My Personal Best

by Wooden, John R. ; Jamison, Steve.

  My second season at UCLA saw more improvement—24–7 overall and champions of the Pacific Coast Conference —and produced

  UCLA’s first-ever invitation to the NCAA

  basketball tournament. The excitement this

  Before casually discounting the

  created in fans is hard to overstate. My first

  potential of any individual or

  twenty-four months at UCLA had seen a

  team, give them a chance to

  succeed—give them your

  remarkable turnaround in the university’s

  sincere belief and full support.

  basketball program. The Bruins hadn’t put two

  winning seasons back-to-back since 1930 and

  1931. No subsequent national championship gave me more satisfaction than what occurred in that first year at UCLA. Everyone said the Bruins couldn’t win, but they did—and the next year they did it again.

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  That first season also produced perhaps the most glowing and over-written review I’ve ever received. The 1948–49 yearbook, the Daily Bruin, said the following: “Taking over only an average group of boys, Jovial John proceeded to bamboozle the world of sports by producing the scrappiest aggregation of lanky lems ever to set foot on a Bruin hardboard-patch.” Even this hyperbole, however, didn’t change the fact MY PERSONAL BEST

  that Nell and I still had a strong yearning for the Midwest.

  YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN

  As it turned out, Purdue had a yearning for me. My mentor, Piggy Lambert, had retired and the school was offering his position as Boilermaker’s head basketball coach for nearly twice my UCLA salary, a new car each year, a better gymnasium, a perpetual five-year contract

  with built-in pay raises, a country club membership, a home on campus, a large life-insurance policy, and a full-time assistant coach—something UCLA would not provide. It was almost unimaginable what Purdue offered.

  I hurried to a meeting with Athletic Director Wilbur Johns and Bill Ackerman, the graduate manager of the Associated Students Union—

  my boss—and politely requested that I be allowed to forgo the third and final year of my UCLA coaching contract. Wilbur and Bill

  reminded me that it was John Wooden who had insisted on a three-year deal. They had reluctantly agreed to this demand with the expectation that I would fulfill my part of the bargain.

  Nell loved our games, but

  eventually they took a toll.

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  Of course, they also liked the turnaround UCLA had made in basketball. From their perspective, changing coaches was ill-advised. From my perspective, they were being self-serving at my expense. I would never sign another three-year contract again. Deeply disappointed, I reported back to Nell and promised we’d simply wait one year until my contract was up, then take the offer from Purdue and move back home MY PERSONAL BEST

  where we belonged.

  One year later Purdue didn’t make an offer. Nor did Minnesota or anyone else. By then it really didn’t matter, because the family was starting to like California—Nancy Ann and Jimmy didn’t miss freezing weather and had new friends, Nell enjoyed seeing the kids happy and even tried some golf, and I increasingly saw basketball talent all around me in Los Angeles.

  California was going to be our permanent home.

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  GLORIOUS WITHOUT GLORY

  THE EDUCATION OF A COACH

  I believe the truth of this axiom: “It’s what you learn, after you know it all, that counts.” But I also believe your knowledge and experience reaches a point, in time, when you know what you’re doing—or

  should.

  I taught basketball at UCLA for fifteen years before the Bruins won a national championship in 1964. This decade and a half gets little attention, now or then, but it was a most valuable period because it was when my coaching and teaching reached a maturity. The foundation for ten NCAA national basketball championships was put in place during this time as I refined and expanded on what my father and three mentors had given me. (Of course, I also tried to learn from coaches on the other side of the court—Kentucky’s Adolph Rupp, California’s Pete Newell, and others.)

  Coach Warriner at Centerton Grade School taught me that arro-

  gance, selfishness, and envy are unacceptable in a player. This was my introduction to the concept of team spirit—the absolute necessity for 101

  Copyright © 2004 by John Wooden and Steve Jamison. Click here for terms of use.

  an individual to put the group’s welfare ahead of his or her own interests (such as an interest in shooting all the time). Like Mr. Warriner, I used the power of the bench on fellows who were slow learners—just as he used it on me. I wanted everyone, starters and nonstarters alike, to understand that “the star of the team is the team.”

  THE BENCH HELPS SIDNEY BECOME AN ALL-AMERICAN

  As a sophomore in 1969, Sidney Wicks could have been a starting forward for virtually any school in the country. But he was not a starter at UCLA, because he was having difficulty with my concept of team play.

  He was too concentrated on

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  having the ball and shooting

  before he’d look for the pass.

  This is damaging because,

  among other reasons, team-

  mates soon stop working to

  get open for a shot, as they

  MY PERSONAL BEST

  know they won’t get the

  ball. It then becomes every

  man for himself, and the

  team is destroyed. Thus Sid-

  ney wasn’t a starter.

  He would say to me,

  “C’mon Coach, you know

  I’m better than either start-

  ing forward.” I’d nod and reply, “I know it, you know it, and they know it. So it’s a shame they’re going to remain starters until you get the hang of playing as part of a team.”

  Sidney did get the hang of it by his junior year and became the best all-around forward in the country for the next two seasons, an All-American both years, and a crucial part of two national championship teams in 1970 and 1971. The bench, in my opinion, helped make this possible.

