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BOB  KNIGHT  WJ 

AND  THE  <'  J 

\ND\ANA  I 

HOOSERS 

JOHN 


JWJwilW 


FOREWORD  BV 

AL  MCGUIRE 


FPT 


Los  Angeles,  August  1984:  Indiana 
University  coach  Bob  Knight  leads  the 
U.S.  Olympic  basketball  team  to  the  gold 
medal,  the  crowning  achievement  of  a 
career  that  includes  two  NCAA  tourna- 
ment championships. 

Bloomington,  February  1985:  Frustrated 
with  his  team's  sloppy  play  and  some 
questionable  officiating,  Indiana  Univer- 
sity coach  Bob  Knight  throws  a  chair 
across  the  floor  as  a  Purdue  player  is 
preparing  to  take  a  foul  shot.  He  is  sus- 
pended for  one  game  by  the  Big  Ten. 

In  just  six  months,  Knight  had  gone 
from  the  pinnacle  of  his  profession  to  the 
brink  of  disaster.  His  temper  was  nothing 
new  but,  for  the  first  time,  his  coaching 
was  being  called  into  question.  Entering 
the  1985-86  season,  Knight,  his  team,  and 
all  observers  knew  that  another  year  like 
the  last  one  could  end  the  career  of  one  of 
basketball's  greatest  coaches. 

A  Season  on  the  Brink  is  an  extraordi- 
nary chronicle  of  that  season.  Knight 
granted  John  Feinstein,  college  basket- 
ball writer  for  The  Washington  Post, 
unprecedented  access  to  the  events  of 
the  season.  Feinstein  sat  in  on  practices, 
team  meetings,  strategy  sessions,  private 
talks  between  Knight  and  his  players,  and 
even  mid-game  huddles  on  the  sidelines. 
Feinstein  neverflinchesfrom  showing  the 
dark  side  of  Knight's  personality:  his 
chronic  doubts,  his  explosive  tirades,  his 
frequent  mind  games.  But  Feinstein  also 
describes  the  other  side  of  Knight,  one 
that  is  too  often  overlooked:  his  total  ded- 
ication and  loyalty  to  his  players,  past  and 
present,  his  concern  for  their  education, 
and  his  instinctive  generosity,  whether 

(Continued  on  back  flap) 
Copyright  ©  1986  Macmillan  Publishing  Company,  a  division  of  Macmillan,  Inc- 


season 

on  the 

Brink 


A  Year  with  Bob  Knight 
and  the  Indiana  Hoosiers 

JOHN  FEINSTEIN 

P.  Blain  ^ 

55l6RothemiereDr. 
FortWavnalN  46833 


MACMILLAN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

New  York 


Copyright  ©  1986  by  John  Feinstein 
All  photographs  (except  photo  of  1985-86  Indiana  University  basketball  team) 
copyright  ©  1986  by  Dave  Repp.  All  rights  reserved. 
All  rights  reserved.  No  part  of  this  book  may  be  reproduced  or  transmitted  in 
any  form  or  by  any  means,  elertronic  or  mechanical,  including  photocopying, 
recording  or  by  any  information  storage  and  retrieval  system,  without  per- 
mission in  writing  from  the  Publisher. 

Macmillan  Publishing  Company 

866  Third  Avenue,  New  York,  N.Y.  10022 

Collier  Macmillan  Canada,  Inc. 

Library  of  Congress  Cataloging-in-Publication  Data 
Feinstein,  John. 

A  season  on  the  brink. 

1.  Knight,  Bobby.     2.  Basketball — United  States — 
Coaches — Biography.     I.  Title. 

GV884.K58F44     1986  796.32'3'0924  [B]  86-18033 

ISBN  0-02-537230-0 

Macmillan  books  are  available  at  special  discounts  for  bulk  purchases  for  sales 
promotions,  premiums,  fund-raising,  or  educational  use.  For  details,  contart: 

Special  Sales  Director 

Macmillan  Publishing  Company 

866  Third  Avenue 

New  York,  N.Y.  10022 

10  9  8  7  6  5 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


For  Mom  and  Dad.  .  .  . 
and  that's  non-negotiable. 


contents 


Introduction  by  Al  McGuire  ix 

L  On  the  Brink  1 

2.  Rise  and  Fall  9 

3.  Square  One  25 

4.  October  15  38 

5.  November  56 

6.  Three  Long  Weeks  74 

7.  The  Season  Begins  89 

8.  Poster  Boy  218 

9.  No  Reason  to  Lose  to  Anyone  133 

10.  Deja  Vu  154 

11.  Will  We  Ever  Catch  Another  Fish?  271 

12.  "If  We  Can  Just  Get  Into  Position 

to  Get  Into  Position.  ..."  185 


viii     Contents 


13.  You  Can't  Go  Home  Again  222 

14.  Seven-Game  Season  243 

15.  Twenty  Minutes  to  the  Promised  Land  263 

16.  For  the  Championship.  .  .  .  Thud  273 

17.  Back  to  the  Brink  287 

Epilogue  303 

Acknowledgments  309 


Introduction 

By  Al  McGuire 

My  first  memory  of  Bob  Knight  is  a  vivid  one.  This  was  back  in 
1970,  when  my  Marquette  team  was  getting  ready  to  play  in  the 
NIT  semifinals  against  Louisiana  State,  which  starred  Pistol  Pete 
Maravich.  We  were  playing  the  second  game  of  the  semifinal 
doubleheader. 

The  first  game  was  between  Army  and  St.  John's.  It  was  one 
of  those  games  that  make  coaches  old,  a  one-  or  two-point  game 
the  whole  way.  Bob  was  coaching  Army,  and  his  teams  were 
known  for  this  type  of  game.  They  never  had  very  much  talent, 
but  they  were  always  very  hard  to  play  against  because  they  were 
so  aggressive  and  tenacious  on  defense.  They  were  like  a  Uttle 
dog  that  grabs  hold  of  your  leg  and  won't  let  go. 

1  was  standing  in  the  tunnel  leading  from  the  locker  rooms  to 
the  floor  when  the  game  ended,  waiting  to  go  out  for  the  second 
game.  I  don't  remember  exactly  what  happened  (I'm  sure  Bob 
does  in  detail)  but  Army  lost  the  game  at  the  buzzer  and  I  think 
there  may  have  been  a  tough  call  that  went  against  them  at  the 
end  to  lose  the  game.  Either  way,  a  killer  to  lose.  I've  been  through 
a  few  of  those  myself. 

As  the  teams  came  off  the  floor,  I  saw  Bob.  In  a  situation  Uke 
that,  maybe  you  shake  a  hand,  offer  a  word  of  condolence.  I  didn't 
say  anything.  The  reason  was  because  I  had  never  seen  anyone 
look  so  drained,  so  beaten,  in  my  life.  It  was  a  look  I'll  never 
forget  because  I  can't  remember  seeing  another  coach  with  that 
look.  He  had  given  the  game  everything  he  could  and  losing  it 
just  destroyed  him.  You  could  see  it  all  over  his  face.  Bob  couldn't 


X     Introduction 


have  been  more  than  thirty  back  then  but  when  he  came  off  the 
Hoor,  he  looked  like  an  old  man.  I've  never  forgotten  that  look. 

..,  "u^t  u^n^l^x  ff"J^'^  ^"'^^y'  ^^  ^""^'^  b^  ^  lo'^k  for  a  place  in 
the  basketball  Hall  of  Fame.  On  any  list  of  the  great  coaches  that 
the  game  has  ever  known,  the  name  Bob  Knight  is  going  to  be 
somewhere  near  the  top.  With  luck,  someday  it  might  be  at  the 
very  top.  He's  that  good  a  coach. 

Bob  Knight  knows  so  much  basketball  that  I  never  talk  about 
the  game  with  him.  I  don't  know  enough  about  it  to  do  so  I  feel 
the  game  more  than  I  know  it,  that's  the  way  I've  always  been 
1  can  talk  one  thmg— winning.  But  don't  ask  me  how.  My  as- 
sistant, Hank  Raymonds,  was  in  charge  of  that.  I  never  studied 
the  garne.  Bob  has  studied  it,  dissected  it,  and  in  many  ways 
changed  it  over  the  years.  If  he  wants  to  talk  basketball,  I  listen 
But  I  never  argue  with  him  about  the  game.  About  people,  maybe' 
About  basketball,  never.  f    f    '       y  ^■ 

When  I  was  at  Marquette,  we  played  some  of  his  best  Indiana 
teams.  In  1976  in  fact,  we  played  his  undefeated  team  in  the 
Mideast  regional  final.  That  was  one  of  my  best  teams,  probably 
a  more  talented  team  than  the  one  that  won  the  national  cham- 
pionship a  year  later  I  was  so  uptight  during  the  game  that  I  got 
two  technical  fou  s  that  certainly  didn't  do  my  team  any  good  I 
doubt  we  would  have  won,  though.  Bob  had  a  great  team,  and 
I  put  that  word  in  italics  because  that's  what  they  were.  None  of 
the  individuals  on  that  team  was  a  superstar-Quinn  Buckner, 
Scott  May,  Bobby  Wilkerson,  Tom  Abernethy,  and  Kent  Benson— 
but  as  a  group  they  were  unbeatable.  They  had  been  coached  to 
^  Xu  "^o^u"  Y^y,^""^  fhey  never  deviated.  They  also  never  lost 
What  Bob  did  then  was  to  take  you  out  of  your  game  If  he 
had  a  week  to  prepare  for  you,  he  would  find  a  way  to  take  away 

J'  '^rFl  ^°''  '^''^,  ^^''-  "  y°"  ^^^  to  play  one  of  his  teams  in 
the  NCAAs,  you  always  wanted  to  play  him  on  the  second  game 
of  the  weekend  because  that  way  he  had  less  time  to  prepare  Give 
Bob  time  to  prepare  and  most  often  he  would  figure  out  a  way 
to  beat  you.  ^ 

I  think  that's  changed  over  the  years.  Bob  is  as  good  as  he  ever 
was,  but  other  coaches  have  gotten  better.  They  know  how  to 


Introduction    xi 


prepare  better  and  that  makes  it  harder  for  Bob  to  dominate  as  a 
coach  the  way  he  once  did.  He  still  gets  100  percent  out  of  his 
team  at  all  times.  The  difference  is  that  other  coaches  are  coming 
closer  and  closer  to  doing  that  all  the  time.  He  hasn't  come  down, 
but  they  have  gone  up. 

I'm  not  sure  he  understands  that.  His  feeUng  has  always  been 
that  if  he  knows  his  business,  then  if  the  kids  listen  to  him,  you 
get  the  job  done.  One  of  his  great  frustrations  at  West  Point  was 
not  understanding  that  at  West  Point  you  couldn't  get  the  job 
done  a  lot  of  the  time  just  because  it  was  West  Point.  Bob  always 
believed  you  could  and  that's  why  losing  tore  him  up  so  much. 
That's  why  he  looked  the  way  he  did  that  year  at  the  NIT. 

Losing  still  tears  him  up.  This  is  his  greatest  asset  and  his 
greatest  albatross  all  at  once.  Bob  thinks  he  can  beat  the  game. 
Nobody  can  beat  the  game.  If  you  could,  there  would  be  no  game. 
But  Bob  keeps  trying  to  beat  it  anyway  and  when  he  doesn't  he 
thinks  of  it  as  failure,  his  failure,  and  it  tears  him  apart. 

I  remember  a  few  years  ago  I  arrived  in  Bloomington  early  on 
a  Friday  morning  to  tape  a  spot  we  were  doing  for  NBC  with  Bob. 
I  picked  up  the  morning  paper  and  read  that  Indiana  had  lost  the 
night  before  to  Iowa  by  one  in  overtime.  I  thought,  "Oh  boy,  is 
he  going  to  be  in  a  lousy  mood."  When  we  got  to  Indiana,  I  went 
downstairs  to  his  locker  room  and  I  knocked  on  the  door. 

Bob  asked  who  it  was  and  I  said,  "It's  Al."  He  said,  "Hey,  Al, 
can  we  do  this  another  day,  we're  real  busy."  I  couldn't  do  that. 
We  had  the  crew,  we  were  all  set,  our  schedule  was  too  tight.  I 
explained  that.  Finally,  the  door  opened.  There  was  the  entire 
coaching  staff.  They  looked  like  death.  They  had  been  sitting  in 
that  room  all  night  looking  at  tape  over  and  over  and  over  again. 
I  thought  the  assistant  coaches  were  going  to  kiss  me  just  for 
showing  up  and  rescuing  them.  God  knows  how  long  they  might 
have  stayed  in  there  wrestling  with  that  tape  if  we  hadn't  shown 
up.  Bob  just  can't  let  go  of  a  loss.  He  has  to  have  answers.  The 
trouble  is  sometimes  the  answer  is  obvious:  the  other  team  was 
better. 

But  that's  also  what  makes  Bob  great.  I  saw  his  team  practice 
last  November  and  I  thought  he  was  going  to  have  serious  prob- 
lems. They  had  no  size,  little  experience,  and  very  httle  quickness. 


xii     Introduction 


I  was  worried.  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  another  very  tough 
season  for  him.  So,  they  go  out  and  win  twenty-one  games.  That 
was  a  great  coaching  job,  maybe  as  good  a  job  as  Bob  has  ever 
done.  He's  still  a  brilliant  coach.  Different  from  other  coaches 
today,  but  brilliant. 

When  I  think  of  Bob  Knight,  I  think  of  Vince  Lombardi  and  I 
think  of  Red  Auerbach.  Personally,  I  don't  think  either  one  of 
them  could  have  coached  the  way  he  did  in  this  day  and  age. 
Maybe  they  would  have  adjusted  because  the  great  ones  can  do 
that.  Bob  is  a  throwback,  he's  from  that  school.  He's  a  complete 
disciplinarian.  He  demands  complete  loyalty  and  dedication  and 
he  gives  it  in  return. 

I  guess  I'm  like  all  of  Bob's  friends  in  that  I  look  at  his  dedication 
and  his  work  ethic  and  I  admire  them  but  I  also  worry  because 
of  them.  I  wish  he  didn't  put  so  much  of  himself  into  the  game. 
I  wish  he  had  more  outside  interests.  I  know  he  hunts  and  fishes 
and  enjoys  doing  both.  But  if  he's  going  to  fish  on  Tuesday,  he 
has  to  be  completely  successful  with  basketball  on  the  other  six 
days  to  really  enjoy  Tuesday. 

I've  told  him  that  I  honestly  don't  see  what's  left  for  him  in 
college  coaching.  He  has  won  every  championship  there  is  to  win, 
including  the  Olympics;  he's  proved  his  greatness  over  and  over, 
including  this  last  season.  What's  left?  Bob  reminds  me  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  who  conquered  the  world  and  then  sat  down  and 
cried  because  there  was  nothing  left  to  conquer.  I  don't  think  he 
has  any  true  goals  left  in  the  college  game. 

I  would  love  to  see  him  get  into  television.  I  know  he's  flirted 
with  it  in  the  past  and  I  think  he  would  be  terrific.  He's  so  bright, 
so  articulate,  and  so  good  at  stringing  thoughts  together  when  he 
wants  to.  I've  been  with  him  when  he's  done  TV  on  All-Star 
games  during  the  off-season  and  he's  been  terrific.  I'd  be  happy 
to  see  him  make  the  switch  because  I'm  like  everyone  else,  I  don't 
want  to  see  someone  with  a  $2  Saturday  night  special  knock  him 
off  the  coaching  pedestal  he  deserves. 

What  I  mean  by  that  is  this:  Suppose  some  referee  decides  that 
the  way  to  make  a  name  for  himself  is  to  draw  Bob  Knight  into 
some  kind  of  fight  or  battle.  Or  suppose  some  fan  decides  to  pick 
a  fight  with  him.  Or  suppose  some  administrator  comes  to  Indiana 


Introduction     xiii 


and  decides  he's  the  guy  to  prove  once  and  for  all  that  he's  Bob 
Knight's  boss.  If  anything  like  that  happens,  Bob  is  going  to  be 
judged  wrong  no  matter  what  he  does  because  of  the  past.  He 
deserves  better  than  that. 

What  people  don't  see,  what  they  don't  understand  about  Bob 
is  that  he's  a  warm,  sensitive,  and  funny  guy.  Yes,  funny.  The 
problem  with  Bob's  sense  of  humor  most  of  the  time  is  that  he 
never  smiles  when  he  tells  a  joke.  Half  the  time  people  don't  know 
he's  joking  because  they  look  at  his  face  and  all  they  see  is  this 
deadpan.  By  the  time  they  realize  he's  kidding,  it's  too  late. 

I  think  some  people  know  about  the  warm  and  sensitive  side. 
I  think  this  book  will  show  that  side  quite  a  bit  and  I'm  glad.  Bob 
always  tried  to  act  so  tough— all  the  screaming  and  yelling.  He's 
really  not  tough,  not  at  all.  Get  by  that  and  ask  for  help— or  don't 
ask  for  help— and  he'll  be  the  first  one  to  offer  it.  All  the  critical 
things  he  says  about  his  players— try  and  criticize  one  of  them 
and  see  what  kind  of  response  you  get.  Be  ready  to  duck,  too. 

What  Bob  is,  more  than  anything,  is  intense.  He  is  intense 
about  everything  he  does.  If  he  takes  you  to  a  restaurant  he  wants 
you  to  love  that  restaurant  just  the  way  he  does.  If  you  watch 
his  basketball  team  he  wants  you  to  think  it's  a  great  basketball 
team— unless  he  doesn't  think  it's  great.  He  loves  to  compete. 
He  loves  to  win.  But  it's  never  that  simple  with  him  because 
nothing  is  simple  with  Bob.  He  wants  to  know  how  you  won  and 
why  you  won.  And  he  has  to  know  how  you  lost  and  why  you 
lost.  That's  to  make  sure  it  doesn't  happen  again.  I  always  used 
to  say  just,  "let's  win  and  get  the  hell  out  of  here."  Bob  can't  do 
that.  He  has  to  ask  all  the  questions  and  get  all  the  answers.  Until 
he  does  that,  he  isn't  satisfied. 

I've  never  really  tried  to  give  Bob  advice  because  among  his 
older  friends,  I'm  fairly  young  at  fifty-eight.  Bob  likes  to  surround 
himself  with  older  coaches.  He's  happy  with  them  around,  com- 
fortable. He  respects  them,  he  feels  he  learns  from  them.  Once 
though,  I  was  at  a  clinic  with  him  in  Cherry  Hill,  New  Jersey, 
and  I  told  him  I  thought  a  day  would  come  when  he  needed  to 
calm  down  at  least  a  little,  that  if  he  rode  the  razor's  edge  all  the 
time  the  way  he  did,  sooner  or  later,  he  would  shp  over. 

I  think  he  listens  when  people  tell  him  things  Uke  that,  but  he's 


xiv     Introduction 


gotten  so  good  at  riding  the  edge  over  the  years  that  it's  hard  for 
him  to  pull  off  it.  When  he  threw  the  chair,  he  slipped  over  the 
edge,  no  doubt  about  it.  That's  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that 
anyone  who  rides  the  edge  that  long,  even  someone  as  intelligent 
as  Bob,  will  slip  at  some  point. 

I  hope  that  was  a  one-time  thmg.  I  tend  to  think  it  was  because 
I  have  so  much  faith  in  Bob.  He's  always  come  out  a  winner  in 
the  end.  At  times,  people  have  questioned  his  methods,  but  no 
one  has  ever  questioned  his  results  either  in  terms  of  wins  and 
losses  or  in  the  kind  of  kid  he  produces  and  has  produced  over 
the  years.  I  think  as  long  as  Bob  learns  to  understand,  at  least  to 
some  degree,  that  even  he  can  never  beat  the  game,  he  can  coach 
and  coach  successfully  as  long  as  he  wants  to.  And  if  he  wants  to 
get  out  he's  got  a  place  in  the  Hall  of  Fame  and  in  the  broadcast 
booth  waiting  for  him.  He's  not  only  one  of  basketball's  great 
coaches,  but  one  of  its  most  compelling  and  fascinating  figures. 

When  I  had  dinner  last  November  with  Bob  and  John  Feinstein, 
I  made  two  predictions.  The  first  one  was  that  with  all  the  time 
they  were  going  to  spend  together,  they  wouldn't  be  speaking  to 
each  other  by  March.  Apparently,  I  was  wrong  on  that  one— but 
not  by  much.  My  second  prediction  was  that  if  John  survived  the 
season,  he  would  have  a  terrific  book  on  his  hands.  To  get  to 
watch  a  master  at  work  up  close  is  a  rare  opportunity. 

Undoubtedly,  John  saw  Bob  at  his  best  and  at  his  worst.  To 
understand  someone  you  have  to  see  everything,  not  just  the 
good.  Even  great  coaches  have  bad  days.  Even  good  people  are 
human  and  make  mistakes.  The  point  of  this  book  is  to  give  people 
an  idea  of  what  makes  a  great  coach,  one  as  complex  as  Bob  Knight, 
tick.  And  to  give  people  an  idea  of  how  the  people  around  him 
survive,  or  thrive,  and  why  they  are  willing  to  put  up  with  all 
his  foibles. 

Living  through  a  season,  especially  a  season  of  change,  as  the 
one  just  past  was  for  Bob  Knight,  strikes  me  as  a  wonderful  way 
to  do  that.  I  told  John  if  he  survived  the  season,  I  would  eagerly 
look  forward  to  reading  his  book  because  when  you  are  a  fan  of 
Bob  Knight's — and  I  am  one — you  want  to  know  all  you  can  about 
the  man.  And,  even  if  you  aren't  a  fan,  this  is  a  story  about  a 
complex,  briUiant,  and  difficult  man. 


Introduction    xv 

Bob  Knight  is  unique.  In  another  time,  he  would  have  been  a 
superb  general.  He  never  made  it  past  private  in  the  Army,  but 
he  has  proved  himself  to  be  a  fantastic  leader  throughout  his 
career.  He  may  well  be  the  last  of  the  great  coaching  dictators. 
The  last  of  a  breed. 

But  also  the  first  of  a  breed.  After  all,  there  is  only  one  Bob 
Knight. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink 


on  the  Brink 

NOVEMBER  24, 1985.  .  .  .  The  day  was  no  different  from  any  other 
that  fall.  A  cold  rain  had  been  falling  steadily  all  morning  and  all 
afternoon,  and  the  wind  cut  holes  in  their  faces  as  they  raced  from 
their  cars  to  the  warmth  of  the  lobby,  and  then  into  the  locker 
room  a  moment  later.  This  was  Sunday.  In  six  days,  Indiana 
would  begin  its  basketball  season,  and  no  one  connected  with  the 
team  had  any  idea  what  the  season  would  hold.  The  only  thing 
everyone  knew  for  certain  was  that  no  one  could  live  through 
another  season  like  the  last  one. 

Bob  Knight  knew  this  better  than  any  of  them.  The  1984-85 
season  had  been  the  most  painful  he  had  lived  through  in  twenty 
years  as  a  coach.  Nine  months  after  what  might  have  been  his 
most  glorious  night  in  coaching,  he  had  suffered  through  his  most 
ignominious.  He  had  gone  from  Olympic  hero  to  national  buffoon, 
from  being  canonized  in  editorials  to  being  lampooned  in  cartoons. 

In  the  summer  of  1984,  Knight  had  coached  perhaps  the  best 
amateur  team  in  the  history  of  basketball.  His  U.S.  Olympic  team 
had  destroyed  every  opponent  it  faced  on  the  way  to  the  Olympic 
gold  medal.  And  yet,  because  of  the  Soviet  boycott.  Knight  could 
not  feel,  even  in  his  greatest  moment,  complete  satisfaction. 

He  had  returned  to  coach  at  Indiana  and  had  experienced  his 
worst  season.  He  benched  starters,  threw  his  leading  rebounder 
off  the  team,  and  generally  acted  like  a  man  who  was  burned 
out — scorched  out  might  be  a  better  term.  Some  friends  urged 
him  to  quit,  or  at  least  take  a  year  off.  But  Knight  couldn't  quit; 
he  had  to  prove  himself — again. 

At  age  forty-five.  Knight  was  starting  over.  Not  from  scratch. 


2     John  Feinstein 


but  not  that  far  from  it.  He  knew  by  the  end  of  the  previous 
season  that  he  had  to  change.  He  knew  he  could  not  lash  out  at 
his  team  every  time  it  failed.  He  surely  knew  that  he  could  never 
again  throw  a  chair  during  a  game  as  he  had  done  in  February 
during  a  loss  to  Purdue.  He  had  to  work  harder  than  he  had 
worked  in  recent  years.  He  had  to  be  certain  that  he  still  wanted 
to  coach  and  act  that  way.  He  had  to  get  his  team  playing  the 
way  it  had  played  during  his  six  years  at  West  Point  and  during 
his  first  thirteen  years  at  Indiana.  Above  all,  he  had  to  be  more 
patient. 

For  Knight,  the  last  was  the  most  difficult.  Bob  Knight  was 
many  things:  brilliant,  driven,  compassionate — but  not  patient. 
His  explosions  at  players  and  officials  on  the  bench  during  games 
were  legendary.  To  those  who  knew  him,  his  eruptions  in  practice 
and  the  locker  room  were  frightening.  Friends  worried  after  he 
threw  the  chair  that  he  was  destined  to  end  up  like  Woody  Hayes, 
the  Ohio  State  football  coach  whose  career  had  ended  when  he 
slugged  an  opposing  player  in  frustration  at  the  end  of  a  bowl 
game. 

Knight  had  come  to  practice  on  October  15,  eager  to  begin  again. 
Players  and  assistant  coaches  noticed  right  away  that  he  was  teach- 
ing more,  that  he  spent  less  time  talking  to  buddies  on  the  sidehnes 
and  more  time  caught  up  in  the  work.  He  was  more  patient.  He 
seemed  to  understand  that  this  was  a  young  team,  an  inexperi- 
enced team,  a  fragile  team.  It  was  a  team  that  had  to  be  nurtured, 
not  bullied. 

Now,  though,  the  season  was  just  six  days  away.  When  Knight 
looked  onto  the  floor  he  saw  a  team  that  in  no  way  resembled  the 
great  teams  he  had  coached  in  the  mid  1970s  or,  for  that  matter, 
the  team  he  had  coached  in  1981,  when  he  won  his  second  national 
championship.  They  couldn't  attack  defensively  the  way  Knight 
hked  to  attack.  They  couldn't  intimidate.  Worse  than  that,  he 
thought,  they  could  be  intimidated.  Every  day  he  came  to  practice 
wanting  to  see  them  get  better,  looking  for  hope.  Some  days  he 
found  it:  Steve  Afford  was  a  brilliant  shooter,  a  gritty  player  who 
could  score  against  almost  any  defense.  Daryl  Thomas,  the  6- 
foot-7-inch  center,  and  Andre  Harris,  the  6-6  forward  recruited 
out  of  a  junior  college,  were  superb  athletes,  blessed  with  great 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    3 


quickness  around  the  basket.  Rick  Calloway,  the  rail-thin  fresh- 
man, was  going  to  be  a  wonderful  player  some  day. 

But  all  of  them  had  up  days  and  down  days.  And  the  rest  of 
the  team  was  too  young  or  too  slow  or  too  small.  The  vulnerabiHty 
preyed  on  Knight's  mind.  The  last  thing  in  the  world  Bob  Knight 
ever  wanted  to  be  was  vulnerable.  He  had  felt  vulnerable,  beatable, 
mortal  the  previous  season  when  his  team  had  finished  under  .500 
in  Big  Ten  play  (7-11)  for  the  first  time  in  fourteen  years.  The 
NCAA  had  invited  sixty-four  teams  to  its  postseason  tournament, 
more  than  at  any  time  in  history.  Indiana  wasn't  one  of  them. 

Knight  was  incapable  of  accepting  failure.  Every  defeat  was 
personal;  his  team  lost,  a  team  he  had  selected  and  coached.  None 
of  the  victories  or  milestones  of  the  past  mattered.  The  fact  that 
he  could  quit  right  then  and  know  that  his  place  in  history  was 
secure  didn't  matter.  Failure  on  any  level  all  but  destroyed  him, 
especially  failure  in  coaching  because  it  was  coaching  that  gave 
him  his  identity,  made  him  special,  set  him  apart. 

And  so  on  this  rainy,  ugly  Sunday,  beginning  the  final  week 
of  preparation  for  another  season.  Knight  was  angry.  He  was 
angry  because  as  his  team  scrimmaged  he  could  see  its  flaws.  Even 
playing  perfectly,  following  every  instruction  he  gave,  this  team 
would  be  beatable.  How  could  that  be?  Knight  believed — and  his 
record  seemed  to  back  him  up — that  the  system  he  had  devised 
over  the  years  was  the  best  way  there  was  to  play  basketball.  He 
always  told  his  players  that.  "Follow  our  rules,  do  exactly  what 
we  tell  you  and  you  will  not  lose,"  he  would  say.  "But  boys,  you 
have  to  Usten  to  me." 

