Wooden: A Coach's Life (60 page)
That the Bruins were eviscerating opponents with a lineup that included three sophomores and a junior made it even more remarkable. For the first time in a long time, Wooden had the chance to mold young, eager minds. It wasn’t quite as enjoyable as coaching those high school kids in the Palisades, but it was close. “I’m really having fun with this team,” Wooden said in early January while sipping ginger ale at a cocktail party. “Why, this team is exciting even when it makes mistakes. And it makes a lot, being so young.”
The huge margins also encouraged Wooden to develop his depth. By March, all twelve of his players had earned their varsity letters, the first time that happened in as long as he could remember. Alas, that still did not mean much playing time for Andy Hill. He was a senior who thought he would finally get a chance to play, just as his good friends, John Ecker and Terry Schofield, got minutes when they became seniors. Unlike them, however, Hill was still stuck on the pine. It bruised his pride. Many years after he graduated, a longtime Bruin basketball fan told Hill that he and his buddies used to refer to him as “the man who launched five thousand cars.” Because when Wooden sent Hill into the game, that meant it was time to go home.
Hill did not help himself by continuing to irritate the head coach with his various causes. In an effort to convince Wooden to allow his players to wear their hair a little longer, Hill conducted a scientific sample of the student body and presented his findings to Wooden. If nothing else, Hill thought Wooden might be impressed with his industriousness and enthusiasm, the two cornerstones in Wooden’s Pyramid of Success. He wasn’t.
Hill did, however, get a rare glimpse at Wooden’s sense of humor. Most of the players assumed he had none. “He was your coach. He wasn’t your friend. He had a job to do, and he took that job very seriously,” Walton said. Yet, one day during a team meal, Hill sat stunned as Wooden regaled Swen Nater with plans of going “snipe hunting” later that evening. For half an hour, Wooden told Nater all about how they were going to go hunting for snipes at 2:00 a.m., what that entailed, and where they should meet. When Wooden got up to leave, he winked at Hill. As Nater eagerly talked about how he needed to get a flashlight and pillowcase as the coach instructed, Hill decided he had better let Swen in on the joke.
UCLA barely broke a sweat as it completed a 26–0 regular season. Wooden tried to keep them on edge by criticizing their effort and concentration, but even he had to concede that was just a motivational ploy. The emergence of Greg Lee as a dependable point guard—his lob passes to Walton were beautifully timed and perfectly placed, the two best buddies always simpatico—allowed Wooden to move Bibby back to the wing, where he was more comfortable. And with all the defensive attention paid to Walton, Wilkes was often left unmolested on the perimeter. He emerged as an All-American in his own right.
There were, of course, a few times when this group could show a little too much youthful vigor. During a long layover on their way back from Chicago, several players got drunk in the airport. When they got back on the plane, they started a water and peanut fight, which lasted until a stray nut pegged Wooden on the head. (“We have this great UCLA image, and nobody suspects we are a bunch of wonderful lawbreaking degenerates,” one player said.) All the success went right to the players’ heads. Wooden warned them that if they kept that up, by the time they were seniors, they would be “intolerable.” As Walton recalled, “He told us that numerous times. I think he moved up that timetable every time. We didn’t believe anything he said.”
UCLA’s first stop in the NCAA tournament was at the West Regional in Provo. They were undefeated, ranked No. 1, and quite obviously the team to beat. They proved that by demolishing Weber State in their first game by 32 points. That sent them into yet another regional final against Cal State Long Beach.
The 49ers were ranked No. 5 in the AP poll, but Jerry Tarkanian knew that his team would be badly outmanned. They had no choice but to get physical with Walton. Throughout the game, Walton complained to the referees. Wooden was plenty ticked, too. During the second half, he marched down the bench and chastised Tarkanian’s assistant, Dwight Jones. “He told me it was disgraceful and unethical the way our kids were playing,” Jones said.
UCLA prevailed, 73–57, but Walton’s comportment was becoming an issue. He was developing a reputation for being a whiner, even though his complaints were often justified.
