The Life Lessons of Villanova’s Jay Wright, the Anti-Coach

With a coaching style that’s more about Zen aphorisms than zone defenses, Jay Wright has built a powerhouse at tiny Villanova. Now, as his Wildcats enter the tourney as defending champs, he’s confronting a new koan: What happens when the underdog is on top?
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Jay Wright—forever focused on the mental game—has become one of college basketball’s most effective motivators.

Sitting in his spartan office on the Villanova campus, Jay Wright conjures up a high-drama memory that offers, he says, a perfect example of his approach to coaching. (Spoiler alert: His anecdote is curiously lacking in what you'd typically call coaching.)

So he draws the scene. It's a familiar one: Houston; last spring's NCAA championship game, which you probably remember as culminating in one of the most frenzied finishes in college-basketball history. Sure, the buzzer beater that won Villanova the game was plenty memorable, but for Wright, the night's moment of real drama was at halftime.

With his team down by five to North Carolina, Wright was walking toward the locker room, trailing a retinue of assistants. (The pack included Jim Brennan, an army veteran and devotee of Tibetan Buddhism whom Wright calls his team's “performance consultant” but who once referred to himself as Wright's “dream interpreter.”)

As Wright reached the door, it swung wide before the coach could even lay hand to handle, and there stood senior center Daniel Ochefu—all six feet eleven inches of him. Ochefu put his giant hand on his coach's shoulder.

“We need you to stay out,” Ochefu said, looking serious. “We got this. Me and Arch [senior point guard and co-captain Ryan Arcidiacono] got this.”

Wright was stunned. The most important game of any of their lives and the players were telling Wright that they'd handle the coaching. He could hear his assistants behind him.

“Fuck that!” one yelled.

“Get in there!” another said.

“We got this,” Ochefu repeated in a stern baritone.

If Wright is known at all outside of basketball circles, it's mostly for the pinstriped suits that complete the somewhat George Clooney–esque figure he cuts, an appearance that belies the heady and introspective nature of his character. He is an inveterate dispenser of motivational witticisms and the kind of guy who sits a Zen master on the bench with him. In other words, Wright is the sort of coach prone to wonder about the life lessons afoot when an enormous star player physically bars him from the locker room during the national-title game.

Wright's hands went up, and he backed off. Ochefu closed the door. Wright and his staff stood helplessly outside, listening to the center rip into his teammates: “If we're going down, we're going down playing 'Nova basketball!”

Watch the last-second shot that made 'Nova the 2016 champions.

They did not go down, of course. And later, after a stunning second half and a last-second jumper to win the national title, Ochefu would talk about how it couldn't have gone any other way. He'd admit that he used to resist Wright's New Age talk, smirking at the humble and hungry bracelets he and his teammates were required to wear and all the clichés they were made to memorize. But he'd become a believer.

There is a different kind of coaching going on here. By all appearances, Villanova has no business being—as Wright has made it—the most dominant team in the nation over the past three years. In the era of the one-and-done collegiate career, whereby 18-year-olds spend a year as rent-a-students auditioning for the NBA, there's something truly remarkable about Villanova, one of the last small Catholic schools (only 6,000 undergrads) to compete at the game's highest level, a college in the swanky suburbs of Philly that produces hardly any NBA stars and graduates nearly 100 percent of its players.

Yet, for all that Wright had accomplished in his 16 years at Villanova, prior to last season the school hadn't won a title since 1985. In this, Wright got his scrappy overachievers to glimpse motivation, not frustration. And he concocted a coaching style all his own—a dash of old-school this and a dollop of New Age that—to steer his players ever upward. Of course, now a new mystery looms for a band of self-imagined underdogs adapting to life on top: How does Wright keep success from spoiling everything?


The night before home games, Wright and his players stay at a local hotel. The team eats a meal together and watches video of the next day's opponent. And then the coach dispenses a little insight—along with bottled water and a healthy snack—before everyone heads for bed.