The  boys  Ustened.  Always,  they  Ustened.  But  they  didn't  al- 
ways assimilate,  and  sometimes,  even  when  they  did,  they  could 
not  execute  what  they  had  been  told.  That  was  what  frightened 
Knight — yes,  frightened  him — about  this  team.  It  might  do  every- 
thing it  was  told  and  still  not  be  very  good.  He  Hked  these  players; 
there  wasn't,  in  his  view,  a  bad  kid  on  the  team.  But  he  wondered 
about  their  potential  as  basketball  players. 

Today  the  player  bothering  him  most  was  Daryl  Thomas.  In 
Thomas,  Knight  saw  a  player  of  huge  potential.  Thomas  has  what 
coaches  call  a  "million  dollar  body."  He  was  strong  and  wide,  yet 
quick.  He  could  shoot  the  basketball  with  both  hands,  and  when 


4    ]ohn  Feinstein 


he  went  past  bigger  men  to  the  basket,  they  had  httle  choice  but 
to  foul  him. 

But  Thomas  was  not  one  of  those  basketball  players  who  Uke 
to  get  up  on  game  day  and  eat  nails  for  breakfast  to  get  ready. 
He  was  a  middle-class  kid  from  Chicago,  extremely  bright  and 
sensitive.  Knight's  angry  words  often  hurt  him.  Other  Indiana 
players,  Alford  for  one,  knew  that  Knight  would  say  almost  any- 
thing when  he  was  angry  and  that  the  only  way  to  deal  with  that 
was  to  ignore  the  words  of  anger  and  listen  to  the  words  of 
wisdom.  Dan  Dakich,  who  had  graduated  the  previous  spring  to 
become  a  graduate  assistant  coach,  had  told  the  freshman  Callo- 
way, "When  he's  calling  you  an  asshole,  don't  listen.  But  when 
he  starts  telling  you  why  you're  an  asshole,  listen.  That  way 
you'll  get  better. " 

Thomas  couldn't  shut  off  some  words  and  hear  others.  He  heard 
them  all,  and  they  hurt. 

Knight  didn't  want  to  hurt  Thomas.  He  wanted  to  make  him 
a  better  player,  but  he  honestly  believed  that  some  days  Thomas 
had  to  be  hurt  if  he  was  going  to  get  better.  He  had  used  this 
tactic  on  Landon  Turner,  another  sensitive  black  youngster  with 
immense  abihty.  Turner,  6-10  and  250  pounds,  had  emerged  from 
a  shell  of  mediocrity  as  a  junior  to  play  a  key  role  in  Indiana's 
1981  run  to  the  national  championship.  That  summer  he  was 
crippled  in  an  automobile  accident.  Knight,  who  had  once  put 
Tampax  in  Turner's  locker,  who  had  cursed  him  and  called  him 
names  for  three  years,  spent  the  next  six  months  raising  money 
to  pay  Landon  Turner's  medical  bills. 

Now,  he  was  hoping  that  Thomas  would  bloom  as  a  junior  the 
way  Turner  had.  Some  days  he  cajoled.  Other  days  he  joked. 
Today,  though,  he  raged.  Practice  had  not  gone  well;  after  three 
straight  good  practices,  the  team  had  been  sluggish.  Intellectually, 
Knight  knew  this  was  inevitable.  Emotionally,  it  drove  him  to  the 
brink  of  complete  hysteria. 

First,  he  screamed  at  Thomas  for  playing  carelessly.  Then,  he 
banished  him  from  the  scrimmage,  sending  him  to  a  lone  basket 
at  the  end  of  the  court  to  practice  with  Magnus  Pelkowski,  a  6- 
10  sophomore  who  was  not  scrimmaging  because  of  an  injury. 

"Daryl,"  he  screamed  as  Thomas  walked  toward  where  Pel- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    5 


kowski  was  working,  "get  the  f —  out  of  my  sight.  If  that's  the 
best  you  can  give  us  after  two  days'  rest,  get  away  from  me. 
There  is  absolutely  no  way  you'll  start  on  Saturday.  No  way. 

You  cost  yourself  that  chance  today  by  f around.  You  are  so 

terrible,  it's  just  awful.  I  don't  know  what  the  f —  you  are  thinking 
about.  You  think  I  was  mad  last  year?  You  saw  me,  I  was  the 
maddest  sonofabitch  you  ever  saw.  You  want  another  year  hke 
that?  Just  get  the  f —  out  of  my  sight." 

When  Knight  is  angry,  he  spews  profanities  so  fast  they're  hard 
to  keep  track  of.  In  the  right  mood,  he  can  talk  for  hours  without 
ever  using  an  obscenity.  In  this  mood,  every  other  word  was  one. 
Turning  to  his  assistant  coaches.  Knight  added,  "F —  Daryl  Thomas. 
Don't  even  mess  with  him  anymore.  We've  worked  three  years 
with  the  sonofabitch.  Use  him  to  make  Magnus  a  better  player. 
At  least  he  wants  to  play." 

They  played  on  without  Thomas.  Finally,  after  about  twenty 
minutes,  he  was  allowed  to  return.  But  he  was  tight.  Some  players 
react  to  Knight's  anger  with  anger  of  their  own  and  play  better. 
Not  Thomas;  he  tightens  up.  When  Courtney  Witte,  a  backup 
forward  with  far  less  natural  abihty  than  Thomas,  scored  over 
him  from  inside.  Knight  blew  up  again.  "Daryl,  get  in  the  game 
or  get  out!  Do  you  know  you  haven't  scored  a  basket  inside  since 
Jesus  Christ  was  lecturing  in  Omaha?  Just  get  out,  Daryl.  Get 

him  the  f —  in  the  locker  room.  He  hasn't  done  a  f thing 

since  we  got  out  here." 

Thomas  departed.  His  teammates  felt  for  him,  because  every 
one  of  them  had  been  in  his  shoes  at  some  point.  Especially  the 
better  players;  Knight  rarely  picks  on  the  second  teamers.  The 
rest  of  the  team  lasted  two  plays  before  Knight  blew  up  again  and 
told  them  all  to  join  Thomas  in  the  locker  room.  Knight  was 
genuinely  angry,  but  he  was  also  playing  a  game  with  his  team. 
It  was  a  dangerous  game,  but  one  he  had  played  successfully  for 
twenty  years:  put  pressure  on  them  now  so  they  will  react  well 
to  pressure  from  opponents  later.  But  this  was  a  delicate  team 
and  a  delicate  situation.  Last  year's  team  had  folded  under  Knight's 
pressure.  Knight  knew  that.  Some  days  this  fall  he  restrained 
himself  because  of  that.  But  not  today. 

In  the  locker  room,  Knight  ordered  the  assistant  coaches  to  play 


6    John  Feinstein 


back  the  tape  of  the  day's  practice.  As  often  happens  when  Knight 
is  angry,  he  began  invoking  the  past.  "I'd  Uke  to  know  when 
somebody  in  here  is  going  to  go  up  and  grab  somebody  and  punch 
them  when  they  watch  this  bullshit.  [Quinn]  Buckner  would  have 
hit  somebody  by  now.  Do  you  know  that?  He  just  would  have 

gone  up  and  hit  one  of  you  f .  People  I  played  with  in  college 

would  have  killed  you  people  if  you  pulled  that  shit  on  them. " 

Quinn  Buckner  had  been  the  captain  of  the  1976  national  cham- 
pionship team.  He  was,  without  question.  Knight's  all-time  fa- 
vorite player.  He  had  been  a  leader,  a  coach  on  the  floor,  but  no 
one  could  remember  him  hitting  a  teammate.  Part  of  that  was 
because  any  time  two  players  squared  off  in  practice.  Knight  would 
say  to  them,  "Anybody  who  wants  to  fight,  you  can  fight  me." 
No  one  wanted  to  fight  Knight. 

Knight  stormed  out,  leaving  the  assistants  to  go  through  the 
tape  with  the  players.  The  room  was  dark,  almost  quiet.  The  four 
assistant  coaches,  Kohn  Smith,  Joby  Wright,  Royce  Waltman,  and 
Ron  Felling,  gingerly  began  pointing  out  mistakes.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  Felling,  they  had  all  hved  through  the  nightmare  of 
the  previous  year,  and  they  didn't  want  a  repeat,  either.  But  no 
one  was  really  hstening  as  the  coaches  droned  on  about  missed 
screens  and  lack  of  concentration.  Everyone  in  the  room  knew 
Knight  was  going  to  be  back.  Most  people  get  angry,  scream  and 
yell,  and  then  calm  down.  Knight,  more  often  than  not,  gets  even 
angrier. 

Sure  enough,  five  minutes  later,  he  returned.  Thomas  was  on 

his  mind.  "Daryl,  you  know  you  are  a  f joke,"  he  said.  "I 

have  no  more  confidence  in  your  ability  to  go  out  and  play  hard 
than  I  did  when  you  were  a  freshman.  I  don't  know  how  you've 

f up  your  head  in  the  last  two  weeks  but  you're  as  f up 

now  as  you've  ever  been.  I  wouldn't  turn  you  loose  in  a  game  if 

you  were  the  last  guy  I  had  because  of  your  f head.  This  is 

just  bullshit. 

"Honest  to  Christ  I  want  to  just  go  home  and  cry  when  I  watch 
this  shit.  Don't  you  boys  understand?  Don't  you  know  how  had 
I  want  to  see  Indiana  play  basketball?  I  want  to  see  Indiana  play 

so  bad  I  can  f taste  it.  I  want  a  good  team  so  bad  it  hurts. 

I  want  to  go  out  there  and  kick  somebody's  ass." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    7 


He  looked  at  Winston  Morgan,  a  fifth-year  senior  playing  with- 
out a  scholarship.  "Do  you?"  Morgan  nodded  assent.  "Bullshit. 
Lying  sonofahitch.  Show  me  out  there  and  I'll  believe  it.  I  come 
out  here  to  practice  and  see  this  and  I  just  want  to  quit.  Just  go 
home  and  never  come  hack." 

Knight  was  hoarse  from  yelling.  His  voice  was  almost  choking 
with  emotion.  He  stopped.  The  tape  started.  It  ran  for  one  play. 
"Stop,  stop  it,"  Knight  said.  "Daryl,  look  at  that.  You  don't  even 
run  back  down  the  floor  hard.  That's  all  I  need  to  know  about 
you,  Daryl.  All  you  want  to  be  out  there  is  comfortable.  You 
don't  work,  you  don't  sprint  back.  Look  at  that!  You  never  push 
yourself.  You  know  what  you  are  Daryl?  You  are  the  worst 

f pussy  I've  ever  seen  play  basketball  at  this  school.  The 

absolute  worst  pussy  ever.  You  have  more  goddamn  ability  than 
95  percent  of  the  players  we've  had  here  but  you  are  a  pussy  from 
the  top  of  your  head  to  the  bottom  of  your  feet.  An  absolute 
f pussy.  That's  my  assessment  of  you  after  three  years." 

Finally,  with  Thomas  fighting  back  tears.  Knight  turned  on  the 
rest  of  his  team.  For  ten  more  minutes  he  railed  at  them,  called 
them  names,  told  them  they  couldn't  beat  anybody.  He  told  them 
not  to  bother  coming  to  practice  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after. 
He  didn't  care  what  they  did.  "Get  them  out  of  here,"  he  finally 
told  the  assistants.  "Get  them  the  f —  out." 

Knight  walked  out  onto  the  floor.  He  was  drained.  He  turned 
to  Kohn  Smith.  "Go  talk  to  Daryl,"  he  said.  Knight  knew  he  had 
gone  too  far  with  Thomas,  and  undoubtedly  he  had  regretted 
many  of  the  words  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  his  mouth.  But 
he  couldn't  take  them  back.  Instead,  he  would  send  Smith,  who 
was  as  quiet  and  gentle  as  Knight  was  loud  and  brutal,  to  talk  to 
Thomas. 

Thomas  cried.  Smith  comforted  him.  Thomas  was  facing  the 
same  question  everyone  who  comes  in  contact  with  Knight  faces 
sooner  or  later:  Is  it  worth  it?  Does  the  end  justify  the  means? 
He  knew  Knight  just  wanted  him  to  be  a  better  player.  He  knew 
Knight  liked  him  and  cared  about  him.  He  knew  that  if  anyone 
ever  attacked  him.  Knight  would  come  to  his  defense.  But  was 
all  that  worth  it  for  this?  This  was  Knight  at  his  meanest.  Every 
player  who  comes  to  Indiana  faces  the  screaming,  raving  Knight 


8    John  Feinstein 


at  some  point  in  his  life.  Some  leave  because  it  isn't  worth  it  to 
them,  but  most  stay.  And  most  leave  convinced  Knight's  v^ay  is 
the  right  way.  But  now  Daryl  Thomas  wondered.  He  had  to 
wonder;  he  wouldn't  have  been  human  if  he  hadn't  wondered,  if 
he  hadn't  cried. 

They  practiced  early  the  next  morning,  but  without  Knight: 
he  stayed  home,  not  wanting  to  put  himself  or  his  team  through 
another  emotional  trauma. 

One  morning  later.  Knight  called  Thomas  into  his  locker  room. 
He  put  his  arm  around  Thomas  and  told  him  to  sit  down.  He 
spoke  softly,  gently.  There  were  no  other  coaches,  no  teammates 
in  the  room.  "Daryl,  I  hate  it  when  I  get  on  you  the  way  I  did 
Sunday,  I  really  do,"  he  said.  "But  do  you  know  why  I  do  it?" 

Thomas  shook  his  head.  "Because,  Daryl,  sometimes  I  think  I 
want  you  to  be  a  great  player  more  than  you  want  you  to  be  a 
great  player.  And  that  just  tears  me  up  inside.  Because  there  is 
no  way  you  will  ever  be  a  great  player  unless  you  want  it.  You 
have  the  ability.  But  I  can  coach,  teach,  scream,  and  yell  from 
now  until  Doomsday  and  you  won't  be  any  good  unless  you  want 
it  as  bad  as  I  do.  Right  now,  I  know  you  don't  want  it  as  bad  as 
I  do.  Somehow,  I  have  to  convince  you  to  feel  that  way.  I  don't 
know  if  this  is  the  right  way,  but  it's  my  way.  You  know  it's 
worked  for  other  people  in  the  past.  Try,  Daryl,  please  try.  That's 
all  I  ask.  If  you  try  just  as  hard  as  you  can,  I  promise  you  it  will 
be  worth  it.  I  know  it  will.  Don't  try  for  me,  Daryl.  Try  for  you." 

Thomas  listened  to  all  this.  Unlike  some  players  who  might 
not  understand  what  Knight  was  saying,  he  understood.  This  was 
the  way  his  coach  coached;  that  would  never  change.  Thomas  was 
going  through  the  same  emotional  swings  that  other  gifted  Knight 
players  had  gone  through.  One  in  particular,  Isiah  Thomas  (no 
relation  to  Daryl)  had  come  out  of  the  Chicago  ghetto  and  had 
lit  up  Indiana  basketball  for  two  years  with  his  talent  and  his 
personality.  He  and  Knight  had  fought  for  two  years  while  Thomas 
starred  for  Indiana,  and  had  continued  to  fight  after  Thomas  left 
Indiana  early  to  turn  pro. 

At  a  clinic  once,  someone  asked  Isiah  Thomas  what  he  really 
thought  about  Knight.  "You  know  there  were  times,"  Isiah  Thomas 
answered,  "when  if  I  had  had  a  gun,  I  think  I  would  have  shot 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    9 


him.  And  there  were  other  times  when  I  wanted  to  put  my  arms 
around  him,  hug  him,  and  tell  him  that  I  loved  him." 

Those  words,  perhaps  better  than  any  others,  sum  up  the  love- 
hate  relationship  between  Knight  and  his  players,  even  between 
Knight  and  his  friends.  To  know  Bob  Knight  is  to  love  him.  To 
know  Bob  Knight  is  to  hate  him.  Because  he  views  the  world  and 
everyone  in  it  in  strict  black-and-white  terms,  he  is  inevitably 
viewed  that  way  by  others. 

In  less  than  forty-eight  hours,  Daryl  Thomas  had  seen  the  black 
and  the  white.  He  had  felt  the  full  range  of  emotions.  That  Sat- 
urday, when  Indiana  played  its  first  game  of  the  season,  Daryl 
Thomas  was  Indiana's  best  player.  Not  for  Knight.  For  himself. 
But  it  was  only  one  game.  A  long  season  lay  ahead. 


Rise  and  Fall 

Bob  Knight  spent  the  fall  of  1985  driven  and  haunted  by  the  year 
just  past.  The  high  was  so  high,  and  the  low  so  low,  that  the 
memories  were  vivid  and  sharp.  Partly  because  of  his  prodigious 
memory,  but  more  because  it  provided  much-needed  comfort,  he 
could  recall  the  Olympics  in  almost  minute-by-minute  detail, 
especially  the  climax. 

It  was  warm  in  Los  Angeles  on  August  10,  warm  yet  com- 
fortable, just  as  it  had  been  throughout  the  1984  Summer  Olym- 
pics. Miraculously,  there  had  been  no  smog,  no  giant  traffic  snafus, 
and  no  serious  security  problems  throughout  the  two  weeks. 

Knight  awoke  that  morning  feeling  the  way  he  always  feels  on 
the  morning  of  a  basketball  game:  keyed  up,  excited,  nervous, 
perhaps  even  a  little  more  than  usual,  because  this  was  not  merely 
another  game.  This  was  a  game,  a  night,  a  moment  he  had  waited 
for  his  entire  hfe. 

That  night  he  would  coach  the  United  States  of  America  in  a 


10     ]ohn  Feinstein 


basketball  game  to  decide  the  winner  of  an  Olympic  gold  medal. 
In  speeches  long  after  that  game  had  been  won.  Knight  would  say 
often,  "If  you  cannot  fight  for  your  country  in  war,  then  I  can 
think  of  no  greater  honor  than  to  represent  it  in  the  Olympic 
Games." 

For  Knight,  a  true,  red-white-and-blue  patriot,  this  was  far 
more  than  a  basketball  game.  This  was  the  culmination  of  a  cru- 
sade, one  that  he  had  once  beUeved  he  would  never  get  the  chance 
to  carry  out.  Even  though  Knight  had  been  recognized  for  years 
as  a  superb  coach,  the  best  there  was  in  the  opinion  of  many,  his 
controversial  temperament  had  brought  him  as  much  derision  as 
his  coaching  abihty  had  acclaim. 

Nothing  in  Knight's  career  had  drawn  more  fire  than  his  first 
experience  representing  his  country  as  coach  of  an  international 
team.  It  was  in  Puerto  Rico  in  1979.  While  leading  the  U.S.  team 
to  the  gold  medal  in  the  Pan  American  Games,  Knight  was  arrested 
for  assaulting  a  Puerto  Rican  police  officer.  Witnesses  to  the  in- 
cident, which  took  place  during  a  U.S.  practice  session,  are  unan- 
imous in  saying  that  the  poHceman  was  far  more  at  fault  than 
Knight,  that  the  poHceman  was  rude  and  officious  and  practically 
begged  Knight  to  get  into  an  altercation  with  him. 

Even  though  Knight  was  put  through  the  humiliation  of  being 
dragged  from  the  practice  floor  in  handcuffs,  he  probably  would 
have  been  judged  a  victim  in  that  incident  had  he  simply  allowed 
the  witnesses  to  tell  the  story.  But  that  isn't  Knight's  way.  He  is 
completely  incapable  of  letting  an  incident — any  incident — simply 
die  a  natural  death.  Indiana  University  vice-president  Edgar  Wil- 
hams,  one  of  Knight's  best  friends,  describes  that  side  of  him  best: 
"Bob  always — always — has  to  have  the  last  word.  And  more  often 
than  not,  it's  that  last  word  that  gets  him  in  trouble." 

Puerto  Rico  was  a  perfect  demonstration  of  WiUiams's  words. 
In  speeches  long  after  he  had  left  San  Juan  behind.  Knight  was 
still  taking  shots.  He  talked  about  mooning  Puerto  Rico  as  he  left 
it,  made  crude  jokes  about  Puerto  Rico,  and,  ultimately,  turned 
pubhc  sentiment  around:  instead  of  being  the  victim  of  an  officious 
cop,  he  made  himself  the  Ugly  American.  Knight  thought  he  was 
being  funny;  he  couldn't  understand  that  many  found  his  brand 
of  humor  offensive.  And  because  he  chose  not  to  understand,  the 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    11 


person  he  hurt  most  was  Robert  Montgomery  Knight.  It  was 
almost  as  if  he  wanted  to  testify  against  himself  after  a  dozen 
witnesses  had  proved  his  innocence. 

Because  of  Puerto  Rico,  Knight  thought  he  would  never  be 
named  Olympic  coach.  In  1978,  when  the  coach  for  1980  was 
selected,  he  thought  he  would  get  the  job.  He  had  coached  Indiana 
to  the  national  championship  in  1976  and  had  built  a  program 
that  won  sixty-three  of  sixty-four  games  over  two  seasons.  But, 
in  a  close  vote  that  went  to  a  second  ballot.  Providence  coach  Dave 
Gavitt  was  named.  Knight  was  crushed  by  the  choice  because  he 
wanted  more  than  anything  to  take  a  U.S.  team  to  Moscow — site 
of  the  1980  Games — and  beat  the  hell  out  of  the  Russians.  As  it 
turned  out,  Gavitt  never  got  that  chance  either. 

As  runner-up  for  the  Olympic  job  in  1978,  Knight  became  the 
Pan-Am  coach.  That  led  to  Puerto  Rico  and,  in  Knight's  mind, 
finished  his  chances  to  be  Olympic  coach.  When  the  selection 
committee  met  in  May  1982  there  were  two  major  candidates: 
Knight  and  John  Thompson,  the  Georgetown  coach.  It  took  three 
ballots,  but  the  committee  named  Knight.  It  was  testimony  to  his 
extraordinary  ability  as  a  coach  that,  in  spite  of  Puerto  Rico  and 
the  aftermath,  he  was  given  another  chance. 

When  Knight  learned  he  had  been  selected  he  called  three  peo- 
ple: Pete  Newell  and  Fred  Taylor,  his  coaching  mentors,  and  Bob 
Hammel,  sports  editor  of  The  Bloomington  Herald-Telephone — 
his  best  friend.  All  three  men  remember  the  emotion  in  his  voice 
that  evening,  rare  emotion  from  a  man  who  doesn't  like  to  admit 
to  being  emotional. 

"He  was  like  a  little  kid,"  Hammel  said.  "I  had  been  at  a  track 
meet  in  Minneapolis,  and  when  I  called  my  office,  they  said  he 
had  called,  which  wasn't  unusual.  What  was  unusual  was  that  he 
had  left  his  home  phone  number  with  the  desk.  Usually,  he's 
very  sensitive  about  giving  strangers  his  number  but  he  had  just 
changed  it  and  wanted  to  be  sure  I  reached  him.  When  I  called, 
the  first  thing  he  said  was,  'You'll  never  guess  what  just  happened. 
They've  named  me  Olympic  coach.' 

"I  knew  how  disappointed  he  had  been  in  '78,  and  I  knew  he 
felt  that  the  scars  of  San  Juan  would  be  too  much  to  overcome. 
In  fact,  I  didn't  even  know  that  was  the  weekend  they  were  picking 


12     John  Feinstein 


the  coach  because  he  never  mentioned  it  to  me.  He  was  as  private 
about  that  as  he's  ever  been." 

Once  he  had  the  job,  Knight  was  a  man  with  a  mission:  to 
destroy  the  hated  Russians,  to  make  sure  the  world  knew  that 
the  U.S.  played  basketball  on  one  level  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
on  another.  He  would  study  all  the  opponents,  study  every  player 
available  to  him,  select  twelve  players  who  would  play  the  game 
his  way,  and  then  he  wouldn't  just  beat  the  rest  of  the  world,  he 
would  obliterate  it. 

He  selected  three  friends  as  his  assistant  coaches:  C.  M.  Newton 
of  Vanderbilt,  Don  Donoher  of  Dayton,  and  George  Raveling  of 
Iowa.  He  scouted,  organized,  and  prepared  on  every  level. 

Knight  was  very  much  a  general  preparing  to  do  battle.  In  the 
summer  of  1983,  when  Donoher  and  Knight  were  in  France  to 
scout  the  European  championships,  they  took  a  side  trip  that  spoke 
volumes  for  Knight's  secret  dreams.  "I  picked  Bob  up  at  the 
airport,"  recalled  Donoher,  "and  the  first  thing  he  told  me  was 
that  we  were  going  to  Bastogne  (site  of  the  Battle  of  the  Bulge). 
We  had  to  drive  all  the  way  across  France  to  get  there,  but  that's 
what  we  did.  He  knew  roads  that  weren't  on  the  map  we  had. 
He  would  say,  'There's  a  road  coming  up  here  on  the  left  that 
Patton  took  en  route  .  .  .'  and  sure  enough  the  road  would  be 
there.  After  we  finished  there,  we  drove  back  across  France  because 
he  was  determined  to  go  to  Normandy.  We  spent  an  entire  day 
at  Normandy.  We  must  have  examined  every  gun,  every  foxhole, 
every  cave,  every  piece  of  barbed  wire.  It  was  like  having  a  history 
book  talk  to  you.  He  knew  everything.  Finally,  near  the  end  of 
the  day,  we  were  standing  looking  out  at  Omaha  Beach.  Bob  had 
this  faraway  look  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  all  around  and  then  he 
looked  at  me  and  said,  'Can  you  imagine  how  great  it  would  have 
been  to  have  been  here  in  a  command  position  on  D-Day?'  " 

But  at  the  last  minute,  fate  and  politics  tossed  a  giant  wrench 
into  his  plans:  the  Russians,  getting  even  for  Jimmy  Carter's  1980 
boycott  in  Moscow,  decided  to  boycott  Los  Angeles.  Even  after 
the  April  announcement.  Knight  kept  preparing  for  the  Russians 
right  up  until  the  day  in  July  when  it  was  no  longer  possible  for 
them  to  come.  Ed  Williams,  watching  his  friend  during  this  period, 
saw  him  as  a  general  who  had  prepared  the  perfect  battle  plan. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     13 


trained  his  troops,  raised  his  sword  to  lead  the  charge,  and  then 
saw  the  enemy  waving  a  white  flag.  Playing  Canada  and  Spain 
in  the  medal  round  of  the  Olympics  was  a  little  like  sailing  into 
Tokyo  Bay  after  the  atomic  bombs  had  been  dropped. 

But  Knight  never  let  himself  approach  the  Olympics  that  way. 
For  one  thing,  he  couldn't  afford  to;  if,  by  some  chance,  he  sHpped 
and  his  team  lost  to  Spain  or  Canada  or  West  Germany,  he  would 
never  live  it  down.  He  knew  how  much  Henry  Iba,  the  coach  of 
the  1972  Olympic  team,  had  suffered  after  the  stupefying  loss  to 
the  Russians  in  Munich.  Knight  thought  Iba  a  great  coach,  and 
looked  up  to  him.  It  hurt  Knight  to  hear  people  say  that  Iba,  who 
had  coached  the  U.S.  to  easy  gold  medals  in  1964  and  1968,  was 
too  old  to  coach  that  team  and  had,  because  of  his  conservative 
style,  cost  the  U.S.  the  gold  medal.  Knight  was  angered  by  the 
loss  in  Munich  because  he  thought  the  U.S.  had  been  cheated. 
Cheated  by  the  Russians.  To  the  boy  from  Orrville,  Ohio,  that 
was  one  small  step  short  of  letting  the  Russians  invade.  Knight 
cannot  bear  defeat  on  any  level;  to  suffer  one  on  the  Olympic 
level  would  have  destroyed  him. 

And  so,  he  drove  everyone  connected  with  the  Olympic  team 
as  if  they  would  be  facing  a  combination  of  the  Russians,  the  Bill 
Russell-era  Boston  Celtics,  and  Lew  Alcindor's  UCLA  team.  The 
Olympic  Trials,  held  during  an  ugly,  rainy  week  in  Bloomington 
in  April,  were  brutal.  Seventy-six  players  practiced  and  played 
three  times  a  day  in  Indiana's  dark,  dingy  field  house,  as  Knight 
and  his  assistants  watched  from  a  football-coaching  tower. 

The  players  were  pushed  into  a  state  of  complete  exhaustion; 
by  week's  end.  Knight  had  what  he  wanted.  Some  wondered  why 
players  like  Charles  Barkley  and  Antoine  Carr  weren't  selected 
while  players  like  Jeff  Turner  and  John  Koncak  were.  The  answer 
was  simple:  Knight  wanted  players  who  would  take  his  orders 
without  question.  Barkley  and  Carr,  though  more  talented  than 
Turner  and  Koncak,  might  follow  orders,  but  might  not.  There 
would  be  no  maybes  on  Knight's  Olympic  team. 

It  was  still  a  team  of  breathtaking  talent:  Michael  Jordan,  the 
6-foot-6  sky  walker  from  North  Carolina;  Patrick  Ewing,  the  in- 
timidating 7-1  center  from  Georgetown;  Wayman  Tisdale,  6-9 
and  unstoppable,  from  Oklahoma;  Sam  Perkins,  Jordan's  brilliant 


14    John  Feinstein 


Carolina  teammate;  Alvin  Robertson,  the  6-4  defensive  whiz  from 
Arkansas;  and  Steve  Alford,  Knight's  own  freshman  point  guard. 
Alford  was  easily  the  team's  best  shooter  and  earned  his  spot  with 
tough  play  that  belied  his  baby-faced  good  looks. 

