Walton: Basketball's Vegetarian Tiger

Oregon State was coming to town for an important game, so U.C.L.A. Center Bill Walton prepared in typical fashion. He began each day with his regular breakfast diet of yogurt, cottage cheese, nuts, cereal, raisins, seeds and honey. He rode his ten-speed bicycle to the beach and contemplated the Pacific. He took his weekly acupuncture treatment: needles in the ears or legs to relieve pain from tendinitis in his knees. On the night before the game, he stayed up until 2 a.m. working on his latest cause--organizing campus opposition to a proposed experimental program for modifying the behavior of criminals by brain surgery. Finally, he put in a half-hour of Transcendental Meditation, chanting his mantra in solitude.

William Theodore Walton (known on his fans' banners as WILLIAM THE GREAT or WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR) was ready at last for a little serious basketball. As usual, the vegetarian tiger played as if he had dined on red meat all week; as if he had slept sweetly and spent all his waking hours on the practice court; as if his knees were made of steel cables; as if his only icons were the ball and the hoop.

Bruin boosters roared their pleasure as their hero gathered in lob passes, then levitated his lanky, 6 ft. 11 in. frame and dropped the ball delicately downward for a basket. At the opposite end of the court, Walton planted himself in front of Oregon State shooters like a giant redwood tree, branches stretching toward the ceiling. Near the end of the game, when Oregon State surged to within three points of U.C.L.A., Walton responded with a torrent of shots and rebounds that kept the Bruins in the lead. For his efforts that evening early this month: 31 points, 19 rebounds, and an 80-75 U.C.L.A. victory.

With that kind of overpowering skill, Walton has become the most successful college athlete of his generation. His achievements, by now, are legion and legend: his team ran up the longest winning streak in college history (88 games); counting an unexpected loss to Oregon State in a rematch with that school last Friday night, U.C.L.A. has lost just twice in three years of Walton's varsity play; it has won two N.C.A.A. championships and a third is expected next month. Walton himself has a personal won-lost record of 148-2 (reaching back to his junior year in high school), and several multimillion-dollar offers to turn pro after his junior year. Even for Coach John Wooden, who has made winning as common as Los Angeles smog, the Walton era has been sui generis.

As if his stats were not enough, Walton, 21, seems intent on shattering every jock stereotype. He is serious about his studies (history major, solid B-plus average), radical in his politics, reclusive in his lifestyle, contemptuous of money and luxury. So fierce is his sense of individualism that he says that he will not turn pro when he gets his diploma next month unless he can play in Southern California. "Living," he says, "is more important than playing."

Nevertheless, the N.B.A. and the A.B.A. are hoping to find a way to land him. Walton is simply too important a catch. There are taller college centers (Tom Burleson, 7 ft. 4 in., of North Carolina State) and stronger ones (Notre Dame's John Shumate). But none can dominate a game the way that Walton does. "It's not how tall you are that matters," he says. "It's how tall you play."

Walton plays very tall. He always hustles, always pushes and plots his way to the most strategic territory under the basket. His blue eyes never stop scanning the court as he watches for plays to develop. He is constantly yammering to teammates: "Watch the screen!

Screen coming left!" On defense, he blocks shots and picks off rebounds by launching himself upward like a dolphin leaping from the sea. After grabbing the ball, he seems able to hang in mid-air until he turns and fires a long pass downcourt to lead the fast break.

"My Fault." Double-or triple-teamed, Walton can still torment opponents with soft hooks and reliable jump shots. When the ball is dropping for him, Walton simply cannot be stopped. In last year's N.C.A.A. championship game against Memphis State, he led the Bruins to victory by hitting on a remarkable 21 of 22 field-goal attempts. This year he is averaging 20 points per game.

In almost every situation, Walton plays the key role in Coach Wooden's orthodox script (see box page 75).

"There have been many great players in the game," says Wooden, "but not many great team players. Walton is a very great team player." At least half a dozen times every game, Walton passes to a teammate instead of taking an easy shot. Whether snarling at an errant official, raising his fist in triumph after a crucial basket or yelling "My fault!" to teammates when he errs, he is a constant rallying force for U.C.L.A.

In practice sessions, Co-Captain Walton often criticizes teammates for sloppy play. A moment later he grins at the abashed player and shouts: "Hey, we love ya!"

The crucial ingredient, he feels, is concentration. When Walton started practicing Transcendental Meditation last year, he found that it aided his mental alertness on court. At 3:30 on the afternoon of an 8:00 p.m. game, Walton meditates for half an hour. "I come on the court now totally refreshed, with a sharpened and concise thought pattern," he says. "I'm ready to play."

Walton has found a lot more than meditation to improve his game. He plays with an extraordinarily talented group of teammates--and for a coach who is probably the best in basketball.

