Coaching From Beyond

I didn’t need a map. I knew exactly where I was going—Courts of Remembrance, a place where legends rest. Bette Davis. Carrie Fisher. Debbie Reynolds. Liberace. But I wasn’t there for the stars of the screen. I came to find a quiet crypt in the corner—the final resting place of a man whose influence stretched far beyond the hardwood.

The Companion Wall Crypt. Designed for two. Now holding a couple whose love story was as steady and timeless as the wisdom he shared.

There are several Forest Lawn cemeteries scattered across Southern California. Only one holds the man who turned coaching into a masterclass on life. Opened in 1952, Forest Lawn Memorial Park – Hollywood Hills is where I walked in silence to pay my respects to the greatest college coach—and teacher—of all time: John Wooden.

There’s a calm that settles over you in that place. The noise of the world fades, and your footsteps feel more deliberate. You’re not just approaching a grave. You’re approaching a legacy.

I’ll admit, I was surprised to find that John Wooden and his beloved wife Nellie weren’t laid to rest on the campus of UCLA, the place they helped shape for generations. Instead, their final resting place sits quietly over the Hollywood Hills, 17 miles away from Pauley Pavilion, where they spent much of their lives teaching young people not just how to play, but how to live. And yet, somehow, that distance only reinforces the reach of their influence—because their message was never meant to be confined to a court.

Wooden’s crypt is unassuming—just like the man himself. No towering statue. No grand monument. Just two modest plates, four rows up in the first column of crypts. And yet, that quiet space speaks volumes—echoing louder than most tributes ever could.

It’s representative of the man who led UCLA to 10 national championships in 27 seasons yet never asked for a pay raise during his coaching career. His salary was modest as he never made more than $35,000 a year. No agent. No contract battles. He didn’t coach for the paycheck—he coached to shape people.

There’s a story—true to his nature—that in the back of his office sat a dusty Coach of the Year trophy, mostly forgotten. What he valued more were the handwritten letters from former players—notes filled with gratitude, growth, and lessons that had nothing to do with basketball. That was the kind of legacy he cared about.

Standing there, it’s humbling to reflect—not on the trophies or the streaks—but on the lives he changed. The Pyramid of Success wasn’t a strategy to win games. It was a blueprint for living a life of integrity, discipline, and grace.

Later, while in Minneapolis, I made a similar pilgrimage—this time to Roselawn Cemetery in Roseville, just east of the city—to visit Herb Brooks. The architect of the “Miracle on Ice” rests in a simpler grave, but his influence is just as profound. Where Wooden taught the slow, patient art of building character, Brooks ignited belief, unity, and an underdog’s fight. They were different men in different sports, but both used coaching as a platform for something bigger.

Visiting these graves wasn’t about nostalgia or sports history. It was about gratitude. About recognizing that the greatest coaches weren’t just drawing up plays—they were drawing out the best in people.

But here’s the thing: paying your respects shouldn’t end at the headstone.

If you truly want to honor them, take the lessons they gave the world—humility, preparation, teamwork, courage—and pass them on. Teach them. Live them. Because a legacy doesn’t live in bronze plaques or marble crypts. It lives in the people who choose to carry it forward.

And in doing so, something beautiful happens. You don’t just walk away with memories—you leave renewed.  Re-centered. Recommitted. A quiet conviction to live better, lead humbler, and make your dash between the dates count.  Paying your respects, in the end, isn’t just about remembering a life. It’s about being reminded how to live yours. 

Lessons from the Asphalt

Back in the late-80s to mid-90s, summer wasn’t about highlight reels or player rankings.

It was about double-rimmed hoops with chain nets, games to eleven, and who had next.

Outdoor 3-on-3 tournaments ruled everything. And for a generation of kids raised on concrete and asphalt, White Men Can’t Jump wasn’t just a movie—it was part of our basketball curriculum.

Billy Hoyle and Sidney Deane weren’t real, but they might as well have been. They showed us how to play with confidence, how to compete with swagger, how to let our game do the talking—and how to respect the game even when the game didn’t respect you back.

They were bigger than the film. They became part of how we saw the game—and ourselves.

Of all the movies from my childhood, none influenced me more. It shaped how we played, how we saw the court, and how we carried ourselves when the ball was in our hands. It also taught us the value of chemistry—of knowing your partner’s rhythm, timing, and trust—because Billy and Sidney didn’t win by being the same; they won by figuring each other out.

So, when I finally made it out west to Los Angeles, I had to visit two of the film’s most iconic courts. This wasn’t about checking a box. It was about coming full-circle.

The first stop - the parking lot off Dudley Avenue and the Ocean Front Walk in Venice Beach. That’s where the movie’s opening scenes were filmed. Many fans shoot hoops at the iconic Venice Beach basketball courts near Muscle Beach assuming they’re standing where Billy and Sidney first met. But real fans know better. That legendary opening—Billy in the tie-dye hat, hustling his way into Sidney’s world—was shot a mile north, in a parking lot in front of the four-story Cadillac Hotel with its pink sandstone walls and pistachio green trim. 

