The very first basketball game I watched featured Bill Russell. It was in March 1968, and Russell’s Celtics were facing Oscar Robertson’s Cincinnati Royals (now the Sacramento Kings) in a nationally televised match. I was new to basketball, but I wasn’t new to my Dad’s insistence that I see as many legendary athletes as possible. He probably already knew that his eight-year-old chess-obsessed, cello-playing son wasn’t going to emulate the magnificent athleticism of Willie Mays or Gale Sayers, but he wanted me to appreciate the intelligence and savvy that these men brought to competition. He wanted me to bring the same fire to my homework and school activities.
Robertson was spectacular, but Russell didn’t impress me as much; he wasn’t scoring like Big O was, and I voiced my disappointment. I remember my Dad’s exasperated frown. Then he chuckled as he often did when he thought his companion wasn’t thinking deeply enough (growing up, I heard that chuckle a lot). “This isn’t tennis,” he said. “To appreciate Russell, you have to watch the whole court.”
