Back then, in the early ‘70s, Bill Walton was what you might call an enigmatic figure, a mum college hoops superstar—all action, no talk—a long-haired hippie in the stay-in-your-lane world of jocks.

This was during widespread student protests against the Vietnam War. And while Walton, who died last week at 71, hardly was a bomb-throwing revolutionary, he was culturally and politically at odds with his celebrated coach, John Wooden, known to lecture Walton about getting haircuts and curbing his use of obscenities. And when Walton was arrested for participating in the blockade of the UCLA administration building, Wooden had to provide bail.

So in December 1973, with Walton and his top-ranked UCLA mates, winners of 78 straight games over 2½ seasons, about to play No. 2 North Carolina State—itself unbeaten in 29 consecutive games—my Newsday editors judged that it was time to set up an interview with the mysterious Walton and report on What He Was Really Like. Go to Los Angeles, was the order, then to St. Louis for that highly anticipated UCLA-N.C. State game days later.

I did not speak to Walton on that assignment. I did not learn that Walton struggled so mightily with a stutter that he revealed, years later, he “could not say ‘hello.’ Could not say ‘thank you.’” I certainly got no insight into the loquacious basketball commentator of the future, whose hyperbolic, sometimes oddball, strikingly knowledgeable observations came to entertain sports fans.

All I saw then was a player of exceptionally diverse skills, who brought far more to the sport than his size (6-foot-11) implied. A sleight-of-hand passer uncommon for a big man, he led his team in assists as well as scoring and rebounding.

But in that short time, I did get a strong impression of how highly Walton’s teammates valued him beyond the basketball basics.

Tommy Curtis, UCLA’s a flashy senior guard, offered to arrange an unprecedented one-on-one with Walton. To do so Curtis, who had befriended the L.A. Lakers future Hall of Fame pro Wilt Chamberlain, proposed that I meet him at Chamberlain’s Bel-Air mansion in the Santa Monica foothills, where Curtis also would invite Walton.

It was then standard UCLA athletic department policy that its players be shielded from prying interrogations by the press. Before Walton, Lew Alcindor (later Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) had been similarly protected. Wooden, who at the time was in the midst of coaching a record 10 NCAA championship teams—in a 12-year-period, yet—typically would designate one player to be available to reporters after games. And a general rule was that players would speak publicly only when teammates were not watching.

Yet on separate occasions while I was hanging around, Curtis and freshman Rich Washington volunteered bits for a Walton portrait. “The main thing with Walton,” Curtis said during the Chamberlain-mansion visit—at which Walton never appeared—”is that Bill is tired of writers and fans saying this is a one-man team. He has a tremendous feeling for other people and he knows there are other guys on this team who have feelings, too. He doesn’t want it always said that Walton won the game.”

At the time, Walton already had been named college basketball player of the year twice—and was on his way to a third consecutive honor—though he was surrounded by the likes of Keith Wilkes, Dave Meyers and Curtis, all future NBA draft choices. (Only Curtis did not play professionally). Plus, there was Walton’s close friend Greg Lee, whom Curtis described as “the greatest passer you will see” and who also saw time in the pros.

Washington found Walton to be “very aware of things happening today. He’s very involved. He asked the coaches to sign his petition against Nixon [during the Watergate scandal]. They didn’t, but they didn’t give Bill a hard time, either. I guess they understand that he is trying to fight against always being associated with basketball, like he is struggling for a new identity other than all-American.’”

Curtis said that Walton “brought up transcendental meditation at our first practice session [for that 1973-74 season]. He said it was something that helped him cope with all the pressures of the world. Coach Wooden said, ‘Fine, and any of the players interested in this should talk to Bill about it.’” Several players followed through with daily 20-minute meditation sessions as well as Walton’s vegetarianism.

For that 1973 showdown vs. North Carolina State, which five months earlier had sold all of the 18,000-plus tickets and which was covered by 200 reporters, the UCLA player assigned to speak to the press after his team’s victory was Wilkes. UCLA’s team manager guarded the lockerroom door against trespassers, telling one ink-stained wretch that “I won’t throw you out. Just don’t go in.”

Walton waited in the room for a half hour, then flipped a blue hood over his head and slipped away, ignoring all questions.

It was during Walton’s early pro days with the Portland Trail Blazers that an intimate profile of the man began to surface, especially with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and historian David Halberstam’s 1981 book, “The Breaks of the Game.” There was some irony to the fact that Halberstam reportedly had chosen the Trail Blazers—whom Walton led to the 1977 NBA title— for a day-by-day account of a pro basketball season because of the Trail Blazers’ reputation for offering reporters full access.

Ironically, too, Walton—who missed all of the ’78-’79 season because of chronic foot injuries and eventually underwent 37 orthopedic surgeries—had just left the Trail Blazers for San Diego when Halberstam began his research.

It took a while for Walton to emerge as more than a basketball heavyweight, more than a kid attuned to his generation’s concerns and style—the lanky, publicly silent fellow wearing tie-dyed t-shirts and reveling in Grateful Dead concerts. And time to fully overcome his debilitating stutter, which he slyly described as “my greatest accomplishment….and your worst nightmare.”

Not really. A lot of people had wanted to hear what he had to say for a long time.