The court they built there didn’t last—but the story it told did. For a few weeks, that lot became one of the most iconic streetball sets ever captured on film. And even though it returned to being a parking lot, for those who remember, that court still lives on.

Then came Lafayette Park near downtown Los Angeles—the site of the Two-on-Two for Brotherhood Basketball Tournament where Billy and Sidney beat “Flight” and “Willie” but instead of it bringing them closer, it highlights their flaws. It’s where they learn they’re both living with their own personal pressures. They don’t trust each other yet, but they both start to sense that any success they have will be temporary if that doesn’t change. 

More importantly, the court at Lafayette Park is where Billy and Sidney take on Los Angeles streetball legends Duck Johnson and Eddie “The King” Faroo in the movie’s final game. Duck and The King aren’t just streetball legends — they represent the pinnacle of the Los Angeles outdoor basketball scene. Beating them isn’t about money. It’s about validation. It’s the first time we see their chemistry fully realized. 

For years, I said if I ever made it to Los Angeles, this court would be a must. A bucket-list stop.

Even though the characters were fictional, there’s nothing like walking onto the same blacktop where Billy finally dunked. That moment—where he rises up and shocks everyone, including himself—was filmed on a new court built by the production crew. Most sets get torn down. This one was left behind, gifted to the city. And it’s still there. Same spot. Same view. Palm trees, mid-rises, and that feeling that if you laced up your shoes, someone would call next. 

But that court tells a bigger story—the one where Billy and Sidney finally trusted each other, finally played for something real. They stopped hustling and started hooping. They won the game, but not without losing something too. That’s the thing about streetball: the score never tells the whole story.

Standing there, it hit me:

It was never about where you played. It was how you played.

Because we had our own versions of those courts growing up.

We played Gus Macker tournaments in Quincy (IL) and Peoria (IL), where you either fought through fouls or went home early. Gus Busters didn’t bail you out. You learned to be tough—or you learned to lose. That’s where trash talk was born, even if subtle. Where you learned how to take it. When to give it back. Even when you were outmatched.

We played at the Strawberry Festival in Farmington (IA)—facing kids from all over southeast Iowa. A few hard fouls. A few handshakes. And sometimes, friendships that lasted long after the final whistle.

And nothing beat Keokuk (IA).

After school or on weekends, we’d head to Tumelty Park or Kilbourne Park. We didn’t know who we’d play—and they didn’t know us. That was the beauty of it. Just sets of friends showing up with a ball and something to prove. Playing to stay on the court. Playing for respect—win or lose.

And respect wasn’t handed out easily.

You earned it by taking a hard foul that everyone knew wasn’t getting called. You earned it by standing in and taking a charge. By giving it right back—even when the guy guarding you had six inches of height and twenty pounds of muscle on you. Every possession felt like a statement. Hard screens were worth a few points each run. But with that kind of intensity came consequences. 

Out there, it wasn’t about who you were or where you were from—it was about how you played when it mattered.

But sometimes, the court that mattered most was the one closest to home. Because while the parks taught us how to earn respect from strangers, the "Barndomium" taught us how to earn it from the people who knew us best.

Some of the fiercest competition we ever faced didn’t happen in a tournament or a city park—it happened inside a Quonset barn on our family’s dairy farm south of Kahoka (MO). We called it the “Barndomium”—part barn, part dome, part gymnasium. You could count on it: our older brother’s teammates would roll through the cattle lot gate and park right beside the barn’s wide-open front. Friends would show up, and before long, we’d have hours-long games of 2-on-2 or 3-on-3. The best part? With one pull of a heavy steel handle, two massive overhead lights would flicker on, casting a golden glow across the court and turning that old barn into something that felt like a small-town arena. On weekends, the games stretched deep into the night. And if social media had been around back then, I think word would’ve gotten out—there was always a game waiting in the "Barndomium".

That’s what those White Men Can’t Jump courts reminded me of.

It wasn’t about Hollywood. It wasn’t about perfect conditions.

It was about the game—the raw, unfiltered version we grew up on.

Quick decisions. Toughness. Inside-out basketball. Backdoor cuts. Moving without the ball. Executing the pick and roll. Making the right pass. Connectivity. Handling adversity when nobody was going to save you.

It was sharpening your basketball IQ.

Those courts near Dudley Avenue and at Lafayette Park weren’t just movie locations.

They were reflections of where the real game lived.

Outside. In the heat. On asphalt. Where every possession mattered, and everything you earned came the hard way.

It shaped how we played.

It shaped how we saw the game.

And if you grew up on courts like those, you didn’t just watch White Men Can’t Jump—

You lived it.