Goodbye, Columbus

WOODY HAYES

My NFC Championship ring bears the score; Eagles 20-Dallas 7. Although I spent most of that season on injured reserve, it is the same ring that stars like Ron Jaworski, Bill Bergey, and Wilbert Montgomery were awarded; an injustice no doubt, but a fact nonetheless.

The loser of the Super Bowl gets either the AFC or NFC championship ring. The winner gets the world championship ring. The conference ring features the score of the game they won to get there. Somehow it wouldn’t look right to have a losing score displayed on a keepsake we were to proudly wear for eternity. The world champion’s ring is bigger, gaudier with more diamonds, and every professional athlete’s ultimate fairy tale.

The day after the NFC title game was the most anticipated Monday film session of the season. You have to understand, Monday morning a professional football player wakes up and feels like he has a bad case of the flu. Your body aches to high heaven and is incredibly stiff and sore. Usually teams bring you in on Monday’s to study film from the previous days game, but more importantly to have the players run and lift weights to alleviate some of that lingering soreness. Tuesday is normally your day off unless you’re injured, and everyone is always injured. So on this day your job is to meet with the trainer, get some treatment, and get ready for Wednesday practice. Then the vicious weekly cycle begins all over again.

On this particular Monday however, there was no evidence of pain on the faces on my teammates as they made their way into the meeting room to discuss our plans for the next two weeks. This year there was an off week prior to the Super Bowl, so GM Jim Murray and owner Leonard Tose had time to prepare for the ultimate road trip. I have never been in a happier room of people as I was for this particular meeting. To make things even better, we were informed that all players would be given two Super Bowl tickets, with the right to buy up to eighteen more. The price was $40 per ticket, and I couldn’t get my checkbook out fast enough.

Coach Vermeil backed off our practices a little that off week, but not much. I can remember being in full pads on the rock hard turf of freezing Veteran’s Stadium (pre practice bubble) while the starters were back to their normal thud tempo routine. There was some grumbling amongst some of the vets that practice should have been a no pads walkthrough, letting their battered bodies heal for the big game. I was fresh as a daisy however, and was so happy and excited to be a part of this that I would have worn someone else’s pads on top of mine just to be included in this event. Totally oblivious to the rules on scalping, I was planning on selling the eighteen tickets I had purchased at face value and make a killing. When a ticket broker approached me and offered me a mere $300 per ticket, I laughed at him. When I countered at $500 per ticket minimum, he wished me luck. So I planned to have my Dad down to the game and figure out what to do with these prime tickets when I got down there.

We left the following Monday for New Orleans and were swept up in a media and fan frenzy. From the moment we disembarked from the plane, there was a never ending list of meetings, practices, media appearances, and activities that would keep us busy for just about every waking moment. The broad smiles were evident on everyone walking down the airplane steps; from hard working assistant coaches Chuck Clausen and Dick Coury to player personnel director Carl Peterson to the equipment managers and everyone in between, this was a moment of a lifetime.

I shared a hotel room that week with Randy Logan, a devoutly spiritual veteran strong safety out of Michigan. Although I was somewhat abused as a lowly rookie free agent by a few of the established players, Randy couldn’t have been nicer and I was thrilled with my lottery pick of a roommate. Soon after we arrived and checked in the team hotel, we were hustled over to the Saints training facility for a brief workout. As we entered the practice locker room, we each had a large dressing space with our name over it, and it front of the locker was an eye high pile of gifts from every shoe and apparel company that had access to the area. T-shirts, spikes, sweats, and hats were abundant as we each filtered through our stash like kids on Christmas morning. And each day we arrived to work, there were more trinkets to stuff in your travel bag.

We practiced diligently that week, and Coach Vermeil had issued a strict eleven PM curfew every night for all players. Since our team hotel was near the airport far from the French Quarter, it made enjoying the New Orleans nightlife a little difficult. Our practice and film study usually ended around 6pm, so after a shower and a bite to eat it was either a rush trip to Pat O’Brien’s or the hotel bar. We were told later that each room had been given a rental car, but the team had decided not to allow us to have them. Our opponents the Oakland Raiders however, had been to the “show” previously and were taking full advantage of the transportation and the nightlife. We had read were a few of the Raiders were fined for coming in at 3AM during the week, and we sat there smugly in our comfy Super Bowl prison with confidence that we were going to beat this partying band of thugs in the big game.

