He thinks about things. Oscar Robertson is a citizen of Cincinnati, but also of the world. He's curious, he wonders. He's engaged. That doesn't make him unique among pro athletes, past and present. Just unusual. Very unusual.

It was about money. America had the Shah of Iran's money, tens of millions of dollars. He was no longer in power. The Ayatollah Khomeini was. Khomeini wanted the money.

In the early 1970s, when he played for the Milwaukee Bucks, Robertson gave Kareem Abdul-Jabbar a copy of Hermann Hesse's "Siddhartha," which Robertson described as a book of self discovery. "Kareem was looking for something," back then, Robertson said.

He's gracious and intimidating, welcoming and distant, trustful but not necessarily trusting. He's the kind of guy who has many acquaintances but few friends, because he knows and values the deeper meaning of friendship.

On April 10, 1997, he gave one of his kidneys to the second of his three daughters. Tia Robertson had contracted lupus, which by 1994 was causing her kidneys to fail. After three years of daily dialysis, seven hours at a time, she went to the hospital to receive one of her father's kidney.

No parent hurts more, sacrifices more or derives more joy than from his children. Oscar Robertson is 66 years old. He was a three-time all-American at UC. He was the NBA's rookie of the year, once its most valuable player and a 12-time all star. When it comes to Best Ever, those of us of a certain age consider Robertson to be 1A to Michael Jordan's 1.

He is a successful businessman, a quiet philanthropist, an essential and low-key stitch in the city's fabric. None of that will endure in Robertson's legacy the way his donation will. He gave his daughter back her life.

They're honoring him tonight. The Red, White and Blue Award, presented by Delta Air Lines and American Express, is in its second year. It seeks out people who are nationally famous, yet locally grounded. Bruce Springsteen, famous musician and working-class hero, was the first recipient. Robertson is the second.

They're throwing him a party of sorts tonight. Singers Bryan McKnight and Kathy Wade will perform at the Taft Theatre. Proceeds from ticket sales will go to the National Kidney Foundation and the Kidney Foundation of Greater Cincinnati.

"I'll write something up," Robertson said. I'd asked him if he intended to speak. Robertson isn't shy, but he'd prefer someone else dance in life's footlights. "It'll be short. I've got to make sure I don't offend anybody. My wife's already told me that."

He has reached an age when some of us start checking the rearview mirror for scenes of regret. The leaves turn brown, the pages have mostly been turned. We consider our evidence and hope it's worthy.

"She might be. But I've had a good life. I like where I live. Watching deer in the yard makes me happy. Getting along with my wife. My kids' success makes me happy.

"Am I a good man? I'm not a bad one. I go to church. I don't have malice toward anyone. But no one church or minister can save you. You have to save yourself."

He should be a beacon for the African-American community, a lighthouse for all that is possible. Instead, Robertson sees himself as just another struggler in a fight that should have ended long ago. He owns multiple companies, successful in several fields. He says he still can't get much in the way of contracts from the city. "I have not been successful with the city of Cincinnati," Robertson said. "It angers me to no end."

Race hasn't defined him, he's too busy for that, and much too progressive. But it has informed him. It has influenced Robertson in ways only someone of his era could understand. You don't forget having to stay in separate hotels as a college basketball player. Just when you think you might forget, you come back to Cincinnati from Milwaukee in 1975, and you can't buy the house you want, even when your bid is the highest.

"We're afraid to talk about race in Cincinnati," says Robertson. When we do, "everything is race related. If a guy gets hired or fired, it's race related. It shouldn't be that way. It should be based on the merits."

The city he loves and calls home frustrates him. "The progress that has not been made," Robertson called it. "What does Cincinnati stand for?" he asked, responding to a question. "I wish I could tell you. It should stand for opportunity."

Robertson lamented the lack of vision here. The progressive, multi-cultural spirit that is defining and invigorating other cities is invisible in Cincinnati. "If you look at our city, it's people saying, 'I'm happy. I want to keep it this way.' But a city that doesn't grow becomes stagnant."

He has donated his time and money to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center. He has mentored hundreds of children. He has been involved with the Salvation Army, the NAACP, the American Red Cross, the American Cancer Society, the Boys and Girls Clubs, the National Lupus Foundation, the National Kidney Foundation.

He hurt his shoulder three years ago, badly enough he needed surgery, throwing salt on his neighbor's icy driveway. He mentored former UC basketball player Leonard Stokes, on and off the court. He has probably done the same for other UC players. We don't hear about that.

He goes to a Methodist church in Reading, most every Sunday. He reads to be informed, not entertained. He watches CNN and the BBC channel. He doesn't watch "Survivor." He has a couple hundred honest-to-God records. He likes old Motown, some blues, a little jazz. He asks, "Have you ever heard Brook Benton do 'My Way'?"

He is a 14-handicap golfer, yet plays sparingly. He doesn't understand guys who play all the time and don't get better. He'd have to get better, or he wouldn't play.

Robertson has a large exercise room where mementos of his basketball life hang on the walls. He has his gold medal from the 1960 Olympics behind glass. He has the torch he carried through Cincinnati in advance of the '96 Games in Atlanta. He has a basketball from a high school game pitting Indiana and Kentucky all stars. And so on. O takes pride in being O. It's a silent pride, a muted trumpet after midnight - you have to ask to see this stuff, he doesn't volunteer it - but it's deep and enduring.

Oscar Robertson lives in a house worthy of Frank Lloyd Wright, its first floor open with windows and flooded with the fragile and winsome light of autumn. It's a fitting place for the Big O: Off the main drag, barely a house number to identify it, yet welcoming once you get there.

African sculptures worthy of a museum occupy the walls and open spaces, many purchased three decades ago, when Robertson toured the continent on a State Department-sponsored trip.

He owns three spears and a shield that once were the property of Masai tribesmen. The shield, covered in buffalo hide, served as protection when the Masai hunted lions. Robertson asked them if they'd mind their photos taken. They recoiled, believing a photo would capture their spirits.

They'll take his picture tonight. He won't be quite like the Masai. Nobody will take his spirit without his permission. But he won't embrace the cameras. He plays his own horn quietly, sometimes so quietly we forget he's around. He is, though. We're a better place for it.

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