Bird Watching (8 page)
Anyhow, M. L. was really upset. He said to me, “How could you betray me, after all we’ve been through together?” That’s when I told him, “Listen, you better call up your boss, because Gaston told me you knew all about this. He told me you knew everything. You’re mad at the wrong guy.” I could tell M. L. didn’t believe me, so I closed the door and I called up Gaston in New York and got him on the phone. After a minute or so, Gaston admitted, with both of us listening, that he made a mistake by not telling M. L. He told M. L., “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
I can understand M. L. being upset, but I wasn’t out to hurt him. I thought he had been told he was being replaced. I think M. L. was feeling I might want the Celtics coaching job, and I was going back-door on him to get it, but I had no interest in doing that. I had already made up my mind I was leaving the Celtics as soon as I finished the coaching search. I just hadn’t told them yet.
M. L. and I go back a long way. He was one of the best teammates I ever had, but our relationship will never be the same. I hope he understands I was just trying to make the franchise better. I was also following orders.
M. L. wasn’t the only one upset about the coaching job. Dennis Johnson, who was an assistant coach with Boston and had played with me on the 1984 and 1986 championship teams with the Celtics, was hurt that his name hadn’t appeared on the list of candidates. D. J. and I won a lot of big games together, and I always said he was one of the best clutch players I’ve ever seen. I think D. J. would make a good coach, but I knew Gaston had someone a lot more high-profile in mind. He had no intention of hiring D. J., that’s for sure. My understanding was that D. J. would be kept regardless of who the head coach was. That turned out not to be the case. He was fired later that year. By then, I was in the middle of negotiations with the Pacers, and talking about putting together my own coaching staff. I found out later that D. J. was upset because I didn’t offer him an assistant’s job in Indiana, but I thought he was set in Boston. I also thought he wanted to be a head coach. Besides, I had already made up my mind that I was going to use two assistants, not three.
It was clear to me that Paul Gaston wanted Rick Pitino to be his coach, so I called up Pitino and asked him if he was interested. He said he liked his situation in Kentucky, but he asked me a lot of questions. I probably talked to him two or three times, and it was always the same: he said he wasn’t interested, then would pump me for more information. He’d ask me things like, “So what are the Celtics going to do with M. L.?” Later on, he started asking me about Red and his role in the organization. Every time we talked, I sensed he was getting closer and closer to taking it, even though he kept insisting he didn’t want it.
Until those phone calls, I had no past history with Rick Pitino. I scouted his Kentucky teams for the Celtics, and I was impressed with the way they trapped and applied defensive pressure—it was hard not to be, really—but I had no relationship with him at all. I have very few memories of him as coach of the Knicks, other than that those teams always played hard and gave us trouble. But in terms of having a personal opinion about him, I didn’t. I had no feelings for him one way or the other.
Even though I felt from the beginning that Pitino would end up with the job, my first choice would have been Kansas coach Roy Williams. I thought he was a perfect fit for the Celtics. His system would be great in the pros. His teams run, but they can slow it up. And his style is right to the point. That’s what I like. His players always seemed disciplined, and fundamentally sound too.
Williams sounded really flattered when I called. He said the pros might be something that would interest him someday, but he was happy with his job and wasn’t ready to make a move. At that time Kansas had a lot of talent, with Raef LaFrentz and Paul Pierce, and he said the timing just wasn’t right. I could tell he was being sincere, not using it as leverage, and I appreciated that. So I crossed him off the list.
The other name I gave Paul Gaston was Bob Hill. I always felt he had done a good job as head coach of the Knicks and the Pacers. I liked him because he’s firm and he knows the game, and I felt he’d have the respect of the team. But when I brought up his name to Gaston, I could tell it wasn’t going to happen. Bob Hill might be a good coach, but he wasn’t a big enough name for the Celtics.
