Bob Cousy

The Full Biography

Bob Cousy. Point guard. The Houdini of the hardwood, who made the behind-the-back pass a Boston civic habit and then lived long enough to see the position become the sport.

This is his story.

The image most people still carry is a balding man in Celtics green, ball in one hand, already looking at a teammate the defense has not located. The years were the 1950s and the first slice of the 1960s. What the still cannot show is Robert Joseph Cousy of the Yorkville streets and later St. Albans, a French-speaking household, a Holy Cross champion, and a later life that has now run so long he has had to eulogize almost everyone who shared those banners with him.

He was born on August 9, 1928, on the East Side of Manhattan, to French immigrant parents. The family moved to Queens. Street ball, then Andrew Jackson High, then the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, where he won a national title in 1947. The NBA was still a small, white, Northeastern business. The Tri-Cities Blackhawks drafted him and he did not want the Midwest. A trade brought him to Boston in 1950. Red Auerbach was not immediately sure what he had. Then the passes started landing on men who had not yet raised their hands, and Auerbach became sure.

Six NBA championships, 1957 and then 1959 through 1963, with Russell arriving in 1956 to make the defense as strange as Cousy’s offense already was. Thirteen All-Star games. The 1957 MVP. He popularized, for a national audience, the behind-the-back pass and the idea that a guard could conduct rather than merely deliver. People who hated flash called it showboating. People who had to cover him called it geometry. He retired in 1963, still good, because he had decided the legs would tell the truth soon and he preferred to leave on his own sentence.

He coached Boston College, then the Cincinnati Royals, and even put himself back on the floor for a few games in 1969–70, a decision he has treated as a mistake. Broadcasting and the Celtics family became the long job. He has been, for half a century, the organization’s living preface: the man you call when you want the 1950s to speak in complete sentences.

I was a guy who could do things with a basketball that other people couldn’t. That’s all.Bob Cousy

The playing years in Boston are a ledger the anniversary films flatten into banners. He arrived in 1950 after the Tri-Cities Blackhawks drafted him and he refused the Midwest; a trade brought him to Auerbach. He was not, at first, the prophet. Then the passes started landing on men who had not yet raised their hands. He won the 1957 Most Valuable Player award. He made thirteen All-Star teams and two All-Star MVPs. He was first-team All-NBA ten times. He was the first president of the National Basketball Players Association, a union job in a league that still thought of itself as a train and a cold gym. Six championships: 1957, then 1959 through 1963, with Bill Russell arriving in 1956 to make the defense as strange as Cousy’s offense already was. He averaged 18.4 points and 7.5 assists for a career. He retired in 1963, still an All-Star, because he had decided the legs would tell the truth soon and he preferred to leave on his own sentence.

Boston College hired him as coach in 1963. He took the Eagles to the National Invitation Tournament and taught college kids the same geometry he had taught the parquet. In 1969 the Cincinnati Royals hired him to coach Oscar Robertson’s club; he put himself back on the floor for seven games in 1969–70, a decision he has treated as a mistake. He left Cincinnati in 1973. Broadcasting and the Celtics family became the long job. He wrote books — The Last Loud Roar, The Killer Instinct with Ed Linn, Cousy on the Celtic Mystique — that treated the 1950s as reporting, not as stained glass. He has been, for half a century, the organization’s living preface.

The turn is not a title. The turn is the moral file. In old age he has spoken more plainly about race in those Celtic years than the anniversary films always want — about what Russell carried, about what the city was, about what a white star was and was not asked to see. In 2018 he wrote Russell a letter that said as much. He has also spoken about depression after his wife Missie’s decline and death. The Houdini act, it turns out, included a man who had to learn to say he was not fine. That belongs in the life. The behind-the-back pass is not the whole invention.

Yorkville first, then St. Albans in Queens. French at the table. Andrew Jackson High School. Holy Cross in Worcester, a national title in 1947 under coach Doggie Julian, a college game that still looked like set shots and a kid who already passed as if the defense were a suggestion. The NBA of 1950 was a small Northeastern business. The Blackhawks did not get him. Boston did. Auerbach learned, in a hurry, that a guard could conduct. The behind-the-back pass was not invented for a highlight. It was invented because a defender was standing in the place the ball needed to leave. People who hated flash called it showboating. People who had to cover him called it geometry.

The Russell years are the dynasty the films remember. Cousy’s years before Russell are the invention the films skip: a team that could score and could not yet stop anyone, a point guard making the parquet look larger than it was. He left in 1963 while still good. That decision is in the file because he put it there. The coaching and the broadcast and the long Worcester quiet are the rest of a life that has now outlived almost every man who shared those banners.

