by Bill Walton
Ali’s parents and family spared no expense, and left nothing to chance, or any detail unattended. Their family’s farm is beautiful—nice big lake; trees, open space, lots of cornfields; adorable old farmhouse, barns, and outbuildings. After a punishing rain the day before, on the wedding day, July 28, 2012, we woke to perfect weather. Sun, blue sky, no wind, no humidity—which then transitioned to a beautiful full moon that night, as the wedding band rocked. I don’t know if they ever did stop. I had to go to bed. It was amazing, though I think that I was the oldest person there—something that happens more and more these days.
And then there was Luke, the last one. Luke had just had a spectacular few years, winning two championships with the Lakers in four trips to the Finals. He married Bre, his college sweetheart from Tucson. They wanted to have a destination wedding, too—in Aspen, Colorado, which is not an easy place for me to get to, especially since I had just had my knee replaced, a full forty-six years after I first hurt it in 1967. I made the same argument against destination weddings as I had earlier, but I lost this one, too. Brother Bruce’s daughter, Harmony, a queen in the wedding world and beyond, certainly helped to change my way of thinking by pointing out that there was going to be a big pro bike race starting in Aspen two days after the wedding. The wedding was on August 17, 2013, on the top of Aspen Mountain. We were high in the Rockies, and on top of the world in many respects. People had come from all over—from San Diego; from Tucson; from Los Angeles; from the Lakers, Cleveland, and the NBA; and beyond. It lasted for days, and was an endless lovefest of fun. Today Luke and Bre and their new baby boy, Lawson, live in Northern California, where Luke is starting a new life as a basketball coach with the Golden State Warriors.
After the wedding, I was able to join the bike race and ride along in Chris Carmichael’s pay-to-play program with the professionals, as close as you can be during the big races. At the end of the ride, my body, and my new knee—with that wonderful thick rubber pad that Drs. Joe Jankiewicz and Peter Hanson left in between my new titanium endcaps after they cut my leg open and put a new knee on—felt better than I could ever remember, dating back to elementary school. With that new knee and rubber pad, life was like living on a trampoline.
* * *
A lot of other things were bouncing back in other ways as well. Almost two years after my spine surgery, I slowly and a bit reluctantly went back into broadcasting. First with the Sacramento Kings, thanks to Gavin, Joe, and the rest of the Maloof family; and Jim Gray, too. Then it was gradually with the new Pac-12 Network and their brilliant and visionary leader, Larry Scott. I also ultimately expanded this to a new go-round with ESPN, now under different leadership. New ESPN president John Skipper has most certainly delivered on all that he said, after I initially turned him down based on my lingering distaste from getting fired a few years earlier. When I initially said no thanks, that I had moved on, John came to our house immediately and changed my mind.
So now as I’m getting back up myself, we were able to spend lots of time with Coach Wooden, just as he was settling down.
Shortly after Coach Wooden’s ninety-ninth birthday, some group or organization gave him just what he needed—another award. They named him the Greatest Coach Ever. Not the Greatest College Coach. Not the Greatest Basketball Coach. They named him the Greatest Coach Ever. No. 2 was Vince Lombardi. No. 3 was Bear Bryant. No. 4 was Phil Jackson. No. 5 was Don Shula. No. 6 was Red Auerbach.
Coach Wooden wanted no part of any of this. It was not his thing. He was a teacher, a worker, and a giver. He was not into accolades, awards, or honors. He always questioned the methodology for determining anything so subjective. What are the standards? What are the measurements, benchmarks, and metrics? Under relentless pressure, he finally agreed to show up—on his terms, at one of his favorite local restaurants.
He didn’t want a big deal made of everything. And he only wanted his family, friends, and players to be there. So after a dinner with those closest to him, they presented him with the award. And they rolled him up onto the stage, now in his wheelchair, and handed him the microphone. When you’re ninety-nine, you’ve already used your best material, particularly when you’re already preaching to the choir—family, friends, and team.
