He was 86.

West, nicknamed “Mr. Clutch” for his late-game exploits as a player, was an NBA champion who went into the Hall of Fame as a player in 1980 and again as a member of the gold medal-winning 1960 U.S. Olympic Team in 2010. He will be enshrined for a third time later this year as a contributor, and NBA Commissioner Adam Silver called West “one of the greatest executives in sports history.”

“He helped build eight championship teams during his tenure in the NBA — a legacy of achievement that mirrors his on-court excellence,” Silver said. “And he will be enshrined this October into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame as a contributor, becoming the first person ever inducted as both a player and a contributor. I valued my friendship with Jerry and the knowledge he shared with me over many years about basketball and life.”

West was “the personification of basketball excellence and a friend to all who knew him,” the Clippers said in announcing his death. West’s wife, Karen, was by his side when he died, the Clippers said. West worked for the Clippers as a consultant for the last seven years.

He was an All-Star in all 14 of his NBA seasons, a 12-time All-NBA selection, part of the 1972 Lakers team that won a championship, an NBA Finals MVP when the Lakers lost to the Boston Celtics in 1969 — the first year that award was given out, and still the only time it went to a player on the losing team — and was selected as part of the NBA’s 75th anniversary team.

West was general manager of championship teams with the Los Angeles Lakers, helping build the “Showtime” dynasty. He also worked in the front offices of the Memphis Grizzlies, the Golden State Warriors and the Clippers. Among his many highlights as an executive with the Lakers: he drafted Magic Johnson and James Worthy, then brought in Kobe Bryant and eventually Shaquille O’Neal to play alongside Bryant.

His basketball life bridged generations: West played with Elgin Baylor, whom he called “the most supportive and the greatest player of that era,” and Wilt Chamberlain. As a coach and executive, he worked with a who’s-who of NBA stars from the last 40 years: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Johnson, Worthy, O’Neal, Bryant, Stephen Curry, Klay Thompson, Kevin Durant, Kawhi Leonard and Paul George among them.

“I marvel at them, at the joy they brought basketball fans all over the world,” West said in 2019.

Even in the final years of his life, West was considered basketball royalty. He routinely sat courtside at Summer League games in Las Vegas, often watching many games in a day while greeting long lines of players — LeBron James among them — who would approach to shake his hand.

“The game transcends many things,” West said while attending Summer League last year. “The players change, the style of play may change, but the respect that you learn in this game never changes.”

James, on social media, offered his condolences: “Will truly miss our convos my dear friend! My thoughts and prayers goes out to your wonderful family! Forever love Jerry! Rest in Paradise my guy!” the NBA’s all-time scoring leader wrote Wednesday.

West is 25th on the NBA’s all-time scoring list, and while the league has never confirmed that West was in fact the model for its logo — a player dribbling a ball, set against a red-and-blue background — the league has never said otherwise, either.

“While it’s never been officially declared that the logo is Jerry West,” Silver said in 2021, “it sure looks a lot like him.”

West is still the NBA Finals’ all-time leader in total points, along with field goals made and attempted as well as free throws made and attempted. He played in the title series nine times with the Lakers; his teams went 1-2 against the New York Knicks, and 0-6 against the Celtics.

“Those damn Celtics,” he often said.

West also hit one of the most famed shots in finals history, a 60-footer at the buzzer of Game 3 of the 1970 series between the Knicks and Lakers to force overtime.

Tributes from across the sports world quickly poured in Wednesday morning. The Los Angeles Dodgers released a statement calling West “an indelible figure on the Los Angeles sports landscape for more than 60 years,” and the NBA was planning a pregame tribute to West before Game 3 of the NBA Finals between the Celtics and Dallas Mavericks on Wednesday night.

“Jerry West is one of my favorite people that I had the honor to get to know in the NBA,” Miami Heat managing general partner Micky Arison said Wednesday. “He welcomed me to the league, offered advice from the first day, and asked nothing in return. He will be missed.”

Michael Jordan said he considered West “a friend and mentor — like an older brother to me.”

“I valued his friendship and knowledge,” Jordan said. “I always wished I could have played against him as a competitor, but the more I came to know him, I wish I had been his teammate. I admired his basketball insights and he and I shared many similarities to how we approached the game.”

A native of Chelyan, West Virginia, West was known as a tenacious player who was rarely satisfied with his performance. He grew up shooting at a basket nailed to the side of a shed and often shot until his fingers bled. He became the first high school player in state history to score more than 900 points in a season, averaging 32.2 points in leading East Bank High to a state title.

Basketball, he would later reveal, was his therapy.

In his memoir, “West by West: My Charmed, Tormented Life,” West chronicled a lifelong battle with depression. He wrote that his childhood was devoid of love and filled with anger as a result of an abusive father. He often felt worthless, and to combat that, he said he put his energy into playing the game.

West led West Virginia University — where he is still the all-time leader in scoring average — to the NCAA final in 1959, when the Mountaineers lost by one point to California.

A year after he won Olympic gold in Rome, West joined the Lakers, where he spent his entire pro playing career. He was honored as one of the league’s 50 greatest players in 1996 and when the league expanded the polling to 75 players to commemorate its 75th anniversary in 2021, West was selected again.

