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On
the 21st of the
month, the best man
I know will do what
he always does on
the 21st of the
month. He'll sit
down and pen a love
letter to his best
girl. He'll say how
much he misses her
and loves her and
can't
wait to see her
again.
Then he'll fold it
once, slide it in a
little envelope and
walk into his
bedroom. He'll go to
the stack of love
letters sitting
there on her pillow,
untie the yellow
ribbon, place the
new one on top and
tie the ribbon
again. The stack
will be 180 letters
high then, because
the 21st will be 15
years to the day
since Nellie, his
beloved wife of 53
years, died.
In her memory, he
sleeps only on his
half of the bed,
only on his pillow,
only on top of the
sheets, never
between, with just
the old bedspread
they shared to keep
him warm.
There's never been a
finer man in
American sports than
John Wooden, or a
finer coach. He won
10 NCAA basketball
championships at
UCLA, the last in
1975. Nobody has
ever come within six
of him.
He won 88 straight
games between
January 30, 1971,
and January 17,
1974. Nobody has
come within 42
since.
So, sometimes, when
the Basketball
Madness gets to be
too much -- too many
players trying to
make Sports Center,
too few players
trying to make
assists, too few
coaches willing to
be mentors, too many
freshmen with
out-of-wedlock kids,
too few freshmen who
will stay in school
long enough to
become men -- I like
to go see Coach
Wooden.
I visit him in his
little condo in
Encino, 20 minutes
northwest of Los
Angeles, and hear
him say things like
"Gracious sakes
alive!" and tell
stories about
teaching "Lewis" the
hook shot. Lewis
Alcindor, that
is...who became
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
There has never been
another coach like
Wooden, quiet as an
April snow and
square as a game of
checkers; loyal to
one woman, one
school, one way;
walking around
campus in his
sensible shoes and
Jimmy Stewart
morals.
He'd spend a half
hour the first day
of practice teaching
his men how to put
on a sock. "Wrinkles
can lead to
blisters," he'd
warn. These huge
players would sneak
looks at one another
and roll their eyes.
Eventually, they'd
do it right. "Good,"
he'd say. "And now
for the other foot."
Of the 180 players
who played for him,
Wooden knows the
whereabouts of 172.
Of course, it's not
hard when most of
them call, checking
on his health,
secretly hoping to
hear some of his
simple life lessons
so
that they can write
them on the lunch
bags of their kids,
who will roll their
eyes.
"Discipline
yourself, and others
won't need to,"
Coach would say.
"Never lie, never
cheat, never steal,"
and "Earn the right
to be proud and
confident."
If you played for
him, you played by
his rules: Never
score without
acknowledging a
teammate. One word
of profanity, and
you're done for the
day. Treat your
opponent with
respect.
He believed in
hopelessly
out-of-date stuff
that never did
anything but win
championships. No
dribbling behind the
back or through the
legs. "There's no
need," he'd say.
No UCLA basketball
number was retired
under his watch.
"What about the
fellows who wore
that number before?
Didn't they
contribute to the
team?" he'd say.
No long hair, no
facial hair "They
take too long to
dry, and you could
catch cold leaving
the gym," he'd say.
That one drove his
players bonkers.
One day, All-America
center Bill Walton
showed up with a
full beard. "It's my
right," he insisted.
Wooden asked if he
believed that
strongly. Walton
said he did.
"That's good, Bill,"
Coach said. "I
admire people who
have strong beliefs
and stick by them, I
really do. We're
going to miss you."
Walton shaved it
right then and
there. Now Walton
calls once a week to
tell Coach he loves
him.
It's always too soon
when you have to
leave the condo and
go back out into the
real world, where
the rules are so
much grayer and the
teams so much
worse.
As Wooden shows you
to the door, you
take one last look
around. The framed
report cards of his
great-grandkids, the
boxes of jelly beans
peeking out from
under the favorite
wooden chair, the
dozens of pictures
of Nellie.
He's almost 90 now.
You think a little
more hunched over
than last time.
Steps a little
smaller. You hope
it's not the last
time you see him. He
smiles. "I'm not
afraid to die," he
says. "Death is my
only chance to be
with her again."
Problem is, we still
need him here.
"If you can read
this, thank a
teacher."
"If you can read it
in English, thank a
soldier"
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