Bill Russell died at 88. His life is well summed up in this article.
I met Bill Russell as a cub reporter for the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune. I did a story not on his basketball talent but on his model train collection.
He lived in a modest three-bedroom ranch along busy Route 28 and across from Sailor Tom's restaurant and park.
Russell, they say was six foot nine. I'm five foot one. The height difference made us seem like we were from different species. A few years later when I worked at a dry cleaner to help with college costs, he brought in a suit coat to be cleaned. I tried it on. It was more like wearing a tent.
The day of the interview his then wife, Rose, greeted me. His son, whom I remember being about two, was running around the living room.
The basement was devoted to his train hobby. He had created an entire town with multi-tracks. He'd made a lot of the scenery. He'd painted the train cars which almost disappeared in his huge hands, the same hands that racked up basket after basket through out his career. His enthusiasm for his hobby was like a little boy who was told he could have all the ice cream he wanted.
My home town of Reading should have been delighted to have such a talented resident, but he was refused membership in organizations that should have been welcoming. I remember it as the golf club and a church, but my memory can be fuzzy on which ones. He remarked that he was welcomed at the White House but not these places.
I'd forgotten his house had been broken into until I read the Post article. Racists remarks were written on the walls.
A few months later Reading had a parade. I watched it from the hood of my car. I saw Rose and her son and invited them to sit with me. I noticed scowls.
I knew about racism in the south. I'd lived for two years in Bluefield, West Virginia. Russell was my introduction to racism in the north.
Russell fought racism throughout his life. He shouldn't have had to. Racism is an ugly trait in many humans no matter where they live.
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