Knight  took  his  team  and  demanded  more  of  it  than  any  team 
he  had  ever  coached — which  is  saying  a  lot.  He  pushed  the  players, 
insulted  them,  yelled  at  them.  Some  of  them  had  never  been 
spoken  to  this  way  before.  None,  with  the  exception  of  Alford, 
had  ever  been  pushed  this  way  before.  Some  of  them  hated  him 
for  it,  and  cursed  the  day  they  had  ever  shown  up  at  the  Olympic 
Trials.  But  that  was  how  Knight  wanted  it.  He  wanted  each  of 
them  to  understand  that  this  would  happen  to  all  of  them  only 
once  in  their  lives,  and  that  they  had  to  give  him  absolutely 
everything  they  had.  He  wanted  no  close  calls,  nothing  left  to 
chance. 

As  it  turned  out,  the  team  did  everything  Knight  could  possibly 
have  asked.  It  raced  through  a  nine-game  exhibition  series  against 
players  from  the  National  Basketball  Association,  never  beaten 
and  rarely  challenged.  The  preliminary  round  of  the  Olympics — 
five  games — was  a  mere  formality.  In  the  quarterfinals  against 
West  Germany,  they  were  sloppy  but  still  won  by  eleven,  their 
closest  game.  They  annihilated  Canada  in  the  semifinals,  leaving 
only  Spain,  a  team  they  had  beaten  by  twenty-five  points  in 
preliminary  play,  between  them  and  the  gold  medal. 

The  team  looked  unbeatable,  but  there  were  still  nerves  that 
last  Friday.  The  U.S.  hockey  team  had  proved  in  1980  that  mir- 
acles can  happen;  Knight  wanted  no  miracles  in  this  game.  The 
tip-off  was  scheduled  for  7  p.m.  The  team  arrived  at  the  Forum 
shortly  after  5  p.m.  There  was  a  problem,  though:  Jordan  had 
brought  a  wrong-colored  uniform  and  several  players  had  brought 
the  wrong  warmups. 

"Jesus  Christ,"  Knight  said  to  his  coaches,  "these  guys  aren't 
ready  to  play.  All  they're  thinking  about  is  going  home  tomor- 
row." 

Donoher,  with  police  escort,  was  dispatched  to  go  back  to  down- 
town Los  Angeles  to  the  Olympic  Village  at  the  University  of 
Southern  California  to  find  Jordan's  uniform.  Ater  turning  Jor- 
dan's room  upside  down  and  finding  nothing,  he  returned  to  the 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    15 


Forum,  distraught.  Only  then  did  trainer  Tim  Garl  tell  him  that 
the  people  at  the  front  desk  had  been  holding  the  uniform.  They 
hadn't  recognized  Donoher,  and  therefore  hadn't  stopped  him  to 
give  him  the  uniform. 

Nerve  endings  were  frayed.  Donoher  was  doing  a  decent  Knight 
imitation,  spraying  obscenities  off  the  locker-room  walls.  But, 
uniforms  and  warmups  aside,  this  team  was  ready  to  play.  When 
Knight  walked  into  the  locker  room  for  his  final  pep  talk,  he  was 
ready  to  breathe  fire.  Already  that  day,  WiUie  Davis,  the  former 
Green  Bay  Packer,  had  been  the  last  of  a  long  list  of  people  who 
had  spoken  to  the  team.  Davis  told  them  that  they  might  never 
do  anything  as  important  the  rest  of  their  lives  as  what  they 
would  do  on  this  night. 

Now  Knight  was  ready  to  deliver  some  final  words  of  inspi- 
ration. But  when  he  flipped  over  the  blackboard  on  which  he  would 
normally  write  the  names  of  the  other  teams'  starters,  he  found 
a  note  scotch-taped  to  the  board.  It  had  been  written  by  Jordan: 
"Coach,"  it  said,  "after  all  the  shit  we've  been  through,  there  is 
no  way  we  lose  tonight." 

Knight  looked  at  the  twelve  players  and  ditched  his  speech. 
"Let's  go  play,"  he  said.  Walking  onto  the  floor.  Knight  folded 
Jordan's  note  into  a  pocket  (he  still  has  it  in  his  office  today)  and 
told  his  coaches,  "This  game  will  be  over  in  about  ten  minutes." 

He  was  wrong.  It  took  five.  The  final  score  was  101-68.  Spain 
never  had  a  chance.  The  general  sent  his  troops  out  to  annihilate 
and  they  did  just  that.  When  it  was  over,  when  he  had  finally 
reached  that  golden  moment.  Knight's  first  thought  wasn't,  I've 
done  it,  I've  won  the  Olympic  gold  medal.  It  was.  Where  is  Henry 
Iba?  Knight  had  made  certain  the  old  coach  was  with  the  team 
every  step  of  the  way  from  the  Olympic  Trials  right  through  each 
Olympic  game.  Now,  when  the  players  came  to  him  to  carry  him 
off  the  floor  on  their  shoulders.  Knight  had  one  more  order  left 
for  them:  "Coach  Iba  first."  And  so,  following  their  orders  to  the 
end,  the  players  carried  Henry  Iba  around  the  floor  first.  Then 
they  gave  Knight  a  ride.  Then,  and  only  then,  did  he  smile. 

It  was.  Bob  Hammel  thought  as  he  watched,  more  a  half  smile, 
a  look  of  relief  more  than  a  look  of  joy.  They  hadn't  so  much 
won  as  they  had  not  lost.  But  still,  there  was  a  satisfaction.  He 


16     John  Feinstein 


had  now  coached  an  Olympic  gold  medal  winner,  a  Pan  American 
Games  gold  medal  winner,  two  NCAA  champions,  and  an  NIT 
champion.  He  had  won  every  championship  there  was  to  win  in 
amateur  basketball.  He  had  reached  the  pinnacle.  He  was,  without 
question,  the  best  college  basketball  coach  in  the  world.  Maybe 
he  was  the  best  college  basketball  coach  ever. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  had  said  he  would  all  along,  he  flew 
to  Montana,  put  on  his  waders,  and  sat  in  the  middle  of  a  river 
by  himself  and  fished.  This  was  his  reward.  His  release.  He  sat 
in  the  river,  having  done  everything  he  had  set  out  to  do  in  Ufe. 

He  was  forty-three  years  old. 

Practice  began  at  Indiana  that  fall  with  a  mixture  of  anticipation 
and  trepidation  in  the  air.  A  great  team  was  anticipated.  The 
previous  season,  a  too-young  Indiana  team  had  gone  22-9  and 
had  reached  the  Final  Eight  of  the  NCAA  tournament  with  a 
victory  over  top-ranked  North  Carolina  that  had  to  rank  among 
the  great  upsets  in  tournament  history.  North  Carolina,  led  by 
Jordan  and  Perkins,  had  a  28-2  record,  and  some  had  already 
declared  it  one  of  the  great  teams  of  all  time. 

But  Alford,  just  a  freshman,  scored  twenty-seven  points  and 
Dan  Dakich,  the  prototype  slow  white  kid  who  couldn't  run  or 
jump,  kept  Jordan  under  control.  Knight  completely  outcoached 
Dean  Smith,  the  one  man  considered  in  his  class  as  a  coach,  and 
the  Hoosiers  won  the  game.  That  they  lost  in  the  next  round  to 
a  Virginia  team  that  wasn't  in  the  same  class  with  North  Carolina 
was  disappointing.  But  it  didn't  change  the  promise  the  team  had 
shown  in  the  North  Carolina  game. 

And  so,  as  the  1984-85  team  gathered  on  October  15,  there 
was  that  sense  of  anticipation.  But  trepidation  was  there,  too, 
because  neither  the  players  nor  the  coaches  knew  quite  how  the 
Olympic  experience  would  affect  Knight.  He  had  put  so  much 
energy  into  the  summer  that  they  were  afraid  it  might  affect  his 
winter.  Knight  seemed  conscious  of  this,  too;  during  the  early 
practices  he  was  less  involved  than  usual,  often  content  to  sit  on 
the  sidehnes  with  Hammel,  Williams,  professor  friends  who  came 
to  practice,  or  whoever  that  day's  visitor  might  be.  Jim  Crews, 
the  first  assistant  coach,  knew  his  boss  expected  the  coaches  to 
take  some  of  the  burden  off  him. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    17 


"He  made  that  clear  to  us  from  the  first  day,"  Crews  said.  "We 
were  an  experienced  staff  and  an  experienced  team.  There  was  no 
reason  why  he  had  to  supervise  every  httle  thing  that  went  on. 
He  wanted  us  to  do  more  of  the  coaching  and,  really,  there  was 
no  reason  why  we  shouldn't." 

It  wasn't  quite  that  simple,  though.  To  start  with.  Knight's  staff 
had  worked  just  about  as  hard  as  he  had  in  preparing  for  the 
Olympics.  They  had  scouted,  organized,  looked  at  tapes,  done  all 
the  drudge  work.  They  too  began  the  season  a  little  fatigued.  The 
same  was  true  of  Afford.  A  true  gym  rat.  Afford  had  been  playing 
pickup  basketball  at  home  two  days  after  the  gold  medal  game. 
If  he  had  known  just  how  hard  other  guards  were  going  to  play 
against  an  Olympic  hero,  he  might  have  preferred  to  rest  a  little. 

The  first  hint  of  trouble  came  early,  in  the  opening  game  against 
Louisville.  Knight  had  agreed  to  a  four-year  series  against  Louis- 
ville partly  because  CBS-TV  wanted  to  do  the  game,  and  partly 
because  Crews  had  convinced  him  Louisville  would  be  a  good  pre- 
Big  Ten  warmup  game.  Louisville  took  control  of  the  game  before 
halftime,  and  Knight  angrily  benched  three  starters  in  the  second 
half  in  favor  of  freshmen.  They  made  a  run,  but  fell  back,  and 
the  game  was  lost. 

Still,  the  early  part  of  the  season  went  well.  Indiana  went  into 
Big  Ten  play  with  an  8-2  record  (the  other  loss  was  at  Notre 
Dame)  and  immediately  annihilated  Michigan — at  Michigan — in 
the  Big  Ten  opener,  winning  by  an  astonishing  twenty-five  points. 
Soon,  their  league  record  was  3-1,  the  only  loss  at  Michigan  State. 
Typical  Knight  team,  everyone  thought.  Knight  thought  so,  too. 

But  within  the  team  there  were  some  problems.  Mike  Giomi, 
a  6-10  junior  and  the  team's  best  rebounder,  had  been  having 
academic  problems.  He  was  also  getting  into  trouble  around  town, 
faihng  to  pay  parking  tickets,  failing  to  return  library  books.  He 
was  in  and  out  of  the  Knight  doghouse,  a  condition  not  uncommon 
for  Indiana  players,  but  more  extreme  in  Giomi's  case. 

The  same  was  true  of  Winston  Morgan.  Morgan  was  then  a 
fourth-year  junior,  having  sat  out  the  1983-84  season  because  of 
a  foot  injury.  Knight  moaned  all  year  about  how  good  the  team 
could  be  if  it  just  had  Morgan.  But  once  Morgan  was  healthy,  he 
became  far  less  wonderful.  In  fact,  he  got  worse  and  worse.  This 
was  also  not  uncommon  at  Indiana;  players  often  joke  that  the 


18    John  Feinstein 


best  way  to  get  better  is  to  get  hurt.  The  more  Knight  sees  his 
players  play,  the  more  convinced  he  becomes  that  they  aren't  any 
good.  But  Morgan  was  also  having  problems  away  from  the  court. 
He  was  involved  in  a  messy  relationship  with  a  female  student, 
messy  enough  that  she  eventually  went  to  talk  to  Knight  about 
what  she  saw  as  Morgan's  dishonesty.  There  are  only  three  crimes 
an  Indiana  player  can  commit  that  will  get  him  in  serious  trouble 
with  Knight:  drug  use,  skipping  class,  and  lying.  The  incident  put 
Morgan  so  deep  in  Knight's  doghouse  that  his  Indiana  career 
seemed  over. 

Marty  Simmons,  a  promising  freshman  in  1984,  had  been  a 
step  slower  all  season,  mystifying  the  coaches.  He  looked  heavier 
to  them,  but  his  weight  chart  said  he  still  weighed  218,  about  the 
same  weight  he  had  played  at  the  year  before.  Finally,  exasperated 
after  a  loss.  Knight  had  Tim  Garl  personally  weigh  Simmons.  He 
weighed  238.  Scared  to  admit  that  he  had  eaten  himself  onto  the 
bench,  Simmons  had  been  lying  about  his  weight.  His  days,  not 
to  mention  his  meals,  were  numbered. 

There  was  more:  Knight  wasn't  happy  with  Alford.  He  kept 
harping  on  the  fact  that  Alford  couldn't  play  defense,  couldn't 
pass  very  well,  and  wasn't  getting  better.  Alford  was  in  fact  strug- 
gling. He  was  still  leading  the  team  in  scoring,  but  some  nights 
he  simply  couldn't  get  shots  because  defenses  were  geared  to  stop 
him.  Dakich,  the  hero  of  the  North  Carolina  game,  was  in  and 
out  of  the  lineup.  Uwe  Blab,  the  7-3  senior  center,  had  worked 
and  worked  to  improve,  but  was  still  awkward,  still  had  trouble 
catching  the  ball  in  traffic,  and  still  left  Knight  exasperated. 

And  yet,  they  were  winning.  Even  though  Knight  claims  that 
winning  doesn't  necessarily  make  him  happy,  it  goes  a  long  way 
toward  getting  him  there.  His  famous  quote,  "You  play  basketball 
against  yourself;  your  opponent  is  your  potential,"  sounds  pretty, 
but  really  isn't  so.  Knight  coaches  basketball  to  win.  If  he  gets 
upset  during  a  victory,  it  is  usually  when  he  sees  something  that 
he  thinks  may  lead  to  defeat  on  another  night. 

But  after  the  11-3  start,  the  winning  stopped.  They  went  to 
Ohio  State,  Knight's  alma  mater,  a  place  where  Knight  cannot 
stand  to  lose,  and  lost;  the  final  score  was  86-84.  Furious,  Knight 
refused  to  let  Giomi  and  Morgan  ride  home  with  the  team,  putting 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     19 


them  on  the  second  of  the  two  small  charter  planes  Indiana  uses 
to  fly  to  games.  Morgan's  memory  of  that  night  is  of  a  horrible 
game,  a  screaming  coach,  and  a  nightmarish  ride  home  on  the 
eight-seat  plane,  the  weather  bouncing  them  all  over  the  sky. 

It  got  worse  at  Purdue.  They  blew  a  big  lead  because  no  one 
rebounded.  This  was  unforgivable;  rebounding,  to  Knight,  is  di- 
rectly related  to  effort.  If  you  lose  because  you  make  no  effort, 
you  are  in  big  trouble.  Indiana  came  out  of  Purdue  in  big  trouble. 

Then  came  lUinois.  A  Sunday  afternoon  on  national  TV.  An 
opponent  Knight  despised  because  he  didn't  think  Coach  Lou  Hen- 
son  ran  a  clean  program.  When  the  coaches  met  to  pick  a  lineup. 
Knight  asked — as  he  always  does — for  suggestions.  But  his  mind 
was  made  up:  bench  everyone  but  Blab  and  start  four  freshmen. 
Bench  Afford,  too,  because,  "He  doesn't  guard  anybody." 

The  four  freshmen  played  as  hard  as  they  could.  They  played 
good  defense,  but  they  had  little  chance  to  win,  losing  52-41.  The 
day  after  the  game.  Knight  announced  that  he  had  thrown  Giomi 
off  the  team  for  cutting  class.  Giomi  had  met  NCAA  academic 
requirements  and  he  had  met  Indiana's  requirements,  but  he  had 
not  met  Knight's  requirements.  The  team's  leading  rebounder,  a 
player  the  team  needed  to  be  successful,  was  gone. 

Suddenly,  Knight  was  being  excoriated  nationwide.  Some  peo- 
ple claimed  he  had  started  the  freshmen  to  show  up  Henson. 
Others  implied  he  had  thrown  the  game  to  make  a  point  to  his 
team.  For  perhaps  the  first  time  since  Knight  had  become  Indiana 
coach  in  1971,  his  coaching  was  called  into  question.  Indiana  was 
3^  in  the  Big  Ten.  Alford,  the  Olympic  hero,  had  been  benched. 
Had  Knight  lost  control?  Was  it  really  just  six  months  ago  that 
he  sat  atop  the  coaching  world? 

Another  loss  to  Iowa — with  the  starters  back  starting — was 
followed  by  three  victories  over  the  bottom  of  the  Big  Ten: 
Minnesota,  Northwestern,  and  Wisconsin.  That  brought  Indiana 
to  a  three-game  home  stretch  that  would  decide  the  fate  of  the 
season.  Indiana  was  6-5  in  the  Big  Ten  and  14-7  overall,  with 
Ohio  State,  Illinois,  and  Purdue  coming  to  Assembly  Hall.  There 
was  still  plenty  of  time  to  bounce  back  from  the  problems  of 
January. 

They  didn't.  They  lost  to  Ohio  State.  They  lost  to  Illinois — 


20    John  Feinstein 


badly — and  Knight  put  his  foot  through  a  chair  in  frustration. 
And  then  Purdue  came  to  town. 

Purdue  is  Indiana's  archrival,  the  in-state  school  the  Hoosiers 
love  to  look  down  their  noses  at.  Purdue  almost  always  beats 
Indiana  in  football,  so  basketball  is  Indiana's  only  chance  to  get 
even.  But  Purdue  is  always  competitive,  always  a  problem.  Even 
Knight,  with  all  his  great  teams,  has  never  dominated  Purdue; 
his  record  going  into  that  day's  game  against  Purdue  was  16-12. 
With  the  season  fading  fast,  a  victory  at  home  over  Purdue  was 
imperative. 

Saturday,  February  23,  was  an  unseasonably  warm  day  in 
Bloomington  after  a  typical  winter  week  full  of  cold  rain  and  snow 
flurries.  Knight,  who  had  made  plaid  sport  coats  famous,  decided 
to  wear  just  a  short-sleeved  shirt  for  the  game  that  afternoon.  It 
reminded  him  of  outfits  he  had  worn  during  the  glory  days  of 
the  previous  summer  when  he  had  been  Olympic  coach. 

The  game  started  horribly  for  Indiana.  Purdue  was  up,  12-2, 
when  there  was  a  scramble  for  a  loose  ball.  When  the  whistle 
finally  blew,  referee  London  Bradley  called  a  foul  on  Indiana. 
Knight,  who  often  uses  bad  officiating  to  rationalize  defeat — and, 
in  all  fairness,  the  officiating  in  the  Big  Ten  is  awful — went  crazy. 
He  screamed  and  yelled  and  drew  a  technical  foul. 

Purdue  guard  Steve  Reid  walked  to  the  foul  line  in  front  of  the 
Indiana  bench  to  shoot  the  technical.  Knight  stood  frozen  for  a 
few  seconds.  Later,  he  would  remember  thinking  that  if  he  had 
been  wearing  a  sport  coat,  he  could  have  thrown  it.  But  he  wasn't. 
So,  he  turned  around  and,  before  anyone  on  the  Indiana  bench 
could  stop  him,  he  picked  up  the  plastic  orange  chair  he  had  been 
sitting  on  and  threw  it. 

The  chair  throw  was  hardly  Olympian.  In  fact.  Knight  side- 
armed  it,  grabbing  it  with  both  hands  but  never  raising  it  above 
waist  level.  The  chair  skittered  in  front  of  Reid  and  ran  out  of 
steam  just  as  it  reached  the  far  side  of  the  court.  It  hit  no  one. 
One  Indiana  manager  went  to  recover  it  while  another  put  a  second 
chair  down  in  the  original's  place.  On  the  Indiana  bench,  there 
was  no  visible  reaction.  Everyone  just  watched,  waiting  to  see 
what  would  happen  next. 

Knight  insists  he  threw  the  chair  the  way  he  did  intentionally. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    21 


carefully  tossing  it  and  aiming  it  so  it  would  land  where  it  did. 
But  he  had  thrown  a  chair.  Thrown  a  chair.  More  than  17,000 
people  in  Assembly  Hall  saw  it,  as  did  millions  of  others  watching 
on  cable  TV  nationwide.  Standing  in  front  of  her  television  set 
in  Orrville,  eighty-one-year-old  Hazel  Knight  saw  her  son  throw 
the  chair  and  cried  out,  "Oh,  Bobby,  oh  no." 

Others  who  care  about  Knight  had  the  same  thought.  Hammel, 
shocked,  thought  later  that  the  worst  thing  about  it  was  the  sym- 
bolic nature  of  the  whole  thing:  wild  man  coach  throws  chair. 
Always,  forever  more.  Knight  and  that  chair  would  be  linked. 
"The  worst  thing  about  it,"  Hammel  said  a  year  later,  "was  that 
he  didn't  do  just  what  he  constantly  begs  his  players  to  do:  an- 
ticipate. He  never  anticipated  the  consequences.  Bob  Knight  is  too 
smart  not  to  anticipate  the  consequences  of  something  like  that. " 

The  initial  consequence  was  immediate  ejection  from  the  game. 
Knight  walked  off  to  the  privacy  of  the  coaches'  locker  room.  He 
came  to  see  his  players  at  halftime  and  calmly  told  them  what 
they  needed  to  do  to  win  the  game,  not  even  mentioning  the 
incident.  To  his  players,  the  chair  throw  was  not  that  big  a  deal, 
because  they  had  seen  him  throw  so  many  chairs  in  practice.  The 
unofficial  record  was  thirteen:  Knight  had  lit  into  a  stack  of  twenty 
chairs  one  day,  and  his  players  were  disappointed  when  he  ran 
out  of  steam  with  seven  unthrown. 

But  everywhere  else,  shock  waves  were  forming.  As  soon  as 
Knight  left  the  game — Purdue  went  on  to  win  easily — Indiana 
athletic  director  Ralph  Floyd,  a  close  friend  of  Knight's,  went 
to  the  locker  room.  "He  was  in  tears,"  Floyd  would  say  later. 
"He  knew  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He  understood  what  he  had 
done." 

Close  behind  Floyd  came  Ed  WiUiams  and  Indiana  president 
John  Ryan.  When  Ryan  walked  into  the  locker  room.  Knight 
looked  at  him,  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  said,  "Dr.  Ryan,  I'm  sorry." 

"li  his  response  had  been  anything  else,  I'm  not  certain  what 
I  would  have  done  ultimately,"  Ryan  said.  "But  he  understood 
right  away  that  he  had  made  a  terrible  mistake." 

That  night.  Knight,  looking  to  escape,  went  to  Kansas  on  a 
recruiting  trip.  But  the  nightmare  of  the  chair  was  only  beginning. 
Donoher  called.  He  wanted  to  drive  the  175  miles  to  Bloomington 


22     John  Feinstein 


to  talk  to  Knight.  He  felt  his  friend  needed  help.  "When  you  are 
in  trouble.  Bob  Knight  is  the  ultimate  friend,"  Donoher  said. 
"He'll  do  anything  he  can  to  help  you.  But  a  lot  of  the  time  when 
he's  in  trouble,  he'll  have  you  believe  he  doesn't  need  help  from 
his  friends.  Only  he  does.  He's  like  anyone  else  that  way." 

Notre  Dame  coach  Digger  Phelps  called  that  night.  He  wanted 
Knight  to  meet  him  the  next  day  in  Indianapolis  to  talk.  When 
Phelps  had  heard  what  Knight  had  done  his  stomach  had  twisted 
in  fear.  "I  worry  that  he's  going  to  go  out  like  MacArthur  did," 
Phelps  said  later.  "One  day  the  President  is  going  to  say,  'General, 
enough.  Come  home.  You  are  reheved  of  your  command.'  " 

Ryan,  the  president,  is  a  small,  soft-spoken  man  whom  the 
players  have  trouble  figuring  out  because  whenever  he  comes  into 
the  locker  room  after  a  game,  win  or  lose,  he  simply  walks  around 
shaking  hands  and  saying,  "Thank  you."  Ryan  has  been  president 
of  I.U.  for  the  same  fifteen  years  that  Knight  has  been  basketball 
coach.  It  is  a  long-standing  joke  around  the  state  that  Ryan  con- 
siders himself  very  fortunate  that  Knight  has  allowed  him  to  retain 
his  job  for  so  long. 

Now,  Ryan  had  to  act.  Ed  WiHiams  went  to  see  Knight  after 
he  returned  from  Kansas.  Williams  loves  Bob  Knight,  respects 
him,  and  worries  about  him.  "I  couldn't  feel  closer  to  him  if  he 
were  my  first-born  son,"  he  says.  WiHiams  thought  it  important 
that  Indiana — and  Knight — act  decisively.  He  suggested  to  Knight 
that  Ryan  should  suspend  him  for  one  game,  saying  that  Indiana 
fully  supported  Knight  and  everything  he  stood  for  as  a  basketball 
coach  but  that  everyone,  including  Ryan  and  Knight,  recognized 
that  a  mistake  had  been  made.  The  chair  should  not  have  been 
thrown. 

"I  told  Bob  I  thought  we  should  keep  this  in  the  family," 
Williams  said.  "Why  let  [Big  Ten  Commissioner]  Wayne  Duke 
get  involved?  If  John  Ryan  didn't  suspend  him,  Wayne  Duke 
would.  So  why  not  let  Indiana  do  it?  At  the  time,  I  thought  Bob 
would  go  along.  He  said  that  sounded  right  to  him." 

But  a  day  later.  Knight  changed  his  mind.  He  told  Williams 
that  he  could  not  deal  with  a  public  rebuke,  no  matter  how  mild, 
from  Ryan.  If  Ryan  suspended  him  he  would  feel  compelled  to 
resign  on  the  spot.  Williams  took  this  information  back  to  Ryan, 
advising  him  to  go  ahead  with  the  suspension.  "For  Bob's  sake 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    23 


and  for  Indiana's,"  Williams  said  a  year  later.  "I  thought  then, 
I  think  now,  that  the  University  had  to  take  some  action.  It  could 
not  publicly  condone  what  Bob  did.  And  Bob  needed  to  be  told 
that.  He  needed  to  be  told,  'Bob,  we  love  you,  we  want  you  here 
forever,  but  there  is  a  line,  there  is  a  point  where  we  say  no  more. 
And  you  just  came  close  to  it.'  " 

John  Ryan  took  no  action.  Instead,  he  let  Duke  play  the  heavy, 
suspending  Knight  for  one  game.  Williams,  although  saying  he 
disagrees  with  what  the  president  did,  disagrees  with  those  who 
saw  it  as  a  sign  of  weakness.  "The  easy  thing  was  to  suspend 
him.  John  Ryan  did  not  take  the  easy  way  out.  He  did  what  he 
beUeved  was  best  for  Bob  and  for  the  school." 

"I  don't  think  we  condoned  what  Bob  did  in  any  way,"  Ryan 
said.  "It  was  wrong.  He  knew  it,  I  knew  it,  we  all  knew  it.  I 
beUeved  though  that  given  that  it  was  one  incident,  the  Big  Ten 
should  mete  out  the  penalty.  I  didn't  tell  Bob  at  the  time,  but  I 
would  not  have  appealed  any  penalty  Wayne  Duke  handed  down. 
I  would  have  accepted  it.  A  reprimand,  a  penalty  was  in  order. 
My  one  concern  was  that  if  Bob  was  suspended  it  be  for  a  road 
game.  I  was  afraid  that  we  might  have  a  crowd  control  problem 
if  he  was  not  present  for  our  next  home  game." 

Knight  sat  out  a  70-50  loss  to  Iowa,  as  Crews  ran  the  team. 
The  other  assistants,  looking  for  any  kind  of  light  touch,  kidded 
him  afterward  that,  judging  from  that  performance,  he  would 
never  get  a  job  as  a  head  coach.  But  there  were  few  laughs  around 
Assembly  Hall  that  February.  "It  was,"  Alford  says  now,  "as  if 
a  black  cloud  settled  on  top  of  the  building  and  just  stayed  and 
stayed  and  stayed." 

Everyone  dreaded  coming  to  practice.  Each  day  seemed  worse 
than  the  last.  The  season,  it  seemed,  would  never  end.  Two  weeks 
after  the  chair  throw,  Dave  Knight,  the  man  who  had  introduced 
Knight  to  basketball  when  he  was  eleven  years  old,  was  visiting. 
The  two  are  not  related,  but  Dave  Knight  is  one  of  many  older- 
brother  figures  m  the  coach's  life.  As  he  sat  in  the  coaches'  locker 
room  before  practice  one  day,  Dave  Knight  pitched  forward,  stricken 
by  a  heart  attack.  The  players  were  on  the  floor  warming  up  when 
assistant  coach  Kohn  Smith  came  running  out  screaming  for  Garl. 
"Quick,  it's  an  emergency,  run,"  he  yelled. 

