Back from the Dead

by Bill Walton

  The game was Larry’s self-acknowledged greatest game ever.

  On this day, in a game that had all kinds of winners of the genetic lottery—Hakeem, Chief, Ralph, and Kevin, all playing above the rim all day long—Larry did everything. He made every shot. Stole every pass. Set everybody else up perfectly. And as great as he had been all season long, this was another whole, stratospheric level of perfection. With all these giants soaring the entire time, Larry was still gathering every rebound. And the offensive ones: instead of just putting them right back up from underneath the basket, Larry would dribble the ball out to the three-point line and let it fly. He didn’t even wait to see if it went in or not. As soon as the ball left his hand, he was running back downcourt on defense with his raised and crooked finger in the air.

  The Rockets, and particularly Ralph, didn’t offer any resistance at all. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. We were the Celtics. We were at home in the Garden. We had Larry Bird. And we were now officially the champions.

  With a couple of minutes left on the clock, the Boston police had to come and take us off our own home court and get us to the safety of our locker room. I don’t even know what happened to the poor guys K. C. left out there to finish out the last ticks of the clock. The crowd was just swarming everywhere, it was quite the celebration, and everybody was very, very happy.

  When it was finally time to leave the Garden, we had to take the bus that had delivered us there many hours before. And as we’re all aboard—Red, K. C., his assistants, and the twelve players—Kevin remarked that he would finally stop asking Rick Carlisle why he and Ralph Sampson had never won the NCAA title when they were teammates at Virginia. We all went to K. C.’s restaurant out in Framingham and everybody had a high time. There were many family members there, and things went well into and through the night. I woke up to what I think was the next day with Rick Carlisle’s shirt on. And that was just the beginning.

  With the entire region in on the celebration of the Celtics’ sweet sixteenth championship, they clearly knew what they were doing in making sure that everybody had lots of fun. Within the next few days, when the city of Boston hosted a parade for the team, millions of people had poured into the city. And the pouring was just getting started.

  They had us on these large elevated military assault vehicles that allowed us to get through the immense throngs of people who were all very happy with the way things had turned out. The city officials had to have police officers and dogs to keep the motorcade going. The fans loved the team, and we them. So it was quite natural for the raucous crowd to get as close as possible to share the love. There was not a lot of supervision or organization. And that was fine with everybody I saw and knew. At one point our general manager, Jan Volk, came up to me as we were all sharing the love of and with Celtics Nation. He was preaching caution, civility, and human decency. I poured what was left of the communal beer that I was holding over his head, and told him that this is what we lived for. Then I threw the last remaining droplets back to the roaring and appreciative crowd. There are few things on earth like a championship parade. I highly recommend them—as often as possible.

  * * *

  That summer, Larry and his wife, Dinah, came out to San Diego, and we had a delightful time. The children were in heaven. I was ecstatic. We played everything; basketball, tennis, beach volleyball, and swimming were just the start.

  As I said before, I get up and start early. So I was already in the garage weight room after an early-morning run on the beach when Larry first came out. Early on, he wanted to play one-on-one on the garage court just out in front of the weight room.

  I torched him. He was very upset. It’s a center’s court, walled in, and there’s not the unlimited space to keep backing away to spread the floor. Larry didn’t have the room he needed to free himself from the size, strength, and length of my defense.

  He asked where the gym was. I took him down to Muni in Balboa Park, less than a mile away. He was very impressed when he walked in. It was still AWESOME, after all these years. Three side-by-side full courts, now with glass backboards, drinking fountains, and chairs and small bleachers to rest on between sessions. And open all day long, starting early and closing late.

  We played every day for long stretches. One-on-one. Two-on-two. And all the way up to full-court five-on-five. Greg Lee played with us a lot. Larry insisted that Greg always be on his team.

  As we came to the end of Larry and Dinah’s stay with us, Muni had become our nexus. Our day started and ended there. And on our final day, at the close of our session there, after playing every kind of basketball possible until we literally could no longer stand up because we were so tired, we came to yet another moment of truth—the last one-on-one head-to-head matchup.

  We had done all our drills, our shooting games, our two-on-two, five-on-five, and Larry always had Greg on his team. It was like the Memphis State game from 1973, in that my guys could never quite figure out that trying to help out on Larry was the worst defensive strategy in the history of the world. Larry, Greg, and I would just laugh hysterically at the futility of it all.

  But now it’s just Larry and me, one final go-round. And I’m on fire. The game is to 11, by ones, winner’s outs, win by one. And I’ve got him. I’m on my way. There’s no stopping me. I’m up 10–1, with the ball. I look at the poor guy, bent over, grabbing his shorts, out of breath, and say to him, “Larry, I feel bad. Here you are, coming all the way out here—you and Dinah, as my guests—and I’m beating you badly in this last session. I tell you what, Larry; I’m going to give you a chance—but only one. I’m going to give you the ball here, one time only, and let’s see if you can do anything with it.”