My Dad arrived midweek, and the Eagles got him a room at the team hotel. I gave him the duty of scouting around town to see what he could get for my tickets. He would call me every night with a report that he couldn’t find a buyer, but would keep trying. I even called the guy who originally offered me $300 per ticket, but he laughed at me and told me to “take my tickets to the Super Bowl and shove them up my super hole.” Negotiations were never my strong suit.

Near the end of the week, Vermeil had invited legendary Ohio State football coach Woody Hayes to address the team. Although he exited football in 1978 due to a sideline confrontation with Clemson nose guard Charlie Bauman in the Gator Bowl, with a career record at Ohio State of 205-61-10 the pep talk seemed like a plausible idea. Hayes spoke of character and work ethic, and how it was not only right for the Philadelphia Eagles to be IN the game, it was right for the Eagles to WIN the game. It was a great speech, and even though I wasn’t going to play due to injury, when I left that meeting room I could have taken on the Ted Hendricks and Rod Martin myself with no problem.

Woody Hayes was an interesting and complex man. Like Coach Vermeil, he was driven to win, and found that his way to do it was to outwork his opponent. An honored veteran having served as a Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy during World War II; over the years coaches like Lou Holtz, Ara Parseghian, Bo Schembechler, and Earle Bruce had worked under him. Players Archie Griffin and Art Schlichter had played for him. And when he taught English at Ohio State (yes he was also Professor Hayes) fabled future basketball coach Bobby Knight was tutored by him. My favorite quote from Hayes was when asked why he went for a two point conversion when up by 36 points against Michigan, his reply was “because I couldn’t go for three.” A classic win at all cost and no holds barred philosophy.

There was also speculation that Hayes was faltering a bit at the end of his career, but was such an iconic figure in the state of Ohio that neither the AD or the President of Ohio State would dare let him go, so he orchestrated the career fatal blow to the Clemson player in order to give the OSU administration reason to fire him. You see, he was done, but he couldn’t quit. It wasn’t the Woody Hayes way.

History will show that we lost the game to Oakland 27-10. My Dad sold the tickets for face value five minutes before kick off. And Woody Hayes never coached again. You see, sometimes even the best of fairy tales have inglorious endings.

A Better Man

"He is so simple, and so wise. He makes you want to be a better man." - Rick Reilly

http://espn.go.com/video/clip?id=4691772

Hope you are enjoying the blog. More great stories to follow including....Jerry Lee Lewis, Ed McMahon, Henry Fonda, Woody Hayes, Jerry Buss, Jaromir Jagr, Evander Holyfield, John Riggins, and many more.

Please keep checking in.....thanks!

Ken

Worth the Wait

ARCHIE MANNING


These were pre-historic years. You’ve heard of BC and AC? I call this era BE (Before ESPN became a household acronym).

In the spring of 1980, my dormitory mailbox at Memphis State University was overloaded. I actually had the mail attendant keep a special large box for me because the small slot afforded to students wasn’t large enough for all the mail I was getting from professional football teams and agents as the NFL draft approached. An endless cavalcade of questionnaires from the likes of the Dallas Cowboys and Cincinnati Bengals; offers to make me an overnight millionaire and first round draft choice from every player representative that owned a pair of tasseled loafers; and interview requests from local media outlets were almost too much to take, and for sure too numerous to answer.

I was eagerly buying into the hype, wondering what Mercedes Benz I was going to buy with the huge signing bonus I was sure to receive once my name was called by then Commissioner Pete Rozelle at the NFL draft podium in NYC. Even though I was considered a high risk “project” because of my playing only two years of organized football in college (and no high school football at all), many football publications and prognosticators had me rated as high as the 5th, 6th, or 7th tight end in the draft because of my size, speed, and moderate success in college. Several agents would tell me their “influence” with teams might even pump me up to a 2nd or 3rd round draft choice, so I would lie in bed salivating on my pillow as the April draft approached. The Memphis media caught on to the frenzy, and I promised several TV and radio stations interviews once my name was selected.