Every  player  on  the  floor  had  the  exact  same  thought:  It's  Coach. 


24    John  Feinstein 


He's  had  a  heart  attack.  Knight  was  white-faced  with  fear  when 
Garl  and  student  trainer  Steve  Dayton  charged  in  to  attend  to 
Dave  Knight.  They  brought  him  back,  saving  his  hfe.  But  they, 
too,  when  the  call  first  came,  had  been  convinced  that  the  traumas 
of  the  season  had  finally  done  the  coach  in. 

The  debacle  dragged  on.  Indiana  finished  the  regular  season 
with  a  15-13  record,  7-11  in  the  Big  Ten,  putting  the  Hoosiers 
seventh  in  their  own  league  after  being  rated  fourth  in  the  nation 
in  preseason.  It  was  the  first  time  in  Knight's  fourteen  seasons 
that  Indiana  had  finished  below  .500  in  Big  Ten  play  or  out  of 
the  first  division.  Indiana  was  passed  over  for  the  NCAA  tour- 
nament, and  settled  for  the  National  Invitation  Tournament. 

The  Hoosiers  reached  the  semifinals  in  New  York,  where  they 
beat  a  struggling  Tennessee  team.  After  that  game.  Knight  did  a 
TV  interview  with  Bill  Raftery,  a  former  coach  at  Seton  Hall. 
Raftery  asked  Knight  what  he  liked  best  about  the  way  his  team 
had  played  to  reach  the  NIT  final.  "What  I  like  best  about  this 
team  right  now,"  Knight  answered  sincerely,  "is  the  fact  that  I 
only  have  to  watch  it  play  one  more  time." 

The  feeling  was  mutual.  If  the  coach  couldn't  wait  for  the  season 
to  be  over,  neither  could  the  players.  The  final  was  a  microcosm 
of  the  season:  mistakes,  bad  defense,  a  loss.  UCLA,  the  kind  of 
undisciplined  team  Knight  thinks  his  team  should  never  lose  to, 
won  the  game  and  the  championship,  65-63.  The  last  chance  to 
salvage  something  from  a  lost  season  had  produced  another  loss. 

The  plane  trip  home  lasted  forever.  The  twenty-seat  Indiana 
University  foundation  plane  bounced  all  over  the  sky.  Alford  was 
so  stir-crazy  he  wanted  to  jump  out  a  window.  Dakich  still  swears 
the  flight  took  twelve  hours.  Finally  they  landed,  and  the  team 
bus  took  them  to  Assembly  Hall.  It  was  4  a.m.  when  they  gathered 
in  their  meeting  room  for  final  words  from  Knight.  This  was  part 
of  the  tradition.  The  team  gathered  here  after  every  trip  for  a 
summation — in  this  case,  for  a  summation  of  the  season.  Knight 
had  little  to  say.  He  excused  Dakich  and  Blab,  the  seniors,  and 
told  the  remaining  players  he  could  not — and  would  not — go 
through  another  season  like  the  one  just  ended.  The  players  felt 
the  same  way. 

When  the  team  had  been  dismissed.  Knight  asked  Morgan  to 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    25 


stay  behind.  Morgan  had  played  a  total  of  fifty-eight  seconds  in 
the  last  eleven  games.  He  had  one  more  year  of  eUgibility,  but 
Knight  didn't  want  him  back.  Knight  was  convinced  that  his  at- 
titude toward  basketball  and  college  was  messed  up.  Shortly  after 
4  A.M.,  Knight  told  Morgan  he  didn't  want  him  back  the  next 
season,  and  that  he  would  try  to  help  him  get  into  school  some- 
where else.  Morgan  nodded;  this  was  hardly  a  shock. 

When  Knight  finished,  Morgan  turned  to  go.  Jim  Crews  was 
slumped  in  a  chair  by  the  door.  He  had  just  coached  his  last  game 
at  Indiana  because — in  spite  of  the  Iowa  game — he  was  about  to 
be  named  head  coach  at  Evansville.  Morgan  stopped  in  front  of 
Crews.  "Coach,"  he  said  softly,  "I  want  to  thank  you  for  working 
with  me  and  wish  you  luck  at  Evansville.  I  know  you'll  do  great." 

Watching  that  scene.  Knight  changed  his  mind  about  Morgan 
on  the  spot.  "This  kid,"  he  thought,  "is  worth  trying  to  save.  I 
tell  him  at  4  in  the  morning  that  he's  through  and  he  stops  to 
wish  Jimmy  luck.  He  really  isn't  a  bad  kid." 

It  would  be  two  months  before  Morgan  would  learn  of  his 
reprieve.  At  that  moment,  he  walked  out  the  door,  not  knowing 
his  future.  A  few  moments  later,  the  coach  who  had  owned  the 
basketball  world  nine  months  earlier  also  walked  out  the  door. 
His  future  was  just  as  uncertain  as  Winston  Morgan's. 


s. 


Square  One 

Although  Knight  would  never  admit  it,  the  horrific  1984-85  sea- 
son changed  him.  It  changed  his  attitude  toward  coaching,  toward 
recruiting,  even  toward  some  of  his  cherished  mind  games.  It 
reminded  him  how  much  coaching — real  coaching — meant  to  him. 
After  he  won  his  second  national  championship  in  1981,  Knight 
almost  quit  coaching.  He  was  forty  at  the  time,  and  since  he  didn't 
think  he  had  any  chance  to  be  Olympic  coach,  he  saw  no  tangible 
reason  to  keep  coaching. 


26    John  Feinstein 


That  spring,  CBS  Sports  acquired  the  rights  to  the  NCAA  bas- 
ketball tournament.  College  basketball  had  been  owned  and  dom- 
inated by  NBC  Sports  for  years,  but  CBS  paid  |48  miUion  to  steal 
the  tournament  from  NBC.  It  desperately  needed  someone  who 
would  give  its  telecasts  impact  and  credibility.  Kevin  O'Malley, 
executive  producer  of  CBS  Sports,  decided  to  go  for  the  biggest 
name  in  the  game:  Bob  Knight. 

Knight  was  willing  to  listen.  He  was  restless  in  Bloomington. 
His  oldest  son,  Tim,  would  begin  his  senior  year  of  high  school 
in  the  fall.  His  younger  son,  Patrick,  was  10;  moving  at  that  age 
would  hardly  be  a  problem.  It  would  be  a  new  challenge,  and  CBS 
was  willing  to  give  him  big  money— about  $500,000  annually— 
and  control  of  the  telecasts:  scheduling,  halftime  shows,  all  of  it. 
At  one  point,  O'Malley  was  convinced  he  had  his  man.  "It  was 
late  one  night  and  I  really  thought  he  was  going  to  do  it," 
O'Malley  said.  "I  asked  him  why  he  wanted  to  do  it,  because  I 
had  become  fascinated  by  him.  He's  just  so  extraordinarily  bright. 
He  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  Ted  Williams  play  baseball.  I  said 
I  had.  'Greatest  hitter  ever,'  Knight  said.  'And  now,  he's  the  best 
fisherman  there  is.  The  best.  No  doubt  about  it.' 

"And  then  he  looked  at  me  and  said,  'How  many  people  have 
ever  been  the  absolute  best  there  is  at  two  things?'  " 

But  Knight  never  signed  with  CBS.  On  the  morning  of  July 
25,  Landon  Turner  was  driving  his  car  down  Route  46,  a  winding 
road  in  central  Indiana.  It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  was 
sleepy.  For  a  brief  second,  he  lost  control  of  the  car  and  went  off 
the  road.  He  jerked  the  wheel  to  try  to  regain  control,  but  the 
car  fishtailed  across  the  two-lane  road  and  hit  a  restraining  wall. 
Turner's  6-foot-lO-inch,  250-pound  body  was  folded  Hke  an  ac- 
cordian  inside  the  tiny  car.  He  was  taken  to  the  hospital,  paralyzed 
from  the  waist  down.  Knight  was  out  west  on  a  fishing  and  hunt- 
ing trip,  trying  to  sort  out  his  future,  when  the  phone  call  about 
Turner  came.  He  flew  immediately  to  Indianapolis,  arriving  late 
at  night.  Hammel  picked  him  up  at  the  airport  and  the  two  men 
drove  straight  to  the  hospital.  Turner  wasn't  conscious,  but  Knight 
went  in  to  see  him  briefly.  When  he  came  out,  his  eyes  were  red 
with  tears.  Hammel  knew  then  that  Knight  would  not — could 
not — leave  Indiana. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    17 


Knight  devoted  most  of  his  waking  hours  during  the  next  few 
months  to  what  became  the  Landon  Turner  Fund.  Before  he  was 
through,  more  than  $400,000  had  been  raised.  Turner,  paralyzed 
for  hfe,  had  a  motorized  wheelchair  and  a  van.  His  parents'  home 
was  redone  with  ramps  throughout  so  he  could  get  around,  and 
a  condominium  was  purchased  for  him  to  live  in.  When  he  was 
ready  to  return  to  school,  his  scholarship  was  waiting;  Knight 
named  him  captain  of  the  1982  team  he  would  never  play  for. 

Knight  stayed  in  coaching  because  of  Landon  Turner.  Turner's 
injury,  and  Knight's  instinctive,  protective,  caring  reaction  to  it, 
ehminated  any  thoughts  of  leaving  Bloomington.  But  this  meant 
that  his  staying  in  coaching  did  not  come  from  a  drive  to  succeed. 
He  had  already  succeeded.  So  while  on  the  surface  he  was  the 
same  obsessed  person  he  had  always  been,  still  spending  long 
hours  looking  at  tape,  meeting  with  coaches,  preparing  for  op- 
ponents, and  still  finding  defeat  unacceptable.  Knight  was  not  the 
same  coach  after  the  1981  championship.  This  showed  up  most 
clearly  in  his  avoiding  the  most  important  function  of  any  college 
coach:  recruiting.  No  one — not  Bob  Knight,  not  John  Wooden, 
not  Adolph  Rupp — can  win  without  recruiting  well.  But  he  never 
liked  recruiting  very  much,  and  now  he  turned  it  over  almost 
completely  to  his  assistant  coaches.  Players  the  head  coach  had 
never  seen  play  were  offered  scholarships  to  Indiana.  Now  Knight 
only  wanted  to  know  two  things:  Is  he  a  good  kid?  Is  he  interested 
in  Indiana  first  and  foremost?  If  the  answer  to  both  questions  was 
yes,  offer  him  a  scholarship.  To  some  degree.  Knight  had  come 
to  believe  his  own  press  cUppings,  the  ones  that  said,  "Give  him 
five  guys  who  can  walk  and  talk  and  he'll  outcoach  everyone  else. " 

While  Knight  was  backing  off  a  little  bit,  the  rest  of  the  Big 
Ten  was  catching  up.  Illinois  seemed  to  be  getting  every  blue- 
chip  player  in  the  Midwest.  Michigan,  under  Bill  Frieder,  was 
also  getting  a  bunch.  Gene  Keady,  a  solid,  aggressive  coach,  had 
taken  over  at  Purdue.  The  results  of  Knight's  recruiting  in  the 
late  1970s  could  carry  Indiana  through  1983,  but  no  further. 
Knight  had  worked  as  he  had  never  worked  in  his  hfe  to  get  Isiah 
Thomas  out  of  Chicago  in  1979.  Thomas,  the  magical,  baby-faced 
guard,  had  been  the  key  player  in  the  1981  championship  but  had 
turned  pro  after  his  sophomore  season.  Knight  hadn't  worked  Uke 


28     John  Feinstein 


that  in  recruiting  in  the  early  1980s.  His  recruiting  of  Alford, 
who  joined  the  program  in  the  fall  of  1983,  had  consisted  of  one 
phone  call  to  Alford's  father.  When  Sam  Alford  told  his  son,  then 
a  junior  on  the  New  Castle  High  School  team  coached  by  his 
father,  that  Bob  Knight  wanted  him  to  play  at  Indiana,  Steve 
Alford  was  ready  to  walk  to  Bloomington.  He  had  gone  to  Knight's 
summer  camp  since  the  age  of  nine,  and  the  chance  to  play  at 
Indiana  was  all  he  ever  dreamed  about. 

But  recruiting  required  more  than  an  occasional  phone  call,  and 
a  major  part  of  the  problem  in  1985  had  been  the  talent  gap  created 
by  Knight's  laissez-faire  approach.  Knight  realized  this  during 
1985  and  made  a  momentous  decision:  he  would  recruit  junior 
college  players.  He  reached  the  decision  on  a  cold  morning  in 
Madison,  Wisconsin,  during  the  first  three-game  losing  streak  of 
the  season.  He  told  assistant  coaches  Jim  Crews  and  Joby  Wright 
to  put  together  a  list  of  junior  college  players  who  could  be  re- 
cruited by  Indiana. 

This  was  a  major  step  for  Knight.  In  his  entire  coaching  career, 
he  had  recruited  only  one  junior  college  player.  That  was  Court- 
ney Witte,  a  senior  on  the  1985-86  team,  and  his  had  been  an 
exceptional  situation:  Witte's  father  had  played  at  Indiana  in  the 
1950s  and  his  uncle,  Jerry  Memering,  had  played  for  Knight's 
first  team  there.  Witte  was  considered  a  little  too  small  and  a  little 
too  slow  when  he  came  out  of  high  school  in  Vincennes,  Indiana. 
But  when  6-10  John  Flowers  decided  to  transfer  during  the  1983 
season,  Indiana  needed  a  big  man  for  the  next  season  quickly. 
Witte  had  grown  to  6-8  by  the  time  he  was  a  sophomore  at 
Vincennes  Junior  College,  and  Knight  offered  him  a  scholarship 
without  ever  having  seen  him  play. 

But  now  Knight  was  saying,  "We  need  better  athletes."  The 
best  athletes  in  junior  college  were  players  who  had  been  unable 
to  meet  minimum  NCAA  academic  requirements  as  high  school 
seniors.  At  best,  they  were  academic  risks.  But  Knight  believed 
that  if  you  looked  carefully,  you  could  find  one  or  two  JUCOs 
who  had  either  learned  their  lesson  or  had  changed  their  attitude. 
"If  you  find  the  right  junior  college  kid,  he's  going  to  be  so  thrilled 
to  have  a  chance  to  play  at  a  place  like  Indiana  that  he  may  come 
in  here  with  a  better  attitude  than  the  freshmen,"  Knight  insisted. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    29 


"A  junior  college  kid  is  older,  he's  been  kicked  around  a  little. 
He  may  be  a  little  tougher." 

It  was  a  wonderful  rationaUzation.  But  it  was  also  a  gamble 
Knight  felt  he  had  to  take.  Shortly  after  the  1985  season  ended. 
Knight  signed  three  junior  college  players. 

Knight's  change  of  life,  or  midlife  crisis,  call  it  what  you  will, 
went  even  further.  During  the  Final  Four  in  Lexington,  he  talked 
seriously  with  his  coaching  mentor,  Pete  Newell,  about  playing 
zone  defense.  Boh  Knight  playing  zone  defense.  It  was  easier  to 
imagine  Spiro  Agnew  becoming  a  Democrat  or  Elizabeth  Taylor 
swearing  off  marriage.  But  Knight  was  serious.  He  had  taken 
man-to-man  defense  to  a  new  level  of  sophistication,  but  much 
of  that  sophistication  lay  in  the  zone  principles  inherent  in  his 
man-to-man.  With  a  forty-five-second  clock  voted  into  the  college 
rules  for  1986,  he  thought  playing  some  zone  would  make  it  a 
little  easier  on  his  players,  who  at  times  had  looked  overmatched 
playing  man-to-man. 

There  was  more:  Knight  also  wanted  to  change  the  tempo  of 
his  offense.  Rather  than  walk  the  ball  up  and  then  run  his  "mo- 
tion" offense  against  a  waiting  defense,  he  wanted  to  push  the 
ball  up  the  floor  at  every  opportunity  to  try  to  get  shots  off  before 
the  defense  could  set  up.  This  would  at  the  very  least  help  Alford, 
who  at  6-1  and  160  pounds  had  found  himself  hounded  all  over 
the  court  by  bigger,  stronger  players  throughout  his  sophomore 
season.  If  they  couldn't  catch  up  to  him,  they  couldn't  guard  him. 
With  Uwe  Blab  gone,  Indiana  would  have  a  smaller,  quicker  team 
anyway;  it  made  sense  to  use  speed  to  their  advantage. 

It  was  all  reasonable  and  rational.  But  it  also  demonstrated  that 
after  twenty  years  as  a  coach,  after  knowing  almost  nothing  but 
success.  Bob  Knight  was  stepping  back  and  taking  a  close  look  at 
himself.  He  knew  he  still  wanted  to  coach,  if  only  because  he 
could  not  bear  walking  away  after  a  season  he  considered  a  com- 
plete failure.  But  even  though  he  told  friends  repeatedly  that  the 
1985  team  just  wasn't  very  good,  he  acted  like  a  man  who  also 
thought  that  the  coach  of  that  team  hadn't  been  very  good. 

And  so  he  went  back  to  square  one:  He  had  never  recruited 
junior  college  players;  he  started  recruiting  them.  He  had  never 
considered  playing  a  zone  defense;  he  considered  playing  zone. 


30    John  Feinstein 


He  had  almost  always  played  the  game  at  a  controlled  pace;  he 
considered  quickening  that  pace.  And,  without  saying  so  at  the 
time,  he  also  was  beginning  to  rethink  his  twenty-four-hour-a- 
day  mind  games  with  his  players.  The  ravings  and  rantings  of 
1985  had  not  brought  the  team  back  as  they  had  in  the  past. 
Making  an  issue  of  losing  had  simply  produced  more  losing.  Knight 
always  beheved  that  the  tougher  he  made  things  for  his  players 
during  practice,  the  better  they  would  deal  with  adversity  during 
games.  The  formula  had  worked  and  worked  and  worked,  but  not 
in  1985.  Maybe,  just  maybe,  it  needed  some  adjusting,  some 
tinkering. 

Knight  had  always  known  that  his  brinksmanship  would  be 
tolerated  in  most  quarters  only  as  long  as  he  won.  One  more 
major  incident,  a  chair  toss  or  anything  even  slightly  similar, 
and  he  was  gone.  One  more  awful  season  and,  quite  possibly,  he 
would  have  to  walk  away  because  the  losing  tore  him  up  so 
much.  "Suppose  the  chair  had  bounced  funny  and  hit  someone," 
mused  Bob  Hammel,  as  loyal  a  friend  as  Knight  has.  "If  it 
does,  that's  it,  it's  over.  Here's  a  man  who  has  spent  his  whole 
life  making  certain  he  had  control  of  things,  and  he  allowed 
things  to  get  that  far  out  of  his  control.  That  could  have  been 
the  end." 

Hammel  spoke  for  all  of  Knight's  friends — coaches,  professors, 
ex-players,  journalists.  The  loyalty  of  Knight's  friends  is  unsur- 
passed because  his  loyalty  to  them  is  unsurpassed.  Without  ex- 
ception, they  can  talk  about  acts  of  warmth  and  compassion  that 
he  has  performed  on  their  behalf.  He  is  incapable  of  saying  no  to 
a  friend. 

And,  just  as  much  as  they  revere  him.  Knight's  friends  worry 
about  him.  Many  of  them  expect  a  Woody  Hayes-type  ending 
for  him.  Hayes,  who  had  been  one  of  Knight's  teachers  at  Ohio 
State,  had  punched  an  opposing  player  on  national  television  at 
the  end  of  the  1978  Gator  Bowl.  That  act  had  finished  his  lengthy 
coaching  career.  Some  see  that  ending  as  inevitable.  As  quickly 
as  they  say  that,  they  add,  "Don't  ever  let  him  find  out  I  said 
that. "  But  they  say  it.  They  all  agree  that  he  has  had  a  lifelong 
knack  for  walking  right  to  the  brink  of  disaster  and  then  pulling 
back.  But  in  1985  he  had  stepped  across  the  line  and  almost  gone 
tumbUng  over  it.  If  he  was  going  to  survive  1986,  he  had  to 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    31 


change.  He  had  to  take  a  step  back.  He  had  to  bring  his  Ufe  under 
control.  There  were  no  more  chances  left. 


If  ever  a  basketball  team  needed  an  off-season  to  regroup,  it 
was  Indiana.  If  ever  a  coach  needed  a  summer  off,  it  was  Knight. 
But  prior  to  the  1985  disaster.  Knight  had  made  plans  for  a  sum- 
mer trip  for  the  team  around  the  world.  It  would  be  a  thirty- 
eight-day  trip  that  would  start  in  Canada  and  proceed  to  Japan, 
China,  Yugoslavia,  and  Finland  before  returning  home.  There 
would  be  eighteen  games,  including  two  in  Japan  against  the 
Russians. 

Several  friends  tried  to  talk  Knight  out  of  the  trip,  telling  him 
he  needed  a  rest.  But  Indiana  had  made  a  commitment  and,  what's 
more.  Knight  thought  the  experience  would  help  the  younger 
players  who  hadn't  played  that  much  the  previous  season.  He 
also  thought  the  chance  to  go  around  the  world  would  be  a  good 
experience  for  everyone. 

It  didn't  start  off  well.  On  the  June  day  when  the  team  gathered 
to  begin  practice  in  preparation  for  the  trip.  Knight  was  almost 
out  of  control.  Every  time  someone  made  a  mistake  he  would 
begin  harping  on  the  season  that  had  ended  in  March.  It  was  as 
if  no  time  at  all  had  passed;  everyone  was  still  guilty  of  the  sins 
of  the  winter.  There  would  be  no  forgiveness. 

Winston  Morgan  was  one  exception.  Knight  had  all  but  decided 
to  give  him  another  chance  after  that  final  team  meeting,  but  he 
didn't  tell  him  about  the  decision  until  May.  That  is  Knight's 
way:  He  doesn't  believe  in  making  anything  easy  for  anyone.  His 
mind  games,  he  feels,  will  make  them  tougher.  When  Knight  did 
tell  Morgan  he  could  come  back,  Morgan  was  thrilled.  There 
would  be  no  scholarship,  though.  Morgan  would  have  to  work 
part-time  and  pay  his  own  way,  and,  except  for  game  days,  he 
couldn't  eat  at  the  training  table  with  the  team.  But  he  would  get 
another  chance  if  he  wanted  it.  Morgan  was  thankful  for  the 
chance. 

He  may  have  had  second  thoughts  during  the  first  part  of  the 
trip.  Indiana  didn't  play  well  in  Japan.  During  games.  Knight  let 
the  assistants  coach  and  sat  either  at  the  end  of  the  court  or  up 
in  the  stands.  Adjustments  were  being  made:  Daryl  Thomas, 
about  to  become  a  junior,  was  trying  to  learn  to  play  the  center 


32     ]ohn  Feinstein 


position  at  6-7.  Stew  Robinson  was  hurt  part  of  the  time.  Morgan 
was  relearning  the  game.  The  four  players  who  would  join  the 
team  in  the  fall — two  junior  college  players  (only  two  of  Knight's 
three  JUCO  recruits  had  gotten  into  Indiana)  and  two  freshmen — 
were  not  allowed  to  make  the  trip  under  NCAA  rules.  Witte,  who 
had  sat  out  1985  with  a  broken  foot,  was  on  the  trip,  but  also  not 
eligible  to  play  because  of  NCAA  rules.  In  all,  there  were  only 
eleven  players  available,  and  six  of  them  had  just  completed  their 
freshman  season.  Indiana  was  a  small,  inexperienced  team,  feeUng 
its  way. 

Indiana  lost  six  of  its  first  eight  games,  including  two  to  the 
Russians.  After  the  first  Russian  game,  someone  asked  Knight  to 
compare  the  Russians  to  the  1984  U.S.  Olympic  team.  "There  is 
no  comparison,"  Knight  snapped.  "Next  question." 

Even  though  the  games  were  only  practice,  the  losses  were 
eating  at  Knight.  His  temper  was  worse  than  it  had  been  during 
the  season,  and  when  Ed  Williams  joined  the  entourage  in  the 
second  week  he  had  serious  doubts  about  whether  anyone  would 
survive  the  trip. 

The  bottom  seemed  to  drop  out  in  Hiroshima.  After  the  team 
played  a  bad  half  without  the  injured  Robinson  and  with  Alford 
resting.  Knight  stormed  from  the  stands  and  banished  the  assis- 
tants from  the  bench.  They  spent  the  rest  of  the  game  in  the 
stands  wondering  about  their  futures.  The  three  of  them — Kohn 
Smith,  Joby  Wright,  and  Royce  Waltman — walked  the  streets  that 
night,  wondering  if  Knight  was  going  to  fire  them  as  he  had  sworn 
he  would.  They  talked  about  what  they  would  do  if  they  were 
fired — "I'll  go  back  down  South  and  pick  cotton,"  Wright  declared 
at  one  point — and  decided  they  had  better  find  Garl  to  get  some 
money  in  case  they  were  sent  home. 

"It  was  one  of  those  nights  where  you  hope  someone  tries  to 
mug  you,"  Smith  said.  "Because  they  always  say  the  most  dan- 
gerous man  in  a  fight  is  the  one  who  doesn't  care  if  he  hves  or 
dies.  That  was  us." 

Later,  the  three  of  them  would  laugh  about  that  phase  of  the 
trip,  but  it  hardly  seemed  funny  at  the  time.  Wright's  description 
of  Knight  during  that  period  was  simple:  "You  ever  been  in  a 
five-by-five  cage  with  a  wounded  tiger,  who  has  just  had  salt 
poured  on  the  wound  and  is  very  hungry,  too?  Think  about  that 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    33 


and  then  think  about  someone  roUin'  a  Uve  grenade  in  there  and 
that's  what  it  was  hke." 

Hearing  this  description,  Wakman  would  shake  his  head,  laugh, 
and  say,  "If  you  were  smart,  you  jumped  right  on  top  of  that 
grenade,  because  it  was  an  easier  way  to  die." 

At  night,  the  players  often  sat  around  telling  each  other  where 
they  would  have  gone  if  they  hadn't  been  foolish  enough  to  choose 
Indiana.  Everyone  was  miserable.  When  Tim  Garl,  as  trainer  the 
one  person  on  the  trip  who  could  get  a  true  reading  every  day  of 
the  feelings  of  both  the  players  and  the  coaches,  suggested  to 
Knight  that  he  might  be  riding  the  players  too  hard.  Knight  sug- 
gested he  find  another  job. 

The  coaches  assumed  this  was  just  another  late-night  Knight 
firing.  Over  the  years  he  had  fired  everyone,  including  himself, 
several  times.  The  next  day  on  a  train  trip  Knight  called  Garl  over 
for  a  talk.  The  coaches  figured  peace  was  being  made. 

"Everything  all  right  now?"  Waltman  asked  Garl  when  he 
returned  a  few  minutes  later. 

"Yeah,"  Garl  answered.  "Now  I'm  fired  for  sure." 

But  he  didn't  stay  fired  and  neither  did  the  coaches.  The  team 
got  out  of  Japan  alive  and  won  the  last  ten  games  on  the  trip  to 
finish  12-6.  There  was  noticeable  improvement,  especially  in 
Thomas,  who  was  adjusting  to  playing  with  his  back  to  the  basket, 
and  Morgan,  who  had  also  been  on  the  verge  of  being  fired  in 
Japan.  They  even  had  some  fun  during  the  last  three  weeks. 
Knight  is  a  superb  tour  guide  because  he  has  read  so  many  history 
books,  and  he  made  certain  the  players  saw  all  the  sights. 

Nonetheless,  when  the  team  returned  home  to  the  U.S.,  Stew 
Robinson  jumped  off  the  plane  when  it  landed  and  kissed  the 
ground. 

During  the  trip.  Knight  made  some  decisions  about  the  upcom- 
ing season.  He  didn't  think  he  could  ask  the  players  to  learn  an 
entirely  new  offense  and  defense  all  at  once.  He  had  toyed  with 
some  zone  defense  in  practice  on  the  trip,  but  decided  to  put  off 
teaching  it  for  at  least  another  year.  But  he  did  want  a  push-it- 
up  offense,  and  he  would  emphasize  that  when  practice  began  on 
October  15. 

Knight  also  thought  that  two  of  the  new  players  would  have 


34    John  Feinstein 


to  be  starters.  Knight  thought  one  of  the  junior  college  players 
was  the  best  athlete  he  had  ever  recruited.  That  was  Andre  Harris, 
a  slender  6-6  jumping  jack.  Harris  was  from  Grand  Rapids,  Mich- 
igan, but  had  spent  two  years  at  Barton  County  Junior  College 
in  Kansas  because  he  had  failed  to  meet  the  NCAA's  required  2.0 
grade-point  average.  He  graduated  from  Barton  County  and  could 
now  enroll  at  Indiana  as  a  junior. 

The  other  potential  starter  was  Rick  Calloway.  Calloway  wasn't 
slender,  he  was  skinny,  a  rail-thin  6-5,  180  pounds.  He  was  from 
Cincinnati,  a  gifted,  instinctive  player  who  had  almost  gone  to 
Georgetown  but  changed  his  mind  after  Knight's  visit  to  his  home 
the  previous  fall.  Knight  didn't  know  it  at  the  time,  but  Calloway 
was  a  better  jumper  than  Harris  and  a  precocious,  rarely  intim- 
idated freshman. 

