Calloway elbowed Felling. “He got you with that one, Coach.”
As Knight went through the Kansas State personnel one final time, he looked at the players and said, “What kind of a team do you want to be? That’s the question. You’ve got to come up with the answer.”
In the locker room, after the players had gone home, Knight worried once more. “I wonder,” he said, “how Alford will play.”
Knight knew that Alford had been the subject of nationwide sympathy the last three days. Almost no one agreed with the NCAA’s decision to suspend Alford; Knight was glad of that, and he agreed with the sentiment. He was furious with the NCAA. But he was also angry with Alford, and he was afraid Alford might end up feeling like a martyr. That may have been the reason for his tirade the next afternoon. Or maybe he had just been holding back for seventy-two hours and could do so no longer.
The players arrived at three for their final walk-through. Before they could get started, Knight took off on Alford.
“Alford, you really cost us that game on Saturday and I want you to know that I really resent it. I can’t forget it. I’m just out of patience with you. What you did was stupid. It wasn’t a mistake, it was just plain stupid. You’ve been told and f—— told and f—— retold, and you screwed up and cost us a game. I really have trouble forgetting that. This is a habit with you. You don’t listen, whether it’s defense or playing hard or this. I don’t know about anyone else in here but I resent it and it pisses me off. Because of you we lost to a chickenshit f—— operation. I won’t forget that.”
Knight never forgets. The message to Alford was clear: you owe us one. The message to the others was just as clear: forget what I said Saturday, Alford did have lots to do with the loss. The others had been granted absolution for the sin of losing to Kentucky. Alford still had some time left in purgatory.
Shortly after Knight’s diatribe, Henry Iba walked into the gym. He was in town for the week to visit Knight and spend some time with the team that he had gotten to know as Knight’s guest on their summer world tour. At eighty-one, Iba was still alert, could still tell a good story, and still liked to put down a Kahlua or two late at night.
Knight sat with Iba in the locker room before the game, recounting the previous week in rich detail from the Notre Dame victory through the calendar fiasco to the Rucker call on Robinson. He stood up to demonstrate how Harden had turned into Robinson.
“I saw it on television,” Iba said. “I thought it was too bad.”
No one argued. Knight went off to take his steam. “He’s a good boy,” Iba said. “I just wish losing didn’t hurt him so darn much.” He left to go talk to the players. When Iba was gone, Knight sent for Chuck Crabb, who did the public address announcements. He wanted Iba introduced to the crowd, and he wanted him introduced in a specific way. “The most legendary figure in the history of basketball,” Knight told Crabb. Knight wrote most of Crabb’s introductions when his friends came to town.
Kreigh Smith would start. The coaches had decided this on Sunday, but Smith didn’t find out until just before pregame meal. This was a prime example of how quickly things can change at Indiana: Smith had been a redshirt candidate before the Kent State game ten days earlier, and now he was a starter.
But as he warmed up before the game, Smith felt something pop in his knee. Bomba took a look at it. Could be nothing, he told Garl. Or it could be a serious injury. Garl reported to Knight inside the locker room. Knight rolled his eyes in disgust. “Can he play?”
“I don’t know.”
When the team came back inside, Knight took Smith into the hall. “Are you okay? Are you certain?” Smith would have answered yes if his leg had been broken. He wanted desperately to play. As it turned out, it didn’t matter whether he played or not. X-rays would later show a tear in the cartilage, Smith would need an operation, and he would end up as a redshirt anyway—a medical redshirt because of an injury. He played that night. He felt pain, but not unbearable pain, so he kept playing.
Unfortunately, Smith’s teammates all played as if they had bad knees. Knight’s fears had been legitimate. Indiana was flat, Kansas State wasn’t. The Wildcats had a twenty-four-year-old Army veteran named Norris Coleman on their team. Late in the season, Coleman, who is 6-8, would be ruled ineligible by the NCAA because of poor grades in high school, but on December 10 he was eligible and Andre Harris couldn’t guard him. By half time he had seventeen points, and Morgan had escaped the bench to try to guard him. He wasn’t doing much better than Harris, and Kansas State led 39-32.
