John Wooden

It was past midnight when the I-phone on my hotel nightstand began to vibrate. I had a text from my daughter telling me that John Wooden was hospitalized in grave condition. She is too young to have experienced Coach Wooden’s half-century heyday, but she knows me well enough to know I would want to be awakened by such news. A few minutes ago, I learned of his passing.

I was lucky enough to know Coach Wooden. We weren't close -- occasional business associates. Since we first met around 1990, we saw each other no more than 10 times. But he always treated me like a friend. Invariably, he greeted me warmly, asked about my family and listened as much as he spoke. More revealing is the fact that he behaved as if we were equals though I knew we were not. Our days together were school days for me and he was my professor. I learned from listening to him, from observing him, from chatting with him and from reflecting on our time together.

I learned from his textbook. I loved the quotes ... “Be quick but don’t hurry”. “Do not let what you can’t do interfere with what you can do”. “Failure is not fatal. Failure to change can be.”

As he shared his famous Pyramid of Success with youngsters, jocks and corporate executives, I would marvel while he took the same basic speech and used cadence, emphasis and pace to tailor it to that day’s audience. Those who heard it emerged with invaluable lessons from such diverse sources as Lincoln, Cervantes and Mrs. Nell Wooden in addition to the “Wizard of Westwood”. He masterfully blended insider tales from championship seasons with Midwestern parables and literary references. Whatever the audience, his powerful message was flawlessly delivered with a self-reliant, self-deprecating spiritualism.

One of his famous quotes suggests that adversity reveals character. In my case, it was my adversity that revealed his character. As a young executive, I was assigned to pick up the great man at the San Diego airport. When a colleague and I arrived at baggage claim, we were horrified to learn his flight had been canceled. He was due on stage in less than three hours, so we drove back to the hotel to tell the senior execs their keynote speaker would not be coming. But just as we pulled our rental car in to its space, Coach Wooden pulled in a few spaces away. Conscious of his obligation, he had driven from his L.A. area home to make sure nobody went home disappointed. He was 81 then; several months removed from a hip replacement. I am grateful to him to this day.

As we drove together another evening he talked to me about a mutual acquaintance – former NFL coach George Allen. He shared a story of his gentle tweaking of Coach Allen at an event at which they shared top billing. When the no-nonsense Allen told his nodding corporate audience that he “demanded 110% from his players”, Coach Wooden raised his hand and asked, “What happens if you don’t get it? Because I’ve been hoping for just 100% my whole career and I haven’t seen it yet.” He turned toward me and laughed a little as he tried to describe the icy stare he got in return. It was my inside peek at the man. I was lucky to get a few; each one respectful and none self-aggrandizing.

While I cherished my brief time in his company, I certainly learned more about him from those who knew him best. Bill Walton first introduced me to his former coach. To the casual observer, the two Hall-of-Famers have little in common beyond their devotion to UCLA basketball. But the mentor’s effect on his protege was obvious to anyone who spent time with both men. They both look you in the eye. They both listen carefully to stories they’ve likely heard hundreds of times previously. Each man calls you by name and lets you know he is grateful for your fellowship.

Once I saw the two together with a group of high schoolers. I still laugh when I recall the Coach asking the group, “What is the first rule of rebounding?” As enthusiastically and immediately as any of the kids, Bill shouted, “Assume every shot will miss, Coach!”

The last few times I endeavored to see Coach Wooden, he was not up to the task. He had agreed to be interviewed for a book I am writing on the early days of professional basketball (before becoming a coach, the young John Wooden played professionally for a barnstorming unit known as the Indianapolis Kautskys). His son, Jim, tried several times to set up a breakfast meeting, but a cold, a virus, and the wear and tear of 99 years got in the way. I was terribly disappointed for myself, but flabbergasted that he was trying to do me a favor that was so clearly not in his best interest.

I wanted him to be a part of my book, but as I write this I realize he already is. I should have known you can’t tell the story of basketball without John Wooden. Among those we have interviewed, John Isaacs, a member of the legendary New York Rens in the thirties, used words like “tough” and “rugged” to describe his opponent. Willie Naulls told how, in 1956, his UCLA coach had the entire team sleep on cots in the boiler room of a Kentucky hotel rather than separate the black and white student-athletes. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar called him “special” and “unique” and gave credit to his coach for inspiring him to graduate college with honors in 1968. The tales and the words may have differed, but the person they described did not. A gentleman. A teacher. A man of extraordinary principle, remarkable humility and unwavering loyalty.

Those who knew him best will reveal the real John Wooden in days ahead. I can only share my brushes with someone I admired greatly. I have always believed a man should not have a hero. Doing so limits possibilities and diminishes oneself. Many, many times I’ve told friends and family, “If I had a hero, it would be John Wooden.” Today, however, I will make an exception or perhaps simply admit the truth. My hero passed away today after a long and remarkable life. Godspeed Coach Wooden.