There  would  be  two  other  new  players.  One  was  Todd  Jadlow, 
a  teammate  of  Harris's  at  Barton  County.  Jadlow  was  6-9  and 
215  pounds  with  a  mean  streak  in  him  that  Knight  liked.  He  could 
also  shoot.  He  was  a  good  student  who  had  opted  for  junior  college 
for  a  year  because  he  was  only  6-6  and  185  pounds  when  he  left 
high  school  and  his  only  major  scholarship  offer,  from  Kansas 
State,  had  been  withdrawn. 

The  fourth  recruit  was  perhaps  the  most  intriguing.  Jeff  Oli- 
phant  was  6-6  and  180  pounds,  from  a  small  town  in  southern 
Indiana.  He  had  played  for  his  father  at  tiny  L&M  High  School, 
about  an  hour  from  Bloomington,  and  was  one  of  those  players 
that  others  saw  simply  as  a  slow  white  kid.  But  Knight  saw  him 
as  a  potential  star.  Oliphant  could  shoot,  his  vision  of  the  game 
was  perhaps  the  best  on  the  team,  and  he  was  a  natural  guard 
who  was  already  6-6  and  perhaps  still  growing.  He  would  be 
redshirted  as  a  freshman — a  redshirt  is  a  player  who  participates 
in  no  games  for  a  season  and  thereby  gains  a  fifth  year  of  eligi- 
bility— so  that  he  could  mature  physically.  At  times  during  the 
season  when  Oliphant  made  passes  that  no  one  else  on  the  team 
had  the  vision  to  see.  Knight  would  compare  him  to  Larry  Bird. 

Oliphant  was  in  fact  a  potential  star,  but  Bird  is  a  once-in-a- 
lifetime  player.  The  three-time  NBA  Most  Valuable  Player  had 
also  come  out  of  a  small  Indiana  high  school  and  had  signed  with 
Indiana,  but  the  "big-city"  atmosphere  in  Bloomington  had  been 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    35 


too  much  for  the  kid  from  French  Lick,  and  Bird  left  within  four 
weeks  of  enroUing.  He  later  enrolled  at  Indiana  State,  became  a 
superstar,  and  left  people  wondering  what  might  have  happened 
if  he  had  ever  played  for  Knight.  The  best  coach  and  the  best 
player.  The  smartest  coach  and  the  smartest  player.  The  combi- 
nation might  have  been  mind-boggling. 

It  was  very  unUkely  that  Oliphant  would  become  Bird,  though 
they  did  have  a  lot  in  common:  Both  were  6-6  kids  from  small 
Indiana  towns  who  could  shoot  and  had  a  natural  flair  for  passing. 
Like  Bird,  Oliphant  was  almost  painfully  quiet.  But  OHphant  did 
not  have  Bird's  drive,  his  passion  for  the  game.  He  worked  hard 
and  was  inteUigent,  but  he  wasn't  Bird. 

Comparing  an  Oliphant  to  a  Bird  was  another  common  Knight 
syndrome.  Knight's  players  often  joke  about  how  good  they  were 
in  high  school,  how  terrible  they  were  in  college,  and  how  won- 
derful they  became  again  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  college. 
When  Knight  recruits  a  player  he  is  almost  always  convinced  he 
will  become  a  great  player.  Often,  when  an  Indiana  player  is 
struggling.  Knight  will  reminisce  about  previous  players  who  have 
played  that  position,  or  he  will  begin  to  project  how  good  the  next 
player  at  that  spot  will  be. 

When  Knight's  former  players  gather,  they  all  tell  war  stories. 
One  night  during  the  fall,  Steve  Green,  who  had  been  part  of 
Knight's  first  recruiting  class  at  Indiana  and  a  captain  on  the 
31-1  1975  team,  told  about  a  game  in  which  he  made  a  huge 
mistake.  "I  came  out  of  the  game  for  a  rest  and  I  sat  down  next 
to  Coach,"  he  said.  "Very  bad  move.  The  next  thing  I  know,  the 
guys  playing  screw  up  a  couple  times  and  he  starts  yelling  at  me, 
'Green,  how  can  you  let  those  sonsofbitches  play  like  that?  What 
the  hell  kind  of  example  are  you  setting?  What  kind  of  leader  are 
you  anyway?'  " 

Hearing  Green  tell  this  story,  Dakich  began  to  laugh.  "Last 
year  when  I  was  the  captain,  whenever  we  started  playing  badly 
he  would  turn  to  me  and  say,  'Goddammit  Dakich,  what  kind  of 
leader  are  you?  Do  you  think  Steve  Green  would  ever  allow  his 
team  to  play  that  way?  He'd  have  kicked  somebody's  ass  by  now!'  " 

Players  learn  to  accept  the  fact  that  for  four  years,  they  will  be 
terrible  basketball  players  most  of  the  time.  Ted  Kitchel,  who 


36     John  Feinstein 


graduated  in  1983,  sums  that  up  best.  "I  played  on  [imitating 

Knight's  voice]  'the  four  worst  f teams  in  the  history  of 

Indiana  basketball.  The  worst.'  We  won  three  Big  Ten  champi- 
onships and  the  national  championship  in  1981.  But  believe  me, 
we  were,  'the  worst.'  " 

Knight  picks  out  targets  on  each  team.  Usually,  it  is  a  player 
he  knows  can  handle  the  abuse,  and  it  is  almost  always  a  very 
good  player.  Kitchel  had  been  a  major  target,  with  Randy  Wittman 
not  far  behind.  During  1985-86,  Alford  would  be  Pubhc  Enemy 
Number  1.  More  than  one  tape  session  became  "The  Steve  Alford 
Show. "  And,  when  Knight  wanted  to  tell  Alford  what  a  terrible 
leader  he  was,  he  used  Kitchel  and  Wittman  as  examples  of  the 
kind  of  leader  he  wanted. 

The  coaches  would  giggle  whenever  Knight  brought  up  Witt- 
man, as  he  often  did.  At  the  end  of  1982,  Knight  had  told  Wittman, 
who  had  a  fifth  year  of  eligibility  because  of  an  injury,  that  he 
should  ^skip  that  year,  turn  pro,  and  leave  Indiana.  He  had  not, 
of  course,  meant  it.  And  with  each  passing  year,  Kitchel  and 
Wittman  became,  retroactively,  better  and  tougher. 

But  even  they  couldn't  reach  the  plateau  of  the  players  on  the 
1975  and  1976  teams.  The  1975  senior  class — Green,  John  Las- 
kowski,  and  Steve  Ahlfeld — were  all  still  close  to  Knight.  All  three 
hved  in  Indianapolis.  Laskowski  did  the  color  commentary  on 
Indiana's  telecasts,  and  when  he  wasn't  available  Green  did  it. 
Ahlfeld  was  one  of  the  team's  doctors.  The  1976  class  consisted 
of  Crews,  who  became  an  assistant  for  eight  years  after  graduating, 
Quinn  Buckner,  Scott  May,  Bobby  Wilkerson,  and  Tom  Aber- 
nethy.  Only  Wilkerson  was  no  longer  a  close  member  of  the 
extended  Knight/I. U.  family.  Of  all  his  players.  Knight  talked 
about  Buckner  more  than  any  other.  Buckner  was  smart,  savvy, 
tough:  a  coach  on  the  court. 

When  Buckner  was  a  senior.  Knight  benched  him  for  two  games. 
Buckner  was  so  distraught  that  when  he  went  into  one  of  those 
games  he  had  trouble  breathing;  he  was  so  upset  about  the  bench- 
ing that  he  was  hyperventilating.  But  Buckner  ended  his  career 
jumping  into  Knight's  arms  in  Philadelphia  after  capping  a  32-0 
season  with  the  national  championship.  Knight  is  his  second  fa- 
ther; Buckner  is  Knight's  oldest  son. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    37 


The  players  who  came  later  heard  about  those  two  teams  so 
much  they  had  the  speeches  memorized.  Laskowski  remembers 
walkirrg  into  the  locker  room  once  and  having  Kitchel  and  Witt- 
man  come  over  and  begin  examining  his  head.  "They  were  check- 
ing for  my  halo." 

Alford  is  bright  enough  to  understand  his  coach.  Yet  their 
relationship  is  tempestuous  to  say  the  least.  One  reason  for  that 
is  Alford's  unique  standing  among  Indiana  basketball  fans.  He  is 
the  perfect  boy  next  door.  He  is  small  by  basketball  standards, 
and  he  is  baby-faced.  He  is  neatly  dressed,  always  polite,  and  a 
resolute  churchgoer.  He  is  also  white;  in  most  parts  of  the  state, 
that  alone  makes  him  special. 

He  is  a  coach's  son.  "I  learned  to  count  on  a  basketball  score- 
board," he  says.  He  is  as  pure  a  shooter  as  you  can  imagine, 
having  worked  for  hours  and  hours  and  hours  on  his  shot.  He 
almost  never  misses  a  free  throw — he  was  once  twenty-five  for 
twenty-five  in  a  high  school  playoff  game — and  any  opening  for 
his  jump  shot  is  almost  always  a  basket.  As  a  senior  in  high  school 
he  averaged  thirty-eight  points  a  game  and  won  the  coveted  Mr. 
Basketball  Award  as  the  best  player  in  the  state.  Then  he  went 
to  Indiana  and  became  a  starter  and  the  leading  scorer  as  a  fresh- 
man. Then  he  made  the  Olympic  team  and  starred  again.  In  short, 
before  he  began  his  sophomore  year  in  college,  Alford  had  lived 
the  American  dream  and,  even  more  than  that,  the  Indiana  dream: 
Mr.  Basketball;  starter  at  I.U.;  Olympic  hero. 

Knight  knew  all  that  and  knew  how  hard  it  would  be  for  any 
kid,  even  one  as  levelheaded  as  Alford,  to  deal  with  all  the  adu- 
lation. And  adulation  it  is:  People  stop  at  Alford's  house  in  New 
Castle  to  take  pictures  of  their  son  standing  under  the  hoop  where 
Alford  shot  baskets  as  a  boy.  Girls  squeal  when  he  is  introduced 
as  if  he  were  a  rock  star.  Dan  Dakich  calls  him  the  Shaun  Cassidy 
of  college  basketball. 

Alford  didn't  have  a  great  sophomore  year.  He  was  better  than 
the  team,  but  not  as  good  as  he  could  be.  Knight  harped  constantly 
on  his  poor  defense,  and  told  him  again  and  again  that  he  wasn't 
working  hard  enough.  Alford  thought  he  was  working  hard.  Knight 
told  him  he  wasn't.  Knight  understood  what  Alford  was  going 
through.  "Hell,  the  kid's  eighteen  years  old  and  he's  got  an  Olym- 


38     ]ohn  Feinstein 


pic  gold  medal.  Julius  Erving  doesn't  have  an  Olympic  gold  medal. 
He's  everyone's  hero  in  an  entire  state.  That's  not  easy."  But  he 
also  felt  the  need  to  push  Alford  as  much  as  he  could  get  away 
with  if  only  for  his  own  good.  "He  just  doesn't  understand  how 
hard  it  is  for  someone  Uke  him  to  play  well,"  Knight  told  the 
coaches  repeatedly  that  season. 

For  Alford  to  get  better  as  a  player,  Knight  believed,  he  had  to 
do  everything  Knight  told  him  to  do  without  hesitation.  Alford 
hadn't  done  that  as  a  sophomore.  He  had  questioned  the  coach; 
not  openly,  but  by  his  actions.  Knight  is  not  a  coach  who  accepts 
questioning  from  his  players  on  any  level.  Knight  didn't  want 
Alford  to  take  anything  for  granted  as  a  junior.  He  knew  that  for 
L.diana  to  be  good,  Alford  had  to  be  his  best  player  and  the  team's 
leader.  But  that's  not  what  he  told  Alford.  As  the  plane  flew  home 
from  Europe  in  late  July,  Knight  took  Alford  aside  and  told  him 
in  no  uncertain  terms  that  this  year  the  five  best  defensive  players 
would  start,  period.  "And  you,  Steve,  are  not  one  of  those  five 
players  right  now." 

Did  Alford  think  Knight  was  serious,  or  just  playing  a  mind 
game?  "I  was  convinced,"  Alford  said,  "that  he  had  never  been 
more  serious  in  his  Hfe." 


4- 


October  15 

In  college  basketball,  no  date  means  more  than  October  15.  On 
that  day,  basketball  teams  all  around  the  country  begin  formal 
preparations  for  the  upcoming  season.  The  players  have  probably 
played  against  each  other  every  afternoon  from  the  day  school 
opened,  but  October  15  is  the  real  thing.  The  coaches  no  longer 
sit  high  in  the  stands  to  observe — though  even  doing  that  is  a 
violation  of  a  universally  ignored  NCAA  rule — but  are  down  on 
the  floor,  teaching,  coaching,  and  yelling. 

October  15  fell  on  a  Tuesday,  and  it  also  fell  right  in  the  middle 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    39 


of  a  week  when  Indiana  was  staging  a  major  fundraising  event  in 
Assembly  Hall.  That  meant  that  the  first  four  days  of  practice 
would  take  place  away  from  Assembly  Hall,  in  the  Indiana  Middle 
School  Building.  The  players  dressed  in  the  Assembly  Hall  locker 
room,  then  drove  to  practice. 

When  they  arrived,  they  were  greeted  by  a  total  of  eight  coaches: 
Knight,  Kohn  Smith,  Royce  Waltman,  and  Joby  Wright  were  the 
holdovers  from  the  previous  season.  Crews  was  gone  to  Evansville, 
replaced  by  Ron  Felling.  There  were  also  three  graduate  assistants: 
Dan  Dakich;  Murry  Bartow,  son  of  Knight's  close  friend  Gene 
Bartow,  the  coach  at  Alabama-Birmingham;  and  Julio  Salazar,  a 
Colombian  who  had  worked  Knight's  summer  camp  for  several 
years  after  meeting  him  in  San  Juan  during  the  Pan-American 
Games. 

The  status  of  the  graduate  assistants  was  quite  different  from 
that  of  the  four  full-time  coaches.  They  didn't  dress  in  the  com- 
fortable coaches'  locker  room,  but  in  a  tiny  office  a  few  feet  down 
the  hall  from  the  players'  locker  room.  They  didn't  look  at  tape 
with  the  other  coaches;  their  job  was  to  gather  the  tape  and  help 
prepare  it  to  be  used.  They  only  occasionally  went  on  the  road 
with  the  team.  They  were  coaches  training  to  be  coaches,  paying 
their  dues  by  doing  scut  work  for  the  older  coaches.  One  of 
Dakich's  assignments  each  morning  during  the  fall  semester  was 
to  pick  up  Andre  Harris,  who  lived  off  campus,  to  make  sure  he 
got  to  his  first  class  or  to  a  study  hall. 

Felling  turned  out  to  be  a  delight  for  the  players.  He  was  forty- 
five,  a  curly-haired  ex-high  school  coach  who  loved  to  talk  about 
two  things:  basketball  and  women.  Felling  had  won  four  state 
championships  in  Illinois  at  tiny  Lawrenceville  High  School,  but 
had  retired  in  1983.  He  had  coached,  among  others,  Marty  Sim- 
mons, who  had  come  to  Indiana  as  a  future  star  only  to  move  on 
to  Evansville  with  Crews  after  his  weight  problems  the  previous 
season.  Over  the  years.  Felling  and  Knight  had  become  friends 
through  clinics  and  camps,  and  when  Crews  got  the  Evansville 
job.  Knight  called  Felling  at  2  a.m. 

Sound  asleep.  Felling  picked  up  the  phone  and  heard  a  voice 
say,  "Well,  are  you  gonna  come  work  for  me  or  not?"  It  was 
Knight,  and  that  was  the  job  offer.  Felling  took  it. 


40    John  Feinstein 


Knight  had  been  serious  about  Alford;  he  began  the  first  practice 
in  a  white  uniform.  At  Indiana,  the  starting  team  wears  red  uni- 
forms in  practice,  and  the  subs  wear  white.  During  the  course  of 
the  season,  every  player  will  spend  some  time  in  red  and  some 
time  in  white;  there  are  days  when  the  entire  starting  five  finds 
itself  in  white. 

But  putting  Alford  in  white  was  a  clear  signal  from  coach  to 
player.  The  talk  on  the  airplane  coming  home  from  Europe  wasn't 
just  talk.  Knight  was  going  to  make  the  preseason  difficult  for 
Alford.  Everyone  on  the  team  understood  what  was  going  on; 
they  also  understood  that  if  anyone  on  the  team  was  tough  enough 
to  handle  the  situation,  it  was  Alford. 

Alford,  with  his  baby  face  and  short-cropped,  always  neat  brown 
hair,  doesn't  look  very  tough,  but  he  is.  He  takes  a  physical 
pounding  in  every  game  he  plays  because  he  is  small  and  his  great 
shooting  ability  makes  him  the  target  of  a  lot  of  tough  defense. 
Beyond  that,  though,  Alford  had  earned  the  respect  of  his  team- 
mates because  he  didn't  let  Knight  get  to  him.  Every  time  Knight 
told  Alford  how  bad  he  was,  Alford  just  shrugged  and  played  a 
little  better.  Which  was  exactly  what  Knight  wanted. 

"When  I  first  came  here,  with  his  reputation  and  everything 
he  had  won,  I  figured  Steve  would  be  spoiled  and  not  too  tough 
at  all,"  said  Daryl  Thomas.  "But  he  proved  himself  to  me.  In 
fact,  I  think  he  proved  himself  to  everybody." 

Ironically,  Thomas  was  the  one  whose  toughness  Knight  ques- 
tioned. Like  Alford,  Thomas  was  exceptionally  bright,  but  he 
wasn't  nearly  as  driven  as  Alford.  He  liked  basketball,  but  wasn't 
obsessed  with  it.  He  wanted  to  be  good,  but  he  didn't  live  to  be 
good.  Where  Alford  would  just  set  his  jaw  and  think,  "You're 
crazy,"  when  Knight  told  him  how  bad  he  was,  Thomas  tended 
to  believe  it. 

Even  before  the  late  November  blowup  when  Knight  brought 
Thomas  to  tears,  he  had  called  Thomas  every  name  there  was. 
Knight  knew  this  wasn't  always  good  strategy  with  Thomas.  "The 
problem  with  calling  Daryl  Thomas  a  pussy,"  he  said  one  night, 
"is  that  he  believes  you." 

Much  had  been  made  over  the  years  of  Knight's  use  of  profanity 
with  the  players.  It  is  no  exaggeration.  Knight  uses  profanity 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    41 


when  he  is  angry,  when  he  is  happy,  and  whenever  he  feels  hke 
it.  He  once  taped  an  outtake  for  a  TV  show  explaining  why  he 
used  the  word  fuck  so  much.  "I  just  think,"  he  said,  "that  fuck 
is  the  most  expressive  word  in  the  English  language.  It  can  be 
used  to  express  surprise  as  in,  'Well  I'll  be  fucked]'  Or,  it  can  be 
used  to  express  anger,  as  in  'Fuck  you!'  Or,  it  can  express  dismay 
as  in,  'Oh,  fuckV  " 

Knight  used  it  to  express  all  these  things  and  more.  Some  of 
his  friends  had  talked  to  him  over  the  years  about  trying  to  curb 
that  language,  and  he  had  gone  through  periods  of  trying  to  do 
so.  But  when  things  went  bad  in  practice.  Knight  would  backslide, 
occasionally  reeling  off  seven  or  eight  of  them  in  one  sentence. 
Once,  in  a  fit  of  temper,  Knight  decided  he  wanted  the  floor  cleared 
of  everyone  except  his  players  and  coaches.  This  was  a  typical 
Indiana  practice:  several  professors.  Knight  hunting  cronies,  and 
other  assorted  friends  were  present.  So  was  Ed  Williams. 

"I  want  all  these  cocksuckers  out  of  here  right  now,"  Knight 
yelled. 

When  a  manager  politely  asked  Williams  if  he  would  please 
leave,  the  I.U.  vice  president  shook  his  head.  "You  heard  what 
he  said,"  WiUiams  told  the  manager  indignantly.  "For  his  sake, 
I  hope  he  wasn't  referring  to  me. "  When  the  manager  told  Knight 
what  Williams  had  said.  Knight  broke  up. 

But  even  Thomas  would  admit  that  Knight's  number  one  target 
during  the  first  days  of  practice  was  Alford.  The  little  kid,  as  Bob 
Hammel  affectionately  called  him,  could  do  little  right.  He  was 
shooting  superbly  and  consistently,  but  Knight  wanted  more.  He 
wanted  defense.  He  wanted  better  vision  on  offense.  He  wanted 
better  passes.  He  wanted  him  to  take  a  charge.  And  take  charge. 

Twice,  during  the  first  ten  days.  Knight  threw  Alford  out  of 
practice.  Throwing  a  player  out  of  practice,  especially  in  preseason, 
is  not  uncommon.  Sometimes  Knight  will  throw  the  whole  team 
out  of  practice.  But  there  was  a  lot  of  tension  between  Knight 
and  Alford.  The  second  kickout  came  early  in  practice  when  Knight 
didn't  think  Alford  had  fought  through  a  screen  properly.  Alford 
thought  he  had,  but  before  he  could  say  a  word  he  was  banished. 

When  an  Indiana  player  is  thrown  out  of  practice  he  is  supposed 


42    John  Feinstein 


to  go  to  the  locker  room  and  wait.  He  may  be  called  back,  or 
Knight  may  come  in  to  add  some  comments  to  what  he  has  already 
said,  or  he  may  just  sit  there  until  the  rest  of  the  team  arrives. 
This  time,  though,  Alford  didn't  wait.  He  was  frustrated.  He  got 
dressed  and  went  home.  Shortly  after  he  left.  Knight  sent  a  man- 
ager in  to  get  him.  The  manager  reported  back  that  there  was  no 
sign  of  Alford,  only  his  practice  clothes  piled  in  a  heap  in  front 
of  his  locker. 

"Call  him  and  get  him  back  here,"  Knight  ordered.  Alford  was 
called  and  came  back.  More  angry  words.  Alford  listened  and 
didn't  answer,  but  he  was  furious.  Finally,  Knight  told  him,  "You 
can  just  get  out  and  don't  bother  coming  back  until  I  call  you.  I 
don't  want  to  see  you." 

This  is  another  Knight  test.  The  proper  response  is  to  show  up 
at  practice  the  next  day  as  if  nothing  has  happened.  In  this  case, 
though.  Knight  was  taking  a  risk.  Alford  had  spent  ten  days  in 
white.  He  had  been  thrown  out  twice  and  then  called  back  to 
receive  more  abuse.  Maybe,  just  maybe,  he  would  call  Knight's 
bluff  and  not  come  back. 

"It  may  run  through  your  mind,"  Alford  said  later.  "But,  hey, 
my  dad  still  leads  Coach  7-5  in  kicking  me  out.  I  understand  what 
they're  both  doing  when  they  do  it.  I  don't  always  Uke  it,  I  don't 
always  think  it's  fair.  But  I  understand.  I  have  to  be  an  example." 

And  so  the  next  day  Alford  came  back.  He  was  sitting  on  a 
training  table  having  his  ankles  taped  before  practice  when  Knight 
walked  in.  "Did  I  have  a  dream  that  I  called  you  and  told  you  to 
come  back?"  Knight  said.  Alford  didn't  answer.  Knight  walked 
out.  Practice  started.  About  fifteen  minutes  into  the  workout. 
Knight  said  quietly,  "Steve,  put  on  a  red  shirt." 

Alford  was  a  starter  again.  He  had  passed  his  first  test  of  the 
season. 


There  was,  during  those  early  days  of  practice,  an  unspoken 
tension  that  was  felt  by  everyone.  Every  player,  every  coach  knew 
that  another  season  like  '85  would  be  unbearable.  Yet  this  was  a 
team  full  of  question  marks.  On  some  days,  even  at  only  6-7, 
Thomas  looked  unstoppable  playing  the  low  post;  on  others,  he 
looked  helpless.  Some  days,  Harris  was  a  wonder  to  watch;  on 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    43 


others,  he  was  a  disaster.  Both  would  have  to  play  well  against 
bigger  players  for  Indiana  to  be  successful.  Calloway  was  also  up 
and  down.  The  two  seniors  who  would  be  doing  a  lot  of  playing, 
Morgan  and  Robinson,  were  working  as  hard  as  could  be  asked, 
but  both  had  their  bad  days,  too. 

The  only  real  thread  of  consistency  was  Alford,  who  just  showed 
up  every  day  regardless  of  shirt  color  and  knocked  in  jump  shots 
from  all  over  the  floor.  With  each  passing  day.  Knight  had  less 
and  less  to  say  to  Alford.  He  even  began  complimenting  him  in 
his  speeches  to  the  pubUc. 

Preseason  often  seemed  to  Knight  like  one  long  speech.  He 
spoke  to  alumni  groups,  charity  groups,  and  whenever  friends 
asked  him  to.  He  spoke  all  over  the  state,  more  often  than  not 
for  nothing.  Every  night  it  seemed  there  was  another  speech. 
Vincennes  one  night,  Petersburg  the  next.  Indianapolis  at  lunch, 
the  rotary  club  in  Bloomington  at  dinner.  Chicago  to  talk  to  five 
hundred  alumni  on  Wednesday,  a  local  restaurant  to  talk  to  forty 
business  associates  of  a  friend  on  Thursday. 

Knight  is  an  exceptional  speaker.  More  often  than  not,  he  talks 
without  notes.  He  talks  about  the  Olympics  and  about  Indiana 
basketball.  He  even  developed  a  routine  to  explain  why  he  threw 
the  chair. 

"A  lot  of  people  have  asked  me  about  throwing  that  chair,"  he 
would  begin,  "and  I've  had  to  explain  myself  because  my  mother 
asked  me  about  it.  Well,  if  you  want  the  truth,  here's  what  hap- 
pened. See,  I  had  been  up  a  lot  during  our  last  game  against 
Illinois  two  nights  before  trying  like  I  always  do  to  give  the  officials 
whatever  help  I  could.  [Laughter.]  Well,  now  we're  playing  Pur- 
due, and  I'm  up,  and  I  keep  hearing  this  voice.  Usually  in  As- 
sembly Hall  1  don't  really  listen  to  all  the  people  trying  to  give 
me  advice,  but  this  one  voice  kept  piercing  right  through  the  crowd 
noise:  'Bob,  Bob.'  So,  finally  I  looked  over  there  and  I  see  this 
little  old  woman,  in  fact,  she  reminded  me  a  little  bit  of  my 
mother. 

"She  said,  'Bob,  Bob.'  So  I  looked  at  her  and  I  said,  'Ma'am, 
can  I  help  you?'  And  she  said,  'Now  Bob,  if  you  aren't  going  to 
sit  on  your  chair  the  way  you  didn't  sit  on  it  the  other  night, 
these  bleachers  over  here  are  very  hard  and  I'd  really  like  to  use 


44    ]ohn  Feinstein 


that  chair.'  Now,  how  can  anyone  get  on  me  just  because  I  threw 
that  chair  over  there  so  she  could  sit  on  it?  [Gales  of  laughter.] 
In  fact,  when  I  told  my  mother  the  story,  she  apologized  for 
getting  on  me  in  the  first  place."  (Applause;  Knight  owns  the 
audience.) 

Most  places.  Knight  owns  his  audience.  To  start  with,  his  very 
presence  at  most  functions  in  Indiana  is  like  a  visit  from  above. 
Driving  into  a  small  town  to  give  a  speech,  Knight  is  apt  to 
encounter  a  dozen  signs  on  the  local  main  street  reading,  "Wel- 
come Coach  Knight."  He  enjoys  himself  during  these  speeches, 
even  on  nights  when  he  is  exhausted.  One  night  he  drove  three 
hours  through  a  driving  rain  to  give  a  speech  because  he  had 
promised  an  older  friend  he  would  be  there.  No  one  would  have 
complained  if  he  had  canceled  because  of  the  weather. 

Knight's  speeches  are  funny,  but  also  rousing.  He  usually  fin- 
ishes with  some  patriotic  theme.  "America,  America,  God  shed 
his  grace  on  thee,"  he  said  one  night.  "I  can't  think  of  eight  words 
that  mean  more  to  me  than  those.  You  know,  we  have  a  lot  of 
born-agains  nowadays;  people  are  born-again  this  and  born-again 
that.  Some  of  them  mean  it  and  a  lot  of  them  are  phonies.  But 
one  thing  I  hope  we'll  never  have  is  a  born-again  American.  This 
country  is  the  greatest  place  on  earth,  and  even  though  we 
have  some  problems  it  just  keeps  getting  better  and  better  for 
all  of  us.  Let's  remember  that."  Usually,  that  brings  the  house 
down. 

But  Knight  can  also  rip  people  in  his  speeches.  The  first  time 
he  ever  addressed  an  Indiana  alumni  group  he  told  the  audience, 
"You  know,  I  wish  all  alumni  would  be  canonized.  That  way  we 
coaches  would  only  have  to  kiss  your  rings." 