Quality players are nothing new at U.C.L.A. In the past decade the Bruins have developed such top professionals as Laker Guard Gail Goodrich, Trail Blazer Forward Sidney Wicks, Knick Guard Henry Bibby, Buck Guard Lucius Allen and, of course, Walton's personal hero, Buck Center Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

This year's team maintains the standard. The Walton gang includes the likes of Dave Meyers, a rangy shooting threat from outside; Marques Johnson, a strong, aggressive freshman forward; Tommy Curtis, a bandy-legged spark plug and ball handler; and Keith ("Silk") Wilkes, a high-scoring forward who may be the second-best college player in the nation. As usual, the bench is overloaded with reserves who could start for most other teams.

Teaching that raw talent to cohere into N.C.A.A. champions is John Wooden's contribution. Since coming to U.C.L.A. 25 years ago, Wooden has won 584 games and lost but 141. Though the straitlaced deacon of the Christian Church looks hopelessly out of sync with today's loose and kinky players, Wooden, 63, gets them to play his brand of basic basketball year after year. The days are past when Wooden would instruct players to wear high-topped black sneakers, but he still concentrates on the proper execution of every move, from dribbling to blocking shots.

Because Walton is the dominant player and personality on the team, Wooden goes out of his way to maintain a good relationship with his center. It has not always been harmonious. "We've had our moments about haircuts and Bill's style of dress on the road," admits Wooden. But each has softened a bit to accommodate the other. During the basketball season, Walton keeps his thick red hair trimmed well above his shoulders. Wooden, for his part, accepts Walton's sandals and jeans, and even excused his star from spending the night before the home game against Notre Dame with the rest of the team in a motel. "I've changed," says Wooden. "The times have changed. You can't be rigid and unyielding." Says Walton: "I don't have blind reverence for authority. People I respect earn my respect. Coach Wooden has earned it."

No Hiding Place. Mutual admiration is easy when the victories keep coming. This year there have been a couple of close calls (against Maryland and U.S.C.), the one-point loss to Notre Dame, and the 61-57 loss to Oregon State. Wooden admits: "We are not as hungry this year as we were the past two years." Walton, whose play was hampered by a back injury in January, rode silently with the Notre Dame loss, though the defeat in South Bend was the first time Walton had been on the losing side in six years of play. Afterward, when he heard that Wooden's wife Nell had been harassed by a group of Notre Dame supporters, Walton said quietly, "It's a shame how some people forget that basketball is just a game."

Walton himself rarely forgets. Few superstars have managed to keep their athletic careers so separate from their personal lives, although the size that serves him so well on the court becomes an attention-getting brand as soon as he steps on the street. "When you're this tall, there's no place to hide," he complains. To be less conspicuous, Walton slouches in chairs until he is eye level with companions and walks close to buildings to camouflage his height. When celebrity hunters do approach, a weak smile crosses Walton's puckish face, and he professes to be just another guy named Bill.

Walton resents publicity so much that he shunned lengthy interviews for two years. Recently he has relented somewhat and last month agreed to a series of conversations with TIME Correspondent Leo Janos. As a rule, Walton avoids those he considers "intruders and aggressors" by retreating to a small, private world. The center of that world is his pad, a large room attached to a garage on the Brentwood estate of a U.C.L.A. fan. Pool and sauna privileges are included in the $125-a-month rent.

Inside, Walton has converted a portable bar into a health-food stand: bottles of apple juice, jars of honey, and sacks of fruit replacing the bourbon and Scotch. An enormous water bed dominates one corner, and a photograph of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the founder of Transcendental Meditation, sits in a frame on his desk. The only visitors Walton receives are "the friends who accept me for what I am." They include his girl friend Susan, a tall, attractive brunette whom Walton has been dating off and on since his sophomore year. Other regulars include teammates Greg Lee, Tommy Curtis and Keith Wilkes. Walton passes the time with his friends listening to rock music or rapping about politics, ecology and schoolwork.

For Walton, "friend" is a title bestowed seriously, and his circle exerts a major influence on his life. "When someone you respect is doing something he believes in," says Walton, "it seems to me you wouldn't have much respect for him if you didn't give it a try." From Susan, he adopted meditation, which he then introduced to Curtis, Lee and the rest of the team. From Lee, Walton picked up the vegetarian habit.

Perhaps the most important piece of friendly persuasion to come Walton's way recently was the idea of acupuncture, recommended by a physician friend. During his first two years at U.C.L.A. Walton seldom played without pain, the result of tendinitis in both knees that developed when Walton shot up six inches between his junior and senior years in high school. So severe was the pain that Wooden gave Walton the unusual right to call time-out during games whenever the ache became unbearable. Walton still girds his knees with elastic bandages, but acupuncture has allowed him to play without agony.

Among Walton's off-court pursuits, the most controversial is his militant politics. When the U.S. mined Haiphong in May 1972, Walton joined student protesters at U.C.L.A. and was arrested for helping to close down the university administration building. From the police van, Walton spotted U.C.L.A. Chancellor Charles Young and let fly a barrage of obscenities. Young immediately slapped Walton with a yearlong probation.