The sound the players heard in the locker room was the roof, about to cave in on them. Knight was raging one moment, resigned the next. “It’s your team,” he said. “Your goddamn team. You wanna be horseshit, that’s fine with me. I won’t fight it. There’s no communication out there, no enthusiasm, nothing. You did exactly what I told you you would do. You went around and got patted on the back and everyone told you that you were great at Kentucky. Everyone felt sorry for Alford. Alford f—— up.
“I might as well have stood in here the last three days and talked to empty lockers because I would have gotten as much response. Andre, you are afraid of Coleman. You can’t play like that for us. You people sit in here and figure out what to do the second half.”
He walked into the hall, turned, and came right back in. “When are you people going to get this crap out of your system? I really believe that we’re gonna be terrible until we get rid of all you people. This just defies my ability to comprehend anything.”
In the hallway, Knight looked at the coaches and said, “I’d have bet the goddamn farm that this would happen tonight. Now, what should we do?”
They talked about benching Harris. No, give him another chance. Morgan would have to start for Smith. They needed his defense. They had been outrebounded 18–13. Calloway had finally played like a freshman. He had been awful. “Ricky doesn’t have it tonight,” Knight said. “Maybe we should try Brooks or Robinson.”
“I think Ricky will come around,” Felling said. Knight said nothing. But he stuck with Calloway.
Knight had little more to say before they went back out except this: “If you don’t get yourselves together and understand that this team can kick your ass, you’ll be down twenty in no time. And if that happens, we’re all gonna be in big trouble.”
They were down ten quickly. But Alford, who had only gotten off three shots, began to take over. He hit from twenty feet, then he set Thomas up inside for a three-point play. A moment later he pulled down a rebound and went the length of the court to cut the margin to 50-47. The dead crowd suddenly revived. Calloway cut it to one with 12:49 still remaining on a soft jumper from the corner. But Coleman hit twice, both times over Jadlow, who had come in for Harris early in the half.
Indiana got back to within one, Kansas State built the lead back to five. Three times, the Wildcats scored on the very cut Knight had warned about constantly before the game. But Thomas was coming on inside. He hit another three-point play, then got fouled and made two free throws. They hung close. Finally, Calloway pulled down a missed Morgan free throw, seemingly jumping over everyone in the building, and put the shot back. Indiana led 70-69 with 4:01 left. A moment later, Coleman proved human when he missed the front end of a one-and-one. Calloway drove the lane, got fouled, and made both foul shots. The lead was three. Kansas State never got any closer. The bullet had been dodged.
The heroes were Alford, Thomas, Calloway, and Felling—Felling had probably kept Calloway in the game, and he had responded with sixteen points, most of them in the crunch. Knight was still angry about the first half, but relieved about the result, and delighted with the comeback.
“You got in a hole because you had a terrible mental attitude,” he said. “That should never happen. But last year you would have quit and lost the game. You did a hell of a job coming back. Daryl, you really did a great job, and Todd Jadlow, you came off the bench and did the job when we had to have it on Coleman. You hun
g in and scrapped. That’s good. But remember, this was a lucky escape.”
The players knew. As the coaches went through the tapes late into the night, the players went to the nearby Big Wheel Restaurant for their late dinner. Pat Knight, as always, went along. And, as always, Pat Knight was loose, joking, having a good time. Harris, knowing he was in the doghouse now, finally snapped.
“What are you laughing about so much?” he yelled at Pat Knight.
“The way you play,” Pat Knight answered.
Winston Morgan almost gagged. No one else said a word. The team was now four and twenty-four.
In truth, they had come through the first tough stretch of the season in excellent shape. The wins over Notre Dame and Kansas State were gratifying, the loss to Kentucky frustrating but understandable. Most important, everyone could see that this team had potential. It could be what Knight wanted most from one of his teams: “Hard to beat.”
