NEAR PERFECTION: BILL WALTON OF UCLA AND NCAA BASKETBALL CHAMPIONSHIP AND THE NBA

The lovely, sprawling campus of UCLA, the University of California at Los Angeles, is located in Westwood, a wealthy suburb near Beverly Hills. Since the slim, white-toothed, attractive students look straight out of central casting, a campus stroll is like walking through a movie set. For all its physical charm, academic reputation, and football success, UCLA is most synonymous with basketball and specifically identified with the halcyon days of Coach John Wooden, the “Wizard of Westwood.”

 NBA luminary Lenny Wilkens and John Wooden are the only people who have been elected to the Basketball Hall of Fame as both a player and coach.²⁵ He (Wooden) was the 1932 college player of the year at Purdue and three-time all-American. Wooden later coached successfully at the high school level and at Indiana State. He became UCLA’s head coach in 1948 and continued until his retirement in 1975.²⁶

WHEN HE RETIRED AS A PLAYER IN 1975, (Lenny) Wilkens ranked second on the NBA all-time assist list with 7,211 (6.7 avg). Wilkens had the uncanny ability to serve as a player and coach simultaneously, logging three seasons with Seattle and one with Portland before moving on to concentrate solely on coaching.²⁷

THIS BOOK contains stories about many sports dynasties: the New York Yankees, Montreal Canadiens, Boston Celtics, and Calumet Farm. UCLA’s basketball dynasty ranks up there with the best of them, and nearly matches the Boston Celtics’ historic run of eight straight NBA championships from 1958-1966 and 10 championships in 11 years.

ACHIEVING UNITY. John Wooden’s UCLA teams produced a stratospheric 620-147 record, four undefeated seasons, 88 consecutive victories, and 10 national championships from 1964-1975, with an unprecedented seven in a row from 1966-73.²⁸

 Wooden was a fine teacher who never swore or raised his voice in anger. He believed that strong personal values were the key to success in any sport. His players were highly disciplined, made few mistakes, and wore down the opposition with unity, an unselfish fast-break offense combined with high-percentage shooting, and a swarming zone press that mercilessly harassed opposing players attempts to advance the basketball.

 No college basketball coach ever recruited and developed talent like John Wooden. The list of UCLA and later NBA stars is long and impressive: Kareem-Abdul Jabar, Gail Goodrich, Marques Johnson, Walt Hazzard, Bill Walton, and many more.

 The complete and versatile six-eleven Walton was a dominating basketball player from high school right through into the NBA. He was the all-American center on UCLA teams that won 88 straight and recorded back-to-back 30-0 seasons.²⁹

 In 1973, as a UCLA junior, Bill Walton delivered an indelible classic that embodied Wooden’s coaching genius. UCLA sought its seventh consecutive national championship when they met a tough Memphis State team in the 1973 NCAA final game. Walton anchored the defense like the team player he was, grabbed 13 rebounds, passed impeccably, and scored 44 points on extrasensory 21-22 shooting as UCLA won another title. Bill Walton’s feat was basketball at its acme as taught by John Wooden and may have come the closest to single-game basketball perfection ever played at any level.³⁰

  After many college honors such as Player of the Year, Academic All-American and Sullivan Trophy, Bill Walton went on to a successful NBA career where he won an MVP and two titles, the first with the Portland Trail Blazers. Later in his career, he joined the Boston Celtics in 1986 and won his second NBA title and a Sixth Man of the Year Award. Walton and Larry Bird on the floor together was basketball magic.

  Bill Walton’s career was frequently interrupted by myriad foot and ankle injuries. The maladies may have been caused by the fact that although his feet were big for the average person, they were small for a player who was listed at six-eleven, but was probably over seven feet.

  Walton’s intelligence, big personality, wit and strong voice were good fits for announcing NBA games where he continues to excel.

NBA BASKETBALL ANNOUNCER Bill Walton on celebrated player John Stockton: “He’s one of the true marvels of Western Civilization.”

Fellow Announcer: “Wow. that’s a pretty strong statement, Bill. I guess I’m no authority on Western Civilization.”

Walton: “That’s because you didn’t go to UCLA.”   

(This story was excerpted from Guts in the Clutch: 77 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports, Illustrated, with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN.)

