A somber day grew darker on Monday with the news of Bill Walton passing away.
While in the midst of saluting our military heroes who gave their lives on Memorial Day, Walton, 71, succumbed to cancer.
The news was jarring and unexpected.
It landed heavily on those who knew him well, or who knew him through his Hall of Fame basketball career, his broadcasting or who had danced with him at concerts. Walton stood tall in his tie-dye shirts when rocking out to the Grateful Dead.
I was lucky when my path first crossed with Walton in 1979. The hand of fate allowed a green sportswriter from the Fullerton College student newspaper to collide with someone larger than life.
Like many of my peers in Southern California, I grew up idolizing Walton when he was at UCLA. He directed the Bruins to two national titles and an 88-game winning streak during a stellar run when the team was referred to as the “Walton Gang.”
I stayed up late to watch coach John Wooden conduct excellence, with Walton being the force with which everyone else revolved.
In the mid-1970s, UCLA’s games were tape-delayed until 11:30 p.m., which meant late nights with Walton were a staple on KTLA, with Dick Enberg doing the play-by-play.
So when a wet-behind-the-ears sportswriter (me) introduced himself to Walton and requested an interview, his response and enthusiasm never faded.
He couldn’t have been more agreeable, sociable, or accommodating to a nervous rookie who was way over his journalistic skies.
That awkward introduction by me started a 45-year friendship, and wow, what a long, strange trip it’s been.
That it’s over doesn’t seem possible.
Walton’s zest for life was unrivaled. He lived like he would die tomorrow but he learned like he would live forever. I can’t think of a subject in which Walton, a three-time Academic All-American at UCLA, wasn’t versed.
There were always a handful of books on his nightstand on various subjects begging for his attention. A voracious reader, thanks to his late mom, Gloria, who was a librarian, their shared love for literature was as stark as Walton’s bushy red hair.
We arranged for the noon interview at Delaney’s, a restaurant in Newport Beach. Of course, I arrived early, and Walton didn’t arrive at all!
Maybe it was a succinct lesson for a budding reporter that not all superstars were true to their word. I was surprised, of course, that Walton had pulled such a stunt, considering how pleasant he was in our first encounter.
As the lunch hour evaporated, ditto my expectations of scoring my first “big” interview.
The waitress noticed my distress and disappointment, noting that I was at Delaney’s Fish Market, with a quaint take-out counter, not the restaurant across Newport Harbor.
I raced over to see Walton leaving. He had been waiting an hour plus for me, and now he was changing his plans to spend another hour with me.
I was grateful, but we had yet to click on our musical tastes.
Walton was singing the praises of the Grateful Dead, but I had yet to become a convert. He arranged for a backstage pass at their 1979 concert at the San Diego Civic Auditorium, and from there, the Dead Head Nation grew by one.
Walton and his wife, Lori, were the constants at every Dead show I attended. He never failed to let me ride his coattails, assuring me that there was always an open seat behind him.
With Walton being 6-foot-11, why would someone sit/stand behind him?
Me?
I danced enough that Walton never interfered with my vision. Instead, the sight of him holding out his outstretched arms as if receiving an entry pass into the low post when the chorus would hum was a blessing.
I’m unsure why we hit it off, but there were connections. His mom, a librarian, and mine, Jean, an English teacher, shared their love of books. His dad, Ted, was a social worker and musician; the same was true of my father, Jack.
When we discovered Walton and my dad shared the same birthday, Nov. 5, it just seemed, for whatever reason, we were destined to be friends.
Friends helped each other, and Walton never failed to assist, maybe even when he couldn’t. My son, Phil, dreamed of going to UCLA, but despite Walton’s statue in Westwood, graduates are not allowed to aid in the admission of a friend’s offspring.
One guesses that is true. But we were also thrilled when Phil was admitted, and for whatever reason, we’ll never know.
When ESPN did a special on Tony Gwynn, Walton contacted me. He wanted to give Gwynn the proper props he deserved, and he wanted me to coach him on Gwynn’s remarkable career and impact on San Diego.
A few notes turned into a half-hour conversation. Then Walton, always hesitant to leave a stone unturned and not get something right, called me twice more to solidify what he had learned.
What I discovered from Walton, among other things, is a line borrowed from his favorite band. “Once in a while, you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”
Walton was the eternal optimist, always seeing the best in people he encountered. He was accepting, gracious, and passionate, and his thirst for knowledge was unquenchable.
Now he’s gone, and nothing’s going to bring him back.
But Walton’s exit has a lasting impact on that rookie sportswriter from Fullerton College and millions of others who are not as fortunate to call him a friend.
I’m borrowing a phrase that Walton embraced, and I’m sure he wouldn’t balk.
Knowing him for four-plus decades allows me to say I consider myself the luckiest guy in the world.
Contact Jay Paris at [email protected] and follow him @jparis_sports
