Politics in Sports

Bill Walton On the Road with

the Portland Trail Blazers

Jack Scott

THOMAS Y. CROWELL, PUBLISHERS

Established 1834 New York

PHOTO CREDITS Max Gutierrez: 22, 24, 28; Michael Lloyd: 27; Ancil Nance: 6, 10, 11, 12, 19, 23, 25; Dave Olson: 1, 2, 4; The Oregonian: 3; Ralph Perry: 18; Micki Scott: 8, 20; Jim Vincent: 29; Randy Wood: 26; Bill Zavin: 7, 9, 21.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the excerpt from A Running Start by Lynda Huey. Copyright © 1976 by Quadrangle/The New York Times Book Company.

BILL WALTON: ON THE ROAD WITH THE PORTLAND TRAIL BLAZERS. Copyright © 1978 by Jack Scott. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Thomas Y. Crowell, Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022. Published simultaneously in Canada by Fitzhenry & White- side Limited, Toronto.

FIRST EDITION

Designed by C. Linda Dingier

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Scott, Jack, 1942- Bill Walton

1. Walton, Bill, 1952- 2. Basketball players— United States—Biography. GV884.W3537 1978 796.3230924 [B] 77-11569 ISBN 0-690-01694-8

78 79 80 81 82 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Introduction

AUGUST 1974

Snow-capped Mt. Hood rose majestically into view as the plane banked and began its descent to Portland. On this particular day even the incredible beauty of Mt. Hood was but a momentary dis- traction from the mild anxiety I had been feeling.

I was flying to Portland to spend a few days visiting Bill Walton. Bill and I had talked on the phone a few times since a mutual friend had put us in contact earlier in the summer, but this was going to be the first time we had ever met. I was preoccupied with what he would be like in person.

Our common love of sports and mutual social activism caused Bill and I to seek each other out. Bill was first exposed to my work in sports when a book I'd written, The Athletic Revolution, was used as a text in a course he took during his junior year at UCLA. I had taught a course at the University of California at Berkeley in 1969 that examined the role of sports in American society. It was the first such course offered at a college in the U.S., and it received a lot of favorable attention in the national media. Within a few years, courses such as the one Bill took were being taught at nearly every major college in the country.

My interest in Bill Walton as a person worth knowing—rather than just one more great athlete whom it was fun to watch perform —was sparked when reports about his social activism at UCLA began to appear in alternative and radical newspapers. I particu- larly identified with his arrest during an anti-Vietnam War demon- stration. I remembered my own arrest—nearly a decade earlier at a nonviolent civil-rights demonstration—while I was an under- graduate also attending college on an athletic scholarship.

It dawned on me, however, as the plane taxied over to the exit

gate, that I could be in for a surprise. Twenty years of involvement in sports as an athlete, coach, athletic director, and sportswriter had taught me that very few superstars can survive years of adulation and special treatment without becoming self-centered bores, usually surrounded by an entourage ofjock-sniffing yes men. But remember- ing that I had somehow survived two years of pompous faculty meet- ings at Oberlin College, only falling asleep twice, I relaxed and laughed softly. Having been a part of both worlds, I'd take my risks with the average athlete over the typical academic any day.

I had accepted Bill's invitation to spend a few days visiting with him, for besides giving me the chance to get acquainted with Bill, it would also allow me to get a feel for Oregon, one of the areas my wife, Micki, and I had thought about moving to after my career as an athletic director had been torpedoed at Oberlin College.

I also welcomed the opportunity to talk to Bill before he began his pro career. I suspected (and correctly, as it turned out) that he had no idea how difficult he was going to find the adjustment to the life-style of the NBA. UCLA was an ideal environment for Bill, and he loved nearly every minute of his four years there. Known as a good student and a social activist with a counterculture life-style, he was not reacted to solely as a seven-foot basketball star. His social conscience was as likely to gain him respect and friendships from fellow students and professors as was his athletic ability.

Several years earlier I had been close to Dave Meggyesy, Chip Oliver, and George Sauer, all of whom quit the NFL at the height of their careers. They quit a game they loved and gave up lucrative salaries because they could not reconcile their personal values— values very similar to Bill's—with the values that dominate the NFL. I knew Bill could easily follow in their footsteps and quit pro ball unless he had some idea of what he was getting into.

Exiting the plane at the Portland airport, about the only thing I was sure of was that Bill wouldn't be hard to spot. But I was wrong.

After getting off the plane, I stood around for a moment, unable to locate him. Then I saw Bill seated about twenty yards away—or at least I suspected it was he. Bright red hair—but long now, almost down to his shoulders. He was dressed in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt that announced, "Be kind to animals, don't eat them." Seated, his height was not immediately evident, and a deeply tanned face surrounded a friendly smile.

Bill stood as I approached him, and we exchanged greetings.

There was no denying his height once he stood, but his demeanor was relaxed and natural—the opposite of a typical jock swagger. From the very first moment the atmosphere was more like that of meeting an old acquaintance rather than a star athlete. Except for his height and the gracefulness of his body movement, there was nothing about him that suggested jock—never mind multimillion- dollar sports superstar.

Bill was one of the few people I had ever met who shared my love of sports and commitment to social activism. We both thought of Larry O'Brien, for instance, as much for being the guy who had his phone tapped by Nixon's plumbers as for being the NBA commis- sioner.

The days of my visit passed quickly as I found Bill to be a gentle guy, unspoiled by wealth but mindful of the privilege it bestowed on him. One evening, as we finished washing the dinner dishes, I asked where I might find a towel to wipe my hands. "I'm not sure we have any," he said with a grin. "I usually use my pants. But I guess I can afford not to be concerned with what my clothes look like."

We made a joint decision, after about a week, to live together. Though a number of folks were in residence—including Bill's wife, Susan, and two-year-old son, Adam—for varying periods of time, Micki, Bill, and I shared a home for the next three years, up till a few months after the Blazers won the 1977 NBA Championship and Bill was selected as the playoffs' most valuable player.

But the NBA Championship did not come until after nearly three years of trial by fire. We had barely begun to know each other when adversity struck. It did not let up for the next two years. Bill spent his first two seasons suffering one injury after another, and not too surprisingly, rarely showed the skills that enabled him to dominate college basketball. An inexperienced Sports Illustrated writer, Rick Telander, "authoritatively" wrote, "Walton has gone too far to ever again function in the NBA," and The New York Times, January 19, 1975, featured a story claiming he was faking his injuries in an attempt to be released from his contract. Even Jim Bouton, normally a reliable and progressive sports commentator, joined the pack.

Bouton was so caught up in the anti-Walton hysteria that while sitting in his New York City TV studio, he screamed madly over the phone at me, condemning Bill for endless misdeeds. "Jim, calm down for a moment, please," I quietly pleaded. "You'd be just another forgotten ex-major leaguer hustling for a living if our mutual friend

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Leonard [Shecter] hadn't crafted Ball Four into a best seller for you. Bill's already accomplished more in sports than you have in your entire career, so let's show some humility."

Bouton's basic decency and integrity forced him to acknowledge he had never talked with Bill, Blazer officials, or coaches, or any of Bill's teammates. He still insisted, however, "Everybody but you admits Walton has gone off the deep end."

Bill was relaxing on the couch about thirty feet from the tele- phone reading Pete Gent's North Dallas Forty, trying to decide whether our conversation or the book was the more entertaining. Bill had no idea who this Jim Bouton character was, and he seemed puzzled by my increasing anger. At the time he was convinced the "Establishment media"—with some notable exceptions—was going to slander him whether he talked to them or not, so he reserved serious interviews for alternative papers and magazines. He often sat back and grinned at me as I would spend hours on the phone refuting point by point the slanderous attacks on him, only rarely to see my refutation reported.

I knew it was open season on Bill when Bouton, one of the most competent sports commentators in the country, was condemning Bill, even though he had made no effort to substantiate his claims.

Bill, like most normal twenty-one-year-olds, obviously had a lot of maturing to do, and he was not entirely blameless for his prob- lems. On the other hand, the grown men who were so mindlessly and cruelly creating a lynch-mob atmosphere were a hypocritical group, to say the least.

Sandy Padwe, a veteran sports editor now at Sports Illustrated, claimed the attack on Bill was the worst a white athlete in the history of American sports had sustained. But Bill survived the attacks, much as Muhammad Ali had done several years earlier. And like Ali, he eventually refuted his detractors with a series of incredible athletic performances that no one could dismiss.

But Bill, as you will discover in the pages to come, paid a heavy price for his success this past season that culminated in the 1977 NBA Championship. The discovery that fans are not necessarily friends has to be a painful lesson for even the strongest person. The reality of the physical demands of a one-hundred-plus-game NBA season has seen the use of pain-killing injections and the use of dangerous drugs such as Butazolidin become common in the NBA. But what private agony must a player who publicly condemned the

use of these drugs go through if he discovers they are needed for NBA players to get through an unconscionably long, grueling sea- son? And while the majority of college activists eventually devote most of their postcollege energies to their careers and private inter- ests, if you do the same, but are famous and wealthy, you will inevi- tably be accused of selling out your principles.

But the furthest thing from our minds during most of our three years together was how to handle the problems of superstardom! Our concern was much more fundamental: simple survival. Micki and I devoted ourselves for the first five months we lived with Bill to little else but defending him publicly and supporting him privately in every way we could.

It wasn't long, however, before the tables were reversed, and it was Bill doing everything he could to defend Micki and me. In the midst of all the turmoil about Bill's injuries and the rumors of his quitting, FBI agents visited the house one morning, and Micki and I suddenly found ourselves thrust into the hysteria surrounding the Symbionese Liberation Army and Patty Hearst case. The FBI was claiming that Micki and I and my parents gave refuge to Patricia Hearst and Bill and Emily Harris for a few months after six mem- bers of the SLA were shot and burned to death in Los Angeles by various law enforcmment agencies.

Micki and I, like most social activists in the United States, felt that many of the actions of the SLA were damaging to the efforts of all progressive groups and beyond that were also morally wrong. One evening, while I was having a discussion with Randolph Hearst in his penthouse apartment atop San Francisco's Nob Hill, he casu- ally asked, "What's your opinion of Patty's kidnapping? Does it make any sense to you?"

I hesitated, and then, being amply fortified by several drinks, responded, "Do you really want the truth?"

"Yes, goddamn it. It's only you crazy radicals that ever shoot straight with me. Everyone else is trying to get something from me and always tell me what they think I want to hear."

Randolph, or Randy as he insists on being called, with sad, blood- hound-looking eyes and face, stared intently at me, waiting for my response. The heartache and agony of what had happened to Patty —his "favorite," but a "real fiesty smart-ass at times"—was etched on not only his face but entire person.

"I think it was cruel and inhumane, besides being politically

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stupid, to kidnap an innocent person like Patty because of injustices you or other members of the Hearst family are responsible for," I began. After pausing to take a drink from my Cuba Libre, a grin spread over my face. "It would have made a lot more sense to take you, if they were intent on kidnapping a member of the ruling class." Loosened up by the booze I rarely drink, my response had come blurting out without the slightest thought to how he might respond.

Randy sipped from his drink and lit a cigarette while I was talking but took my remarks with no visible signs of anger or rage, which I began to worry about when I realized what I had said. He began speaking animatedly almost the moment I stopped. "Jesus, Jack! That's exactly how I've felt right from the start," he began while raising his voice for emphasis. "That's why when it first hap- pened I immediately offered to give myself up to them if they'd let Patty go."

My frankness seemed to establish a rapport, and Randy talked candidly almost nonstop for an hour. "You and I know the FBI and police intentionally killed those people in L.A.—admitting all the time they thought Patty was in the house—to set a public example. Every reporter who has investigated the incident tells me no real effort was made to force a peaceful surrender."

After a moment for a long swallow from his drink, the words began again nonstop. "Do I think the FBI will kill her, given half a chance?" he asked rhetorically. "Of course the trigger-happy bas- tards will! They admitted they thought she was in the L.A. house, didn't they?" he concluded.