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SOURCES:

25 Courtesy of the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame,    

           http://www.hoophall.com/halloffamers/Wooden.htm, available as of

      7/27/05

26        Basketball Hall of Fame, Wooden

27 Courtesy of the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame,  http://www.hoophall.com/halloffamers/bhof-lenny-wilkens.html

28 Basketball Hall of Fame, Wooden

29 Courtesy of the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame,

 http://www.hoophall.com/halloffamers/Walton.htm, available as of

 7/27/05

30        Basketball, Hall of Fame, Walton

WILL SHAKESPEARE AT !7 IMPROVISES A SCENE FROM THE FAIRY MAB LEGEND

(Will at 17 first meets the players while tutoring Lord Strange’s children. Here he suggests then improvises a scene based on the dark side of the fairy Mab legend.)

  Will launched into it, “Hark, night-tripping fairies and pause waggoner. We shall not play in the dark, come out of the curtained, hazelnut chariot.” Then, improvising the physicality, dashing, hopping, spinning about the stage while speaking the words of all the fairies in various voices, snarling here, sweet-talking there, talking of nipping noses, tweaking ears, stubbing toes, and causing lovers to embrace and kiss, or judges to rule fairly, betraying soldier’s dreams. Will stopped, extended his arm as though a wand, and again playing Mab’s part, “The sun shines too hot, rest in the shade darling fairies. The evil spirits are banished, and we sing at heaven’s gate. Let us gather our vanities and kneel to the gods,” and he knelt with a lowered head.

  The players applauded. Will stood, bowed and walked off.

  “What is your name again, Lad.” Browne asked.

  Lord Strange, who had been joined during Will’s performance by Lady Strange, rose, “He is William Shakespeare, my children’s tutor. I see he is more gifted in poetic language and dance than I expected from a ploughman’s son. Shakespeare, write down the parts for these players and leave one for yourself. You invented and played well. As I spoke today, do not let your dramatics interfere with your duties. You may continue, Browne,” and he and Lady Strange left the room, as Browne and the players gathered around Will.

(This brief vignette was excerpted from a much-longer scene involving Will in a life-altering tutoring job. It was excerpted from Discovering Will’s Lost Years and the Marlowe-Shakespeare Lost Play: Uncovering 16th and 21st-Century Mystery, Treachery and Obsession)

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WORLD WAR TWO: 'CRY WOE, DESTRUCTION, RUIN AND DECAY . . .'

  While the allies were napping, the opportunistic German commander Field Marshall Kesserling brought up massive reinforcements. He embedded howitzers and mortars on the hills circling the beach and rained death on the Americans. Ships in the harbor were sunk and badly damaged with a huge loss of life. Steve’s ship pulled out of range early and avoided harm.

  Tanks deployed by Kesserling pointed their devastating 88 mm guns at the Americans on the beach killing and wounding thousands. Anzio was one of the worst American military debacles of the war in Europe, and it could have been avoided had aggressive forward action been taken early in the invasion.

  After weeks of havoc, the reinforced Americans broke out of the now-widened beachhead, the Germans retreated to a stronger northern position and Rome was taken. Steve got off the ship, was given new orders to a place he thought was on the Adriatic coast. Why there and why me, and who figures this shit out? Because all roads supposedly lead to Rome, Steve’s unit rode through. He caught glimpses of some landmarks: the Tiber River, Vatican City, the Coliseum and lots of fountains.

  The Italians cheered, and he saw pretty, smiling girls in summer dresses and was reminded, as if he needed it, of Suzanne. The driver was going around in circles and needed directions. They were allowed to get out of the truck near the Spanish Steps. Nearby, a comely American captain stood next to a grinning major. His body language displayed all the appearances of courting. Steve approached them and saluted. “Excuse me, Captain; are you with the Nurse Corps?”

  “Yes, I am. What do you want to know

  “By some chance have you seen a nurse named Suzanne Cousineau?”

  “As a matter of fact I have. We were on a ship off Anzio together.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “No, I don’t. She was among a detachment of nurses that was sent ashore.”

  “Was that after the breakout?”

  “No, they were sent during the worst part of the fighting.” She saw Steve’s face darken. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I don’t know where that group is now. I’m sorry.”

  The guys on the truck knew that Steve had gotten bad news, and when he stared into the middle distance they left him alone. It was June 6, 1944.

  The convoy rode east just south of the German lines. Steve was again put in an armored personnel carrier to transmit coded messages. It seemed that Italy had become the forgotten war. All anyone wanted to talk about was the invasion of Normandy. Through the clutter, he picked up that the Germans established a new defensive line that stretched eastward through the central portion of the Apennine Mountain chain and on to the Adriatic coast. And he understood that soon he would be out of the relative safety of the armored truck and moving north to help shatter that line.

  Despite that prospect, Steve’s spirits quickly reconstituted. Although he couldn’t bear to bring her photo out, he willed himself to believe that Suzanne survived Anzio, was the radiant woman of his memories and would be his lover and friend once more.

