It was February. 1997.
There was no way I belonged where I was. Toes on the baseline. Butt on a first row floor seat. Right next to the visitor’s basket. Eyes on the palace known as Pauley Pavilion.
Before me, the likes of Charles O’Bannon, Jelani McCoy and Toby Bailey warmed up for the UCLA Bruins, while Trajan Langdon, Jeff Capel, Steve Wojciechowski and Canadian Greg Netwon did the same for the Duke Blue Devils
13,477 souls waited in anticipation for the tip-off between these two storied college basketball powers. The throng otherwise known as the Bruins student section levitated as one. Thousands of bear-pawed faces exulted in unison, as the crowd whipped into a frenzied anticipation for what would become a UCLA victory.
But suddenly, it stopped. Not gradually. Not due to a referees whistle. Not because of an event crew rolling out some props. For 13,476 of those souls that day in Pauley, the cue was automatic. The cue was expected, yet unsure. The cue was climatic, yet quiet.
For the 13,477th (me)… it wasn’t so natural. I was the only person in the entire building left cheering when I realized the rest of the mob had stopped issuing guttural sounds, every cheerleader had loosened her Vaseline inspired smile, every band member had exhaled as one at that precise moment.
It was all in honour of spectator 13,478.
I don’t recall if the players stopped warming up, but if they had kept running and dribbling the hardwood had become a silencer. What I do recall is my colleague (who worked at UCLA) gently nudging me to attention.
It wasn’t a moment of silence. It was a lifetime moment. John Wooden. The Wizard of Westwood. The creator of the Pyramid. The John Wooden was making his way to his seat.
Down the stairs he came and I am sure I detected an angelic ray of light off his left shoulder.
Eighty-six years after he was born in Martinsville Indiana, Wooden looked as spry and fit as a man half his age. The architect of ten NCAA men’s basketball championships, including an unbelievable of seven in a row, didn’t so much walk to his seat as he did float.
Students one-fifth his age demonstrated unprecedented respect, as not a word was spoken. Not a breath taken. Until Coach had taken his seat.
On May 26th, 2010 John Wooden took his last breath, dying just months before his 100th birthday. On his deathbed he had his son shave him and find his glasses, just minutes before he died, so he would be ready to greet his late wife Nellie. Despite her death some twenty-five years previous, Wooden continued a lifelong habit of writing the only woman he had ever dated, a love letter on the 21st of each month.
I never got any closer to Wooden than that February day over a decade ago. But his greatness made him one of the coaching giants I have studied throughout my life.
Wooden died the way he lived. Meticulous. Prepared. Committed.
Angelic to the end.