EATTLE - As Bill Bradley gasps for breath in his faltering race for the White House, nothing pains him more than his unrequited appeal to black America.
He wishes black voters could have seen him in 1960, as he trundled across the back roads of Illinois, so hungry that he finally asked his traveling companion why they could not stop to eat. His companion and family friend, Alex Maul, explained that no one would serve them. Maul was black.
Bradley said he might not be facing the humiliating possibility of losing 18 straight Democratic primary contests if he could throw open a window on the intimate connection he has nurtured since childhood with the grief and glory of the black experience in America.
''It's disappointing because I think everybody should be able to see the depth of my convictions,'' Bradley said in an interview. ''But that's not always the way it works in life. Those things you hold most dear are not always recognized in the context of the times in which you live, and it's very difficult.''
Bradley has all but pleaded with black voters to see why he has staked his bid for the presidency on a pledge to tear down the nation's wall of ''white skin privilege.'' He renewed the appeal yesterday in a black church in Seattle, as he sought last-minute support for tomorrow's nonbinding primary in Washington.
But few blacks have flocked to Bradley, denying him the crucial support he may need to survive the decisive round of 16 primaries and caucuses on March 7. He already has lost the first three primary contests, and a shutout on March 7 would almost certainly end his campaign, securing the nomination for Vice President Al Gore.
''That's one of the reasons the numbers are where they are,'' Bradley said of his inability to attract black support.
Bradley said he wishes black voters could have seen him as a teenager, weary after a baseball tournament in southwestern Missouri and searching with his teammates for a place to sleep. One hotel after another refused to accept two players because they were black. And each time Bradley led away the entire team in protest.
Bradley also said he hopes it is not too late for the black community to grasp the outrage he felt as a member of the New York Knicks in the 1970s when four whites pummeled his black teammate, Earl ''The Pearl'' Monroe, near Madison Square Garden because Monroe was accompanied by a white woman.
''Two hours after Earl thrills 20,000 people with his skill and reaps significant financial gains for doing so, he is just another `nigger' to part of white America - even a half block from center court,'' Bradley wrote in anger at the time.
Boston Celtics great Bill Russell, who has spent much of his life detecting, deflecting and denouncing racism, recalled testing the authenticity of Bradley's racial sensibilities the first time they met, in 1966. Russell, an 11-time NBA champion, was about to become the league's first black coach, and Bradley was poised to enter the league as a ''great white hope'' after studying as a Rhodes scholar at Oxford.
Russell confronted Bradley about his Oxford experience, asking if he knew ''the black history'' of Cecil Rhodes, the scholarship's founder. A British colonialist in the late 19th century, Rhodes ran a mining conglomerate that for decades controlled much of southern Africa. In 1923, the country Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, was named for him.
''I knew what he was saying to me,'' Bradley recalled of Russell's query. ''He was talking about taking a Rhodes scholarship from a racist diamond miner.''
Russell has stood by Bradley since then. ''He knew the right answer,'' Russell said in an interview. ''But, more importantly, he has lived a life of complete and total integrity. That's why all the guys respect him and like him,'' Russell said, referring to Bradley's basketball colleagues.
Bradley spent 10 years with the New York Knicks, playing with many black players who had come of age in the segregated South or northern ghettos.
In the early days, Bradley's black teammates often tested him, taunted him, treated him with the diminished respect they might have received as intruders in a predominantly white group. The captain, Willis Reed, spurned Bradley's pleas to call him ''Bill,'' calling him ''Bradley'' instead. Others called him ''Dollar Bill'' for his penny pinching, and they mocked his rumpled, tweedy wardrobe.
One teammate, Cazzie Russell, once viewed Bradley as a beneficiary of the white ownership's racial bias. Bradley and Russell were waging an intense competition for a starting position, a job that Bradley won when Russell was forced from the lineup with a broken ankle.
Later, Russell filled in when Bradley was sidelined with an injury. But unlike Bradley, who had stayed in the starting lineup when Russell recovered from his injury, Russell was sent back to the bench when Bradley healed.
''I felt a little forsaken, and the first thing that came to mind was, they were giving Bradley the job because he's white,'' said Russell, now the men's basketball coach at Savannah College of Art and Design. ''I thought, What about me? I've got feelings. I've got a heart that pumps blood, too.''
Russell, who is also a minister, said he no longer believes race played a role in the episode.
In fact, Russell is among many black athletes who have praised Bradley for forgoing hundreds of thousands of dollars in endorsement offers because Bradley believed the bulk of the opportunities flowed his way because he was white.
Bradley also tapped his NBA earnings to form a nonprofit group, the Back Forty, to help prepare inmates for life outside prison. And he spent off-seasons tutoring students at a street academy in Harlem.
''I learned so much from teammates about the strength of their character, the dedication of their families, and their belief in hard work,'' Bradley said. ''But I also realized how much I would never know what it was like to be black in America.''
Calvin Hill, the former Dallas Cowboys running back and father of NBA star Grant Hill, visited Harlem in the 1960s and asked community leaders which Knicks volunteered time there. ''I was surprised I didn't hear any of the black names,'' Hill said. ''But Bill's name always came up.''
Hill said he recently attended his aunt's funeral in Cross Hills, S.C., a predominantly black farm town where he grew up. ''It dawned on me in that black Baptist church that Bill Bradley has been to a place like this,'' Hill said. ''He could walk up the steps on any porch in the community and be comfortable.''
The trouble for Bradley is too few blacks know his story. A vast number, particularly women, give little or no weight to his support among black athletes. And far too many others are aligned with Gore, largely because of his association with President Clinton.
Gore received a much more rousing reception than Bradley did Saturday night at an NAACP dinner in Seattle. The audience politely applauded Bradley's recollections of his personal struggle against racial hatred, but they cheered Gore as he trumpeted the Clinton administration's commitment to race relations.
Never mind that the most intimate personal experience with racial justice that Gore related was his father's politically costly opposition to segregationist policies as a Tennessee senator in the 1950s. ''I'm honored to have that heritage in my family,'' Gore said to applause. ''You know, when something is in your bones, it's different from having it in your head.''
Bradley believes it's in his heart and soul. And, still, despite Michael Jordan's commercials endorsing him, Bradley remains a stranger to black America.
''They just don't know me,'' Bradley said. ''But it never stops moving me in terms of how stupid racial division is, how many missed opportunities we've had, and how often I think, Why can't everybody see it the way I see it?''
