R.I.P. Bill King 

My fondest impressions of Bill King remain from my pre-teen days, when I was as obsessed with the Warriors as I was with the Giants. I could sit and listen to him all night on the radio, rapid-fire but smooth, as cool as Purvis Short's rainbow jumper or World B. Free's balding 'fro and funky bling. I have childhood Proustian sense-memories of the sound of his voice backgrounded by the constant, frenetic squeak of sneakers on the damp hardwood as the ball was passed around the perimeter. Bill, wherever you are, I hope they have cool breezes, San Miguel beer and an eternity of moustache wax. Holy Toledo.


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