Letters: Fond memory of NBA player Walt Hazzard

THIS WAS probably 1966 or 1967. I was 12 or 13.

It was at a time when four or five white kids from the Northeast would hop on the Frankford El, totally unconcerned, and attend 76ers games at Convention Hall in West Philly.

Tickets were affordable. We'd earned our spending money selling hot chocolate or game programs at Penn and Eagles' games.

It was nighttime. It was cold. But our parents felt confident that we would be safe.

And we had lots of fun. We watched the Sixers in what would become a championship season. After games, in an era of limited arena security, we strategically positioned ourselves in the corridor outside the Sixers' locker room and got all kinds of autographs, now long lost in discarded boxes.

One dark night, late, probably 11 p.m., on the El platform of the 34th Street stop, four or five white kids, all alone, stood waiting for a train.

All alone.

Until, here approaching us came Walt Hazzard, the great Overbrook and UCLA star, and then a Los Angeles Lakers standout.

Hazzard was taking the El west, presumably to visit his family's home. (An NBA player taking the El!) We were heading back to the Northeast.

We whispered that an NBA star was heading our way. We pointed. It was exciting.

"Hey, what are you guys doing here?" he asked, with a protective scolding in his voice.

"Um," someone said, sheepishly, "waiting for a train, heading home."

"Don't you know it's late?" he asked. "You shouldn't be here alone this late at night."

In retrospect, maybe it wasn't safe. But what did we know?

Hazzard knew.

And the NBA star silently waited with us until our train came.

I'm guessing we waved goodbye.

When he died recently, I fondly remembered Mr. Hazzard.

Jay Weiner

St. Paul, Minn.