“You know, it never ceases to amaze me the places you can go in this world chasing a bouncing ball,” West said in 2019, when he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom — the nation’s highest civilian honor — by then-President Donald Trump. “My chase began in Chelyan, West Virginia, where I strung a wire basket with no net to the side of a bridge. If your shot didn’t go in, the ball rolled down a long bank and you would be chasing it forever. So, you better make it.

“I was a dreamer. My family didn’t have much, but we had a clear view of the Appalachian Mountains, and I’d sit alone on our front porch and wonder, ‘If I ever make it to the top of that mountain, what will I see on the other side?’ Well, I did make it to the other side, and my dreams have come true. I’ve been able to see the sides, thanks to that bouncing ball.”

Associated Press Writer John Raby contributed to this report

“I asked him, ‘Hey dad, is there anywhere you want to go? Is there anything you want to do?’” Justin Leinenweber told the Tribune. “And, he was like, ‘I don’t have a bucket list. I’ve sort of done everything I wanted to do.’”

He said his father knew he could have stepped down from the bench 20 years ago and made millions in private practice doing arbitrations, but he didn’t care.

“He wasn’t in it for the money,” Justin Leinenweber said. “He wasn’t in it to have expensive watches and expensive cars. He loved what he did, and he said, ‘I’m gonna do it as long as I can.’ I really think he got everything out of his life. And he really had very few regrets.”

Harry Leinenweber, a Joliet native who served in the Illinois legislature before being nominated to the federal bench by President Ronald Reagan, died at home Tuesday evening of complications from lung cancer, according to his family. He was 87.

Leinenweber, who just celebrated a birthday last week, had kept a very active schedule before announcing his health issues in his courtroom in January, presiding over the high-profile trials of singer R. Kelly in 2022 and the “ComEd Four” political corruption case last year.

He is survived by his wife, former U.S. Labor Secretary Lynn Martin, and seven children and stepchildren. Services are pending.

In a statement released Tuesday night, U.S. District Chief Judge Rebecca Pallmeyer called Leinenweber “a friend, mentor, and model jurist.”

“My colleagues and I are deeply saddened by Judge Leinenweber’s passing.  We hope for comfort and peace for his family,” Pallmeyer wrote.  “We thank his family for sharing him with us for over 39 years.”

Former Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot wrote in a statement that she “had the honor” of appearing before Leinenweber many times over the course of her legal career, both in private practice and as an assistant U.S. attorney.

“He was a judge who clearly loved his job, even after many years on the bench, and he respected litigants,” Lightfoot said.

U.S. Sen. Dick Durbin, who chairs the Senate Judiciary Committee and served with Leinenweber’s wife in the House of Representatives, said in a statement Wednesday that Leinenweber “was respected for his knowledge of the law and his reputation for fairness.”

”I always knew that he would bring that reputation to every assignment,” Durbin said. “He never disappointed.”

Known for his calm temperament and friendly demeanor, Leinenweber was respected by lawyers on both sides as a considerate jurist with an impeccable knowledge of the law.

“He was a giant who exuded such decency,” said attorney Daniel Collins of the Chicago-based firm  Katten Muchin Rosenman LLP. “He was a guy you wanted to be in front of, because you just know that whatever he decided, it was out of pure common sense.”

Collins said he got a window into Leinenweber’s humanity during the 2013 sentencing of David Coleman Headley for his role in planning the deadly 2008 terrorist attacks in Mumbai, India, and a would-be attack on a newspaper in Denmark.

Collins, who at the time was the lead federal prosecutor on the case, said his team wanted Leinenweber to hear directly from the wife of the one American killed in the Mumbai attack, who lived in Chicago. He said Leinenweber took his time and spoke to her personally.

“He was genuinely moved by her expression of loss and description of what this attack did to her and her family,” Collins said. “I remember how well he handled that. It was incredibly emotional for everyone and he was just such a pro.”

A decade later, Leinenweber found himself presiding over another hot-button case, this time the #MeToo-era trial of Kelly, who stood accused of sexually abusing underage girls on videotape and then conspiring with his manager to cover up evidence.

Kelly’s lead attorney, Jennifer Bonjean, said she was struck by Leinenweber’s “remarkable” commitment to ensuring that everyone got a fair shake in his courtroom, as well as his refusal to “get on the bandwagon” when it came to a high-profile defendant like Kelly.

“He called balls and strikes as he saw them and let the attorneys duke it out,” she said. “As a trial attorney you had to respect that, because it doesn’t always occur.”

One particular moment came up early in the trial, when Leinenweber sided with Kelly’s attorneys on several claims that prosecutors had intentionally struck Black jurors from the panel.

“He put three people of color back on that jury,” Bonjean said, adding that it was rare for attorneys to win one such challenge, let alone three. “It showed he understood that R. Kelly was entitled to a jury of his peers. …I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Always known for his dry wit, Leinenweber capped off that contentious day of jury selection by telling the attorneys to enjoy what was left of their evening.

“I’m going to have a martini in a short while,” he said.

Bonjean said Leinenweber was “fearless” about his rulings and didn’t care how they would play in the news or public opinion. But he always had a soft side, particularly for good lawyering.

