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Elgin Baylor wasn't going to be the beginning of anything. He certainly didn't set out to be the beginning of everything: the superstar who saved the Lakers and brought them to the NBA, L. A.; the transcendent athlete who "reinvented everything but the rim game" and changed the geometry of the sport; the avant-garde innovator who was, in the words of legendary Hoops writer Bob Ryan, “the most influential offensive lineman of the last 60 years.” He was fair ... Let's go. Trying to use the tools at his disposal to put the ball in the hole, in any way he can.

“The way I played the game was just natural, " Baylor told Bleacher Report's Dave Schilling in 2018 . "I never sat down and thought about what I was going to do. I was just reacting to the situation, to the way the guys were guarding me. I've done things that people have probably never done before. I just instinctively did it.”

These instincts, combined with a considerable amount of skill, strength, and athleticism, have produced one of the greatest and most important players in the history of basketball. They sketched out a plan that generations of super-sports wing scorers would follow-and, in fact, still do.

They propelled Baylor, who died Monday of natural causes at age 86, through a remarkable Hall of Fame career that helped lay the groundwork for the NBA’s transformation into a nightly highlight factory but that, for several reasons, has never quite seemed to get its proper respect.

These days, Baylor is most often discussed in the language of ancestry and lineage. In the NBA’s creation myth, he’s a Promethean figure—an early skywalker who, in the years before frequent nationally televised games and widely distributed video footage, helped pave a path toward the sort of eye-popping feats we now see every night.

“He just might be the best player I ever saw,” legendary Lakers play-by-play man Chick Hearn once said. “He was doing things that Dr. Julius Erving made famous 20 years later, the hang time and so forth. But Elgin didn’t have the TV exposure. Nobody did in those days.”

Those who did see him, though, never forgot it—and learned from the experience.

“In basketball, you watch and emulate the things other players do,” Michael Goldberg, former head of the National Basketball Coaches Association, said in Basketball: A Love Story. “Once one player can do a ‘wow’ move, then every kid in every school yard tries to do that themselves. Those that can refine it take it to the next level, and so on down the line. I would say that Elgin Baylor begat Connie Hawkins, and Hawkins begat Earl Monroe, and Monroe begat Dr. J, and Dr. J begat David Thompson, and Thompson begat Michael Jordan, and Jordan begat Kobe Bryant, and there’s more begats going on.”

Off the court, he was a fearless trailblazer who fought against the racist, segregationist policies of the Jim Crow era. On it, he was a groundbreaking slasher who, as Ryan wrote in the foreword to Bijan C. Bayne’s 2015 biography of Baylor, took “a game that was essentially horizontal and occasionally vertical and [made] it diagonal.” He was a tradition-flouting talent, an improvisational creator constantly unlocking new possibilities.

“His ballhandling ability at 6-foot-5, 220 pounds made him a one-man revolution,” Bayne wrote. “He had all the fakes and a sure handle, and some of his spectacular plays culminated in twisting, hanging, or gliding near or past the basket. Yet, it was the combination of those elements—the yo-yo dribbling, the subtle feints, the knifing reverse layups between taller defenders—that set Baylor apart from his predecessors and peers. Where such players as Hawkins, Erving, and, of course, Jordan became known for their trademark dunks, Baylor scored on one-hand push shots, banks, floaters, and fallaways.”

Baylor had the deepest off-the-dribble bag of his era, and he used every trick in it to score a ton. He totaled 23,149 points over 14 seasons—all after entering the NBA at age 24, all compiled without a 3-point line—which made him the third-leading scorer in NBA history behind Wilt and Oscar when he retired in 1972. (He now ranks 36th on the all-time NBA/ABA leaderboard.) He averaged 38.3 points per game during the 1961-62 season, the fourth-highest single-season average in NBA history, while spending a large chunk of it as an active-duty Army reservist who could play only on weekends and when given special clearance.

There was a bitter irony in that: Baylor performing at an all-time-superstar level while on leave from serving a country that continued to treat him and people who looked like him as second-class citizens.