The weekend would bring to town the annual Indiana Classic, better known to the players as two absolute lock victories. Indiana never lost in the Classic. The Hoosiers had won every game they had played in it for thirteen years, and with Louisiana Tech, Texas Tech, and Alcorn State making up the field, that wasn’t likely to change this year.
Naturally, Knight was worried.
There was no reason to be. Indiana would win both games easily, beating Louisiana Tech Friday and Texas Tech in the final on Saturday. The weekend was hectic for Knight more because he was playing host to two dozen people than for any other reason. The Classic was more a social event than a basketball event. Friends of Knight’s came from far and wide each year for this weekend, figuring they would have much more fun coming to see two easy wins than coming to see a possible loss.
Iba had arrived Tuesday. By Friday afternoon about ten of Knight’s friends from Orrville were in town, including Dr. Donald Boop, Knight’s boyhood neighbor and one of his many older-brother figures. Eddie Gottlieb, an old friend, had flown in from Florida. Mickey Corcoran, one of Knight’s coaching gurus, had come in from New Jersey. And Tim Knight was home for Christmas vacation.
Knight’s problems that weekend had little to do with his team. It performed well in both games. But he did have problems.
On Friday, he and Corcoran were driving a brand-new car Knight had just acquired when they came across a road that had been flooded by two days of downpours. Knight tried to slog on through. No luck. The car stalled. For a moment, Knight thought he was stuck and would have to swim out. Finally, the car limped through the water, but then died. The computer system had been drowned. Knight had to knock on a stranger’s door to call for help. Needless to say, everyone who had gathered for the weekend had a field day with that story.
Friday night, after the easy victory over Louisiana Tech, Knight walked onto the floor at halftime of the second game to do a radio show. Three Big Ten officials were working that game. One of them was Tom Rucker. When Knight had finished the interview, he found himself seated fifteen feet behind where the officials were standing, waiting for the second half to begin.
“Hey, Rucker,” Knight yelled, “Have you figured out the difference between a block and a charge yet?”
All three officials smiled at Knight’s reference to the Kentucky game. “You think I’m kidding, don’t you,” Knight continued, now standing and walking towards Rucker. “Why don’t you do everybody a favor and just quit? You make everyone in the game look bad.”
The gym was almost empty, most of the fans having gone home after the Indiana game, and Knight’s words seemed to echo. He was past Rucker now, but looked back to get in a few more swipes. “It’s not funny, Rucker, the only thing funny about it is that you’re a goddamn joke.”
Back in his locker room, Knight smiled. “I really nailed him.” The last word—again. Knight and Rucker would meet again before the season was over. Knight knew that. But . . .
Indiana annihilated Texas Tech in the final, breaking the game open after a sloppy first half that nonetheless produced a nine-point lead. But before the game could end, Knight’s sense of honor got him into trouble.
Knight had been unhappy with the officials throughout the tournament. They were Mid-American Conference officials, and he hadn’t been pleased with them from the start. During most of the Texas Tech game, he practically begged for a technical foul. The officials, clearly intimidated, never gave him one. But with 4:06 left in the game and Indiana leading 69-47, the officials gave one to poor Gerald Meyers, the Texas Tech coach.
Knight was distressed and embarrassed. Meyers had not said or done half the things Knight had done and now, trailing by twenty-two points, he was given a technical—in Indiana’s tournament. First, Knight ordered Alford, who had automatically gone up to shoot the technical fouls, to back off. Instead, he had Steve Eyl, far and away Indiana’s worst foul shooter, take the shots. He missed both.
One minute later, Jadlow was called for a routine foul. Knight stormed onto the court, running to the opposite foul line, acting berserk. He was going to get a technical if it was the last thing he ever did. For his efforts, he received two technicals. The crowd hooted. To them, Knight was going berserk with a twenty-point lead in a game that was already over.
Knight was doing what he thought was right. He felt obligated to get a technical and he knew that as long as he stayed in the coaching box—the area right in front of the bench—he wasn’t going to get one. He had already called one official “a chickenshit mother—” and not received one. By charging onto the court, Knight gave the officials no choice. He had done this before in a similar situation. It was the right thing to do in his mind. He wanted everyone to know that the officials were awful.