At one point in the Kelly trial, Bonjean said she was worried after requesting a mistrial for what seemed maybe like one time too many. But during a sidebar, Leinenweber reassured her that he got it.

“He said, ‘Ms. Bonjean, don’t ever apologize for doing your job,’” she said.

Leinenweber was born in Joliet on June 3, 1937, graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 1959 and earned his law degree from the University of Chicago in 1962.

Leinenweber formed his own private practice in his hometown and served as town counsel for several area cities until being elected to the Illinois General Assembly in 1973.

Two years after returning to the law in 1983, Leinenweber was preparing to take a deposition when he got word from his secretary that the president of the United States had called and asked to speak with him.

“I direct-dialed the President of the United States,” Leinenweber told his son for an article in the Illinois State Bar Association in 2014. “President Reagan said ‘Harry, I was about to sign a commission appointing you as a federal district judge for the Northern District of Illinois, but I thought I better get your permission first. Do I have it?’ And I stumbled out ‘yes you do.’”

Leinenweber was confirmed as a district judge in December 1985. Over his nearly 40 years on the bench, Leinenweber oversaw many of the city’s most significant trials, from political corruption to terrorism and gang cases like Gangster Disciples boss Larry Hoover.

Off the bench, Leinenweber enjoyed being surrounded by friends and family. And he was always telling stories.

Among the yarns Leinenweber liked to spin involved the time he was at a conference for new judges that was being held in the South, according to his son Justin, who is also an attorney. Breakfast had always been Leinenweber’s most important meal of the day, and he lauded the plate he was served: eggs sunny side up, bacon, toast, and, of course, grits.

Leinenweber said he told a judge from Alabama that the grits made it a great southern breakfast. The Alabama judge put down his fork and shot back, “That’s not a southern breakfast. A southern breakfast is squirrel.”

“He had no enemies. He really didn’t. He just cared about people,” Justin Leinenweber said. “He cared about the law, and he just wanted to do right by people and do right by the profession. It just meant so much to him to be a judge. I think that singular thing, other than his family, he was most proud of and it was just the perfect fit for him.”

That passion seemed to seep into every interaction Leinenweber had at the Dirksen U.S. Courthouse, be it his law clerks, attorneys, defendants, other judges, or even jurors who were selected to sit in his courtroom.

Chicago defense attorney Steve Greenberg said he was representing then-accused wife killer Drew Peterson in state court and had never met Leinenweber when the judge approached him one time in the cafeteria of the Dirksen U.S. Courthouse and started asking all sorts of questions about the case.

“He was the kind of guy where you would feel like you were just sitting on the barstool next to him and having a chat,” Greenberg said. “He was one of the nicest, most unpretentious people you could ever meet.”

Robert Garnes, one of the jurors in “ComEd Four” case involving an alleged effort by utility executives and lobbyists to bribe then-House Speaker Michael Madigan, said he was so impressed by Leinenweber’s quiet control of his courtroom that he hopes to write a book someday about the experience.

“There were so many moments where I thought he was going to slam down his gavel and yell, “Order in the court!’ just like on TV,” Garnes said. “But he never did, even when things got nasty (between the lawyers) and I thought fights were going to break out.”

Garnes said that after the trial ended with them unanimously finding all four defendants guilty, he was one of a handful of jurors who stuck around to talk to Leinenweber about what they all just collectively went through.

“He came back to the jury room and shook our hands and thanked us for our courageousness,” Garnes said. “He said he was proud of us. I really appreciated that.”

Leinenweber had been scheduled to sentence the four defendants in the ComEd case — former CEO Anne Pramaggiore, internal lobbyist John Hooker, consultant Jay Doherty, and ex-lobbyist Michael McClain — in January, but those hearings were delayed first by the judge’s health issues and later by a U.S. Supreme Court ruling that is due out later this month.

With Leinenweber’s passing, the case will be assigned to a new judge who will have to get up to speed on the details, which will likely further delay any final resolution.

Justin Leinenweber said that aside from his love of the law and his family, his dad was also a world-class Cubs fan. He had been hooked ever since his teacher in 1945 wheeled a radio into the classroom so they could listen to the game because she loved the team.

Decades later, Leinenweber’s law clerks would take the judge and his former clerks to a Cubs game to celebrate his birthday, his son said. “He loved those games and it meant so much to him to see his clerks and how they had all gone on to do so many incredible things.”

Justin Leinenweber said one of his favorite memories was taking his dad to Game 5 of the 2016 World Series at Wrigley Field.

“I swear we did not sit down the entire time,” he said. “Probably the biggest smile I ever saw on his face as the game went final and the Cubs were on their way to being World Champs.”

But in the end, his son said, Leinenweber “was a realist.”

“He always preferred ‘A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request’ to ‘Go Cubs Go,’” he said.

jmeisner@chicagotribune.com

His family said Lawson died on Sunday after a short illness in Los Angeles, where he spent decades working as a pastor, labor movement organizer and university professor.

Lawson was a close adviser to the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., who called him “the leading theorist and strategist of nonviolence in the world.”

Lawson met King in 1957, after spending three years in India soaking up knowledge about Mohandas K. Gandhi’s independence movement. King would travel to India himself two years later, but at the time, he had only read about Gandhi in books.

