My Personal Best

by Wooden, John R. ; Jamison, Steve.

  Some have suggested that one of the reasons UCLA often outscored opponents was that I never stressed outscoring opponents—that is,

  “beating” someone else or “needing” to win a game. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Try your hardest, make the effort, do your best. That’s what I stressed, and it came from Dad.

  “TRY YOUR HARDEST. MAKE THE EFFORT. DO YOUR BEST.”

  6

  Today, almost a century after he first taught that lesson to me, I believe his advice is still good as gold. I learned so much from my father, but that may be his strongest lesson. It’s hard to say.

  A MOTHER’S EXAMPLE

  MY PERSONAL BEST

  Roxie Anna Wooden, my mother, lost her two young daughters—my sisters—early on. Diphtheria killed Cordelia before her third birthday.

  My youngest sister died before she even had a name. They were buried in the Centerton cemetery not far from our farm. Today my parents lie next to them.

  I doubt if Mother ever really recovered from the deaths of her two little girls. Perhaps she survived because farm life offered no time for self-pity. Maybe she survived because of her strength and her religion.

  Like my father, Mother placed her faith in the Good Lord, and they taught us to do the same.

  The food we ate we grew. Dad had about thirty hogs, four or five milk cows, lots of chickens, and some mules for field work—no tractor for plowing, no automobile for driving. Mother’s garden was next to our farmhouse and was bigger than the house. Peas, carrots, tomatoes, squash, beans, celery, radishes, and strawberries were grown, eaten, or canned and stored down in the fruit cellar. She even canned beef and pork. Chicken was the only fresh meat we ate year-round, and Mother cooked it a hundred different ways. I liked it every way she made it, especially roast chicken. In fact, I still like roast chicken. Occasionally Dad would shoot squirrel, rabbit, or quail, which added a little variety to our kitchen table.

  7

  Mother baked our bread and Dad churned our butter. When the

  bread was hot out of the stove, we’d spread the butter on thick and BOY

  cover it with homemade

  ARMF

  strawberry jam, or black-

  berry or raspberry. I loved

  INDIANA

  the heels of the loaf, still

  warm and soft with plenty

  of sweet fresh butter. I still

  love the heels, even if the

  bread is from a store. And I

  miss Mother’s persimmon

  pudding, peach cobblers,

  Mom faced the great burden placed on her

  and homemade ice cream.

  without complaint.

  She sewed most of our clothing. In fact, I don’t remember her ever buying a new dress for herself. Only on rare occasion did she purchase new shoes. When she did, they had to last her a long time and so did ours.

  Joshua Hugh and Roxie Anna Wooden’s lives were hard, but for my brothers and me, growing up on that little farm in Centerton was almost perfect.

  LESSONS IN THE LOSS

  The end came suddenly. Bad vaccination serum killed the hogs, drought stunted the crops, and the bank took the farm. In those days there 8

  was no insurance for this kind of trouble, so we lost everything. Those were very hard times for our family, and the Great Depression hadn’t even begun.

  Through it all, Dad never winced. He laid no blame on the merchant who had sold him the bad serum, didn’t curse the weather, and had no hatred toward the banker. My father had

  MY PERSONAL BEST

  done his best, but things went bad. “Blam-

  Never lie.

  ing, cursing, hating doesn’t help you,” he’d

  Never cheat.

  say. “It hurts you.” His example is deeply

  Never steal.

  imbedded in my mind and, I hope, reflected

  in my behavior.

  Don’t whine.

  He was a living model of his own “two

  Don’t complain.

  sets of threes”—brief instructions that he felt

  Don’t make excuses.

  were basic to decent behavior. My brothers

  and I heard his two sets of threes often while we were growing up—

  not as often as we ate oatmeal, but enough that we remembered them:

  “Never lie. Never cheat. Never steal,” was his first set. “Don’t whine.

  Don’t complain. Don’t make excuses,” was the second set. He believed you should do your best, and if the results were unsatisfactory, keep quiet about it and work harder next time.

  As instructive as it was to hear him recite the two sets of threes, seeing him abide by them as he lost the farm had a most powerful effect on me. That’s where I came to see that what you do is more important than what you say you’ll do. People say they’ll do all kinds of things.

  BOY

  ARMF

  INDIANA

  Centerton’s seventh and eighth graders. I’m in the front row, second from the left.

  2

  MY FIRST COACH

  PRINCIPAL EARL WARRINER

  C enterton Grade School—a three-room schoolhouse—was a half mile up the road from our farm. The principal was Mr. Earl Warriner, a disciplinarian who was strict, but fair. When he gave it to you, you had it coming. On those occasions he’d walk outside and cut a switch from the hedge, trim off its thorns with his silver pocketknife, and then let you have it across the backside a

  few times. It stung even though I

  always wore heavy denim overalls.

  Mr. Warriner was a feisty boxer,

  excellent athlete, and spirited com-

  petitor. He was also well-liked and

  respected, and a veteran of World

  War I. At the time, I didn’t know

  what a mentor was, but he became

  one for me, a positive and guiding

  Mr. Warriner (right) wasn’t afraid to

  influence throughout my life.

  stand up for what he believed.