"Randy, what you just said is exactly why my wife and I and my parents are refusing to talk to the FBI. We're no more willing to risk having to live the rest of our lives thinking we somehow helped the FBI kill the Harrises and Patty than we would help the SLA murder someone," I explained.

The FBI is literally hounding my parents to death. They visited them thirty-one times in twenty-eight days, and are threatening to jail them if they won't talk about Micki and me to a grand jury. And now they say Micki and I will be jailed if we don't talk to them [the FBI] or a grand jury."

Randolph Hearst is a smart man, and he could see what I was leading up to. He interrupted, "Damn it Jack, I know if I publicly announced what I think of the FBI, it would probably force them to leave you and your family alone. From what Bates [head of the San

Francisco FBI office] tells me, you probably saved Patty's life. I'll do most anything you ever ask of me, but if I publicly say I think the FBI will kill Patty, given half a chance, I'll be putting the final nail in her coffin. They'd get her for sure then," he pleaded.

I countered with the argument that the only way to force the FBI to act properly was by exposing the crimes and killings they had done. "The more public pressure that we can put on them—and a statement from you will carry a lot more clout than one from me— the more likely they'll be forced to try and arrange a peaceful cap- ture should they ever locate Patty," I argued.

Randolph never agreed to my request that he make his private beliefs public. We ended our debate when in mock exasperation, he moaned, "You crazy radicals. Why couldn't you ask me for a hun- dred grand or something simple like that!" We both laughed and decided to call it a night. Walking me to the elevator he remarked, seemingly out of She blue, "That basketball player friend of yours. Well, whatever his name is, he sounds okay to me. Nothing wrong with that kid that a good haircut wouldn't take care of."

The FBI contacted Randolph the day after we met and asked him what was discussed. "What the hell is wrong with you people," he indignantly responded. "Bates tells me Scott probably saved Patty's life, and now you expect me to betray whatever trust he put in me." He quickly asked the agents to leave since he had nothing further

to say. The next day Hearst learned he was going to be subpoenaed to

a Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, grand jury that was allegedly prepar- ing to indict Micki and me for harboring Patty and the Harrises. Randolph immediately phoned Charles Bates at the San Francisco FBI headquarters. "You people are going to look like a bunch of horses' asses if you put me in jail," he shouted. And that's what you'll have to do because there's no way I'll talk to you or that grand jury about my conversations with Jack Scott."

Randolph finished his tirade before Bates got out a word: "What a bunch of clowns. My daughter gets kidnapped. You can't find her for over two years so you put her father in jail!" Someone in the upper levels of the FBI or Justice Department had Randolph's sub- poena dropped.

We never did cooperate with the FBI—despite a $200,000 reward offer—but we paid a price for our stand. Micki, my parents, and I successfully resisted—with invaluable legal and moral support from

Marge Ratner, Holly Maguigan, Lew Gurwitz, Doren Weinberg, Mi- chael Bailey, Dennis Roberts, Charles Garry, and Bill Kunstler—the Nixon/Ford Justice Department's efforts to jail us. My parents lost their employment and had their health nearly destroyed. Acquaint- ances were harassed and two of our closest friends were jailed for refusing to cooperate with the FBI or the grand jury. Pressure was kept on us constantly for over two years, and on eight different occasions major news stories quoting a "reliable government source" announced that Micki and I were about to be indicted.

Just as Bill, while he was injury-plagued, became fair game for those who disagreed with his personal values, so did Micki and I. Even though the FBI, at its worst, never alleged we did more than harbor fugitives in an effort to prevent a shoot-out, much of the sports media went after me no holds barred. I had been portrayed as the leader of the progressive sports movement, and they saw what they hoped to be a chance to discredit me and that movement. Pete Axthelm of Newsweek, David Dupree of the Washington Post, Dave Burgin, an editor at the Washington Star, Roger Kahn, and Bob Lipsyte were exceptions who had the courage to write honestly about us when it was not a popular thing to do.

Despite his own problems, Bill would inevitably be there when- ever we needed him during the worst moments of the Hearst case. Scared and frightened by the FBI, friends we had helped in countless ways for years deserted us. While Bill may have quit the NBA his rookie season without our support, there is little doubt in my mind that we would have been unable to successfully battle the FBI with- out Bill's support.

Bill was always confident things would eventually turn around. I was not so optimistic, but I decided it was better to go out fighting than simply giving up. Micki was the most solid of the three of us. She just kept a steady pace and carried us through every crisis.

Just when it seemed we were stuck in a nightmare that would never end, life began to brighten for all of us during Bill's third NBA season. He was voted team captain, the Blazers were winning, and Bill was beginning to dominate games, just as he had at UCLA. And for Micki and me, word was passed quietly to us that the Carter Justice Department didn't consider people criminals who did noth- ing but act to prevent violence and killing. Two years of daily worry about being indicted were over and our regular FBI harassment suddenly ended. It all seemed too good to be true.

Ho Chi Minh, a lifelong admirer of our revolutionary leader George Washington, once wrote: "Great joy follows much suffering as naturally as sunshine follows rain." We suddenly found ourselves in the midst of personally experiencing the truth of his words. The community center Micki directed was thriving, I was writing regu- larly once again—including a story exposing FBI illegalities—and Bill helped lead the Blazers into the NBA playoffs.

Something very special was happening. I was confident enough the Blazers were going to go all the way that I made arrangements to attend all the playoff games—both at home and on the road.

Starting with the first game of their best-of-three series with Chicago, then through the best-of-seven series with Denver, Los An- geles, and finally the Philadelphia 76ers, I relentlessly followed the Blazers. I purchased a hand-sized tape recorder that I took with me everywhere but the shower. I flew with the team, attended most practice sessions once the playoffs began, and gradually developed friendships with several players in addition to Bill.

Whenever possible, I recorded events as they unfolded in an effort to be as accurate as possible while also capturing my immediate emotional reaction. The vast majority of material you are about to read was recorded in this manner and then transcribed and edited. When I detected that the recorder was inhibiting honest, natural conversation, I would put it away. But once the conversation was over, I would immediately find a private spot and record the high- lights of what was said while they were still fresh.

When describing the games of each playoff series, I will provide a detailed account of those games with which readers are least likely to be familiar. The games of the Chicago series, for instance, will be more fully described than those of the nationally televised cham- pionship series with the Philadelphia 76ers.

I avoided formal interviews whenever possible, knowing that they give interviewees an opportunity to present themselves as they would like to be seen, instead of how they are.

In an effort to capture the totality of the playoffs, I did not restrict my contact to Blazer players and officials. Since I had ample opportu- nity to talk with Bill's teammates, I usually spent one to two hours in the opponent's locker room after each game. I seldom asked for- mal questions. I wanted to capture the atmosphere of the locker room. While rarely asking questions, I did initiate normal conversa- tions with numerous players. I was constantly amazed at how ex-

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hausted players would patiently respond with intelligence and dig- nity to frequently inane and insensitive questions tossed at them by some reporters.

I also regularly spoke with opposing coaches, other members of the press—many of whom generously shared information with me, particularly Ted Green of the Los Angeles Times, Skip Myslenski of the Philadelphia Inquirer, Mary Flannery of the Philadelphia Daily News, and an excellent free-lancer, Samantha Stevenson. I also in- terviewed referees—one of whom became so irate over my proper but tough questions that he physically attacked me—team officials, NBA executives—including commissioner Larry O'Brien—and team owners, most particularly Larry Weinberg, the Trail Blazers' majority owner.

Many of the individuals discussed in the following pages, particu- larly the players, viewed me more as a trusted friend than as a journalist. These friendships resulted in my being invited into situa- tions normally off limits to reporters. Discussions took place in my presence that I'm certain the participants did not want to read in the next day's paper.

I have done my best to preserve my own integrity by reporting events and conversations accurately while trying not to betray the trust extended to me. I felt a responsibility to portray events and conversations that reflect the reality of life in the NBA, but I have occasionally avoided identifying individuals when to do so would seriously jeopardize their employment or cause unnecessary embar- rassment. A specific example: it is accurate and gives a true view of life in the NBA to mention that more players indulge in the kind of coke you snort than the kind you drink. But to mention the names of specific players is unnecessary.

Bill and the Trail Blazers' 1977 NBA Championship can be more fully appreciated and understood by an awareness of significant events from the past. Consequently, whenever appropriate, flash- backs taken from a diary I kept from the start of Bill's rookie season are used.

This book has been a labor of love, since I believe that much of it portrays the beauty and joy possible in sports. Many of my previ- ous writings concentrated on exposing the many problems in Ameri- can sports—problems that had been ignored by all but a few writers for far too long. Those writings were painful, however, for it was a saddening experience to write critically about an activity I love and

that also has been the dominant influence in my life. One must be very cautious drawing conclusions about real life

from events in sports, but I believe the experiences of both the Philadelphia 76ers and the Portland Trail Blazers provided a few modest, yet inspiring, lessons. For incurable romantics who believe that even here in the United States there are still some things and people money cannot buy, we had our faith bolstered when the 76ers lost. Most basketball experts announced Philly had bought the NBA Championship when millions were paid to add Julius Erving to an already outstanding team of highly paid individual stars.

Without sacrificing their own individuality, the Blazer players showed the incredible power and joy that can be created when people cooperatively and unselfishly work together. I know it's heresy to say such a thing, but the Portland Trail Blazers demonstrated, if nothing else, that nice guys don't always finish last.

Jack Scott Portland, Oregon November 1977

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makes college basketball look like the "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy," you are naturally going to be "injury-prone." And when you put this kind of stress on muscles, bones, and ligaments that are already fatigued, unhealed, you find yourself in an "injury cycle."

The Blazers' regular schedule consists of eighty-two contests. Some weeks it's a nightly grind, with one or two thousand miles to cover in between games. Road trips are surreal: "If it's Tuesday, this must be Boston." A Portland sportswriter who traveled with the Blazers recently found himself exhausted after three days, and all he had to do was turn out four paragraphs a day! Postgame dinner at midnight, sleep at three, the airport by six, workout at ten, an afternoon nap, and then. . . you're looking at Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. It's why winning on the road is difficult. And when you're playing with an injury, you don't really get well until the season is over.

Bill rested at the end of his first season just long enough to allow his body to heal and then began grueling daily training sessions, which he thrived on. Frequently, he devoted eight or ten hours a day to physical activity. He was in splendid condition until he broke his foot on a lawn sprinkler chasing a Frisbee a week before training camp opened. His conditioning deteriorated while his foot was heal- ing, so that the injury cycle of his first NBA season repeated itself in his second year.

A broken nose, wrist, foot, and leg—along with several severely dislocated fingers—does not exhaust the list of injuries Bill suffered his first two years with the Blazers. One could safely say he played in pain most of the time. Federal court judge Robert Belloni sent a note to Bill saying, "The 'guts' you displayed by playing your heart out while in extreme pain was a real inspiration to a lot of young and old people alike."

Most Blazer fans were perceptive enough to appreciate Bill's effort, but few are aware of his incredible patience. He never gave up hope, and now that he is able to concentrate all of his energy on basketball, he is once again performing with the skill, exuberance, and joy that characterized his college career.

APRIL 7

One evening last September about midnight I was dozing on the living-room couch when the voice of Bob Dylan blaring from a jeep

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rumbling down our driveway jarred me awake. Bill was arriving home after spending an evening with his new teammate, Maurice Lucas. Luke had arrived in Portland only that afternoon, a few days before the opening of training camp, and he and Bill were meeting for the first time.

The volume at which Bill listens to music usually reflects his emotional state, and that night was no exception. He was flying high, and the magic potion was nothing but pure adrenalin.

"I'm pumped, I'm pumped," he repeated over and over as he paced the living room, clenching his fists and flexing his upper torso. At one point he stretched his arms wide, and a wild, joyous growl roared from his mouth.

A half-hour and a few beers later he had relaxed enough to communicate in sentences: "Luke is great. I just wish the season started tomorrow. We're going to have a damn good team."

