Welcome to Wonderful World of Walton at 50

Bill Walton is 50 and he’s taking piano lessons.

The piano has a place of honor, smack in the middle of Walton’s living room. The keys are worn and well used. There is open sheet music, ready to be played.

Walton is not dabbling. Walton never dabbles.

Bill Walton is 50. His mentor, his friend, his coach, his teacher, John Wooden, tells Walton he should slow down. Wooden is 92.

Wooden worries because Walton never rests. Walton is always flying to an NBA game or to a speaking engagement. Walton is doing a radio show or a television show. Or taking piano lessons. Or kayaking.

Walton is 50. He broke his leg -- the bone was sticking out -- in a kayaking accident last summer. There was some serious surgery and a lot of bed time.

This frustrates Walton. He has had more operations than he can count on his painfully gnarled and throbbing feet. He can’t play pickup basketball games or jog or play golf or walk for long distances, but this man is an athlete, so he curled up his long, long body and stuffed it in a kayak. The peaceful waters, the feeling of power and strength that came from pushing himself and the thin piece of fabric that was the kayak was enlivening.

But another boat smashed into his kayak and now another form of exercise has been taken away.

Bill Walton is 50 and his walk is a lopsided shuffle, but his body is still an athlete’s. It is lean and muscled and graceful. And the spirit is still that of a curious teenager.

Bill Walton is 50 and absolutely curious.

He reads everything. About religion and culture and politics, and sports, of course.

There is a classical music score on the piano and the satellite television repairman at the TV set because Walton is having trouble getting the channels that have NBA games.

Bill Walton is 50 and still broadcasting games.

This seems so shallow at first glance, so pedestrian, so uneducated-athlete-desperate.

In his youth, Walton was associated with the radical Symbionese Liberation Army, something Walton says was very much exaggerated. But Walton can speak on health care or military funding or education or the state deficit with knowledge. One with Republican leanings might disagree vehemently with Walton’s views on most issues but must also admire a man who can run down the rosters of every NBA team and most of the top colleges and also explain the deficit.

Shouldn’t Bill Walton, 50, be a governor or senator? Or a professor?

No way, Walton says. “I love what I do. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

Today UCLA plays Arizona. Walton will have two rooting interests, of course.

His soul is still at UCLA. He expects greatness from his alma mater because he experienced only greatness while playing at UCLA.

But his son, Luke, the one of four sons who looks most like Bill, who sounds most like Bill, who has the loping, athletic gait and the penetrating eyes, the red hair and nuanced understanding of the game of basketball -- of the game, not only the dunks or behind-the-back passes but of nooks and crannies, of the bounce pass and of spacing and positioning and thinking ahead four moves -- plays for Arizona.

“It has been such a pleasure, watching Luke evolve at Arizona while playing for Lute Olson,” Bill says. “It has been a joy to see Luke blossom as a person, a son, a friend and a player. He’s a man ready for the world now. Isn’t that what college should do? Make a child an adult?”

Bill Walton is 50. He lives in the same San Diego house he had when he was 25.

It is not behind gates, this house.

You drive right up to the house, following directions that end with, “When you see the tepee, you’ve arrived.”

And there is a tepee, 16 feet high. Inside is strung a hammock. Floating in suspension from the top are filmy winged animals with fearsome faces.

Bill’s second wife, Lori, says that when she and Bill argue, Bill shuffles off to the tepee, for privacy, for meditation, for thinking his way back to her.

There is, at the house, a scuffed and worn wooden backboard attached to a fence of peeling paint. Ivy wanders around the fence and the backboard, and in the summer, Luke and his Arizona teammates have spent hours playing in the yard.

It is a yard made for dreaming and for children, almost-grown children. There is a meandering path that leads through exotic greenery. Follow the path and you come upon a pool, or a tennis court, which Bill can’t use anymore, or a small sitting area cut out of the jungle growth with lounge chairs and the smell of the earth.

This house, not more than five miles from the home of his parents, teeters on the top of a ridge, across a gorge from the San Diego zoo.

“In a way,” Walton says, “the zoo is our backyard.”

Inside the house is a lifetime.

There are the Grateful Dead artifacts, of course. It is no secret that Walton adores the Dead. He mourned deeply the death of Jerry Garcia and still travels as much as he can to catch the reborn band in concert.

There are drums, and walls of books. There are photos dropped here and there of past vacations and trips. Cloth and paper creatures, exotic and brightly colored, hang suspended from the ceiling, flying above the world, watching. There are large wooden Indians in the corner. The kitchen tile is painted with skeletons.

“Those are Mexican Day of the Dead skeletons,” Lori says.

“I have no rhyme or reason to how I decorate,” Walton says. “Everything here is something that has touched me.”

But also, everywhere in the house, which sprawls over one level and is not the kind of place where you’d be afraid to spill a drink or dirty the furniture or bring all your buddies and just hang out, is the sweet presence of John Wooden. Coach Wooden’s photos are on every shelf, hanging on many walls. His books are in the bookcases.

“Coach and I talk several times a week,” Walton says. “He is the wisest man I know.”

Bill and Luke don’t talk as much. Luke is finding his own way, with his basketball and with his education. Bill and Luke’s mother, Susie, who did much of the raising of their four boys, attended proudly Luke’s graduation from Arizona in December. Both Bill and Susie imbued in their sons an appreciation for the sport and the book.

All four boys have played basketball. Adam, 27, played at Louisiana State and Cal Poly Pomona; Nate, 24, played at Princeton; Luke, 22, is at Arizona and Chris, 21, is redshirting this season at San Diego State.

But it is Luke, who was named after Walton’s best friend from the Portland Trail Blazers, Maurice Lucas, who is going to be the son to travel Bill’s NBA path. It is not something Bill hoped for.

“I’m proud of all my sons and if Luke plays in the NBA, that’s fine but it’s not something I dreamed about. It is his choice,” Bill says.

Luke’s senior season is not going exactly as planned. A sprained ankle has kept him in and out of the lineup, a herky-jerky existence that is frustrating to Luke and the Wildcats. But not to Bill.

“Injuries are part of the game and Luke is prepared for life, whatever happens with basketball,” Bill says.

Bill Walton is 50. He is not afraid to tell Shaquille O’Neal that Shaq is fat. He giggles at the idea that he is the devil incarnate on many Internet message boards because, according to the fans of any team that plays Arizona and most NBA teams whose games he has broadcast, he is prejudiced or blind or ignorant or just plain stupid for daring to criticize any member of any particular team.

Bill Walton is 50. He says what he believes. He feels happy and proud and fulfilled. He plays the piano. He is still an NBA vagabond and thrilled to be so. He recites to himself the wisdom of Coach Wooden. He ignores one piece of Coach’s advice, though. He will not slow down.

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Diane Pucin can be reached at diane.pucin@latimes.com.