Coach started off by telling everybody there was no way that he deserved this honor. How could you tell who was the best? Then Coach turned the conversation around and said that he wanted to apologize, in that he had made a mistake—with his Pyramid of Success. Everybody was aghast. Coach had worked endlessly on that Pyramid for fourteen years. And now all these years later, and nearing the end, he was going to admit that he was wrong? We were stunned.
He told us that he had made a mistake by leaving the word love out of the Pyramid of Success. And that love is the single most powerful and important word in our language and culture. And until we allow the power of love to supersede the love of power, none of us has any chance of success at all.
There was not a sound in the room. Still. Quiet. Peace at last.
And then Coach Wooden turned the conversation one final time. He stared up slowly. He was looking around to everyone there—whom he knew everything about. It was his guest list, his party. He closed the whole evening down while making eye contact with everybody: “I also want to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I have not been able to do more to help you in your lives . . . I’m sorry that I’ve not been able to do more to help you.”
It was his last public comment.
* * *
As I was recovering from my spine surgery, as soon as I was able, Lori, Greg Lee, and I would drive up to see Coach Wooden for breakfast as often as we could. We would call a bunch of the other guys and all meet at VIPs, and Coach would just pick up with exactly whatever the conversation had been from the last time we were together. Wooden was magnificent at that, with a remarkable knowledge of history and trivia. By now, people had iPhones and the first iPads, and we would challenge him on some of his proclamations. He was invariably right. We would try to see him two or three times a week. Every week. Andy Hill, Jamaal Wilkes, Bob Webb, Marques Johnson, Kenny Washington, Mike Warren, Keith Erickson, Lynn Shackelford, Lucius Allen, and Greg Lee were all regular visitors.
One day in February 2010, we noticed a difference. For the first time in our lives, Coach wasn’t totally on top of things. He couldn’t get things together. And we knew that from here on, things would never be the same again. That day, back at the Mansion on Margate, I got Larry Bird on the phone for the Coach. I sat on the other side of the small room in Coach’s house. He was trying so hard, but it just wasn’t there for him. Larry carried the conversation. Coach had small tears running down his cheeks. They talked about Indiana, sports, life, and what a nuisance I was. And then they said goodbye to each other.
Coach and I said our own goodbyes that day, too. We both knew. Coach Wooden was tough as can be, all the way to the end. Even though there had been countless times over the last twenty-five years that Coach seemed to be at the end of the line, he always made it back. It was astounding. We took to calling him the Energizer Bunny. But this time was different. There were too many things that he could no longer do—things that he needed to be able to do to keep going.
Lori and I were on tour with the Grateful Dead up at Shoreline in the Bay Area when the call came. It was Andy Hill. He said it was time. And that Coach didn’t have much, if anything, left. We grabbed our stuff and raced to L.A. We met Andy at the UCLA Medical Center. As we were getting out of the car, I still had my Grateful Dead laminate around my neck. I told Lori that I was going to bring it in for Coach, that he was going to need some help on his next journey. Lori shook me off; she said that Coach would be fine. I left it in the car.
When we got up and into his room, he already looked dead. He was just lying there on his back with his arms folded across his chest. He had no color. He wasn’t moving at all. There were no signs of life in what was left of his skinny little skeleton. His chest was not going up and down wit
h any of what could be called breath.
I walked silently over to his bedside. I bent down and kissed him. I whispered in his ear. “Thanks, Coach. I love you. And I’m really sorry for ruining your life.”
He shuddered, his first perceptible sign of life since we walked in. He mumbled, “Who’s that? Who’s there?”
I leaned down one more time. I whispered one more time. “Coach, it’s Bill Walton.”
Coach sat up in bed, as much as he could. And he cried out, “I thought that I was through with you!”
And then he fell back onto his pillow—exhausted, spent, and now truly and finally through with me. I’m not sure that Coach ever realized that I had actually become the person he was trying to help me be.