Seven other new players joined the Trail Blazers this year, and Bill's exuberance about the coming season grew as he met each one of them. "This is the way it was in college," he kept saying in the days before training camp opened. "These are the kind of guys I'm used to playing with. This is going to be fun."

There was no need to mention that there had been little fun during his first two NBA seasons. The environment of professional basketball was bound to create adjustment problems after what Bill was used to at UCLA. He explained the situation quite clearly in an interview with the Black Panther paper: "All my life, I've lived and worked with young people, working-class people, students. Now I'm dealing with upper-middle-class people. I'm just finding that transi- tion a little bit hard to deal with."

Bill spent his four years at UCLA, from the fall of 1970 to the winter of 1974, in an environment extremely supportive to someone with his values. Many professors, students, and other athletes ad- mired him just as much for his social consciousness as they did for his athletic accomplishments.

Bill was arrested in the spring of his sophomore year during a demonstration at the UCLA administration building protesting the mining of Haiphong harbor. When asked why he participated in something that might jeopardize his basketball career, he re- sponded, "I've been brought up all my life to be peaceful and respect my fellow man. So when I see my government annihilating a whole country, I just have to do something."

At UCLA, Bill often spoke out about racism in our society, partic- ularly as it affects his own career. "I think I've gotten twice as much publicity as I deserve because I'm the 'Great White Hope' in a game that has been dominated by blacks."

In the early days of Watergate, Bill and ten of his teammates sent a telegram to Nixon urging him to resign. During his freshman year at UCLA, he gave a talk in a speech class about what he believed was the conspiracy and political motivation behind the assassination of

President Kennedy. An experience Bill had shortly after joining the Trail Blazers

brought home to him how different his new environment was going to be compared with his days at UCLA. Early in his first season as a pro, Bill tried to oblige Blazer management by attending, at their request, a businessmen's Rotary Club luncheon. Unintentionally, he stood with his hands in his pockets during the preluncheon Pledge of Allegiance. Later he had to listen to Blazer officials complain to him about the outraged Rotarians.

Blazer officials also fussed about Bill's vegetarian diet. At first they complained he weighed too little, and then, when he put on some pounds by lifting weights before his second season, they won- dered out loud whether he was now too heavy. Many outstanding centers in the NBA have been either heavier or lighter than Bill, but since they were meat-eaters, no one ever questioned their diets.

When Bill began to make public pronouncements about the crim- inal activities of the FBI, Richard M. Nixon, and John Mitchell and Co., all hell broke loose. Suddenly his fitness to participate in profes- sional athletics was questioned. This occurred at a time when one of the stars of professional baseball was known to have murdered a woman and when Ernie Holmes of the Pittsburgh Steelers had spent an afternoon taking target practice at police with a 30-30. There are quite a number of lawbreakers in the pro ranks among the owners as well as the players, but their fitness to be a part of professional athletics is rarely questioned by sports officials or writers. An out- spoken social activist, however, who talks about solar energy, pollu- tion and socialism is another matter.

The following, delivered by the sports director of a Portland radio station, was typical of media attacks: "Ever since his undergraduate days at UCLA, Bill Walton has demonstrated to all those who care to listen that his political leanings match the color of his hair: red! He is socialistic in his thinking, and he is proud of it. . . . There's a

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sticker we've seen on the windshields of many cars. It says: 'America . . . love it or leave it.' Bill Walton obviously does not believe in the former . . . so we suggest he try the latter!"

Bill had been spared much criticism of his off-the-court activities during his college career because John Wooden, at least during the last decade of his tenure at UCLA, had a good deal of influence over what the media published about his teams. Wooden was a highly successful coach who wielded a lot of power within sporting circles, and most writers and sportscasters respected his wishes.

But once Bill left the protective shelter Wooden had provided, he found himself confronted by sportswriters—most of whom hold very different values and live very different life-styles from Bill—asking him questions that went beyond how he had played in last night's game.

Bill had no practice giving the glib answers most athletes use in response to sportswriters' questions. Being shy, he found it difficult to converse easily with people he didn't know well, and many writers took his hesitancy to talk with them as personal affronts. And fre- quently, when he would talk with them, his remarks were misunder- stood and reported inaccurately.

Bill willingly gave interviews to writers from alternative publica- tions, since he was happy to help them out, and he also felt they were likely to understand what he had to say. After all, when the Estab- lishment press accused him of dumping his garbage in the backyard, it was the alternative media that explained how he kept a compost pile. One national story even went so far as to claim that his frequent comments about the importance of solar energy were an example of his instability.

Because of the distortions about him that often appeared in the Establishment media, Bill saw no reason to cooperate with them. I have a clear memory of a telephone conversation I had with Sam Goldaper, a basketball writer for The New York Times, over a year ago, when he called to try to interview Bill. "Who the hell does he think he is?" Goldaper screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. This is The New York Times, the greatest news- paper in the world, not the Washington Post or some other two-bit outfit!" Mr. Goldaper is still waiting for his interview.

No matter how outrageously the media attacked Bill during his first two seasons, Blazer fans never turned against him. Scores of Oregonians wrote, offering "secret" home remedies as sure cures for

his various injuries. Words of support and encouragement followed him everywhere he went in Oregon. Even people who disagreed with his beliefs were supportive.

Bill looks back on his time of troubles with equanimity and un- derstanding: "Compared to what many people in this country who want change have had to endure, I've been very fortunate."

An important part of Bill's good fortune was that many Oregoni- ans also seemed to understand what was happening. The applause this season has been all the sweeter, knowing it was also there when he was having to strain every muscle just to get his tired and injured body up and down the court.

A lot of changes, many on Bill's part as well as within the Blazer organization, are responsible for the harmony and mutual respect that have led to Bill's emergence as the team's leader. Unlike in previous years, Bill now often socializes with teammates, particu- larly Lucas and Hollins. This has been made a lot easier now that Bill is willing to frequent restaurants that aren't vegetarian, even though his own eating habits have not really changed. Bill no longer speaks disparagingly of his "dead-flesh eating" teammates, but nei- ther do players and officials constantly make an issue of his diet.

Blazer general manager Harry Glickman has learned to use Bill's commitment to Portland and Oregon as skillfully as Jack Ram- say utilizes his commitment to the team. All the players are ex- pected to be involved with the community to some extent, and Glick- man now realizes this is no problem with Bill. When Warm Springs Indian Reservation calls for a Blazer player to stage a clinic, Harry remembers Bill's support of the American Indian Movement (AIM). Bill handles the clinic, everyone loves it, and acknowledgments of gratitude flow into Blazer headquarters from Warm Springs.

A sports club at the Oregon State Penitentiary asks for several players, and once again Bill is included among those who go down to Salem. The prisoners' response is tremendous, and no one is wor- ried about Bill's posture during the Pledge of Allegiance—if they

had one. Bill has grown to respect Glickman's integrity—a rare quality

among pro-sports general managers. He also appreciates Harry's important contributions to the team, in contrast to his rookie season, when he dreaded almost every moment of contact and couldn't un- derstand why Harry "gets paid so much for doing nothing."

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Bill got his hair cut this year after two years as the only pony- tailed player in NBA history. Two showers a day with locks down to the middle of your back can get to be a drag. Split ends are supposed to be a problem for defensive backs, not NBA centers.

Bill's dress his first two NBA seasons got Oregon's "lumberjack style" the most publicity since Ken Kesey's novel, Sometimes a Great Notion. His traveling outfits this season are comfortable, attrac- tively tailored items personally designed for him—"homemade threads" such as every Oregon hippie would love to have.

Bill sold his $100,000, custom-built A-frame house because of a dislike for the long daily commute and the isolation of suburban living. Our $350 a month rented home is located in the northwest section of Portland—a lively urban neighborhood and "the perfect place for you folks," as a complete stranger informed us as we were moving in.

He sure knew what he was talking about. Bill was picked as grand marshal for the Northwest Splash neighborhood fair last Sep- tember and led the costume parade on his ten-speed bike. Wallace Park is just a few blocks from the house, and, in the off season, Bill spends a few hours each day there playing basketball, soccer, or just hanging out.

Bill hasn't been as politically active this season, in comparison with his first two years, since, finally free of serious injury, most of his time is devoted to basketball. But our whole household helped pull together a benefit concert in February featuring Jackson Browne, and Bill served as MC. The concert was a benefit for groups working to educate people about the dangers of the nuclear-power industry.

Bill's advocacy of causes isn't just a sideline with him; his 'val- ues are apparent even on the basketball court. The way he and his teammates get it on—when they are at their best—shows what can happen when people work together in a selfless, cooper- ative manner. "I appreciate your insistence on the team, your de- flection of praise from yourself to your teammates working as a unit," a fan wrote recently. "You handled the interview after last night's game marvelously, managing to mention the name of every other player on the team. . . . I like seeing you bring your politics to your workplace."

The solidarity Oregon fans have demonstrated through thick and thin has made Bill confident of the wisdom of coming here in the first

place. "I had the opportunity to play anywhere I wanted, but I chose Portland," he recently explained to a New York writer. "It had nothing to do with money, because I had better offers from the ABA. The major influence was the social and ecological awareness among

the people."

APRIL 8

Tonight's game against the Phoenix Suns is the next-to-last game of the regular season. The Suns, who a year ago made it to the NBA finals, are a perfect example of the influence injuries to a key player can have on a team. Alvan Adams, the Suns' outstanding center who is the key to their offense because of his passing as much as his scoring, has been plagued by injuries much of the season. He's in top shape now, but the Suns are hopelessly out of contention.

The newspapers are claiming that Ramsay, in his first season with the Blazers, has coached the team into the playoffs. It's not a criticism of Jack to point out that Lenny Wilkens and Tom Meschery would probably still be coaching the Blazers if Bill had been as healthy his first two seasons as he has been this year. Right now, Portland has a .661 winning percentage for the sixty-two games in which Bill has played. That would be the best winning percentage of any team in the NBA. The Blazers' record for the seventeen games Bill has missed is .294. Only one team in the NBA has a worse record.

I'm watching tonight's game from the press box, and I'm sitting next to Harry Glickman. Seven years of watching games have not dampened the emotion with which Harry watches. He gets so in- volved that he can't eat on a game day until the contest has ended. "Jesus, Jesus," Harry keeps mumbling out loud every time some- thing goes the least bit wrong for Portland. A loud "Jesus Christ" from Harry just greeted a questionable call from referee John

Vanak. NBA Commissioner Larry O'Brien came to Portland earlier in

the season. Harry had to sit next to the commissioner in a courtside seat since neither of the Blazer owners were in town for the game. I was seated almost directly across from them and could see Harry's exasperated torture as he tried to control himself. It was probably Harry's "toughest" game in his seven years with the Blazers.

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I headed for the Trail Blazers' locker room after interviewing the Phoenix coach and congratulating Alvan Adams on the fine game he played. Entering the main locker-room area, I spotted Oregon gover- nor Bob Straub and one of his aides standing somewhat nervously in the center of the room. In my three years of attending almost every Blazer home game, this is the first time that I—or any of the other reporters—can remember the governor even attending a game, never mind making a locker-room visit. Everybody loves a winner—especially politicians.

Most of the players were getting dressed ten or twelve feet from the governor, but he showed no interest in them. The governor had come to meet Bill, not the Portland Trail Blazers. Bill was nude on a training table with his traditional postgame ice packs on his knees in the training room adjacent to the main locker room. Apparently feeling it would not be dignified for him to meet a naked Bill Walton, the governor impatiently waited for him to enter the main locker MOM.

An excited Blazer official told Bill the governor was waiting to meet him. Bill remembered, however, how only a year ago he and thousands of other Oregonians had pleaded with Governor Straub not to extradite Dennis Banks, a leader of the American Indian Movement (AIM), back to South Dakota, and how the governor had refused to take any action. Dennis had been sentenced to prison in South Dakota, but had fled the state when it became clear he likely would not survive in a South Dakota prison. The attorney-general of South Dakota had stated, among other things, that it was his feeling that the way to solve the AIM problem was to shoot the AIM leaders. "Put a bullet in a guy's head," the attorney-general had said, "and he won't bother you anymore." Governor Jerry Brown of California (where Dennis took refuge after Straub's unwillingness to act) is actively fighting to prevent Dennis's extradition to South Dakota.

