Back from the Dead

by Bill Walton

  People who suffer learn to laugh about their sadness in public. But in retrospect today, I understand now that I let down every team I ever played on. It’s hard not to think of those moments that could have been.

  On the night Coach Wooden was honored as the greatest coach in the history of the world—not simply the greatest college coach, not merely the greatest basketball coach, but the greatest of all coaches in all sports for all time—Wooden, then ninety-nine years old, wrapped up his speech, the last of his life, by saying, “Finally, I want to say that I’m sorry to each and every one of you. I am sorry that I wasn’t able to do more to help you.”

  While Wooden was and is my coach, Bill Russell is my hero, my favorite player ever—on and off the court—and the greatest winner in the history of sports. His college teams won back-to-back championships, and his Boston Celtics won eleven NBA championships in thirteen seasons. And yet, Russell only wants to talk about the two years he didn’t win. One of the reasons he is my hero is that for Bill Russell, success is limited by the things that don’t get done.

  My failures lurk in the dates that have become daggers to my heart: January 7, January 19, and March 23, 1974; April 21, 1978; September 27, 1979; June 14, 1987; February 1, 1990.

  And then in late February 2008—the day my spine collapsed and failed. The day I staggered down into this crumpled, wretched heap on the floor from which I no longer have the strength or the will to get up.

  All the things I planned to do but did only halfway.

  I live to be part of a special team, which is why my forty-three-year relationship with Coach Wooden was so perfect, despite the fact that when we first came together at UCLA in 1970—he was sixty-one and I just seventeen—we saw things so differently. Everything but basketball. In what was then the most serious contest under way in America, the Battle for the Soul and Future of our Country, we had opposite views on almost every subject, from the length of my hair to my lifestyle, politics, and choice of friends to my idea of writing a letter to President Nixon demanding he resign—on Coach Wooden’s personal stationery. I made Coach’s life miserable. And here at the end, he’s the one saying he’s sorry.

  Life puts you on all sorts of teams, in all sorts of games. One of the best teams that I got to be part of never lost a game, and came the closest of all to reaching that endless and perfect wave that stretches to eternity. But it sadly did end for Jerry Garcia in 1995, and it has ended now for me. The music of the Grateful Dead that ran through my head nonstop for more than forty years has inexplicably now stopped. I am desperate, empty of hope, empty of dreams, empty of everything. I live—if you can call it life—on the floor, and I can’t take it anymore.

  My spine will no longer hold me. After spending more than forty years on the road—half as a player, half as a broadcaster, all as a proud Dead Head, logging two hundred nights and often six hundred thousand air miles each and every year—I can’t go anymore. I can’t get up off the floor.

  The pain I’m feeling now is worse than anything I could have ever imagined. Unrelenting, debilitating, and excruciating—the pain has destroyed me. Imagine being submerged in a vat of scalding acid with an electric current running constantly through it. A burning, stinging, pulsating, punishing pain that you can never escape. Ever.

  There are times when I’m lying here—with nothing. Lori, the most beautiful and wonderful of angels, as fine as anything’s fine, comes to me. As she gets ever closer, it is just too much. And I cry out, in whimpering pain, “STOP. Don’t come any closer. YOU’RE PUSHING THE AIR ONTO ME! It’s too much. STOP!!!”

  My life is over. I can do nothing. I eat my meals stretched out prone on the floor. I have to crawl like a snake to the bathroom, and use all my strength to climb up to the toilet. I don’t think I am going to make it. I tell Lori that it’s time for her to go, to get out while the getting is good.

  Not wanting to leave her with a big mess, we’ve put our longtime family home—the dream of a lifetime for the past thirty-six years—up for sale and moved into the small cottage next door. I can’t think. I can’t sleep, except when my neighbor Danny comes over and starts explaining his insurance company workers’ comp legal defense work, which puts me straight out, but only for a moment.

  One day I am on the floor, as always, and Lori has just put some food down in front of me, so that I can slurp something in. I hear the front door open at the other end of the house and know it’s our youngest son, Chris, dropping in for a visit with his new dog, Cortez, a huge, rambunctious bullmastiff that must weigh three or four hundred pounds, and is still just a puppy. I can hear Chris release Cortez, and the giant, panting beast begins to roam. On the prowl, Cortez comes around a corner and wanders over to where I am lying facedown on the floor and stares at me, transfixed, as I try to nibble or slurp some food off the plate, just inches in front of my mouth. The giant dog looks at the meal in front of my face, marches right up to it, and wolfs down every morsel in a single bite—and there is nothing I can do about it.

  Cortez turns to leave, and as he rounds the corner, he belches and passes gas, never looking back. It is the lowest point imaginable.

  I’ve run the gamut from thinking I am going to die to wanting to die to the worst of all possible places—being afraid that I am going to live—and this is what I am going to be stuck with. I have given up. I am standing on the edge of a bridge, measuring, knowing full well that it would be better to jump than to go back to what is left of my life. It is time to go.

  Knocked down—it gets to wearing thin,

  They just won’t let you be.

