It had no arms or legs to speak of; no fleshy, meaty exterior or squishy insides; no heart, no brain, no soul. It was just a protracted steel body, long and spindly, a rectangular “head” at the end, and one glowing sensor. It wasn’t alive. It wasn’t sentient. It was a robot.

Bill Walton – a 7 foot tall anomaly from the annals of basketball history who wears tie-dye shirts, listens to the Grateful Dead and, according to his own outlandish proclamations, hasn’t taken an indoor shower in 35 years – is well-known for looking at average accomplishmentsand being overcome with extreme fits of emotion.