But while he certainly distinguished himself as a front-office wizard, grabbing the likes of Bill Russell, John Havlicek, Larry Bird and many, many others during his tenure, he established his legend on the bench.

He may or may not have turned the heat up in the visitors’ locker room to make opposing players uncomfortable. He may or may not have made sure only cold water ran from the visitors’ showers, or that the coach of the other club had to walk to an auxiliary bathroom to find room enough for a chalkboard session with his assistants. And those fans who stood outside the visiting team’s hotel at 3 a.m. and shouted disparaging remarks? They may or may not have been sent there at Red’s behest.

All of that, and countless other tales of mischief by a certain bald-headed fiend who bled green and breathed smoke, may or may not be apocryphal. But the one unassailable fact is that, over the years, opponents believed much of it. They believed Red was behind every wrong turn of the team bus and every dead spot on the parquet floor. He got into the heads of the other team’s players and coaches better and more often than perhaps any man before or after him in the history of sports.

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His methods and his arrogance did not always endear him to people. If you were on Red’s side, chances were success would follow. If you opposed him, it was likely you not only would lose, but it was the kind of defeat that ate away at your insides. Among the Hall of Fame Reds, Jackson preferred his old coach and mentor, Red Holzman, who was as dignified as Auerbach was pugnacious. Yet Holzman won just two NBA titles from 1967 to ’82; Auerbach collected nine in 10 years.

But Auerbach wasn’t just beloved by those with shamrocks on the brain. He spent his later years working with youth groups, hosting his own basketball camp and making other appearances. Inside the curmudgeon there was somebody who cared about basketball and cared about people.

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He would never let anyone see that, of course. That wasn’t Red. He wasn’t touchy-feely. He was a living monument to excellence inside a grumpy old man, an ambassador for his profession inside a ubiquitous cloud of smoke. He provided victories and memories, in that order.

Somewhere, he’s having one final victory cigar. He earned it.