Elgin Baylor lifted basketball from the floor to the skies

They say his first name came from the brand of watch his mother wore when Elgin Baylor was born. Where his talent came from, only the gods would know.

If you never saw Elgin Baylor on a basketball court, well, he was LeBron James before LeBron James.

They say Baylor, who died Monday at 86, was the first superstar in Los Angeles. Maybe in basketball, although there were football players named Jon Arnett and Bob Waterfield who were very great.

Besides, in the fall of 1960, when Baylor arrived in L.A. along with the former Minneapolis Lakers, the team had a rookie named Jerry West, who not only became quite super but whose profile, dribbling, was adopted as the logo of the NBA.

Baylor changed basketball the way his successors, Michael Jordan and James, would later change it in their own way, with moves that few could make. He was 6-foot-5 and looked like a linebacker but played like a gazelle.

He lifted the game from the floor to the skies.

His style was unique. That term by the late Lakers announcer Chick Hearn, “yo-yo-ing the dribble,” that was a perfect description of the manner in which Baylor handled the basketball.

At times, as he thundered down the court, it almost seemed to be attached to a string.

He loved needling the media or giving nicknames. Elgin was the one who called West ”Zeke from Cabin Creek,” which if rhythmically pleasing was not accurate, since West was from another town in West Virginia.

The Soviet Union invaded Berlin in 1961, and Baylor went into the Army Reserves as a private first class. In the spring of ’62, the Lakers faced the Celtics in the finals. Baylor was allowed to play. 

Out of one uniform, the military’s, and into another, the Lakers’, Baylor scored a then-postseason record 62 points. The lead from the Associated Press started, “PFC Elgin Baylor, the Los Angeles Lakers’ one-man army…”

But the Lakers didn’t win the championship that year, or any year, until 1982, after Baylor had retired and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Magic Johnson were in the lineup.

In battle or in basketball, it’s not easy for one-man armies.

Baylor grew up in Washington, D.C. He crossed the country to stay and play briefly and successfully at Seattle U., and then College of Idaho. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was a hell of a basketball player.

The NBA wasn’t what it became. Television was minimal. So were salaries.

The Lakers, shifting west, played before crowds of about 5,000 some games at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. Fans in Southern California were unfamiliar with the league. Jerry West lived in a modest home in Venice. Elgin Baylor was full of wisecracks but not himself.

I was with United Press International and would cover some Lakers practices where Baylor, looking for an easy mark, would bet me — a dime or a quarter, since sportswriters’ salaries were even more minimal than those of rookies — that he could make at least two of five shooting back over his head.

The game was well, a game, yet to become the towering international business of a half-century later. The Lakers finally captured the public’s imagination in April 1962 when they upended the St. Louis Hawks in the semis.

There was a digital crowd counter under the roof of the L.A. Sports Arena, so just as you knew how many Baylor and West had scored. you knew how many fans had seen them score.

Or for Elgin, seen him soar.

Baylor was voted into the NBA Hall of Fame. But not until a few years ago was a statue in his honor erected alongside Staples Center, now the Lakers’ home court.

A fantastic player. A fine human being. Hard to beat that combination. And it was hard to beat Elgin Baylor when he bet he could hit those half-court shots.