While Bill continued to sit with the ice packs on his knees in the training room, I approached the governor. "Hello, I'm a reporter with the team," I began. Before I could continue, he interrupted to inform me, "I'm the governor."

"Yes, I know, Governor. I was just wondering what you think of the team's success this season?" I asked. "It's great for the state," he responded.

"Do you follow the team regularly, Governor?" I pressed on.

Annoyed by my persistence, he quickly responded, "I'm just a Blazer fan. I've always followed the team very closely."

At this point he tried to turn away from me and kept glancing back into the training area where Bill sat. He continued to ignore the other players. I bluntly asked, "Have you ever been to a Blazer game before or visited the locker room when the team was a loser?" At this point, Governor Straub abruptly grabbed his aide's arm and marched out of the locker room without responding to my question

. . . and without meeting Bill. Portland's mayor, Neil Goldschmidt, on the other hand, is a poli-

tician who is always welcome in the locker room. He attended games regularly over the years and was a Blazer fan even when the team was losing. More importantly, he is courteous to, and friendly with,

all the Blazers, not just Bill. A former athlete himself, he is able to have knowledgeable discussions with the players about their profes- sion, and he quickly won their respect.

Mayor Goldschmidt had been a supporter through the many losing Blazer seasons, and no one feels he is crassly trying to cash in on the team's current success and popularity. Bill and I also felt a particular affinity for Neil since he, too, had his phone illegally

tapped by the FBI. Steven Bingham, who had been Neil's roommate during his final

year at the University of California's Boalt Law School, had become a radical San Francisco Bay Area attorney while Neil went on to become a progressive Portland mayor. Bingham fled "underground" after law enforcement authorities claimed he smuggled a gun to George Jackson at San Quentin prison on the day Jackson was killed by prison guards in an alleged escape attempt. According to the

Oregon Journal, the FBI had suspected Neil was providing aid to Bingham, though no evidence was ever discovered to support this

allegation.

APRIL 9

Tonight's game against the Lakers brings the Blazers' eighty- two-game regular-season schedule to an end. Los Angeles, under rookie coach Jerry West, has compiled the best regular-season re- cord in the NBA. The Blazers have lost all three regular-season games against the Lakers, and if they can't beat them tonight on

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We've finished the season with the best record in basketball. To be honest, tonight's game didn't really mean very much to us."

Kareem referred to Bill as "one of the game's finest players." Maurice Lucas pulled the hamstring muscle in his left leg. Pro-

viding an instant diagnosis, Ramsay said, "Luke may be hampered some for a few days, but I don't think it's a bad injury."

The Blazers begin a best-of-three playoff series with the Chicago Bulls in three days, and Luke is every bit as important to Portland's playoff hopes as Bill. Knowing Luke, I'm sure he'll play. I only hope he is able to play effectively.

Kareem was Bill's hero throughout his high-school years at Helix High. It wasn't an accident that Bill's high-school number was 33, the same number that Kareem wore on his UCLA jersey. Bill ad- mired Kareem as much for his outspoken, progressive social views as his basketball ability. Despite having played well against Kareem in the past, tonight was the first time Bill aggressively dominated him.

APRIL 10

Today is Easter Sunday. A friend and I attend a 6:45 A.M. sunrise religious service at Portland's Memorial Coliseum, the Thome of the Trail Blazers." The feature speaker was Eldridge Cleaver, and the atmosphere was a lot different from what it was at last night's Blazer-Laker game.

Eldridge had been an editor at Ramparts magazine in the late 1960s, during the years his best-selling book, Soul on Ice, was popu- lar. I was Ramparts's sports editor those years. In the fall of 1968 I was sitting in Vic Kelly's office, the sports information director at UCLA. I was doing a story on Lew Alcindor—this was before he changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar—and had made direct contact with Alcindor, since, as a subscriber to Ramparts, he was familiar with my writing. An intersquad game was scheduled for the next night, however, and I had to go through Kelly for a press pass for the game.

"I've never heard of a magazine like Ramparts covering sports," a stern Kelly informed me. "I can't give you a pass for the game unless I have some type of authorization from the magazine that

you're really doing a story on Alcindor." I suggested we place a call to Ramparts's San Francisco office and

have an editor verify my legitimacy. Kelly reluctantly agreed, and I placed a collect call to Ramparts on his office phone as Kelly warily observed. It turned out Eldridge was the only editor in the office at the time, and I explained my predicament to him without Kelly knowing that I was talking to the Eldridge Cleaver.

Eldridge finally told me to put Kelly on the phone. I handed him the receiver and sat back to observe the action. "Eldridge Cleaver!" Kelly blurted out. "God Almighty." He quickly hung up the phone and, fumbling for words, handed me a press pass for the game. Eldridge later explained that Kelly had hung up as soon as he real- ized whom he was talking to.

Today, however, the same Eldridge who gave nightmares to much of white America in the 1960s was preaching the glory of Jesus Christ and the United States of America. He had only recently returned to the United States after spending many years of exile in Algeria and France.

Amazingly, over ten thousand white Oregonians had turned out to hear Eldridge. His sermon was delivered in a monotone—quite a contrast to his fiery style and rhetoric of the 1960s. The loudest applause came when he commented, in total seriousness, One of the main reasons I came back home is because I want my son to grow up playing real football, not soccer which they call football in Europe."

We exchanged brief greetings as he was leaving the Coliseum. I wished him good luck in his forthcoming trial for the charges he had originally gone into exile to avoid.

Larry Weinberg, the Blazers' majority owner, his wife, and his son, Jeff, had come by the house for breakfast about 9:00 A.M. I arrived home for the last few minutes they were here. To describe Larry as a mere millionaire would not do justice to his wealth. It would be equivalent to calling Marlon Brando an adequate actor.

I first spoke with Larry last summer, when I was doing an article about his hiring Jack Ramsay as the new Blazer head coach. When I asked Weinberg where he lived, he modestly—or coyly—told me, West Los Angeles. I later learned the actual location in West Los Angeles is one of Beverly Hills's most exclusive neighborhoods.

Larry wasn't modest when it came to politics. He willingly men-

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tioned that he has been a long-time supporter of and influence in California and national Democratic politics. I asked about his re- ported support of George McGovern in the 1972 presidential cam- paign. "It's true that I made substantial financial contributions to the McGovern campaign. I must admit, though, I've been a long-time supporter of Hubert Humphrey because I believe he is the most qualified person we have to be president."

A supporter and friend of Pat Brown from Brown's days as Cali- fornia governor, Weinberg's choice for the Democratic presidential nomination in the last election was Jerry Brown, whom he told me he supported financially and otherwise.

I met Gordon Pusser, an old friend who is a wealthy, liberal San Francisco Bay Area businessman, several months ago. Gordon and I got to know each other when he came to me for assistance after his son, a straight-A student and an excellent long-distance runner, was barred from participating on his high school's cross-country team because of his long hair.

Gordon was President Carter's first "contact" in California, and Carter spent several weeks at his home while Gordon introduced him to diverse groups throughout the state. Remembering my talk with Weinberg about his political clout in Democratic politics, I asked Gordon if he ever met Larry Weinberg during his travels with Carter to Los Angeles.

"He's part of the rich-L.A.-famous-people crowd," Gordon quickly responded, making it clear Weinberg was not one of his favorite people. "Jimmy wanted to meet a group of Los Angeles busipessmen and discuss issues with them, but when we arrived for the 'meeting' at a palatial house, scantily dressed Hollywood starlets were every- where. It was the kind of scene you see in movies about the decadent days of Rome."

Gordon was amused by Weinberg's vision of himself as an influ- ential figure in the Democratic party and a "substantial" contribu- tor. To put it politely, he and Weinberg have different concepts of what is required to be considered an "influential figure" and "sub- stantial contributor."

"Larry has always been fair to me," I told Gordon, "but what you're saying makes a lot of sense. Pro owners who have convicted criminals on their teams rarely, if ever, publicly criticize them, yet Weinberg publicly chastised Bill for doing nothing more than exer-

cising his First Amendment rights when he spoke out against the FBI and criminals in government like the Nixon gang.

"Bill has improved each season since he joined the Blazers, and Larry's visits with Bill have increased in direct relationship to the improvement in Bill's play. He admits he asks no other players to have lunch or dinner with him as he does with Bill nearly every time he's in Portland for more than a day. I finally asked him, 'How come you have social contact with only one player—a white superstar— when teamwork is supposed to be the Trail Blazers' trademark?' His response was that he didn't want to impose himself on the other players!"

Dick Gregory arrived today to spend a few days with us while lecturing at some of the colleges in the Portland area. He had called prior to his visit to ask if he could stay at our home. Bill informed him that nine people lived in our house, but assured him that if having so many people around wouldn't bother him, he was more than welcome. "That's no problem," Greg responded. "I've lived most of my life in a one-room commune!"

Most of our household, along with assorted friends, went to hear Dick lecture tonight at a small college a few miles west of Portland. Gregory is one of the most dynamic and entertaining speakers I've ever heard. He talked nonstop for two and a half hours and only one person, in an audience of several hundred, left before he was through. He discussed a variety of subjects—ranging from nutrition to the political conspiracy, which he believes was responsible for the murder of Martin Luther King and the Kennedys, to the pollution of our air, water, and food to the FBI's harassment of political acti- vists. And he tied it all together by pointing out that it's the young people in the audience who will have to deal with all these problems that stem from the same source—greed on the part of a few, at the expense of everyone else—and find solutions if our civilization is to survive.

Bill, Micki, and I were honored when Greg made reference to us tonight as folks who, like himself, have been working over the years to bring about progressive social change.

It was after midnight by the time we got home from Dick's talk. Since all the livable space in our house is being used by its perma- nent residents, our "guest room" is located in the rather dank base-

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ment. The cement floor is covered by a moldy and moth-eaten rug. The only furniture in the room is an old piano and a mattress thrown on the floor. An attempt to make the space livable by tacking up a cardboard "ceiling" had been made by someone, but that has begun to fall down.

The rest of the basement houses our washing machine and dryer, eight bicycles hanging from the ceiling, Micki's darkroom, a shower, and a toilet that no one ever uses, except Bill on rare occasions. The basement is never cleaned, and it's not a place anyone would want to spend muca time in.

Micki and I planned on offering Greg the use of our room during his time in Portland (we would stay with some friends who lived nearby). But before we could make the suggestion, Bill had taken Greg to show him his "room" in the basement.

Andy, Camille, our friend Polly, and Micki and I were all stand- ing around in the kitchen when Greg and Bill emerged from the basement. Dick's eyes were the size of silver dollars. He announced, "You folks better give me a whole lot of lovin' if you expect me to stay down there!"

It was bad enough that Bill had taken him to the "guest room," but he had also shown him the toilet next to the shower and generously offered Greg the use of it. I know no one has cleaned it in the year we've been living here, and I doubt it had been cleaned for quite some time before our arrival. It may not even work!

Even though Greg had just finished lecturing for two and a half hours, he kept those of us in the kitchen laughing and talking until the morning's early hours. Growing up in the poor neighborhoods of East St. Louis, Illinois, Dick is not interested in the self-inflicted poverty of so many white hippies who come from comfortable mid- dle-class surroundings and can return to them at will. Now that he makes enough money, he enjoys a few of the "luxuries" that many young white people temporarily reject—like nice clothes and a com- fortable, clean place to live. He—by no means—wastes money, or lives an ostentatious life-style, but our basement "guest room" was definitely not the accommodations Greg expected when he came to visit a millionaire professional basketball star.