The two Black pastors — both 28 years old — quickly bonded over their enthusiasm for the Indian leader’s ideas, and King urged Lawson to put them into action in the American South.

Lawson soon led workshops in church basements in Nashville, Tennessee, that prepared John Lewis, Diane Nash, Bernard Lafayette, Marion Barry, the Freedom Riders and many others to peacefully withstand vicious responses to their challenges of racist laws and policies.

Lawson’s lessons led Nashville to become the first major city in the South to desegregate its downtown, on May 10, 1960, after hundreds of well-organized students staged lunch-counter sit-ins and boycotts of discriminatory businesses.

Lawson’s particular contribution was to introduce Gandhian principles to people more familiar with biblical teachings, showing how direct action could expose the immorality and fragility of racist white power structures.

Gandhi said “that we persons have the power to resist the racism in our own lives and souls,” Lawson told the AP. “We have the power to make choices and to say no to that wrong. That’s also Jesus.”

Years later, in 1968, it was Lawson who organized the sanitation workers strike that fatefully drew King to Memphis. Lawson said he was at first paralyzed and forever saddened by King’s assassination.

“I thought I would not live beyond 40, myself,” Lawson said. “The imminence of death was a part of the discipline we lived with, but no one as much as King.”

Still, Lawson made it his life’s mission to preach the power of nonviolent direct action.

“I’m still anxious and frustrated,” Lawson said as he marked the 50th anniversary of King’s death with a march in Memphis. “The task is unfinished.”

Civil rights activist Diane Nash was a 21-year-old college student when she began attending Lawson’s Nashville workshops, which she called life-changing.

“His passing constitutes a very great loss,” Nash said. “He bears, I think, more responsibility than any other single person for the civil rights movement of Blacks being nonviolent in this country.”

James Morris Lawson Jr., was born on Sept. 22, 1928, the son and grandson of ministers, and grew up in Massillon, Ohio, where he became ordained himself as a high school senior.

He told The Tennessean that his commitment to nonviolence began in elementary school, when he told his mother that he had slapped a boy who had used a racial slur against him.

“What good did that do, Jimmy?” his mother asked.

That simple question forever changed his life, Lawson said. He became a pacifist, refusing to serve when drafted for the Korean War, and spent a year in prison as a conscientious objector. The Fellowship of Reconciliation, a pacifist group, sponsored his trip to India after he finished a sociology degree.

Gandhi had been assassinated by then, but Lawson met people who had worked with him and explained Gandhi’s concept of “satyagraha,” a relentless pursuit of Truth, which encouraged Indians to peacefully reject British rule. Lawson then saw how the Christian concept of turning the other cheek could be applied in collective actions to challenge morally indefensible laws.

Lawson was a divinity student at Oberlin College in Ohio when King spoke on campus about the Montgomery bus boycott. King told him, “You can’t wait, you need to come on South now,‘” Lawson recalled in an Associated Press interview.

Lawson soon enrolled in theology classes at Vanderbilt University, while leading younger activists through mock protests in which they practiced taking insults without reacting.

The technique swiftly proved its power at lunch counters and movie theaters in Nashville, where on May 10, 1960, businesses agreed to take down the “No Colored” signs that enforced white supremacy.

“It was the first major successful campaign to pull the signs down,” and it created a template for the sit-ins that began spreading across the South, Lawson said.

Lawson was called on to organize what became the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which sought to organize the spontaneous efforts of tens of thousands of students who began challenging Jim Crow laws across the South.

Angry segregationists got Lawson expelled from Vanderbilt, but he said he never harbored hard feelings about the university, where he returned as a distinguished visiting professor in 2006, and eventually donated a significant portion of his papers.

Lawson earned that theology degree at Boston University and became a Methodist pastor in Memphis, where his wife Dorothy Wood Lawson worked as an NAACP organizer. They moved several years later to Los Angeles, where Lawson led the Holman United Methodist Church and taught at California State University, Northridge and the University of California. They raised three sons, John, Morris and Seth.

Lawson remained active into his 90s, urging younger generations to leverage their power. Eulogizing the late Rep. John Lewis last year, he recalled how the young man he trained in Nashville grew lonely marches into multitudes, paving the way for major civil rights legislation.

“If we would honor and celebrate John Lewis’ life, let us then re-commit our souls, our hearts, our minds, our bodies and our strength to the continuing journey to dismantle the wrong in our midst,” Lawson said.

Loller reported from Nashville and Sainz from Memphis. Associated Press contributors include Michael Warren in Atlanta.

Travis Loller contributed to this report.

University officials said in a news release posted on X, the social medial platform formerly known as Twitter, that Lovell had been suffering from sarcoma, a rare form of cancer that develops in the bones and soft tissues. Lovell and his wife, Amy, were in Rome on a Jesuit formation pilgrimage when he fell ill and was taken to a hospital, according to the news release.

“When you don’t know how much time you have left, you want your days to be impactful and you want to do things that you love,” Lovell said in an interview with the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel in 2022. “And so you ask me, why do I want to work? Well, you know, there are days that are hard, to be honest with you, and the last few years weren’t easy, but I love being on this campus. I love being in our community.”

Marquette officials are planning a prayer vigil for Lovell with details to be announced on the university’s website when they become available, campus officials said in the news release.

