Davis Seth - Wooden: a coachs life

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For my teachers

Zachary, Noah, and Gabriel

C ONTENTS

Ive always said I wish all my really good friends in coaching would win one national championship. And those I dont think highly of, I wish they would win several.

JOHN WOODEN

PROLOGUE

The Den

The first thing you noticed were the books. Big books, little books, picture books, childrens books, art books, religious books, coaching books, sports books, fiction books, science books. Before I walked through the door, they were there to greet me in tall, neat piles in the front hallway. The books were stacked on floors, lined up on tables, piled on desks, jammed into bookcases. The apartment was barely two thousand square feet, yet it seemed that most of it was covered by something that could be read.

John Wooden was careful not to trip over the books as he made his way to his favorite easy chair in the den. Another dozen or so stood on the floor beside the chair, lined up as if on a shelf. The coffee table that sat in front of the television was likewise covered, a source of irritation for a man with a compulsive need for order. Organization was one of my strengths for a long time, but now just look at that table with all that stuff on it, he said as he invited me to sit on the couch. I asked Wooden how many of the books in that room he had read. Maybe half, he replied. But Ive browsed them all.

It was September 2006. Wooden was not quite ninety-six years old. Even at his advanced age, he was still a student of the world, eager to collect one more crumb of wisdom that he could dispense to the next friend, interviewer, former player, or stranger who came calling. Though his eyes were not as good as they used to be, and though he tired easily, this old widower still turned to books during those rare, quiet hours when he didnt have a visitor or the phone wasnt ringing. Besides keeping him company in the present, they also served as a tether to his past, a dog-eared monument to the person who influenced him more than any other: his father, Joshua Hugh Wooden.

Hugh, as he was known, loved reading, both to himself and to his children. Though he did not have any formal education past high school, he was so facile with the English language that when he did crossword puzzles, he invented ways to make them more challenging. For instance, hed do it in a spiral form until hed end up putting the last letter right in the middle of it, said Billy Wooden, Johns younger brother. After a hard days work, Hugh loved nothing more than to sit down, crack open the Bible or another book, and read poetry to his four sons by the light of an oil lamp.

I can just see my dad as I see you, if I close my eyes, Wooden said, doing just that. He channeled Hugh as he recited: By the shores of Gitche Gumee, / by the shining Big-Sea-Water, / stood the wigwam of Nokomis, / daughter of the moon Nokomis. Upon completing the verse by Longfellow, Wooden opened his eyes. We had no electricity, no running water. He would read to us from the scriptures practically every night. For some reason, of all the poems he read, thats the only one I can just picture him doing.

When he laid down his books, however, Hugh did not have a lot to say. He tried to get his ideas across, maybe not in so many words, but by action. He walked it, John said. Hugh didnt lecture his boys so much as he sprinkled seeds along their paths. When John graduated from the eighth grade, Hugh handed his son a small card upon which he had written his Seven-Point Creed. John later carried that piece of paper in his wallet until it wore out, whereupon he rewrote Hughs words on a fresh card. After he retired from coaching basketball at UCLA, John had the creed printed up on slick plastic cards and handed them out so others could plant Hughs seeds into their wallets as well.

The first of the seven points paraphrased a line from Hamlet : Be true to yourself. Number four read, Drink deeply from good books. So John drank. As a young boy growing up in Indiana, he dove into the Leatherstocking tales and Tom Swift series. His favorite teachers at Martinsville High School were his English teachers. When he attended Purdue University, he became close with Martha Miller, an elderly librarian. Once, when he was coaching basketball at UCLA, Wooden was so taken by the enthusiasm evinced by a guest lecturer that he wandered into Powell Library to read more on the topic. He devoured Zane Greys westerns and Leo Buscaglias motivationals. Though his all-time favorite book was The Robe by Lloyd Douglas, his interest was truly piqued by books about his favorite historical figuresWinston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, Mother Teresa. He lost count of how many books on those last two he had received as gifts.

Then there were the poets. Dickens, Yeats, Tennyson, Poe, Byron, Shakespeare. Especially Shakespeare. In college, Wooden spent an entire semester studying Macbeth , followed by another semester just on Hamlet . His favorite sportswriter was Grantland Rice, who penned many of his columns in verse. Besides being the coauthor of nearly two dozen books, including four childrens books, Wooden was himself a prolific amateur poet. An idea would strike him on his morning walk, and he would come home and scrawl some doggerel. He watched John Glenn orbit the Earth and Neil Armstrong walk on the moon, and he wrote poems about how those events made him feel. He set a goal of writing one hundred poems and assembling them in a compendium for his family. He structured the book into five tidy parts that reflected his love of balance: twenty poems each on family, faith, patriotism, nature, and fun. Even when he was well into his nineties, Wooden could still recite scores of poems from memory.

During the final years of his life, Wooden received countless visitors in that modest, book-strewn den. In between tales of championships won and players coached, as he recounted the fascinating twists and turns of his long life, Wooden would invariably bring the conversation back to the man who raised him. When he closed his eyes and recited Longfellow to me, his mind was transported back to the farm. But if it felt like a full-circle moment, it really wasnt. You cant circle back to a place you never left.

That, in essence, is the story of John Woodens life, a quintessentially American tale that spans nearly a century. More than anyone else, he could appreciate how his story neatly divides into four balanced seasons. During the spring, our protagonist takes root on his familys spare midwestern farm. He alights as a young adult in a glamorous town by the Pacific, reaches prodigious heights of fame and glory in middle age, and derives warmth from relationships old and new that sustain him during a long, peaceful winter. Like so many great narratives, the accepted version, the one Wooden himself told, often diverged from fact, as the myth overtook the man. But when all the glorification is stripped away, the person at the center of our tale remains very much the same boy who was planted in the Indiana soil at the turn of the twentieth century. All those friends, interviewers, players, and strangers who came to that den the way I did, we all wanted to know the same thing: How did you do it? He could never make the answer clear enough, perhaps because it was too simple for a complicated time. Everyone wanted the old mans secrets, but he had no secrets, only seeds. For all the things that John Wooden accomplishedas a player, a coach, and most of all, a teacherhe never forgot his roots, or the man who planted them.