But it was Russell’s competitiveness — like Michael Jordan’s or Larry Bird’s — that set him apart from the game’s other players. He wanted to win every matchup, every game, every title. Hewaged psychological warfare, on and off the court. He would ignore an opposing rookie player in a restaurant the night before a game so that the next night the rookie would try too hard to make an indelible impression on Mr. Russell and, in the process, throw himself off his game. After Russell blocked a player’s shot, he often simply faked a block the next time, and the same player would rush his shot and miss.

During a playoff game against the Celtics in my sophomore year in the N.B.A., I had hit three shots in a row and the Knicks had narrowed the Celtics’ lead. At the lineup for a free throw I was standing next to Satch Sanders, who was guarding me, and across the lane was Russell. He caught my eye and then looked directly at Sanders and said, “Come on, Satch, stop him.” In that one act he helped his teammate redouble his effort, and he conveyed to me that he thought there was no question Sanders could stop me. Suddenly I felt less confident or more determined or both. The result: I scored very little the rest of the game.

Auerbach, who died in 2006, directed his owncompetitive fire principally toward the refs. He never let up on them, figuring that next time they’d remember his complaining and maybe give the Celtics a break. Russell jokes that his best preparation for his later stint as the Celtics’ coach was taking over the coaching duties, as team captain, after the countless ejections Auer­bach’s abrasiveness earned him.

Auerbach had no assistant coach and refused to scout an opponent, believing that if the Celtics executed well, it didn’t matter what the other team did. His gen­ius was to relate to each player individually. What worked for one player didn’t work for all players. For example, Auerbach didn’t require Russell to scrimmage once the season began. The press thought Russell was getting special treatment and imagined that his teammates resented it. But Auerbach’s purpose was to keep Russell fresh in a grueling 82-game regular season and possible 19-game playoffs. During practice Russell sat in the stands drinking tea, when he attended at all, and his teammates accepted the arrangement because they knew the intensity of Russell’s commitment to winning — an intensity so great it often led him to pregame vomiting.

Russell once said, “Whenever I leave the Celtics locker room, even heaven wouldn’t be good enough because anyplace else is a step down.” As with the championship Knick teams I played on in the ’70s, the bond among players lasts a lifetime. You share with them the memories of being young and on the road in America, playing a game you love, performing before the crowd, and proving yourself to your teammates and yourself. You never forget your teammates’ loyalty and how you returned it in full measure, and how that trust and mutual respect allowed you to be a champion.

Bill Russell is a private, complex man, but on the subject of his love of Red Auer­bach and his Celtic teammates, he’s loud and clear. He might object to my use of the word “love,” but deny it though you will, Mr. Russell, that’s what sits at the heart of this beautiful book.