Larry Brown was a big enough name, and everyone knew he was unhappy in Indiana and looking to make a move. I checked with some of my contacts, and they all said there was no way he’d be back with the Pacers next year, so I called the Pacers and asked permission to talk to him about the Celtics job. They said yes. By this time Pitino had told the media he was not leaving Kentucky. I remember being surprised when I heard that, because I really thought he was ready to come to Boston, in spite of all his denials. Gaston told me to call Bob Hill and tell him they had decided not to interview him, and I felt bad about that, because I figured they could at least talk to him. But the feeling I was getting was that Larry Brown was now their man, and I was very happy about that. He is the perfect coach to bring in when you want to turn something around. He runs a great practice, he’s a perfectionist, and he lives for basketball. If Larry Brown ended up as the Celtics coach, there was no doubt in my mind he’d get them back on track. He seemed like he was the front-runner, but I was guessing. Once I gave the Celtics my list of coaches, I was frozen out. The Celtics weren’t telling me anything.
Brown interviewed with the Celtics and called me afterward. He sounded excited. He told me, “I think I’ve got the job.” He said Gaston told him he needed just a couple more days, and he’d get back to him with the details. I congratulated him and wished him luck.
Next thing you know—BOOM!—Larry Brown is
not
the next coach of the Celtics. A couple of days turned into a week, and suddenly Pitino was back in it. I don’t know how it all happened, because I was out in the cold at that point, but various newspapers later reported that Larry Brown and Rick Pitino were playing in a golf tournament in California and Larry told Rick he thought he had the Boston job and he was just waiting for the owner to wrap everything up. The next thing you know, Rick is back into the picture and Larry Brown is out of a job.
When I heard what happened, I was sick about it. Larry called me up and said, “What is going on?” I couldn’t give him an answer. The truth was, I had no idea what was happening. I called up Gaston and said, “What are you doing? You’ve got this guy sitting over here wanting the job and you’re messing around with him. You’re leaving him hanging. Do you want him or not?” But Gaston wouldn’t really tell me. He said if Larry Brown wants to get another job, then he should do that.
That’s when I knew Pitino was in and Larry Brown was out, and it really ticked me off. It was done all wrong. I had no problem with Rick Pitino being the coach—it was the way it was handled that bothered me. Larry Brown should have been treated with far more respect throughout the process, and Paul Gaston should have been more straightforward with me. But neither one of those things happened. In the end, all I could do was call Larry and apologize and tell him I was sorry. Soon after that, the Sixers hired Larry Brown. I bet the first thing he did was circle all the dates on his schedule when his team played Boston.
I knew what was coming next. Pitino officially accepted the job as coach of the Celtics and fired a whole bunch of people who had been with the team for years, which is what I would have done too, if I had taken over some management role in that organization. There’s no question that a fresh start was the best way to go with the Celtics. Actually, Pitino was smart enough to have Gaston fire all those people before he came on board, but everybody knew who was calling the shots. Pitino didn’t fire Red Auerbach, but he changed his title of president to vice chairman of the board.
I felt really bad for Red, because he’s the reason the Boston Celtics were the best organization in basketball. As far as I’m concerned, he saved the NBA, not just the Celtics, by the way he coached and won championships. From what I understand, Red was pretty upset about it, but he wasn’t too happy with me either. During the process of finding a coach I did an interview with the
Boston Globe,
and in the story I said I could never be coach of the Celtics because I would have to make some tough changes, including firing people I really liked. I said there were too many people trying to make decisions for the team, and then I made a comment about how I hardly ever agreed with Red on anything, so how could I coach his team? It was a joke, but I guess Red didn’t find it very funny. The thing is, he took it the wrong way. I’m telling you right now: if I ever had taken the coaching job or general manager’s job for the Celtics, I would have had Red right there beside me. He would have been president forever if I had any say in it. I have the highest regard for him, and I always will.
I don’t understand exactly what happened between me and Red, but I’m just as stubborn as he is. If Red’s ticked off with me, that’s fine. I always say if you don’t like somebody, then don’t be around them. But I think there’s mutual respect there, even if we never talk again the rest of our lives.