“The days ahead will be full of heartbreak,” they said. “In this time of grief and sadness, let us come together as a community linked by faith and love.”

Lovell took over as the university’s 24th president in 2014. Prior to become president he served as chancellor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.

He helped create the Near West Side Partners, a nonprofit focused on economic development, housing and safety in Marquette’s neighborhood in Milwaukee, according to a profile on the Marquette website. He also helped start a number of other initiatives in Milwaukee, including the Midwest Energy Research Consortium, which promotes growth in the energy sector, and the Water Council, which focuses on innovation in fresh water technology.

He served on multiple boards, including the Association of Jesuit Colleges and Universities and the Wisconsin Association of Independent Colleges and Universities. He earned three mechanical engineering degrees, including a doctorate from the University of Pittsburgh.

Milwaukee Bucks head coach Doc Rivers, who played for Marquette in the early 1980s, issued a statement calling Lovell a “gentle giant.”

“Dr. Lovell loved Marquette, and we loved him right back,” Rivers said. “He cared deeply about our students educationally. More importantly, he cared about their growth as people and future leaders in our community. My deepest condolences to his family. Thank you for sharing him with us. We are Marquette.”

Mosley, who went missing on the island of Symi on Wednesday afternoon, was spotted among rocks on a rugged stretch of coast by a party on a boat that included the local mayor and journalists.

Mosley’s wife said her husband took the wrong route on a hike and collapsed just short of reaching a marina in a place where his body couldn’t easily be seen.

“Michael was an adventurous man, it’s part of what made him so special,” Dr. Clare Bailey Mosley said in statement. “It’s devastating to have lost Michael, my wonderful, funny, kind and brilliant husband. We had an incredibly lucky life together. We loved each other very much and were so happy together.”

Mosley, 67, was well known in Britain for his many programs on the BBC, regular appearances on television and radio and his column in the Daily Mail newspaper. He was known outside the U.K. for his 2013 book “The Fast Diet,” which he co-authored with journalist Mimi Spencer. The book proposed the so-called “5:2 diet,” which promised to help people lose weight quickly by minimizing their calorie intake two days a week while eating healthily on the other five.

He subsequently introduced a rapid weight loss program and made a number of films about diet and exercise.

Mosley often pushed his body to extreme lengths to see the effects of his diets and also lived with tapeworms in his guts for six weeks for the BBC documentary “Infested! Living With Parasites.”

Even before the body’s identity was confirmed, tributes poured in for Mosley.

“In person he was very much the sort of figure that you would see on television: immediately likeable, genuinely funny, enthusiastic, he had this innate enthusiasm about life and he was always very generous with his time,” his co-author Spencer told BBC Radio 4. “He never blew his trumpet, he was quite a humble person.”

Tom Watson, former deputy leader of Britain’s Labour Party, called Mosley a hero and said he lost nearly 100 pounds (45 kilograms) following one of the doctor’s diet books.

“It’s hard to describe how upset I am by this news,” Watson said on the social media platform X. “Through courageous, science-based journalism, Michael Mosley has helped thousands of people get well and healthy. I’m one of them.”

Dr. Saleyha Ahsan, who was co-host on “Trust Me, I’m A Doctor,” said Mosley had a talent for putting people at ease and explaining science to a general audience, “not just a niche scientific crowd, but to everyone.”

“Michael’s a national treasure and he’s so personable,” Ahsan told the BBC.

Celebrity chef Jamie Oliver said Mosley’s research and TV shows had served the public well and changed the conversation around health issues.

“What a wonderfully sweet, kind and gentle man he was,” Oliver said on Instagram.

Clare Bailey Mosley thanked the people of the island of Symi, who she said worked tirelessly to find him.

“Some of these people on the island, who hadn’t even heard of Michael, worked from dawn till dusk unasked,” she said. “My family and I have been hugely comforted by the outpouring of love from people from around the world. It’s clear that Michael meant a huge amount to so many of you.”

Lefteris Papakalodoukas, the island’s mayor, told The Associated Press that he was on a boat with journalists when they saw a body some 65 feet (20 meters) above the Agia Marina beach. He said Mosley was lying face-up next to a fence.

“We zoomed with the cameras and saw it was him,” he said.

Ilias Tsavaris, a bar manager at the marina, said he scrambled up the hillside after getting a call from the boat telling him to confirm the sighting.

“When I walked up I saw something like a body,” he said. “You don’t see a dead body everyday, it is not a warzone, it’s summer, you are supposed to have fun and swimming.”

As police officers were retrieving Mosley’s body, one fell on the slope and had to be carried away on a stretcher, local media reported. The body will be taken to the nearby island of Rhodes for autopsy.

Mosley had four children with his wife, who is also an author and health columnist.

Associated Press writer Brian Melley contributed to this report from London.

“The family is devastated,” Greg Anders said. “He was a great pilot and we will miss him terribly.”

William Anders has said the photo was his most significant contribution to the space program, given the ecological philosophical impact it had, along with making sure the Apollo 8 command module and service module worked.

The photograph, the first color image of Earth from space, is one of the most important photos in modern history for the way it changed how humans viewed the planet. The photo is credited with sparking the global environmental movement for showing how delicate and isolated Earth appeared from space.

