I always felt that I knew the late Bill Russell. I certainly knew a lot about him, or I thought I did. I gobbled up just about everything written about him since his arrival in Boston. I had seen him play countless times over the years. I was aware of the mind games he played with his great rival, Wilt Chamberlain. I knew how he had changed the game of basketball, and of his unwavering commitment to civil rights. I had also read about the prickly side of his personality and how he could be difficult to deal with.

I was even there at the old Boston Garden the day he made his debut with the Celtics. It was, as I remember, a Saturday afternoon just before Christmas in 1956. Russell's debut had been delayed due to his participation in the Olympic Games, which were held in Melbourne, Australia that year. My lifelong pal, Paul McDermott, had convinced me that it was important that we get a look at the guy about whom everyone was making such a fuss. As usual, Paul was right. In those days, players had to pass right through crowds of people waiting at concession stands in order to get from their locker room to the arena itself. Someone would clear a path and ropes would be strung out to form an aisle; the door to the locker room would open and the players would file out. Paul and I knew the drill and were stationed right next to the rope as they passed by, just inches away. Most of the faces were familiar: Cousy, Sharman, Ramsay, Heinsohn. Then came the new guy, Russell, the only player of color on the squad; expression resolute, eyes straight ahead.

In the game, he played only limited minutes, as he hadn't yet had time to familiarize himself with either the team's plays or its players, but in the time he spent on the floor he grabbed a bunch of rebounds. There was no record kept of blocked shots, since they had yet to become an official statistic in the NBA. I had not met him, but I had seen him up close if not very personal.

In the years to come, I sat at a table practically right next to him at a downtown restaurant one day at lunch. I couldn't hear his conversation, but I clearly remember the infectious cackle of his laugh resonating throughout the room. There was another time when he stood right next to me for a brief moment after a game, but he was gone as quickly as he'd appeared.

The fact is that I never did meet Bill Russell. I never shook his hand or exchanged pleasantries with him. He didn't have the foggiest idea who I was. He had played his entire career before retiring in 1969. By the time that I weaseled my way onto television and began to make a name for myself on the local speaking circuit, it was 1970. By then, he had moved about as far away from Boston as you can get and still be in the continental United States, eventually settling in Mercer Island, Washington, just outside of Seattle.

Racists had poisoned his mind against Boston, and he couldn't get out here fast enough. Bostonians didn't want to hear the things he was saying about their city, and that only caused him to double down on them.

Finally, in May of 1999, a tribute was held at the Fleet Center in Boston at which everyone who was anyone was present. Not just old teammates, but Wilt Chamberlain and Kareem Abdul Jabbar among others. The emcee was none other than Bill Cosby, still regarded then as Saint Bill, the role model of role models. Russell received a long standing ovation when introduced. I thought the media missed the meaning of the occasion, that the city had come to believe the basic truth about what he'd been saying, that there were racists among us; but that it's just as true that we're not all racists, that there were people -- and plenty of them -- in Boston who loved Bill Russell and what he did and what he stood for.

A few years later I thought I had the chance to tell him that. I was in California for a celebrity golf tournament sponsored by American Airlines. I had been invited there by its organizer, a guy named Bernie Willett who was active with the Jimmy Fund, for which I made many appearances in those days. On the morning of the event, there was a buffet breakfast served for tournament participants. I got myself a plate of food and found an empty table for four to sit at. No sooner had I started in on my plate of bacon and eggs than I became aware of a large figure hulking over me. I looked up and it was the great man himself, Bill Russell, taking a seat right opposite me, at the table for four. I was aware of his habit of being coldly aloof when it suited him. I cleverly opened the conversation with a tentative "good morning." That was the end of the conversation. There was no response. I rapidly concluded that I was being given the "Russell Treatment." More bemused than offended, I watched him closely as he ate his breakfast.

It was impressive to see how he managed to eat the whole thing without acknowledging the presence of the person sitting opposite from him -- which happened to be me. When he finished eating, he got up and left. There were no goodbyes; after all, he hadn't even said hello.

I next saw him when he came to town to help the Red Sox celebrate Jackie Robinson's birthday -- they are the only big league club to do so each Jan. 30. He spoke to a group of students that morning. I had written a poem on Jackie that I was sure he'd like, but when I recited it at a dinner that night, he was already on a flight back to Mercer Island.

The last time he came to Boston was for John Havlicek's memorial service in 2019. He was already going downhill physically. At a reception in the basement of Trinity Church in Copley Square, he was seated at a table in a corner. I thought about going over to say hello, but I didn't want to take the chance that he'd be nice to me. Then I might no longer be comfortable telling the story of how he ghosted me one day at breakfast.



- Dick Flavin is a New York Times bestselling author; the Boston Red Sox "Poet Laureate" and The Pilot's recently minted Sports' columnist.