It’s October 1989, and Nate Thurmond is driving his BMW 528e across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.
Just a few days later, this same bridge will get pancaked during a massive earthquake that will kill 72 people and leave large portions of the city in rubble.
But on this sunny autumn afternoon, the hall of fame basketball player and a guest from his hometown of Akron are cruising along, Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car cranked up on the stereo, sunroof peeled back to reveal the glistening, legendary skyline of downtown San Francisco.
His car is indeed fast, but he’s not driving particularly fast. He is driving like a regular person, the kind of person he worked hard to remain while collecting amazing riches and fame.
Nate Thurmond died Saturday, and a piece of me went with him.
The word “regal” keeps coming up in the aftermath of his passing, and it is perhaps the most fitting way to describe the second-best basketball player ever produced by Akron.
Thurmond carried himself with a quiet dignity. He exhibited respect not only for himself, but also everyone he encountered.
Thurmond never wore the chip found on the shoulders of the other superstar centers of his era, Wilt Chamberlain and Bill Russell. He remained polite even in the face of unmitigated rudeness.
The day Beacon Journal photographer Robin Witek and I walked him out on the Golden Gate Bridge for a photo — imagine the looks on the faces of passing drivers as the 6-foot-11 Thurmond posed while Witek laid on her back and shot up at him — a woman approached us, interrupted our conversation and demanded of Thurmond, “Do you play basketball?”
In those situations, Wilt used to fire back, “No, I’m a jockey.”
But Nate, asked that question for the umpteenth time, answered politely, saying he used to play but retired. He also kept walking, unwilling to rehash his life story for a woman who clearly viewed him as a freak.
Thurmond was a compelling mix: dignified without being aloof, highly accessible without begging. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who didn’t like him.
At one inch shy of 7 feet, he was a seemingly unworkable combination of spindly legs, huge hands and massive biceps that somehow managed to move with uncommon elegance.
After spending most of his career with the Warriors, he wrapped it up with his hometown team, leading the Cavs through the “Miracle of Richfield.”
He then quickly returned to the city he had grown to love, to his luxury condo high in the California hills.
Nate’s home was a notable contrast to the modest but well-kept house he grew up in on Brownlee Court, near Buchtel High School, son of the late Andrew Thurmond (6-foot-3), a Firestone rubber worker, and the late Leala Thurmond (5-foot-11), co-owner of a beauty salon.
When I visited them after returning from San Francisco, it became evident why their son was so well-grounded.
“We tried to make them [Nate and his late brother Ben] understand that certain things had to be done and certain things you could not do,” said Leala. “We finally got them on the right track, and they grew up pretty nice.”
Yes, they did.
Her boys also worked their tails off, Ben as a special-ed teacher in inner-city Cleveland and Nate throughout both his hoops career and afterward.
During my visit, Nate was gearing up for the opening of Big Nate’s BBQ, a rib carryout place. He had hoped to eventually franchise it and become an inspiration for black entrepreneurs.
Although he fell short of that goal, Big Nate’s was a fixture on Folsom Street until he sold it in 2011. Knowing his steady presence was part of the attraction for customers, he spent long hours there and simply burned out.
Don’t let his fondness for ribs fool you. He also was a food and wine connoisseur who knew the owners and sommeliers at the city’s toniest restaurants.
One night during my visit, he and his future wife, Marci Kollar, a quiet blonde he met at a department store, picked me up in his prized possession, a handmade 1965 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow II with a custom paint job and “NATE 42” license plates.
We pulled up to what was billed as mandatory valet parking at a Fisherman’s Wharf eatery. When the attendant approached, Nate shook his head slightly and said, “I’ll park it.”
The wide-eyed young man didn’t even think about protesting.
The kid knew Nate Thurmond. Everybody in The City by the Bay knew Nate Thurmond.
I’m glad I got to know him, too.
Rest in peace, Big Guy.
Bob Dyer can be reached at 330-996-3580 or bdyer@thebeaconjournal.com. He also is on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bob.dyer.31