My friend and I stopped and gave each other the, wait-was-that-who-I-thought-it-was look.
I turned around and yelled, “Hey, are you Maurice Lucas?”
(Yes, I was that subtle.)
He turned, smiled, and said, in a deep voice that rumbled through the concrete concourse, “Most of the time.”
He beamed a big smile, walked back to us, and shook our hands. The “friendship” lasted all of 30 seconds, but to two kids in Portland, knowing that Lucas stopped to say hello to us, well, that made our night.
It was definitely a different era. Nowadays, the leading scorer for an NBA team that had won a championship probably wouldn’t be walking, by himself, at a minor league baseball game, no handlers around him to shoo-away those pesky 10-year-olds.
— Paul Valencia, sports reporter
• • •
I must have been about 12 or so when I met Maurice Lucas. He was signing autographs at a photo supply shop in Gresham, Ore., and a horde of kids swarmed around this giant of a man. He seemed to enjoy every minute of it, though, smiling, laughing and making conversation with us kids as if HE was the one meeting special people.