Cousy agreed. “Heinsohn can do everything Baylor can do,” he said one day. “On top of that, he’s the best offensive rebounder in the business.”
The Mogul has been associated with pro basketball for almost 60 years, but ask him his age and the most he will admit to is “at least” 49.
“My suggestion,” said Dave Cowens, the Celtic’s center for the past eight years, “is that they retire his number from the league. Don’t let anyone wear No. 17 again. That’s how much I think John’s meant to the NBA. Just take 17 and stash it up there in lights.”
Moser, about to hand the ball to the Celts’ John Havlicek, looked at the agonized Holzman—the Knicks were 16 points behind—and said firmly, “That’s enough,” without exclamation point.
Kerner comes to a basketball game looking, fittingly, likes the best-dressed man in the hall. He leaves looking more like Emmett Kelly, the clown.
It brought back memories of Auerbach’s Celtic battlers of the past, of Russell breaking Jim Krebs’ jaw, of Loscutoff decking Dick Schnittker with one punch, and of Brannum flattening Dolph Schayes.
Heed those words, Red. Sit back, light up a cigar and relax. You don’t need the aggravation anymore.
What made Sharman’s shooting so remarkable was its purity. He shot with almost robot-like precision, his style so polished and precise that it seemed like an illustration for a book on how to play basketball.
“My gut feeling has always been to honor my contract. But should I do it if it’s only a matter of money?
“I’ll repeat what I said before about this job,” says Russell. “The best player I’ve got is me.”