Breakfast with a Legend – and the Letter That Proved It. John Wooden Meets My Dad.

I have heard my dad’s John Wooden story so many times that I can recite it on command, complete with his coffee‑scented pauses and the sparkle that always slips into his eyes when he gets to the punch‑line. Still, a part of me – the skeptical part trained by years of real‑estate due‑diligence and a healthy dose of Christopher‑Hitchens‑approved doubt – always wondered whether the tale had picked up a layer or two of lacquer over the decades.

“Jim, I’m having breakfast with you.”

That’s the line. According to Dad, those six words were uttered by the Wizard of Westwood himself on a spring morning in 1986 at a John Hancock Presidents Club conference. Dad had slipped downstairs at dawn to enjoy a solitary cup of coffee and a newspaper – his ritual before a day of conference small‑talk – when he spotted the legendary UCLA coach sitting alone. Never one to miss a moment, Dad introduced himself and, with Midwestern directness, asked if Coach Wooden was meeting anyone. Wooden looked up, grinned, and delivered the immortal reply.

They sat together for hours. As other agents trickled into the restaurant they did the inevitable double‑take: Jim Nicastro has locked down John Wooden. People grabbed plates and drifted over, but Dad remained at the coach’s elbow, talking family, leadership, and – if I know Dad – probably fishing for life wisdom more than basketball strategy.

It’s a lovely story, but until recently it lived in that foggy realm of family lore where fact and fond exaggeration mingle. Then, right before the bittersweet clear‑out that preceded Mom’s passing, Dad began bringing boxes of keepsakes to my place. Most of it was nostalgia fodder headed for a quick photo and the donation bin.

Buried in one battered cardboard box, though, was the clincher: a worn envelope addressed to Jim Nicastro, 1184 McKinley N.E., Warren, Ohio. Return address: Mr. John Wooden, Encino, California. Inside the box lay three items:

1. A handwritten letter dated 4‑22‑86 on “From the desk of John Wooden” stationery.
2. A sepia‑toned fold‑out of Wooden’s Pyramid of Success, personalized: “To Jim Nicastro, with best wishes always.  John Wooden 4‑22‑86.”
3. The envelope itself, stamp cancelled in Van Nuys the day after the conference.

The letter stops me every time I read it. In Wooden’s unmistakable hand:

“Dear Jim,

Your friendliness, kind words, and interest are deeply and sincerely appreciated.

Many thanks for going ‘out of your way’ this morning to make me feel comfortable and not so alone.

Best wishes to you and yours always in all ways. 

Sincerely,  John Wooden.”

Think about that. The most decorated coach in college basketball history – a man whose practice notes have been studied like scripture – went back to his room (or home) and wrote a thank‑you note to my dad because Dad made him feel welcome. That tells you everything you need to know about both men: my father’s instinctive hospitality, and Wooden’s legendary humility.

Mom, ever the curator of family history, tucked the letter away for three decades. If she hadn’t, the best piece of evidence I possess that giants still walk among us might have vanished with an estate‑sale shoebox.

A Father’s Day Frame‑Up

Jamie and I knew immediately that this relic deserved better than a drawer. We worked with a local framer to mount & frame the envelope, the letter, and the Pyramid. We gave it to Dad this past Father’s Day.

Lessons over Coffee

Wooden famously defined success as “peace of mind which is a direct result of self‑satisfaction in knowing you made the effort to become the best of which you are capable.” That April morning in 1986, two men – one a legend in sports, the other a legend to me (and many others) – each became the best version of himself by offering simple human kindness over coffee.

Someday the framed art may make its way back to me, and for now it hangs on dad’s wall. In any case, it whispers two reminders to me on tough days:

1. Greatness wears civility. If John Wooden could hand‑write thank‑you letters after a lifetime of trophies, I can answer emails with grace. And maybe even hand-write a few more letters myself.
2. Stories matter – and so does evidence. Dad’s tale was already inspiring; the letter gave it weight that will outlast both of us.

Mom preserved the proof; Jamie helped enshrine it; and Dad – as always – provided the example. Somewhere, I like to think Coach Wooden is nodding approval, maybe writing one more note: “Jim, thanks for keeping breakfast warm.”

— Nicholas J. Nicastro

(Feel free to share or reprint; just remember to pour the coffee first.)