The lesson, as always: Jeff Green is far more likely to succeed when the defenders act like statues. Then again, I guess everybody’s far more likely to succeed in that scenario.

But especially Jeff Green.

(h/t Red’s Army)

Without Red Auerbach, the Boston Celtics would not have become the NBA’s winningest franchise. He drafted Bill Russell. Selected Larry Bird a year before Bird finished college. Traded for Robert Parish and Kevin McHale. Coached the Celtics to nine championships, then won seven more as general manager and team president.

On what would have been Auerbach’s 94th birthday, I include an excerpt from Bill Russell’s book Red and Me: My Coach, My Lifelong Friend to remind you: sometimes, the genius is in fine print.

To set the stage: The year is 1956. The Celtics are thirsty for a big man and Auerbach is desperate to draft Russell, but the Celtics only have the 7th pick. Ed Macauley’s son is sick and Macauley has requested a trade closer to his St. Louis home; Red also wants to use the draft to send Macauley to the St. Louis Hawks. The St. Hawks hold the 2nd pick, so Red needs to devise a plan to A) trade Macauley to St. Louis, B) bring the Hawks’ 2nd pick to Boston, and C) persuade the Rochester Royals, owners of the 1st pick, not to select Russell.

“First, he called Hawks owner Ben Kerner, a man he’d once coached for and despised. If he could maneuver Kerner off [Russell], that would suit Red just fine. So he offered up Macauley, his best shooter, and the Celtics’ seventh pick in the draft in return for St. Louis’s rights to pick second. But Ben Kerner knew he had Red over a barrel. So he demanded more. He wanted to throw in Cliff Hagan, a promising young forward to Kentucky. At that juncture, Celtics owner Walter Brown told Red, ‘You can’t trade Ed Macauley! He’s our best player!’ But then Red had Ed Macauley tell Walter personally, ‘I want you to trade me to St. Louis. You’d be doing me a favor, because then I can take care of my son and still play pro ball.’ That was enough for Walter; he wore his empathy on his sleeve anyway.

“St. Louis was satisfied. Now for the coup de grace: the Rochester Royals. They had first pick, so what could Red possibly do to keep them from saying, ‘Rochester selects Bill Russell’? The Royals already had Maurice Stokes, a great young center who was leading the league in rebounds, so Red figured they didn’t need another big center like me. So he persuaded Walter Brown to call Rochester owner Les Harrison with an unusual proposition. Walter said, ‘Listen, Les. I’m the president of the Ice Capades. If you lay off Russell at Number one, just pick the date and I’ll throw the Ice Capades in your building for two weeks.’ This was Red’s almost compulsively innovative genius working overtime. He knew that in the off-season back then, a lot of those big arenas sat empty. Having the Ice Capades in your building for two weeks was like having the Harlem Globetrotters: guaranteed sellouts every night—and you’ve made a profit for the year! Of course, Harrison bit. He was a businessman, and for him, this was good business.”

And with that, the Celtics secured the draft rights to Bill Russell, set the foundation for the team’s first 11 championships, and marked Red Auerbach as one hombre you don’t want to negotiate with. Even when you win against Red — I’m sure the Ice Capades made Les Harrison a bundle of cash — you lose.

Happy birthday, Red. Smoke a stogey for me.

The NBA lockout is entering a critical stage, the stretch run of negotiations before parts of the NBA schedule are lost.

If a breakthrough does not occur at some point within the next seven to day days, David Aldridge reports, the NBA season will not begin on Nov. 1, when the Dallas Mavericks and Chicago Bulls are scheduled to kick off the NBA festivities.

Working backwards from the projected Nov. 1 starting date, this week is really the last week in which an agreement on a new CBA can be reached in order to save an on-time start of the season.

It would take at least two weeks to hammer out the details of a new CBA, and it would take at least two more weeks to have some kind of meaningful free-agent signing period. There would have to be at least a week to 10 days for an abbreviated training camp/preseason schedule. Which would bring us back to … right now. Unless that breakthrough occurs in the next seven to 10 days, the season will not — can not — start on time.

