest winner in sports history. He clung to that secret until the bitter end. When his journey was complete, he rubbed his eyes, fought off tears and searched for words that never came. By saying nothing, he said everything.
Nearly three decades later, a crew from NBA Entertainment interviewed Wilt Chamberlain about his career. The subject of the 1969 Finals came up.
“No way we should we have lost to Boston,” the Big Dipper muttered in disbelief. “Just no way. I mean … I still don’t know how we lost to Boston.”
He laughed self-consciously, finally adding, “It’s a mystery to me.”
Of course it was.
1. The term “pulling the goalie” means “eschewing birth control and letting the chips fall where they may.” Usually couples discuss pulling the goalie before it happens … unless it’s Bridget Moynahan. In my case, I made the executive decision to speed up plans for kid number two. This did not go over well. I think I’m the first person who ever had a positive home pregnancy test whipped at them at 95 mph. In my defense, I’m getting old and wanted to have a second kid before I wouldn’t be able to have a catch with them anymore. I have no regrets. Plus, we had a son. In the words of Joel Goodson, sometimes you gotta say, “What the fuck?”
2. This is a bold-faced lie—we both got crushed at $50 tables at the Wynn and were in bed by 1:00
a.m. I didn’t want to ruin the story.
3. It’s never a bad thing when “European” is involved—that word always seems to involve nudity or debauchery. Even in porn (which is centered around those two things, anyway), you throw in the word “European” in the title and the movie suddenly seems ten times more appealing. Um, not that I buy porn or anything.
4. The thing about European-style pools is that most of the uninhibited women who go topless are usually people you’d never want to see topless … like this lady, who looked like one of the Wild Samoans from the WWWF, only with 75DDDDDDDDDDs. Those breasts are burned in my brain forever. And not by my choice.
5. This was such a great moment that I had to go with back-to-back Hall of Fame pop culture and sports analogies. I mean, those were two of the biggies. I’m talking about the analogies. 6. And also because some bimbo might flash everyone at our blackjack table. 7. This encounter took place about six weeks before the kooky trial for Anucha Browne Sanders’
sexual harassment lawsuit against Isiah and Madison Square Garden became a national story, effectively murdering Isiah’s tenure with the Knicks and leading to a sad episode in October ’08
when Isiah apparently overdosed on prescription meds. It’s never been clear if the overdose was intentional or not. Can you tell my editors told me, “Write this footnote carefully”?
8. Maybe my favorite part of this story: you know things were bad with me and Isiah when the Knicks PR guy decided, “Instead of sticking around to help thwart a PR holocaust, I’m going to flee the premises like O.J. and A.C. taking off for Mexico.” I don’t blame him. 9. After seeing him in action, I’m totally convinced that Gus Johnson can resolve any feud, controversy, or territorial matter within 25 minutes: Bloods-Crips, Richards-Locklear, Shiites-Sunnis, TO-McNabb, the Gaza Strip, Vick-PETA, you name it. He’s like a cross between Obama, Jay-Z, and Cyrus from The Warriors.
10. Totally underrated part of the story: “Hi, I’m Isiah.” As if there potentially could have been some confusion.
11. I gathered all the inept 2006 GMs for a fake conference panel where they gave tips on how to completely suck at their job. Isiah ended up stealing the fake show. 12. His funniest-in-retrospect explanation was for the hideous Jerome James signing. As Isiah spun it, he signed James to be his center, then had a chance to land Curry a few weeks later and went for it. A bummed-out James felt betrayed and never dedicated himself, but hey, Isiah had a chance to get a young low-post stud like Curry and it was worth the risk. I swear, this made sense as he was saying it. He swayed me enough that I never had the urge to sarcastically quip, “Hey, anytime you can lock up Eddy Curry and Jerome James for $90 million and lose two lottery picks, you have to do it.”
13. Proving yet again that I can get along with anyone on the planet as long as they like basketball. You could dress me in red, drop me into a Crips neighborhood, tell me that I have 12 minutes to start a high-caliber NBA conversation before somebody puts a cap in my ass … and I would live. 14. The “Disease of More” ranks right up there with The Tipping Point and the Ewing Theory as one of the three greatest theories of the last 35 years. No sports theory gets vindicated more on a yearly basis. The complete list of “Disease of More” NBA champs: ’67 Sixers, ’71 Bucks, ’75
Warriors, ’77 Blazers, ’79 Sonics, ’80 Lakers, ’92 Bulls, ’00 Lakers, ’04 Pistons. And let’s throw in the following NBA Finalists: ’67 Warriors, ’81 Rockets, ’86 Rockets, ’93 Suns, ’95 Magic, ’96
Sonics, ’99 Knicks, ’03 Nets.
15. Although this wasn’t surprising. The lack of ingenuity with questions from sports reporters has never been anything less than appalling. None of these dolts followed up on The Secret, but I bet they asked questions like “Isiah, how excited would you be to win a title?” in 40 different forms. Then they w
ent back to the press room and fought over the last four bags of Cheetos. 16. In the ’88 Playoffs, Dantley played 33.9 MPG and Rodman 20.6 MPG. When the Pistons cruised to the ’89 title, Aguirre averaged 27.1 MPG and Rodman 24.1 MPG. Dantley/Rodman averaged a combined 26.5 PPG and 11.6 RPG in ’88, followed by 18.4 PPG plus 14.4 RPG from Aguirre/Rodman the following spring. So they sacrificed eight points per game for better defense, rebounding and chemistry. And it worked.
17. The Teacher was blindsided by the trade. When he finally played Detroit later that season, he sought out Isiah before the opening tip, leaned into him and said something that rattled Isiah. To this day, nobody knows what he said: it was the NBA’s version of “I know it was you, Fredo.” He would never win an NBA ring. But Teacher, you have to understand—it wasn’t about basketball!
18. This show ran on ESPN2 in the mid-’90s: Patrick watching classic games with one of its participants. The show’s biggest mistake was being only 30 minutes, which made it feel like a 10-minute version of Inside the Actors Studio.
19. Their other weakness: Kareem stopped rebounding somewhere during the ’84 season. Plus, he was starting to look like a bona fide alien with goggles, a shaved head and that gangly body. All Lakers games in ’88 and ’89 should have kicked off with Kareem climbing out of a UFO. But that’s irrelevant here.
20. That Game 6 defeat ranks among the most brutal ever. Even with Isiah barely able to move by game’s end, Detroit led by three with 60 seconds to play. Time-out, L.A. Byron Scott hit a jumper in traffic (102–101, 52 secs left). Isiah ran the shot clock down and missed a one-legged fall-away (27 secs left, time-out L.A.). Kareem got bailed out by a dubious call (Laimbeer’s “bump” on a sky hook), then drained two clutch FT’s with 14 secs left. Then Dumars badly missed a runner coming out of the time-out. Ballgame. If healthy, Isiah swings that final minute of Game 6. I am positive. But that’s basketball—you need to be good and lucky.