As I said, this was pre ESPN wall to wall coverage and pre cell phone. You would give the teams a phone number where you could be reached on draft day, and you damn sure better be by it when it rang. So I set up shop in my dorm room on that fateful day of April 29, 1980 to await my fortune and the call of a lifetime. The draft was starting about 9am, so I set my alarm clock at 7 just to make sure I was up and alert when the call came. And I waited…

The first came about 10am, and it only rang for about 3 tenths of a second before I picked it up. Expecting to hear the voice of a GM or player personnel director, it was my mother asking me who had selected me. “Ma, no one has picked me yet! It’s still the first round. I will call you when I know something!” and hurriedly hung up the phone so I didn’t tie up the line. The next call came about 11:30, this time from my sixteen year old brother Mike asking me the same question; only I could hear my mother’s voice prompting him in the background. “Nothing yet…now stop calling me!” I responded. A little insensitive yes, but the pressure was building here.

Lunchtime was here, and still no call. Not knowing if the draft took a lunch break, I decided to order a delivery pizza so I didn’t have to leave the phone. The pizza arrived at 1:30, but still no call. It’s amazing what nervous energy can do to a neurotic person's appetite. I ate the entire pie in about twenty minutes. The phone remained silent.

It was now dinner time. My friends and teammates who had enjoyed the beautiful southern spring weather by playing Frisbee and drinking beer in the park were stopping by to see me. I’m sure they were appalled by the sight of my dark circled eyes as I peered out the crack in the door and ushered them away while I waited. “I wonder how long the draft goes on the first day?” was my thought as I prepared to order another delivery pizza for dinner. “I know, I’ll switch from sausage to pepperoni”, I said to myself and prepared to drown my sorrows in carbohydrates and mozzarella cheese.

At about 10pm I gave up for the day, but didn’t dare go out and face the intense questioning that awaited me from fellow students and friends. I just figured I would be chosen early on the second day and have to settle for a BMW as a consolation prize. The local news had the draft results on the nightly sportscast, and only four tight ends had been chosen in the first three rounds. My spirits were replenished! “It’s only a matter of time now” I said as I laid my exasperated head down to try and get some sleep.

The alarm clock went off as scheduled at 7am the next morning, and knowing that the draft didn’t start until 9 I decided to leave my room for the first time in 24 hours and eat breakfast in the cafeteria. Luckily, early Sunday morning isn’t prime time activity wise for college students, so I ate my oatmeal in sublime anonymity as I prepared for my glorious moment. I was back in my room at 8:30, just in case Tom Landry or Chuck Knox needed to get hold of me.

It was lunchtime now, and still no call. I decided the best remedy for this dilemma was Chinese food, so I ordered some egg “on my face” foo young to be delivered and help me through this ridiculous ordeal. At 3pm the phone finally rang. It was a local radio station reaming me out for not giving them the draft interview I had promised them. When I explained I hadn’t been drafted yet, he meekly conveyed his mea culpa and gently hung up the phone.

At 4:30 PM the phone rang again. It was the New Orleans Saints…finally I was drafted! But wait, it was the GM telling me that they had me highly rated but the draft was almost over. If I didn’t get drafted, would I consider flying down to New Orleans and signing with them as a free agent? I was crushed but tried to maintain some semblance of civility. “Sure”, I said. “Give me a call.” That same call was repeated with two other teams. The Eagles and Rams expressed the same interest. So when the final draft bell rang and my 48 hours of brutal torture was over, I hurriedly agreed to get out of town as fast as I could and visit the teams. Escape would be my salvation. First stop would be New Orleans, Louisiana.

I arrived at the airport to a reception of one. A local ball boy had been given the task to pick me up and take me to team headquarters. While the Saints first round draft choice Stan Brock from the University of Colorado was being shown the French Quarter and eating oysters, I was being shuttled to the team facility in an old van with under inflated tires. All the reporters were gone when I entered the office of the Saints general manager and sat down. He asked me if I had a good flight, but never bothered to take his eyes off the papers on his desk. He then summoned my ball boy/limo drive/personal escort to give me a tour of the facility. We walked into the weight room and there was one lonely figure working out; it was QB Archie Manning.

He waived me over and extended a sweaty hand to shake. I grasped it and asked him why he was the only one there working out. “Good question”, he answered, “maybe because I want to win worse than anybody else here.” We chatted for a bit as he pitched the company line and tried to recruit me to sign there. We said our goodbyes, and he went back to the vigorous exercise. His son Peyton Manning was 4 years old at the time, and Eli Manning hadn’t yet been born.