One such night this winter, with his top-ranked team seemingly on a cruise course to the tournament, Wright stood to address the players. As usual, he began by plunging a dagger into the group's collective ego.

“Being ranked number one?” Wright says. “It's bullshit. We haven't played teams like Kentucky or Kansas. It means nothing. This season is all about dealing with the ‘disease of me.’ You're 22 years old, and you're walking around campus and everyone is telling you you're a rock star, which is why I'm inspired by you seniors, because you work to get better every day.”

Wright is counseled by a Zen devotee who once referred to himself as the coach’s “dream interpreter.”

The struggle, Wright makes sure his players know, is the same for him. Ask him about his new book, Attitude: Develop a Winning Mindset on and Off the Court, and his modesty borders on ambivalence. “You win one national championship and now you have all the answers?” He sighs. “All the attention, it's really scary, because it's intoxicating.”

Thankful as he is to be winning, Wright, 55, seems perpetually attuned to a subtle frequency of worry—to an internal signal reminding him of the precariousness of the human psyche. He wasn't always this way. When he became a head coach at Hofstra in the mid-’90s, he obsessed over the game strategy. He thought, as many coaches do, that the intricacies of play design and the sheer force of his will were the lone keys to winning.

But after three losing seasons, Wright's job was in jeopardy. His team would invariably lose close games by unraveling when setbacks occurred. A late three-pointer by the opposing team might demoralize his team on the next play. Maybe, he thought, the difference is attitude. If his guys could learn to be unaffected by the last play, and to play for one another rather than for the adulation from the stands, maybe they could get out of their own way.

And so Jay Wright embraced a new approach that emphasized how his players thought about the game, and he brought it to Villanova in 2001. These days at the team's facility, there's ample evidence of Wright's focus on the psychological. “See, we think about every message they hear and see,” he told me on a recent tour, pointing to phrases painted everywhere, slogans like "Players play for their teammates and coaches; actors play for the crowd."

“We're not complex in what we do X-and-O-wise,” he tells me. “But we do spend a lot of time on how we react mentally to every situation.” The idea isn't to draw up lots of plays but instead to give his guys the confidence and the freedom to make plays. And here is where Wright's psychological approach feels unique. While just about every coach in America rallies his or her players with motivational verses or tries to summon an inner-dwelling Tony Robbins, Wright wants his players to feel as if they're in control on the floor, admonishing them to play with a “free mind.”

There's an element of the True Believer in Wright. When a kid approaches for an autograph, he'll take the ATTITUDE or HUMBLE AND HUNGRY bracelet from his wrist and, as though passing along a sacred text, bestow it on the fan—with an elevator-pitch-length exhortation to try to overcome selfishness. The approach can sound corny, sure—and Wright's aware of that. But he's found that impressionable college kids provide a willing audience for his proverbs. Which is why, even though rumors often circulate that Wright may soon try his hand at an NBA gig, he seems uniquely suited to the college game. After all, what are the chances that a millionaire pro athlete is going to gleefully wear Wright's motivational bracelets and, the night before a game, thankfully gather with his teammates for a healthy snack?


To spend some fly-on-the-wall time backstage with a major college basketball program is to marvel at the diversity of decisions that confront the head coach. He is a CEO toiling at a strange and singular work, running a lucrative, persnickety operation. Wright focuses on minimizing his choices and the worries. This is how the Philadelphia-area tailor Gabriele D'Annunzio found his way to Wright's office one day when I was hanging out there.

The 72-year-old D'Annunzio has outfitted the likes of Frank Sinatra and Frankie Avalon. On this day, though, D'Annunzio comes to Wright, and the coach barely interrupts a day focused on Villanova basketball. To further aid in eliminating decisions, D'Annunzio will later give Wright photos of outfit combinations that populate his two spacious closets—one dedicated to his suits and just shy of 50 shirts, another providing a home to his shoes.