Last  fall,  during  his  annual  speech  to  alumni  in  Chicago,  some- 
one asked  Knight  about  Big  Ten  commissioner  Wayne  Duke,  a 
longtime  antagonist.  "You  know,  if  any  of  you  someday  are  on 
the  street  and  you  see  that  Wayne  Duke  is  about  to  get  run  over 
by  a  car,  I  would  encourage  you,  I  think,  to  try  to  save  him.  But 
not  if  it's  in  any  way  inconvenient  for  you  to  do  so."  Knight  was 
delighted  with  himself  for  that  shot.  Duke  was  furious. 

Mostly,  though.  Knight  delights  during  his  speeches.  He  is 
charming,  signs  every  autograph,  and  has  a  kind  word  for  almost 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    45 


everyone.  He  is  especially  good  with  kids.  "Coach  Knight,"  a 
little  boy  asked  one  night,  "can  I  play  for  you  at  Indiana  some 
day?" 

"How  old  are  you,  son?" 

"Eleven." 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best  to  last  that  long,  but  I  can't  make  any 
promises." 

Knight  also  gives  an  annual  speech  to  the  Indiana  student  body 
in  October.  Always,  the  auditorium  is  packed,  with  kids  hanging 
on  the  rafters.  Knight  will  talk  for  as  long  as  the  students  want 
him  to,  opening  the  floor  for  questions  when  he  is  finished  with 
his  talk. 

Student:  "Coach,  do  you  think  it's  fair  to  make  athletes  submit 
to  drug  testing?" 

Knight:  "If  I  were  in  charge,  I'd  drug  test  all  you  sons-of- 
bitches,  not  just  the  athletes." 

Female  student:  "Coach,  what  do  I  have  to  do  to  become  a 
basketball  team  manager?" 

Knight:  "Change  your  gender." 

Knight's  comments  invariably  draw  some  hoots  and  boos  and 
offend  some  people.  But  for  the  most  part,  the  students  enjoy 
him.  Much  of  that  is  because  there  is  absolutely  no  bullshit  in 
Knight's  approach.  He  doesn't  patronize  them,  speak  down  to 
them,  or  try  to  win  them  to  his  side.  He  just  shows  up  and  answers 
their  questions.  If  some  of  them  don't  like  the  answers,  that's 
life. 

Knight  went  a  step  further  with  the  students  in  the  fall  of  '85, 
opening  practice  to  them  twice.  A  big  crowd  showed  up  each  time, 
and  when  practice  was  over  the  first  time,  one  student  stood  up 
as  the  players  were  leaving  the  floor  and  said,  "Thanks,  coach." 
"You're  welcome,"  Knight  answered,  surprised  at  how  much  he 
had  enjoyed  the  spectators.  "Maybe  we'll  do  it  again."  Sure  enough, 
they  did. 

The  first  few  weeks  of  practice  were  extremely  hectic  for  Knight. 
He  thought  the  six  weeks  before  the  opening  game  on  November 
30  against  Kent  State  were  crucial  for  this  team  because  of  the 
new  players  and  the  new  roles  many  of  the  old  players  were  being 


46     ]ohn  Feinstein 


asked  to  fill.  Each  practice  was  crucial,  and  bad  execution  was 
agonizing  for  him. 

But  there  was  more.  There  was  the  speechmaking.  And  espe- 
cially, there  was  the  new  emphasis  on  recruiting. 

More  than  any  other  area.  Knight  had  been  forced  to  reevaluate 
his  recruiting  following  1985.  The  conclusion  he  reached  was 
simple:  he  had  done  a  poor  job.  Perhaps  the  assistants  were  to 
blame  somewhat  for  not  being  more  critical  in  their  evaluations, 
but  ultimately,  recruiting  is  the  head  coach's  job.  He  must  decide 
who  he  wants  and  then  decide  what  must  be  done  to  get  them. 
If  he  chooses  the  wrong  players  or  can't  get  the  players  he  chooses, 
then  something  is  wrong. 

For  Indiana,  it  was  primarily  a  matter  of  choosing  the  wrong 
players.  Because  Indiana  was  Indiana  and  because  Knight  was 
Knight,  the  school  was  going  to  have  an  excellent  chance  of  re- 
cruiting most  of  the  players  it  went  after,  especially  in  the  Mid- 
west. A  few  players  wouldn't  want  to  play  for  Knight,  and  Knight 
wouldn't  want  some  good  players  playing  for  him.  But  there 
would  be  a  bevy  of  good  players  that  Indiana  could  get. 

Knight's  recruiting  approach,  in  six  years  as  coach  at  West  Point 
and  fifteen  at  Indiana,  has  varied  little.  If  he  wants  a  player  he 
tells  him  why;  he  tells  him  what  his  role  can  be  if  he  comes  to 
Indiana,  and  that  if  he  does  come  to  Indiana,  it  will  be  "the  hardest 
place  in  the  country  to  play."  Very  straightforward.  You  will  go 
to  class  or  you  will  not  play.  You  will  get  yelled  at.  You  will 
graduate.  And  you  will  become  a  better  basketball  player.  It  is, 
like  the  man  himself,  a  black-and-white  approach.  If  you  like  it, 
you'll  sign  right  away.  If  you  don't,  you  run  right  away. 

Knight's  lapse  in  recruiting  in  recent  years  had  hurt  the  pro- 
gram. But  now  he  was  starting  over.  Crews,  the  number  one 
recruiter  for  several  years,  was  gone.  In  his  place  was  Joby  Wright. 
The  new  number  two  recruiter  was  Kohn  Smith.  Wright  and 
Smith  are  about  as  different  as  two  people  can  be.  Wright,  who 
was  thirty-six,  is  black  and  from  Mississippi,  a  huge  man  whose 
laugh  could  fill  an  entire  room.  He  had  been  intensely  recruited 
out  of  high  school  and  had  chosen  Indiana  from  among  the  many 
bidders  for  his  playing  services.  And  that  is  what  they  had  been: 
bidders.  In  Wright's  senior  year,  Knight  became  the  Indiana  coach. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    47 


Everything  changed.  Suddenly,  he  was  being  ordered  to  go  to 
class.  Knight  counseled  him  to  work  toward  the  degree  he  had 
virtually  ignored  for  three  years.  After  Wright  had  played  pro 
ball  for  several  years,  he  returned  to  Indiana  at  Knight's  behest 
and  earned  both  his  undergraduate  and  master's  degrees.  In  1981, 
he  became  a  graduate  assistant  coach,  and  in  1982,  a  full-time 
coach.  He  was  now  the  senior  assistant  coach  on  the  staff. 

The  players  liked  Wright  because  he  spoke  their  language.  He 
made  them  feel  comfortable;  it  was  his  way  of  saying,  "We're 
all  the  same."  The  players  loved  to  tell  the  story  about  the  night 
before  a  game  in  1983  when  Wright  had  decided  to  impart  a  few 
final  words  of  wisdom.  "Now  don't  be  out  chasin'  no  bitches 
tonight,"  Wright  had  said.  "I  guarantee  you  Coach  ain't  out 
chasin'  no  bitches.  So  why  should  you?"  From  that  day  forth, 
Indiana  players  constantly  cautioned  one  another  not  to  be  out 
chasin'  no  bitches  the  night  before  a  game.  Once  when  Knight 
was  trying  to  tell  the  players  that  they  had  better  get  to  bed  at  a 
decent  hour  (Knight  has  never  had  a  specific  curfew),  he  told  them, 
"If  you  boys  think  there's  a  trick  you  can  try  that  I  didn't  pull, 
you're  wrong.  And  if  there  is  one,  I  guarantee  you,  Joby's  tried 
it." 

Kohn  Smith  could  no  more  talk  to  the  players  in  street  language 
than  he  could  talk  to  them  in  Swahili.  He  had  arrived  at  Indiana 
the  summer  after  the  second  national  championship  in  1981.  He 
was  thirty-three,  a  Mormon,  married,  with  three  children  and  a 
fourth  one  due.  He  had  been  raised  in  Utah  and  had  become  a 
successful  high  school  coach  in  Idaho.  He  met  Knight  at  a  coaching 
cHnic,  and  the  two  became  summertime  hunting  and  fishing  part- 
ners. One  reason  Knight  enjoyed  Smith's  company  was  that  Smith 
was  better  than  he  was  at  both  hunting  and  fishing.  Knight  always 
enjoyed  competing  with  people  who  were  tough  to  beat,  regardless 
of  the  sport  or  setting.  Smith  was  delighted  when  Knight  offered 
him  not  just  a  college  coaching  job  but  a  job  at  Indiana,  the 
defending  national  champion.  Smith's  role  with  the  players  was 
that  of  a  soother;  when  Knight  blistered  the  paint  off  the  locker 
room  walls  with  his  harsh  words,  he  would  often  send  Smith  back 
to  check  the  damage. 

Most  mornings  when  the  coaches  gathered  to  talk  about  the 


48     John  Feinstein 


day's  practice  plan,  Knight  would  begin  by  saying,  "Joby,  did  we 
recruit  anybody  today?"  And  Wright  would  shake  his  head  and 
answer,  "Well,  Coach,  we're  hangin'  in  there." 

These  meetings  took  place  in  the  coaches'  locker  room.  The 
players'  locker  room  sits  on  one  side  of  Assembly  Hall  and  that 
of  the  coaches  on  the  other.  This  gives  both  players  and  coaches 
an  oft-needed  feeling  of  separation.  The  coaches'  locker  room  was 
known  to  one  and  all  as  "the  cave,"  partly  because  it  was  on  the 
basement  floor  of  the  building,  but  more  because  of  the  long  hours 
the  coaches  put  in  there. 

The  room  was  comfortable,  but  it  often  felt  like  a  prison.  This 
was  where  the  coaching  staff  did  most  of  its  work.  After  games 
they  would  sit  in  the  cave  for  hours  going  through  the  tape  of 
the  game.  Knight  would  sit  in  his  chair  working  the  remote  control 
while  all  the  coaches  sat  around  him.  Everyone  had  pen  and  pad 
out  to  take  notes.  After  a  bad  game,  it  might  take  hours  to  get 
through  the  tape  because  Knight  would  run  back  the  poor  plays 
so  many  times.  Garl  would  go  out  and  bring  back  huge  quantities 
of  food.  No  one  ever  went  hungry  at  Indiana — sleepless,  yes; 
hungry,  no.  There  were  times  when  the  secretaries  arrived  the 
morning  after  a  loss  to  find  the  coaches  still  in  the  cave,  having 
not  gone  home  yet.  Wright,  Smith,  and  Waltman  were  veterans 
of  the  long  postgame  sessions  and  were  accustomed  to  them. 
Felling  had  some  trouble  adjusting;  he  occasionally  nodded  off  to 
sleep  while  sitting  on  the  couch  as  the  tape  ran  on  and  on. 

Wright  and  Smith  were  encouraged  by  Knight's  attitude  toward 
their  recruiting  reports.  He  was  interested,  even  eager,  and  when 
Wright  would  suggest  that  Knight  go  to  see  a  player  practice,  he 
was  delighted  when  Knight  willingly  went.  Early  in  December, 
Knight  even  flew  up  to  Elkhart  to  watch  a  6-10  high  school  soph- 
omore named  Sean  Kemp  practice.  A  sophomore;  this  was  a  break- 
through. 

Knight  needed  to  see  players — lots  of  them,  and  often.  If  he 
didn't,  emotional  as  he  was  in  his  evaluations  of  the  players  al- 
ready at  Indiana,  he  might  see  a  kid  once  and  decide  he  was  better 
than  anyone  he  had,  simply  because  on  that  night  anyone  would 
seem  better  than  the  players  he  had.  Indiana's  recruiting  thus  far 
in  the  1980s  might  best  be  summed  up  by  the  sad  case  of  Delray 
Brooks. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    49 


Anyone  who  ever  met  Delray  Brooks  would  put  him  on  the 
Ust  of  the  five  nicest  people  they  had  ever  known.  He  was  gen- 
erous, sweet-tempered,  patient,  funny,  and  everything  you  would 
want  in  a  friend.  He  was,  almost  without  question,  the  best-liked 
player  on  the  Indiana  team.  He  was  as  comfortable  with  the  white 
players  as  he  was  with  the  other  blacks;  even  on  a  team  like 
Indiana's,  where  racial  problems  seemed  almost  nonexistent,  this 
was  unusual. 

If  Brooks  had  been  just  another  guard  trying  to  make  it  in 
college  when  he  came  to  Indiana,  he  might  have  had  a  happy  four 
years  there.  But  Brooks  was  one  of  those  high  school  kids  built 
into  a  phenomenon  by  the  time  he  was  sixteen  years  old.  He  was 
almost  6-4  with  long  arms.  He  was  mature  beyond  his  years,  and 
his  size  allowed  him  to  dominate  high  school  guards  while  playing 
at  Rogers  High  School  in  Michigan  City,  Indiana. 

By  his  junior  year,  everyone  in  the  country  was  recruiting 
Brooks.  When  he  visited  Notre  Dame  to  see  the  Irish  play  Indiana 
that  year.  Knight  grabbed  him  before  the  game  and  told  him, 
"Delray,  we  need  you  at  Indiana.  I  expect  to  see  you  there." 
Brooks  was  thrilled.  Bob  Knight  needed  him. 

That  summer,  Brooks  was  the  big  name  at  the  Five-Star  Bas- 
ketball Camp — the  basketball  camp  at  the  time — winning  most  of 
the  awards.  Knight  had  seen  him  play  only  once,  during  his  junior 
year,  a  game  in  which  Brooks  played  little  because  of  foul  trouble. 
And  so,  when  the  early  signing  date  for  high  school  seniors  rolled 
around  that  November,  Brooks  chose  Indiana.  Knight  was  thrilled 
at  the  thought  of  Brooks  and  Alford  in  the  same  backcourt.  It 
looked  like  a  dream  backcourt.  Because  of  Brooks,  he  didn't  even 
try  to  recruit  Gary  Grant,  who  went  on  to  Michigan,  or  Troy 
Lewis,  who  landed  at  Purdue.  Both  would  have  been  very  inter- 
ested in  Indiana.  Both  turned  out  to  be  better  players  than  Brooks. 

Throughout  the  1983-84  season,  whenever  Alford  screwed  up 
in  practice  Knight  would  tell  him,  "When  Delray  Brooks  gets  here 
next  year,  you'll  never  play.  Your  ass  will  be  so  far  down  the 
bench,  no  one  will  ever  hear  from  you  again. " 

These  pronouncements  hardly  shook  Alford.  Knight's  telling 
players  that  they  would  never  play  again  was  hardly  unusual.  His 
most  famous  pronouncement  along  those  lines  came  in  1981  after 
a  loss  at  Purdue.  On  the  bus  trip  home.  Knight  walked  back  to 


50    ]ohn  Feinstein 


where  Isiah  Thomas  was  sitting.  "Isiah,"  Knight  roared,  "Next 
year  we're  bringing  in  Dan  Dakich.  He  can  do  so  many  things 
on  a  basketball  court  that  you  can't  do,  it  isn't  even  funny." 

Comparing  Dakich  to  Isiah  Thomas  was  a  little  bit  Hke  com- 
paring a  horse  and  buggy  to  a  jet.  Older  players  constantly  kidded 
Dakich  about  all  the  things  he  could  do  that  Thomas  couldn't: 
not  jump,  not  run.  .  .  . 

When  Brooks  did  arrive,  his  teammates  were  shocked.  Not  only 
had  he  been  considered  one  of  the  three  best  high  school  players 
in  the  country  the  previous  spring,  he  had  been  one  of  two  high 
school  players  Knight  had  invited  to  the  Olympic  Trials.  "I  knew 
I  was  over  my  head  pretty  quickly,"  Brooks  remembered.  "First, 
they  had  me  guard  Johnny  Dawkins.  He  made  one  move  and  was 
gone.  Then,  they  had  me  guard  Alvin  Robertson.  Same  thing.  I 
thought,  'Oh  boy,  Delray,  you  have  a  problem  here.'  " 

Not  being  able  to  guard  Dawkins  or  Robertson  hardly  made 
Brooks  unusual.  What  shocked  Brooks's  new  teammates  was  that 
he  had  trouble  guarding  them.  "I  had  heard  so  much  about  him 
I  didn't  think  I'd  even  be  able  to  play  with  him,"  said  Steve  Eyl, 
who  was  in  the  same  recruiting  class.  "When  we  played  pickup 
ball,  though,  it  was  like  no  big  deal  to  guard  him.  I  couldn't 
understand  it." 

Neither  could  Knight.  He  had  expected  a  taller  version  of  Isiah 
Thomas,  or  at  least  someone  who  played  like  1983  graduate  Jim 
Thomas.  He  got  neither.  Brooks  was  not  a  good  shooter — he  had 
scored  most  of  his  high  school  points  by  getting  inside  against 
smaller  players — was  not  a  great  jumper  and  had  trouble  playing 
man-to-man  defense.  He  was  cursed  by  his  feet,  which  were  big 
and  slow.  Brooks's  body — long  arms,  bad  feet — was  built  to  play 
zone  defense.  Indiana  played  only  man-to-man,  and  Brooks,  though 
he  tried  mightily,  simply  got  lost  trying  to  make  the  cuts  and 
switches  necessary  in  man-to-man. 

If  Knight  had  seen  Brooks  play  eight  or  ten  times,  he  would 
have  known  these  things  about  him  before  signing  him.  Instead, 
as  they  became  more  apparent  with  each  passing  practice.  Knight 
became  more  and  more  depressed.  He  wanted  desperately  for 
Brooks  to  succeed  at  Indiana  because  he  liked  him  so  much.  But 
as  Brooks's  sophomore  season  began  this  fall.  Knight  was  con- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    51 


vinced  with  each  passing  day  that  he  would  never  find  happiness 
playing  at  Indiana. 

Brooks  was  the  kind  of  person  Knight  looked  for,  but  not  the 
kind  of  player.  To  be  successful  at  Indiana,  you  had  to  be  both. 
That  was  why,  even  now,  Knight  still  shied  away  from  some 
players  who  were  clearly  good.  A  good  example  of  this  was  Tion 
McCoy.  Quick  and  spidery,  McCoy  was  a  6-2  guard  from  Ham- 
mond. He  played  for  Jack  Gaber,  one  of  Knight's  former  man- 
agers. 

Knight  and  his  assistants  had  visited  McCoy's  home  early  in 
the  fall.  The  family  had  seemed  interested,  even  eager,  but  after 
the  visit,  Knight  heard  secondhand  that  McCoy  and  his  family 
were  telling  people  that  Gaber  was  trying  to  con  McCoy  into 
going  to  Indiana.  Oklahoma  or  Maryland,  they  said,  might  be  a 
better  place  for  him.  This  kind  of  talk  turned  Knight  off;  he  didn't 
like  Billy  Tubbs,  the  Oklahoma  coach,  as  a  person,  and  he  couldn't 
imagine  a  good  player  choosing  to  play  for  Lefty  Driesell  at  Mary- 
land over  him  even  though  he  did  like  Driesell  personally. 

When  McCoy  showed  up  at  the  first  Sunday  afternoon  scrim- 
mage of  the  season  in  late  October,  Knight  told  him  exactly  what 
he  thought  of  him.  "Why  don't  you  go  play  at  Oklahoma?"  he 
said,  his  voice  dripping  with  sarcasm.  "The  last  time  we  played 
them  they  had  Wayman  Tisdale  and  a  lot  more  talent  than  us, 
and  we  beat  them  by  fifteen.  Or  Maryland  would  be  great.  The 
last  time  we  played  them  they  had  Buck  Williams  and  Albert  King 
and  we  only  beat  them  by  thirty-five.  You  want  to  be  a  good 
player,  Tion?  Those  are  the  places  for  you." 

McCoy  was  apparently  undaunted  by  this  talk.  A  week  later, 
Gaber  called  and  said  McCoy  would  like  to  come  down  for  an 
official  visit  that  weekend.  Knight  agreed,  but  told  Gaber,  "I  have 
some  problems  with  the  way  he's  handled  being  recruited.  I  can't 
see  us  offering  him  a  scholarship  now.  Maybe  in  the  spring,  but 
not  now.  Tell  him  that,  and  if  he  still  wants  to  come  down,  that'll 
be  fine." 

McCoy  still  wanted  to  come.  This  intrigued  Knight;  if  the  kid 
was  looking  for  the  easy  way  out,  it  had  been  offered  to  him.  Yet 
he  still  wanted  to  visit.  That  Sunday,  during  the  scrimmage. 
Knight  sat  at  the  scorer's  table  with  his  arm  around  McCoy  and 


52     John  Feinstein 


talked  to  him  about  what  he  would  expect  of  him  if  he  came  to 
Indiana;  what  he  would  have  to  work  on.  McCoy  said  he  wanted 
to  come.  "Well,  Tion,  if  you  still  want  to  come  in  the  spring,  we 
can  talk,"  Knight  said.  "But  right  now,  we  don't  have  a  scholarship 
to  offer  you,  just  like  I  told  Jack  on  the  phone. " 

Knight  was  being  honest.  At  that  moment  Indiana  had  fifteen 
players  on  scholarship— the  NCAA  limit— and  it  had  Morgan 
playing  without  a  scholarship.  Two  scholarship  players.  Stew  Rob- 
inson and  Courtney  Witte,  would  graduate  in  the  spring.  Two 
players,  6-11  junior  college  sophomore  Dean  Garrett  and  6-6 
Cincinnati  high  school  senior  David  Minor,  had  already  been 
offered  and  had  accepted  those  two  scholarships.  Knight  suspected 
that  the  situation  might  change  by  spring,  but  at  that  moment 
he  had  no  scholarships.  McCoy  was  welcome  to  wait,  he  said,  but 
there  would  be  no  hard  feeUngs  if  he  didn't  since  Knight  could 
not  and  would  not  promise  him  a  scholarship. 

A  week  later,  McCoy  announced  that,  after  careful  consider- 
ation, he  had  chosen  Maryland  over  Indiana  and  Oklahoma.  Read- 
ing this  in  the  newspaper.  Knight  smiled.  "Outrecruited  again," 
he  said.  His  gut  had  told  him  McCoy  wasn't  right  for  Indiana. 
What  was  important,  though,  was  that  he  had  done  his  homework 
on  the  player  before  making  a  decision  one  way  or  the  other. 

Putting  down  the  paper.  Knight  looked  at  Wright.  "Joby,"  he 
said,  "did  we  recruit  anybody  today?" 

"Coach,"  Wright  answered,  "we're  hangin'  in  there. "  This  year 
they  were  doing  just  that. 

Knight  had  one  other  major  responsibility  as  he  prepared  for 
the  start  of  the  season:  Patrick  Knight.  On  the  day  before  practice 
started,  Nancy  Knight  left  Bloomington  for  a  ten-week  stay  at 
Duke  University.  There,  she  would  go  through  Duke's  famed  "rice 
diet,"  and  return  home  in  December  thirty-five  pounds  lighter. 

With  his  wife  gone.  Knight  found  himself  a  bachelor  father  for 
Patrick,  who  had  turned  fifteen  in  September.  As  things  turned 
out.  Knight  enjoyed  the  experience — except  for  the  inevitable 
rumors  that  cropped  up  with  Nancy  Knight  away.  They  were 
wrong,  scurrilous,  in  some  cases  cruel.  Father  and  son  learned  to 
laugh  when  they  heard  them.  One  day,  a  friend  of  Pat  Knight's 
asked  him  if  the  rumors  about  his  father  were  true.  "Oh,  yeah," 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    53 


Pat  Knight  answered,  "he  brings  a  different  girl  home  every  Friday 
night."  The  only  thing  Knight  was  bringing  home  were  tapes  of 
that  day's  practice,  some  ice  cream,  and  an  occasional  stray  re- 
porter. Their  marriage  was  in  trouble,  and  Knight  filed  for  divorce 
after  the  end  of  the  season,  but  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  wild 
rumors. 

Bob  and  Pat  Knight  were  a  true  Odd  Couple.  If  one  wanted  to 
imagine  what  the  father  had  been  like  at  fifteen,  one  needed  only 
to  look  at  Pat.  He  had  shot  up  to  6-2  over  the  summer,  a  fact 
that  disturbed  his  older  brother,  Tim,  no  end.  Tim  was  twenty- 
one,  a  Stanford  senior.  He  was  stocky,  built  more  hke  his  mother 
than  his  father,  and  had  never  made  it  past  six  feet.  When  he 
returned  home  for  Christmas  vacation,  Pat  made  a  point  of  walk- 
ing up  to  him  whenever  he  could  to  point  out  the  difference  in 
height. 

Pat's  weight  had  not  caught  up  with  his  height.  He  weighed 
135  pounds— mayb^-and  had  a  typical  teenage  diet:  soda  for 
breakfast,  McDonald's  for  lunch,  dinner,  and  sometimes  a  late 
snack.  His  father  tried  to  wean  him  of  such  things  with  about  as 
much  success  as  most  fathers  have. 

Their  relationship  was  interesting.  Bob  Knight's  world  was  filled 
with  people  intimidated  by  him  in  one  form  or  another.  He  was, 
almost  always,  the  controller  and  dictator  of  his  relationships. 
Things  were  done  on  his  terms  or  they  were  not  done  at  all.  Few 
people — coaches,  players,  professors,  writers — had  any  interest  in 
incurring  his  wrath.  But  to  Pat  Knight,  he  was  just  dad,  a  guy 
who  had  a  knack  for  locking  his  keys  in  his  car  or  forgetting  his 
garage  door  opener. 

When  Bob  Knight  ran  his  brand-new  car  through  a  flooded  road 
one  day  and  drowned  its  computer  system,  there  were  a  lot  of 
suppressed  giggles  at  Assembly  Hall.  When  Pat  Knight  heard  what 
his  father  had  done,  he  just  looked  at  him  and  said,  "Boy,  are 
you  stupid."  He  was  right  and  his  father  knew  it.  He  just  glared 
at  his  son  as  if  to  say,  "Who  asked  you?" 

No  one  had.  But  you  didn't  need  to  ask  Pat  Knight  for  his 
opinion  in  order  to  hear  it.  Like  his  father,  he  was  sharp-witted 
and  sharp-tongued,  bright  and  clever.  He  won  most  arguments 
with  his  father:  "I  want  you  in  at  10  o'clock,  not  a  minute  later." 
"But  I  can't  get  a  ride  until  10:30."  "Okay,  be  in  by  10:45." 


54    John  Feinstein 


Inevitably,  Pat  would  show  up  at  11:30  with  some  explanation. 
"Everyone  else  was  hungry,  so  we  had  to  stop  to  eat.  I  told  them 
not  to,  but  they  made  me." 

Knight  tried  to  get  angry,  but  really  couldn't.  "The  problem," 
he  said  one  night,  "is  I  like  him  too  much  and  he  knows  it." 

Being  a  single  father  wasn't  always  easy.  When  Pat  got  sick 
during  the  day  at  school,  the  single  father  had  to  go  pick  him  up. 
Sometimes,  if  Pat  needed  a  ride  in  the  middle  of  practice.  Knight 
would  have  one  of  the  managers  go  get  him,  but  more  often  than 
not  he  did  the  chauffeuring  himself.  He  also  spent  as  much  time 
as  he  could  working  with  Pat  on  his  game. 

Pat  Knight,  unlike  his  older  brother,  is  a  basketball  player.  He 
is  a  good  shooter  who,  like  his  father,  has  a  knack  for  seeing  the 
game  developing  in  front  of  him.  He  is  an  excellent  passer  for 
someone  his  age,  and  occasionally  when  he  makes  a  good  pass 
during  a  game,  his  father  has  to  restrain  his  excitement.  Pat  Knight 
was  a  starting  forward  on  the  Bloomington  North  freshman  team, 
and  whenever  he  played  Bob  Knight  would  slip  in,  sit  in  as  un- 
obtrusive a  spot  as  he  could  find  and  watch  the  game  impassively. 
After  the  game  he  would  wait  until  Pat  asked  for  his  opinion  on 
his  play  before  he  gave  it. 

Softly,  he  would  push  every  now  and  then.  "You  really  should 
come  in  early  and  work  on  your  foul  shooting. "  But  for  the  most 
part  he  left  it  up  to  Pat.  If  he  was  going  to  become  a  good  player, 
it  had  to  be  because  he  wanted  to,  not  because  his  father  wanted 
him  to.  If  twenty-four  years  as  a  coach  had  taught  Bob  Knight 
anything,  it  was  the  dangers  of  pushy  parents.  If  Pat  wanted  help 
from  his  father,  it  would  be  there.  But  it  would  only  be  forth- 
coming if  solicited. 

Each  day,  Pat  would  call  after  his  practice  was  over,  looking  for 
a  ride.  Each  day,  the  father's  side  of  the  conversation  sounded 
like  this: 

"Did  you  have  a  good  practice?  .  .  .  Uh-huh.  ...  Did  you 
guard  anybody?  .  .  .  Uh-huh.  ...  Did  you  hit  any  shots?  .  .  . 
Uh-huh.  .  .  .  Were  you  tough?  .  .  .  Uh-huh.  .  .  .  Patrick,  how 
come  you  say  yes  to  all  my  questions  every  day?  No  one  is  that 
good." 