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also lead his team in scoring. He is even a greater basketball player than he is a fighter—something that has surprised many NBA coaches who at first dismissed him as nothing but a brute. Bill does everything on the court that could be expected of a NBA center, and similarly, Luke does everything that could be expected of a power forward.

It was after 1:00 A.M. when we walked Luke to the door. "The amazin' thing," Bill said laughingly, "is that Luke says he now plays calmly compared to his ABA days."

"Havin' Luke out there alongside of you," I only half-jokingly said to Bill, "sure hasn't hurt your game this year. Luke is going to make you the Great White Hope once again."

APRIL 14

It's 6:30 A.m.! Bill, James Greer, and I are sitting on our front porch, waiting for the cab to arrive that will take us to the Portland airport for our flight to Chicago.

James has been a close friend to Bill and me for several years, and he is going to be working with me as a research assistant for as long as the Blazers stay in the playoffs. He is a gentle, generous person whom we can trust completely. In fact, he is one of the few people Bill and I would allow to be so close to us at a time like this.

James and I have never traveled with the team before, even to a regular-season contest, never mind a playoff game. We're doing our best to act nonchalant, but we're as excited as little kids about to leave home for the first time for two weeks at summer camp. Yester- day, we both got our hair and beards trimmed, in addition to buying a few new clothes.

We arrived at the airport about 7:00 A.M., a half hour before our nonstop flight was scheduled to leave for Chicago. Bill checked in his several suitcases and gym bags with the porters as we got out of the cab. They refused the tip he offered them, but all four porters shook his hand and wished him good luck.

The people of Oregon, especially those of color, young people and poor folks, love Bill. Even before he became an NBA superstar, to these people he was the big guy who stood up for the little guy. It still amazed me, however, to see four hard-working black porters refuse a tip from a "millionaire."

Just about every person we passed walking to the plane wished Bill good luck. And the other players were being greeted just as warmly. It is a real joy to observe firsthand the excitement and pleasure the Trail Blazers are bringing into the lives of so many Oregonians—including my own.

The Blazers are pleasantly free of obnoxious "superstaritis"—a disease that is becoming rampant in professional athletics. They are a diverse group of young men unselfishly working together toward a common goal, and those I've gotten to know are just as impressive as individuals as they are as athletes.

Their cooperative, team-oriented style of play exemplifies the positive values of sports preached by nearly every coach in the coun- try, from the little leagues to the pros. A great play by the typical modern-day sports superstar may excite you, but watching the Blaz- ers at their best not only excites you but also makes you feel good.

Ron Culp coordinates all travel and hotel accommodations for the press as well as the team. Ron knows James and I are rookies, and while pretending to give us a hard time, he is going out of his way to make us feel at ease.

A luxurious air-conditioned bus was waiting for us when we ar- rived at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. The Blazers had chartered the bus to transport all of us to the plush Continental Plaza in downtown Chicago, where we would be staying. Ron arranged for everyone's luggage to be put on the bus, and within a few minutes after arriv- ing, we were gliding toward our destination.

Staring out the window as we pass through the various sections of Chicago, I can't help but notice the wide disparity of wealth among the various neighborhoods. The contrast of dire poverty in such close proximity to opulence really hit home when we drove along Lake Shore Drive. Luxurious high-rise apartments with doormen were everywhere, while only a few minutes before all we could see were decaying tenements.

Ron arranged for all the luggage to be brought into the hotel and handed me the key for my room as soon as I walked into the lobby! The entire Blazer party had been preregistered. James and I, our heads reeling from all the royal treatment, quickly grabbed our small suitcases and headed for our room.

It had been announced on the ride in from the airport that a bus would be leaving the hotel at four o'clock sharp for a practice session at De Paul University. James and I decided to go over to the practice

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session on the bus with the team, so we hung around the room reading the various Chicago papers until about 3:45.

Luke's injured hamstring was still bothering him and he spent most of the hour-long practice session jogging around the gym slowly. The rest of the team warmed up with standard basketball drills and then went over plays Ramsay felt would be effective against Chicago.

I spent most of the practice session talking with Ron Rapoport of the Chicago Sun-Times. Ron had helped Chip Oliver write High for the Game after Chip quit the Oakland Raiders to join a commune. At the same time, I was helping Dave Meggyesy write Out of Their League, a book about Dave's experiences in football from his high- school days until his radical views led him to quit the St. Louis Cardinals after seven years in the NFL.

I usually talk freely with any writer who wants to interview me, but I was concerned about making comments that could create a controversy and possibly detract from the Blazers' concentration. On the other hand, Ron—though I only knew of him before today through my friendship with Chip—seemed to be a responsible writer and a decent person. We had a good talk and I don't believe his story —which will appear in tomorrow's paper, on the day of the game— will be sensationalistic or create any great controversy.

Ron had heard only thirdhand reports about Chip's comeback tryout with the Raiders two years after he quit, and he asked me to tell him what really happened. (I told him I was seeing Chip regu- larly when he attempted his comeback.) Chip had spent two years experimenting with communal living, psychedelic drugs, "grass," and yoga, but he never found a creative outlet for his incredible energy that would equal football, even with all its faults.

I explained to Ron how Chip had asked me to come along with him to a meeting he had arranged with John Madden, the Raider coach, about the possibility of his trying to rejoin the team. To his credit, Al Davis will let anyone play for the Raiders as long as they can produce on the playing field. Al acknowledges his concern is to win football games, and he gives no sanctimonious sermons about building character.

Chip had been a starting linebacker for the Raiders and had weighed about 220 pounds when he quit. We arranged to talk with Madden one day about a month before training camp was due to open. Chip was very fit, but between fasting, psychedelics, and yoga,

his weight had dropped to about 170 pounds, a little light for an NFL

linebacker. Madden was as wide as Chip was lean. People who liked Madden

describe him as plump. John was seated at his office desk munching on a huge sandwich when Chip and I entered his office. Chip was dressed in nothing but shorts and sneakers; "I want John to see how

fit I am," he told me. Madden's eyes immediately focused on Chip's clearly visible ribs,

and he began to roll his eyes upward in astonishment. Chip was so into concentrating on flexing his muscles and doing yoga exercises that John had time to regain his composure as he ambled around from behind his desk and greeted both of us warmly.

Chip squatted on the floor and began hyperventilating; his breathing was, roughly, the equivalent of a steam locomotive pulling a heavy load up a steep mountain. John kept glancing at me for some indication that Chip was okay. He appeared frightened that Chip was having some kind of seizure, while Chip was certain John was mesmerized by his incredible physical condition.

Madden visibly relaxed when Chip stopped hyperventilating and went into a simple headstand. Twenty minutes had passed by now, and except for brief hellos, there had been no verbal communication.

Not knowing how long Chip planned to stand on his head, I decided there was nothing to lose by talking. Besides, John's tolera- tion of Chip's antics had already won my respect, and I was anxious to do whatever I could to relax him. "Chip and I have been running twice a day for the last three weeks," I began.

"Great, great," John interjected before I could continue. "But

how about his weight?" "Chip has eliminated protein from his diet. He's convinced it's

unhealthy for him and the primary cause of cancer. He also fasts several days each week to purify his system," I explained.

"My God, Jack, he'd get killed if he went out on a football field in his present condition!" Chip was still standing on his head, and John and I were talking about him as if he weren't present.

I had come along solely as Chip's friend, not his advocate. Chip suddenly flipped over on to his feet, apparently assuming he had sufficiently impressed Madden with his conditioning.

Chip conceded he would have to put on ten or fifteen pounds, but explained how he planned to play cornerback instead of linebacker. The Raiders—much to my amazement—invited Chip to their Santa

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Rosa training camp. I got a call from him late one evening after about five days of practice. "I have to get the fuck outta here, Jack. The stench from all these meat eaters is driving me crazy."

Chip asked me to come and get him, since he had no means of transportation. Micki and I climbed out of bed and eventually ar- rived in Santa Rosa around 1:30 A.M. after the drive up from Berke- ley. Chip filled our trunk with his juicer and several bags of carrots. We quietly slipped out of the motel lot and drove back to Berkeley.

Chip never did anything halfheartedly, and he had given $20,000 cash to a Berkeley commune when he first quit the Raiders two years earlier. We dropped him off at the commune house, but the next day he discovered he was no longer welcome!

Chip's decency and sensitivity—often obscured by his crazy an- tics—made him unable to function in the NFL. Thanks to the help Ron gave him, he was able to produce his book, High for the Game. Bill read Chip's book, along with several other similar books I sug- gested when he was on the verge of quitting the NBA his rookie season.

"I learned a lot from Chip," Bill told me at the time. "Athletes like Chip and Dave Meggyesy had nowhere to turn to in order to get an understanding of their situation. Reading their books prepared me for many of the adjustments I've had to make in order to play in the NBA."

Bill and James went up to the Plaza's health club for a massage and sauna when we arrived back here after practice. I decided to spend the time alone in my room getting my notes in order.

Kevin Lamb, one of Chicago's finest sportswriters and an old acquaintance, came by around 6:30 P.M. We spent a while talking about old times, and then we went up to Bill's room and joined him and James watching part two of the TV special on Howard Hughes's life.

James, Bill, and I went downstairs to the hotel's restaurant around 10:00 P.M. for dinner. A middle-aged woman with two boys in their early teens was seated at the table next to ours. She got all excited once she spotted Bill, and much to the embarrassment of the two boys, she came over to our table and asked, "You're Bill Walton, aren't you?" Once Bill shook his head in acknowledgment, she was considerate enough to leave us alone.

I asked Bill why the Blazers wanted to try and get Chicago into

a running game. "Artis may beat me at some things, but it's not going to be running. Our entire team is quick, and most of us are good passers. We're always going to get somebody open when we're runnin', and we'll usually be able to get the ball to him. We love it when teams overplay us on defense because it just makes it that much easier for someone to get open."

We finished dinner about 11:00 P.M., and Bill went out alone for

a walk. I've never seen Bill so pumped up the day before a game. Twice during dinner he commented, We got to win tomorrow!"

Bill, like most players, passes the time on road trips during the regular season by resting, visiting friends, going to a movie, or some similar diversion. Ever since we left Portland this morning, how- ever, Bill has spent almost all his time thinking about tomorrow's

game. Unlike during the regular season, when you rarely play the same

team more than once a month, the playoffs require you to play several consecutive games against the same team. You learn more about your opponent each game, and Bill has been trying to antici- pate what adjustments, if any, Chicago will make.

Most players have habits or favorite moves, and the more Bill knows about Chicago's players, the better prepared he will be to block a shot or make a steal in a crucial situation. Many of Bill's finest plays (which appear to be spontaneous reactions) are a result of endless hours of analyzing what a certain player or team is most

likely to do in a particular situation.

APRIL 15

The NBA owners have still not reached an agreement with the regular NBA referees who have been on strike since the playoffs began. The multimillionaire owners are showing their contempt for the fans, their complete disregard for the players' well-being, and their lack of concern for the integrity of professional basketball by allowing inexperienced and often incompetent officials to referee the most hard-fought, crucial games of the entire NBA season.

The personal wealth of the average NBA owner is estimated at well over $50 million, and the striking referees' main demand is for an extra $150 for each playoff game! In some strikes it might be a legitimate position to argue that management just cannot afford to

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3. The Denver Nuggets Series

APRIL 18

The Blazers, after a light practice this morning, left on a noon flight for Denver. The first two games of the Denver-Portland best-of- seven playoff series will be played in Denver on Wednesday and Friday. James and I both had work to do here in Portland today (Monday), so we'll be leaving for Denver tomorrow. We'll return with the team to Portland on Saturday.

It's now about 8:00 P.M., and my parents just called to say they had a call from my Aunt Mary in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Accord- ing to my aunt, today's Scranton Times, the town's major newspa- per, ran a story quoting "reliable government sources" saying that the federal grand-jury investigations into the harboring of Patty Hearst are over, and that there will be no indictments.