  As in the battle of Monte Cassino, Steve was an artillery observer leading a squad in a forward platoon. He knew that most artillery observers were officers and had gone to school for special training. He also knew that, like his assignment at Monte Cassino, most of them were dead or wounded, and he was a necessary replacement.

  Also like Monte Cassino, the Germans were entrenched and experienced. Unlike Cassino, the hills were heavily wooded, and the enemy was potentially behind every tree. Some of the veterans had been in brutal fighting on the German Winter Line, and their attitude was fatalistic. One, who had been in the Battle of San Pietro, said, “If you’re going to get it, and you eventually will, it might as well be here.”

  Before the climb toward entrenched German positions began, two advance scouts were dispatched to separate quadrants. No messages were received and neither returned. Since no shots were heard it was assumed that they escaped along a flank and were working their way back, or been captured, or killed silently. After a heated debate, the artillery laid down a heavy barrage above the topmost perimeter of the scout’s agreed-upon range. The fire control officers didn’t know what they were aiming at and what effect the shells might have.          

  Steve gathered his squad. “We’re going into an unknown situation. The best way to avoid being killed is kill them first. Keep separated, but keep me in sight and watch my hand signals. Speak only when absolutely necessary. Help each other, and we’ll get through it and out the other side. Check your weapons.”

(This vignette from a much-longer scene was excerpted from WW11 Soldier Flier Prisoner Partisan: Missing in Action and Presumed Dead)

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DIRTY DANCING ON SUNSET AND A ROOMLESS HOTEL ENCOUNTER

  The lights inside the Sunset Strip bar flashed silver, bronze and sexual promise among the shadows. Sam and Gia talked and watched the action as the bandleader made a muffled announcement. “You know the progressive?” Gia asked.

  “The dances from the fifties till now?”

  “Want to try it, win free beers?”

  Gia and Sam went on the floor with five other couples. The rest of the crowd circled the dance floor. Many of the men were there to watch Gia who had tucked her five-eight, figure skater’s form into a mini-sheath that could cause lesser clergy to shed their vestments.

  The dancers performed the twist, Brazilian samba, bump, disco, salsa, funk, the works. The outclassed competition gradually dropped out as Gia and Sam attained dirty dancing unity. As the last song ended to applause, Bruno, with bandaged nose, shouldered through the crowd and appeared at the edge.

  “See that big guy muttering on the left? He’s trouble.” The bandleader tapped Sam and Gia on the shoulders and they turned. Then Sam remembered Bruno, saw the roundhouse right coming and jerked his head back and to the right. The blow was still hard enough to put Sam on his back, and he slid on his shoulders into the crowd. Bruno looked pleased and started after Sam. Gia delivered a karate kick to the side of Bruno’s jaw that sounded like the thwock of a tennis serve. He caved in on himself like a detonated building and lay on his back, eyes open and glassy, body jerking.

  Heather barged out of the crowd spitting, swearing, kicking and throwing punches. Gia neatly sidestepped and dropped her mid-stride with a short right hand to the point of the chin that left her draped across Bruno, both peacefully napping.

  The bandleader gave his band mates an approving, corners-of-the-mouth turned down sideways head nod. Sam rejoined Gia. She took his hand, and they strode out of the club with the chilly, straight-ahead stare of runway models. The crowd parted wide, even the bouncers stepped back.

  Walking on Sunset, Sam asked, “You think he’s dead?”

  “Just coldcocked, twitching in dreamland, shithead even had a nice expression on his ugly puss. Now, there’s a yahoo. What do you think the wooly mammoth is six-seven? You okay?”

  “It was glancing, knocked me off balance. At least six-seven, probably three- hundred. Does your foot hurt, your hand?”

  “No, caught them both on the button. You know, like hitting a ball on the screws, you don’t feel a thing. It helped that my shoes have a hard toe. You had trouble with him before, right?”

  “He tossed me in a bar. Andy broke his nose.”

  “I’ll bet his jaw’s broken now, too, a few loose teeth. He’ll be back, you know, after both of us this time. He’ll need to reestablish his rep after getting decked by a woman. We’ll need Andy, too. How big is he?”

  “Six-four, maybe two-thirty. Who’d you learn karate from?”

  “Natalie’s father. He was a black belt. We went to a tough high school in D.C. You couldn’t take shit and survive.”

  “Gotta remind myself not to talk back to you. The guy . . .”

  “The new boyfriend of your cute ’n glass-jawed ex girlfriend.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  Gia shrugged. “You don’t have to be Sherlock to figure that one out. Nice abs, her shirt popped up when she landed on Bluto. You still canoodling with her? He thinks you are?”

