Bird was never like this; he chatted with Drake, reminiscing about the past while probing into the current situation within the Celtics.
"Bobby is a good manager, but it’d be better if he cursed less. He’s like a doctorate in cursing, I suspect some words are his own creations."
"Bobby was like this during the Dream Team as well; he cursed the audience into silence, hahaha."
"Moreover, Bobby is much tougher than people imagine. He completely ignored Redhead’s commands and opposed everything he said. Now Redhead doesn’t even bother with team affairs anymore, leaving everything to Bobby; he’s fully retired."
"In the summer, Bobby said he wanted to trade Antoine Walker, and everyone opposed it. I thought Bobby would compromise, just like Gavitt. But Bobby was unusually persistent, saying he would quit if he didn’t get his way, and even threatened to curse the Celtics to never win a championship and take Duncan away from Boston. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it; he was threatening Redhead! Anyone in the past who did this would have been thrown out. But now, after Redhead’s heart bypass surgery, things are different; he’s changed a lot, and it’s Redhead’s turn to compromise."
Listening to Drake, Bird admired Beelman even more.
Bird had worked in the Celtics management, which were the most unpleasant years of his career.
It was during that time he realized he was not entirely a Celtic, despite everything he achieved for the team.
Auerbach’s classic catchphrase, "So you are overpaid," wasn’t just a joke.
It was a subconscious suppression, telling you that your contribution had already been generously compensated, so don’t expect more.
In his youth, Bird, the player, didn’t realize this. It was only after he retired and experienced more that he understood it deeper.
So he still loved the Celtics and cherished that wonderful Chapter of his life, but he no longer hoped to truly become part of the team.
Some people and things are only beautiful when kept at a distance; once that distance is surpassed, the situation becomes unfavorable.
But Beelman, with his qualifications, experience, and reckless courage, seized power in the Celtics at the right moment.
He made sweeping reforms to the team, wanting to approve every personnel move and decision related to basketball.
Bobby Berman vowed to transform the Celtics from a family-run club into a truly modern NBA team.
This process was completed by the Portland Trail Blazers in the 1980s. In 1989, when Larry Weinberg sold the team, and Old Tang took over, the Blazers became a vast sports entertainment company.
But the Celtics, with their deep roots and heavy historical shackles, had not yet achieved "modernization" until the late 1990s.
The team’s interpersonal relationships were complex, and every position, from top to bottom, was filled with people nurtured by the Celtics system, close kin or relatives.
So to outsiders, the Celtics were a closely-knit group, while other NBA teams had management, coaching staff, and medical personnel moving freely.
Today, you might work for the Chicago Bulls; next year, due to excellent performance, you might be headhunted to work for the Detroit Pistons.
Now you work for the Trail Blazers, your next job might be in Miami or Los Angeles, bringing Portland’s successful experience with you.
The Celtics weren’t like that; their employees were all locals, relatives, descendants, disciples, or friends of those who had played or worked for the Celtics.
Their marketing and management were still stuck in the ’60s and ’70s, maintaining everyday work and activities through personal relationships, with team promotion and activities entirely confined to the local community, not radiating across the entire nation or globally.
The 1986 stock subscription was a remarkable attempt but only deepened the bond between the Celtics and local fans.
In personnel management and team operations, the Celtics still resembled an old family workshop rather than a modern enterprise.
The most direct manifestation was in player selection; during the decline of the Big Three, the Celtics never found a good successor.
They were always looking for players using methods from the ’60s and ’70s, which were ineffective by the ’80s and ’90s.
For example, in the 1989 draft, the Celtics deliberated for ages and finally selected a 6-foot-10 white forward named Michael Smith.
The reason for choosing him was simple: Auerbach said he might be the next Larry Bird.
His shooting posture and demeanor did indeed bear a slight resemblance to Bird, but such purely instinctive, copycat drafting methods couldn’t find talent anymore.
Michael Smith entered the draft vision because he was naturally an outstanding player in college.
The problem was, his skills and potential were more in line with the standards of the ’50s and ’60s, not the ’80s and ’90s.
When Auerbach’s word was law and impressions dominated, there was no part of the Celtics’ draft process that could stop him.
Redhead would walk into the office with a cigar, point to a name, and everyone would agree.
No one objected; everyone would even express agreement, believing the choice was correct.
How could such draft methods and processes be a match for other teams?
That year, the Celtics missed out on Tim Hardaway and Shawn Kemp.