Excellence Is Simple 2

“Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.” – John Wooden

Ring, Ring.

John Wooden sat in silence, waiting for a phone call that would define his future. He had just been offered the head coaching position at both the University of Minnesota, and the University of California, Los Angeles. UCLA. Born and bred in the Midwest, he was predisposed to Minnesota.   

But there was a catch. At Minnesota, he’d replace a coach who would then serve under him. Wooden didn’t like that—he wanted to lead without baggage. He asked the administration to reassign the man elsewhere in the University.   

They told him they would consider it and promised to call him with confirmation at 6 p.m. on Saturday. When UCLA reached out, he told them to call him at 7.   

6 p.m., nothing  

6:15, still nothing  

6:30, silence.   

Had Minnesota rejected him?   

Wooden assumed so. When UCLA called at 7 on the dot, he accepted the job.  

Moments after hanging up, the phone rang again. It was Minnesota—they were frantic.

“There’s a blizzard here, John. We haven’t seen anything like it. We tried to call, but the storm took down our phone lines,” they said. “The offer still stands.”

Wooden sat for a moment, weighing it. He could make an excuse, walk it back, go where he’d planned.

But he’d given his word.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve given my word.”

He hung up, packed his bags, and headed west—toward the unknown.

The B.O. Barn.

In 1948 when Wooden arrived, UCLA wasn’t a losing team—they were just average. No titles and no real identity.   

When he got there, he discovered that he wasn’t actually employed by the University. He was technically employed by the body of associated students. His checks were signed by an undergrad.  

Great. he thought.   

Next, he went to go see the gym.   

He went up the stairs to the third floor and stepped through the door. He nearly gagged.    

The place reeked!  

It was poorly lit, badly ventilated, and overcrowded. The space was shared by the wrestling team, the gymnastic team, the basketball team, and the cheerleaders. No private locker rooms. No private showers.  

His mind started to whine. What the hell is this place?  

But it didn’t last long. He had work to do and complaining wasn’t going to solve anything.   So, he introduced himself to the team and then he gathered them into the locker room. He sat them down, then, he showed them how to… tie their shoes?  

The players exchanged glances. Was this some kind of joke?  

Next, he made them take off their shoes and put on their socks—slowly, smoothing out

every crease.  

Why waste time on this?   

Because blisters lose games. A blistered athlete can’t run. A blistered athlete misses practice. One tiny patch of skin could decide a championship—and Wooden wasn’t about to let that happen.   

“How you do one thing is how you do everything” says the Zen proverb. That was the point. Details win games. And we skip warmups because it's boring?   

During one practice, his players were giving a half-hearted effort, distracted, cracking jokes.   

Wooden sighed, then blew the whistle.   

“Well, men. Let’s call it for today. We’re just not with it.” He said.   

The athletes looked dumfounded. He’s cancelling practice?   

“Give us another chance, coach. We’ll get moving” His players pleaded.  

Wooden nodded. We’ll see.  

The practice continued, and the effort did increase. Marginally.   

Wooden shook his head--not angry, just disappointed.  

“Gentlemen, practice is finished”.  

FLICK   

He hit the lights and the gym went dark.   

The next day, Wooden didn't have to say a word. His players showed up, warmed up, and got to work.  

During the day’s scrimmage, the ball zipped from one man to the next—one pass, two, three, then a quick jumper from the corner.  

Swish.  

“Well done,” Wooden said. “Again. Faster.”  

The athletes looked at each other, shrugged, and did it again. And again. And again. 

Off to the side, those that weren’t in the scrimmage were practicing free throws or running laps. There was no idle time, no coasting. Only work.   

Day after day, the pace quickened. Passes snapped sharper. Cuts got tighter. Conditioning hardened. No more jokes, only crisp plays.   

He saw a quick return on investment. In his first season, Wooden took a team with no banners, no Final Four history, and turned them into contenders. UCLA went 22–7, claimed their first-ever Southern Division title, and punched a ticket to the postseason.   

Revolution.

The Bruins were good—consistently good. But not great. Year after year they dominated their region, but the finals stayed out of reach. Conditioning alone doesn’t win championships.  

They needed someone with a tactical mind.  

In 1951, Wooden found him: Jerry Norman. He knew the game inside and out, reading the court like a general reads the battlefield. Wooden made him assistant head coach.  

