When they were Lions
Gary Pomerantz -
They posed for Meek minutes before tip-off. Their minds were elsewhere, on the battle against the Hawks’ Bob Pettit, the Bombardier from Baton Rouge. Their expressions are taut, severe. They might have been Civil War soldiers standing for Mathew Brady. The rookie Russell offers a hint of the menacing glower that, years later, he would describe as “a big batch of smoldering Black Panther, a touch of Lord High Executioner and angry Cyclops mixed together, with just a dash of the old Sonny Liston.” On first glance, Cousy seems made of porcelain, smooth and soft. But his eyes are fixed in a hard stare.
Deford -
Jerry West, who was denied about a half-dozen championships strictly because of Russell, remembers. "When the national anthem was played, I always found my eyes going to Bill. He did that just right, stand there for the anthem. He was a statue, but there was a grace to him. Even just standing still: grace."
In 1969 Bill Russell’s grandfather Jake went to see a Celtics game.
Deford -
By then his grandson had become the first African-American coach in a major professional sport. Jake sat with his son, Charlie, watching Bill closely during timeouts. He wasn't quite sure what he was seeing; Celtics huddles could be terribly democratic back then. It was before teams had a lot of assistants with clipboards. Skeptically Jake asked his son, "He's the boss?" Charlie nodded.
Jake took that in.
"Of the white men too?"
"The white men too."