I love that Los Angeles has buses, but I hate riding them.
And I particularly hate the Orange Metro 2 bus.
It goes everywhere, but takes its sweet time getting there.
Yet as much as I despise being on the bus, it seems like just about everyone who uses public transportation has a story or two to tell that makes it all almost worthwhile.
My story was an early Christmas present that happened just before break.
Now that basketball is in full swing, it’s something I’ll take with me to The Den for the next 16 weeks and to the stands for the rest of my life.
Like all other memorable bus tales, the bus ride itself wasn’t supposed to be eventful.
My friends and I were on our way back from the theater downtown, fresh from seeing “Spring Awakening” but tired.
But that’s not what this story is about.
It is about a man.
A homeless guy, I’m pretty sure.
A guy without a name, or at least not a name I know.
It’s about a stranger who at face value seemed pretty insignificant ““ but he made the night.
As soon as we plopped down in our seats, exhausted, he IDed all nine of us at once.
“You all college students, aren’t you?” he said in a bright but somewhat creepy way.
A few of us nodded politely.
“Y’all from UCLA ““ I know, I know UCLA.”
Hard to say how we were feeling at this point. A little nervous, a little intrigued, still tired and wishing we were on a different bus where we could nod off to sleep.
“I love UCLA!” he exclaimed. “I used to work there. I know UCLA!”
We got that. But always the one to poke around, I asked him where he worked, and it turned out he worked in the dining halls.
“I know it all, man! De Neve, Rieber, Hedrick …”
“But Covel is the best,” I cut in.
“Covel!” he practically shouted, like he had just found his long-lost dog. “You got it man, you got it! Covel pasta!”
Now this was interesting. He really did know stuff, even though he said the name of our most popular dining hall wrong.
But before we could get in anything more than a few snickers, he changed the subject to what he really cared about.
“You know who our coach is? Who know who the greatest coach is? Do you know?”
With an array of answers being demanded of me, I said Rick Neuheisel, thinking football.
“No, man, no!” he said with genuine passion. “You know who our basketball coach is?”
I answered “Ben Howland,” thinking I was right.
“No! You know who our basketball coach is? You know who the greatest basketball coach is?”
Light bulb!
“John Wooden,” I finally said.
“John Wooden!” he screamed with joy.
Pause.
“John Wooden! Who’s the greatest basketball coach ever?” he asked the bus rhetorically.
“John Wooden!” chimed in someone in the back of the bus.
“John Wooden,” he said in a very satisfied way. Then he sat back and smiled.
This homeless, nameless man riding the 2 Bus from downtown sat in that uncomfortable seat, content. From what I could tell he had nothing he could call his own but his thoughts, his memories and his passions.
The man loves UCLA more than most of us do.
He loves a place even though he doesn’t work there anymore. He loves it unconditionally, mostly because of John Wooden.
John Wooden and UCLA basketball are what make him happy, day after day, week after week.
I don’t know his story except for what I’ve shared.
I don’t know why he loves the Bruins, or when this whole passion began.
But this man reminded me that the games we play transcend the box score. His smile suggested sweet serenity, all thanks to sports.
As we got off the bus, we all said goodbye to our new friend.
One last time, he asked us: “Who is the greatest coach ever?”
This time we all knew the answer.
Together, we turned around and replied, “John Wooden.”
He leaned back in his chair, winked and waved.
If you have a bus story to share, e-mail Stevens at mstevens@media.ucla.edu.