While the coach and the tailor huddle over a table full of fabrics, a parade of Villanova staffers burst in to run a variety of pressing matters by Wright. As he discusses team chemistry with associate head coach Baker Dunleavy, he drops his gym shorts and slides on a pair of tuxedo pants.

Portrait of an Impeccable Coach
PHILADELPHIA, PA - JANUARY 29: Head coach Jay Wright of the Villanova Wildcats reacts to a call during a college basketball game against the Virginia Cavaliers at the Wells Fargo Center on January 29, 2017 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The Wildcats won 61-59. (Photo by Mitchell Layton/Getty Images)Mitchell Layton
PHILADELPHIA, PA - NOVEMBER 29: Head coach Jay Wright of the Villanova Wildcats reacts during a game against the Penn Quakers at The Palestra on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania on November 29, 2016 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Villanova defeated Penn 82-57. (Photo by Hunter Martin/Getty Images)Hunter Martin
WASHINGTON, DC - MARCH 04: Head coach Jay Wright of the Villanova Wildcats looks on during a college basketball game against the Georgetown Hoyas at the Verizon Center on March 4, 2017 in Washington, DC. The Wildcats won 81-55. (Photo by Mitchell Layton/Getty Images)Mitchell Layton
VILLANOVA PA - DECEMBER 26: Head coach Jay Wright of the Villanova Wildcats reacts to a call during college basketball game against the DePaul Blue Demons at the Pavilion on December 26, 2016 in Villanova, Pennsylvania. The Wildcats won 68-65. (Photo by Mitchell Layton/Getty Images)Mitchell Layton

Handling humdrum chores (like suit fittings) in his office helps streamline the coach's day, but there's another, more psychic benefit, too: Wright wants to stay connected to his priorities. In 2009, after his team went to the Final Four and he encountered his first rush of major attention, Wright grew distracted. “I didn't handle it well,” he says. “I realize now my job wasn't to be on ESPN. I'd be out doing all that stuff, come back here and yell at someone at practice, and they're thinking, ‘Well, you haven't been here for three days!’ So I know this time I need to be present.”

Wright admits that back then, when his team was first being mentioned in the same breath as Kentucky, Kansas, and UNC, he let the accolades change his thinking. He and his staff—who'd always amassed rosters of underachievers—were suddenly chasing the blue-chip recruits pursued by the ultra-elite programs. He was letting others define his program. By the 2011–12 season, Wright's team had a losing 13–19 record, the nadir of his tenure.

Watching a man get fitted for a tuxedo while discussing his path to self-betterment raised an obvious question for me: Aren't the pinstriped suits and pleated shirts and even D'Annunzio also about ego?

“That's a good question,” Wright says, pausing, mulling for a moment the strangeness of a job that requires him to wear either custom-made suits or gym clothes. “I think I dress like this because I have a job to do and want to look professional.” He's quiet for a bit. Something about his answer doesn't satisfy. “I'm going to have to think about that,” he says softly.

Wright is used to being challenged, whether by Brennan; his wife, Patty, a straight-shooting lawyer who watches game film with him; or team chaplain Reverend Rob Hagan—Father Rob to the players. Within minutes, the ever introspective Wright is confessing to D'Annunzio that he has to force himself to wear his brown suits—“The only reason I do is because my mom likes them,” he says. Is there a lesson here? For Jay Wright, there always is. “I tell our guys this all the time,” the coach says, eyeing a lavender swatch of fabric. “When people you trust tell you the truth about yourself? Moments like those? Man, that is where you grow.”


To Wright, what happens when no one is watching dictates what happens when everybody is watching. Take the evolution of Josh Hart, a leading contender for National Player of the Year this season. When I met with Wright last summer, the coach was concerned about how Hart would accept the mantle of leadership.

After winning the NCAA title, Hart went through the process of talking to NBA teams, trying to gauge if he'd be a first-round draft pick. After he decided to come back for his senior season, Hart made the mistake of telling Wright what he'd gleaned from the process—namely that to become a top pick, he'd need to become a “3-and-D guy.”