As it turned out, I signed with the Philadelphia Eagles as a rookie free agent, and made the 1980 NFC Championship team. My signing bonus was a whopping $4,000. Not quite enough for the Benz or the BMW, so I settled for a used MGB that I was way too big for and had to sell about a month later. I often thought about Archie Manning that season with some remorse about my being in the right place at the right time, having the opportunity of signing with a winner, and participating on a Super Bowl team so early in my career.

Archie never got his championship, but eventually his sons got it for him. A lot like my draft weekend the prize was a long time coming, but in the end… it was worth the wait.

Changes....

CHUCK DALY

1982 was a transitional year.

I was teaching tennis at Greg Luzinski’s Cherry Hill tennis courts, working in the weight room as a personal trainer, and doing anything I could to make money as I awaited my next professional football opportunity. Actually, as fate would have it, this is where I ran into Carl Peterson, the ex-player personnel director of the Eagles who had just signed on to run the Stars of the USFL. He was there getting tennis lessons for his daughter Dawn, and signed me to a contract for the 1983 season on the spot. If anyone ever tells you that timing and “who you know” doesn’t mean EVERYTHING, don’t believe them.

The weight room was rather tiny and offered just a couple of exercise bikes, a few nautilus machines, and some small dumbbells (I was the larger one). A middle aged man with a head full of great thick hair combed back in a pompadour entered one day, gave me a nod and a smile, and made a beeline to an exercise bike as he pedaled at a ferocious pace and devoured several newspapers in about a thirty minute workout. When he pulled the paper down from his face, I recognized it was Chuck Daly, the former assistant coach of the 76’rs and recently fired Head Coach of the Cleveland Cavaliers who was currently doing the color analysis for the Sixers games on the then local cable network Prism.

He asked me if I was who he thought I was, and I asked him if he was who I thought he was (even though I KNEW), and we started a friendly relationship and talked sports several times a week during his workouts. He was furious at being fired by Cleveland in less than one season, and was anxiously awaiting his next coaching opportunity. Not knowing how solid the USFL was going to be, I offered to be his assistant coach, gofer, equipment manager, or anything else that might get me into professional basketball. He thought I was joking and laughed me off, but if he had said yes to any one of the above I was his man!

Later that year, Daly was hired as the Head Coach of the Detroit Pistons, and went on an amazing run coaching the “bad boys” Isaiah Thomas, Bill Laimbeer, Dennis Rodman, and Rick Mahorn to two NBA championships back to back in 1990 and 1991. He finished his coaching career with the NJ Nets and Orlando Magic, but never attained the success he had with the Pistons.

As we sat there talking about our respective futures back in 1982, little did we know we would win 4 championships between us in the upcoming years. Not too bad for a couple of South Jersey boys killing time in a local tennis club.

Heroes

Heroes come in many shapes and sizes. They all have a few common characteristics which are; a moral compass pointing in the right direction, a work ethic that will carry them through difficult times, and a sense of compassion and caring for others.

I’ve chosen to chronicle a few of the people in my life who I consider heroes. Some you will have heard of, some not. But I feel it’s important to recognize them all.


DICK VERMEIL

You probably think I’m going to talk about football. But the reason I consider Coach Vermeil a hero has nothing to do with football. He’s my hero because he cares about others, regardless of the amount of time that has passed or the minimal role you played in his life.

I’ve talked about my wife’s almost fatal car accident last year. Luckily she survived and is well on the road to a full recovery. But it was touch and go for a few months. A couple of weeks after it happened; I was spending most of my days at the Cooper Hospital Trauma Center in Camden, NJ and was taking a break in the cafeteria one afternoon when my phone rang. It was Dick Vermeil. He somehow had heard about the accident and was calling to check up on us. Keep in mind I only played a couple of games for him 29 YEARS AGO. But to Dick, I was still a part of his extended family. He must have called me 6-7 times over the two months Terri was hospitalized, voicing the same concerns over and over.

We had a dinner recently at the Greate Bay Country Club in Somers Point, NJ to help promote his new line of wine (which, by the way, is delicious). There were two of his ex-players in attendance, and he recognized both of us. When it came my turn to be introduced, he rightfully talked mostly about how happy he was to see my wife there and how she was “tougher” than any first round draft choice he had ever selected. His wife Carol then stopped by our table to chat for over a half hour, and Terri was overwhelmed with the attention she was receiving.

I would be flattered if he even just remembered my name. Yet he took the time to call and check in on a bit player from almost thirty years ago that most coaches wouldn’t remember. That’s why Dick Vermeil is my hero.



