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Young Phil Jackson is a stone cold fox and this book definitely left me wanting more. It’s extremely general with not enough juicy details about his fleeting bachelor days in a Chelsea loft, psychedelic journeys, grasps for meaning, or game-level anecdotes. He does mention enjoying sex a few times but that’s *not* the level of interior detail I’m looking for from this championship-winning minx. Maybe Eleven Rings is more personal?