The  coaches,  listening  to  their  boss,  enjoyed  the  looseness  that 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    55 


Patrick  brought  out  in  his  father.  They  thought  it  was  healthy 
for  him,  especially  if  it  kept  him  from  getting  upset  after  a  bad 
practice. 

There  were  bad  practices.  Some  days  the  team  would  practice 
well  for  an  hour,  then  get  tired.  Some  days  it  would  drill  well 
and  then  scrimmage  poorly.  Practice  started  every  day  at  about 
3:30.  The  players  would  usually  get  to  the  gym  at  about  2:30  to 
get  taped  and  to  warm  up.  Their  latest  classes  were  over  at  2:15. 
Knight  was  kept  apprised  of  the  players'  academic  progress  by 
the  athletic  department's  academic  supervisor  Elizabeth  (Buzz) 
Kurpius.  If  a  player  was  struggling  with  a  class,  or  cutting  a  class, 
or  missing  a  session  with  a  tutor,  Kurpius  would  be  informed. 
She  would  then  pass  the  information  on  to  Knight  and  to  Walt- 
man,  the  assistant  coach  responsible  for  monitoring  the  players' 
academic  progress  and  making  certain  they  were  doing  what  they 
were  supposed  to. 

Cutting  class  and  cutting  a  tutor  were  inexcusable  offenses  at 
Indiana.  Giomi  had  been  dismissed  because  of  a  pattern  of  cut 
classes.  If  Kurpius  sent  Knight  a  notice  about  a  missed  class,  the 
player  was  asked  to  explain  his  absence.  Short  of  a  hurricane  or 
a  flood,  no  excuse  was  accepted.  The  same  was  true  of  a  missed 
tutor.  The  guilty  player  might  have  to  run  the  steps  after  practice 
or,  in  the  case  of  a  tutoring  session,  might  not  be  allowed  to 
practice  until  he  had  seen  the  tutor. 

Knight's  toughness  in  this  area  was  consistent  with  his  approach 
throughout  his  coaching  career.  When  he  recruited  a  player  he 
told  him  that  he  would  have  to  go  to  class  to  play,  and  that  he 
would  be  expected  to  graduate.  Certainly,  parents  hearing  this 
were  bound  to  feel  kindly  toward  Indiana,  but  Knight  had  the 
record  to  back  up  what  he  said:  In  fourteen  years  at  Indiana  only 
two  players  who  had  stayed  four  years  had  failed  to  graduate. 
One  of  them.  Bob  Wilkerson,  had  all  the  necessary  credits  but 
needed  to  fulfill  a  student  teaching  requirement.  The  three  seniors 
on  the  '86  team— Morgan,  Robinson,  and  Witte— were  all  on 
schedule  for  graduation  in  the  spring. 

Knight  tells  players  that  he  doesn't  think  a  player  who  cuts 
class  can  succeed  as  a  basketball  player  in  his  program.  Going  to 


56     John  Feinstein 


class  requires  a  minimal  amount  of  discipline,  and  if  you  don't 
have  that,  you  probably  don't  have  the  discipline  needed  to  learn 
Knight's  system  and  flourish  in  it.  "I  have  never  had  a  good  player 
who  cut  class,"  Knight  often  said.  "I  just  don't  think  that  kind 
of  kid  can  play  for  me." 

There  might  have  been  exceptions.  But  they  didn't  last  long 
enough  for  Knight  to  find  that  out. 

Once  practice  began,  there  was  not  a  lot  of  free  time  for  the 
players.  They  had  classes,  practices,  tape  sessions  with  the  coaches, 
and  study  time.  There  was  not  a  lot  of  party  time.  That  was  one 
reason  why  Knight  had  very  few  specific  rules.  There  was  no 
curfew  at  Indiana,  even  during  the  season.  The  players  knew  they 
were  expected  to  stay  out  of  bars  during  the  season  even  if  they 
weren't  drinking,  and  they  were  told  to  exercise  judgment  about 
the  hours  they  kept.  With  the  schedule  most  of  them  had  to 
follow,  good  judgment  usually  meant  eating  dinner  after  practice, 
doing  some  studying,  and  going  to  bed— exhausted.  This  was 
especially  true  of  Alford,  a  business  major,  who  was  taking  a 
special  advanced  course  known  as  A-Core.  The  course  was  accel- 
erated, and  the  professor  didn't  pardculady  Hke  basketball  players. 
Alford  was  struggling. 

And  this  was  still  only  October. 


5- 


November 

November  is  the  toughest  month  for  any  college  basketball  team. 
The  excitement  of  starting  practice  on  October  15  has  worn  off, 
and  practice  has  become  drudgery.  There  are  no  games  to  prepare 
for  or  get  excited  about.  There  is  no  crowd  to  provide  electricity 
or  support.  There  is  just  day  after  day  of  practice— the  same  faces, 
the  same  coaches,  the  same  drills,  the  same  teammates. 

This  is  especially  true  at  Indiana.  Winter  is  closing  in  rapidly 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    57 


The  days  are  cold,  sunless,  and  depressing.  In  1985,  it  rained  in 
Bloomington  for  twenty-seven  of  November's  thirty  days.  It  wasn't 
just  a  drizzle  breaking  up  a  sunny  day  but  cold,  steady,  depressing 
rain.  And  for  this  team,  the  weather  and  the  drudgery  were  only 
part  of  the  difficulty.  Right  next  to  the  cloud  that  dumped  rain 
every  day  was  an  even  darker  cloud:  the  specter  of  last  season. 
Each  time  practice  went  poorly,  last  season  would  come  up.  "If 
you  guys  think  I  was  an  awful  sonofabitch  last  year,  you  haven't 
seen  anything  yet,"  Knight  said  angrily  one  day.  "You  boys  better 
think  about  that." 

They  did.  Constantly.  Pushed  by  Knight,  Alford  had  assumed 
the  role  of  leader  on  this  team.  He  received  a  good  deal  of  help 
in  this  area  from  Stew  Robinson,  a  senior  and  a  natural  leader. 
Often,  Knight  and  the  coaches  would  leave  the  players  alone  in 
the  locker  room  to  talk  after  a  bad  practice  or  a  bad  scrimmage. 
"I  don't  know  about  you  guys,"  Alford  said  one  day,  "but  I  can't 
live  through  another  season  like  the  last  one.  We  have  got  to  start 
playing  better. " 

Knight  knew  the  team  was  working  hard,  and  occasionally  he 
would  loosen  up  to  show  the  players  that  he  was  aware  of  their 
effort.  One  day  before  practice  Knight  turned  to  Kreigh  Smith 
and  said,  "Kreigh,  what  do  you  think  we  should  work  on  today? 
I  need  a  few  ideas  for  practice." 

This  was  in  the  locker  room  after  the  players  had  finished 
warming  up.  That  is  the  routine  each  day:  Knight  walks  out  of 
his  locker  room  and  announces,  "Let's  go  inside."  Everyone  re- 
treats to  the  locker  room,  where  Knight  will  brief  them  on  that 
day's  practice  plan.  He  can  talk  for  thirty  seconds  or  for  fifteen 
minutes,  depending  on  the  day  and  his  mood. 

Smith,  a  6-7  sophomore  from  Tipton,  Indiana,  was  one  of  Knight's 
favorite  targets.  He  was  a  small-town  kid  who  Knight  thought 
had  the  potential  to  be  as  good  as  Randy  Wittman.  But  Smith's 
concentration  sometimes  wandered,  and  Knight  had  gotten  in  the 
habit  of  calling  him  "Tipton."  The  reason:  "I  often  wonder  if  he 
understands  that  our  schedule  is  a  little  tougher  than  the  one  he 
played  at  Tipton  High  School." 

In  truth.  Smith  was  a  lot  more  savvy  than  Knight  gave  him 
credit  for.  One  day  in  practice.  Smith  lost  his  man  on  defense. 


58    ]ohn  Feinstein 


The  man  he  should  have  been  guarding  was  Morgan,  who  had 
grown  up  in  Anderson,  Indiana. 

"Tipton,"  Knight  yelled,  "who  are  you  supposed  to  be  guard- 
ing?" 

"Anderson,"  Smith  answered  without  batting  an  eye. 

Knight  paused,  his  face  breaking  into  a  grin.  "That's  pretty 
good,  Tipton,"  he  said,  "but  remember,  there's  only  one  goddamn 
comedian  on  this  team." 

Now,  in  the  locker  room,  the  comedian  was  asking  Tipton  for 
some  ideas  for  practice.  Smith  knew  he  was  being  set  up,  but 
didn't  have  much  choice  but  to  go  along.  "I  think  we  should  work 
on  conversion  defense,"  he  said,  bringing  up  the  area  that  had 
been  bothering  Knight  lately,  the  team's  inability  to  get  back  on 
defense. 

"That's  good,  Kreigh,"  Knight  said,  still  straight-faced.  "I  really 
want  everybody  to  help  with  practice  and  I  thought  I  would  start 
with  you,  as  one  of  the  most  in-depth  thinkers  on  the  team." 

The  other  players  were  beginning  to  convulse  with  giggles. 

"Conversion  defense,  okay,"  Knight  continued.  "What  else?" 

"The  press,"  Smith  answered.  "I  think  we  should  work  on  the 
press." 

"You  know  I've  always  said,  you  can  beat  a  bad  team  with  a 
press  but  not  a  good  team.  You  still  want  to  work  on  the  press?" 

"No." 

"Now,  Kreigh,  don't  let  me  intimidate  you." 

The  whole  room  broke  up.  Knight  was  still  smiling  when  he 
walked  onto  the  floor.  So  were  the  players.  In  November,  every 
light  moment  was  greatly  appreciated. 

Such  byplay  was  the  exception,  though,  not  the  rule.  Practice 
was,  for  the  most  part,  all  business.  Time  and  again  Knight  re- 
minded his  players  that  basketball  is  not  an  easy  game  to  play. 
"It  is  the  toughest  game  in  the  world  to  play,"  he  said  one  day. 
"There  are  no  huddles,  no  time  between  pitches,  no  breaks.  You 
have  to  be  able  to  think  on  every  possession.  If  you  can't  think, 
you  can't  play." 

Not  thinking,  to  Knight,  was  a  cardinal  sin.  Players  were  going 
to  miss  jump  shots,  they  were  going  to  mishandle  the  ball,  and 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    59 


they  were  going  to  throw  bad  passes.  Knight  almost  never  got  on 
a  player  for  missing  a  shot,  unless  the  shot  was  a  foolish  one. 
But  some  things  were  unforgivable:  not  boxing  out,  not  knowing 
where  your  man  was  on  defense,  not  setting  a  proper  screen. 
Those  were  mental  errors  caused  by  a  lack  of  concentration.  There 
was  no  excuse — none — for  not  concentrating. 

Indiana's  practices  were  never  very  long;  usually  they  lasted 
about  two  hours.  Knight  didn't  think  the  players  could  concentrate 
for  much  longer  than  that.  During  those  two  hours,  though,  there 
was  no  wasted  motion.  When  the  players  needed  a  rest  they  got 
one — by  shooting  free  throws. 

By  the  time  November  started,  everyone  noticed  a  change  in 
Knight.  There  were  still  explosions.  There  were  moments  when 
he  would  stop  practice  and  say,  "There  is  no  way  you  can  play 
basketball  like  this  and  beat  anybody  on  our  schedule.  Not  any- 
body. Not  one  of  the  twenty-eight  games  we  play  could  you  wiri. 
I  couldn't  make  a  schedule  easy  enough  for  you  people  to  play." 

But  more  often  when  he  stopped  play  it  was  to  instruct,  to 
teach.  That  had  been  missing  the  previous  season.  Then,  Knight 
had  left  more  of  the  instruction  up  to  the  assistants  while  he  sat 
on  the  sidelines  with  Bob  Hammel  or  Ed  WiUiams  or  Ralph  Floyd 
or  whoever  happened  to  be  at  practice  that  day.  But  now.  Knight 
coached  aggressively  every  day.  He  knew  that  each  player  on  the 
team  had  to  be  better  on  November  30  than  he  had  been  on 
October  15  if  Indiana  was  to  succeed  this  season.  And  so  Knight 
worked  as  hard  in  preseason  as  he  had  in  years. 

The  players  were  delighted.  This  was  the  Bob  Knight  they  had 
come  to  Indiana  to  play  for.  His  teaching  methods  were  hardly 
gentle  but  that  didn't  matter;  they  didn't  expect  or  want  that. 
The  players  liked  the  assistant  coaches  and  thought  they  were 
good  teachers,  but  they  had  come  to  Indiana  to  learn  from  Knight. 
Each  day  he  was  out  on  the  floor,  demonstrating  what  he  wanted 
done,  taking  them  by  the  arm  literally  and  by  the  hand  figuratively 
to  show  them  the  proper  way  to  execute. 

Two  players  were  getting  special  attention:  Harris  and  Callo- 
way. Each  was  about  as  good  an  athlete  as  Knight  had  ever  re- 
cruited. Harris  was  two  years  older  than  Calloway,  but  Calloway 
was  a  quicker  learner.  Almost  from  the  beginning.  Knight  as- 


60    ]ohn  Feinstein 


signed  Dakich  to  work  with  Calloway  whenever  there  was  free 
time.  It  was  unusual  for  Knight  to  single  out  a  player  this  way, 
but  he  thought  Dakich  could  help  Calloway,  especially  since  he 
had  just  graduated  that  past  spring. 

They  were  an  odd  duo.  Calloway  was  a  wonderful  athlete  who 
knew  very  little  about  playing  the  game.  Dakich  was  the  exact 
opposite — a  nonathlete  who  knew  lots  about  playing  the  game. 
If  Dakich  could  put  his  knowledge  into  Calloway's  body,  Indiana 
would  have  an  excellent  basketball  player. 

Calloway  was  a  willing  pupil,  but  Harris  was  not  as  easy  to 
deal  with.  Clearly,  he  was  not  used  to  being  yelled  at,  and  when 
he  did  get  yelled  at  he  tended  to  sulk.  Knight  loved  Harris's  athletic 
ability,  and  was  relatively  easy  on  him  at  first.  But  Harris's  prog- 
ress was  slow.  Some  days  he  would  dominate  practice.  On  others 
he  took  bad  shots  and  made  mental  mistakes.  Also,  the  coaches 
could  not  understand  how  someone  who  could  jump  hke  Harris 
got  so  few  rebounds  in  practice  every  day. 

Harris  and  Jadlow,  the  two  junior  college  players,  were  both 
adjusting  to  their  new  environment.  Harris  was  quiet  by  nature 
and  Jadlow  wasn't  very  mature;  this  made  life  difficult  for  the 
two  of  them  at  times.  Harris  came  across  as  stuck-up  to  some  of 
his  teammates,  many  of  whom  quickly  grew  tired  of  hearing 
Knight  talk  about  what  a  great  athlete  Harris  was.  Their  attitude 
was,  "Great  athlete,  okay  fine.  But  does  that  mean  he  doesn't  get 
yelled  at  the  way  the  rest  of  us  do?" 

There  was  one  other  group  less  than  thrilled  with  Harris:  the 
managers.  At  Indiana,  managers  play  a  crucial  role  in  the  day- 
to-day  running  of  the  team.  Knight  usually  has  a  minimum  of 
twelve.  The  senior  managers,  who  are  given  scholarships  if  they 
have  been  managers  since  their  freshman  year,  interview  and 
select  prospective  managers  each  fall.  Often,  Knight's  managers 
go  into  coaching,  the  best  example  being  Chuck  Swenson,  now 
the  number  one  assistant  at  Duke. 

There  were  four  senior  managers  on  this  team:  Jim  Kelly,  Bill 
Himebrook,  Jeff  Stuckey,  and  Mark  Sims.  Harris  met  Kelly  first, 
and  proceeded  to  call  every  senior  manager  Jim.  Eventually,  the 
managers  began  calling  one  another  Jim.  Later  in  the  season,  the 
managers  put  together  a  takeoff  on  the  Chicago  Bears'  "Super  Bowl 
Shuffle."  They  called  it  "The  Managers  Shuffle,"  and  it  included  a 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    61 


line  that  went,  "Andre  Harris,  he  can  jump  right  over  the  rim  but  he 
calls  all  the  managers  by  the  name  of  Jim. "  Harris  did  eventually 
learn  all  four  names,  but  still  had  trouble  at  times  because  other 
players  would  intentionally  call  Bill  "Jim,"  or  Mark  "Jeff . " 

Through  it  all,  Harris  hung  in,  and  before  the  season  was  over 
he  began  playing  up  to  the  potential  that  showed  up  in  flashes 
during  November.  But  it  was  not  an  easy  process  for  the  player, 
the  coaches,  or  the  managers. 

The  first  break  in  the  daily  practice  routine  was  looming.  On 
November  9,  the  Czechoslovakian  national  team  would  come  to 
town  for  an  exhibition  game.  Teams  are  allowed  to  play  one 
preseason  exhibition  game  under  NCAA  rules,  and  Indiana  usu- 
ally played  one  seven  days  before  the  opener.  But  this  year  Knight 
had  moved  it  up,  partly  because  of  the  Czech  tour  schedule,  partly 
because  he  thought  an  earlier  break  in  the  practice  routine  would 
be  healthy. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  week,  the  coaches  knew  who  would  be 
in  the  starting  lineup:  Alford  and  Robinson  at  guard;  Morgan, 
Harris,  and  Thomas  up  front.  The  only  other  serious  candidate 
to  start  was  Calloway,  and  Knight  saw  no  reason  to  push  him. 
Robinson  was  a  senior,  he  should  get  the  first  chance. 

The  real  decision  that  had  to  be  made  that  week  concerned 
redshirts.  Once  upon  a  time.  Knight  had  been  opposed  to  the 
redshirt  concept;  he  didn't  think  a  player  should  sit  out  a  year 
unless  he  was  injured.  College  was  supposed  to  be  a  four-year 
experience,  and  extending  it  for  a  year  just  gave  a  player  a  potential 
excuse  for  cutting  class  and  falling  into  bad  habits. 

But  in  1983,  Randy  Wittman  and  Ted  Kitchel  both  spent  a  fifth 
year  at  Indiana  after  sitting  out  a  year  because  of  injury.  Each 
had  the  best  season  of  his  career — by  far.  That  season  changed 
Knight's  thinking  about  redshirts.  In  fact,  and  this  was  hardly 
atypical,  he  had  gone  from  opponent  to  all-out  advocate,  just  as 
he  later  would  with  recruiting  junior  college  players. 

Any  player  who  dressed  for  the  Czech  game  would  be  ineligible 
to  redshirt,  unless  he  was  injured  before  Indiana  had  played  six 
games.  Because  of  that.  Knight  was  not  going  to  dress  anyone  for 
the  game  he  thought  he  might  want  to  redshirt. 

Oliphant  was  going  to  be  redshirted,  that  much  was  certain. 


62     John  Feinstein 


The  other  candidates  were  the  seven  sophomores :  Kreigh  Smith, 
Brian  Sloan,  Joe  Hillman,  Steve  Eyl,  Todd  Jadlow,  Magnus  Pel- 
kowski,  and  Delray  Brooks.  Hillman,  who  had  come  to  Indiana 
without  a  scholarship  (he  now  had  one)  from  a  Los  Angeles  sub- 
urb, wanted  to  redshirt  so  that  he  would  have  two  years  of  eli- 
gibihty  left  after  Alford  graduated.  Smith  didn't  want  to  redshirt, 
he  wanted  to  play.  Sloan  was  willing.  Eyl,  who  had  been  a  starter 
at  the  end  of  the  previous  season,  was  only  a  serious  redshirt 
candidate  on  days  when  he  didn't  practice  well.  The  same  was 
true  of  Jadlow;  his  shooting  touch  in  practice  improved  steadily, 
and  by  the  time  the  season  started  he  was  actually  a  candidate  to 
start. 

The  special  cases  were  Pelkowski  and  Brooks.  Pelkowski  was  a 
pet  project  of  Knight's.  He  was  a  6-foot-lO,  230-pound  Colombian 
who  had  first  been  brought  to  Knight's  attention  by  Julio  Salazar, 
the  graduate  assistant  coach  from  Colombia.  Knight  thought  Pel- 
kowski had  the  potential  to  become  a  top-notch  big  man,  but  that 
he  needed  time.  Normally,  he  would  have  redshirted  him  just  as 
quickly  as  he  had  redshirted  Oliphant,  but  there  was  a  problem: 
before  coming  to  Indiana,  Pelkowski  had  taken  some  courses  at  a 
college  in  Colombia.  The  NCAA  rules  have  what  is  known  as  a 
five-year  clock,  meaning  that  once  a  person  enrolls  in  college  he 
has  up  to  five  years  to  complete  his  eligibility  unless  he  leaves 
for  mihtary  duty  or  a  church  mission.  If  Pelkowski's  clock  had 
been  started  when  he  was  enrolled  in  school  in  Colombia,  he  could 
not  be  redshirted.  Knight  believed  that  since  he  had  only  been  a 
part-time  student,  those  classes  shouldn't  be  counted  against  him. 
Indiana  was  trying  to  get  the  Colombian  school  to  send  written 
confirmation  that  Pelkowski  had  only  been  a  part-time  student 
and  that  there  had  been  no  basketball  program.  Once  that  was  in 
hand,  Indiana  would  ask  that  Pelkowski  be  granted  a  fifth  year 
by  the  NCAA  and  the  Big  Ten.  In  the  meantime,  Pelkowski  would 
not  dress  for  this  game. 

Brooks  would.  After  long  discussions,  the  coaches  decided  it 
would  be  better  for  everyone  involved  to  throw  Brooks  in  now 
and  see  if  he  could  play.  Their  guess  was  that  he  probably  couldn't, 
that  he  had  too  many  physical  deficiencies.  But  to  ask  him  to  sit 
out  a  year  with  no  guarantee  that  he  would  play  in  the  future 
wasn't  fair. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    63 


"If  he  can't  play  and  he  wants  to  transfer,  the  sooner  he  finds 
out,  the  better  off  he'll  be,"  Knight  said.  "I  really  wish  the  kid 
could  be  a  star.  I  really  do  feel  for  him. "  Twenty-five  years  earher, 
Bob  Knight  had  gone  to  Ohio  State  with  high  hopes.  Not  the  kind 
of  hopes  that  Brooks  had  arrived  at  Indiana  with,  but  high  none- 
theless. He  spent  most  of  his  college  career  on  the  bench.  Knight 
genuinely  ached  for  the  kids  who  gave  him  everything  they  had 
only  to  find  that  it  wasn't  enough. 

Three  days  before  the  Czech  game,  Al  McGuire  came  to  town. 
Knight  and  McGuire  had  been  friends  for  years.  They  were  friendly 
adversaries  when  McGuire  was  at  Marquette,  and  now,  with 
McGuire  at  NBC,  they  helped  each  other  out:  It  helped  McGuire 
that  Knight  was  always  willing  to  cooperate  with  him,  and  it 
helped  Knight  that  McGuire  was  always  willing  to  stand  up  for 
him. 

McGuire  was  taping  a  segment  for  his  preseason  special  with 
Knight  that  evening,  so  he  sat  and  watched  practice.  "It's  not  a 
very  good  team,"  he  murmured  halfway  through. 

Indeed,  the  Hoosiers  were  struggling  that  day.  At  one  point. 
Knight  took  them  all  into  the  locker  room  for  a  verbal  spanking. 
He  was  on  everybody  at  one  point  or  another.  Robinson's  defense 
was  a  big  problem.  "Stew,  you  look  like  a  goddamn  dog  chasing 
a  rabbit  through  a  briar  patch,"  he  said.  "I  can't  redshirt  Hillman 
because  of  your  defense."  Thomas  wasn't  much  better:  "If  you 
can't  guard  these  guys,  Daryl,  what  chance  do  you  have  against 
[Kentucky's]  Kenny  Walker?" 

When  the  reds  fell  behind  the  whites  during  a  scrimmage, 
Knight  threw  up  his  hands.  "Coach  yourselves,"  he  told  the  reds 
in  disgust.  With  Alford  in  charge,  the  reds  went  from  an  18-10 
deficit  to  a  26-24  lead.  Knight,  who  had  been  silent,  jumped  on 
Kreigh  Smith  for  losing  Alford  on  defense. 

"That  was  a  short  sabbatical,"  McGuire  noted. 

A  moment  later.  Smith  was  gone.  With  most  expletives  deleted, 
this  is  what  Knight  told  him  as  he  left:  "I'm  tired  of  having  to 
get  on  you  every  night.  Sick  and  tired  of  it.  Go  take  a  shower, 
just  get  out  and  don't  come  back  until  1  call  you.  This  is  just 
bullshit.  You  guys  just  won't  push  yourselves,  will  you?  I've  never 
seen  a  group  that  has  more  excuses  for  poor  play  than  this  one." 


64    John  Feinstein 


He  sent  them  home  a  few  minutes  later.  Walking  into  the  locker 
room,  he  turned  to  McGuire  and  said,  "I  needed  to  get  on  them 
a  little  today." 

The  following  day,  Jim  Thomas  called  Knight.  He  had  been  cut 
by  the  Indiana  Pacers.  Could  Knight  call  some  of  his  friends  in 
the  NBA  to  find  out  if  anyone  had  any  interest  in  him?  Knight 
immediately  put  in  several  phone  calls.  Thomas  was  a  6-3  guard 
who  had  been  very  effective  during  his  years  at  Indiana,  but  he 
wasn't  big  enough,  quick  enough,  or  a  good  enough  shooter  to 
be  a  legitimate  NBA  player.  The  fact  that  he  had  gotten  in  two 
full  years  was  as  much  a  tribute  to  the  respect  the  pros  have  for 
Knight's  players  as  anything  else.  Knight  knew  this,  but  still 
would  do  anything  Thomas  asked  him  to  if  he  wanted  to  keep 
playing. 

For  all  the  grief  he  gives  his  players  during  their  four  years 
with  him.  Knight  honestly  believes  he  owes  them  something  in 
return  once  they  graduate.  The  day  an  Indiana  player  finishes  his 
career,  his  relationship  with  Knight  changes  forever.  Knight  is 
still  the  dominant  figure,  still  intimidating,  still  forceful.  But  now 
he  is  also  your  friend — not  a  friend  you  call  to  go  have  a  beer, 
but  a  friend  you  call  when  you  need  help.  Knight  expects  his  ex- 
players  to  do  that — wants  them  to  do  it,  in  fact.  Loyalty  is  a  huge 
word  in  his  vocabulary.  He  expects  it,  and  he  returns  it — no 
qualifiers.  If  you  mess  up,  in  all  likelihood  you  are  through.  But 
if  you  don't  mess  up,  you  have  a  friend  who  will  do  just  about 
anything  you  ask. 

Knight's  phone  calls  didn't  produce  much  good  news  for  Jim 
Thomas.  "Come  on  down  here,  Jim,  and  let's  talk,"  Knight  told 
him.  He  was  thinking  that  Thomas  might  want  to  go  to  graduate 
school.  Thomas  was  thinking  he  might  want  to  coach.  Knight 
doesn't  encourage  his  players  to  coach:  "My  father  always  wanted 
to  know  why  someone  had  to  go  to  college  to  become  a  coach," 
he  often  said.  But  if  they  wanted  coaching,  he  would  help  them, 
and  give  them  a  job  if  they  wanted  it. 

Thomas  thanked  Knight  for  his  help  and  was  about  to  hang  up 
when  his  coach  stopped  him.  "Jimmy,"  he  said,  "do  you  remem- 
ber when  you  were  six  years  old?  You  were  a  happy  little  kid 
then,  weren't  you?  And  you  had  never  even  heard  of  basketball 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    65 


then.  Just  think,  if  you  never  play  basketball  again,  you  can  still 
be  a  happy  person." 

Knight's  voice  was  soft  as  he  spoke.  He  wanted  Thomas  to  get 
the  message,  but  he  didn't  want  him  hurt. 

Just  before  practice  that  afternoon.  Knight  called  Alford  and 
Morgan  aside.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  them  about  leadership. 
"Somebody  besides  me  has  to  get  on  these  people,"  he  said.  "I'm 
tired  of  having  to  do  it  all  myself.  Personally,  I  don't  think  the 
two  of  you  could  lead  a  whore  into  bed.  But  you're  going  to  have 
to." 

He  turned  to  Alford.  "Steve,  you  always  talk  about  God.  Well, 
I'm  gonna  tell  you  something,  Steve,  God  is  not  going  to  provide 
any  leadership  on  this  basketball  team.  He  couldn't  care  less  if 
we  win  or  not.  He  is  not  going  to  parachute  in  through  the  roof 
of  this  building  and  score  when  we  need  points.  My  father  used 
to  tell  me  that  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves.  And,  I'll 
tell  you  one  more  thing.  No,  let  me  ask  you  this.  Do  you  really 
think  that  God  is  going  to  help  a  team  that  I'm  coaching?" 

