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A handful of players have had more successful careers than McHale. Some surely played longer, avoiding the injuries that hindered McHale's final seasons and ended his NBA stay in 1993. Plenty will make more money. 



But it's a safe bet no one among the NBA's 50 greatest players selected in 1997 ever had more fun. 



``I knew that I had one really, really good skill in life: playing basketball,'' McHale said. ``But I never thought that what we did - other than that it meant everything to me for 48 minutes - really meant that much. 



``I don't know how much I gave to society by playing basketball. I never thought that being a basketball player entitled me to be anything but a basketball player.''



In that particular world, McHale's accomplishments earned him a place in the Celtics' tradition, one more link in the chain stretching from Auerbach, Bob Cousy and Bill Russell to Havlicek, Cowens and Larry Bird. Because of those accomplishments, his jersey number hangs from the rafters above Boston's famous parquet floor. 



His accomplishments also earned him a great stage on which to joke with and befriend some of the greatest players, coaches, referees and fans in the world. On the NBA's all-time anatomy chart, McHale's lip is nearly as famous as Michael Jordan's tongue. 



``He would target guys, tease them and get them so frustrated that they would want to kill him,'' Walton said. 



McHale was no mere court jester, though. His hooks, spins, fakes, jump shots and layups defined low-post play, certainly for forwards. At 6-10, his long arms, coat-hanger shoulders, barrel chest, bruising hips and elaborate footwork made him an almost-automatic two points from 12 feet. McHale shot 55 percent from the floor and, to eliminate fouling him as a strategy, nearly 80 percent from the line. 



``When he was healthy, he was the best low-post player in the game,'' Havlicek said. ``Kevin had a natural feel for it. Larry was a great player, but he couldn't do it in the pivot like Kevin. Robert (Parish), the same thing.''



Said Walton: ``Kevin Garnett should have McHale videos run in his house 24 hours a day to pick up his moves by osmosis.''



Actually, Garnett knows all about McHale's moves. 



``I call him the 'Ice Cream Man,' `` the Wolves All-Star said, ``because he had 31 ways to kill you.''



In McHale's first seven seasons, his scoring average improved each year - from 10.0 as a rookie to 26.1 in 1986-87. During that time, the Celtics went 432-142 in the regular season, 77-44 in the playoffs and won three championships. Boston's Big Three - McHale, Bird and Parish - ruled the league's frontcourts, the best such threesome ever. 



How did that dominance feel? 



``It's like trying to describe sex to you. If you've never had it, I can't do it justice,'' McHale said. ``I liked that the other team knew the ball was going inside 80 percent of the time. And that I was going to be one of the guys with it, and what were they going to do to stop it?''



It wasn't always easy. McHale was anything but a finished product while growing up on Minnesota's Iron Range, the gangliest of Paul and Josephine McHale's four children. Despite leading Hibbing High School to the state final as a senior, he drew limited interest from college recruiters, so the Minnesota was an easy choice. 



The Gophers were hobbled by NCAA probation, yet McHale helped them reach the NIT finals in his fourth year. His stock rose in postseason all-star games, plopping him into one of the most lopsided trades in NBA history: Auerbach sent the No. 1 pick in the 1980 draft to the Golden State Warriors for Parish and the No. 3 pick, with which he selected McHale. The Celtics had winning records in each of McHale's 13 seasons - and none since he retired. 



McHale learned the NBA game while winning two Sixth Man awards and then played in seven All-Star Games. His breakthrough season came in 1986-87, when he set career highs in rebounds and assists and probably should have been chosen the league's MVP. That spring, he played through a six-game NBA Finals against the Los Angeles Lakers on what was later found to be a broken right foot. 



Looking back, it was a mistake - he seldom was pain-free again, losing nearly a full season (73 games) to related injuries over the duration of his career. At the time, though, McHale saw no choice but to play. 



``For 42 years, my father got up in blizzards, got in the car, and away he went,'' he said. ``The bell rings, you've got to answer it.''



The bell rang again for McHale shortly after he packed up the family and left Massachusetts for good in 1993. It was a cry for help from the Wolves, whose aimless ways tweaked McHale's Minnesota pride. Now beginning his fifth year at the helm, McHale tries - when he's not scrapping with agents or nursing players - to impart some of the game's universal truths. On the NBA level, this is as close as McHale can get anymore to the satisfaction, the adrenaline rush, of playing. 



Except that it isn't all that close. 



``Nothing compares to that,'' McHale said. ``Hell, I was lucky enough to know that at the time. It was kind of frightening, to realize that I was doing something that would be the funnest thing I'd ever do. 



Where do you go from there? Was life going to be one big letdown after that? 



``You just move on. You realize how fortunate you were to play, even though it was a short 13 years. But if God came down and said he'd grant me one wish, I'd say, 'Let's do it again. Same guys. All the good and bad.' `` 
Joshua Ozersky
Marketing Communications
Environmental Products Division
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