On Monday evening on PTI, in his closing appreciation of the late Bill Walton, Michael Wilbon remarked, "Everybody's got a story."
I can certainly attest to that.
In '91, while still recovering from a major injury after being hit by a car while jogging, I finally made it to Freedom Hall for some Cardinal hoops. I was on crutches.
As I was struggling down the steps to my seat, Bill Walton, who was covering the game for TV, came walking up the aisle. He stopped, asked what had happened, and inquired how I was doing.
Walton was no stranger to surgeries, reportedly having had 39, dealing with foot problems, leg problems, and even a broken back. He knew pain intimately—right up to the end, it's said—and his nature compelled him to offer words of encouragement.
And that's exactly what he did.
It wasn't a fleeting moment. He spent several minutes chatting with me before moving on.
Everybody's got a story.
I can attest to that.
What became clear from every comment in the hours after the news broke is that Bill Walton was an eminently decent fellow—caring, interesting, inquisitive, and intelligent. He always asked others how they were doing.
Anyone who watched a game he covered, especially those with the straight-laced Dave Pasch, knew Walton seemed like he was from an alternative universe, or at least another planet.
I'll admit it took me a while to warm up to his style. He was an acquired taste. Eventually, I succumbed to his childlike charm and enthusiasm, and I came to cherish it.
What a fascinating guy.
What an incredible basketball player.
Inarguably, he's one of the greatest collegiate basketball players ever, arguably topping the list.
In the NCAA title game against Memphis State, he made 21 of 22 shots. The stat line is true but incomplete; he dunked four more, which were waived off due to the then-in-place anti-Alcindor no-dunk rule.
Hooks. Turnarounds. Layups.
Sure, 6-8 Ronnie Robinson was no match. But in a title game, 25/26 against anyone would be impressive.
During Walton's three years at UCLA, the Bruins missed the title once. In the 30 for 30 documentary on Walton—watch it—he explains why.
In the early '70s, like many of his peers, Walton and some teammates were getting stoned. The overbearingly strict John Wooden caught wind of it. One day before practice, the coach confronted several players, saving Walton for last.
Point guard Greg Lee foolishly admitted he partook. Wooden removed him from the team. So, when Wooden asked Walton if he smoked marijuana, the center replied, "Coach, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Walton remains firm in his belief that UCLA would have beaten North Carolina State and won the title if Lee had stayed on the team.
Everybody's got stories.
Including Walton himself.
That he passed away the day after the last league game in his beloved Conference of Champions is almost too poetic.
Bill Walton, known to have attended a Dead show or two, Long May You Dance.
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