Twelve games later we didn’t survive —losing to Notre Dame in a game that snapped our 88-game winning streak. Could we have won?
Maybe. With three and half minutes remaining, UCLA led 70–59. We did not score another point in the game, committed four turnovers, and
I shouted at the referee,
“What kind of a call was that?!” He answered,
“They liked it at the other end.”
missed three tip-ins in the f inal six seconds. Notre Dame deserved to win and did, 71–70.
Then in the 1974 NCAA Final Four, we faced North Carolina State, a team we had easily defeated earlier in the season, 84–66. Now we lost, 80–77, in a double-overtime game that was ours to win. We did not.
Earlier in that same tournament, Dayton took us to triple overtime before we f inally pulled it out. Dayton had no business taking us to a single overtime.
However, by almost any measurement, Bill and his teammates had a good year—a 26–4 record, a conference title, and a trip to the Final 176
MY PERSONAL BEST
There was a no-dunk rule during Bill Walton’s college years. Subsequently, what he did under the basket was graceful and beautiful.
Four before losing to North Carolina
It is never simply a case of win or
State, the eventual champion.
lose, because I do not demand
But I had disappointment in the 1974
victory. The significance of the score
is secondary to the importance of
season, not because of close wins or
finding out how good you can be.
losses or the 88-game winning streak
being stopped by Notre Dame, but rather why these things occurred: the standard of success I believe in, and taught, had eroded within the team.
WHAT COUNTS
For me it is never simply a case of win or lose, because I do not demand victory. What I demand—and that’s exactly the word—is that each 177
player expend every available ounce of energy to achieve his personal ON
best, to attain competitive greatness as I def ine it. Victory may be the TLA
by-product, but the signif icance of the score is secondary to the impor-W
OF
tance of f inding out how good you can be. This is only possible with ceaseless, not selective, effort toward that goal.
WORLD
There is no shame in learning that someone else is better at doing THE
something than you are. Shame is only justif ied when someone else is better because you failed to make the effort, 100 percent, to realize your potential. Shame is the appropriate response in that circumstance. So when a team or player decides—subconsciously or otherwise—to apply their effort selectively, against a tough opponent or in a game that really
“counts,” that player or team, in my opinion, has already lost (and often, but not always, the score will reflect it).
There should never be a need for me to give a pep talk to instill motivation. The motivation must come from the players’ belief—
deeply entrenched—that ultimate success lies in
giving their personal best. More than anything,
Motivation must come from
the belief that ultimate
I wanted players to love the process of doing
success lies in giving your
that.
personal best.
Unlike a pep talk that might generate tempo-
rary enthusiasm, loving the process of working
to be your best isn’t temporary. When players truly believe this, giving them a pep talk so they can “rise to the occasion” is unnecessary; they’ve already risen to it. Now let the opponent try to rise to our level with a pep talk.
178
This belief is a pure and most powerful force. It has been and remains the source of my own motivation—not fame, fortune, or power, all of which can be taken away by others. No one can take away the effort you strive to make, under whatever circumstances exist, to be your best.
This cannot be taken away by anyone but you.
The 1974 Bruins may have taken it away from themselves when they MY PERSONAL BEST
stopped striving to f ind out how good they could be. And I wasn’t a smart enough coach to prevent it from happening.
PRIDE IN THE EFFORT MORE THAN THE RESULT
This is why I have such pride in our loss to Cincinnati in the 1962
NCAA Final Four. The Bruins’ extraordinary effort during that season was nearly 100 percent and culminated in a wonderful, but losing, performance against Cincinnati. Conversely, I have no pride in UCLA’s
triple-overtime victory against Dayton in the 1974 NCAA tournament.
The difference was in the quality of the effort by those under my supervision.
For me, how you play the game —and prepare for it—really does count. In fact, it counts most of all. Why? Because even winning can become routine. Striving ceaselessly to get better and better and better—and doing it—never becomes routine. At least not in my experience. Thus the effort should be the same whether you’ve won 88 games or lost 88 games in a row, whether you’ve won two consecutive NCAA championships or never heard of the NCAA. Effort. Effort. Effort.
That’s the highest and truest standard, and somehow it was compromised in the 1974 season.
To this day, however, I’m not sure how I could have f ixed the prob-179
lem these f ine student-athletes faced: two perfect seasons and two NCAA championships before they were even seniors. Never in college TONLA
basketball history had this been done, and it hasn’t been done since. I W
OF
believe many of these young boys simply couldn’t conceive of how another team could beat them—even after it happened.
WORLD
But it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been able to teach them to have THE
a greater love for the effort than the score—to believe that “Success is peace of mind which is a direct result of self-satisfaction in knowing you did your best to become the best that you are capable of becoming.” I admit this is not easy to teach, and I was not able to do it in 1974.
Here I am many, many years later still wondering what I should have done in the extraordinary circumstances of that unique season.