  Larry took the ball and proceeded to hit ten straight shots in my face. And with each succeeding make, he was talking more and more trash. I was playing with everything I had. I was pushing him, grabbing him, hacking him, fouling him, tackling him, everything. And with each new attempt Larry kept stepping farther and farther back, away from the hoop.

  By the final shot he was near half-court. And even that desperation heave—with me draped all over him—still swished through the basket. He went running, yelling, hooting, and hollering all around the gym in ecstatic glory, arms extended over his head in celebration.

  And then, sadly, he was gone.

  * * *

  With time running short, the new season about to start, and the children’s school year fast approaching, we headed back to Boston. All the guys were trickling back into town from their summer days and summer nights, and we would gather at our practice court at Hellenic for fun and games. I frustratingly broke my little finger on Chief’s shooting elbow in a pickup game, as Robert hit the game-winner in my face. So as training camp started, I was limited to the weight room and the stationary bike. Larry and Kevin would carry on this running one-way trash-talking conversation with me about me not playing, being soft and a sissy, and getting beat and broken by Chief in the process. There was nothing I could say or do.

  As I was getting ever closer to the point where I could start to play again, Kevin stopped by me on the bike one day, and we got right into the whole trash-talking routine. Eventually I bet him that over the long haul, I would play in more NBA games over the rest of my career than he would in his.

  A couple of days later, while pounding out ever more of the endless hours and miles on that stationary bike, the deep burning pain in my foot returned—the same pain that had derailed so much, for so long, and on so many different occasions.

  It was now back, although this time—it was in my other foot.

  I was never able to play again. And I lost my last bet with Kevin.

  * * *

  Just like all the other times, I tried everything, but with no success. My one “good” foot had now gone bad.

  I started having operations quite regularly. I tried to play. Ultimately, from this point forward, I had more orthopedic surgeries than basketball games that I could play in. A lot m
ore.

  The year became a blur. The fun, joy, and games were gone. The Celtics were still great. They still had the best record in the East that year. But I no longer felt like part of the team. I would occasionally get into the games for a spot appearance—but I couldn’t run. I had a broken foot, and every time I tried to run or play, it would break more.

  The team’s injury problems were not confined to just me. When one regular player gets injured and can’t go, that puts a heavier burden on the guys who are still able to carry on. And so with me being out, Larry, Kevin, and Chief all had to play too much, and then they got hurt, too.

  But despite all the problems, with Larry’s back and elbow wearing out and Kevin’s foot breaking down and Robert’s ankle giving him all kinds of grief, the Celtics still had a chance to win it all.

  The regular season and the first round of the playoffs were workmanlike performances—putting in the time. The Celtics swept Chicago in the first round, but then needed seven games to beat both Milwaukee and then Detroit.

  We made it to the Finals. And here we were now, matched up against the L.A. Lakers. It was supposed to be the greatest moment of my life. I had dreamed forever of playing against Kareem—anywhere, everywhere, and particularly on the grandest stage of all, the NBA Finals.

  It was all right there; except that I had a broken foot and couldn’t play. All I could do was sit there with my feet and lower legs submerged in a deep tub of ice, trying to freeze them so that I could get out there and do something to help our team. It was as low a point for me as I’ve ever had. To have everything come together, to have a chance, and then to not be able to do your part. It turned out to be no chance at all.

  We couldn’t win in L.A. I couldn’t move, run, or play.

  Back in Boston during one of the games, late, with everything on the line, the Celtic crowd started chanting my name. “WALTON! WALTON! WALTON!”

  The chant reverberated through the Garden, making the place shake. Like if only I would try harder, then everything would be fine, as if it were a matter of effort. I couldn’t play. My foot was broken. My team needed me. I needed my team more.

  The chant continued endlessly. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing I could do even if I did step on that court. I was so terribly alone and sad.

  “WALTON! WALTON! WALTON!”

  K. C. and all the guys were looking to me. Waiting. Hoping.

  Finally, DJ came up to me, standing on the edge of the huddle.

  He put his arm around my shoulder. He had been there in Portland in April 1978. He stretched up to my ear, and he whispered softly, as my friend, “Don’t do it, Bill. . . . Don’t do it.”

  We lost our chance at the championship because we couldn’t get one defensive rebound off a missed Laker free throw. But we really lost it much earlier, with all the broken bones in our feet and our bad backs, elbows, and ankles. Had that not been the case, we would have won handily. It would not have been close. All I could do was sit there, alone with my feet and ankles, frozen and blue, in a large tub of ice.

  * * *

  I would spend the next three years in the hospital with Dr. Daly and Dr. Wagner doing surgery after surgery after surgery on my foot and ankle. Big, huge, giant ones. Medium-size ones. Little ones. All trying to solve the lack-of-mobility problems in my feet that had plagued me my entire life.

  When the Finals with the Lakers were over, I headed straight to Dr. Wagner’s office back in Whittier, where he and Dr. Daly tried to do the same complicated surgery they had done on me five years before, just before I went to Stanford. This time it was on my other foot and ankle.

  I tried to recover and come back one more time, in time for the playoffs of the following year. And as the season progressed and moved toward spring, I went back to Boston to give it a shot. I was able to participate in some of the practices, but I couldn’t run, jump, or play.

