They yell at him because he was coach here,
manning the helm in the famous Pit,
and he left
and became coach there instead,
in the pavilion
where Wooden built a dynasty,
where making just the Sweet Sixteen is pretty much a failure.
They yell at him for only winning two-thirds of his schedule,
and for being lax teaching defense,
and for coddling that Ball guy,
but he does what he loves,
pacing the sideline,
barking at his kids,
his perfect hair and boyish face,
scowling at the ref on a call,
kneeling before the scorer’s table,
watching his team’s fast break.
They yell at him for what they call failures,
and others, for leaving
and others, for bungling the Pierce deal a-t Iowa
and others, for being a former All-Indianan,
All-American,
All-Basketball-ian,
Olympic Gold Medal-ian,
sitting on that holy throne at UCLA,
driving the Bruins Bentley,
chasing an elusive Final Four.
They yell at him for being
stylish and successful
hanging near Hollywood,
standing tall among the seated stars.
They yell at him,
and he goes,
and from the big screen
he yet looks at me
and asks,
“What are you doing with your life?”