I did call him after the article, because I heard he was steaming about it. I said, “Red, I understand you are upset about some things I said.” He told me, “No, Larry, that’s a bunch of bull. We’re fine. Larry, you were always one of my favorites.” I told him, “I don’t really care whether you like me or not, Red, just as long as your wife, Dot, still does.”
By the time we hung up, I figured everything was fine. But then about two weeks later a friend of mine called me up and said, “I talked to Red today, and he was killing you. He’s really mad at you for saying that stuff.” So I guess we’ve got a problem. All I can tell you is that it hasn’t changed my feelings for the man.
It’s too bad my time with the Celtics ended that way. I had some great years in Boston, and I still love it out there. I’d love to go back someday, but things have changed, and that whole organization is completely different than it was. There’s nothing for me there now.
It’s disappointing that so many relationships I had with people fell apart. But I would feel a lot worse about it if I thought I had done something wrong. I’m not wrong. I’m sorry M. L. didn’t like it that he lost the coaching job, but it wasn’t my decision. And I never would have purposely kept it from him about looking for a new coach. I thought he knew. And I feel badly that Dennis Johnson was frustrated. He, like everyone else, probably thinks I should just stop everything and tell the Pacers to hire him, but I can’t do that. I don’t believe that should end our friendship.
In the end it all comes down to one thing: sports is a business. I’m sure Pitino would tell you the same thing. The one thing I did find unbelievable was how Pitino kept telling the media the only way he’d take the job is if I stayed on with the Celtics. He knew that was never going to happen, because I told him that. He made it sound like he wanted me to be the general manager or something, which I never would have agreed to anyway, but you know what he offered me? An assistant coach’s job. I told him the best thing that could possibly happen was for me to move on, so he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder all the time.
That’s when I resigned from the Celtics. I have never looked back.
On Joining the Pacers
W
hen I was a player, people asked me if I’d ever consider coaching. I told them to forget it. I couldn’t picture myself in that role, and I had no interest in doing it. For one thing, I didn’t want to wear a suit. I said the same thing again when I retired in 1992. Right away, a couple of teams called me up and asked me to consider working for them, but that was before I had fusion surgery on my back, and there was no way I could physically do it even if I wanted to. I was still in terrible pain. I couldn’t even walk without trouble. At that time, teams still flew on commercial flights instead of the private jets most teams use now, and I knew my back could never hold up through the grind of all that traveling. Airplanes were not made for people my size.
Besides, I wanted to take some time off and to be with my family. For thirteen years I had been flying all over the country, playing basketball, and I promised my wife, Dinah, I would take a break from that. Our son, Conner, was growing up real fast, and I liked the idea of spending time with him, teaching him how to swim, going fishing, or even just hanging around the house. We also had a new addition to our family—our daughter, Mariah—and I was looking forward to watching her grow up too. Coaching wasn’t going to allow me to do that. There wasn’t anything about it that was appealing to me.
I can’t tell you exactly when I changed my mind, but it was probably after a couple of years, when my back started feeling better. We were living in Naples, Florida, which is the greatest place in the world to live, but there’s only so much to do.
At first I really loved being down there. People would know who I was, but there weren’t a lot of them looking for autographs. They seemed happy enough just to wave or say hello. That part of my life had really quieted down, and I was glad about it. It was nice to move around Naples without worrying that a mob of people would be following you. I’ve never been comfortable with people recognizing me and making a big deal of it, and there were times when it could make you a prisoner in your own house. When I played for the Celtics it was hard for me to move around Boston without people finding me. The Celtics fans were great, don’t get me wrong, but you couldn’t just show up at a seven o’clock movie, or go to the mall, and expect people to leave you alone. It just wasn’t going to happen. I never had any problems with one or two people coming up and looking for a picture or an autograph, but when a whole crowd of people start coming at you when you’re not expecting it, that’s when I get very uncomfortable. Sometimes it can even be a little scary, with so many bodies all swarming at you like that. When that happens, I tend to get pretty anxious, and the last thing I feel like doing is signing something. I just want to get out of there.