* * *
Because of everything that was going on and the huge number of people involved, it took more than three weeks to have the memorial service for Coach Wooden. It was at Pauley Pavilion, and open to the public.
We went and sat toward the back with friends and teammates in what was a very, very sad and personal day—on a public stage. Coach was the glue that kept the disparate parts bonded.
Al Michaels, as master of ceremonies, was professional, polished, powerful, and impactful. There were some that day who weirdly spent their time onstage promoting themselves, trying to impress the crowd with how close they were to Coach and what they meant to him. But Dick Enberg and Vin Scully kept it very real with video tributes that were beautifully poetic, reflective, and extremely personal. Keith Erickson, Kareem, and Jamaal Wilkes spoke on behalf of the players and were all masterful, touching, insightful, and enlightening. I stayed with my long-held policy of never speaking at funerals. It’s just too personal, and I choose to speak in life rather than death. Very little of any of Coach’s service revolved around basketball—just like so much of our own lives with him. How hard it is to try to put into a few simple words on a grand stage what is so meaningful, so broad, so vast, and so all-encompassing.
When the memorial was over, a lot of the players stood in the back on the floor of Pauley, where we had spent so many of our formative years with our master teacher, coach, and, later, friend. It was very hard to keep it together, since we all knew, without speaking, that after so many roads, we would not be coming down this one ever again. This was the end. Our Coach had passed, and now we really were on our own, left alone to carry on.
* * *
Four months later, Maurice Lucas died—on Halloween, Adam’s and Chris’s birthday. We got the call from our Little Luke—from the Lakers’ locker room. Maurice had been fighting his cancer for as long as I had been up against things with my spine. We had been visiting Maurice and talking on the phone as often as we could, trying to cheer each other up. We knew Big Luke was up against it, but still it came as a crushing shock. He had finally met an opponent he could not beat, or punch in the face. Five days later, on my birthday, Lori and I were in Portland to help bury the greatest Trail Blazer ever, the one who had always been able to step in during any time of trouble and calmly say, “I’ll take care of this.”
As hard as it is to climb back from a collapse—of your spine, your options, your hope—it is a most harrowing experience to see your friends and loved ones battle for life and not be able to help. Maurice was my greatest teammate, a true teammate, the kind who makes you better—as a player, a person, and in life. I’ll always wish I could have done more for him—as he had always done for me.
* * *
Over the years, I’ve been a student of many unparalleled coaches and teachers, and a member of many remarkable teams and organizations. In our world of basketball, the end of the climb at the top of the mountain is the Basketball Hall of Fame. I have had the honor of presenting Larry Bird, Robert Parish, Jamaal Wilkes, Arvydas Sabonis, Jerry Tarkanian, and Spencer Haywood when they entered the Hall of Fame. When I chose my presenter, back in 1993, I chose Jack Ramsay.
Now, twenty years later, we got the tragic news that Jack was really sick and wasn’t going to be able to win this game. Like many of the other key figures in my life, Jack spent his whole life working tirelessly to make other people’s lives better—all the way to the end. And now, as I went back to the Hall of Fame one more time to present Jerry Tarkanian—as the greatest story ever told—I knew that there was not a chance in the world that I would ever have been there if it weren’t for Jack Ramsay. He was as great a champion as I’ve ever known, and an even better man. Jack was a terrific and loving husband, a wonderful dad, and a remarkable teacher.
Too many of my master teachers have now passed away. Each time I’ve been flooded with sadness and grief, but also a drive and commitment—the same kind that they tried to instill in me so many years gone by.
Through their help and lifelong wisdom, I had now climbed back to the point where I was not simply doing better, I was actually doing well. I had my health. Our family was doing great, and it was growing.
When I started this latest climb, I first went to brother Bruce, requesting some San Diego business contacts for my new beginning. He introduced me to Ted Roth, Pat Kilkenny, Ron Fowler, and Jim Waring—all foundational pillars of the 200-plus-billion-dollar-a-year San Diego economy. I’m still with all of those guys today, and because of them, my business is better than ever.