  Two and a half years I have spent on the floor. When I was at my lowest, I was fired from my broadcasting job—right in the middle of Lori’s birthday party. I didn’t have the heart to tell her for several days. There went our income, our health insurance, my dignity, my self-respect. We would lose our home.

  Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard could have written a song.

  I no longer have the strength to fight back. The mind-numbing, spirit-sapping, life-draining drugs they tell me are supposed to help eventually just become more of what I desperately need to get away from. If only this were a game and I could look to Maurice Lucas, my greatest teammate, the strongest, gentlest, and toughest friend anybody could ever ask for, who, anytime anything needed to be done—move somebody out of the way, punch someone in the face—would stand tall and convincingly say, “I’ll take care of this.” But Maurice can’t help here—he’s dying of cancer himself. Where is Larry Bird to shoot us out of trouble, now that the game is really on the line? What can Coach Wooden tell me now? Where is the band? Please, Jerry, just one more time—take me safely home.

  Turn on your light, let it shine on me.

  But there is no light at all now, and no sound, either, not even in my mind. It is all so terribly dark. The music has been gone for months, years now. If only I could float and bathe, one more time, in the Dead’s flesh-eating, low-end beam, maybe it could breathe life into me—one more time.

  The music has stopped. The pain digs in ever deeper and devours more and more of me for days, weeks, months, years—with no end in sight. Only I can end this.

  I ask Lori to drive me to my beloved Balboa Park, where my glorious childhood memories live—of picnic dinners with our family, of running wild through the playgrounds with my brothers and sister, of one day discovering magical Muni Gym, my personal Shangri-la where endless games of pickup basketball changed and made my life.

  I struggle to pull myself out of the car and take a few agonizing steps along the beautifully ancient Cabrillo Bridge, which spans the park and the freeway, hundreds of feet below. I stand, peer, and ponder.

  Later I hear a friend on my voice mail: “Hey, Bill—I was driving to work this morning and I saw you standing on the bridge. I was going to yell ‘Don’t jump!’ but I didn’t want to scare you. It was great to see you out in the sunshine, though!”

  Comes a time, when the blind man takes your hand,


  Says: Don’t you see? Got to make it somehow, on the dreams you still believe

  Don’t give it up, you’ve got an empty cup, only love can fill.

  * * *

  I have lost everything, the last possession being the will to live.

  But then. Just before the final fade-out . . .

  I know I don’t control it, but somewhere deep inside, there is still a faint spirit fighting for life, for the light, trying to escape the darkness and evil that is strangling me. I try to reach one last time for some strength to give this fighting spirit some room to move, to breathe, but it’s harder and requires more of everything than I’ve ever given to anything in my life.

  I can’t do it alone. I need help to push through the pain and the sadness. I need Maurice with all his strength to clear the space and pull me through. I keep working and searching and fighting, calling for help from everyone I’ve encountered along the road—from my family and friends, from my teammates, my heroes, my teachers and coaches—searching to find that way out . . . and back.

  The effort exhausts me, and I am ready to give it all up when I begin to sense something. It’s more than just the dull, numb, lifeless, joyless pulse I’ve had now for all these interminable months. Something is swelling up and bulging out from the depths.

  Did you hear what I just heard? There seems to be a beat now,

  I can feel it in my feet now, listen, here it comes again!

  I can’t believe it, but I’m faintly hearing a beat. And slowly that beat is getting stronger and louder. And now there is energy and a current of electricity. Now a vamp. A rising tide of anticipation. More sound and more tension, turning into a rhythm, about to become a frenzy. And now I can feel it.

  The fans are on their feet. They know what’s coming next.

  And then . . .

  The band is starting up again! The music plays, the wheel begins to turn again, and to my complete astonishment, the total darkness of death and the fog of despair are beginning to lift. Can I really hold on? Is there a chance I can take more trips, make an impact, play in the game of life one more time?

  Every time that wheel turns around, bound to cover just a little more ground. . . .

  Round, round, robin run round, got to get back where you belong.

  * * *

  Could it be that Coach Wooden’s slowest learner ever has finally figured out a way to make that last long, hard climb—one more time? The one that will take me all the way to heaven?

  Old man, take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you were.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  My Time Comin’ Any Day, Don’t Worry ’Bout Me, No!

  California, preaching on the burning shore;

  California, I’ll be knocking on the golden door

  Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light;

  Rising up to paradise, I know I’m gonna shine.

  That’s just the way it was—perfect.

  San Diego. What more could anyone ask for in life?

  I was lucky that my parents chose San Diego as the place to build their lives and chase their dreams. When I was born into California’s golden sunshine on November 5, 1952, San Diego was bursting with dizzying possibilities and potential. Its vibrancy as our country’s primary West Coast Navy port and a budding educational and technological hub has consistently drawn huge waves of dreamers and visionaries for more than a century.