Sam Amico of Fox Sports reports that a source acknowledged a similar time frame.

“This isn’t just critical week for NBA season to start on time,” he tweeted, “it’s the final week, source said. Hence, more meetings.”

Some reporters believe the time frame extends slightly longer. Mark Heisler, formerly of the Los Angeles Times and now writing at SheridanHoops.com, gives the two sides two weeks to iron out their differences. He writes that the real negotiations haven’t started and won’t until the deadline for losing games draws closer — either side would be foolish to play its hand this early, so for now, according to Heisler, everything done and said is essentially posturing. When we hear the situation is dire, it probably isn’t that bad. When we hear the two sides are picking up major negotiating momentum, the situation probably isn’t that good.

In the next two weeks, according to Heisler, we could see progress. But the owners are demanding more than they ever have.

Nevertheless, these negotiations are different, for two reasons.

1) Having gotten givebacks in 1995 (luxury tax, rookie scale), 1999 (capping top salaries) and 2005 (raising the age limit, cutting contract lengths and raises), the owners are now seeking an unprecedented package.

2) The press, now-Internet driven, fixated on the moment and sensation-addicted, are a pushover for the dire labor posturing. …

Unfortunately, since 2008, NBA owners have counted on the fact that they will not only improve their lot, they’ll create a new paradigm.

Their opening offer — we’ll take the players’ 57 percent of revenue — was so nonsensical, NBA people complained they couldn’t get the union to take it seriously.

Insiders say Stern rally wants 50-50, which would mean a 12 percent cut for the players. Oh, and a hard cap.

Unfortunately, to the players, “hard cap” means “fight to the death,” or however long they can hold out.

It’s not like no one knows what’s really going on. Stern does.

Everyone else is only guessing, daily, or every hour or every day, picking through stray comments from marginal actors, reporting hopes (few), fears (lots), and (overblown, to this point) rifts in the warring camps.

Whether the critical date occurs in one week or two, the NBA lockout is quickly approaching danger time. In many ways, losing a season is non-sensible for both sides — last season set records for NBA popularity, and the league has no shortage for talent or storylines. But the owners want to change the entire system, and the players are desperately trying to hold on to the way things used to be. The sides began the negotiations very distant, and severe concessions will need to be made in order for the season to begin in a punctual fashion.

Thus, the two sides are close to committing to a meeting in the coming days. (CBS Sports)

With time running short on efforts to preserve an on-time start to the NBA season, high-level officials from the league and the players’ association are trying to arrange critical bargaining sessions this week, sources confirmed to CBSSports.com.

The meetings would take place Wednesday and/or Thursday in Manhattan and would likely feature only the top negotiators from each side.

The photographer should have zoomed in a little closer, no?

Doc Rivers says some NBA coaching staffs have proceeded “business like normal,” but the Celtics staff is not one of them. (Boston Herald)

“It’s been interesting,” he said. “We have, what, seven signed players. But as a staff, we’ve still watched film, we’ve prepped. We’re meeting in a week again as a staff. I know some staffs have gone on business like normal, where they’ve been in the office every day. I made a conscious choice not to do that, because you just don’t know. The tough part is not knowing the rest of your roster.

“But we pretty much know who we are. We’re not changing much as far as our identity defensively and stuff like that. But there are areas we want to improve on, on offense and defense, and we’re going to do that.”

There are only so many times you can look at tape and say, “Yup, Kevin Garnett is a great defender, Paul Pierce likes the stepback jumper, Rajon Rondo can really pass, and — ya know what? — why don’t we try to get Ray Allen open for jumpers next season?”

Doc Rivers is familiar enough with his team that watching tape every day just doesn’t make sense. So for now, he has been living the life — “golf, family and that’s about it,” he said. Living the retired life well before retirement, and getting paid for it. Sounds like a decent deal.