The semifinals and final would take place once again in the Los Angeles Sports Arena, making it feel like just another Bruin Classic, with UCLA set up for the cakewalk. The Bruins’ semifinal opponent was No. 6 Louisville, coached by Wooden’s former assistant, Denny Crum. The reunion may have been awkward for Wooden, but not for Crum. “He was like a father. If I was going to lose to someone, I figured it might as well be him,” Crum said. That’s just what the Cardinals did, 96–77, thanks to Walton’s 33 points. While Cardinals center Al Vilcheck said afterward that Walton “cries a lot,” Crum had nothing but praise for his alma mater. “This is the best UCLA team I’ve ever seen,” he said.
The final victim was No. 10 Florida State. The Seminoles might have been the third-best team UCLA played in the tournament, at least according to the rankings, but the Bruins came out of the gate flat. Florida State hit seven straight shots in the early going to mount a 21–14 lead, the only time the Bruins had trailed by more than 4 points all season. Eventually, Florida State started committing too many fouls, and the rout was on. With Wilkes leading the way with 23 points, UCLA opened a 50–39 halftime lead. The Bruins were uncharacteristically sloppy with the ball during the second half, but they still emerged with an 81–76 win, completing Wooden’s third undefeated season and bringing him his sixth consecutive national championship.
By any standard, this was a remarkable achievement. And yet Walton, who had 24 points and 20 rebounds in the game despite sitting for long stretches because of foul trouble, acted like a spoiled brat afterward. “We didn’t play well. There’s no reason for elation. We don’t like to back into things,” he said in the interview room at the Sports Arena. When someone said that it sounded as if UCLA had lost, Walton replied, “I feel like it.” Abruptly ending the questioning, Walton left for the locker room, where he refused to take any more questions.
That brought Walton even more criticism from the media, but he couldn’t have cared less. He was done with the season, done with sportswriters, done with John Wooden’s tightly controlled machine. Now he could grow his hair as long as he wanted and disappear for a few months. A few weeks later, Wooden called Larry Farmer to his office, where he handed him a trophy for being named the most improved player. In the past, that trophy would have been presented at a lavish banquet, but thanks to Bill Seibert, that was no longer the case.
In the days following the championship, Wooden was asked yet again whether his program’s dominance was hurting the sport. “The same thing was said about the Yankees in baseball years ago,” he said. “Whenever you reach a plateau of excellence, there are always a lot of people who want to see you knocked down.” That aside, Wooden was inundated by hundreds of congratulatory letters. One in particular pleased him so much that he took the letter home, framed it, and hung it on his wall. “And you may be certain,” it concluded, “that I am counted among those who think John Wooden is just about the finest coach in the long, exciting history of the game.”
The letter was signed: “With warm good wishes, Richard Nixon.”
* * *
In the late spring, Larry Farmer attended an alumni banquet that was staged at a posh hotel to celebrate the 1972 championship. As he was standing in the lobby talking to Willie Naulls, the former Bruin great introduced Farmer to a wealthy alumnus. “This kid’s got a great future,” Naulls said, and the two men shook hands. “That,” said Farmer, “was the first time I met Sam Gilbert.”
Farmer knew who Gilbert was, but soon he got to know him much better. When Farmer later told Gilbert that he had spent his previous Thanksgiving eating dinner at a local Hamburger Hamlet because he couldn’t get home to Denver, Gilbert was appalled. He told Farmer that if he ever needed someplace to go for Thanksgiving, he was welcome to share in the family feast at Gilbert’s house in the Palisades. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. “Sam helped everybody. He was that kind of soul,” Farmer said. “Sam, Coach, and my dad are probably the three people who had the most impact on my life.”
Farmer’s relationship with Gilbert became unusually close—he would eventually give Gilbert one of his UCLA championship rings—but the dynamic was a familiar one. Lew Alcindor and Lucius Allen had been gone for several years, but Gilbert was still a strong presence in the UCLA basketball program. If anything, he was more entrenched than ever. Many players regularly spent time with Gilbert, attended his weekend barbecues, visited him at his Encino office, and met him for dinners and other events around town. John Wooden may have been their basketball coach, but Sam Gilbert was their life coach. He gave them empathy, friendship, advice. He talked through personal troubles they would never have thought to bring to Wooden. And he provided plenty of other perks, many of which were in direct violation of NCAA rules because they were not generally available to nonathletes.