“A 3-and-D guy, what's that?” Wright asked.

“All I gotta do is hit threes and play defense and I'll play in the NBA,” Hart told his coach.

“I went off on him,” Wright said, recounting the story to me and Brennan. “I was telling myself, ‘This kid's gotta trust you, so don't lose it with him.’ But I couldn't help myself. I told him that sounded like some bullshit an agent told him, someone looking to make money off him. I don't want you coming out of here just hitting threes and playing defense. I kicked him out of my office. I was sure it was the last thing the kid wanted to hear.”

Though Hart is averaging roughly 20 points a game this season, it's been his all-around play that has caught the attention of NBA general managers. He's taken over with clutch assists, big steals, and key defensive stops—and given interviews pointing to Wright's summertime dressing-down as a wake-up call. “The kid listened,” Wright says now, sounding surprised.

President Obama lauded Jay Wright as “the best-dressed man in college basketball.

Geoff Burke

Brennan, though, is not. Each year he administers a character test that he calls the team's “Rosetta stone.” “One thing about Josh that the personality survey points out is that he does not like to disappoint people he cares about,” Brennan tells the coach.

Brennan, who also consults for the U.S. military, thinks Wright's approach with Hart represents a kind of reverse engineering: “We believe selfishness isn't natural, that human beings evolve into selflessness if given the chance.”

That's why, at the team's practice facility, there are no championship banners or retired jerseys, no photos of Villanova greats in the NBA peering from the rafters or from the walls. On the court, Wright is interested in how his players relate to one another, which means practicing things you might not expect. If a Wildcat takes an offensive foul or dives for a loose ball, the other four players are expected to run to him and help him up. Similarly, if a player hits a big shot in a game and gestures in celebration to the crowd, he'll incur the wrath of Wright, who spends as much time policing his kids' public displays as Duke's Coach K might spend diagramming backdoor picks. Wright doesn't mind when his players are demonstrative on the court—worrying about that is an old-school coach's concern, more about repression than peak performance. He just wants the enthusiasm directed toward the team. “If you're excited, you have a lot of energy; turn and give that energy to your teammates,” he'll say.

With Brennan's help, Wright has focused his players—and himself—on paying attention to what they're experiencing, urging them to “Be Here Now,” borrowing the countercultural '70s yogi edict. Last season, the Wildcats found themselves in hostile territory at Providence. As usual, the last three men in the Villanova locker room were Wright, Brennan, and Father Rob. Even there, the chants from the hostile students' section were deafening. Wright paused. “How great is this?” he said to his two spiritual advisers. “What I feel right now is gratitude. If I wasn't here, I'd be home, watching this game. I'm so lucky.” With that, he was on his way to the court, before turning with one final thought: “Of course, at the first bad call, I'll go fucking nuts,” he said, laughing.

Wright's embrace of the moment at Providence explains why Villanova is winning—and why they're able to bounce back when they don't. As I watch Brennan and Wright compare notes on game day, the Zen master says something that makes the coach blanch. “Last year our championship run started with that devastating loss to Seton Hall in the Big East final,” says Brennan, a devotee of the social-science research that finds resilience to be a greater predictor of success than talent. “I don't know if we can win another national championship without another really tough loss. Like, one that just kills you.”

There is silence for a second. I wonder: Has Brennan gone too far? Wright may have an appetite for high-minded aphorisms, but he's still a coach; in that hyper-competitive fraternity, to wish for a loss is heresy. He fixes Brennan with a hard stare. “I don't think like that,” he says. “My instinct is ‘Let's see if we can go 31–0.’ ” But then Wright pauses again and smiles, no doubt wondering, as always, whether he should be more open-minded. “This is why I need you, man.”

Larry Platt is a co-author of ‘Every Day I Fight,’ the posthumous memoir of ESPN's Stuart Scott.

This story originally appeared in the March 2017 issue with the title “Life Lessons of the Anti-Coach.”


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