Since days at USF, Bill Russell was his own man

When I arrived in the Bay Area in the mid-1960s, it was notably provincial. Joe DiMaggio remained the region’s favorite ballplayer over Willie Mays, which was a mistake.

Not that Joe wasn’t great. It’s just because Willie was greater but unappreciated by the newer generation.

And Bill Russell, who had grown up in Oakland and led the University of San Francisco to championships, seemed to be the only basketball player who mattered.

That, we learned in retrospect, was not a mistake.

Russell, who died Sunday at 88, was a man apart, on the court and off. He changed the sport. In time, he also would change social viewpoints.

Choices remain subjective. How we judge remains no less a factor than who we judge. Michael Jordan invariably gets the votes as the best in history. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

Which brings us to Russell. All he could do was win. Everywhere and anywhere.

The boy who in the late 1940s moved with his family from Louisiana was gangly and unskilled. But tall enough, so he earned a place, or at least a temporary one, on the McClymonds High basketball squad.

Maybe William Felton Russell couldn’t shoot, but he would keep others from scoring, especially in time at USF, where he teamed with a kid from San Francisco’s Commerce High, K.C. Jones.

The Dons would win back-to-back NCAA championships (1955 and ’56) and a record 60 straight games. At UCLA, a young coach named John Wooden kept getting asked why he couldn’t get past USF in the regionals. The brief answer: Because of Bill Russell.

Genius is a misused word in sports. But it is appropriate in the case of Arnold (Red) Auerbach, who as coach and GM of the Celtics understood what Russell could provide and maneuvered to get him in the ’56 draft.

Former Senator Bill Bradley, who faced Russell with the Knicks in the 1960s, viewed him as “the smartest player ever to play the game and the epitome of a team leader.”

“At his core, Russell knew that he was different from other players — that he was an innovator and that his very identity depended on dominating the game,” Bradley wrote in reviewing Russell’s remembrances of Auerbach in “Red and Me: My Coach, My Lifelong Friend” (2009) for The New York Times.

Until near the end, Russell was involved in a series of confrontations. In 2007, Russell returned to the USF campus. According to Jerry Crowe of the Los Angeles Times, Russell “stormed off after being told he would  have to pay his own way because his scholarship had expired.

“Dominating the game, indeed. Whatever was the source of Russell’s frustration in any phase of his life is part of what pushed him to excel, if not satisfy himself.”

Russell’s allegiance was to his teammates, not to the city of Boston or to the fans. He refused to sign autographs for fans or even as keepsakes for his teammates. When the Celtics retired his No. 6 in March 1972, the event, at his insistence, was a private ceremony in Boston Garden. He ignored his election to the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame — situated squarely in Celtics country, in Springfield, Mass. — and refused to attend the induction.

“In each case, my intention was to separate myself from the star’s idea about fans, and fans’ ideas about stars,” Russell said in “Second Wind: The Memoirs of an Opinionated Man”, written with Taylor Branch and published in 1979. “I have very little faith in cheers, what they mean and how long they will last, compared with the faith I have in my own love for the game.”

The faith placed in Bill Russell from his days at McClymonds and USF was well deserved.