  11

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

  When I was eleven, my father gave me permission to play on the Centerton basketball team under Mr. Warriner’s supervision. The team had eight or nine boys, depending on the day and how the fall harvest was coming along. We played on a dirt court next to the schoolhouse and had to rake off branches, leaves, and sticks before a game. In the late fall, sometimes it would start snowing while we were playing, but we would keep right on going.

  Our basketball had a heavy cover of thick brown leather and was about the same size as today’s ball—only it wouldn’t stay that size. As it gradually lost air, we’d unlace it and use a shoehorn to pry the bladder’s air tube out, put it between our lips and blow hard, tie a rubber band around the tube, and knead it back under the cover laces. Unfortunately, 12

  it got out-of-round easily, picked up dirt quickly, and became heavier as the game wore on. Later, as an All-American at Purdue University, I received considerable attention for my dribbling skills. Learning with a lopsided basketball on a dirt court with potholes and patches of snow may have been why I became a pretty fair dribbler.

  MY PERSONAL BEST

  I LEARNED MY FIRST LESSON ABOUT COACHING ON THIS DIRT COURT NEXT TO CENTERTON GRADE SCHOOL.

  EDUCATION BEFORE SPORTS

  As a teacher, coach, principal, and athlete, Mr. Warriner felt that while sports could be worthwhile, true education was obtained only in the classroom. Therefore, he allowed no boy to

  practice or play without specific permission

  There’s a reason student

  from teachers. Schoolwork had to be com-

  comes first in the word

  pleted and classes attended. Only then would

  student-athlete : education

  he give you the privilege of walking on his dirt

  comes before sports.

>   court to play basketball. Later, when I was

  coaching, my emphasis on academics reflected Mr. Warriner’s own priorities (as well as Dad’s). There’s a reason student comes first in the word student-athlete: education comes before sports—or at least it should.

  Nevertheless, when Mr. Warriner did give me permission to play 13

  basketball, I learned more than x’s and o’s.

  COACH

  MY FIRST LESSON IN COACHING

  FIRST

  I was one of the “guns” on our pint-size team, and as the top scorer—

  MY

  five or six points a game —I was getting a big head about it, probably cocky.

  One of our grade-school rivals, Hazelwood, was scheduled for a game at Centerton at 2 p.m. That morning, however, their principal called and cancelled because Hazelwood’s truck had broken down. As usual, I walked back to our farm at noon for lunch and then returned to school without my basketball jersey—a little homemade bib we wore over our shirts. But things had changed. Mr. Warriner announced the Hazelwood truck was fixed and the game was on.

  I didn’t feel like running right back home, so I informed him I couldn’t play because my jersey was at the farm. I assumed—hoped—

  Mr. Warriner would let me play without it or send one of the other kids back to get it. As Centerton’s top scorer, I was looking for a little special treatment that I felt I deserved.

  Mr. Warriner studied me for a moment and then turned to my friend, Freddie Gooch: “Gooch, got your jersey?” Wearing Freddie’s jersey was an option I hadn’t considered, but one that would save me some effort.

  Freddie replied, “Yes, Mr. Warriner, my jersey’s out in the coat room.”

  “Good, you play for Wooden today. He didn’t bring his jersey,” Mr.

  Warriner instructed as he looked me in the eye. Of course, he knew exactly what I was trying to pull.

  My grade school friends.

  I’m on the right,

  wearing a beanie.

  Freddie Gooch jumped out of his chair, while I turned and ran out of the classroom and up the road as hard as I could, grabbed my jersey, and ran back even harder. Hazelwood arrived, I took a few shots, put on my “uniform,” and was ready to play. When Mr. Warriner

  announced Centerton’s starting lineup, however, my name was miss-ing—I’d been benched. Freddie Gooch was taking my place.

  NO PLAYER IS BIGGER OR BETTER THAN THE TEAM.

  Coach Warriner let me sit on the bench during the first quarter and second quarter. Freddie didn’t score a point. The short halftime came and went. I sat on the bench through the third quarter. Finally, in the 15

  fourth quarter with time running out and Centerton behind by two points, I swallowed my pride.

  COACH

  Running up to Mr. Warriner, I pleaded, “If you put me in there, we can still win this game.” He didn’t look at me as he calmly replied, “Oh FIRST

  yes, Johnny, I know we can, but there are some things more important MY

  than winning a game. Besides, you’re probably tired from running home for your jersey. Now go sit down and rest.” A few minutes later the game was over—Centerton lost.

  I didn’t realize it, but the lessons of that day stuck with me: no player is bigger or better than the team. And just as important, I came to understand that the bench is a coach’s best friend. If there are two more important coaching concepts in the game, I don’t know what they are.

  And I learned them sitting on the bench next to a dirt court when I was eleven years old.

  Coach Warriner had the courage of his convictions. If it meant losing a little grade-school basketball game, fine. But he had courage on big issues too.

