Back from the Dead Page 8

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  Two days after the Kent State shootings, thousands of Boston-area college students packed the plaza in front of the MIT student center, where the Grateful Dead played a free concert be-in that did its best to turn things to the bright side. They opened the show with a new anthem of the day:

  Callin’ out around the world, are you ready for a brand-new beat?

  Summer’s here and the time is right for dancin’ in the streets.

  I arrived at UCLA in September with my eyes and mind open much wider than ever before. And what I saw, heard, thought, and dreamed left me more excited than ever about the dizzying possibilities ahead.

  It doesn’t matter what you wear just as long as you are there.

  And we were there. I was fired up and ready to go—wherever!

  The first issue of the Daily Bruin for the new school year offered a campus politics catch-up from the riot-torn ending of 1969–70, covering how Angela Davis, the twenty-six-year-old assistant philosophy professor, had been fired by the UC Board of Regents for being a communist, and cataloging the various UCLA student groups that were gearing up on campus: the YAF, the SDS, the BSA and BSU, WLF, RAC, ARM, MECHA, SMC, and more.

  I was more than ready to get started. I was ecstatic about the freedom of getting away from my parents. There was the energy and activity of all the politics, the classes, professors, lectures, and books in the library; great new people to meet including so many beautiful, extremely friendly, and warmhearted coeds. And there were the Grateful Dead and all the other bands to go hear on campus and all around L.A. any night of the week—endless possibilities and opportunities for plenty of high-altitude training.

  There’ll be music everywhere!

  I was going to college, and I was going to be roommates with Greg Lee and play basketball with Greg and Jamaal for John Wooden at UCLA! And UCLA was the center of everything that I wanted to be involved with. It seemed to be in perfect harmony and order: the combination of opportunity to turn back Reagan and Nixon, the ensuing freedom, music, learning, loving—and playing basketball on a team that always won the championship. It was all part of the purpose and passion in our lives. We were fighting for what was right, as students and as Americans. The notion that any of these aspects could have possibly been in conflict was hypocritical. You can’t separate them. It’s life. It was all one. We live in a political world, and it was wholly fantastic—and we were right.

  It all rolls into one, but nothing comes for free.

  I was over-the-top stoked when I got to UCLA that first day and checked in at my dorm, Dykstra Hall. “I’m Bill Walton, from San Diego. And I’m here to move in with my new roommate, Greg Lee,” I said proudly.

  The woman at the desk shuffled some papers and then looked up, dazed and confused. “Oh, no, Mr. Walton. That’s not right. You’re rooming with Gary Franklin, across the way at Sproul.”

  I didn’t say a word. I was stunned, staggered, flabbergasted. This is not right. What’s going on? There must be some mistake.

  I left what little stuff I had right there in the lobby and walked out the door, turned right, and went directly down the hill to the athletic department, on the other side of Pauley Pavilion. I went straight to Coach Wooden’s office, just walked right in and sat down.

  One of the endlessly great things about Coach Wooden was that everything was always about us, never about him. His job was to make us and our team great. His ego was always in check; there were no trappings of power, no formality that excluded anyone. You could always just walk right into his office and say something. Anything. Even on your very first day!

  “Hi, Bill, how’s everything going?” Big smile.

  “Coach, there’s a problem here.”

  “What’s the matter, Bill?” Smile fades.

  “Coach, Greg Lee is supposed to be my roommate. Not Gary Franklin.”

  Gary was another freshman player who had been Greg’s high school teammate at Reseda. What was Coach thinking? I knew I had told him that Greg and I were going to room together, and as much as Greg was like a son to Wooden, I couldn’t understand how Coach could let this transgression of human decency, honor, and kindness go down.

  He just sat there, looking at me, quiet as can be, speechless for what seemed an eternity as it all played out in his mind.

  And I just sat there looking back.

  Finally, I said very slowly, “I came here to room with Greg Lee.”

  Smile completely gone, chin in hand, index finger crossing his pursed lips, Coach continued deliberating, while considering—everything.

  When he finally spoke, it was a simple “Okay.”