My parents, Micki, and I had been officially named as the targets of these investigations, which had dragged on for nearly three years. On more than one occasion, the United States attorney in Scranton, S. John Cottone, and his assistant, Lawrence Kelly, had announced to the press that indictments would be forthcoming in twenty-four hours. Cottone and Kelly were intoxicated by the publicity of the Hearst case, and their superiors at the Justice Department in Wash- ington had to constantly keep them in check.

Time and again we have said in press interviews during the past three years, "If our actions somehow avoided further bloodshed and killing, we find that nothing to be ashamed of. We believe the killing of Marcus Foster, the Oakland school superintendent, by the SLA was immoral and reprehensible, but no more so than the murder by law enforcement officials of SLA members in Los Angeles. No matter how reprehensible the actions of suspected criminals may be, it is

the job of law enforcement officials to capture them, not summarily execute them.

The FBI and their friends in the media have portrayed my family and me as criminals for nearly three years. We defy them to indict us! We have faith that a public trial will expose who the real

criminals are. "Micki and I have been nonviolent social activists for over a

decade. We believe the use of violence here in the United States to change the policies of the United States government is both immoral and suicidal. It is the FBI, CIA, and other governmental agencies that have murdered and tortured people, not us or the overwhelming majority of social activists."

Justice Department officials had files of intelligence information gathered illegally on Micki and me, and they knew the truth of what we kept saying. Cottone and Kelly desired the limelight of a trial, but their bosses in Washington knew we were prepared to accept the consequences of a trial in order to expose the government's illegal activities. They also knew that our attorneys—Holly Maguigan, Bill Kunstler, and Marge Ratner—made Kelly and Cottone look foolish every time they went into a courtroom.

Bill, despite all his own problems with the NBA, has always been at our side whenever we needed support during the past three years. His views and public statements were so frequently distorted, how- ever, that he sat down by himself one evening in the spring of his rookie year and wrote the following, which appeared in several Ore- gon papers. None of us even saw the article until after it was pub-

lished. Bill mentions in his article the FBI's "search" for Micki and me.

We were never officially wanted by the FBI, but their illegal efforts to force us to talk with them so frightened us that we took a "vaca- tion" for about two months shortly before Bill wrote his article. The FBI couldn't find us for eight weeks and were unable to illegally tap our phone conversations, as they had been doing, or threaten us with violence, as they had been doing, so they leaked it to the media that

we had fled "underground." We returned from our "vacation"—with my parents and Bill and

Susan at our sides—at a San Francisco press conference in Glide Memorial Church. Reverend Cecil Williams, the pastor of Glide Me- morial Church, was one of the scores of people who helped us at such

87

crucial moments. Only hours before our press conference, a CBS reporter, known to have close FBI contacts, was announcing on national TV that Micki and I, along with Patty Hearst, were due to arrive in Algeria on a flight from Cuba!

Bill wrote:

It's a snowy, wintry day in mid-January and I'm sitting in my room in the Marriott Hotel in Cleveland. Country Joe McDonald is singing on the stereo and I'm drinking some grape juice, relaxing a few short hours before the game (my first in seven weeks because of injuries).

A knock on my door summons me, and there I'm confronted by two men who identify themselves as FBI agents. They say they want to question me about Patty Hearst and some of my friends. They run down some unbeliev- able stories about Patty and some friends of mine, Jack and Micki Scott.

Since I had no knowledge of the whereabouts of Patty Hearst, the agents left and I put the incident out of my mind.

The time now jumps to the second week in March. I'm injured again, and there is doubt that I will be able to play again this season. The Blazers are in the East on a road trip and I have permission from [coach] Lenny Wilkens to go to San Francisco to see my attorney about some tax matters.

While I'm there, the FBI contacts my attorney, wishing to question me again about the Hearst case and the activities of some of my friends. This time their story is even more of a fabrication, because they distorted some facts I gave them in Cleveland and were implying even more ridiculous things this time around.

The next day, still in San Francisco, I saw the headline: WALTON, scow LINKED TO SLA. By this time the Scotts had been on vacation for a couple of weeks and I had not heard from them. In the next few days, every major newspaper in the country ran lead stories about our association with the SLA.

In the next five weeks the FBI, in their search for Jack and Micki, terrorized and harassed our friends and family. Wiretaps, mail covers, and personal surveillance were now a part of our everyday lives. Lives were threatened, people were offered bribes, and information was forcibly coerced by the FBI in their attempt to locate Micki and Jack.

It was these actions by the FBI that have forced us to fight back. We were tired of hearing one-way accounts of things through the newspapers. It was decided that there should be a press conference to air our views and to face the charges brought against us by the FBI.

Our statements [issued in Glide Memorial Church in San Francisco on April 9] indicate that given the recent actions and policies of the United States government and its agencies, we feel that we as nonviolent, peace- loving people have a moral obligation to disassociate ourselves from the

present administration made up of Ford-Rockefeller and Kissinger (none of

whom was duly elected). It is important that I stress the love we have for the American people.

It is this specific administration and its immediate predecessors that we

don't want anything to do with. Some of the actions of the government of this country that have led us

to these conclusions are: the brutal assassinations of President John Kennedy, his brother Robert, and the Reverend Martin Luther King; the imperialist and genocidal wars that have been waged against the people of Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam; and now the possible U.S. role in a war in

the Middle East. Also, the backing of a military coup that overthrew a democratically

elected government in Chile, just because Salvador Allende's economic poli- cies did not coincide with those of special-interest groups in this country; the murders of students exercising their constitutional rights at Kent State and

Jackson State, among others. Also, the dichotomy that allows for the simultaneous rise of unemploy-

ment and corporate profits; the systematic suppression of natural living and healing methods; the double standards of justice that exist for poor people compared to rich people; the fact that if you are unemployed and broke and you steal to feed your starving family, then you face extremely long prison sentences in despicable places like Attica and San Quentin, while Richard Nixon, who tried to steal the country and jeopardized free elections, lives in luxury on the white sandy beaches of beautiful San Clemente; that millions and millions of human beings are starving every day throughout the world while the U.S. government pays farmers not to grow food. . . .

Some ways that are open to us in pursuit of our goals are the refusal to cooperate with intelligence-gathering agencies such as the FBI and CIA; a demand to end all political repression in the form of censorship and impris- onment at home as well as abroad; a demand that the elected representa- tives of the people attain their position according to their ability, not accord- ing to the size of their friends' bank accounts; and a demand that government policies be based on peace, brotherhood, love and compassion, not on the ability to generate income for special-interest groups. . . .

People can also restructure some of their values so that one's health and physical condition are valued more than money. This is particularly true in the way we relate to our jobs and employers. We, as workers, should not be expected to sacrifice our physical well-being for any price, because we have

to live in our bodies for years and years to come. There has been much talk in the media recently about my political

beliefs and their relationship to my ability and right to play basketball. My political beliefs are ones that I've had for a good many years and have not, as some [people] have implied, been formulated in the past two weeks.

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My beliefs are based on logical conclusions that are derived from my analysis of history. Political statements and sports have always been a widely accepted duo by the media as long as they stress the "correct poli- tics."

We have only to look as far as this year's Academy Award-winning documentary, Hearts and Minds, to determine the relationships of politics and sports in this country. Players and owners in almost every sport have been indicted and/or convicted of major crimes. Antitrust suits against owners and leagues are pending in many of our federal courts.

The National Basketball Association's Players Association is sponsor- ing, with union dues, a trip this summer for the league's players to Brazil, which happens to have one of the most repressive political regimes in mod- ern history and where torture is a standard procedure of interrogation.

The National Football League's position of "no compromise" in last year's players' strike reflects the owners' attitudes and policies toward work- ing-class people.

And these are the people who are questioning my politics and my rights to be associated with the game of basketball. Maybe we should be the ones questioning their role in the games that we play. One thing is obvious, though. And that is that politics and sports will be accepted as long as your politics reflect those of the ruling elite.

The struggle of athletes to gain their rights is not new. It goes back years and years. Many athletes have given up their struggle because of the repres- sive conditions set by leagues, owners, and the media. And it has been only recently that athletes have taken a position of staying and fighting back rather than quitting the games they love.

Muhammad Ali and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar are two notable examples, although there are many other, lesser-known people who have struggled just as hard for the right to be individuals and still participate in organized sports.

We as workers must not forget the position we are in. It is our skills that create goods and services. And we must not allow outsiders to prevent us from doing the things we like to do and do so well.

This accurate and well-written statement was prepared, spon- taneously, in a few hours, by a twenty-three-year-old young man whom much of the mass media in the country was portraying at the time as an ignorant, mixed up, drug-crazed, anti-American, seven- foot, longhaired pervert.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to describe the personal relief I feel today as a result of my aunt's news. During the last three years there was seldom a night that I went to bed without feeling the tension of wondering what the morning's news would be.

The FBI did its best to make sure we lived in constant anxiety. I remember at least eight specific times during the last three years when a national TV network or wire service announced we had been indicted or were about to be indicted. It's not exactly conducive to a peaceful night's sleep to see a special news bulletin announcing, "Reliable government sources in Washington have revealed to CBS News that Portland residents Jack and Micki Scott, housemates of Trail Blazer basketball star Bill Walton, are about to be indicted by a Pennsylvania grand jury investigating the harboring of Patricia

Hearst." I remember last year on Micki's birthday, April 15, when all of

a sudden in the afternoon Micki began getting flooded with calls at the Community Center from newspaper, radio, and TV reporters who wanted to interview her because a story had just come over one of the wire services that we had been indicted. Most of the reporters didn't have our unlisted home phone, but Micki was readily availa- ble because of her job as director of the Linnton Community Center. The TV people wanted to come out and film her response to the indictments, and the newspaper and radio reporters wanted her immediate reaction over the telephone. It sure was a nice birthday present someone in the Nixon/Ford Justice Department or the FBI

sent us. I'm sure AP or UPI wouldn't have put the story in circulation

unless some fairly high-level FBI or Justice Department official had put their credibility on the line and pretended they were leaking it in advance. They must have wanted to harass us pretty badly to do this eight different times, for I'm sure most of the major media outlets don't appreciate being manipulated in this manner. We un- fortunately discovered over three years that nearly all the major media outlets had certain reporters who willingly published the FBI's line on our case, but we also met many fine reporters who did

their best to honestly cover the story. Our chief fear was that an indictment would provide FBI agents

with an excuse to come in and arrest us in a provocative manner in an attempt to provoke a violent incident. Michael Bailey, our Port- land attorney, without once charging us a penny, made extensive arrangements, guaranteeing law enforcement officials that we would voluntarily turn ourselves in if we were ever indicted. Still, neither Micki nor I went to bed once in three years without first making sure we were in an environment where there would be

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witnesses available if the FBI did break in on us. We also never went out alone at night for fear our regular FBI surveillance might try to take advantage of the situation and provoke an incident.

I have spent most of my adult life working sixty to seventy hours a week, and not being able to find any regular work for three years was the one thing that came closest to undoing me. Most of my self-esteem and feelings of personal worth come from believing that I spend most of my time doing "worthwhile" work that contributes to positive social change. I usually made thirty to forty thousand dollars a year teaching, lecturing, and writing, but since Micki and I always lived on about ten thousand dollars a year and shared the rest of our income with fellow activists, it was my work much more than the income it brought in that was of personal importance to me.

I've spent hours lying in bed every night for three years over- whelmed by anxiety and feelings of worthlessness. Even on days when I'd intentionally try to exhaust myself by doing five hours or more of hard physical exercise, I still would not be able to fall off to sleep any more easily. Friends suggested I try smoking some "grass" to relax before going to bed, but that would only make me more anxious.

My regular level of anxiety was so high that I could take two or three ten-milligram Valium pills and not feel any different than if I had swallowed vitamin tablets. I once got several Qua—aludes from a friend who played in the NFL. His team physician passed them out after games to help those players who took a lot of "bennies" to come down when the amphetamines began to wear off after the game.

