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Thomas “Skip” Chappelle coached the University of Maine men’s basketball team for 17 years. He played basketball for Old Town High School and UMaine, where he was the school’s first ever NBA draft pick. He worked for the Bangor Daily News.
A pale, skinny rookie from Maine pulled up to the corner of Boylston and Exeter streets in Boston in a 1957 black Volkswagen Beetle. The Lenox Hotel, at 11 stories high, was once the tallest building in Boston, but it seemed nowhere near as tall in the rookie’s mind as the players that were rooming inside in preparation for that fall’s Boston Celtics tryout.
It was 1962, and almost everyone was there, including names like Tom Heinsohn, John Havlicek, Larry Siegfried, and the Joneses, both Sam and K.C. The only players granted exceptions to sleep in their own home beds during the camp were the team’s two bonafide superstars, Bob Cousy and Bill Russell.
The rookie laid low at first. A shooting guard, the kid often gave up the shot when a pass seemed to better suit the veterans he was trying to befriend.
Russell didn’t say a word to the rookie until K.C. Jones, Russell’s teammate at the University of San Francisco and on the 1956 gold medal U.S. Olympic team, spoke up for the new guy. K.C. and the kid had bonded quickly over card games in the evenings and would soon become the closest of friends for life.
By the second week of camp, Russell started finding the rookie in the open court. Russell recognized that the rookie had a decent first step and hustled his butt off. Russell, more than anyone, appreciated great effort from his teammates.
By the end of that training camp, it became clear that on a roster with only 12 spots to fill — and 13 players still around — someone would have to go. Eleven choices were already secure, which left coach Arnold “Red” Auerbach the decision between the rookie or that guy named Havlicek.
In the rookie’s last game, he had things going, but he was desperate to make one more play. Dribbling the ball through the lane, he tossed up a shot that was somewhere between a reverse layup and a left-handed hook shot over the outstretched arms of the New York Knicks’ center, Paul “Duke” Hogue. Somehow, some way, the 6-foot-1 rookie got the shot over the outstretched fingertips of the 6-foot-9 player. The ball caromed off the backboard, then the rim, and was seemingly ready to fall to the court.
Faster than you can say LeBron James or Michael Jordan, however, Bill Russell had the rookie’s back. Russell grabbed the ball just as it came off the rim and slammed it through the hoop so hard it nearly took the rookie’s head off as he stood helplessly below.
That rookie was me. In recent days, since we lost the man I believe to be the greatest basketball player in history, I’ve been reliving all those 60-year-old memories almost non-stop.
After that last shot fell off the rim and Russell nearly decapitated me with his thunderous dunk, Red Auerbach brought me to his hotel room. His choice was Havlicek. More than 27,000 points later we all knew Red was right. But Red did tell me the Hawks wanted me back in St. Louis, where I was originally drafted in the 11th round.
“No thanks,” I said stubbornly. I had played cards with my new buddies on the Celtics. I had ridden in the back seat of Bill Russell’s Ford Country Squire with K.C. and Sam and I heard that infamous cackle of Russell’s many times from close range.
I knew that if I wanted to win, I needed to be on Russell’s team. And so I came home to Bangor and moved to Fort Fairfield to coach basketball.
I might never have played in an official NBA game, but I did manage to forge friendships and bonds that were never broken.
Each year when Aroostook County schools closed for the potato harvest, I’d travel down to the Celtics training camp and evaluate that year’s new crop of rookies with K.C. and Sam and the rest of the gang. A few times I was asked to lace up the sneakers and suit up for exhibition games. I wasn’t the rookie anymore; they always treated me like one of their own, an extended member of the basketball fraternity.
I won’t ever forget the last time. The well-worn clipping from the Newport Daily News in Rhode Island reminds me it was Sept. 21, 1965. A few Celtics’ players were injured and Red Auerbach asked me to put on a uniform. I told myself just one thing: “Trust Bill Russell.” I darted and dashed, fed him the ball every chance I got, and then cut and slashed to get open. The greatest player of all time almost always passed me the ball back that night.
By the end I had scored 28 points. Bill Russell had 24 points and at least that many assists, including many to me.
I’m going to miss my old teammate. There’s never been anyone else quite like him.