  With that, I was gone. I put the matter out of my mind until years later, when I began to learn many of the things I thought I had already known. Wooden had known Greg since he was a child. He was a superb player and a brilliant student with a razor-sharp mind—a mind that was very much his own. Though a freshman like me, Greg was already in his second UCLA quarter that September, having graduated from high school in February and enrolled at UCLA for the spring quarter in late March. So he was way ahead of us in experiencing all the wonders of life in Westwood. Greg was on campus when the strike and riots unfolded after Kent State and Jackson State. Now along comes young Billy, up from San Diego, and little Billy thinks he’s going to room with Greg, only to find out that, no, Mr. Walton, you’re rooming with Gary Franklin. Now Billy sits before Wooden, who never fails to think through everything before it happens, and says, I came here to room with Greg Lee. Wooden does a lot of fast calculating—and allows the change.

  Trouble ahead, trouble behind

  And you know that notion just crossed my mind.

  If I had a fallback position, which I really didn’t, I guess I could have roomed with Jimmy Connors, who was also in our incoming class. That would have been very cool—for me.

  Anyway, I got back to Dykstra as fast as I could, and with help from Moke, a legend on Greg’s world-beat-scene from Santa Monica and the beach, I moved in with Greg and we unpacked our things—which took all of five minutes. Moke and I have remained inseparable ever since. Our room was the same one that Kareem and Lucius Allen lived in when they were freshmen in 1966. It had the special extra-long and wide bed that had been brought in for Kareem. Even better, it was the closest UCLA dorm room to Pauley Pavilion and campus, with our own exit and entry stairway right outside the door. One flight down and you were out and on your way, sometimes in Greg’s VW Bug, but always ready to go. We had it all.

  One late afternoon Greg and I were sitting on our beds, which doubled as couches, figuring it all out: What are we going to do NOW? Greg spotted an announcement on page two of the Daily Bruin: “Hey! Neil Young . . . in Royce Hall . . . tonight!”

  I said, “We’d better go NOW, or we’ll never get in!”

  We raced over and up to Royce Hall as fast as we could, only to find the place deserted. Some football players manning the doors of perception as “the security” said, “You’re way early, but sure, come on in.” No tickets, no money (the tickets were $2.50 apiece), no problem, and we walked into the empty hall and down to the second row, claiming a couple of prime seats. We weren’t bothered at all by the wait, or by anybody laying claim to our seats. We were in church, and there were always plenty of sacraments to be had everywhere—we practiced lots of deep-breathing exercises, inhaling the freshness and all that came with it in the stimulating UCLA night air.

  Neil was incredible as always. We were in his show, sucked into the vortex of the magical musical world of his singing and playing of every instrument known to man. I have no idea whether the hall ever filled up behind us; we never turned around. Why would we look back with the world and everything else in front of us? Heck, we were already inside the show!

  When I flash back to that night, the set list turned into the story of my life—then and now. “On The Way Home” . . . “Tell Me Why” . . . “Old Man” . . . “Cowgirl in the Sand” . . . “A Man Needs a Maid” .
. . “Don’t Let It Bring You Down” . . . “Ohio” . . . “See the Sky About to Rain” . . . “Dance, Dance, Dance” . . . “I Am a Child” . . . and so much more than words can tell.

  That’s how it all started for us at UCLA, and it never slowed down. It was so much better than I could have ever imagined.

  I had dreamed about playing basketball at UCLA since I was twelve. Now, here I was, and the reality was better than the dream. The first day of practice, October 15, was also the day after John Wooden’s birthday and, by tradition, media day. The harmonic convergence of Coach’s birthday with the annual renewal of the sport never escaped us—for ninety-nine years. There was always a cake and lots of smiles and laughter at the beginning. The transition to real practice the next day was seamless. It was all so exhilarating, even though Greg, Jamaal, and the rest of the new guys—not allowed to play with the varsity in those days—would spend the season playing exhibition games for the freshman team while the varsity went out to try to win UCLA’s fifth straight NCAA championship—and sixth in seven years. They were led by the incomparable Sidney Wicks, along with Curtis Rowe, Steve Patterson, Henry Bibby, Terry Schofield, and Kenny Booker.

