Paul Tudor Jones speech during painting unveiling ceremony at the

University of Virginia’s John Paul Jones Area, January 7, 2011

It’s a real thrill to be here tonight for the unveiling of this incredible painting.

Imagine how much more thrilling it would be if you’ll hadn’t lost to Iowa State

last week. Iowa State. That’s an ag school. We’re the ACC. That’s like the

Bolshoi Ballet losing a dance off to a herd of cattle.

But I’m the last person to be criticizing basketball players. I was the only

person on my sixth grade basketball team who didn’t score one point all season

long. That’s not easy to do. I always thought my problem was my size, but at

five feet and two inches, Mugsy Bogues dazzled the NBA, and I realized my

issue wasn’t a lack of height, it was a lack of talent.

We are here tonight in a building called the John Paul Jones Arena. I was

reluctant to attach my family name to this building; it struck me as too self-

aggrandizing. But the Jones in this arena’s name isn’t mine; it belongs to two

men born hundreds of years apart who happen to share the same name, and

there are very specific reasons why it’s perfect that this arena is named after

them.

My father is a great guy, despite the fact that he was a lawyer. The bad rap

that most lawyers get simply doesn’t apply to those who, like my father,
graduated from the University of Virginia Law School. He was married to a

phenomenal woman, my mother. She was a good mother, and all good mothers

are phenomenal women, as all good fathers are phenomenal men.

Fifteen years ago, when my father was seventy-five years old, my mother was

diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. When she died eight years ago I was worried for

him. Studies have shown that when a longtime spouse dies, the surviving

spouse often dies in the next twelve to fifteen months. But Dad didn’t die, and

I’m convinced it was because of basketball.

As soon as my mom was diagnosed, my dad became obsessed with basketball, a

sport he had never really paid attention to for the first 75 years of his life. It

helped him escape the agonizing tyranny that Alzheimer’s visited upon his

lifelong partner, reducing her from a beautiful flower, an articulate, intelligent

and wonderfully funny woman, to someone who lost all of her faculties.

Watching basketball gave him a new purpose, and it saved his life. It also

enabled him to meet his second wife, Sandra, who’s every bit as wonderful as

his first wife.

When I say my dad became obsessed with the game, I’m not exaggerating. For

the past fifteen years, he has attended every home game of the Memphis

Grizzlies and the University of Memphis Tigers. One year he was voted the

Grizzlies’ #2 fan. He would have been the #1 fan, but since he’s on a fixed

income, he just couldn’t afford to buy off those last five hundred votes.
What you guys do every time you step onto that court matters. Henry David

Thoreau famously wrote in Walden that the mass of men lead lives of quiet

desperation. Those words might be a tad strong, but I think their essence is

true. Most people get worn down by the mundane demands of their lives.

They’re trying to feed the kids, they’re trying to pay the bills, they’re trying to

find a job, they’re trying to enjoy the job they have, and they just get worn

down. And bored. And even a little dead inside. But watching you guys play

invigorates and renews us. It thrills us into being alive. Similarly, in some of my

own research on the battle depicted in tonight’s painting, I wasn’t at all

surprised to learn that once word about that battle got out, thousands of

people walked from surrounding villages to stand atop the cliffs at

Flamborough Head and watch it unfold. There was the thrill of sport in that

battle—the spontaneity, the unpredictability, and those people came to watch

much like fans flock to this arena when Duke comes to town.

Sports also provide a sense of community. When my dad goes to a Grizzlies

game, he’s surrounded by thousands of people who, for three hours, share the

same goal of a Grizzlies victory. The downside is they also share the same

destiny, which is usually another Grizzlies loss. But even in loss there’s a sense

of community. Just ask a Cubs fan. When you guys win, everybody in the

University of Virginia community—those here and those watching on TV—share

that victory with you. And with you, they achieve a new height, momentary but

lasting, that reaches beyond just themselves.

Sports also provide a breathtaking beauty that cannot be replicated anywhere

but on the field of play. Every time Roger Federer steps onto the tennis court,

he offers moments of sublime beauty, even when he loses. I was a boxer at

Virginia, so I see a rough but glorious beauty in Muhammad Ali’s five-punch

combination that knocked down George Foreman in their 1974 Rumble in the

Jungle. Even the simple jump shot is beautiful—the way you guys jump so

straight, extend those arms and flick your wrist to create an exquisite backspin

rotation on the ball as it arcs through the air. It really is poetry of a sort, and

you do it so frequently you probably take it for granted. I just wish more of

them were going in.

On the court, you’re doing so much more than merely playing a game. My

father is living proof of that, and that’s why this arena is named after him.

But it’s also named after the John Paul Jones of history, the legendary naval

captain of our Revolution. Of him, our university’s founder, Thomas Jefferson,

said, “I consider this officer to be the principal hope of our future efforts on

the ocean.” At Monticello, Jefferson displayed a bust of Jones alongside those

of Washington, Franklin, and Lafayette.

The battle depicted in the painting we’re unveiling tonight was brutal. An hour

into it, twenty-two of twenty-five marines on Jones’ ship were dead, dozens of

his seamen were severely burned, the ship was on fire, it was sinking, and

Jones had only two cannons left.

At one point, two of Jones’ men, unable to find him, assumed he was dead.

One of them shouted the word for surrender: “Quarters!” But Jones wasn’t

dead. And when he heard that surrender, he flew into a rage, calling for those

two men to be killed. He took out his own gun and fired at one of them, but

the gun had no bullets, so he threw the gun at the other guy and knocked him

out cold. Then he heard the British captain shout from his ship, “Do you call for

Quarters?”

The famous phrase that Jones shouted in response speaks to another key

element of sports—the tenacity to never quit. Remember, most of his crew is

dead, his ship is sinking, he’s got only two cannons, and what he said is what

you guys need to say when you feel like you’ve got nothing left in the tank and

you’re down four points with only thirty-five seconds to go. You need to say

these words because you’re not playing just a game, and you’re not playing

just for yourselves. What you do on the basketball court matters to so many

people in so many ways, you are uniquely blessed and privileged to do it.

Therefore, when you’re on the verge of surrender, and victory seems literally

impossible, I want you to say in your hearts what John Paul Jones shouted back
to the British Captain who would be surrendering to him in surprisingly short

order: “I have not yet begun to fight!”

Ladies and gentleman, I give you the artist of this painting, Dean Mosher.