Qualudes (or Sopers) definitely did the job! One of them would put me in a blissful stupor. Two of them would put me to sleep for a couple of days. They worked so well, in fact, that they scared the hell out of me. The "Q's"—as regular users call them—eased the pain and anxiety so well that I knew I probably wouldn't be able to control them. It was either cut them out entirely or become a addict.

My decision to leave the "Q's" alone was made easier by those two people closest to me—Micki and Bill. Bill for his first two NBA seasons was a daily example of courage. Despite injury after injury, he was always optimistic and never a burden to those of us who lived with him. The courage and dignity with which he handled his inju- ries, as well as the constant media attacks on him, had a strong, positive influence on me.

Micki, except for one brief period when she became seriously ill with pneumonia, provided the same daily example as Bill. Also, within our household, Susan and Andy were always quietly support- ive in a way that never made me feel I was being a burden.

Micki, Bill, Susan, and Andy could understand my frequent de- pression and anxiety, which was quite natural, but there was no way I was going to put the burden of a Quaalude junkie on such support- ive people. I gradually discovered that a daily routine of yoga and jogging combined with our natural foods diet—though no panacea or instant euphoria—was the best way to keep myself together. Many fellow activists also provided support.

The best therapy came when I began to dwell less on my own problems and began to start helping out other activists in need of support. Micki and I had been taught how to effectively fight back against the grand juries that hounded us and our friends, so we began to travel throughout Oregon, Washington, and California, sharing our experiences and knowledge with other people. Several times we got the satisfaction of seeing our help be directly responsi- ble for keeping innocent people from being unjustly jailed.

One of the first groups that supported our position of noncollabo- ration with the FBI was the American Indian Movement (AIM). Native Americans have come to the aid of white people since we first "discovered" their country, and AIM sent us a statement of support and solidarity the moment our case became public.

Early in Bill's second year with the Trail Blazers, four members of AIM were arrested in eastern Oregon and were scheduled to be put on trial in Portland before Federal District Court judge Robert Belloni. The AIM members were Dennis Banks, AIM's most promi- nent national leader; Dennis's wife, Ka-Mook Banks; Russ Redner; and Ken Loud Hawk. Sid Mills, the executive director of the Sur- vival of American Indians Association, and Lena Redner, Russ's wife, came to our house and explained the goals of AIM to Micki, Bill, and me, and also gave us a brief outline of the forthcoming trial that was due to be heard before Judge Belloni.

The case had little public support in Portland at the time, but Micki, Bill, and I began doing everything we could to publicize the facts of the case. We also attempted to raise funds that were desper- ately needed to cover legal expenses. It was during the season and Bill's free time was limited, but he did manage to attend every preliminary hearing before Judge Belloni, who was a Blazer season-

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ticket holder and admirer of Bill's. Micki and I joined the defense committee and worked at least forty hours a week on the case. Among other things, Bill, Micki, and I had a fund-raising benefit at our home that raised close to two thousand dollars in one evening. Many prominent Portland residents attended the fund raiser, and the case suddenly began to get reasonably accurate media coverage and widespread support.

My full-time work with AIM educated me about the plight of native American people, a part of American history I had never been properly exposed to, even though I had always been an honor stu- dent and spent twenty-one years in school before earning a Ph.D. Judge Belloni eventually dismissed all the government's charges against the defendants.

Dennis Banks and I have become close friends. Time and again I have emphasized to Dennis that the work I did for AIM helped me at least as much as it helped AIM. I was able to put my writing and speaking experience to good use, and I doubt if I'll ever be involved in more rewarding work than being part of a movement fighting to preserve the freedom of individuals such as Dennis and Ka-Mook Banks, Russ Redner, and Kenny Loud Hawk.

Thanks primarily to Bill's efforts, AIM became so respectable with the Trail Blazers that team executives recently announced that television revenue from one of the playoff games would be divided among four charities—United Good Neighbors, the Urban League, the Jewish Community Center, and the American Indian Move- ment. If J. Edgar Hoover and Richard Nixon were still around, United Good Neighbors, the Jewish Community Center, and the Portland Trail Blazers would have all probably joined AIM on the FBI's list of subversive organizations.

I ran downstairs and embraced Micki. The news from my Aunt Mary in Scranton provokes no real joy or happiness—just relief. We had been getting hints for several months that this was going to happen once the Carter Justice Department took over.

I could tell there was a policy change by the approach the Carter White House directed the Justice Department and the FBI to take in apprehending the Hanafi Muslims during their recent violent takeover of several buildings in Washington, D.C. Unlike the Nix- on/Ford years, an FBI spokesman publicly stated, "Our responsibil- ity in these types of situations is to do everything possible to peace-

fully apprehend the suspects." The FBI's new policy was exactly what Micki and I had been saying it should be for the past three

years. I cannot help but daydream about how different our lives would

have been for the past three years if "everything possible had been done to peacefully apprehend" the six SLA members who were shot and burned to death in Los Angeles. We never denied that we would have sheltered Patty Hearst and the Harrises after what happened in Los Angeles if we had the opportunity, and we also said we would have done whatever we could to have prevented the killing of Mar- cus Foster by the SLA, if we had the opportunity.

If we did offer shelter to Patty and the Harrises, it would have been on the condition that they disarm themselves of their arsenal of weapons, including the submachine gun Patty used to free the Harrises when they were about to be arrested for shoplifting outside Mel's Sporting Goods Store in Los Angeles.

The Harrises and Patty sat in a motel room only a few miles from the Los Angeles shootout scene and watched the live TV coverage of their six comrades being murdered. They have acknowledged that they were prepared, and adequately armed, to avenge the slaughter of their friends. It is easy to imagine the rage they must have felt

after what happened. We could never understand why the FBI and the Justice De-

partment couldn't comprehend the risks somebody must have taken to prevent a revenge sneak attack on the police by Patty and the Harrises. And unlike the one-sided massacre in Los Angeles, this attack probably would have claimed the lives of many law en- forcement officials, even if Patty and the Harrises were also even-

tually killed. Right now I just feel good. I don't feel really happy or sad. I just

feel relaxed. It's a nice feeling, especially since it's the first time in nearly three years that I've felt this way.

I would like to think we beat the FBI, but all I know for sure is that we survived—thanks to a lot of help from our friends.

APRIL 19

My immediate feeling of relief gradually changed to joy as last night's good news from Scranton sank in. I stayed up all night writ-

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• ?f....• •

1. Cesar Chavez (far left) during dinner in support of the United Farm Workers at

our home, Spring 1975.

MAY 9

Ramparts was one of the many magazines that Kareem sub- scribed to during his college years. I was Ramparts's sports editor during this time, and Kareem regularly read the sports columns and articles I wrote.

I contacted him in the fall of his senior year at UCLA and men- tioned that Ramparts wanted me to do a feature story on him. He invited me to come to Los Angeles for a few days so we could get together and also do a few hours of formal interviewing.

We shared several pleasant days together, but Ramparts went bankrupt and my article was never published. The following are some excerpts from the article I wrote about Kareem (formerly Lew Alcindor) in the late fall of 1968. Among other things, I believe these excerpts will reveal how similar Bill's values during his college days were to those held by Kareem:

All told, Lew Alcindor is, as sportswriters have pointed out, a legend before his time. He has a hero's dimensions, a hero's accomplishments, a hero's future. But as a sensitive black man concerned about the position of his people in a white America and yielding to pressures to become one of their spokesmen, he has accepted a hero's burdens as well. One of the "new breed" of black athletes, the soft-spoken, introspective Alcindor has com- mitments and interests stretching far beyond money or personal glory. "This country," he told me while driving through the posh Brentwood sec- tion of Los Angeles near the UCLA campus, "is just like one big Catch-22. Except the catch is, of course, you're a Nigger."

UCLA officials also found out that Alcindor did not fit any of their stereotypes of the black athlete. He studied hard, read constantly, and was interested in black culture and the new mood of militancy sweeping the

college campuses all over the country. All they could do was handle him uncomprehendingly with kid gloves and assume that he was something of a prima donna.

"If I had it to do all over again," he says now, "I'd go to the University of Michigan. Michigan has a campus community—something which I miss at a commuter school like UCLA—and I'd also like being near Detroit and the black community there."

Interviewed on the "Today" show, he stated, "I have to go to school, and, plus, you know, it's wrong to represent this country in the Olympics and then have to come back and face the music all over again." To this, inter-

viewer and baseball announcer Joe Garagiola replied, "But you live here." "I live here, yes," Alcindor said, "but it's not really my country, you know." Garagiola exploded, "Well, then, there's only one solution. Maybe you

should move."

Early in his career, he realized that college athletes, especially black ones, are treated like professionals and are expected to work hard for the subsidy called a "scholarship"; that they are suffered to maintain their tenuous academic alliance with the university only as long as they produce on the field of play. He watched black teammates like Edgar Lacey and Lucius Allen either resign from the team in disgust or fade away from the university for a variety of reasons; often they were seniors as far as athletic eligibility was concerned but only sophomores in academic standing.

Like many other black men his age, he points to The Autobiography of

Malcolm X as the key to his liberation. "Malcolm was able to humanize the whole awakening that has happened to black people in this country. His book shows a black man becoming aware of himself and of what his environ- ment does to him. That's why it's relevant. The brothers on the street, they've been asleep for a long time, and this can wake them up."

Because he feels that someone might easily have had to rescue him if his height hadn't forced him to concentrate on basketball, but also because he has an intellectual as well as an emotional basis for bitterness about racism, Alcindor's thoughts often have an edge of sharp militancy. "Medgar Evers got killed and everyone said, 'Oh, what a shame.' Malcolm got killed and they said, 'Oh, what a shame.' Then Martin Luther King got killed and they said, 'What are we going to do?' King's death made people realize that it doesn't matter how you want to do it—nonviolently or violently, capitalisti- cally or socialistically—if you want to free black people in this country and if you're really interested in their liberation, then you must be killed."

But he also, perhaps following Malcolm X, sees areas of possible recon- ciliation. He mentions that he was recently invited to lecture his sociology class by the professor. He did, choosing as his text "The Myth of America as a Melting Pot." He enthusiastically talked with me about this experience: "When I was all through I said to myself, 'Wow, I just gave a lecture at the University.' I had always thought that someone who taught had to have eighteen letters after his name. It was a good experience in other ways, too. It showed me that some kind of relevant communication is being attempted by some white people. The students at this lecture weren't necessarily pro- black, you understand, but the questions they asked after I was through

showed that at least they had open minds."

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"Maybe I can use my money, if I'm blessed that much to get it, to buy a radio station, for this is one medium that reaches all black people. . . . Fanon talks about the national bourgeoisie—how all those shopkeepers in Algeria gave money and time to the revolution. That's how I see my- self."

I asked Kareem (Alcindor) some questions about his Catholic back- ground near the end of my visit with him. It was easy to observe that my question had made him uncomfortable, and he began talking just as I was about to suggest we forget the matter. "I'm no longer a Catholic. This past summer I became a Sunnite Muslim," he told me. "I didn't want to lie to you, but I would appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about my religion in your article. It could hurt my contract negotiations with the ABA and NBA owners."

He had just given me a major sports scoop, and then asked me not to mention it. I appreciated the respect for me that he exhibited by speaking honestly, and I wasn't about to betray his trust.

Kareem and Bill were often the targets of media attacks during their first few years in the NBA. After spending four years at UCLA sheltered from the media, Kareem and Bill had some rough times before they adjusted to the legitimate media obligations required of professional athletes.

MAY10

By winning both games in Los Angeles, the Blazers gained even more respect in my eyes when I learned today that the Lakers had lost only four games at home this season, while winning forty-one.

The Blazers have just come out for their pregame warmups and the fans are giving them a standing ovation. I have never seen anything like this kind of fan support.

The Laker players are politely applauded while they are being introduced. Jimmy Jones cannot be heard as he introduces the Blaz- ers' starting lineup.

The crowd is on its feet and the noise is deafening as both teams walk toward center court for the game's opening jump. Kareem tips the ball, but it is grabbed by Hollins.

Luke receives a pass from Gross near the basket several minutes into the first period and goes over both Ford and Kareem for a basket that ties the game, 9-9.

