He’s Gone: Bill Walton, Basketball, Politics, and the Grateful Dead
“The wind in the willows played Tea for Two/The sky was yellow and the sun was blue”
While the world has spun off in many surprising directions since Bill Walton died on Memorial Day, I keep coming back to the fact that he’s gone, and that’s a sad thing.
I grew up watching UCLA basketball since my stepdad, Don Sawyer, was the public address announcer for the Bruins, and my mom, Bonnie, worked in the Athletic Department there. Both knew Walton, and he admired them a great deal. When my stepdad died in 2002, Walton sent a letter to be read at his memorial service, which was a welcome burst of hilarity on an otherwise somber day. Walton’s message was full of Grateful Dead references—“Don is up in a Bruin heaven where the sky is yellow and the sun is blue letting his big voice come through!” among others.
The note was heartfelt, though, and manifested what so many have said during the coverage after his death, that Walton was a kind human who often went out of his way to help others. And many times he could be counted on to support various initiatives in San Diego that would bring aid to those in need. This was another axis where I crossed paths with Bill Walton—in my activist work. Every now and then Walton and I would be on the same side of an issue.
To be sure, unlike his student days, nothing was particularly leftist or incendiary, but for many years he cared about the plight of others and lent a hand when he could. Of course, he was not always on the side of the angels. His recent outbursts about the homeless crisis downtown and support of Sunbreak Ranch, for example, were pretty difficult to stomach and actually quite disappointing coming from someone who otherwise seemed attuned to all sorts of other societal inequities.
In fact, Walton’s past as an anti-Vietnam War activist while in college at UCLA was notable as was his standing up for other issues, especially those regarding race. Just a few days ago, my friend and comrade, Fred Glass, emailed me about his experience with Walton, which provides an interesting insight into who he was as a young person. Glass is working on his memoir and includes this bit on Walton:
Removed from the Baldwin grand piano in my childhood home, I bought a cheap Yamaha nylon string guitar and begged lessons from more accomplished friends in the dorm my first year. Besides guitar players, a UCLA dorm in 1970 provided plenty of opportunities to explore alternative culture. My next door neighbor, a jock in high school, knew he wasn’t good enough to make a UCLA team. To compensate he drank heavily while sharing really loud music through the thin dorm walls with his neighbors. But he wasn’t a hermit. He made friends with many athletes, including some of the stars, by offering them the best weed available at good prices and free drinks while making the transactions.
Late one evening I found myself riding in the elevator to my fourth-floor room with the center of the UCLA basketball team, Bill Walton. I came up to about his waist. Carrot colored hair contained by a rainbow headband far above me, he sported an unlit joint in his mouth and a red wax paper-covered brick of marijuana under his arm. When we got off at the same floor he asked me if I knew the way to my next door neighbor’s place. I steered him there and he handed me the joint in thanks.
This, it turned out, wasn’t my only encounter with Walton. During the Cambodia invasion UCLA students occupied the administration building. I signed up to be part of the demonstration outside. When the police arrived in force, we were four rows of seated students, arms linked, surrounding the building. I sat in the second row, and Walton sat directly in front of me, in the first row, which was kind of irritating because his height, towering even seated, prevented me from seeing what was going on with the cops and their preparations to charge into us.
We didn’t move during the order to disperse. When the police came at us, though, our lines broke apart quickly. Nearly everyone in the front row either got clubbed or arrested. Four or five cops, eager to be the one to arrest the star player of the UCLA basketball team, jostled with one another over him as Walton began to rise; I heard him muttering to no one in particular, “I think it might be time to regroup.” He was a few moments too late in his regroupment, but the attention devoted to him gave me the space to escape arrest or bodily harm.
So early on, as Glass shows, Walton both spoke out for what he thought was right and also indulged himself in mind-altering experiences. When one thinks of a star basketball player whose beloved and respected coach, John Wooden, was about the straightest arrow ever, Walton’s forays into politics, weed and psychedelics, and the Grateful Dead demonstrate how much he charted his own path through life. All one ever had to do was listen to Walton announce a Pac-12 game over the last several years to crawl around inside his capacious skull as he freely shared whatever crossed his mind at any moment, whether it related to basketball or not (frequently not, to the chagrin of several of my friends and family members who would get annoyed by Bill’s digressions).
As a fellow Deadhead, I understood this side of Walton. We would see him at shows, right in the middle of the GA section on the floor close to the stage (or actually onstage as Father Time for many New Year’s Eve performances). Like Glass, those standing behind him were probably irritated at his height because he certainly towered over his fellow Deadheads, especially since he spent most of the shows with both arms up in the air, which was visible from everywhere in the venue. Walton’s sheer joy, the giant smile plastered on his face, his enthusiastic swaying (even with horrible back problems), all of this communicated both what’s special about Dead shows but also what was lovely about this giant of a man.
My husband, Jim, and I belong to the Mission Valley YMCA where Walton went. We’d see him there all the time, and he always asked after my mom. Recently, after a break due to Jim’s health crisis, we finally returned to working out at the Y and kept expecting to see Walton in the weight room. But, as we now know,
Rest in Peace, Bill.