Arizona Sen. Mark Kelly, who is also a retired NASA astronaut, wrote on the social platform X, “Bill Anders forever changed our perspective of our planet and ourselves with his famous Earthrise photo on Apollo 8. He inspired me and generations of astronauts and explorers. My thoughts are with his family and friends.

A report came in around 11:40 a.m. that an older-model plane crashed into the water and sank near the north end of Jones Island, San Juan County Sheriff Eric Peter said.

Only the pilot was on board the Beech A45 airplane at the time, according to the Federal Aviation Association.

William Anders said in an 1997 NASA oral history interview that he didn’t think the Apollo 8 mission was risk-free but there were important national, patriotic and exploration reasons for going ahead. He estimated there was about one in three chance that the crew wouldn’t make it back and the same chance the mission would be a success and the same chance that the mission wouldn’t start to begin with. He said he suspected Christopher Columbus sailed with worse odds.

He recounted how earth looked fragile and seemingly physically insignificant, yet was home.

“We’d been going backwards and upside down, didn’t really see the Earth or the Sun, and when we rolled around and came around and saw the first Earthrise,” he said. “That certainly was, by far, the most impressive thing. To see this very delicate, colorful orb which to me looked like a Christmas tree ornament coming up over this very stark, ugly lunar landscape really contrasted.”

The National Transportation Safety Board and FAA are investigating the crash.

When Posh retired in 1995, a scholarship fund was created in his name that today has provided more than $1.1 million to 114 high school seniors for college or career training.

“The thing that was remarkable about Ed is that he was totally focused on people — people were more important to him than anything, and made everybody feel special,” said retired Village Links General Manager Matt Pekarek. “Technically, he was a golf pro, but really he was an ambassador.”

Posh, 94, died of natural causes on May 2 at his daughter’s home in West Chicago, said his daughter Melissa. He had lived in Glen Ellyn for 50 years.

Born and raised in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Posh developed a love of golf from his older brother, Jim, and at 13 became a caddy at Saucon Valley Country Club in Bethlehem. He later moved to New Jersey to work as the caddy master at a country club in Haddonfield.

In 1951, Posh joined the Army, building emergency runways for military aircraft in France and Germany, his family said.

After his discharge, he became a caddy master at Brookside Country Club near Bethlehem, and then began working in the winters in Miami, where he met a golf pro named Bill Davis.

Posh followed Davis to a country club in Fort Wayne, Indiana, taking a job as an assistant golf pro. He later worked at St. Charles Country Club and Glen Oak Country Club in Glen Ellyn before being hired as the first pro at the village of Glen Ellyn’s new 18-hole course, Village Links, which opened in 1967.

Under Posh’s leadership, the Village Links developed an extensive program of golf lessons for people of all ages and also hosted tournaments. For Posh, that sometimes entailed working seven days a week during golfing season. He developed the course’s programs for junior players, teaching many young people the fundamentals of golf.

Posh mentored numerous future golf professionals and course managers as well, colleagues said.

“He was a consummate golf pro, even though he was at a public course,” said retired DuPage County Judge Patrick Leston, a former Glen Ellyn resident who serves on the scholarship fund’s board. “He treated everyone as if you were at a private club — he knew everyone’s name and was gracious and was always willing to help.”

Posh retired from the Village Links in 1995, but he stayed active as a retired volunteer for the next quarter-century.

“Early on in his retirement, Ed would take a 7-iron and walk around the golf course and poke the weeds and look for golf balls here or there, and he’d get 10 or 15 balls here or there, and if they were decent, he’d see somebody he knew and leave the balls sitting on the next tee for them,” Pekarek said. “Eventually, people would start to catch on that Ed’s out there walking around. It’s a nothing thing, but it was a huge thing — everything was his way of trying to put a smile on people’s faces and connect with them.”

Posh also stayed involved with the scholarship fund that bears his name. When Posh retired, Leston said, friends and colleagues had wanted to celebrate Posh with a dinner, but he demurred. So then some friends and colleagues proposed a scholarship fund and an annual outing, and Posh agreed to it.

Friends and colleagues helped seed the fund, and each year, the fund has held various golf-oriented fundraising events, including shootouts and a 25th anniversary gala celebration.

“He was the spirit of the golf (course) over there,” said Hubert Buehler of Glen Ellyn, who was president of the fund for 10 years. “People came to play because of him — it was a real community golf course. And he was always concerned about making it affordable for people.”

Pekarek noted that the scholarship fund was a key part of Posh’s volunteer work.

“He’d work two, three, four months during the summer, 30 to 40 hours a week, all on a volunteer basis, organizing the (scholarship) tournament,” Pekarek said.

The fund typically awards scholarships to four high school seniors a year.

A marriage ended in divorce. In addition to his daughter, Posh is survived by five other daughters, Molly Molokie, Margaret, Mindy and Monica, and Meredith Horvath; three sons, Max, Matthew and Mitchell; two stepdaughters, Michelle Pond and Marea Pond; 21 grandchildren; four great-grandchildren; and a sister, Mary Jane Pfeiffer.

Services were held.

Goldsborough is a freelance reporter.

Allen died unexpectedly on Sunday while on vacation with his family in Mexico, the Cowboys said.