  DISCIPLINE WITHOUT ANGER

  I was comfortable being a disciplinarian, but did not want to be an ogre.

  Therefore, when discipline was required, I tried to dole it out in a man-103

  ner that was firm but fair, with no emotionalism or anger attached.

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  Anger prevents proper thinking and makes you vulnerable.

  For example, Bill Walton would argue vehemently that he had a right to wear long hair. I would remind Bill—very firmly, but without anger—that I also had a right—namely, the right to choose who was on the UCLA team. Bill would think about it for a moment, then get on his bicycle and pedal down to the Westwood barbershop for a trim.

  GLORIOUS WITHOUT GLOR

  (People have asked me if I would have suspended Bill for long hair. My answer: “Bill thought so.”)

  It never got personal, because the purpose of criticism or discipline is not to punish, embarrass, or ridicule, but to correct and improve. It is very difficult to antagonize and teach at the same time. For this reason I avoided criticizing a player or the team at the end of practice,

  because the effect lingers and is magnified. I violated this only on occasions when a serious jolt was called for: “A team must have leadership and I am the leader of this team. You needn’t follow me blindly, but I do require that you follow me.” Sometimes the youngsters needed to think about that message overnight.

  I began concluding each practice on a fun note by running a drill that players liked. For example, I might designate one young man to make five free throws in a row at different baskets before the team was dismissed to the showers. The whole group would gather around to hoot and holler depending on the shooter’s results. Of course, it also allowed that player to practice free throws under pressure,
and I always picked someone who needed practice.

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  Later, when the dunk was outlawed, I allowed five minutes of dunking at the end of practice. The players had as much fun as if they were stealing cookies out of the coach’s cookie jar because they knew I deplored dunking (and still do). All of this was an upbeat finish to our two-hour practices, which were so exhausting that occasionally players would tell me the next day, “Coach, I was too tired to change clothes MY PERSONAL BEST

  before I went to bed last night.” I was hoping this also meant they were too tired to cause any mischief.

  LITTLE THINGS MAKE BIG THINGS HAPPEN

  Coach Glenn Curtis’s disassembling of the game of basketball into small parts and perfecting the parts increasingly became a fetish with me. I saw that the identification and perfection of relevant details—the fun-

  damentals that Coach Curtis and Coach Lambert practiced but others neglected or thought foolish—were major factors in outscoring other teams. I grew to love seeing little things done well, and I believe it is probably the greatest secret to success.

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  GLORIOUS WITHOUT GLOR

  I was enthusiastic about beginning another season—my fifth—at UCLA.

  For instance, on the first day of practice I personally showed players how to put on their sweat socks to prevent blisters. This may sound trivial or foolish, but a blister causes pain, pain causes a distraction, and a distraction can cause a turnover. Socks, put on correctly, may prevent a turnover, which in turn may win a game. What if that game is for the national championship?

  LITTLE THINGS DONE WELL IS PROBABLY THE GREATEST

  SECRET TO SUCCESS.

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  I don’t like sloppiness on or off the court. Players not only were well-groomed and dressed neatly on road trips, but also put towels in the towel basket and not on the floor, picked up soap and turned off their showers, and put gum and candy wrappers in the wastebasket. I insisted on this because sloppiness in one area breeds sloppiness in another.

  Equally important, I did not want a player to think student managers MY PERSONAL BEST

  were there to pick up after them. Believing you’re so important that a fellow student should follow behind and clean up your mess contributes to an unhealthy ego. Controlling the egos of those under your supervision is one of a leader’s great challenges, but it is crucial to creating a strong team of selfless individuals eager to sacrifice for the group.

  I felt there was a connection between picking up after yourself and a healthy ego. It’s a small thing, but if you do enough small things right, big things can happen.

  TEACHING X’S AND O’S

  This same obsession with perfecting details—that is, reducing mistakes and eliminating sloppiness—was applied to teaching players, individually and as a unit, the hundreds of specific interrelated

  If you do enough

  movements required for correct passing, pivoting,

  small things right, big

  dribbling, screening, shooting, blocking, receiving,

  things can happen.

  and more. The formula I used to teach this is uncom-

  plicated: explanation, demonstration, imitation—correction, when necessary—and then repetition, repetition, repetition, and more repetition.

  “That’s good. Now do it again, faster,” was my constant call during practice, because I wanted to see near-perfect execution coupled with the most intense hustle. Some players told me the drills were often faster than actual games. The drills were usually no longer than ten minutes 107

  each, because players would lose intensity after that amount of time. I Y

  wanted them to be mentally aggressive —fresh—in their execution.

  (Drills were no shorter than five minutes each, because it required at least that much time for the lesson to have any effect.)

  All drills—except free throws—had running as a by-product,

  whether it was shooting, playing defense, or rebounding. This was my GLORIOUS WITHOUT GLOR

  method of conditioning players, rather than having them run laps or up and down steps tediously. If shooting or defending was involved, they didn’t mind running.

