For some strange reason, every time I reflect upon the coaching career of Bobby Knight, a slightly alternate version of “The Facts of Life” theme song pops into my head.
It goes: “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of Knight, the facts of Knight. There were times you showed you loved and cared even though you threw a chair, the facts of Knight…”
He taught his lessons with all the sensitivity of a Gestapo officer with a toothache and an itchy, trigger finger, but the facts of life were exactly what Knight instilled in his players during his time at Army, Indiana and Texas Tech.
Sure, players like Steve Alford, the Hoosier he allegedly popped in the jaw with an Ali-like short right hand during a practice, and his son, Pat, whom he once allegedly kicked for another players? mistake, had to learn the hard way. But right or wrong, hard was the only way the elder Knight knew.
He lived to break his players down to their DNA only to build them back into men, champions and college graduates. You don?t win 902 games and not know exactly what you are doing every step of the way.
When you watched a game with him at the helm, Knight resembled a heat-seeking missile wearing Sebagos in search of no target in particular. He cursed fans, players, referees and assistant coaches. Knight?s vocabulary was more colorful than a box of Crayolas and less politically correct than Strom Thurmond.
He kicked air, chairs and scorer?s tables ? the only thing I never saw him kick was a game-winning field goal. He kicked so damn much he should have been a Rockette.
And Knight?s naughtiness didn?t subside with age. When he arrived at Texas Tech, he was still more animated than a Disney movie ? and who could blame him? The program was so devoid of talent and fans before Knight arrived in Lubbock, tumbleweed outnumbered the number of paying customers at Red Raiders? home games.
Not exactly the scene he was accustomed to at Indiana ? the university at which Knight won three national titles and the school Knight should have never left. Instead, Indiana fired Knight because in his mind, “no” meant “no” to every one except him.
He was Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; a basketball deity and devil all rolled into one white haired, evil genius clad in a bright red O?Reilly Auto Parts sweater vest. The hardwood was his altar and opposing teams, and at times, even his own players, were his sacrificial lambs. He was Woody Hayes at his worst and John Wooden at his best.
He was revered in some coaching circles and feared in others. He was cheered in his home arena and jeered on the road. He was always right even when he knew he was wrong.
Knight was the last of a dying breed of coaching dinosaur accustomed to teaching in an era when players held themselves accountable. Fast-forward to a time when kids are more likely to point the finger at someone else than take any blame, and you?ll see the last T-Rex on Earth with a whistle around his neck and a game plan in his mind struggling to survive.
It doesn?t matter which side of the Knight fence you sat ? tyrant or tactician; dictator or dad; celebrated or hated ? no coach in his era made you pick one side or the other quite like Knight.
And if you didn?t choose a side, he probably would have pushed you off the fence.
What matters is Knight made you love him or hate him, even if he acted like he didn?t give a *#$% what your opinion was.
It is a shame Knight didn?t make the customary farewell coaches tour ? you know he would?ve received his fair share of whips and hunting rifles. Who among us wouldn?t have enjoyed seeing how far he could toss a commemorative rocking chair at the ripe old age of 67?
And who knows, perhaps he didn?t take the tour because he will coach in the future. Or perhaps, he will never find his “game face” again.
Tony Giro is a lifelong Baltimore sports fan who blogs on examiner.com for fans. If you subscribe ? it?s free ? you?ll be e-mailed each time Tony posts a column. He can be reached at [email protected]. And yes, he?s still bitter about the Skipjacks and Bullets leaving town.
