I've been lucky enough to share sports with my father, which I suspect is the access point for many lifelong diehards. What I did not know until I aged into it is that I also shared a love for The Grateful Dead with him. Oh, I knew he had reverence for Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, and eccentric tie-dyes, but I was content to allow him to enjoy it by his lonesome ... until it suddenly all clicked. From that moment, Bill Walton — eternally unafraid to share how he felt, crack a smile, or uplift someone in need — became our shared totem. Nothing was funnier than the 6-foot-11 center popping out of the crowd at a Dead show like the Washington Monument in a sea of grass. But nothing was more poignant than considering the level of freedom a spirit has to attain before the incongruity drips away and the glee remains. After a career derailed by a Dead setlist's worth of ailments, no one deserved rest more than Walton — but his version of peace was only attained if we were smiling, too.
- Adam Weinrib
FanSided Content Director