  When the team finally reached the point where they had to submit their playoff roster, Red came up to me and asked me one more time the same question that had put it all in motion: “Can you play?”

  This time, I had to tell him, “No, Red. I’m terribly sorry. I can’t.” I just couldn’t run or move.

  I went back to San Diego. In the next few years there were many more surgeries, more procedures. I tried everything that I could to climb the mountain one more time.

  One day I was in the garage weight room. It was February 1, 1990. My mom’s birthday. My foot had been broken for more than three and a half years. The music was blasting. I was in the zone. I was sure success was imminent. I could feel it. I knew that I was right there, and that I would soon be back out there playing once again. Now it would be against the new generation of giants—Hakeem, David Robinson, and Patrick Ewing. They were my new sources of inspiration, as Kareem had retired after twenty years, alone at the top of the highest mountain.

  I was pounding away on the gleaming steel. Pushing. Pulling. Driving. Doing it all. Dripping wet with sweat. The Grateful Dead were on fire on the stereo. I was out there, on the edge, all the way to eleven—and beyond. I had it all. One more time. I was going to make it.

  I finally finished. Drenched. Hot as can be, but cool inside. And I closed the gym down. I took the short walk across the backyard over to the main house. Halfway there, I had to stop. I had to go down to my hands and knees. I could no longer walk. I had ground the bones in my foot and ankle down to dust. The tibia was no longer on top of the talus. It had slid off the back.

  I crawled across the ground the rest of the way into the house and to the telephone. I called my friend. I asked him to please come over to my house and find my crutches. I was no longer able to walk.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  Eyes of the World

  MARCH 15, 1990

  Sometimes the songs that we hear are just songs of our own.

  I woke today . . . in Whittier, California.

  In the hospital. I just had my ankle fused.

  As I was going down with the IV drip, fading to black, Drs. Daly and Wagner were there by my side. They told me that this was going to be tough. And that it was going to hurt. I looked at the side of my hospital gurney. The tables and trays were fully loaded with what seemed to be all the tools for a major construction project—scalpels, hammers, saws, files, drills, knives, scissors, bolts, screws, protractors, levels, screwdrivers, and much more.

  When they were inside me, they took a big electric saw and cut all the ends of the bones off in my foot and ankle. They then pushed all the raw, bleeding bone into a big ball, held the stump of it at a right angle, and then went around it with a big power drill and bolted everything together.

  What they didn’t fuse surgically that day has fused on its own over the last twenty-five-plus years.

  They then put a huge cast on my leg. It must have weighed eighty pounds. It went from my toes to my hip. Then they hooked me up to a morphine drip and pump. Every time I woke up, they came by my bed and put me back to sleep.

  I was in the hospital for a week. I don’t remember a thing, other than that it really hurt.

  Every time I turned even the slightest bit, I could feel the loose bones rattling in the stump on the end of my leg. Everything was still loose—and settling. It was all moving, grinding, and grating. And it all really hurt. They weren’t kidding about that.

  And this was the easy part.

  * * *

  I had been out of work for so long now that after the past few years, I now had nothing. And here I was starting the long, hard climb one more time, with no dream, no vision, no plan, nothing.

  I was in the cast from my toes to my hip for two months. Then in one from my toes to just below my knee for another month.

  And then a new beginning. One more time.

  I now knew that I would never play ball again—ever. I knew that I would never again be in the game, in the huddle, on the bus, in the locker room, or with the guys. Basketball had always been my lif
e. The game was my religion; the gym my church. I would never again be barking at the refs, or my coaches and teammates.

  From the darkness—it crystallized. The light started to grow and glow. The lightning-bolt flash of inspiration seared across the smoking crater that is my mind one more time. I finally realized that when you’re 6'11"; have red hair; a big nose; freckles; a goofy, nerdy-looking face; a lifelong stutterer; and are a Dead Head—television is the only career possibility for the future.

  * * *

  That I could even consider television, when I had once been such a stutterer that I couldn’t even get a single word out, was testament to Marty Glickman, whom I’d met through Ernie Vandeweghe in Southern California back in the early 1980s, when I was trying but failing to play for the Clippers. In a remarkably simple twist of fate, Marty changed my life forever.

  Marty had been a world-class athlete in his youth, only to have his dreams smashed when he was denied participation in the 1936 Berlin Olympics because he was a Jew. He and Ernie became great friends in the 1950s when Marty was broadcasting in New York and Ernie was playing for the Knicks. Marty was an outstanding speaker, and a most remarkable spirit and force. When I met him for the first time, I couldn’t talk—at all. I literally could not say a word. I had never been able to. Marty immediately looked right into my soul through my pained and embarrassed eyes and said, “You’re a stutterer, aren’t you?”

  I couldn’t respond. I tried to, but I was stuck on the first sound of whatever word I was trying to say. That’s the way it had always been. And I was sure that it would be that way forever.

  Marty wasted no time, cutting off my futile attempts right away and gesturing for me to follow him over to the corner of the room. We ended up behind a potted plant.