I was 67 years old when I finally got up the courage to ask Bill for something I’d wanted since meeting him 53 years ago. His autograph. Bill, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, and I were shooting a commercial for AT&T. We all had so much fun that day joking around with each other that I thought it was the perfect time to spring into action. We were taking a break between filming. I saw him sitting comfortably in a chair, sipping coffee. I stalked him the way he’d taught me how to stalk players right before leaping up to block their shot. I got closer, a big disarming smile on my face. He looked up, unsuspecting. “Hey, Bill,” I said. “Wonder if you’d do me a favor.” He just looked at me. “Hmmm.” I whipped out the jersey from behind my back. His home jersey from the Celtics. Number 6. I held up a black Sharpie. “Mind autographing this for me?” He gave me a long look, took the jersey and Sharpie, signed it, handed it back. “Thanks,” I said. “Sure, kid,” he said. He had continued to call me kid since our first meeting when I was fourteen.