As Rivers noted, the Celtics currently have only seven players (eight if you include E’Twaun Moore, whose second-round draft selection does not come with a guaranteed contract). One name who might interest the Celtics while filling out their roster: Grant Hill.

The 38-year old small forward is reportedly interested in joining a contender next season, and the Celtics have shown interest in the past. Hill might not be a perfect fit — the Celtics bench was starved for three-point shooting last season, and Hill has never been known as a knockdown shooter — but he’s a solid veteran with a versatile skill set.  The Celtics will be limited by their salary, which figures to be over whatever salary cap is determined in the new Collective Bargaining Agreement. But Hill could come cheap.

If he does, he could very well be on the Celtics’ free agent wish list, a list that Danny Ainge has spent more time making this offseason than ever before.

“We’ve done that,” he said, “but we’ve done that every summer, every draft and every trade deadline. It’s the same as usual. We’ve just had a lot more time to go over things.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen, but we’ll be prepared. We’ve just gotten organized in our scouting. We’re just more organized now.”

Organization will help, but Ainge will also need to be creative whenever the free agency period begins. Decisions will need to be made on Glen Davis and Jeff Green. Delonte West will need to be wooed. Centers will need to be convinced to sign. Ainge will have to fill eight roster spots despite a severe lack of spending money, and he will have to juggle the success of next year and the desire to leave salary open for a 2012 spending spree.

Godspeed, Danny. Godspeed.

First Tom Thibodeau, then Lawrence Frank. For the past four seasons, the Celtics defense has been under the control of pedigreed, respected basketball minds. But with both Thibs and Frank accepting head coaching positions elsewhere, the Celtics defense will turn to a more unknown commodity next season. At a charity golf tournament this morning, Doc Rivers admitted that Mike Longabardi will become the team’s de facto defensive coordinator.

Longabardi has worked on Rivers’s coaching staff for the past three seasons, but a promotion this summer means he will become an NBA bench coach next season for the first time ever. The promoted coach previously worked behind the scenes in Boston and, for four years before that, in Houston. But now he will take the reins of one of the NBA’s top units, a defensive crew that carried an average Celtics offense last season.

Longabardi will need to fill big shoes, and he will need to do so despite the expected, continued decline (however slight or sudden) of Boston’s Big Three. Especially if Kevin Garnett slows down another step or two, Longabardi’s job will become significantly more difficult. After learning underneath Thibodeau and Frank, Longabardi should be well-schooled in defensive technique and well-prepared to run the defense himself. But taking orders from two of the NBA’s finest defensive minds is one thing. Giving the orders yourself is quite another.

There was some discussion that Boston’s defensive would be led by a “defensive coordinator-by-committee” next season, but Rivers instead decided to appoint Longabardi in charge. Just a few years ago, Longabardi was a video coordinator in Houston. Now, he will be barking orders at Garnett, Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. If he’s anything like Thibodeau and Frank, Longabardi will have plenty of voice-less nights following close games.

Remember, Larry Brown was reportedly interested in an assistant coaching position with Boston. By promoting Longabardi rather than pursuing Brown, the Celtics offered a vote of confidence to the Frostburg State University graduate. And no, I didn’t know that school existed either. In case you were wondering, other notable alumni include a bunch of people I’ve never heard of, and Jim Riggleman, the Washington Nationals manager who resigned after winning 11 of 12 games because the team refused to discuss a contract extension.

The Celtics have heaped a lot of responsibility on Longabardi, a young assistant whose resume pales in comparison to Thibodeau’s or Frank’s. I admittedly know nothing about Longabardi’s coaching habits or skills, but I hope he’s ready for the big time.

Editor’s note: This is the next chapter of a book I’m writing this summer. You can read the previous chapters here: The Preface. Chapter 1. Chapter 2.

As always, I will keep the site updated with Celtics news. But since it’s the offseason (damn it) and news is slower than Michael Sweetney’s metabolism, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to share some of my personal story.