JOE PATERNO

I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Joe Paterno. But I’ve heard a multitude of stories about the legendary football coach from the Penn State players who were my teammates over the years; Chuck Fusina, Tommy Donovan, Scott Fitzkee, Bill Duggan, and Roger Jackson, just to name a few. Do you remember Tommy Donovan? He was the Stars wide receiver who would do a complete flip in the end zone after scoring a touchdown (since I only scored 1 career touchdown in a 4 year pro career, I never quite got my touchdown celebration down pat like TD). Anyway, he would do a great Joe Paterno imitation, screaming in a falsetto voice “get outta here!” the way the coach supposedly would do it at practice.

I was scratching my head a few years ago when this Hall of Fame coach suffered a couple of losses and people were calling for his scalp. They said he was “too old” and the game had “passed him by”. Here is a guy who has stayed at the same University for over 40 years, has a graduation rate 10 per cent over the national average, been a shining example of playing by the rules and to my knowledge has NEVER been accused of an NCAA violation, won two national championships, is the all time leader in wins in the history of college football, and has raised over 13 million dollars in charitable contributions to the school, not to mention his powerhouse teams draw over 100,000 fans for every home game.

C’mon, give the guy a break. He should coach as long as he is capable and feels healthy. Like Coach Johnny Wooden that I chronicled in a previous blog, Joe Paterno is my hero because he has made a lifetime out of doing it the RIGHT way.


MORE HEROES

My brother Mike Dunek who chose not to pursue college basketball even though he was a much better high school player than I was. He and his wife Anna stayed behind in Chicago while I moved out east, and are doing a great job of tending to my aging parents in my absence…..a great friend and business associate Betty Stahm of American Eagle Paper Mills who has backed me and the business I started up about a year ago and is as loyal and caring a person as I’ve ever met…….My father Jim Dunek and the memory of his headlights shining in my bedroom window as he left for work at 5am to make a living for us and sometimes not coming home until midnight, only to do it all over again the next day….My friend and massage therapist Cristina Giordano who is trying to keep these old battered football bones flexible enough to go on. She is a single mom, had the courage to follow her passion and start her own business, and is the best I’ve ever seen at what she does……Helena Sprague, who is my sister-in law and has endured so many hardships over the last four years but forges ahead with an incredible amount of grace, dignity, and tenacity... University of Pennsylvania Head Women's Basketball Coach Mike McLaughlin who teaches and coaches the game the way its meant to be played...

Stars owner Myles Tannenbaum whose belief in his team and financial support transcended into one of the best records in the history of professional football...Dr. Greg Halligan of St. Christopher's Childrens Hospital in Philadelphia for making a dramatic difference in the lives of kids with cancer and their families....Pat Maguire is that special friend that comes along once in a lifetime and is someone you could call anytime day or night and know he would be there for you…My sophomore basketball coach Roger Cannon who would meet me at the school gym before school at 6:30Am to work on my game...Sam Mills, my late, great ex-teammate with the Stars of the USFL who proved its not the size of your body that makes a great player, its the size of your heart....Brian Sprague, my nephew who survived a terrible worksite accident and is courageously on the mend....My friend and associate Tommy Hyland who has taught me more about kindness, honesty, and generosity than anyone ever did, and has made me a better person in return….

My late mentor Coach Murray Armstrong of Memphis State University who encouraged me to give football a try, and then to stick with it when the going got rough....Marjorie Sprague, who is the sister of my brother in law Mike Sprague. She survived non hodgkins lymphoma AND a heart transplant and started a charitable foundation called "The Queen of Hearts" that benefits heart disease and cancer patients....Carl Peterson for believing in me enough to sign me to my first professional contract....Ernie Banks of the Chicago Cubs, whose effervescent personality and indominable enthusiasm endeared me to the team and to the greatest ballpark on earth..Wrigley Field.

My daughter Ashley Dunek, who was a standout basketball player and got a full ride to Holy Family University, a nationally ranked D2 school in Philadelphia. I have never enjoyed anything as much in my life as I enjoyed watching her play basketball….her triplet sisters Alexandra, Taylor and Jamie are great examples of young people that give us all hope that the future is in good hands…..and finally my wife Terri, who has been a great Mom to four girls… slept on the floor of our nursery for six months as she tended to triplets, gave nursing care to our daughter Alex who battled cancer at 1 year of age, and has put up with an over inflated ego as a husband for 27 years now. When I think of her, the words respect and gratitude immediately come to mind.

