Wooden doesn’t just mail it in at ceremony

THEY WENT through all this fanfare to name the post office in Reseda after John Wooden on his 96th birthday Saturday, big crowd, band, speeches and then some reporter asked him to explain his longevity.

Wooden waxed philosophical, saying he practices moderation, having two meals a day while never using alcohol, and I wasn’t buying it.

So I began grilling the old guy. “Never? Are you saying, never?” and I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get a bottle for him for his birthday.

Wooden shook his head from side to side, and said repeatedly, “No, never,” so of course I went after him. “Are you telling me you never, ever had a drink?”

“Well, once,” he admitted. “It was a bottle of home brew at Purdue. I was with the guys. ... I think I drank half a bottle, and then threw up about six bottles.”

It was a shocking moonshine admission, but then he must have decided it was time to really come clean: “This was during Prohibition,” he said.

“That would make you a lawbreaker,” I said, which means Congressman Brad Sherman convinced the House and Senate, along with the President of the United States, to pass a bill “naming a federal building after a criminal.”

As soon as Wooden had confessed, four police officers immediately surrounded him. Later, they would claim they were there only to have their pictures taken with him, but it wasn’t until after someone suggested the statute of limitations had expired 75 years ago that they let Wooden out of their sights.

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IT TOOK 96 years for someone to name a post office after the guy, which goes to show you the rest of us have plenty of time to earn a similar tribute.

“For most people, that’d be true,” Wooden said with a grin. “I’m not so sure about you.”

We were sparring, of course, like we usually do, and I said maybe he should pay more attention to his daughter, Nan, who doesn’t look a day over 70, but who apparently has decided to become a punk rocker.

Nan showed up looking freaky with pink streaks in her hair, and while I have no idea if the Pyramid covers that, I know I’d never let my daughter run wild on the streets of Reseda.

Nan tried to tell me October is national breast cancer awareness month, and she’s a survivor, but I just couldn’t believe her dad hadn’t said something.

“He did years ago,” Nan said. “I thought I was starting to look dowdy with my hair turning gray, and colored the tips. Daddy started in on me, making fun of me -- until I cried. That’s when Daddy said he’d never do that again.”

OK, so he might have criminal tendencies, but it’s nice to know he keeps his word, which would come as no surprise to those paying homage to him Saturday. And there were plenty of them -- all wanting to pay their respects.

But then I was behind the scenes, and when a pair of UCLA cheerleaders posed for pictures with him, he joked, “Can’t you get any closer?”

That’s the privilege, of course, of spending time with one of L.A.’s greatest living legends, who is really just a fun-loving gent with a sincere desire to make everyday a masterpiece after all these years, but who would also rather tease and be teased than get the saint treatment.

“I’m a little embarrassed by all this,” he said, “but also very appreciative of the work these people did. I know I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been blessed by having good players.”

When he stepped to the podium, he recited a poem from memory, something long-winded about dying or having no fear of death, and I really wasn’t listening because I’ve never understood poetry.

He knows that, and we’ve developed our own way of saying goodbye. He says, “Would you like to hear a poem?” and I say goodbye.

I don’t really leave, of course, hanging around to listen to whatever he has to say, whether it rhymes or not. I just don’t want him to know that.

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FORMER UCLA basketball player Mike Warren delivered the invocation at the Wooden ceremonies and asked everyone, “If you don’t mind, take the hand of the person standing next to you.”

I was standing next to Dwyre.

To take good notes, a reporter must use one hand to hold a pen, and the other to hold a notebook. I got no argument from Dwyre, who suddenly began taking notes.

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I WORRY that UCLA’s Towel Waver gave Coach Karl Dorrell the idea to surrender Saturday in Oregon, the Bruins down by 17 with little more than four minutes to play and punting. Oregon fumbled, so the Bruins were fortunate -- keeping the surrender spotlight off Dorrell. But the decision to punt speaks to losing with dignity rather than going for the win no matter what. I’m sure this will be brought up at Monday’s news conference.

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GIVEN UCLA’s and USC’s efforts, I came that close to being a die-hard Occidental fan Saturday night.

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USC DOESN’T allow alcohol sold in the Coliseum, but inside the Coliseum Commission tent and inside the official USC tent inside the stadium, they not only have bars, but free booze.

Coliseum General Manager Pat Lynch was explaining that to the father of USC quarterback John David Booty, adding, “Sometimes your kid makes us drink a lot.”

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I’D UNDERSTAND Steve Lyons’ situation better had he stopped by the Coliseum Commission tent before going on the air.

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ALEX SOLIS’ oldest son, Alex II, owns a horse and chose to have his father ride it Saturday at Santa Anita. In a photo finish, the horse placed second, and might have won had the kid gone with a different jockey.

Alex II? His dad didn’t want to name his kid after the family dog, Alex Jr.

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T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.