Big Red survives.
On the city’s happiest day, the joyous big man is always throwing it down with thousands of Portlanders, who are elevating him and the city with them. A man without a bicycle, living on shining on—not just in grainy films and black-and-white photos of Portland’s sole championship parade, but also in the technicolor tie-dye of our imaginations.
As he frequently stated, it is good and happy everything, forever.
Thank you, Bill Walton, you poet and mighty man of goodness.
Our victor.
Yes, I am grateful for the basketball, but I am much more grateful for the life you led and the struggles you underwent to get it. For the teachings you imparted during your journey. For the overwhelming thankfulness and delight.
He referred to himself as the luckiest man alive.
And what are the rest of us really complaining about if he is capable of being that?
The original Trail Blazer is no longer with us. Big Bill was seventy-one. It’s premature, much like the end of a football career marred by injuries. The fundamental theme of Walton’s life, and now legacy, is the admiration and awe he had for living it, regardless of how you interacted with him—whether you were a fan of the 1977 Blazers, a lover or hater of the broadcasting career he overcame a stutter to have, or you shared a common understanding of the immortal philosopher Jerry Garcia.
He might have been upset. It would have been for most of us. From personal recollections or local stories that have been lovingly passed down to younger generations like mine, we know about the career he could have had in the Northwest, despite all the injuries and operations he endured.
A man who considered suicide for years because of his suffering, which left him all but immobilized.
In the excellent ESPN documentary about his life, appropriately named The Luckiest Guy in the World, Walton stated, “You think you’re going to die,” before switching to, “I want to die.” The scene then shifts to the worst possible scenario: Oh my god, I’m going to live, and this is my only option.
After scratching at the bottom level of life, he finally ascended back into the light, which he then assisted in spreading.
He now leaves us with an example of how we can all live. We can choose to be joyful and wonderous. We now know that the guy who had so many close calls with death was suffering from cancer while he was commentating games in the Pac-12’s final season, his cherished Conference of Champions. Two days after the conference’s final champion was crowned, he passed away.
As far as we could see, it never lessened his excitement.
CIRCA, LANDOVER, MD 1978: During an NBA basketball game versus the Washington Bullets at the Capital Centre in Landover, Maryland, Bill Walton #32 of the Portland Trail Blazers watches from the sidelines. From 1974 to 1978, Walton was a member of the Trail Blazers. (Photo by Getty Images/Focus on Sport)Getty Pictures
He was present when Oregon State shocked ninth-ranked Arizona with a buzzer-beater in the iconic Gill Coliseum on January 25 in Corvallis.
Walton said, “You never know what’s going to happen, which is why we’re alive.”
Bill is one of the few people who has ever embodied that zeal. Bill may have been the closest person to discovering the purpose of existence.
As a broadcaster, he had many critics. However, I thought his bold exaggeration was not only amusing, but also reflected the attitude he was attempting to instill in the rest of us.
It appears that everyone has a favorite line of his. I had one from when Oregon defeated Arizona at Matthew Knight Arena six years ago.
Walton declared, “Ducks becoming eagles,” after the Ducks accomplished something so amazing! Evolution happening right before our eyes!
The accomplishment? A straightforward offensive rebound.
Referees were rarely held solely accountable for missed calls under Walton. No, that was probably a transgression of human decency and good reason.
Thousands of Bill Walton plush dolls were distributed that day, and Rose Garden supporters retaliated by throwing them onto the floor after Scottie Pippen was disqualified from a Blazers game in the early 2000s for throwing the ball into the stands.
“That’s you, Bill,” said Kobe Bryant when he picked one up, looked at it, and looked over here, according to Marv Albert, who was broadcasting the game on NBC with Walton.
“I wish I looked that good, Marv,” Walton said, holding up a doll that showed him in his playing days and a microphone that Rasheed Wallace had used to call him “ugly-ass Bill Walton.” Bob Dylan’s beard has never looked better than that beard in the history of Western civilization.
Walton wasn’t only a legend of the Blazers. Many of things have occurred, and far too many of them have passed away at an early age. Walton was the counterculture hero who brought Portland basketball back into the spotlight, even though he only played in 209 games. A player whose Blazers stay ended in controversy, the finest passing big man of his generation, and a progressive rabble-rouser whose politics were frequently as much of a focus as his talent. In protest of the way the team handled his ailments during his MVP season the year before, he missed the 1978–79 season.
Rebuilding his relationship with the city of Portland took Walton years. Here, he was honored with the same fervor as ever in the last decades of his life.
To comprehend his influence on Portland and why this eccentric player was such a perfect fit for the city’s varied culture, you didn’t need to watch him play or read The Breaks of the Game.
During my time covering the Los Angeles Lakers, I had numerous encounters with Bill. I met Bill on the sidelines of a Golden State Warriors game after his son Luke was hired as the team’s coach. Luke was remained on the bench during the team’s 2016 playoff run. He appeared happy that someone else may have his first name and held out his hand for an introduction pound.
Bill? He was amazed.I’m Bill. It was his typical, disarming introduction. He said more than I could count how proud he and his wife Lori were to be parents, or that he was merely a dad.
Once, he entered the Lakers locker room with longtime friend Pat Kilkenny, the Oregon booster and former athletic director who, like Walton, lived in San Diego and went around the room introducing himself to players.
“I am Luke’s father,” he informed them all.
The huge guy’s pride in seeing his sons become successful adults outside of his shadow is what I remember most about him.
At another game, he brought a friend along and leaned in to listen in on his son’s media scrum before the game. The companion of his? Mickey Hart, the Grateful Dead’s drummer.
Every time I saw Bill, his smile was as big as it had been on the day he celebrated with Rip City in 77.
Walton frequently attended the championship team’s reunions, so it hurts to know he won’t be present for the ones that are still to come. It will feel more empty today, and the 50th anniversary is just a few years away.
Bill is one of the NBA s greatest characters, yes, and one of the greatest ambassadors of basketball, choosing to focus on what the game gave him rather than what it took away.
Walton always felt larger than life, and now he feels, in some ways, bigger than grief. It was fitting that theoverwhelming reaction to his passing was people sharing momentshe exuded joy which were many.
Good and happy everything, forever. That will never die.
Shine on, Bill.
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Bill Oram
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Bill Oram: Oregon s regular-season dominance rings hollow after Rose Bowl no-show