Walton calls himself "a revolutionary" and "an internationalist." He says that he cannot understand labels of nationality or why people in California are so much more affluent than those just across the border in Baja California. "My concept of revolution," he explains, "has nothing to do with violence. Instead, each person starts within himself questioning his own values, judgments and relationship to society. Ultimately, you wind up living as part of the problem or part of the solution."

Convinced that Richard Nixon is part of the problem, Walton wrote to the White House, urging the President to resign after the firing of Special Watergate Prosecutor Archibald Cox. ("Thanking you in advance for your consideration in this matter," Walton's message concluded.) Ten of his U.C.L.A. teammates signed the letter, and Walton even sought Wooden's signature. "Come on, John," Walton appealed, "you've paid your dues as a citizen." Wooden refused, although he said that he endorsed the letter's sentiments.

Sunshine Boy. Walton recognizes that some of his attitudes and activities may be a passing phase. "My life is a progression of ideas being constantly developed, often revamped, sometimes discarded," he says. Dressing like "street people" and talking like a radical may be manifestations of the process. "That's part of the process of coming to age, and I'm not about to fight it."

One thing that Walton has never fought in himself is the original California sunshine boy. Whenever possible, Walton gravitates to the beach or goes backpacking in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Since childhood, he has spent weekends exploring the brooding canyons at the edge of the Mojave Desert. Most of all, Walton loves to ride his bike, which he calls his refuge. It was also almost his death. While riding to school last summer, Walton was stung by a bee and came close to dying from an allergic reaction to the sting. Only a quick injection of antitoxin saved his life. Now whenever Walton mounts his oversize, custom-made British Falcon racer, he carries a hypodermic.

Walton takes his cycling seriously. On a recent weekend he worked out at a local track with Bike Racer and Friend Norman Hill, spinning around the steeply banked oval like a veteran competitor. "I love it," announced Walton. "I'm really going to get into racing after I graduate."

Bill Walton picked up his affection for all sorts of contests at an early age. His father Ted, a San Diego welfare department official, and his mother Gloria nourished a competitive atmosphere at home for their three sons and one daughter, all of whom now stand at or over 6 ft. The senior Waltons sponsored foot races up the long hill to their house and contests to see which child could hold open a spring clothespin for the longest time. There was one affair that Gloria still remembers well: "Ted offered a dollar to the first kid who could touch the ceiling with his hand. We had them jumping like maniacs, covering the ceiling with smudges. The contest ended when Bill began touching the ceiling with his elbows."

Bill's athletic career did not begin in earnest until his junior year at Helix High, when he reached the height of 6 ft. 7 in. With Walton teamed with his older brother Bruce (now a reserve tackle for the Dallas Cowboys) Helix turned into a basketball powerhouse. In Bill's senior year, the team finished 33-0, and college recruiters poured into town. Walton finally settled on U.C.L.A., where his brother was already a freshman.

As the winning continued at U.C.L.A., Ted and Gloria often drove up from La Mesa to watch the big games. Gloria was not sure that she liked all the success. When U.C.L.A. squeaked by Maryland earlier this year, Bill's mother remarked, "Well, I just think winning all the time is immoral."

Ted has a different concern: the vast sums of money that Bill will soon be offered to sign with the pros. "Bill has barely taken his first big steps in life," says his father. "There's no reason he shouldn't go to graduate school for a few years." In fact, Bill often talks of teaching as a career.

On Notice. But professional basketball teams are prepared to pay Bill handsomely to forget about more school: $3 million in salary and benefits at last count. That was the offer made by the Philadelphia 76ers last year to lure Walton out of school. He refused, putting both pro leagues on notice that he will play nowhere but in Southern California. "If I can't," he says, "I'll do other things. I don't want a lot of contradictions in my life."

That presents an unusual problem for the leagues. With the N.B. A. Los Angeles Lakers or the A.B.A. San Diego Conquistadors unlikely to finish this season with the worst record in their respective leagues, neither team will get the chance to pick first in the draft. That means Walton's desires can only be satisfied by some fancy maneuvering. In the A.B.A., for instance, one scenario might go this way: the Memphis Tarns, the worst team, pick Walton in the draft. With all A.B.A. team owners agreeing that Walton would enhance their struggling league, Memphis would then trade him to San Diego in return for a large cash payment financed by all the clubs. Considering that the Tarns are owned by feisty Charles O. Finley of Oakland A's fame, it is not impossible that he would choose to move the entire franchise to Los Angeles.

Walton admits there is a certain attraction to turning professional. "It would be a challenge," he says. "Do I have the stamina and ability? Can I stand the punishment? These questions can't be answered until I try. After all, it's my ticket to do what I want for the rest of my life." Then he grins. "Got to eat too, you know. The way the cost of living is going up, it might take a million to keep me in vegetables."

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