  We were ready to roll all day that first time out. Just before the start, always at 3:30 p.m. sharp, Coach Wooden called all the freshmen together and walked us into the locker room. There, he sat down on a stool and began his lecture to us. We sat there like dutiful sponges ready to soak it all up, knowing that he was about to give us the key to heaven on earth, show us the path, guide us to become the next great team in history.

  His first words were, “Men, this is how you put your shoes and socks on.”

  We were stunned. We looked around and at each other. Are you kidding me? We’re all high school All-American players, and here is this silly little old man showing us how to put on our socks and shoes!

  Meticulously, he demonstrated exactly how we were to apply the socks over our toes and pull them up tight to eliminate the possibility of any wrinkles, which could cause blisters. And then how to open our shoes so that they would slide on easily and not disturb the wrinkle-free socks, and how to then properly lace and tie them snugly and completely. Over the course of time, he showed us how to tuck in our shirts and tie the proper knot on the drawstring of our game shorts, how to shower and properly dry ourselves, especially our hair (which we were always to keep short and neat), how we would practice and prepare for games, and also how we should study for our classes and conduct our lives.

  We were rolling our eyes and could barely keep from laughing out loud. When he took off his own shoes and socks for the demo, we were appalled. He had these grotesque varicose veins covering his lower legs, feet, and ankles. He had terrible hammertoes, and disgusting fungus under most of his nails. Gross!

  Talk about weird. We wanted to play ball and get running. But it is very safe to say that practice never once started with these words from Coach Wooden: What do you guys want to do today? When we finally were ushered back onto the court, Coach directed the eight new freshmen (six of us scholarship players) into the stands on the north side of the main court in Pauley. And then varsity practice started.

  Oh my gosh!

  Such precision, flawless execution, incredible pace, nonstop chatter from everybody, and an ever-faster celebration of a team playing with determination, pride, structure, discipline, organization, passion, and purpose. A few minutes in, Coach stopped the train in its tracks and everything became eerily and instantly silent. He turned to us in the stands and crisply delivered a most pointed and succinct message: “From this moment on, you new players are expected to know what to do out here, and when. There will be no further explanation of what and why we are doing these things. Now let’s go!”

  We thought at the time that a lot of the stuff Coach Wooden was selling—his Pyramid of Success, Seven-Point Creed, Two Sets of Threes, Four Laws of Learning, his maxims, his tools to overcome adversity—were the stupidest things ever. But we never doubted the honesty, righteousness, dedication, preparation, commitment, and excellence that was behind it all. “Your best is good enough,” he repeatedly told us. “Don’t beat yourself, don’t cheat yourself, don’t shortchange yourself. That’s the worst kind of defeat you’ll ever suffer, and you’ll never get over it.” He was able to distill into one or two sentences the greatest lessons of life. To this very day, whenever I’m going through the routine of preparing to get ready for something big, whether it’s business, personal, or physical, I just keep repeating it all to myself. Inevitably, the right rhythm, beat, and pace finds its way to the surface, enabling me to go get it done.

  Early on we came to know Dr. Ernie Vandeweghe, one of the NBA’s founding fathers, as a player. Ernie and his terrific family lived right across the street from UCLA in a big mansion, high on a hill, overlooking a golf course. Eventually, everything good in my life from this point forward could ultimately be traced to my long friendship with Ernie.

  A defining moment in my life as a fan was Bill Russell’s last game, the seventh game of the 1969 NBA Finals, Celtics at Lakers. I was a junior in high school. Russell didn’t tell anybody it was the end of the line for him. His friend and teammate forever on the Celtics, Sam Jones, had announced before that season started that this was it for him. Russell did not want to detract from Sam’s glory and due. He said nothing of his own future. He just played—to win. Every day—and every thing.

  The Lakers had never been able to beat the Celtics in six championship finals dating back to 1959. But this time was sure to be different. Until now, Russell had always been the difference. While Elgin and Jerry had their way, it was never enough. Russell was just too good.