  THE COURAGE TO QUIT

  When he later became principal of Green Township Grade School, one of the boys got into some serious trouble, and Mr. Warriner expelled him. The boy’s father was on the township’s school board and barged into Mr. Warriner’s office with a threat: “I’ll have your job if you don’t 16

  take my son back,” he shouted.

  Mr. Warriner replied, “What

  your son did was bad. He’s not

  returning until I say so and as far

  as my job is concerned, you can

  have it!” And he resigned.

  MY PERSONAL BEST

  One year later when the boy’s

  father was off the school board,

  Mr. Warriner agreed to return as

  principal. He was very much like

  my dad when it came to standing

  up for what he believed in. For

  me, their examples were impor-

  tant as the years went by. These

  men whom I admired so much were willing to make the hard choices and suffer consequences for doing the right thing.

  GRADUATION GIFTS

  When I graduated from Centerton, it was a big

  Seek clarity of thought,

  occasion because in those days a grade-schooler who

  fill your heart with love

  lived in the country didn’t automatically go to high

  and compassion for others,

  be honest and fair, and

  school, let alone college. Grade school graduation

  trust in the Good Lord.

  was noted with a little ceremony and celebration.

  Parents usually wanted to give their children a

  gift of some kind, but there was little money in our house for this sort of thing. Nevertheless, Dad gave me something of lasting signifi-17

  cance—advice, or wisdom, that I’ve tried to live my life by. It came on a crisp, white three-by-five-inch card. On one side he had copied down COACH

  a poem that he loved by the Reverend Henry Van Dyke:

  FIRST

  Four things a man must learn to do

  MY

  If he would make his life more true:

  To think without confusion clearly,

  To love his fellow man sincerely,

  To act from honest motives purely,

  To trust in God and Heaven securely.

  Over the years, the poem’s message made more and more sense: seek clarity of thought, fill your heart with love and compassion for others,

  be honest and fair, and trust in the Good Lord. Goodness gracious, what powerful advice this is.

  I turned the little white card over and saw that Dad had also written down the creed he so often shared with my brothers and me: seven simple rules to follow in life. As I began to read it, he said, “Johnny, try and live up to these and you’ll do all right.”

  Dad’s Seven-Point Creed:

  1. Be true to yourself.

  2. Help others.

  3. Make each day your masterpiece.

  4. Drink deeply from good books, especially the Bible.

  18

  5. Make friendship a fine art.

  6. Build a shelter against a rainy day.

  7. Pray for guidance, and count and give thanks for your blessings every day.

  I didn’t fully understand how profound Dad’s seven-point creed was for MY PERSONAL BEST

  many years, until I was an adult raising a family, teaching, and coaching. As it slowly became a part of me, however, that part of me improved.

  At the end of the little grade-school ceremony, after we had

  celebrated with cookies and lemonade and were getting ready to walk back to our farm, Dad handed me another gift: a two-dollar bill with a lot of wear on it. Cash was scarce and two dollars was a lot of money.

  It was a great graduation day. The two-dollar bill is still in the family,

  and Dad’s seven-point creed is still in my heart. Today when people ask if I was able to live up to his advice, I quote this poem:

  I’m not what I ought to be,

  Not what I want to be,

  Not what I’m going to be,

  But I am thankful that I’m better than I used to be.

  When the little graduation
party at Centerton Grade School was over, we walked back down the road to our farm, changed clothes, and got back to the chores.

  19

  COACH

  FIRST

  MY

  3

  HIGH SCHOOL HERO

  COACH GLENN CURTIS

  A traveling carnival came to nearby Martinsville every year on the Fourth of July with fireworks, a giant Ferris wheel, and sideshow attractions. One of the most popular attractions was inside a little tent, where for a nickel you could see a man pull a long, black snake out of a tin bucket full of snakes.

  As the crowd hushed, he slowly brought it closer and closer to his face until the snake was just inches from his lips. Then, with the snake writhing and flicking its tongue, the man would suddenly bite off its head. The crowd would gasp as he spit the head into another bucket and began walking among the spectators, swinging the snake back and forth.

  People would start screaming and yelling and hollering; some even fainted right out of their chairs. But the emotion and excitement in that tent was nothing compared to what happened during high school basketball games when I was a teenager.

  This will be hard to believe, but in the 1920s the Indiana State High School Championship—and the games leading up to it—was as wild as 21

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

  any National Collegiate Athletic Associa-

  tion (NCAA) March Madness Final Four

  I’ve ever been involved with, and I’ve

  been in twelve of them. It was as if a

  fever hit our whole state at once.

  Hoosiers were nutty about basketball.

  “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” claimed that

  in Martinsville, Indiana, our newly con-

  structed red brick basketball gym on

  South Main Street could hold 5,520 spec-

  tators, which was 300 more people than

  lived in the town itself. Fans who jammed

  22

  into the new gymnasium could almost

  reach out and touch players racing by dur-

  ing a game. The court was polished hard-

  wood, modern bright lights hung from

  the ceiling, and the ball was perfectly

  round. This was quite a change from Mr.