  My mom, Gloria, was a Brooklyn girl growing up in the 1920s and ’30s. When she was thirteen her dad died, and her mom announced, “We’re out of here. We’re going to San Diego.” They first lived in a beautiful house downtown near the bay and the train station. But when World War II came, the city’s population blew up. Downtown was made over by the military and related industries, much more space was needed, and her house—like dozens of others—was in the way. So they jacked it up, put it on the back of a truck, hauled it a mile up the hill on Third Avenue just south of Hawthorne, and replanted it three blocks west of Balboa Park, that magnificent treasure where so many of my dreams—good and bad—would play out over the next six decades.

  My dad, Ted, grew up in California’s Central Valley town of Taft, just west of Bakersfield. He went to college at UC Berkeley—finishing second in his class academically—got drafted into the Army, and fought in the “Good War” in Europe. When he got back, he dedicated the rest of his life to convincing people to get along. He first spent some time in Sebastopol and Eureka, both in Northern California, trying his hand as a writer. When he realized that the morning dew and the cold rain and snow there were not lifting or drying out for him, it took only a few dreary months before he announced, “I’m out of here. I’m going to San Diego.”

  If you were in San Diego today, you would understand why they came. I still thank my mom every day for having come to San Diego. I thanked my dad, too, every day up until the day he passed on in 2004.

  Gloria and Ted met at a social event, soon got married, and quickly started their family. My brother Bruce came first, and I followed eighteen months later. We were living originally in Mission Hills near Presidio Park, but my parents wanted more room to move around, and more children were soon to come. Mom and Dad bought a lot and built a house on a hill in La Mesa—“the Jewel of the Hills”—a few blocks from Lake Murray, about ten miles to the east of the city. My sister, Cathy, and brother Andy came along quickly.

  My dad loved the outdoors, plants, and gardening. When each child was born, my parents planted a special tree at our house: Bruce (avocado), me (Brazilian pepper), Cathy (golden acacia), Andy (tangerine).

  We didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, but really—we had it all. My mom was a librarian and my dad worked as a social worker, adult educator, and music teacher. Our worlds were built on music, radio, newspapers, and books. Those forces shaped and gave me my life.

  My brothers and sister and I are all totally different. We were then, as we are today. We each went our own way from the very beginning, each with different interests, each chasing our own dreams. Bruce and I were especially close, but not necessarily in a friendly way. Bruce was a bully, and he stole my food. But he was also my protector whenever anyone tried to mess with me. He was sensitive to my stuttering and always tried to help me get words out. When we played together on the same sports teams, frustrated opponents who couldn’t beat me within the rules would simply try to beat me up. Anybody who wasn’t already familiar with Bruce would eventually end up on the ground gasping for breath after one of Bruce’s strategically delivered elbows would connect with the guy’s windpipe or groin. The only person Bruce would allow to beat me up was Bruce.

  All my life, I have been a stutterer, and it has caused me terrible pain and endless embarrassment. I was extremely shy in school and almost never spoke. I simply couldn’t do it. Thankfully, my teachers never called on me in class. It helped that I was a straight-A student and could express myself happily and prolifically in essays, letters, and journals throughout my life. I took refuge in the things I did well, and could enjoy doing alone—reading, music, nature, riding my bike—and playing basketball.

  We didn’t have a TV, but I was one of the first kids around to have a skateboard, which I built myself. Our house on the hill was at an intersection, the northeast corner of which formed a perfect natural half-pipe. There was only one road in and out of our neighborhood, and there were no sidewalks, just asphalt that flowed seamlessly to the front yards. That skateboard kept my adrenaline stoked for a while. Then one day my dad took me to a police auction and bought me my first bike, a well-used one, for five dollars. In about a week I outgrew it and was devastated. I rode that little bike back to the next police auction. They must have remembered me, because one of the officers said, “Come on in here, Billy. Take any bike you want. And please come back anytime you need a bigger one. We’ll take care of you.” I have been biking, passionately, ever since. I love my bike.

  When I was nine, the Los
Angeles Chargers of the American Football League (AFL) moved to San Diego and fantastically selected for their practice field Sunset Park, a sacred and free public, open green space less than half a mile from our home. I would ride my bike or my skateboard up to that park every day and just hang on the fence, watching these larger-than-life heroes up close. Among a myriad of future Hall of Famer players like Ron Mix and Lance Alworth, they also had the brilliant, innovative coach Sid Gillman and a dazzling wonder running back, Paul Lowe, who, on the very first play of the very first game in the very first exhibition season for the brand-new AFL at the Los Angeles Coliseum in 1960, ran back the opening kickoff 105 yards for a touchdown. I learned to love fast and explosive starts.

  I’d watch the Chargers practice all week and then on Sundays I would go, often on my bike, down to Balboa Stadium, the 30,000-seat cement horseshoe south of Balboa Park on the northeast edge of downtown, where the Chargers played their home games (and where a few years later I’d find another home in the purple haze of Hendrix, the Doors, and Crosby, Stills & Nash concerts). We never had any money, but we never had any trouble doing whatever we wanted. You could always put the sad, soft eyes on a ticket taker and he’d inevitably say, “Okay, come on in.” We’d find seats anywhere and everywhere, constantly on the move throughout the stadium. Going to the show—first in and last out: there was, and still is, nothing quite like it.