by Bill Walton
I’m now aware that Larry told Red right there and then, “Go get him.” Although at the time I had no idea that Larry was there, much less aware of my call or even who I was.
When Red got back on the line, he said, “OK, we’ll do it. But please, Walton, please let me do everything. Don’t you say a word to anybody about anything.”
The Clippers dragged it out all summer—endlessly.
Red kept telling me to be patient, but it was hard. All the children were now school-age, and something had to be done at some point. I had just spent the last six years living in the weird, bizarre, alternative reality of Clipperdom and Sterling World. But like the Blazers six years before, the Clippers were being ridiculous in their requests—demanding everything that I wanted to go to Boston for.
* * *
When Red finally told me that he had been able to strike a deal, I was ecstatic.
I went into the Clippers’ office to sign the papers.
Sitting across the desk was Donald Sterling. He looked at me impassively. Expressionless.
He said, “Walton, you really want this, don’t you?”
I reiterated how it was time, that I had done my best, and that there was nothing more I could do for him or his team.
He responded that that was not true. From behind his ornate desk, perched high on his ostentatious throne, he leaned in and leered in his reptilian style that for this deal to go down, and for me to go to Boston, I would have to leave all the deferred compensation that I had accumulated over the years as a Clipper with him.
Deferred compensation was a big part of the NBA’s financial model at the time. For me, it was a ton of money. It was all the money that I had in the world.
This money and the contracts involved had already been litigated many times. But I learned the hard way that this was Donald Sterling’s way—sitting fat on a mountain of cash, with a stable of lawyers on staff to keep suing people to whom he owed money.
I reached out across his desk, took hold of his pen, and signed the document as boldly, powerfully, and confidently as I could.
I walked out immediately without ever saying a word, and I never looked back. It still sits alone at the top as the best money I ever spent.
* * *
CHAPTER 13
* * *
I Need a Miracle
HERE COMES SUNSHINE
We used to play for silver,
Now we play for life.
Having been a lost sailor, away at sea for far too long, I was now a Celtic. Or so I hoped. Two big mountains still loomed: I needed to convince center Robert Parish that I was only trying to help and that I was not trying to take anything from him as I sought permission to be his backup, and I still had to pass a physical. Robert said he was cool with it. But there is no way that I’ve ever been able to pass a physical of any kind. And things were not looking any better this time.
As I lay there on the examining table in a good-size room at Massachusetts General Hospital, on the east end of Storrow Drive, in downtown Boston, with my X-rays and medical records all over the room and pinned up on the LED-lit wall screens, I could hear the doctors whispering to each other. “What are we going to tell Red? There’s no way that we can pass this guy. Look at his feet. His ankles. Look at his knees, his wrists, his hands. Oh my gosh—look at his spine. Look at his face.”
All of a sudden, Red burst through the double swinging doors—smoking his cigar—in the hospital. He looked around, perplexed. He bellowed, “Who are you guys? And what are you doing with my player?”
The doctors covered their mouths with their cupped hands and murmured while drawing attention to the X-rays on the screens. “Red, look at his feet. Look at his face. There’s no way we can pass this guy.”
Red waved his arms, signaling for silence. Then he walked over to me, still on the table.
Looking down at me, he said quietly, “Walton, can you play?”
I looked back up at him with the sad, sorrowful, but hopeful eyes of a man who just wants another chance—in life. And I said, softly, “Red, I think I can.”
Red stepped back, taking it all in. He took a huge drag on his cigar. It would have made Jerry Garcia proud as can be. He held his breath, as we all did, too, for a seeming eternity. And when he finally did exhale, I swear the smoke was green—and that there were shamrocks and leprechauns floating in it up against the flourescent lights.
Red’s face went from concern and uncertainty to a cherubic smile as he proudly declared, “He’s fine. He passes. Let’s go! We’ve got a game!”
* * *
Whatever Red didn’t take care of, David Halberstam did. David found us a house in Cambridge, right near Harvard—it was previously owned by Timothy Leary. David found the right schools for our children. He and Dick Trudell reconnected us with the Kennedys. David showed us how to ride the subway to the games.
The team was fantastic. I knew it would be good, but I had no idea just how good until I was there. Red had created a culture that was very much like UCLA, where we were expected to win everything, every day, forever. Like UCLA, we had better players at every position—Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, Dennis Johnson, Danny Ainge—all the way down to the bench, the coach, the staff, the bosses, and the fans. We could win a power game or a finesse one; a fast game or slow one. We could win with shooting, passing, rebounding, offense, defense, or with any kind of combination of players. And at the end of the day, we had Larry Bird—and nobody else did.
Our Celtic practices were works of art, and things of beauty, due in no small part to the culture that Red and our coach, K. C. Jones, had put in place. K. C. was the perfect coach for our team, and the most like John Wooden of any coach I ever played for. We loved K. C. and we would do anything for him. We were a team that was superbly self-motivated, and K. C. knew that and respected it. He kept our practices short, to the point, and always focused on what was important. It gave guys more time pre- and post-practice to work on what they needed, on their own, one-on-one, or in small groups. And it kept practice moving, fierce—and fun.
