get back.”
Given the coolness between them on the walk back, Stevie thought some time apart might not be a bad idea. So they headed out the door of the hotel for what Kelleher said was a short walk to Faneuil Hall.
“That’s the great thing about Boston,” he said. “When the weather’s good, you can walk just about anyplace. It’s a major city but a small town—at least geographically.”
While they walked, Kelleher explained some of the history of the place. The original Faneuil Hall had existed during the Revolutionary War. It was a thriving marketplace for years, which led the city to build the even bigger Quincy Market next door. It had all fallen into disrepair, but then the city came up with the idea to turn the area into a place with shops and restaurants, and now it was thriving again.
“We’ll go to Regina’s for pizza,” Kelleher said. “It’s as good as any in the country. But first I want to show you Red.”
“Red?”
“You’ll see,” Kelleher said.
They walked under an archway into what looked like a small town. There were cobblestone walkways and, on either side, long brick buildings that housed stores and restaurants. The smell of food drew Stevie toward an open doorway, but Kelleher headed straight down the cobblestones until he came to a bench.
“Red,” he said.
He was pointing at a statue of a man sitting on the bench with a cigar in his hands. The statue was life-size and looked almost real.
“Red Auerbach,” Stevie said.
“Very good, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “You pass today’s history test.”
Stevie was reading the plaque next to the statue. It said that Arnold “Red” Auerbach had led the Boston Celtics to fifteen NBA titles as coach and general manager of the team.
“Fifteen titles, that’s amazing,” Stevie said.
“Actually, it was sixteen,” Kelleher said. “Look at the date on the plaque—1985. The Celtics won another one in 1986. Just before Red died, I was in town, and I called him from right here to tell him I was sitting next to his statue.
“First thing he said to me was, ‘Did they fix that damn plaque yet to make it sixteen championships?’”
“How did you know him?” Stevie asked.
“Believe it or not, he lived in Washington,” Kelleher said. “He had a group of buddies that went to lunch every Tuesday, and I used to go. There were some basketball people, but there were also a couple of lawyers, a couple of Secret Service agents, some of Red’s doctors—a very eclectic group. Red knew everyone. Might have been the most fun I ever had.”
“I guess the group broke up after he died,” Stevie said.
“Actually, no,” Kelleher said. “We still get together every Tuesday. It’s not the same without Red, it can’t be. But we all know Red would have wanted it that way. At the end of lunch we open a fortune cookie for Red and read it to him.”
“Sounds like you really miss him,” Stevie said.
“Oh yeah,” Kelleher said. “You don’t get to meet too many guys who are truly larger than life. Red was one of them. He had this incredible feel for people—no matter what they did. He was always asking questions, trying to learn, to be smarter, even though he was
really
smart. And he was the most competitive person I ever met. He wanted to win at everything all the time.”
He put his hand on top of Red’s head and held it there for a moment. “Come on, let’s go get some pizza,” he said.
Stevie followed Kelleher down the cobblestoned walkway and into the most delicious-smelling building he had ever been in. There were places to get lobster and shrimp, crab cakes and chowder, hamburgers and hot dogs, Chinesefood, ice cream, apple pie, fried dough, Italian sausages—just about any food Stevie could think of or imagine. Kelleher stopped in front of a place that said Pizzeria Regina. It didn’t look like anything special to Stevie, but he had learned to trust Kelleher on the subject of food.
“Couple slices?” Kelleher
Given the coolness between them on the walk back, Stevie thought some time apart might not be a bad idea. So they headed out the door of the hotel for what Kelleher said was a short walk to Faneuil Hall.
“That’s the great thing about Boston,” he said. “When the weather’s good, you can walk just about anyplace. It’s a major city but a small town—at least geographically.”
While they walked, Kelleher explained some of the history of the place. The original Faneuil Hall had existed during the Revolutionary War. It was a thriving marketplace for years, which led the city to build the even bigger Quincy Market next door. It had all fallen into disrepair, but then the city came up with the idea to turn the area into a place with shops and restaurants, and now it was thriving again.
“We’ll go to Regina’s for pizza,” Kelleher said. “It’s as good as any in the country. But first I want to show you Red.”
“Red?”
“You’ll see,” Kelleher said.
They walked under an archway into what looked like a small town. There were cobblestone walkways and, on either side, long brick buildings that housed stores and restaurants. The smell of food drew Stevie toward an open doorway, but Kelleher headed straight down the cobblestones until he came to a bench.
“Red,” he said.
He was pointing at a statue of a man sitting on the bench with a cigar in his hands. The statue was life-size and looked almost real.
“Red Auerbach,” Stevie said.
“Very good, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “You pass today’s history test.”
Stevie was reading the plaque next to the statue. It said that Arnold “Red” Auerbach had led the Boston Celtics to fifteen NBA titles as coach and general manager of the team.
“Fifteen titles, that’s amazing,” Stevie said.
“Actually, it was sixteen,” Kelleher said. “Look at the date on the plaque—1985. The Celtics won another one in 1986. Just before Red died, I was in town, and I called him from right here to tell him I was sitting next to his statue.
“First thing he said to me was, ‘Did they fix that damn plaque yet to make it sixteen championships?’”
“How did you know him?” Stevie asked.
“Believe it or not, he lived in Washington,” Kelleher said. “He had a group of buddies that went to lunch every Tuesday, and I used to go. There were some basketball people, but there were also a couple of lawyers, a couple of Secret Service agents, some of Red’s doctors—a very eclectic group. Red knew everyone. Might have been the most fun I ever had.”
“I guess the group broke up after he died,” Stevie said.
“Actually, no,” Kelleher said. “We still get together every Tuesday. It’s not the same without Red, it can’t be. But we all know Red would have wanted it that way. At the end of lunch we open a fortune cookie for Red and read it to him.”
“Sounds like you really miss him,” Stevie said.
“Oh yeah,” Kelleher said. “You don’t get to meet too many guys who are truly larger than life. Red was one of them. He had this incredible feel for people—no matter what they did. He was always asking questions, trying to learn, to be smarter, even though he was
really
smart. And he was the most competitive person I ever met. He wanted to win at everything all the time.”
He put his hand on top of Red’s head and held it there for a moment. “Come on, let’s go get some pizza,” he said.
Stevie followed Kelleher down the cobblestoned walkway and into the most delicious-smelling building he had ever been in. There were places to get lobster and shrimp, crab cakes and chowder, hamburgers and hot dogs, Chinesefood, ice cream, apple pie, fried dough, Italian sausages—just about any food Stevie could think of or imagine. Kelleher stopped in front of a place that said Pizzeria Regina. It didn’t look like anything special to Stevie, but he had learned to trust Kelleher on the subject of food.
“Couple slices?” Kelleher
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