I Saw Love Once
Swen Nater

Coach Wooden died Friday evening about 7:00. I got the call from a close friend just after Coach passed away. Coach often said, “Failure to prepare is preparing to fail.” Well, I thought I was ready for this day but I wasn’t. I had the whole thing scripted for the newspaper writers and sports radio talk hosts. “I’m not sad at all. I’m so happy for Coach. He was confined to a wheelchair, people had to do everything for him, and he couldn’t sign his name anymore. He wanted to go home to the Lord and Nellie and he did. I’m rejoicing with him now.”

That’s the way I planned it anyhow. In reality, I’m being rather selfish. Yes, I am happy for him but, folks, as I look out my window to the world, I realize, Coach Wooden is not here anymore. I can’t call him to share a joke. I can’t send him new poems anymore. I can’t ask him questions about basketball and teaching. I can’t because he’s gone.

Two minutes ago, I called his phone and got his answering machine. I just had to hear his voice once more. “You have reached 818-343-2266. Speak slowly and distinctly when you leave a message. Thank you.” I hung up before the beep because I knew he would not answer like he usually does, “Swen. How are you? How’s the family? Are you in town? When are you coming down?”

Like some of you, I have so many great memories. I remember when we were both interviewed by ESPN and the host asked me, “Swen, Coach Wooden only played seven players and you weren’t one of them. After the career you had after college where you proved yourself, have you ever wondered why Coach didn’t give you more minutes?”

I turned to Coach and said, “Yeah, Coach. Why didn’t you play me more?”

He answered, “Because I didn’t like you.”

I remember the time he asked me, “Where do you come up with all those jokes?”

I took full advantage of the moment and said, “Well, Coach. I had a lot of time on my hands when I was on the bench. People behind me, in the stands, used to tell me jokes. That’s how I got them.”

He replied, “That’s interesting, Swen. There were a few times I was going to put you in the game. I looked down the bench and tried to get your attention but you were looking behind you in the stands.”

In the next weeks, reporters are going to ask me, “What do you remember about Coach?” I’m probably not going to tell them those stories because they only hint at the truth. The truth is, when I remember Coach Wooden, I remember love. He knows that because, almost 12 years ago, I wrote him this poem.

I SAW LOVE ONCE
         (for Coach Wooden on Christmas, 1998)

I saw love once, I saw it clear.
It had no leash; it had no fear.

It gave itself without a thought.
No reservation had it bought.

It seemed so free to demonstrate.
It seemed obsessed to orchestrate,

A symphony, designed to feed,
Composed to lift the one in need.

Concern for others was its goal,
No matter what would be the toll.

It’s strange just how much care it stores,
To recognize its neighbor’s sores,

And doesn’t rest until the day,
It’s helped to take those sores away.

Its joy retains and does not run,
Until the blessing’s job is done.

I saw love once; ‘twas not pretend.
He was my coach; he is my friend.