We would start at 10:30 a.m., beginning with some easy running drills, three-man weave and the like. We would quickly transition to shooting games, then to the Three-on-Two Conditioner—the drill that Coach Wooden had invented, although you could say that about most every drill in basketball. And then we would scrimmage. Sometimes half-court first, then open it up to full.
Scrimmages always put the first string, who wore the white jerseys in practice, up against the bench, or the “Green Team” of Scott Wedman, Jerry Sichting, Rick Carlisle, Greg Kite, Sam Vincent, David Thirdkill, and me. Everything was always extremely competitive, and there was a steady stream of trash talking at the highest level. And as we got into the season, with K. C. not doing much substituting in the real games, the first string would often come in tired and beat up from the previous night’s game, when they had played consistently big minutes. That left our “Green Team” fresh, rested, and hungry for whatever we could get done against our starting five, the “White Team,” whom we always referred to as the “stat team.” Invariably, Larry needed to have the last word, win, and everything else—even if it meant dragging out the practice.
One day early on, K. C.’s two assistants, Chris Ford and Jimmy Rodgers, who always “reffed” the scrimmages, kept making horrific call after horrific call, all in favor of the “stat team.” After a particularly unjust string of terrible calls, I’d finally had enough. I grabbed the ball and stormed over to K. C., who was standing on the sideline taking it all in with a very serious expression.
I got right in K. C.’s face and demanded to know how he, as a man of impeccable character, integrity, and credibility, could stand idly by as his “refs” made such a travesty of the rules.
K. C. looked puzzled for a moment, then looked at me with a wink and a slight turn of his lip and said, “Come on, William. You know full well that we can’t get out of here today until Larry’s team wins a game. Now
get back out there and do something.”
The young guys, like Carlisle, Kite, Vincent, and Thirdkill, were always trying to prove themselves and impress the coach. Wedman and Sichting were great veterans and all-NBA-level players who always knew exactly what they were doing. I was just trying to hang on and make it. I hadn’t finished a basketball season still able to play in nine years now, and two of the three seasons before that. And here I was, having already had more than two dozen orthopedic operations, constantly fighting off the rigor mortis that seemed to be creeping into my life and body forever. I was the backup to the Chief—Robert Parish—which was basically like following a Brink’s truck down a bumpy road after they forgot to close the back doors. I wouldn’t be playing a lot, and wouldn’t be playing at the start or end of the games. And, as a bench player, I’d be playing against second-tier players mostly. I could not wait to do whatever I could.
* * *
The team became incredibly close, on and off the court. We did everything together, including taking long bus rides all around New England for games, promotions, and events of all sorts. Harvard law professor Alan Dershowitz would jump on the bus whenever his schedule allowed and would move from friend to friend all up and down the aisle for the most interesting conversations about everything.
We opened the season on the road in the New Jersey swamps, at the Meadowlands. The game is worth mentioning for only two reasons: it was my first real game with the Celtics, and I was terrible. I could not do anything right, could never find any sort of positive rhythm or flow, and when we ended up losing—in overtime—I was the reason we lost. Larry wanted to know why we even bothered having me on the team. He was right. He always was. It was about this time when Larry would get so mad when I wasn’t able to get it done out there he would demand of K. C., “Coach, you can either take Walton out of the game or me. It’s your choice.” K. C. was a brilliant decision maker.
Fortunately, things got better as I quickly remembered how to play, and the team found its stride. Every one of our games, both home and away, became memorable for something; it was a unique team.
In our first game against Washington, as we’re getting ready in the locker room, Larry comes in, excited and animated as can be. He had just come back from his pregame shooting ritual, where he had witnessed Manute Bol, a quite tall fellow from the Sudan who was trying to make it as a pro basketball player. None of us had ever heard of him before. But Larry warned that whatever happened tonight to make sure that Manute didn’t block your shot, because if he did get you, ESPN and SportsCenter, still in its infancy, would never let anybody forget.
We had all played against some really tall guys before—Tommy Burleson and Chuck Nevitt—but Manute, at 7'7", was in a whole different league.
Sure enough, when I was in early, the ball was swung to me on the left wing about fifteen feet out, with the perfect angle for a bank shot. I was wide open, so I let it fly, only to have Manute—who was totally out of position under the basket at the time—take a couple of long strides and elongate endlessly to swat my jumper out of the air.
Larry went wild, and to this day he has never let me forget it.
Later, Larry called us all together and said that we all had to put $100 into a pool, and that the first one to dunk on Manute would get all the cash—$1,200.
When nobody was successful in throwing one down in Manute’s face the next time we played Washington, Larry announced that we were going to roll it over, and keep it rolling over until somebody did successfully throw one down on the big guy. And that each game would require another $100 contribution per man from our entire Celtic squad of twelve guys—until it happened.