Norman saw a program built on relentless conditioning and simple schemes. Wooden’s approach was simple: wear opponents down with pace, run a few trusted plays, and stick to man-to-man defense.  

Not bad, but not exactly championship strategy. Norman saw it.  

“Coach,” Norman said, “we can’t just out-condition everybody. Against the best teams, it won’t be enough. We need a better strategy.”  

He had one in mind—the zone press.  

In the zone press, players dominated space, not players. When the other team took the ball in, UCLA was in their face instantly. Two defenders trapped the ball handler in the corner while another cut off the center. Passing lanes vanished. Under pressure, the ball had to move and that’s when mistakes happened. Turnovers. Fast breaks. Points.  

Norman knew it could change everything. He pitched it again and again. Wooden resisted. They were winning, why change? But nearly a decade of close calls wore on him. At the start of the 1963–64 season, Wooden gave Norman the green light.  

First time?

It changed everything. UCLA forced 20 to 30 turnovers a game, and their relentless pace broke most opponents before halftime.  

Their new tactics brought them to 26-0 in the regular season. In the regional finals, they plowed through Seattle, then San Fransico, becoming full Pacific Division champions. 

Next, Kansas State. The Bruins outlasted them in a shootout, 90–84. First national title shot secured.  

UCLA was now in uncharted territory. Not Duke. Duke knew the terrain well. They had playoff experience, talent, and a height advantage.  

On March 21st they squared off in Kansas City. 

From the opening tip, Duke came out hot—sharp cuts, clean passes, knocking down shots. In the first two minutes, they sliced through the press twice, scoring two clean buckets before UCLA could even find their footing.  

The crowd roared. 

Midway through the first half, UCLA was down by three. The Bruins looked human for the first time all season. 

What’s going on? Wooden thought. 

He didn’t call a timeout. No rousing speeches. That wasn’t his style. You don’t rise to the occasion; you fall to the level of your training—and his team had trained harder than anyone. 

It took one bad play. Duke threw a bad pass at midcourt—UCLA snatched it up like a bird grabbing a fish from the water. Next possession, Duke inbounded. Too slow. A Bruin stripped the ball, pulled up, and launched a jumper from a different time zone.

In minutes, the scoreboard flipped. Sixteen unanswered points. Kansas City roared. Duke’s confident start crumbled into panic. 

By the second half, Duke’s ball handlers were coughing it up in the corners, passes sailing out of bounds, shots rushed and ugly. Turnover after turnover piled up—twenty-nine by the end of the night, the most ever in a title game at the time. At the end of the night, the scoreboard read UCLA 98, Duke 83. They had done it. National champions.

The buzzer sounded. Wooden didn’t scream, didn’t throw his hands in the air. He was quiet, all business. Because this wasn’t catharsis. It was confirmation. He knew this would happen. Those brutal practices in the B.O. barn. The late nights with Norman, drawing up plays. It wasn't luck. It was effort.

That effort just started a new dynasty.

Between 1964 and 1975, Wooden took UCLA to 10 national titles in 12 seasons. The program won seven straight between 1967 and 1973. On top of that, they went undefeated four times---in 1964, 1967, 1972, and 1973.  

No college basketball dynasty has even come close to replicating UCLA’s run. 

Excellence is Simple.

Wooden’s success wasn’t magic. He wasn’t some mystical basketball wizard. Not even close. He was a normal person, just like you and me.  

The difference was his resolve. His dedication to simplicity—conditioning, discipline, integrity. Leading without posturing. When things got hard, he adjusted. When he came up short, he brought in help.  

We want to think excellence is some mystery. It isn’t. It’s simple. But it’s not easy, and that's why people fail.  

You think it was easy for Wooden to show up every day? To stand firm on his standards, without bending or breaking, even for his star players? Not at all. But through the execution of simple standards, he built a dynasty that in over 50 years is still unrivaled. 

You want to build a dynasty? 

Then you have to show up every day. Even when you don't feel like it, especially when you don't feel like it. Understand that it takes time. It took Wooden 15 seasons to get to his first championship. We expect it to take 15 minutes. We expect easy. 

Nope.

Get to work. Get back in your version of the B.O. Barn. Lace up. Tie your shoes right. And get after it.