Wooden

John Wooden always reminded me of Yoda. Maybe it was his wrinkly skin. Or his frail stature. Or the way he made every famous saying sound infinitely wise. At any rate, while I knew he someday must pass, there was little doubt that his wisdom would echo eternally.

In sports, the bottom line is that you have to win. And John Wooden won, and won, and won. He won with small teams dominated by spectacular guard play and magnificently orchestrated full-court presses. He won with big teams dominated by two of the most magnificent centers college basketball has ever witnessed. He captured an NCAA-record 10 national championships. His Bruins once won 88 consecutive games. He was, for several decades, the face of college basketball. He goes down in history as the most successful collegiate coach in history.

But despite all the records and wins, when I think of John Wooden, winning never comes to mind. I think of the teacher, not the coach, concerned with his players’ holistic development as well-rounded individuals, not just basketball players. I think of the dedicated husband, writing a letter to his beloved, deceased wife every month. I think of the classy, graceful humanitarian, true to his roots and principles, completely secure in his being.

I dislike making blanket statements. The ones that contain “greatest” or “all-time” or… “greatest of all-time.” I find it reckless making such absolute, declarative statements. But for John Wooden, one can safely argue that he is the greatest collegiate coach of all-time. And yet, while I suspect Wooden would be proud of such a title, I also think he would rather be described otherwise.

I never had the chance to meet John Wooden. I wasn’t alive to follow his basketball teams. I don’t know what he was like when he was younger. My recollections of Wooden are of just a few years in the twilight of his storied life. But based on these years, if I had to pick one word to describe Wooden, I wouldn’t pick humble or successful or modest or prepared or wise or wizard, even though he was all these traits and more. I’d say he was sharp.

John Wooden seemed like someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. He seemed like someone you could relate to, would WANT to relate to, no matter your background. Who could simultaneously identify with you and also enlighten you. The world, such a mystery and challenge to most of us, was clear and lucid to him. And I don’t say that because he sold a bunch of books, or had a bunch of famous sayings, or experienced a bunch of success. I say that because he seemed to know EXACTLY where he fit in with the world, and he was completely comfortable with it. He knew his strengths, his wisdom, his influence. He also knew his weaknesses, his voids, his limitations. He was secure acknowledging both.

I always thought John Wooden should make it to 100 years old. I remember thinking this four years ago, when he was sharp and healthy and 96. I thought he was a lock. And then his health deteriorated, he took a nasty fall, and it wasn't a certainty. Life changes quickly. And then he was 99 and he gracefully departed.

I don't know why I felt like 100 was so appropriate for him. Maybe it's that UCLA Marketing "First to 100" campaign getting to me -- it would just be too fitting for the ultimate Bruin to hit that special age. For a man so numerically accomplished, 100 years would be the perfect capstone.

But John Wooden probably didn’t think the way I did. I'm sure he could have cared less about getting to 100, and I'm sure if you asked him, he'd probably say "it's the quality of those years lived, not the quantity of those years survived" or something equally Yoda-like. He knew, better than I, that his time had come. As an alum, I am so proud that John Wooden was a Bruin. But as humans, we are so lucky that John Wooden shared his wisdom with all of us.