  INFORMATION ON THE RUN

  Like Piggy Lambert, I moved up and down the practice court shouting out instructions and information to individual players—what to do and

  how to do it—rarely addressing the whole team, but instead one, two, or three players at a time.

  There was no chitchat, no banter, no small talk. I did not hand out praise gratuitously; however, I praised nonstarters more than starters (nonstarters need encouragement, while starters are getting plenty off the court). And I rarely praised scorers in front of others, but openly complimented players who did the less glamorous tasks—rebounding, passing, blocking. I conducted practice in an intense, businesslike, and serious manner without being overly stern, grave, or sour. I wanted players to have fun without being funny.

  Finally, I tolerated no horseplay during a practice, because the way you practice is the way you play. It wastes precious time, distracts oth-108

  ers, and creates a lackadaisical environment.

  METICULOUS ORGANIZATION

  Organization, which I define as knowing what must be done and doing it in the allotted time, became a strength of mine. It resulted, I believe, MY PERSONAL BEST

  from necessity—throughout most of my career I held numerous jobs simultaneously. I had to learn how to budget my time or I’d run out of it. Additionally, teaching English at Dayton High School and South Bend Central had forced me to learn how to use each minute of the hour very efficiently.

  So I started planning practices down to the exact minute on three-by-five-inch cards and in notebooks, so there was never any standing around waiting for something to happen. Planning the practice took longer than the practice itself. I would keep my notes and refer back to

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  GLORIOUS WITHOUT GLOR

  This is my first drawing of the Pyramid of Success, which I took with me to California.

  them from one year to the next. They showed me how not to waste time. I had 120 minutes to conduct practice, and each minute had value to me and our team. In order to maximize our short time together, my assistant coaches also had to know exactly what they were doing—and they did: Denny Crum, Gary Cunningham, Jerry Norman, Frank

  Arnold, Doug Sale, Ed Powell, and more.

  I adopted and modified Coach Curtis’s use of poems, and tacked maxims and mottos, precepts and worthy phrases on the bulletin board:

  “Discipline yourself and others won’t have to,” “Respect every opponent, but fear none,” “The best way to improve your team is to improve yourself,” “Do not mistake activity for achievement,” “It is amazing how much we can accomplish when no one cares who gets the credit,”

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  and “Time spent getting even would be better spent getting ahead.”

  Some might say these are corny expressions, but I believe the messages they contain are true and have a positive impact on those who read them.

  MY PERSONAL BEST

  TOURNAMENT TROUBLES

  During those early years, even though UCLA won the conference or division title six times, we lost in the first round of the NCAA tournament in each of our three appearances—1950, 1952, 1956. This disturbed me because the Bruins seemed to play at a different and lower level.

  I gradually—too gradually—recognized that I was the source of the problem. My preparation for a tournament game was hurting our team—new plays were added, practices were even more rigorous, and I tried to work everyone into the rotation.

  DISCIPLINE YOURSELF AND OTHERS

  WON’T HAVE TO. RESPECT EVERY OPPO-

  NENT, BUT FEAR NONE. THE BEST WAY

  TO IMPROVE YOUR TEAM IS TO IMPROVE

  YOURSELF. DO NOT MISTAKE ACTIVITY

  FOR ACHIEVEMENT. IT IS AMAZING HOW

&nbs
p; MUCH WE CAN ACCOMPLISH WHEN NO

  ONE CARES WHO GETS THE CREDIT. TIME

  SPENT GETTING EVEN WOULD BE BETTER

  SPENT GETTING AHEAD.

  But by 1962, important adjustments had been made. I began concentrating just on those things that got us into the tournament—

  adding nothing new. I stopped overworking players, so they’d be fresh.

  I also focused my attention on those young men who were going to play the majority of minutes in the tournament games. These were crucial additions to my coaching that occurred before 1962 and our first trip to the Final Four.

  COACH LAMBERT’S TEAM UNITY

  Most important, I shared Coach Lambert’s belief in teaching young men how to play as a team, to perceive themselves as a unit and be selfless in 112

  their sacrifice to it: “The strength of the pack is the wolf and the strength of the wolf is the pack.”

  UCLA team members were taught that teammates were responsible for their success: “It takes ten hands to make a basket.” They were instructed that whenever a Bruin scored, that player was to give a nod or a wink to the assisting teammate. One player asked, “Coach MY PERSONAL BEST

  Wooden, what if he isn’t looking at me?” I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be looking.”

  Very seldom was a player allowed to have a basketball to himself during warm-ups or practice shooting. Basketball is not a solo game, and shooting baskets alone creates the false impression that it is. Also for this reason, I viewed managers as full members of the team, just as those players who got little actual playing time were UCLA Bruins and not subs, benchwarming Bruins, or second-stringers.

  There was no “first” team or “second” team. A team begins to dete-riorate when the leader allows some of its members to be viewed as second- and third-class citizens by others. There were starters and nonstarters, yes, but there were no class divisions associated with this.

  In fact, I instructed those on the bench to use this time productively and study what those in the game were doing. They were also told to “be prepared, because if your chance comes and you’re not ready, it may not come again.”