You are ALL my heroes…and I thank you.

Mr. Wizard

Lot's of people joining the facebook site for the blog.....thanks!

Hope you enjoy this story about two legendary basketball coaches...Ken

JOHNNY WOODEN AND DENNY CRUM

There is nothing like college basketball.

If I had to rate my favorite yearly sporting events, they would be in this order; the NCAA college basketball tournament, the Masters, the Super Bowl, the US Open golf tournament, and then the World Series.

There is something about college basketball; the purity of the game and the excitement of single elimination provide a drama that no other sport can come close to for me. The George Mason’s and Gonzaga’s of the world knocking off the Duke’s and UCLA’s on a last second shot is electrifying and mesmerizing. I absolutely love NCAA basketball.

Actually, any state high school basketball tournament is almost as good. Although I was able to compete in sports at a very high level, to this day my worst athletic loss was being upset my senior year in the Illinois high school state tourney by a team from South Beloit, Illinois who was 6-6 in our conference and had only made it that far by hitting a buzzer beater half court shot to win by one point the previous game. I can remember my coaches Bill Barry and Roger Cannon with tears in their eyes after that loss. They loved the game as much or more than I did, and it killed me that we weren’t able to win it for them. I did learn a valuable lesson though; never underestimate your opponent. In my opinion, you can learn the best lessons sometimes in the most difficult of circumstances.

NBA basketball doesn’t come close to college bball. The guaranteed contacts and lack of emotion and hustle provide a funeral like pall over most of the games I have attended. Even though the league sports the “best of the best” in talent, something is missing. Keep the pyrotechnics and scantily clad cheerleaders. Spill your guts on the floor if you want me to buy a ticket.

I was having dinner with a friend recently in Philadelphia when he recognized an acquaintance and waived him over to the table. It was Harold Katz, the former owner of the Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers. We were introduced, and in my effort to make small talk, I asked him if he missed owning the team. He replied, “not at all”. I was puzzled by his answer, so I asked him why. He responded, “how would you like to own a business where you guarantee all the salaries before they start work, and then they can tell you to go f*** yourself if you say anything to them about their performance”? It was blunt language, but I got the picture. I quickly crossed owning an NBA franchise off my bucket list.

As a member of the Memphis State basketball team for two years, I had the privilege of participating in the Metro conference tournament at the end of each season. My junior year it was held at the University of Cincinnati, and being the college hoops nut that I am I attended every game our coach would allow me to. Many of the guys stayed back at the team hotel eating and watching movies. I was at the arena soaking up the atmosphere. At one preliminary game I found myself sitting next to a familiar figure; legendary Louisville basketball coach Denny Crum.

Denny Crum was the top assistant for someone whom I believe is the greatest coach in the history of sports; UCLA’s John Wooden. As I introduced myself to Coach Crum and chatted a bit, all I could think of was the wealth of experience he must have gleaned from Wooden. Anyone can coach X’s and O’s, but Coach Wooden took it farther. I’ve read where he never talked to his team about winning, only about playing and preparing as best they could, and yet they won. How about 10 NCAA championships and seven in a row? Now that’s winning! And Denny Crum participated in that success with Wooden helping him to three of those titles as an assistant before becoming the Head Coach at Louisville in 1971, where he won two national championships himself.

I’m sure I bored him during our twenty minute talk. He probably at one point thought I was planted there by the Memphis coaches to distract him while scouting his next opponent. But he was very nice and polite and we shook hands as he left his court side seats to huddle with his assistants. I shook the hand that shook the hand of the greatest coach in sports history. For a basketball junkie like me, it doesn’t get much better than that.

I thought I would leave you with John Wooden’s seven point creed. It applies not to basketball, but more importantly, it applies to life:

Be true to yourself.
Make each day your masterpiece.
Help others.
Drink deeply from good books, especially the Bible.
Make friendship a fine art.
Build a shelter against a rainy day.
Pray for guidance and give thanks for your blessings every day.

Thanks Coach Wooden for your wisdom, and thanks to you Coach Crum for your patience … with a young man with stars in his eyes, and the courage to try and accomplish extraordinary things.

And I might add this; treat each day like its your single elimination NCAA tournament game. But like Coach Wooden, don't play to win. Play the game right, and you're sure to come out a winner.