  “I was finished with her before . . .”

  “Good. Since I already chilled her I won’t have to again. I’m territorial like an eagle or a wolf. I mate for life.”

  “You mad at me?” Sam asked with a sidelong look.

  “You’re on probation. Just make sure no more pissed-off boyfriends of ex girlfriends show up. I don’t want to get a reputation around town as a bad girl.”

  “I think you already achieved that.”

  They passed a hotel entrance and Gia stopped. “I have to go in and fix my makeup.”

  “But you don’t wear makeup,” Sam protested.

  “So I’ll put some on and fix it.”

  “You’re cuckoo.”

  As they entered the lobby a pinch-faced desk clerk gave them the hairy eyeball. Sam asked a goosey bellhop where the facilities were, and he pointed to a stairway leading to the mezzanine. Sam finished first and stood at the railing looking down into the lobby. Gia snuck up behind him, kissed his neck, gave running bites, nibbled at his ear and whispered, “You taste good enough to eat.”

  “Easy, wild thing, this ain’t the right venue.”

  Gia pointed to a dark corridor. “What do you think’s down there? I like to explore the dark unknown. Are you coming, or are you a fraidy-cat?”

  “Okay, mistress of the night. Don’t blame me if we get busted.”

  “Maybe they’ll let us share a cell if we explain we couldn’t afford a hotel room.”

  They walked into the increasing darkness. Gia saw a faint light on the left, pulled a curtain and asked, “What is this?”

  “Probably trouble.”

  Silhouetted by dim light, a standing couple embraced. Gia said, “Excuse us, my darlings.”

  “Hey, they’re mannequins,” Sam said as he stepped into the space. “This is the right venue.”

  “Naked and eager mannequins.”

  “She has no arms, the Venus de Milo.” Sam said.

  “Venus de Hotel and her hunky date.”

  Sam tapped the male mannequin’s shoulder. “May I cut in?”

  “You cut in and I cut out.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. I wasn’t cutting out alone. Gia twirled the male mannequin and sang, “I haven’t a hope or a prayer in this sad affair . . .”

  “What do you do with an armless woman?”

  “Take a flight of fancy, Apollo. Venus may not have arms, but she has many charms.” Gia placed the male mannequin back in the embrace, took Sam’s arm, and before closing the curtain looked back and said, “Goodbye, wistful lovers.”

  The lobby sounds and light faded as they walked deeper into the corridor. Floor-to-ceiling drapes hung on the right. Sam pulled a drape. “Wonder what’s back here? Oh, it’s furniture storage.” Sam stepped in leading Gia by the hand and closed the drape. They kissed and caressed hotly. Soon, amid breathing and murmuring, clothes were pulled up, yanked down and stepped out of.

  Gia pleaded in a whisper, “Hurry, Sam.” He picked her up with two hands at the waist, walked them to a couch, and they fell on it in a frenzy.

(This scene was excerpted from the contemporary novel Larceny of Love.)

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TWO YOUNG, CONTEMPORARY ELIZABETHAN SCHOLARS MIX LOVE, POETRY AND IMAGINING SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE

‘If all the world and love were young.’

   “His range within the storytelling was incomparable, like in Henry Four Part One, with Falstaff’s sharp-witted, but base ranting one minute and Hotspur’s lofty poetry the next.”

  After they dressed, Mark walked to the window and peered out. “We’re on the right path. Will sure as hell didn’t hang around Stratford helping his father, living the married life and suddenly show up in London in fifteen-ninety-one, or whenever, and start writing masterpieces. I guess I already said that. I read somewhere, maybe Malcolm Gladwell, that it takes most people, even the experts, ten-thousand hours of practice to become fully proficient at something.”

  “That argues for Will to have been writing most of his life, and very good material in his teen years to accomplish what he did in his twenties. The tutoring job, where he really learns life and culture from sophisticated patrons is key. We’ll get him married, and in a few years off with the Queen’s Men. Churchill said, ‘History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.’ Maybe our story won’t be Churchillian, but we’re writing it.”

  “Hey, let’s go to your place and get your stuff. ‘Come live with me and be my love.’ ”

  “Oh, oh, ‘A honey tongue, a heart of gall, is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.’ I’ll pay half the rent. Anyway, thank you for offering to rescue me from the student hostel; and I like your closet space.”

  “To avoid the sorrows, be sure to leave me at least two feet. The closet was the bait.”

  “Raleigh was clever, but speaking of bait wasn’t Donne’s reply to the shepherd brilliant? ‘And there the enamored fish will stay,’ ”

  “And, ‘Will amorously to thee swim.’ What a great metaphorical satirist.”