Our nonprofit groups are making real strides. The Better Way Back continues to flourish. Lori has been able to resume her award-winning philanthropic activities, including her work raising, training, and helping service dogs and their community.
Through Lori’s work with service dogs and the people they help, we have become best friends with U.S. Marine Lance Weir, who twenty-two years ago got hurt—real bad. He’s been a quadriplegic ever since. After my spine surgery, when all I could do was lie there contemplating suicide, Lance would sit at my bedside, asking me how I stayed so positive.
Since we started with the CAF, Lance has been able to get a new, one-of-a-kind bike that enables him to get out there on the road with us. A great all-around athlete before his accident, Lance is currently doing things that no other person with his level of disability has ever been able to do. Today we refer to him as the ultra-endurance athlete of the millennium, and that is a conservative description.
Also through the world of service dogs, we now know Andy and Caroline Boyd, and their children—Chase and the twin girls, Izzy and Zoey. They epitomize the perfect Southern California family. When Chase was just three years old he was diagnosed with progressive muscular dystrophy. Andy and Caroline did everything they could to mainstream Chase’s deteriorating life as his body progressively failed him. Everyone else did whatever they could to help.
Chase was the most remarkable spirit and force that any of us have ever known. With the biggest heart imaginable, he far exceeded his expected life span. Chase’s light finally went out in early 2014, just after his nineteenth birthday. He lives on eternally in our recently organized Team Chase, as we all try to add lasting purpose to his endless efforts.
Ted Roth, of Roth Capital Partners, subsequently introduced me to his older brother Duane. Duane became my ultimate mentor. He was John Wooden, Chick Hearn, and Maurice Lucas all in one. He shined the light and illuminated the path forward, he delivered the message of a better tomorrow, and he cleared the space under the boards. Duane ran Connect, a San Diego–based nonprofit, business-accelerating trade organization. I volunteer for the San Diego Sport Innovators, the sports division cluster that complements Connect’s sister organizations in wireless technology, clean energy, biotech, and the life sciences.
I recruited Duane into the CAF. He became a masterful cyclist and huge financial supporter. One day on a CAF ride on Mount Laguna, just east of San Diego, on top of his game, the mountain, and everything else, Duane went down on a turn and never got up.
Then Ernie Vandeweghe finally gave so much of himself for so long that he could no longer go on. And he was now gone, too.
And most recently Rocky, whose heart was so big that it beat for al
l of us, could no longer carry the load, nor answer the bell for the first time in forever.
Through all the devastation of the accumulating losses, I was continuing to improve from my spine catastrophe, getting better to the point where I could finally begin to dream and hope that I could work to help others and pass the efforts of Lance, Chase, Duane, Ernie, and Rocky along—trying to make everybody ever happier and better, starting the cycle anew as the wheel keeps turning.
I was out again, riding my bike—on a long, hard ride. Just the way I like it. And I was on fire. It was the end of another CAF Million Dollar Challenge. We were on the last day of the group fund-raising ride from San Francisco home to San Diego. I’ve been able to successfully do this ride every year since I started with the CAF in 2010.
I love my bike . . . I love California . . . I love San Diego . . . I love the CAF . . . and I was having the time of my life.
We were getting close to the end. We were in Del Mar. It was a perfect day—maybe better. I knew I was going to make it. There was just one more climb—Torrey Pines. I was feeling great.
I sat up and backed off. I let the other riders go ahead. I wanted to be by myself. I just kept thinking how lucky I was. It wasn’t that long ago that I had nothing. And now I had everything. I was riding my bike down the coast of California. The only way that things could be any better was if we were going to turn around and ride the whole course in reverse—and just keep going, looping endlessly, forever.
I kept reminding myself how many people had called when I was down. How they all kept telling me, “Don’t give up, Bill. You can make it . . . Don’t give up. You can make it.”