As an Asian American high school kid in Madison, Wisconsin, Pac 8 basketball games transfixed me. Whenever UCLA played on weeknights, homework was never the order of the day, the priority. To this day, I remember the final bruin home game against USC. An early spring blizzard blanketed my neighborhood with heavy snow. Few people ventured…
As an Asian American high school kid in Madison, Wisconsin, Pac 8 basketball games transfixed me. Whenever UCLA played on weeknights, homework was never the order of the day, the priority. To this day, I remember the final bruin home game against USC. An early spring blizzard blanketed my neighborhood with heavy snow. Few people ventured out and traffic was non existent. Everyone stayed home. Yet mine was bustling with noises and activities because I had managed to sweet talk my mom into letting some of my buddies come join me watching the game. My mom was a homework and study hard lady when it comes to raising me. But my trump card with her always worked, provided that I was careful not to deploy it too frequently. I cleaned my room. I cleaned my bathroom and finished everything on my breakfast plate every day leading to game night. Yes, she would say okay but don't make too much noise. That was the deal.
Of course when the game started, everything was off. We were in heaven, cheering for every basket. One play stood out in my mind to this day. USC stole the ball. The Trojan player dashed down court in lightening speed with the rest of the bruins, stunned by the turnover, trailing behind. Then suddenly, Walton caught up with his huge strides, leaped forward and blocked the layup from behind. In slow motion replay, Walton's head was almost above the basket as he swiped the ball away with his out stretched long arm.
If my bedroom erupted in total delirium, imagine how Pauley would be at that moment. Then my mom opened the door. Everyone of us, all white kids except me, played guilty and said in unison " sorry mom ". She understandably nodded and closed the door again, never bothered us anymore.
Such was part of the indelible memories of my formative years in Wisconsin watching Bill Walton. To put money where my mouth is, I went westward and became a bruin in Walton's senior year. He was my hero, my idol then and he remains one to this day. Walton lives on forever in my heart.
As an Asian American high school kid in Madison, Wisconsin, Pac 8 basketball games transfixed me. Whenever UCLA played on weeknights, homework was never the order of the day, the priority. To this day, I remember the final bruin home game against USC. An early spring blizzard blanketed my neighborhood with heavy snow. Few people ventured out and traffic was non existent. Everyone stayed home. Yet mine was bustling with noises and activities because I had managed to sweet talk my mom into letting some of my buddies come join me watching the game. My mom was a homework and study hard lady when it comes to raising me. But my trump card with her always worked, provided that I was careful not to deploy it too frequently. I cleaned my room. I cleaned my bathroom and finished everything on my breakfast plate every day leading to game night. Yes, she would say okay but don't make too much noise. That was the deal.
Of course when the game started, everything was off. We were in heaven, cheering for every basket. One play stood out in my mind to this day. USC stole the ball. The Trojan player dashed down court in lightening speed with the rest of the bruins, stunned by the turnover, trailing behind. Then suddenly, Walton caught up with his huge strides, leaped forward and blocked the layup from behind. In slow motion replay, Walton's head was almost above the basket as he swiped the ball away with his out stretched long arm.
If my bedroom erupted in total delirium, imagine how Pauley would be at that moment. Then my mom opened the door. Everyone of us, all white kids except me, played guilty and said in unison " sorry mom ". She understandably nodded and closed the door again, never bothered us anymore.
Such was part of the indelible memories of my formative years in Wisconsin watching Bill Walton. To put money where my mouth is, I went westward and became a bruin in Walton's senior year. He was my hero, my idol then and he remains one to this day. Walton lives on forever in my heart.