Someday another coach will have the opportunity to f igure it out. I wish him or her good luck.
Goals achieved with little effort are
seldom worthwhile or long lasting.
18
A MEANINGFUL RECORD
A MEANINGLESS STREAK
U CLA won 88 consecutive basketball games between January 1971 and January 1974. In the process, the Bruins broke the previous record of 60
straight victories set by the University of San Francisco during the Bill Russell era.
When Notre Dame ended our streak in the 89th game, 71–70, on
January 19, 1974, at South Bend, reporters were eager to know how I felt about UCLA’s record-breaking run being stopped—how much did it hurt? To be honest, once the Bruins set the record of 61 straight wins, extending it for its own sake was meaningless to me. Breaking the record, however, was an accomplishment I am proud of.
The mark of a champion, I believe, is
The mark of a champion, I
consistency of performance at your highest
believe, is consistency of
level under pressure. That’s the apex, the
performance at your highest
highest block, of the Pyramid of Success.
level under pressure.
181
Copyright © 2004 by John Wooden and Steve Jamison. Click here for terms of use.
The Bruins exhibited competitive greatness for two full seasons and portions of two others—an extraordinary length of time during which every single team we faced wanted to be the one who stopped UCLA.
Crowds were naturally agains
t us and rooting hard for the underdog, just as I do—unless the underdog happens to be my opponent.
APPROACHING THE RECORD
The oldest, most trite statement in sports is “one game at a time,” but I didn’t even take it one game at a time. I had learned to focus on what is immediately at hand, not something in the future. Setting a new record is in the future. Therefore, preparation, as usual, was my primary pre-182
occupation and I tried hard to make it the team’s. The boys never heard me mention the 60-game record in the days and weeks leading up to it—not tying the record, breaking the record, or anything about the record. They were being pestered about it everywhere they went, but their coach didn’t bring it up.
However, when we outscored Loyola 87–73 to win our 60th con-
MY PERSONAL BEST
secutive game, deep down I was increasingly anxious; having now tied San Francisco’s record, I wanted to break it.
The 61st game—to set a new college basketball record—was played on Saturday, January 27, 1973, at Notre Dame’s Athletic and Convoca-tion Center in South Bend, Indiana, where Nell and I had lived for almost fourteen years and still had many friends. As usual, she was with me for the game. I had great concerns about the contest because the Fighting Irish fans were boisterous and created an almost hostile
In twenty-one seconds, Notre Dame would end our 88-game winning streak.
atmosphere, which made it tough to win on their court. In fact, the last team to beat UCLA before our streak began was Notre Dame in the same arena in front of many of these same fans. I was mindful of the fact that it would be a great newspaper story if it was Notre Dame who stopped us from breaking the record.
Nevertheless, the Bruins—Bill Walton, Keith Wilkes, and their teammates—continued to play at near their highest level of competency and outscored Notre Dame 82–63 to set the new record for consecutive victories. Afterward, for one of the very few times in my coaching
career, I allowed reporters into the locker room to interview the players because it was such a special occasion.
So when the streak f inally ended a year later in 1974, it was f ine with me. Any loss stings, but our loss in the 89th game stung no more than any other, which is to say, a lot, but not because it ended the streak.
UNEXPECTED CONSEQUENCES?
Something seldom mentioned, however, is the effect the winning streak had on the remainder of our 1974 season. Is it possible that it adversely affected what followed? Could it perhaps, I say perhaps, have cost us a national championship?
The accumulated stress on the players over nearly two and a half sea-185
sons—Bill Walton, Keith Wilkes, Tommy Curtis, Greg Lee, David Meyers, and the others—was impossible to measure, but presumably RECORD
extreme. A squad that had won 73 games in a row (after their predecessors had won the initial 15 consecutive games) and two straight national championships was suddenly released from the pressure cooker of having to be “perfect” every single game. What happened after that A MEANINGFUL
is hard to measure.
In the remaining games of that 1974 season after the streak was broken by Notre Dame, we lost back-to-back games to Oregon State and Oregon, nearly lost to Stanford, and then had the overtime disappointments of the Final Four with Dayton and North Carolina State.
Something seemed to have happened after the streak was broken by Notre Dame in the 88th game.
Talent is God-given; be humble.
Fame is man-given; be thankful.
Conceit is self-given; be careful.
19
THE FINAL BUZZER AT UCLA
I didn’t know I was going to retire until the moment I retired. Lots of rumors were going around, and some people claimed to know it was coming, but how could they if I didn’t? When it happened, Nell was surprised, UCLA was surprised, and I was surprised. J. D. Morgan, our athletic director, was not surprised—he was flabbergasted.