Now, Washington was a terrible team we never had any trouble beating, but all season long nobody on our team could get a dunk on Manute, and the pot of cash kept growing. Kevin McHale was most intent on getting it done. Kevin was the second-best low-post player I ever played against—after Kareem. Like Kareem, Kevin worked endlessly on getting better position before he ever even received the ball. And also like Kareem—for the opposition it really didn’t matter anyway—they were both simply too good. So one game, after the Manute money pool had grown quite large, Kevin just kept going at Manute regardless of what the game or play called for. Manute was blocking every attempt by Kevin, who remained completely undeterred. Manute might have set a record that night for most shots blocked on an individual opponent in any one game. Later, I came up with a defensive rebound and threw a long outlet pass to Larry, who was all alone at half-court, on the left side. There was nobody between Larry and our goal. But instead of driving in and making an uncontested layup, Larry stops, cradles the ball on his hip with his left arm, and points at Manute, who is still down at his own basket and completely out of the play. Larry is waving frantically for Manute to hurry back on defense so that Larry can go in and try to dunk on him. Manute was clueless to our little game within the game, but he dutifully hustled back, and when Larry came flying in, Manute sent him and the ball back one more time.
Our great coach, K. C. Jones, was up off the bench, extending his hands and arms as if to say, “What is going on here?”
We went on to win the game quite easily, but neither Larry nor Kevin succeeded that night. It was the Chief who finally got the throwdown in Manute’s face, and ultimately a very large sum of cash.
Larry’s wager on Manute epitomized some of the brilliant things about that Celtics team. In every game, Larry found a way to make it endlessly interesting and entertaining—for us as his teammates, and for everyone in the crowd watching. And when he was in the building, all eyes were definitely on him.
When you’re a good team, you’re supposed to, and do, win all your home games. We went an NBA record 40-1 at home that regular season, then undefeated in the playoffs. The Boston Garden was electric every night. It was the greatest show on earth. The fans would fill and rock the joint like never before. They would buy tickets for seats that you couldn’t see the game from. The Boston Garden had opened in 1928. The construction capabilities of the day left massive columns inside the interior-seating bowl. They put seats right behind these columns where your face was right up against the pillar. It didn’t even matter to Larry’s fans, who simply had to be there. They came to witness, to pray, to honor, to offer tribute, and ultimately to celebrate—chanting “Larry! Larry! Larry! MVP! MVP! MVP!” until the massive scoreboard suspended over the floor was bouncing.
As grand as it all was, it was the road games that were the most fun. They always are. They require the most effort to win.
Early on after an embarrassing loss in Indiana—Larry’s home state—I hounded K. C. into letting Larry and me stay there for a couple of extra days so that I could make a pilgrimage to Larry’s hometown, French Lick, down in the southern part of the state.
We traveled late at night, but still, people came out from everywhere to pay their respect. Word travels fast when Larry’s in town. We eventually made it to Larry’s mom’s house in time for breakfast. It was surreal to be there, where it all began for Larry. I pestered his mom, Georgia, for stories about Larry as a boy. I asked her if this was indeed the house where Larry grew up. When she confirmed it, I asked her if the driveway basketball court that I could see through the small kitchen window was the court where Larry learned to play. When she confirmed that as well, I asked her if she had an extra empty canning jar around the house. And she did, gladly giving me one.
I went outside, got down on my hands and knees, and started rubbing lots of the Larry Bird driveway dirt all over me. When I was done, I scooped up some of the loose, moist earth and filled the jar, closing the lid tightly when it was full.
I put the jar with the Larry Bird dirt in it in my Celtics game bag and carried it with me all season long, along with my tape cutters, jump rope, silly putty, hand squeezers, and shoes. It was awesome. Larry and Georgia thought I was nuts. But they weren’t living with the Curse of Coach Wooden’s Stolen Penny hanging over them like an unrelent
ing dark cloud—to say nothing of the Philippine witch doctor and his curse.
Whenever things got rough on the road that season, I would always reach into my game bag and rub just a little more dirt wherever I could—one more time. I would do anything to try to break that curse. I eventually sprinkled the last of the dirt on my own backyard court at my parents’ home in La Mesa.
* * *
Larry Bird was a most remarkable player. I have never seen a player—any player—inspire the home crowd the way he did. He was an even better person, who always seemed to know everything about everybody on the team. I never knew how he knew, but whenever anybody was having trouble—marital, financial, personal, a sick child or relative, whatever—Larry knew. And then he would quietly go to Red, and Red would always fix everything, without ever saying a word to anybody. Nobody ever knew a thing about it—except the person whom Larry and Red would help.
Larry was extremely popular on every front, and all the businesses and companies in Boston and around the country were clamoring for Larry’s endorsement and seal of approval and acceptance. And while he did do some of the commercials and sponsorship deals, it didn’t really seem to be his thing.
But that didn’t keep everybody from constantly asking. This one guy in particular, Harry I believe his name was, kept coming around all the time and bugging Larry to do an advertisement for his local restaurant, the Scotch ’n Sirloin, just a few blocks away from the Boston Garden. Larry kept telling the guy no, he wasn’t interested. But Harry would not take no for an answer, telling Larry that if he did the ad, it would put Harry over the top, his restaurant would make it, and the sun would shine bright and warm—on everybody.