– Jay

*****

When you’re beginning the first day of second grade, you worry about the important things: do my New Balance sneakers look good with my Umbro shorts? Did any girls get cuter over the summer, even if I don’t have the courage to talk to them no matter what? My mom packed string cheese and Hi-C Ecto Cooler for snack, right? Is my desk near any of my friends? Do I have any food stuck in my teeth?

So when I saw James Chen for the first time, wearing a backpack with Chinese symbols on it, donning some strange combination of clothes that was more Samurai warrior than suburban Massachusetts second grader, head and shoulders taller than every other second grader and even the third and fourth graders, being walked into class by his parents, who seemed tall enough that they could reach up and burn their fingers on the sun, I was too preoccupied to understand that I had just caught a glimpse of my first best friend.

If I had met James later in life, we never would have become friends. Not because I became less open-minded in the coming years, but because later in life, you become content with your own group of friends, your own life. James moved to Longmeadow without knowing a single word of English. The seven-year old me saw that as something intriguing, something new and exciting, something that made me eager to invite James to my house and to help him develop his English skills and to embrace him as my friend. The current me would have seen James’s choppy (at best) English and seen it as a barrier keeping us from becoming friends, then went back to my own familiar group of friends to drink a few beers and play a round of golf.

But I was seven years old then, and James, with his Chinese speech, Chinese snacks and Chinese clothes, was the most interesting person I had ever met. It took less than a week for me to invite him over my house. He still couldn’t speak but he could write fluently, and my mom brought a chalk easel for him to spell his thoughts. On that easel, I learned that James and I had more in common than I thought. At the risk of making James sound like a stereotype, he excelled at math and was more driven to succeed than any student in my class. I would later grow into a teacher’s worst nightmare – a lazy underachiever always prepared with a wise-ass quip (one teacher used to make me stand in a chalk circle at the back of the classroom, with my back facing the class and my nose at the wall) – but in second grade, I was like James, smart and driven, the type of student who made a teacher’s job simple. More importantly to our friendship, of course, James shared my love of basketball. His father had played for the Chinese National Basketball Team and James loved the sound of ball snapping through net, that beautiful symphony, as much as I did. So we put the easel aside and brought a couple basketballs out of the garage to shoot around.

Not to sound corny, but, well, I’m about to sound corny: when we shot around that day, the first time I shared a basketball court with my new best friend James Chen, we both spoke the same language. I’ve heard people say you can learn more about someone while shooting around for half an hour than you can by speaking to them for an entire day. Maybe that’s true, maybe not, but shooting does offer a window into a person’s personality. If both rebounds bounce in the same spot, does the person rebound his own first and let you get yours? Or does he rebound your ball first, pass it to you, then chase after his own? Does he say thanks when you rebound his misses? Chide himself after missing shots? The answers to those questions might not define a person’s character. But they mean something.

James was tall, a Sequoia tree compared to me, but his jump shot floated toward the rim like a feather dropped from above. He did not say thanks after I rebounded his misses, but that’s because he still did not speak a word of English. When my rebounds dropped anywhere in his vicinity, James chased them down. His passes hit me right in the fingertips, the seams already lined up for my shots. James was well-schooled by his basketball-playing father, I could tell instantly. He could also shoot. A center by height, a point guard by desire, James let fly with outside shots that did not even wake the net as they fell through. When James missed, he muttered to himself. I could not understand what he was saying, since it was in Chinese, but from the tone I knew he hated missing shots. This interesting kid, this new Chinese boy, my first best friend, my team’s next starting center, was a fierce competitor.