  That 1968–69 season, the Lakers traded for Wilt, who began an incredible five-year run with the Lakers that carried them to the NBA Finals four times. And Wilt was sure to be the Lakers’ difference maker against Russell and the Celtics, who had been on top for so long, but were now aging and slowing. And besides, this was Wilt.

  In today’s world gone mad with numbers, analytics, and statistics, Wilt would be in another universe.

  When Wilt ultimately retired from the NBA in 1973, he held 128 individual statistical records. When he unexpectedly passed away on October 12, 1999, twenty-six years after his last game, he still held 101 individual records. Wilt always told us that if it ever even remotely crossed his mind that somebody might beat some of his records, he would have just doubled his output.

  Never forget that when Wilt played they did not even keep statistics for blocked shots, steals, turnovers, defensive or offensive rebounds—all categories that the NBA started tracking the first year after Wilt decided to stop playing. And, with the growing emphasis on numbers and stats in recent years, even more new categories have now been added. Even with that, today Wilt holds 213 individual NBA records! Halfway through his NBA career, Wilt had cumulative averages of more than 39 points and more than 29 rebounds per game.

  And now Wilt was the center on the Lakers, providing plenty of optimism that this time things would be different against the Celtics. It’s the seventh game of the NBA Finals, a home game for the Lakers at the Fabulous Forum. And L.A. knows they’ve got it. Elaborate preparations have been made—champagne on ice, balloons in the rafters, the how, when, and where of the celebration and coronation all set and announced before the game. Sam Jones picked off that championship schedule with all of the festivities laid out nice and neat on a sheet of paper and gave it to Russell.

  In the Celtics’ locker room before the tip-off, Hall of Famer Jack Twyman, the TV commentator, puts a microphone up to Bill Russell—who is also the Celtics’ coach. On camera, Twyman asks a simple, single question: “What’s going to happen?”

  Russell, directly and matter-of-factly: “We’re going to win.”

  Twyman, taken aback by Russell’s bold, quiet confidence: “How do you know?”

  Russell: “WE’VE DONE THIS BEFORE.”

  Little Billy was never so proud as the Celtic
s ran the Lakers out of their own building that day, leaving everybody in L.A. very thirsty.

  Bill Russell never lost a Game 7, going 10-0 in the big one at the end.

  * * *

  With John Wooden and UCLA, it was all about training for that big one at the end. And along the ride, we had so much fun. Fun with, because of, and at the expense of Coach Wooden. At times, too much fun. But there was nothing as much fun in life as winning. I was, and am, a very committed guy. I have to win. That was true for both of us.

  In 1970, I knew our team would win, and not just our basketball team. I was supremely confident that our entire team of forward-thinking individuals on the side of truth, justice, and honesty would win. There was an opponent, and our job was to win the Big Game. Nixon represented the evil direction that the world had taken, with lies, deception, paranoia, duplicity, thuggery, and militarism. At UCLA, the anger was reflected through the rallies, the music, and daily life, but we were winning. We were moving inexorably toward the Promised Land. When we weren’t angry, we were euphoric. The concerts were happening, the games were happening, we were living in the Golden State. Paradise found! I loved it—from the opening tip.

  The constant and relentless media scrutiny that had begun in high school continued unabated. By this time, everything I did was known to all. I stuck to my earlier decision to take no notice; to live my life my way, and not be defined by someone else.

  I try my best to be just like I am

  But everybody wants you to be just like them.

  As straight and strict as Coach Wooden was, exponentially more so than my parents, he still personified the goodness that we tried to always see in life.

  Gary Cunningham was our freshman team coach, but Coach Wooden, while keenly focused on his varsity squad, kept a very close eye on us at all times. At first, Cunningham had chosen a starting lineup of Greg, Jamaal, Vince Carson, Hank Babcock, and me. But Gary Franklin’s dad was gravely concerned that his son’s future was being decided prematurely. So he went over Cunningham’s head and convinced Wooden that Cunningham should rotate the starters so that each of the six scholarship players got equal opportunities. It made no sense to the five of us, but we did learn from Coach Wooden years down the line to never get in the way of a parent’s drive to do what they think is best for their child.