Knight also knew that most people would not see the incident this way. They would see it as another example of Knight going over the edge. In this case, they would be completely wrong. Knight knew just what he was doing. Even so, he hated behaving this way in front of Iba. When he walked into the coaches’ locker room after the game, Iba was waiting. “Coach, I just feel so bad about what happened, . . .” Knight began.
“Don’t say another word,” Iba said, holding a hand up to brake Knight. “I know what you were doing, Bob. You did just fine.”
Knight sighed and sat down heavily. When he is depressed about something he looks about 100 years old. That was the way he looked now. “I really don’t want these things to happen,” he said, thinking out loud again. ’I keep telling myself not to let them get to me and then they do. I mean it’s our tournament, the game is over, and the gutless sonofabitch calls a technical on Gerald. It just isn’t right.”
Knight was still bothered by the incident when he walked into the post-tournament party. All his buddies from Orrville were there along with the coaches from Indiana and the other three schools. This was an annual event. One person who had looked forward to the party was Murry Bartow—until he had mentioned to Knight how much his wife was looking forward to the party. That was when Bartow learned that his wife shouldn’t be looking forward to the party, since no women need apply. Men only.
“I’m taking her a doggy bag,” Bartow said glumly, shoving some barbequed ribs onto a plate.
Knight’s sexism is no secret. In fact, he often wears it like a badge of honor. The women in his life have very defined roles: Nancy Knight has been a wife in the most traditional sense—mother, cook, housekeeper, fan of the husband’s basketball team. Knight has two secretaries whom he treats with great respect at all times. As secretaries. Buzz Kurpius, the academic counselor for the players, is someone Knight feels comfortable with and often tells jokes to.
One day in practice Knight used the word “piece.” “You know what a piece is, don’t you, Buzz?” Knight said. “All women do.”
This was Knight’s way of treating Kurpius as a near equal. But most women didn’t merit such treatment. Knight was always polite to them, curbed his language around them, and had little use for them in a social setting. When he wanted to relax, he wanted to be a
round men. He didn’t feel he could be himself with women around.
Mike Krzyzewski, who had three daughters, often thought it would have been very healthy for Knight to have had a daughter. His sons were not so sure. “I think if I had come out a girl he would have shoved me back inside,” Pat Knight often said.
An exaggeration. Maybe.
Knight didn’t stay at the party that long. The team was now 5-1. But Louisville was next. The game would be tough enough—especially at Louisville—under ideal circumstances. But the players were beginning their one-week exam period on Monday. This meant shortened practices, players arriving late and leaving early, and a generally distracted atmosphere. Knight blamed himself for this. “I never should schedule a game like this, especially on the road, during exams,” he said on his radio show Monday night, a rare public admission of a mistake. “We’ll just go down there and do the best we can.”
Louisville, as it was to prove in March by winning the national championship, had as much talent as anyone in the country. No one, including Knight, quite understood how Denny Crum managed to amass so much talent year in and year out. But he and Crum had always had a good relationship if not a close one. They even ate dinner together the night before the game.
The road atmosphere in Louisville could not have been more different than Kentucky. Before the game, Knight and Alford were presented with plaques from the school as a tribute to their Olympic involvement. Knight received a standing ovation, a marked contrast to the ugliness of Lexington.
Coaching a game in old Freedom Hall took Knight back a lot of years. As a sophomore at Ohio State he had played one of his best games in the NCAA regional semifinals against Western Kentucky. “I still remember [Coach] Fred Taylor putting his arm around me after we beat Kentucky in the final and saying, ’Bobby, we wouldn’t be here right now if not for you,’ ” Knight said. That was 1960. Five years later, as a rookie coach at Army, he brought his team to Freedom Hall to play Louisville. “Got hammered 84-56,” Knight said, remembering the exact score as he almost always did.
A Season on the Brink Page 18