He was also a smart competitor. In second grade, I still played in-town basketball, the same league my team had won the season before. The league had a rule about coaches: if two or more parents decided to coach together, their sons would all be on the same team. Naturally, since winning and losing is supposed to mean nothing at that age, assistant coaches almost always had All-Star sons. The rule was only one of the league’s odd ones, another being that there were no traveling violation calls. Because his services were a package deal with his son, there was almost a full-fledged steel-caged match to recruit Mr. Chen as an assistant coach. He couldn’t commit any time whatsoever to coaching and probably wouldn’t even be able to attend any games, but his son was a 5’6 second grader with range to the three-point arc  – thus, Mr. Chen became the most prized recruit in town. Eventually, he chose to coach my team. I think Mr. Chen decided to coach my team (and I say the term coach in its loosest fashion) because I was his son’s best friend in town. Or maybe it was the fully-loaded Lexus and mysterious duffle bag filled with $30,000 that changed his mind. One way or the other, James became my teammate.

Our team (the blue team) advanced to the semifinals, and we were the clear favorites. But everything fell apart on a Saturday morning. My whole family attended the semifinals, most of them sipping Dunkin Donuts coffee – when they weren’t screaming at the refs, at least. In my second year, I had stopped shaking like a massage chair every time I scored a bucket. I had grown too cool for that. Instead, after every make, I grinned like I had just met Santa Claus. But that day, I didn’t do much grinning and neither did my teammates.

We were a star-studded team, the cream of the crop, the Larry Bird-Kevin McHale-Robert Parish Boston Celtics playing against a bunch of teams that were more like the Beno Udrih-Omri Casspi-Tyreke Evans Sacramento Kings. But some days, the ball just doesn’t fall, and that Saturday was one of those days. The game went back and forth, brick after brick, turnover after turnover, like a “Tony Allen’s Greatest Bloopers” clip. Eventually my team fell behind by one point. I don’t remember the exact score, but it couldn’t have been much more than 16-15. We fouled the other team with five seconds left, and we needed a miss. It came, and James corralled the rebound. In a flash of brilliance, perhaps the most intelligent play a seven-year old ever made, James remembered the “no traveling violations” rule.

In five seconds or less, James needed to drain a shot to win the game and send us to the finals, where we would have been favorites again. When he calculated the fastest route to the other hoop, he realized dribbling would have only wasted time. The refs didn’t call traveling anyway, so James cradled the ball in his right arm and took off as quickly as he could. He sprinted for the other hoop, all 5’6 of him, his jet black hair standing at attention, opponents trying to keep up, their heads at his shoulders, necks craned up watching this Asian blur pass them by. I watched, stunned, as James carried the ball like a football player, high-stepping his way to the other end. His decision to forego dribbling wasn’t just wise, it was brilliant. In less than five seconds he sprinted downcourt, made a layup, and then celebrated like only a child could, jumping up and down and waving his arms in the air, like a pogo stick flagging down a cab. A few years later, James would learn the Walker Wiggle while rooting for the Celtics and his celebrations would become more choreographed.  But then, Walker was still at Kentucky and when James celebrated, he just looked like a man in extreme distress. Not that it mattered. The blue team had won, James and I had prevailed.

But in that moment while James celebrated, while the other team started wailing, while my aunts, uncles, mom and dad all stood and cheered on the sideline, spilling only a little bit of their Dunkin Donuts coffee, the two referees convened at mid-court.

“Traveling,” one of them said after a few moments.

“There’s no such thing as traveling in this league!” shouted my coach. “We won! We won!”

Winning didn’t matter at that age, remember?

“The traveling rule was made for kids who can’t dribble,” replied one of the refs. “Not for the most skilled player in the league. The basket doesn’t count.”

And with that, two referees wiped away the most intelligent play a second-grader ever made. James cried. He could have dribbled if he wanted to. He could have still made the shot. I walked over and gave my best friend a hug.

A few years later, James and I began our own business. We sold basketball cards online at a website called Courtside Cards. James created the website himself. He was 11 years old.

We were positive the website would make us millions, and two months after we created it, I received my very first pay check. It was for 31 cents. The check came in the mail. James’s father had gotten a job as a professor at Towson State, and the Chens had moved to Baltimore.

It was time to find a new best friend.