It’s an understatement to say that Gilbert was not bothered by this rule breaking. If anything, he was proud of it. “He really felt the NCAA was screwing the players [by not allowing them to be paid]. He was really adamant and sincere about that,” Bob Marcucci said. “That’s how he got going with them. It’s pretty clear that he was providing I guess what are called extra benefits.” Jamaal Wilkes added, “Sam expressed his opinion. He was not a big fan of the NCAA and the way they did things. He was a cut-through-the-BS kind of guy.”
The players of Farmer’s era experienced the same revelation that Allen and Alcindor did—namely, a surprising karmic connection with a man who was older, wealthier, and in many cases whiter than they. Gilbert bragged that he actually related better to college students than people of his own generation. Where Wooden was openly disdainful of the counterculture, Gilbert was a full-throated devotee. Wooden obsessed over the players’ feet. Gilbert engaged their minds. “There was a feeling that this was a guy who was wealthy and dissed the establishment,” Wilkes said. “I remember one time walking somewhere and he said, ‘You see the birds? They’re not prejudiced. The trees aren’t prejudiced. Prejudice is a riddle. Only people are prejudiced.’ That kind of thinking at that time was stimulating.”
That streetwise sensibility, combined with Gilbert’s experience in negotiating NBA contracts for Alcindor and Allen, who was drafted by the Seattle SuperSonics after he dropped out of UCLA, led Sidney Wicks to ask Gilbert to represent him after the Portland Trail Blazers selected him with the second pick in the 1971 NBA draft. Gilbert did not charge Wicks a percentage—his lone compensation was a signed picture—but Wicks had to agree to let Gilbert outline his budget, set up tax shelters, and manage his investments. Gilbert rarely used the players’ money to invest in one of his own projects to avoid a conflict of interest. Instead, he steered them into safe vehicles like federally insured public housing. His purpose was to help Wicks reach long-term security. Wicks trusted Gilbert completely. “Sam is the conscience of Sidney Wicks,” he said during his rookie year with the Trail Blazers.
Curtis Rowe and Steve Patterson also asked Gilbert to represent them in the pros. Gilbert quickly became the de facto agent for UCLA players, even though he wasn’t technically an agent.
The players appreciated the way Gilbert railed against the sports agent business, which he considered to be parasitic. “No one is worth ten percent of a man’s earnings,” Gilbert said in 1971. “A player’s position on the draft list determines his value. This limits his ability to negotiate for dollars. In other words the so-called agent does very little, except put on paper that which is already predetermined.”
It’s understandable why a young college student would cotton to this wealthy, well-connected, generous man. The players could see that his loyalty would extend well beyond their college days. Willie Naulls, who now owned several restaurants and other businesses in mostly black neighborhoods like Compton and Watts, was a prime example. So was Freddie Goss, who turned to Gilbert for advice and assistance when he was the head coach at UC Riverside. On one occasion, Goss asked Gilbert to help one of his assistants avoid the military draft. Sam invited Goss to bring his assistant to his cabin in the mountains for the weekend. When they got there, he told them simply, “It’s done.”
That describes Gilbert’s modus operandi better than any other: he got stuff done. While it is plausible to assume that Gilbert gave players cash, no one has gone on record to say so. “He may have. I really don’t remember,” Wilkes said. Rather, Gilbert served as a conduit between the players and businessmen he knew around town, men who gave them special discounts, if they charged the players at all. Gilbert massaged his network by handing out game tickets, which he purchased from the players, often above face value. The help extended from the casual to the deeply personal. When Allen was still playing at UCLA, Gilbert paid for his girlfriend to have an abortion. “It happened often,” Allen said. “If a ballplayer impregnated someone, there was always a hospital available. I never paid for it, and it was my case.”
There was no formal process by which the players entered Sam Gilbert’s orbit. They merely succumbed to the laws of gravity. Wilkes had met Gilbert briefly on his recruiting visit, but it wasn’t until he became a sophomore that he developed a deeper relationship. “When I got on the varsity, Henry Bibby said, ‘All right, kid, we’re going to go out and meet the guy now,’” Wilkes recalled. “I said, ‘I met him on my recruiting trip.’ He said, ‘No, we’re going to
really
meet him.’ So it was like an initiation. From what I gathered, certain guys really, really leaned on him for stuff.”