188

in the jeep was one of morose silence. Thirty minutes of slow, cautious driving brought us to the Port-

land city limits. We were closing in on a warm house and comforta- ble beds, and we all began to perk up ever so slightly. Moments later the crash occurred.

We were hit broadside by a sturdy twenty-year-old pickup truck whose youthful driver had neglected to notice a red traffic light. The pickup was doing about fifty miles an hour and drove us into another car. The jeep, for all practical purposes, was destroyed.

The heavily traveled intersection looked like a scene from those destruction derbies on ABC's "Wild World of Sports." Fortunately, Peter Bours, who was riding in the back with me, was the least injured and also just happened to be a medical doctor. I immediately set out in a crazed frenzy, prepared to at least strangle the maniac who was responsible for all this madness—only to wind up asking what I could do to help when I came across him and his blood- spattered girl friend.

The ambulances and police cars began to arrive, and in a short time we were all at Portland's Good Samaritan Hospital. Bill's legs were badly bruised, but much to everyone's relief, a long series of X-rays showed Bill had suffered no broken bones.

All of us were badly bruised. Micki and I were unable to resume our daily routine of jogging and yoga for several months. The next Blazer game was a few days after the accident, and somehow Bill managed to play most of the game. We knew how much it hurt just to walk slowly and could only imagine how it must have felt for Bill to play basketball.

Adversity usually either destroys people or strengthens them. George McGinnis, the outstanding forward for the Philadelphia 76ers, is an intelligent, perceptive man. After a Portland-Philly game during the regular season, George said, "There's something different about Walton this year. His style of play is the same, but he plays with incredible intensity and power that he didn't have his first two seasons."

MAY 18

It was exactly five years ago today that Bill was arrested on the UCLA campus while participating in an antiwar demonstration.

The demonstrations on the UCLA campus and hundreds of other college campuses throughout the country were prompted by Presi- dent Nixon's announcement that North Vietnam's harbors would be mined. Several other UCLA basketball players, including Bill's close friend Greg Lee, participated in the demonstrations but managed to

avoid getting arrested. Dozens of other UCLA students were arrested along with Bill.

The charges against them were unlawful assembly, disturbing the peace, rioting, and failure to disperse. He was eventually fined fifty dollars and given a year's probation.

The Philadelphia 76ers beat Houston, 112-109, last night to clinch the NBA Eastern Conference title. I'll be leaving tomorrow for Philadelphia with the team and the Portland press corps.

The 76ers have the home-court advantage for the best-out-of- seven series because of their superior regular-season record. Games 1 and 2 will be played in Philadelphia, Games 3 and 4 in Portland. If the series goes a full seven games, Games 5 and 7 will be played in Philadelphia and Game 6 in Portland.

The 76ers could win the Championship without winning any games in Portland because of the home-court advantage. The Blaz- ers will have to win at least one game in Philadelphia in order to win.

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about an hour—he finally found me a room. It was 4:00 A.M. by the time I got checked into the room and went to sleep.

Despite the hectic night, I was ready to play the next day. Many factors contributed to my play in that game. I was in great shape but had played a bad game against Indiana two nights before. I rarely play two poor games in a row, so I was ready for a good game. I WAS VERY READY TO PLAY. Memphis State had an excellent team, and I had to play well for us to win.

The center for Memphis State was Larry Kenon. Things kinda went my way at the start [laughter], then they really went my way later on.

I believe I missed one shot in the first half. College rules prohibited dunking and I somehow bounced an easy lay-up off the rim.

I had a lot of respect for Memphis State going into the game, and I was really workin'!

Kenon guarded me from behind in the first half, and I scored twenty-two points.

I felt real good and liked the intense atmosphere of the NCAA finals. The St. Louis Arena, where the game was played, is also one of the finest arenas in the country. It has a good floor and nice colors.

In the second half, Memphis State had Kenon try to front me. We used a 1-3-1 offense much of the game. Once Kenon started fronting

me, we started using the lob pass. Greg Lee had fourteen assists and Larry Hollyfield nine. Greg and Larry had the hard job, all I had to do was drop the ball in the basket.

I couldn't believe it but even after we got up by twenty, they stayed in the same defense and we just kept scoring on the lob pass.

I took no bad shots and our players were passing the ball perfectly, which was the key to my scoring.

Memphis State had a fine team and it was a great win for me and the team. My play was totally dependent on my teammates.

Immediately after the Championship game, I met with the owner and top officials of the Philadelphia 76ers in my room. They offered to pay me $400,000 for one year, but it would have required me to leave UCLA and my teammates. I thanked them for their generous offer but told them I was going to finish out my college career at UCLA.

As soon as they left, the party started in my room. We had a great time! You could call it "Fear and Loathing in St. Louis."

JUNE 2

It's not being talked about openly on TV, but more and more white people I talk with—on airplanes, in hotel lobbies, at the games, taxi drivers, and even white aquaintances—are viewing the

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Championship series in racial terms. Portland and Bill, in the minds of these people, are The Great

White Hope team that sports promoters are always looking for. Most of the white men who own NBA basketball teams are so desperate for a white superstar that almost overnight Bill went from being one of the most notorious athletes since Jack Johnson to the lovable "Mountain Man." A haircut, no public comments about greedy own- ers, and an injury-free season were all it took.

Sports Illustrated did a cover story as part of the rehabilitation of Bill titled "King of the Mountain at Last" months before the Blazers qualified for the playoffs. This story was written when Ka- reem was almost singlehandedly leading the Lakers to the best regu- lar-season record in the NBA.

This kind of racism angers me but it doesn't surprise me. I worked and socialized with two fellow professors, both of whom happened to be black, for the two years I taught at Oberlin College in Ohio. Though long aware of the racism that exists in our society, my relationship with Tommie Smith and Cass Jackson at Oberlin raised my consciousness even further about what it's like to be black in a white society.

My closest partner during the two years I was at Oberlin College was our head football coach, Cass Jackson. He is now the head coach at Southern University in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Cass became a head coach at three different schools—all with prior reputations as perennial losers—and three times he produced winning teams in his first or second seasons.

Handsome, intelligent, articulate, and a coach who has a rapport with his athletes, Cass is the wrong color to be hired as a head football coach at hundreds of distinguished institutions of higher learning.

Because of his outstanding ability, however, many of our most prestigious colleges are constantly offering him lucrative salaries to become an assistant coach. From the Ivy League to the Big Ten to the Southwest Conference, it is rare to find a school without a token black coach. In fact, in order to accept the head coaching position at Oberlin, Cass turned down an offer by Brown, an Ivy League school, at a salary nearly twice what Oberlin paid him.

I was sitting in Cass's office with him his first day on the job, when the secretary came in and excitedly handed him an envelope.

"Coach Jackson, this is your very first piece of mail and I got to give it to you!"

Expecting some type of congratulatory note, Cass casually opened it while we continued talking. Cass suddenly became quiet after glancing at the note and handed it to me. WELCOME TO OBERLIN, NIGGER, was the opening line, printed in bold letters across the top of the note. It went on to mention—beneath a picture of a hangman's noose—we know where you and your nigger-loving athletic director live. We'll see you soon." Cass and I received such letters, always unsigned, about once a month.

The racist hate-mail Cass and I received in two years, however, was barely more than what Tommie Smith received monthly. I hired Tommie as the assistant athletic director and head track-and-field coach shortly after I was hired. Tommie is a fine person and a won- derful teacher and coach. Despite his qualifications, the Oberlin job was his first real full-time employment since his nonviolent victory- stand demonstration after winning the 200-meter dash at the 1968 Olympic Games.

Tommie lived with Micki and me during most of his first year in Oberlin. He is a gentle, quiet man and he has never publicly talked or written much about his experiences, especially the events at the 1968 Olympics.

He has fifteen brothers and sisters and was raised on a farm- labor camp in Texas. The white Texan owner of the labor camp often entertained himself by getting drunk on Saturday nights. After he was sufficiently drunk, he would go down with a few friends to the shack Tommie's family lived in and yell for Tommie's father to come out. When the elder Smith stepped outside, the camp owner would proceed to beat him up in front of Tommie and his brothers and sisters. This is one of Tommie's most vivid memories of his child- hood, and the memory of this brutality was often in his mind during the agonizing months before the 1968 Olympics when he was in constant turmoil, trying to decide about participating in a possible protest at the Games. (The Smith family moved to California the day after the father fought back one Saturday night and nearly de- stroyed the Texan, much to the delight of Tommie and the rest of the Smith children.)

The entire 1968 Olympic boycott was innocently sparked by Tommie when he responded yes to a Japanese reporter who, while

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interviewing him after he won the 200-meter gold medal at the 1967 World Student Games in Japan, asked him whether some black American athletes might decide not to represent the United States in the Mexico City Olympics. Though he did not know it, Tommie's casual remark made headline news on the sports pages of nearly every United States newspaper. By the time the remark made its way back to the United States, the headlines read: BLACKS THREATEN BOYCOTT OF OLYMPICS.

Tommie was repeatedly warned that he would be assassinated on the spot if he took part in any victory-stand demonstration at the Olympics, and since over three hundred Mexican students had been killed during a peaceful demonstration in downtown Mexico City only a week before the Games began, such a threat could not be casually dismissed.

By the time of the Olympics, Harry Edwards, a 6'8", 260-pound teacher at San Jose State College, had created a national reputation for himself by capitalizing on the media-created controversy over the comments Tommie made in Japan. Edwards, a brilliant manipulator of the white media, kept the athletes in the background and convinced white reporters from all over the United States to report a possible boycott of the Games. The atmosphere was so tense in Mexico City that the man viewed as the "leader" of the black athletes never showed up. Edwards watched the Olympics from Cor- nell University, where he was enrolled in graduate school. The United States Olympic Committee had former Olympic athletes tell the black athletes how their leader had abandoned them to pursue his own career at Cornell while he wanted them to destroy their futures by protesting.

Tommie, under tremendous pressure, won the 200 meters in world record time, despite running with a severly pulled muscle. The joy of victory ended the moment he crossed the finish line with his arms outstretched and a smile of elation radiating from his face. He had made it to the top and all the rewards the American way of life offers its star athletes were his if he would only quietly go along with things as all other black athletes at the Games had done, despite their militant rhetoric beforehand.

Tommie knew what he was going to do, however, as he mounted the victory stand. He stood on the stand for a full five minutes while the results of the 200-meter final were announced to the stadium

crowd, first in French, then Spanish, and finally in English. He and the second- and third-place finishers were then presented their med- als and the tension mounted within him and the entire Olympic stadium while everyone waited for the United States national an-

them to begin. The rumor mill had it that he was going to do something, but no

one knew exactly what. The national anthem began and Tommie, standing proudly erect, bowed his head and raised his clenched right fist. He fully expected to be shot and never thought he would hear

the end of the anthem.

The contract I was able to secure for Tommie at Oberlin in 1972 expires in June 1978. Oberlin College has made a decision not to

renew Tommie's contract. Tommie's track teams have broken twenty-five school records

and he is one of Oberlin's students' favorite professors. Student groups claimed the decision "reeked of racism."

Tommie Smith helped to open the minds of hundreds of thou- sands of athletes of all races, and he also opened the doors for hun- dreds of black coaches. It would be nice if one of these folks opened

a door for Tommie.

JUNE 3

Two wealthy Oregonians who have flown in for tonight's game were sitting next to me at breakfast. "Niggers can't take pressure. They don't have the discipline. Our boys are going to win it all," one of them commented, making no effort to keep their conversation

private. The other responded just as loudly. "The Big Redhead does it all

for us. He runs the show out there. It's his spirit that keeps us goin',"

he said, while his friend nodded in agreement. A few moments later they noticed me when I had to speak while

the waitress took my order. "Scott, you're the Big Guy's friend. Are

we right or wrong?" they asked. "I talked with two players last night and—without knocking Bill

—they insisted that Luke is the heart and soul of the team," I

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