At the beginning of the 1974–75 season, my last, the Bruins had a clean slate for the f irst time in many years; that is, our 88-game winning streak, the run of seven straight NCAA championships, and 38
consecutive victories in tournament play had all ended the previous season. Furthermore, Bill Walton, Keith Wilkes, Greg Lee, and Tommy Curtis—great players—were gone. The squad had only one returning starter, David Meyers, and he was surrounded by a team most people viewed as considerably less capable than their immediate and famous predecessors.
187
Copyright © 2004 by John Wooden and Steve Jamison. Click here for terms of use.
A FINAL RUN
For only the third time in my entire coaching career, I appointed a captain for the entire season rather than from game to game. (I had learned at South Bend Central that when teams elect their own captain, it generally becomes a popularity contest. Popularity, in my opinion, is not one of the essentials of leadership.)
David Meyers was not only an All-American athlete, but a captain who led by example more than by words, a f ierce competitor whose teammates were kind people helped by his aggressive example. Meyers’s work ethic had one gear: high speed. David reminded me of my own style when I was at Purdue; he dove after loose balls, fought for everything, and played with a zeal that affected the whole team. The results 188
were gratifying.
MY PERSONAL BEST
The end was near. I sat alone in the San Diego Sports Arena.
To the surprise of many, Marques Johnson, Richard Washington, Pete Trgovich, Andre McCarter, Ralph Drollinger, and David Meyers of the UCLA Bruins returned to the Final Four again—our twelfth trip in fourteen years. It was held at San
Diego’s Sports Arena where we faced
Louisville in the semif inals, in what
became a memorable game. At the end
of regulation play, the score was 65–65.
There is no such thing as a perfect
game, but this one may have come very close. It’s a shame we
had to continue; both teams had per-
formed so well and played so hard under
such great pressure.
I got so riled up near the end of the
Louisville semifinal that one of the officials
came over to make sure I didn’t run out
onto the court. He calmly said, “John, the
referee can hear you fine from right here.”
David and his teammates went on to outscore Louisville 75–74 in overtime to advance to the championship game. At the f inal buzzer, the spectators were in near-hysteria and reminded me of the pandemonium in 1928 when Charlie Secrist’s desperation shot defeated the Martinsville Artesians in the f inal seconds of the Indiana state championship.
I slowly made my way through the mob onto the court and shook hands with Louisville’s coach, Denny Crum, my former assistant and good friend. I told him what a f ine game his team had played, and he congratulated me and the Bruins. Then I turned and began working my way to the pressroom for the postgame interview.
Suddenly I felt almost
ill, but I wasn’t sick. I
just couldn’t bring myself
to talk to reporters about
the game. I don’t know
exactly why, but some-
thing in my head just
said, “It’s over.” I slowly
veered off to the Bruins’
locker room, where the
players were in a joyous
mood following their
192
wonderful performance.
As they saw me enter,
the noise got even louder, perhaps because they thought I’d come to join in the excitement, but that’s not why I was there.
MY PERSONAL BEST
SAYING GOOD-BYE
Somebody pulled up a chair for me to stand on, and everyone gathered around as I waited for them to quiet down. I congratulated the young men on their performance and the hard work they had done throughout
the entire season, told them the game was almost perfect, and that Louisville was a worthy opponent who gave the victory meaning.
Then I told them why I was there: “You’ve given me as much pleasure as any team I’ve ever coached, and never caused a single problem on
or off the court. I want to thank you for that. It means so much to me, because you are the last team I will ever coach. I’m bowing out.”
Ducky Drake, who for almost thirty years had been our trainer and my friend, almost fainted. The boys were stunned and silent. I got down off the chair and forced myself to go into the pressroom.
I began the question-and-answer session with my short announcement: “I’m asking Athletic Director J. D. Morgan to relieve me of my duties as head coach of UCLA at the conclusion of this tournament.”
My only regret is that my statement took attention off the game and shifted it onto my decision. The game —near-perfect basketball by both teams—deserved all the attention; reporters, however, wanted to know about my announcement. But there really wasn’t more to 194
tell them.
Later that evening in my hotel room, J. D. Morgan spent half the night trying to talk me out of retiring. Nell, however, didn’t try to talk me out of it.
Forty-eight hours later, David Meyers and his teammates won
UCLA’s tenth NCAA basketball championship by defeating Kentucky MY PERSONAL BEST
92–85.
NO REAL ANSWER
I still can only guess at why I chose to retire when I did. If you’d asked me before the Louisville game what my plans were, I’d have said honestly, “I’m coaching one more year for sure, maybe two, and then I’ll retire.” But at the end of that semif inal game against Denny’s team—a
What is success? For many it’s trophies or blue ribbons. That’s why this publicity shot was taken—to show how successful our teams had been. But I don’t measure it like that. The highest success is in your effort—giving it your personal best.
beautifully played game as any I’d seen—something happened inside and I just didn’t want to go on with it anymore.
Perhaps it was Nell’s health, which had increasingly concerned me.
My Personal Best Page 11