A six-time All-Pro who was inducted into the Pro Football of Hall of Fame in 2013, Allen said few words but let his blocking do the talking.

“Larry, known for his great athleticism and incredible strength, was one of the most respected, accomplished offensive linemen to ever play in the NFL,” the Cowboys said Monday. “His versatility and dependability were also signature parts of his career. Through that, he continued to serve as inspiration for many other players, defining what it meant to be a great teammate, competitor and winner.”

Drafted in the second round by the Cowboys out of Division II Sonoma State in 1994 — the year before the last of the franchise’s five Super Bowl titles — Allen once bench-pressed 700 pounds while dumbfounded teammates watched, then mobbed him.

Allen was feared enough among his peers that notorious trash-talker John Randle of the Minnesota Vikings decided to keep to himself when he faced the Cowboys, so as to avoid making Allen mad.

“He never said nothin’,” Nate Newton, one of Allen’s mentors on the Cowboys offensive line, told The Associated Press for its Hall of Fame story on Allen 11 years ago. “Every now and then you’d hear him utter a cuss word or hear him laugh that old funny laugh he had.”

Allen entered the Hall of Fame about a year after his mother died, knowing her presence would have helped him get through a speech after a career spent trying to avoid the spotlight.

“I miss her,” Allen said before going into the hall. “Whenever I’d get nervous or had a big game and got nervous, I’d give her a call and she’d start making me laugh.”

The Cowboys were coming off consecutive Super Bowl wins when they drafted Allen. He was surrounded by Pro Bowl offensive linemen but didn’t take long to get noticed, eventually making 11 Pro Bowls himself.

Late in his rookie season, Allen saved a touchdown by running down Darion Conner when it looked like the New Orleans Saints linebacker had only quarterback Troy Aikman to beat down the sideline.

Most of the rest of Allen’s career was defined by power — first as a tackle, where the Cowboys figured he would be a mainstay, and ultimately as a guard.

“The National Football League is filled with gifted athletes, but only a rare few have combined the size, brute strength, speed and agility of Larry Allen,” the Hall of Fame said in a statement. “What he could do as an offensive lineman often defied logic and comprehension.”

Allen spent his final two seasons closer to home with the San Francisco 49ers. Then, true to his personality as a player, Allen retired to a quiet life in Northern California with his wife and three kids.

“He was deeply loved and cared for by his wife, Janelle — whom he referred to as his heart and soul — his daughters Jayla and Loriana and son, Larry III,” the Cowboys said.

Allen was playing at Butte College when his coach at Sonoma State, Frank Scalercio, discovered him at the junior college. Allen had landed there after attending four high schools in the Los Angeles area in part because his mom moved him around to keep him away from gangs.

Then an assistant for Sonoma State, Scalercio was recruiting another player when he saw Allen throw an opponent to the ground for the first time.

“I kind of forgot about the guy I was actually recruiting,” Scalercio said.

Allen ended up at Sonoma State because his academic progress wasn’t fast enough to get him to Division I, where he probably belonged.

“He could literally beat the will out of his opponents, with many quitting midgame or not dressing at all rather than face him, but that was only on the field,” the Hall of Fame said. “Off it, he was a quiet, gentle giant.”

In retirement, Allen showed up at Sonoma State basketball games — the football program was dropped a couple of years after Allen left — and happily signed autographs and posed for pictures.

“He’s even bigger now than he ever was on campus,” Tim Burrell, a friend of Allen’s, said in 2013. “Everybody loves him.”

Mrs. Robinson’s death was announced by Michelle Obama and other family members in a statement that said “there was and will be only one Marian Robinson. In our sadness, we are lifted up by the extraordinary gift of her life.”

She was a widow and lifelong Chicago resident when she moved to the executive mansion in 2009 to help care for granddaughters Malia and Sasha. In her early 70s, Mrs. Robinson initially resisted the idea of starting over in Washington, and Michelle Obama had to enlist her brother, Craig, to help persuade their mother to move.

“There were many good and valid reasons that Michelle raised with me, not the least of which was the opportunity to continue spending time with my granddaughters, Malia and Sasha, and to assist in giving them a sense of normalcy that is a priority for both of their parents, as has been from the time Barack began his political career,” Mrs. Robinson wrote in the foreword to “A Game of Character,” a memoir by her son, formerly the head men’s basketball coach at Oregon State University.

“My feeling, however, was that I could visit periodically without actually moving in and still be there for the girls,” she said.

Mrs. Robinson wrote that her son understood why she wanted to stay in Chicago but still used a line of reasoning on her that she often used on him and his sister. He asked her to see the move as a chance to grow and try something new. As a compromise, she agreed to move, at least temporarily.

Granddaughters Malia and Sasha were just 10 and 7, respectively, when the White House became home in 2009. In Chicago, Mrs. Robinson had become almost a surrogate parent to the girls during the 2008 presidential campaign. She retired from her job as a bank secretary to help shuttle them around.

At the White House, Mrs. Robinson provided a reassuring presence for the girls as their parents settled into their new roles, and her lack of Secret Service protection made it possible for her to accompany them to and from school daily without fanfare.