  “Maybe the best line was, ‘That fish that is not catched thereby, Alas, wiser far than I.’ Are we always going to be throwing quotes back and forth. I like it, but.”

  “After six-seven years of poetry saturation to the brim, no wonder we’re doing it. With other people it would be showing off. It’s fun with you, friendly competition.”

  “Don’t you get discouraged when I always win?”

  “Dream on, freshy” and he tried to grab her; but she eluded him, darted to the other side of the bed, stood with a catch-me-if-you-can grin, and another kind of game was on.”

  The next day Mark showed Kate pages he had written about Shakespeare working for his father and the town lawyer, plus a few scenes from a summer tutoring job at a Lord’s house. “You anticipated my suggestion, and I like it. I like this very much, Shakespeare at seventeen, under sophisticated guidance, maturing, emerging and becoming a literary man. I’m working on his interaction with the Lord’s children.”

(This brief vignettte was excerpted from a longer scene from an original work of fiction, Discovering Will’s Lost Years and the Marlowe-Shakespeare Lost Play: Uncovering 16th and 21st-Century Mystery Treachery and Obsession

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MARLOWE'S AND SHAKESPEARE'S LAST MEETING: MARLOWE GOES TO DEPTFORD WITH ROBERT POLEY

(Meeting weekly and mostly in each others rooms, Will and Kit have worked on the new play for nearly a year. In the vignette below, they meet for the last time before Will travels to Stratford for a few days and Marlowe makes his fateful trip to Deptford.)

Will opened his bag. “Here are my latest scenes from act four for you to peruse. I have made marks on the pages you left me. Please hold the entire manuscript and make corrections, additions as you wish. I know that my ending of act three is lacking. It requires your capability.”

   “Upon your return, you may spy my head piked on London Bridge. The Queen’s henchmen trumped-up a blasphemy charge last week. Nothing came of it. I do not know what is next. Should danger lurk, I will deposit the manuscript in a sealed package with friends for safekeeping.” He raised an eyebrow. “My kind wishes to Mistress Davenant of the Oxford Crown Tavern.”

   Shakespeare chuckled, “Rumors, pestilent rumors.”

   The next day Marlowe drank, smoked tobacco and wrote alone in a Shoreditch tavern. The act three climax required less work than he anticipated, and he turned his attention to further refinement of act four. Weak sunlight peeked through grimy windows dimly lighting one side of Marlowe’s face. Mistress Claridge carried clinking cups to tables of men engaged in rough talk. The place reeked of spilled ale and tobacco fumes barely disguising the body odors. A dog flopped to rest in a small pool of pale sunlight, with its tail resting on Marlowe’s foot. He kicked it away. A man with a pulled-down cap at a nearby bench saw this and loudly challenged Marlowe. “Kick my dog again, good-face, and I shall kick you, and he bit his thumb.”

Marlowe tucked the thick sheaf of papers and quill inside his shirt. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. “Hush your impetuous mouth, or I’ll cut your vile tongue out and feed it to your dog.”

“You—”

“Do you wish to come with me to the alley for a bout, minion?” Marlowe tapped his sword handle. “I’ll carve your scabrous cur through while I’m about it.”

The man tried to stand, and a tablemate pressed his arm to keep him down, “My friend is sorry, Sir, and wants to beg your pardon.” He then whispered to his friend, “That’s Marlowe. He killed a man in Hog Lane last week. Say you’re sorry.”

The tavern door swung open; a wave of fetid air rustled the blackened drapes. Robert Poley, a known criminal leader and an agent of the queen entered with a sweep of cape. “Marlowe, I have been to five taverns searching for you.” They sat. Marlowe forgot the recent encounter. Mistress Claridge knew Poley’s intolerance of slow service, and before he pounded the table she brought two large cups of ale.

Poley’s eyes were close-set and fastened like buttons on Marlowe. He rapidly talked through a lopsided slash of a mouth surrounded by full beard, “We have Queen’s business from Walsingham. He wishes to meet at Mistress Bull’s tavern in Deptford by five. Frizer and Skeres will be there as well. He hinted that it concerns a plot against the Queen and demands our urgent help. I have a boat waiting. Let us not tarry.” They drained their ale. As he put a coin on the table for drink and the use of ink, Marlowe thought: What is this really about? The dog owner pulled his head into his shoulders as they passed by. 
It smelled of rain as they walked on slimy cobbles towards the Thames and the wherry boat to Deptford.

(This scene was excerpted from a new and original work of fiction, Discovering Will's Lost Years and the Marlowe-Shakespeare Lost Play: Uncovering 16th and 21st-Century Mystery, Treachery and Obsession

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