Tale of a Too-Brief Friendship
"In 1999, at age 30, 'Bison' decided to quit basketball and sail around the world. No one will ever know for sure what happened in the summer of 2002 on his 56-foot-long catamaran, 'Hakuna Matata.'”
By Michael Lewis, M.D.
The older I get, the more I appreciate the importance of friendship. The Harvard Study of Adult Development, which began in 1938, is one of the world’s longest studies of adult life. It has tracked the health of 268 Harvard graduates. Psychiatrist George Vaillant, who led the study from 1972 until 2004, summed it up best: “Close relationships – more than money, power, or fame – lead to a more satisfying life.” As a man now in my early 80s, I know that statement to be absolutely true.
Working as an orthopedic surgeon with several of Chicago’s professional sports teams enabled me to meet a fascinating mix of many talented people. But deeper and longer-lasting connections were harder to come by.
Being a part of the Chicago Bulls’ unparalleled championship ride in the 1990s was exhilarating. Then, suddenly, it all ended. After the last NBA finals victory in 1998, the descent from the mountaintop was gut-wrenchingly abrupt. Michael Jordan and coach Phil Jackson retired, and -- as part of a rebuilding effort -- General Manager Jerry Krause traded Dennis Rodman, Luc Longley, Steve Kerr and Scottie Pippin.
During my tenure with the Bulls, I developed many rewarding relationships, which I had hoped would endure. I was disappointed. Ex-players, trainers, and managers have since told me that friendships in professional sports are frequently temporary, and that real friendship was an exception. For me, an exception was Brian Williams. Our friendship continued, at least until its tragic ending.
Brian came to the Bulls with nine games remaining at the end of the 1997 season and was an essential factor in the team winning its fifth championship.
Given his wide-ranging intelligence and many passions, this left-handed forward center clearly marched to the beat of several different drummers. He had a pilot’s license and had traveled the world extensively, including running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, camping in the Australian outback, and going to Beirut during the Lebanese Civil War.
On the way to a playoff game in Utah on the Bulls private plane, while most of the team members were playing cards or listening to music, Brian was off by himself, absorbed in one of my own favorite books, Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman. This was the autobiography by Nobel Laureate Richard Feynman, a brilliant theoretical physicist who helped develop the atomic bomb, worked on quantum field theory, and translated Mayan hieroglyphics.
I struck up a conversation about Richard Feynman with Brian during that trip, and I shared the fact that a friend of mine, Julius Tabin, had worked on The Manhattan Project, knew Feynman and had told me many stories about him. That occasion was the beginning of an instant friendship.
There were so many examples of his wide-ranging interests. Brian composed music and played the saxophone, trumpet, and violin. He loved Miles Davis. When I told him that I had heard Miles perform live in San Francisco and New York, he wanted to hear every detail.
Brian’s father, Eugene “Geno” Williams, was a member of the Platters, a leading R&B vocal group of the 1950s, the chartbusting “Only You” and “The Great Pretender” being among their greatest hits. But when Brian was young, Geno went through some challenging times, and he and Brian’s mother, Patricia Phillips, divorced.
My wife and I met Patricia, an anthropologist, at the 1997 Bulls championship celebration party. She was charming and elegant. I told her how much I felt connected to Brian. She said that she knew that the feeling was mutual. She talked about his broad vision and “how you never know what your children will absorb, what qualities they will have.” How tragically prescient that comment turned out to be.
After Brian left the Bulls at the end of that season, he signed a lucrative free agent contract to play for the Detroit Pistons. That year he officially changed his name to Bison Dele, to reflect his Cherokee and African heritage.
Fortunately, our friendship continued. He would call out of the blue and say, “Bison here, as you know, I have a pilot’s license, so we will go flying together.” Or “Bison here. Tell me again one of those Richard Feynman stories” — and since he loved to talk about philosophy — “Do you agree with Friedrich Nietzsche when he said, ‘He who has a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how.’” I am convinced that behind Brian’s obsession with travel and exploring the world of ideas was his search for a why.
In 1999, at age 30, Bison decided to quit basketball and sail around the world. No one will ever know for sure what happened in the summer of 2002 on his 56-foot-long catamaran, “Hakuna Matata.” The name was Swahili for “no worries.” It proved to be horribly inaccurate.
On July 6, the boat set sail from Tahiti bound for Hawaii. On board were Dele, his girlfriend, a skipper, and Dele’s brother. The last satellite call from the boat was July 8. Dele was never seen or heard from again. Police later concluded that Dele’s brother probably had killed him and the others on board the boat. Much later, before he could be charged, Dele’s brother was found dead in Mexico from an apparent overdose of insulin.
I was devastated. I felt a deep connection with Brian. His mother’s loss, in contrast, made mine seem insignificant. I cannot even fathom the depth of her grief for her two sons — her only children.
While Bison’s life ended much sooner than it should have, I am so thankful for the time we had together. I continue to be enriched today by the memory of that friendship all those years ago.
MICHAEL S. LEWIS, M.D. is a former Orthopedic Consultant to the Chicago White Sox and the Chicago Bulls, and the author of seven books.
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Fascinating story. Thanks for writing it.