“I would not be who I am today without the steady hand and unconditional love of my mother, Marian Shields Robinson,” Michelle Obama wrote in her 2018 memoir, “Becoming.” “She has always been my rock, allowing me the freedom to be who I am, while never allowing my feet to get too far off the ground. Her boundless love for my girls, and her willingness to put our needs before her own, gave me the comfort and confidence to venture out into the world knowing they were safe and cherished at home.”

Mrs. Robinson gave a few media interviews but never to White House press. Aides guarded her privacy, and, as result, she enjoyed a level of anonymity openly envied by the president and first lady. It allowed her to come and go from the White House as often as she pleased on shopping runs around town, to the president’s box at the Kennedy Center and for trips to Las Vegas or to visit her other grandchildren in Portland, Oregon.

She attended some White House events, including concerts, the annual Easter Egg Roll and National Christmas Tree lighting, and some state dinners.

White House residency also opened up the world to Mrs. Robinson, who had been a widow for nearly 20 years when she moved to a room on the third floor of the White House, one floor above the first family. She had never traveled outside the U.S. until she moved to Washington.

Her first flight out of the country was aboard Air Force One in 2009 when the Obamas visited France. She joined the Obamas on a trip to Russia, Italy and Ghana later that year, during which she got to meet Pope Benedict, tour Rome’s ancient Colosseum and view a former slave-holding compound on the African coast. She also accompanied her daughter and granddaughters on two overseas trips without the president: to South Africa and Botswana in 2011, and China in 2014.

Craig Robinson wrote in the memoir that he and his parents doubted whether his sister’s relationship with Barack Obama would last, though Fraser Robinson III and his wife thought the young lawyer was a worthy suitor for their daughter, also a lawyer. Without explanation, Craig Robinson said his mother gave the relationship six months.

Barack and Michelle Obama were married on Oct. 3, 1992.

One of seven children, Marian Lois Shields Robinson was born in Chicago on July 30, 1937. She attended two years of teaching college, married in 1960 and, as a stay-at-home mom, stressed the importance of education to her children. Both were educated at Ivy League schools, each with a bachelor’s degree from Princeton. Michelle Obama also has a law degree from Harvard.

Fraser Robinson was a pump operator for the Chicago Water Department who had multiple sclerosis. He died in 1991.

“He loved everything about the industry,” said his daughter, Lisa Blumberg. “He loved looking at property, he loved negotiating and he loved making deals.”

Philipsborn, 97, died of complications from a massive stroke on May 3 that he suffered while vacationing in Florida, his daughter said. He was a resident of the Streeterville neighborhood.

Born in Chicago, Philipsborn grew up in Glencoe and graduated from New Trier High School. He earned a bachelor’s degree from Lake Forest College in 1950, and he then served in the Merchant Marine during the Korean War.

After his time in the military, Philipsborn joined H.F. Philipsborn & Co., which his father, Herbert, had formed in 1929. He became president in 1966, succeeding his father, who became chairman and stepped back from the business.

Particularly as the Chicago area developed after World War II, the company would serve as a construction lender for various developers.

“He knew if the numbers made sense or not,” said Philipsborn’s nephew, Andrew, who today is president of The Philipsborn Co. “There was so much growth here after the war, with a lot of development going on, and his generation really was part of it.”

Andrew Philipsborn said that into the 1960s and ‘70s, the city still had a number of “old-line, privately held family mortgage banking companies.”

Herbert Philipsborn died in 1969 and the following year his son sold the firm to Illinois Central Industries. In 1981, Thomas  Philipsborn was part of the group that bought the firm back from what at that point was known as IC Industries, giving it its current name, The Philipsborn Co.

Philipsborn was president and chairman of the firm for several more decades.

Gary Chaplin, the former head of U.S. mortgages for Canadian insurance firm Manulife, called Philipsborn “a master at structuring real estate financing to make it successfully work for both the owner and the lender.”

Chaplin also recalled how impressed he was that Philipsborn was willing to introduce Chaplin to several of his large clients.

“This was unique for us, as with two exceptions, this had not happened with other mortgage banking companies representing (us) throughout the U.S.,” Chaplin said. “But he had lived real estate all his life as his father had founded the company, and Tom, as a result, knew a lot about Chicago real estate, past and present.”

Around 2000, Philipsborn stepped back from daily work at his firm, although he remained its chairman. Instead, he began putting together equity partners in real estate deals instead of providing mortgage financing on properties for client developers and investors.

However, Philipsborn continued coming to the office until he was 93 years old, his nephew said. The onset of the COVID-19 pandemic was what ultimately kept him at home, his daughter said.

“He loved his work,” Andrew Philipsborn said. “All these deals were his life.”

Philipsborn served as president and director of the Chicago Mortgage Bankers Association, a director and vice president of the North Dearborn Association, a life trustee at Francis W. Parker School and as a director at Chicago Sinai Congregation.

One of Philipsborn’s major roles at Chicago Sinai was to help the synagogue find property and negotiate the deal to move to where the congregation is located now. The synagogue moved from Hyde Park to its current location at 15 W. Delaware Place on the Near North Side in 1996, his daughter said.

In addition to his daughter and nephew, Philipsborn is survived by his wife of 63 years, Betty; three other daughters, Ellyn McCrea, Anne and Mari; and five grandchildren.

A celebration of life service will be held this summer.

Bob Goldsborough is a freelance reporter.