The Players Association presidency is easy to skip in a highlight. In a league that still thought of itself as a train and a cold gym, a white star who would sit as the union’s first president is part of the geometry too. He was not Russell and did not claim to be. In old age he said so, which is the more interesting sentence. Boston College, 1963–69, is a real coaching job: practices, NIT nights, college kids learning the pass that had been a civic habit on the parquet. Cincinnati is the job he has filed as a mistake, including the seven games he wrote himself into. He left coaching and became the voice a broadcast used when it wanted the 1950s to speak in complete sentences.

Missie is the private file that became public because he allowed it. Dementia, then 2013, then a depression he did not costume. Worcester remained the address. Holy Cross remained the parish. The Celtics remained the corporation that still calls when it needs the living preface. He has given the corporation the preface and then, in the same decade, given Russell a letter and given reporters the grief. The behind-the-back pass is youth-league grammar now. The complete sentence is the late invention. He has outlived the argument about whether the flash was real. Every modern passer who looks off a defender is in a conversation he started with a leather ball on a parquet that no longer exists. Worcester is close enough to hear it. The statue outside the DCU Center is for tourists. The kitchen is for the man. He has buried almost everyone who shared the first banners and still answers the franchise when it calls for a complete sentence. That is the long chapter, and it is still open.

He married Missie in 1950. They had two daughters. Her illness and death in 2013 opened a public sadness he did not costume. He has remained in Worcester, close to the college that made him, close to a city that is not Boston and therefore, perhaps, livable for a man who already gave Boston his prime. He is, as of this writing, still here — one of the last men who can describe the pre-Russell NBA without a researcher in his ear.

The later years

Home is Worcester, Massachusetts — the college town that made him, not the city that hung the banners. He married Marie “Missie” Cousy in 1950. They had two daughters. He stayed in Worcester through the coaching years, the broadcast years, and the long quiet after the last parade. Missie’s decline was dementia. She died in September 2013. He has spoken, without costume, about the depression that followed: a man who had conducted a fast break having to learn that he was not fine. Friends from the old parquet describe visits, calls, a kitchen that is not a museum. He is, as of this writing, still here — one of the last men who can describe the pre-Russell NBA without a researcher in his ear.

Those years have become the longest chapter. He has seen the point guard become the highest-paid man on most rosters, which is a joke the 1950s would not have understood and a compliment he will accept with a shrug. He has buried Russell, Auerbach, Heinsohn, most of the first banners. He still talks to the franchise. He still, on the right night, can make a young reporter forget the recorder because the sentences are too good. In 2018 and after, the interviews about race and about grief became a second career he did not advertise. He wrote Russell. He sat for the questions anniversary films skip. The Houdini of the hardwood turned out to be a man who would, at last, stay in the room for the hard part.

Honors arrived on the ordinary schedule: the Hall of Fame in 1971, the number 14 in the rafters, the NBA’s 50th and 75th anniversary teams. On August 22, 2019, President Donald Trump gave him the Presidential Medal of Freedom. In June 2021 Worcester unveiled a statue outside the DCU Center. A bridge in the same city now carries his name. The more interesting honor is chronological. He has outlived the argument about whether his game was real. Every modern passer who looks off a defender is in a conversation he started with a leather ball on a parquet that no longer exists. He is in his nineties. He still lives near Holy Cross. He still owes the next reporter a complete sentence.

The Worcester statue is bronze. The man is still a neighbor. He has attended Holy Cross nights and Celtics nights and treated both as parish dates. The Medal of Freedom is in a box and on a clip. The more useful object is the letter to Russell and the interviews in which he said what the anniversary films skip: what a white star was not asked to see, what the city was, what grief did after Missie. He has not become a professional moralist. He has become an old point guard who will stay in the room when the question is hard.

He is in his nineties. Most of the first banners are dead. He has eulogized teammates and a coach and a league that used to fit on a train. Broadcasting is behind him. The kitchen in Worcester is the last locker room. Daughters and grandchildren have had the private version. The public still wants the behind-the-back pass. He will still, on the right night, show a young reporter how the geometry worked, and then tell the truth about the years the films simplify. That is the long chapter. It is still being spoken.

After the spotlight moved

It moved in 1963, and then it came back as history. The Celtics are a corporation now. Cousy is the man who can still tell you what the locker room smelled like when the corporation was a train and a cold gym. The behind-the-back pass is youth-league grammar. That is how you know it worked.

He came out of a French kitchen in New York, won in Worcester, taught Boston to expect the unexpected pass, won six titles beside Russell, left on time, and then lived long enough to tell the truth about the years the films simplify. If you only remember the flash, you have the nickname. If you remember Holy Cross, the 1963 exit, and the late interviews, you have him.

Portrait: Unknown author · Public domain · via Wikimedia Commons

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