Two years earlier, on January 16, 1959, the Lakers were scheduled to play the Cincinnati Royals in Charleston, West Virginia. When they arrived at the Kanawha Hotel, the desk clerk took one look at them—specifically Baylor, Boo Ellis, and Ed Fleming—and told team captain Vern Mikkelsen, “The three colored boys will have to go somewhere else. This is a nice, respectable hotel. We can’t take the colored boys.”

Rather than submit to the discriminatory policy, the entire Lakers team left, staying instead in a motel that welcomed Black guests. Later, Baylor went out with his teammates to get something to eat, only to be denied service at a restaurant, too. An incensed Baylor decided not to play in the game, boycotting to call attention to the inequality and mistreatment he and other Black people faced in the town.

“I'm human, " he told his friend and teammate Hot Rod Hundley, who was white. "All I want is to be treated like a human being. I am not an animal that is put in a cage and released on the show. They won't treat me like an animal.”

The NBA and the Lakers stood by Baylor. From then on, the Lakers will require that there be no segregation clauses in their contracts when organizing games. Soon after, then-NBA Commissioner Maurice Podoloff " promised to make sure that such treatment of black players in hotels is a thing of the past when they represent the League.”

” Of course, I don't regret doing it, " Baylor said in a March 1963 sports magazine op - ed. "I'm not a trailblazer or anything, but I'm interested in my people and progress. My name is Elgin Baylor, and I don't want anything more than I have a right to.”

That perseverance is evident again at the 1964 NBA All-Star Game in Boston, when Baylor, Robertson, Jerry West, and other star players “barricaded themselves in the locker room and announced that they would not play unless they were guaranteed benefits originally directed by the commissioner last summer”—namely , improved playing conditions, athletic coaches on all teams, and a retirement plan.

“[Lakers owner Bob Short] said to an Irish cop that guarded the door, ‘Tell Elgin Baylor if he doesn’t get out there, he’s through,’” Celtics All-Star Tommy Heinsohn told Mike Bresnahan of the Los Angeles Times in 2011. Baylor didn’t budge. The stoppage worked.

“For Elgin, in particular, the Black athletes, they had to be crusaders in this league and in many cases were vilified for it,” West told Sam Smith in his 2017 book Hard Labor: The Battle That Birthed the Billion-Dollar NBA. “That day has always resonated with me as one of the seminal points of this league. … That day in Boston probably was the beginning of something that few could comprehend.”

Baylor represented an inflection point on the court, too. In the early years of the NBA, the run of play was dominated by towering post players like George Mikan and Dolph Schayes, or sweet-shooting perimeter playmakers like “Jumpin’” Joe Fulks, Paul Arizin, and Bob Cousy. Baylor split the difference, combining the bulldozing strength and rebounding of the league’s best bigs with the speed, quickness, passing, and shotmaking of its top guards, all in a bruising 6-foot-5, 225-pound package. You know how James Harden is sometimes described as being built like a tank? Baylor was the same size and, in his day, just as tough to stop; Knicks forward Richie Guerin, a Hall of Famer in his own right, once said defending Baylor was “like guarding a flood.”

The way Baylor moved could move people. Stylistic successor Julius Erving described it as “just ballet in basketball.” To Hall of Fame guard Charlie Scott, watching Baylor was “like watching poetry.” They weren’t alone in their hosannas; Baylor’s play inspired some delightfully creative and high-minded descriptions from the ink-stained wretches tasked with capturing his brilliance. One favorite: “When Baylor gets the ball, the opposition scatters like quail at the sight of the hunter.”

You can only earn prose that purple with pure production. Baylor is one of only four players to average more than 25 points and 10 rebounds per game in his career, joined by Chamberlain, Karl Malone, and Bob Pettit. Of that group, only Wilt delivered as many assists per game as Baylor, a heady passer who still ranks 20th on the all-time triple-double list:

Baylor is one of only 10 players ever to have at least 10 appearances on an NBA first team; only LeBron James, Bryant and Malone have more. Nearly 50 years after his retirement, his career scoring average of 27.4 points per game still ranks third, behind only Wilt and Jordan. He still ranks 11th in rebounds per game, and in the top 30 in player efficiency, field goals, free throws, and total rebounds.

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