Knight  was  not  trying  to  be  blasphemous;  he  had  been  raised 
in  a  Methodist  home  and  had  gone  to  church  every  Sunday  with 
his  mother  and  grandmother.  But  the  spectre  of  organized  religion 
made  him  uncomfortable,  and  he  really  did  have  a  problem  with 
athletes  invoking  God  as  their  helper.  Earlier  that  week,  during 
a  speech  to  the  local  Rotary  Club,  he  had  brought  up  the  Texas 
A&M  kicker  who  had  made  a  field  goal  with  time  running  out  to 
beat  SMU  and  then  said  that  God  had  helped  him  kick  the  field 
goal.  "Does  this  mean,"  Knight  asked,  "that  God  decided  to  screw 
SMU?  God  does  not  give  a  damn  what  goes  on  in  athletics.  Nor 
should  he." 

After  Knight  had  finished  his  talk  with  Alford,  Joby  Wright 
couldn't  help  but  tease  his  boss  a  little.  "You  know.  Coach,"  he 
said,  "I  think  you're  probably  paving  Steve's  way  to  heaven  by 
persecuting  him  for  being  a  born-again  Christian. " 

"Joby,"  Knight  answered,  "there  ain't  no  SOB  who  can't  play 
defense  that's  going  to  heaven."  And  then  he  added  with  a  smile, 
"God  grant  me  patience — and  goddammit,  hurry  up." 

Thus  endeth  the  day's  sermon. 


66    John  Feinstein 


On  Friday,  twenty-four  hours  before  the  Czech  game,  the  team 
had  its  first  night  practice.  The  game  would  be  at  7:30  the  next 
night,  so  a  scrimmage  was  scheduled  for  that  time  on  Friday  to 
simulate  game  conditions. 

Everyone  was  on  time  for  the  scrimmage — except  Knight.  He 
had  been  out  hunting  with  Johnny  Bench  and  another  friend,  and 
their  brand-new  hunting  dog  had  run  off.  Distraught,  Knight  had 
zoomed  to  practice,  hopped  out  of  his  car,  and  locked  his  keys  in 
the  car.  He  was  on  the  phone  getting  the  campus  police  to  come 
over  and  get  his  car  open  at  7:30.  Pat  Knight  would  have  a  field 
day  with  this  one. 

The  scrimmage  started  fifteen  minutes  late.  The  first  half  was 
textbook  basketball;  the  reds  dominated  the  whites,  moving  the 
ball  well,  executing  better  than  they  had  since  practice  started. 
But  at  halftime,  following  Carl's  orders,  Alford  was  excused  to 
ice  his  right  foot.  He  had  broken  a  bone  in  the  foot  two  years 
earlier  and  occasionally  it  swelled  up  on  him.  As  a  precaution, 
Carl  only  wanted  him  to  play  a  half. 

Knight  almost  always  defers  to  Carl's  judgment  on  injuries. 
Sometimes  he  will  ask  Carl  to  have  a  doctor  check  something, 
but  he  trusts  Carl  completely.  He  doesn't  believe  in  giving  players 
painkilling  shots,  and  although  he  will  at  times  ask  a  player  if  he 
can  play  with  an  injury,  he  only  does  so  if  Carl  tells  him  there's 
no  risk  in  playing  with  the  injury.  There  was  no  need  to  risk 
Alford  in  a  scrimmage,  especially  since  Knight  wanted  him  ready 
for  the  game  the  next  night. 

But  without  Alford,  the  reds  bogged  down.  A  good  shooter, 
one  who  is  good  at  getting  open,  can  hide  a  lot  of  weaknesses  in 
an  offense.  Stripped  of  that  shooter,  the  reds  began  turning  the 
ball  over,  making  bad  passes.  With  the  whites  playing  a  zone,  the 
reds  struggled.  Knight  didn't  even  go  in  to  talk  to  the  players 
when  the  scrimmage  was  over.  He  had  lost  a  dog,  locked  his  keys 
in  his  car,  and  seen  graphically  just  how  dependent  his  team  was 
going  to  be  on  Alford's  offense. 

It  had  not  been  a  good  day. 

But  the  next  day,  although  ugly  and  rainy,  proved  to  be  much 
better.  Thanks  largely  to  the  weather,  no  one  was  in  a  particularly 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    67 


good  mood  when  the  players  gathered  for  their  pregame  walk- 
through. 

The  walk-through  was  the  beginning  of  Indiana's  game-day 
ritual.  Perhaps  no  coach  in  the  history  of  basketball  has  ever 
believed  more  strongly  in  the  walk-through.  A  walk-through  is 
a  rehearsal.  One  of  the  assistant  coaches  goes  through  the  scouting 
report  on  the  other  team,  showing  the  players  where  they  will 
make  their  cuts  on  offense,  what  passes  they  will  try  to  throw, 
where  the  ball  is  likely  to  go  on  inbounds  plays.  He  will  also  go 
through  Indiana's  offense  based  on  the  defense  the  opponent  is 
likely  to  play. 

Knight  honestly  believes  it  is  almost  impossible  to  walk  through 
too  much.  He  believes  that  the  more  times  the  players  see  the 
plays  developing  in  front  of  them,  even  in  slow  motion,  the  better 
off  they  will  be. 

The  team  usually  meets  after  dinner  the  night  before  a  game 
for  a  thirty-minute  walk-through  in  their  street  clothes.  Then, 
for  a  7:30  home  game,  the  team  gathers  in  practice  gear  at  about 
3  P.M.  the  next  day  to  go  through  everything  again.  Often,  Knight 
will  show  the  players  an  opponent  running  a  particular  play  on 
tape,  take  them  onto  the  floor  to  walk  through,  then  return  to 
the  locker  room  to  show  another  play  on  tape.  Sometimes  the 
team  will  go  back  and  forth  between  the  floor  and  the  locker  room 
six  or  seven  times. 

The  players  understand  exactly  what  their  coach  is  trying  to 
accompUsh.  They  also  have  trouble  concentrating;  by  the  sixth 
or  seventh  walk-through  of  an  offense,  boredom  becomes  a  major 
factor. 

Once  the  walk-through  is  over.  Knight  will  talk  to  the  team 
briefly.  Usually,  he  will  harp  on  a  theme  for  that  game.  For  the 
Czechs,  the  theme  was,  "November  9  to  March  9."  In  other  words, 
tonight  is  the  beginning  of  a  four-month  season  that  ends  on 
March  9.  "Let's  make  sure  that  on  March  9  we've  met  the  goals 
we  have  on  November  9,"  Knight  said.  "Let's  get  started  in  that 
direction  tonight." 

With  that,  he  sent  them  to  pregame  meal. 

The  pregame  meal  is  step  two  in  the  game-day  ritual.  At  home, 
the  team  eats  in  the  student  union,  in  an  elegant  third-floor  meet- 


68    John  Feinstein 


ing  room.  Everyone,  players  and  coaches,  wears  a  coat  and  a  tie — 
everyone  except  Knight,  who  usually  arrives  in  slacks  and  a  sweater. 
The  players  sit  at  a  long  table  and  eat  spaghetti,  hamburgers 
without  rolls,  scrambled  eggs,  pancakes,  and  ice  cream.  They  drink 
orange  juice  or  iced  tea.  The  meal  is  always  the  same,  home  or 
away.  Everyone  gets  vanilla  ice  cream — except  Knight,  who  gets 
butter  pecan. 

Knight  never  sits  down  to  eat  at  the  pregame  meal.  His  seat, 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  is  always  unoccupied.  The  players  sit  in 
the  same  seat  at  every  meal.  New  players  take  whatever  seats 
have  been  vacated  by  graduation;  those  become  their  seats  for  as 
long  as  they  are  at  Indiana.  If  a  player  is  injured  and  not  at  pregame 
meal,  no  one  sits  in  his  seat. 

No  one  talks  during  the  pregame  meal,  except  to  ask  for  some- 
thing. Occasionally  the  assistant  coaches  sitting  at  the  far  end  of 
the  table  will  whisper  among  themselves,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  only  sound  heard  is  forks  and  knives  clinking  against  one 
another.  The  mood  is  somber.  The  players  are  supposed  to  be 
concentrating  on  the  job  ahead  of  them. 

Usually,  Knight  arrives  at  pregame  at  about  the  same  time  as 
the  ice  cream.  He  will  sit  in  an  anteroom  and  wait  until  the  players 
are  finished  before  coming  in  to  give  them  another  talk.  The  game 
theme  is  repeated.  Reminders  about  how  to  play  a  particular  team 
are  given. 

Knight  didn't  come  to  the  pregame  meal  at  all  on  this  day.  He 
left  it  to  the  assistant  coaches.  Wright  and  Smith  both  spoke, 
talking  about  how  this  was  a  chance  to  begin  to  wipe  out  the 
memories  of  last  season.  Once  the  coaches  were  finished,  the 
players  quickly  left,  leaving  the  coaches  behind. 

For  the  four  assistant  coaches,  game  day,  any  game  day,  was 
tense.  The  three  holdover  coaches  all  knew  how  difficult  their  lives 
would  be  after  a  loss  or,  in  the  case  of  a  game  hke  this  one,  after 
a  poor  performance.  But  the  tension  also  produced  a  bond  among 
the  coaches.  They  were  friends,  though  about  as  different  as  four 
men  could  be:  one  black  and  southern;  one  white  and  a  westerner; 
one  white  and  an  easterner;  the  fourth,  a  white  midwesterner. 
All  were  married  with  children,  though  Felling  was  divorced. 

For  Felling,  the  few  months  he  had  spent  in  Bloomington  had 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    69 


been  a  revelation  already.  He  had  known  when  he  took  the  job 
that  Knight  would  demand  a  lot  of  him,  but,  hke  the  players 
Knight  recruits,  he  could  not  possibly  understand  what  he  was 
getting  into  until  he  arrived.  Felling  and  Knight  were  almost  the 
same  age.  Felling  the  elder  by  nine  months.  They  shared  a  passion 
for  country  music  and  basketball.  But  where  Knight  was  consumed 
by  basketball,  Felling  often  felt  the  need  to  escape  from  it.  Felling 
had  quickly  learned  the  first  lesson  of  survival  as  an  Indiana 
assistant:  never  think  you've  done  enough.  Usually,  you  haven't. 

Felling  had  also  learned  quickly  that  when  in  Rome,  one  did  as 
the  Romans  did.  The  expensive  cowboy  boots  that  had  been  his 
trademark  in  Lawrenceville  were  never  seen  in  Bloomington.  Knight 
didn't  even  like  the  curly  perm  Felling  wore.  Maybe  it  reminded 
him  too  much  of  Kentucky  coach  Eddie  Sutton.  The  perm  stayed, 
though;  one  small  victory  for  mankind. 

Felhng  had  been  quickly  accepted  by  the  other  three  coaches, 
partly  because  he  was  needed,  but  mostly  because  he  had  an 
endearing  personality.  Felling  almost  never  took  anything  seri- 
ously, which  at  Indiana  was  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  "I  just  hke  to 
laugh,"  he  often  said,  although  he  was  careful  to  control  that  urge 
when  the  head  coach  was  in  a  serious  mood.  Whenever  Knight 
addressed  Felling  by  using  one  of  his  favorite  words — cock- 
sucker — Felhng  would  look  at  him  very  seriously  and  say,  "Well, 
coach,  I'm  tryin'  to  quit."  And  whenever  anyone  accused  Felhng 
of  anything,  be  it  a  passion  for  the  opposite  sex  or  a  poor  choice 
of  sport  coat.  Felling  would  just  shake  his  head  and  say,  "Well, 
I  resent  it,  but  I  can't  deny  it." 

The  players  accepted  him  quickly  because  of  this  self-depre- 
cating manner,  and  by  the  time  the  Czech  game  was  played.  Felling 
was  one  of  the  boys. 

While  all  the  boys — players  and  assistant  coaches — went  off  to 
prepare  for  that  night's  game.  Knight  returned  to  his  locker  room 
for  a  pregame  steam.  This  too  was  a  ritual,  especially  this  year, 
when  Knight  was  making  a  concerted  effort  to  lose  weight.  He 
had  not  enjoyed  the  descriptions  of  his  pot  belly  the  previous 
season  and  had  worked  hard  to  lose  weight.  He  had  gotten  to  as 
low  as  217 — twenty-five  pounds  less  than  he  had  weighed  the 
previous  March,  but  as  the  season  approached  his  weight  inched 


70    John  Feinstein 


higher.  It  was  221  an  hour  before  game  time,  following  a  solid 
hour  of  steam.  "I've  got  to  be  215  for  the  opener,"  Knight  said. 
"That's  my  goal." 

It  would  be  a  tough  goal  for  Knight  to  reach  because  he  was  a 
prodigious  eater.  He  could  put  away  monumental  amounts  of 
food  when  he  was  enjoying  himself,  and  the  only  thing  that  kept 
him  from  truly  getting  fat  was  that  he  didn't  drink.  Knight  had 
never  Hked  the  taste  of  beer  and  never  touched  hard  hquor.  Oc- 
casionally he  would  drink  a  white  wine  spritzer,  but  usually  would 
switch  after  one  drink  to  iced  tea  or  ginger  ale,  or  some  awful 
concoction  like  orange  juice  and  7-Up  or  Coke  and  tea.  Later  in 
the  season,  when  the  team  was  going  well.  Knight  would  break 
d jwn  after  a  game  and  have  a  sangria,  but  even  then,  if  he  drank 
two  glasses  it  was  a  lot. 

Even  though  this  was  just  an  exhibition  game,  it  was  approached 
in  Indiana  like  the  real  thing.  More  than  15,000  seats  were  sold 
in  17,259  seat  Assembly  Hall,  remarkable  on  a  rainy  November 
night  when  the  game  was  being  televised  statewide.  But  that  is 
the  way  Indiana  is  about  basketball,  especially  basketball  at  I.U. 
Every  game  Indiana  plays  is  televised.  If  it  isn't  on  some  kind  of 
national  TV  or  Big  Ten  hookup,  it's  televised  statewide  by  WTTV- 
TV. 

While  the  gym  was  slowly  filling  up,  the  players,  dressed  now 
in  their  white  game  uniforms,  waited  in  the  locker  room.  The 
assistants  circled  the  room,  softly  whispering  reminders  about 
getting  back  on  defense,  about  pushing  the  ball  up  the  floor,  about 
fundamentals.  Some  players  sat  on  their  chairs  in  front  of  their 
lockers,  others  stood  passing  a  ball  back  and  forth.  There  was 
chatter,  but  no  real  talk.  Mostly,  they  filled  time  waiting  for 
Knight  to  walk  in  for  a  final  pregame  talk. 

About  one  hour  before  tipoff.  Knight  dressed.  He  put  on  slacks, 
a  golf  shirt,  and  a  golf  sweater.  After  the  Purdue  game  the  previous 
season.  Knight  had  abandoned  sport  coats.  The  plaid  jackets  that 
had  become  his  trademark  had  disappeared  from  his  wardrobe. 
This  season,  to  feel  relaxed  and  comfortable,  he  planned  to  dress 
in  a  relaxed  and  comfortable  outfit  for  games. 

Once  dressed.  Knight  ducked  out  the  side  door  of  his  locker 
room  and  circled  the  building  through  back  hallways  to  reach  the 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    71 


players'  locker  room.  He  took  a  game  program  from  one  of 
the  managers  and  stopped  in  a  small  dressing  room  adjacent  to 
the  locker  room.  Five  minutes  later,  he  walked  into  the  locker 
room  and  all  noise  ceased:  the  balls  stopped  bouncing,  the  chatter 
halted. 

Indiana's  locker  room  is  large  and  comfortable.  It  is  carpeted 
in  red  with  various  signs  and  sayings  posted  on  the  walls  around 
the  room.  "Victory  favors  the  team  making  the  fewest  mistakes," 
is  Knight's  favorite.  There  are  two  doors  to  the  locker  room.  The 
one  Knight  comes  through  leads  to  a  private  hallway  that  includes 
the  graduate  assistants'  office,  a  tape  room,  and  the  training  room. 
Near  that  door  is  a  poster  that  lists  the  team's  offensive  and 
defensive  goals  for  each  game — and  how  it  did  in  the  previous 
game. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  room  is  another  poster,  which,  like  the 
goals  poster,  is  kept  up  to  date  by  the  managers.  It  contains 
pictures,  statistics,  scouting  reports,  and  newspaper  stories  on  the 
next  opponent.  Reading  the  stories  and  the  scouting  report,  one 
would  think  every  Indiana  opponent  is  the  Celtics. 

In  that  same  corner  sits  the  television  set  that  is  used  to  show 
tapes.  When  tapes  are  being  shown,  the  players  bring  their  orange 
plastic  chairs  up  from  their  lockers  and  sit  in  a  semicircle  around 
the  TV.  The  door  on  that  side  of  the  locker  room  leads  to  a  pubhc 
hallway  and  the  floor.  The  locker  closest  to  that  door  is  Alford's — 
a  coincidence,  since  players  inherit  empty  lockers  the  way  they 
inherit  empty  chairs  at  pregame  meal,  but  a  coincidence  that  often 
causes  a  logjam  near  the  doorway  when  reporters  are  in  the  room 
because  so  many  of  them  congregate  around  Alford. 

On  the  back  wall  of  each  locker  are  the  names  and  numbers  of 
players  who  dressed  in  that  locker  while  playing  for  Knight.  You 
must  graduate  to  have  your  name  and  number  posted  in  your 
locker  when  you  leave.  Transfers  don't  make  it.  In  all,  there  are 
nineteen  lockers  in  the  room,  so  there  is  always  a  little  extra 
space. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  room  from  where  Alford  sits  is  a  white 
marking  board.  When  Knight  walks  into  the  room  on  game 
night,  he  has  tucked  his  game  program  into  his  back  belt.  He 
walks  to  the  marking  board  and  lists  the  last  name  and  the  num- 


72     John  Feinstein 


ber  of  each  of  the  opponent's  starters.  The  names  are  already 
famihar  to  the  players:  they  have  heard  them  in  scouting  re- 
ports, seen  them  on  tape,  and  talked  about  them  during  walk- 
throughs. 

Game  night  is  the  only  time  that  Knight  talks  to  his  players 
when  they  don't  have  notebooks  in  their  laps.  At  all  other  times, 
each  player  has  a  red  hardcover  spiral  notebook.  Knight  sees  no 
reason  why  his  players  shouldn't  take  notes  when  he  talks,  the 
same  way  they  take  notes  in  a  history  or  an  English  class.  "The 
only  difference  is  that  in  those  classes  they  have  a  textbook  they 
can  go  back  and  use.  With  me,  there's  no  textbook." 

When  Knight  talks  about  a  game,  an  opponent,  a  defense,  or 
a  theme,  the  players  take  notes.  They  can  write  whatever  they 
want  in  their  notebooks,  and  they  can  write  as  much  or  as  little 
as  they  want.  Usually  they  are  very  careful  to  write  down  only 
serious  thoughts  and  not  doodle  or  put  down  anything  snide  or 
funny — not  because  they're  graded  or  checked  on,  but  because 
over  the  years  Knight  has  occasionally  picked  up  a  notebook  and 
leafed  through  it. 

Now,  though,  the  notebooks  are  put  away.  The  information 
written  in  them  is  supposed  to  be  in  the  players'  heads  at  this 
point.  Next  to  the  name  of  each  opponent.  Knight  writes  the  first 
name  of  the  Indiana  player  who  will  guard  him.  He  will  then  go 
through  details  again:  a  reminder  if  a  player  is  lefthanded  or  if 
he  likes  to  shot  fake  and  drive.  Then,  a  final  word,  usually  going 
back  to  the  game  theme.  On  this  night  it  was  simple:  "Let's  just 
play  basketball  as  well  as  we  can  play.  Think.  Think.  Think. 
Remember,  this  is  the  start,  only  a  beginning,  but  let's  get  off  to 
a  good  start  and  go  from  there." 

They  did  not  get  off  to  a  good  start.  The  first  two  minutes 
were  a  disaster.  Alford  let  his  man  get  by  him  twice  and  was 
unceremoniously  yanked  by  Knight.  As  Calloway  reported  in 
and  Alford  came  out  with  Knight  barking  in  his  ear,  scattered 
boos  wafted  down  from  the  fans.  These  were  memories  of  last 
year,  and  the  new  season  was  not  yet  two  minutes  old.  They 
missed  their  first  seven  free  throws  and  fell  behind  by  as  many 
as  seven  points. 

But  Daryl  Thomas  was  using  his  quickness  inside  to  destroy 


h  Season  on  the  Brink    73 


the  bigger,  slower  Czech  centers.  He  got  them  in  foul  trouble, 
scored  consistently,  and,  eventually,  the  Hoosiers  began  to  play 
the  way  they  were  capable.  Alford  came  back  midway  through 
the  half,  and  with  5:45  left  Brooks  stole  a  pass  and  fed  Alford  for 
a  layup.  Indiana  led  for  the  first  time,  23-22.  They  built  the  lead 
from  there  and  had  it  to  eight  by  halftime. 

That  was  fortunate.  Knight  had  been  extremely  upset  through 
much  of  the  half.  During  one  time-out  he  slammed  his  clipboard 
so  hard  that  the  sound  reverberated  around  the  building.  This 
was  not  unusual;  Garl  came  to  each  game  equipped  with  two 
clipboards.  Once,  in  an  earlier  year,  the  game  had  ended  with 
Knight  drawing  plays  on  the  top  half  of  the  second  clipboard 
because  that  was  all  that  was  left. 

There  were  no  hysterics  at  the  break  this  time.  Knight  felt  his 
team  gaining  command.  He  knew  it  had  been  nervous  early  be- 
cause of  the  crowd.  Harris  had  already  become  a  favorite  with 
two  impressive  blocked  shots.  Thomas  was  playing  well.  "Let's 
put  them  away  quickly,"  Knight  said  at  the  half.  "Let's  jump  on 
them  and  get  a  big  lead.  Don't  let  them  get  back  in  this  thing." 

They  didn't.  A  Harris  dunk  really  got  the  crowd  wound  up  and 
built  the  lead  to  55-43.  The  lead  eventually  was  more  than  20, 
and  the  final  score  was  94—74.  No  contest.  Still,  there  were  mo- 
ments. When  Morgan  threw  a  foolish  pass.  Knight  screamed  in 
his  face  during  the  next  time-out.  The  two  were  literally  nose  to 
nose,  one  giving,  the  other  taking.  Did  Morgan  resent  this  treat- 
ment? Did  he  think  it  unfair?  "I  was  thinking,"  he  said  later, 
"that  I  had  screwed  up  again." 

The  screwups  were  balanced,  though,  by  the  potential  that  showed 
in  flashes.  Alford  finished  with  twenty-three  points;  Harris  had 
sixteen  and  nine  rebounds.  Thomas  also  had  sixteen.  It  was,  after 
less  than  four  weeks  of  practice,  a  good  beginning.  Knight  knew 
this.  He  also  knew  there  was  a  lot  more  to  do  before  this  team 
could  beat  Notre  Dames  and  Kentuckys.  But  they  were  not  that 
far  off.  As  the  players  congratulated  one  another  after  Knight  had 
reminded  them  one  more  time,  "November  9  to  March  9,  keep 
that  in  mind,"  they  had  little  idea  that  they  were  about  to  enter 
the  most  difficult  three  weeks  of  the  season.  Over  the  next  twenty 
days,  they  would  have  one  day  off.  They  would  practice  twenty- 


74    John  Feinstein 


four  times,  look  at  endless  hours  of  tape,  and  receive  absolute  hell 
from  their  coach. 
After  that,  if  they  survived,  they  would  play  their  first  game. 


Three  Long  Weeks 

When  Knight  makes  life  difficult  for  his  players,  which  is  often, 
it  is  not  always  because  he  is  unhappy  with  them.  He  believes 
that  the  tougher  he  makes  things  for  his  team  in  practice,  the 
tougher  they  will  be  in  games.  He  points  often  to  Indiana's  re- 
markable road  record  in  the  Big  Ten  as  evidence  that  this  philos- 
ophy is  effective.  "I  want  them  to  start  the  season  having  faced 
their  toughest  times,"  he  says.  "I  feel  like  if  they  can  handle  me, 
they  can  probably  handle  any  crowd  on  the  road  or  any  kind  of 
adversity  that  may  come  up  in  a  game." 

But  there  are  also  times  when  Knight  simply  gets  furious  and 
reams  his  team  because  he  is  furious.  The  three-week  period 
between  the  Czech  game  and  the  opening  game  against  Kent  State 
had  moments  when  Knight  ripped  his  team  as  part  of  the  master 
plan.  It  also  had  moments  when  he  simply  ripped  his  team.  Either 
way,  there  were  not  a  lot  of  laughs  in  Assembly  Hall  during  this 
period. 

The  players  got  a  hint  that  the  last  three  weeks  of  preseason 
were  not  going  to  be  much  fun  on  the  Wednesday  after  the  Czech 
game.  The  Monday  and  Tuesday  practices  had  been  prickly,  but 
not  wild.  Knight  had  snapped  at  people  on  several  occasions,  but 
it  was  mostly  in  the  name  of  teaching.  When  Harris  reached  lazily 
for  a  pass  with  one  hand  on  Monday,  Knight  crackled  at  him, 
"Andre,  there  is  no  room  for  one-handed  basketball  on  this  team. 
If  God  had  wanted  you  to  play  this  game  with  one  hand  you 
would  have  an  arm  growing  out  of  your  ass." 

A  few  moments  later,  when  Robinson  made  a  good  defensive 
play.  Knight  again  stopped  practice.  "Stew,"  he  said,  "do  you 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    75 


know  what  a  good  play  that  was?  See,  those  assholes  watching 
the  game  don't  know  what  a  good  play  that  was.  But  I  do.  When 
I  see  that,  I  think,  'God,  that  Stew  Robinson  is  a  great  defensive 
player. '  I  mean  really  great.  Do  you  think.  Stew,  that  I  ever  think 
that?" 

Robinson  shook  his  head  no.  "Not  very  goddamn  often  I  don't," 
Knight  went  on.  "But  that  was  a  great  play." 

Always  pushing,  always  testing,  always  wanting  more. 

On  Wednesday,  though,  the  testing  and  the  pushing  became 
an  explosion.  This  one  was  real.  And,  as  often  happens,  the  on- 
court  explosion  had  a  little  to  do  with  poor  play  and  a  lot  to  do 
with  something  that  had  happened  earlier  off  the  court. 

At  lunchtime  that  day.  Knight  went  to  a  local  radio  station  to 
tape  a  commercial.  The  arrangements  had  been  made  for  Knight 
to  go  in,  do  the  commercial,  and  leave.  Knight  arrived  shortly 
after  noon.  In  the  lobby,  he  asked  someone  where  he  was  to  go 
to  tape  the  commercial.  Someone  told  him  downstairs. 

As  Knight  turned  to  walk  in  that  direction,  a  young  man  with 
long  hair,  dressed  rather  sloppily  in  a  T-shirt  and  blue  jeans, 
arrived  in  the  lobby.  He  was  carrying  a  chair.  He  put  the  chair 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  lobby  and  announced,  "Okay,  I  brought 
the  chair."  Knight  was  confused.  He  thought  he  had  been  told  to 
go  downstairs.  He  started  to  walk  that  way,  and  the  young  man 
followed.  "I  guess  no  one's  going  to  laugh  at  my  joke,"  he  said. 

At  this  point.  Knight  understood  what  was  going  on.  He  turned 
on  the  jokester.  "You  know,  I'm  here  to  do  some  business,  that's 
all,"  he  said.  "I  really  don't  need  any  trouble  from  someone  I 
don't  know." 

"Sorry  you  don't  have  a  sense  of  humor,"  the  young  man  said, 
stalking  away. 

Knight's  reaction  was  justified.  If  he  had  a  dollar  for  every  chair 
joke  he  had  heard  since  the  previous  February  23  he  could  have 
bought  and  sold  General  Motors  and  IBM.  But  instead  of  laughing 
it  off  as  the  ravings  of  an  idiot.  Knight  seethed.  Later  in  the  day 
he  would  remember  what  Ed  Wilhams  often  told  him:  "Bob,  you 
have  to  learn  to  let  things  go. "  But  that  would  be  later. 

After  taping  the  commercial.  Knight  was  back  in  the  lobby. 
The  chair  wielder  was  across  the  lobby,  having  no  interest  in 


Id     John  Feinstein 


another  meeting  with  Knight.  But  Knight  was  not  about  to  let 
the  incident  die.  He  walked  across  the  lobby.  "Listen,"  he  began, 
"I  want  to  tell  you  a  few  things." 

He  never  got  started,  though,  because  his  adversary  looked  up 
and  said,  "Look,  I'm  sorry  I  did  it,  okay?  But  I  don't  have  to  hsten 
to  you,"  and  walked  off. 

Now  Knight  was  furious.  "Who  runs  this  station?"  he  de- 
manded. A  woman  in  the  lobby  identified  herself  as  the  wife  of 
station  owner  Roland  Johnson.  The  two  of  them  went  outside  to 
talk.  Knight  told  Mrs.  Johnson  that  he  was  insulted  by  what  had 
happened.  Mrs.  Johnson  agreed  with  Knight  and  apologized.  "If 
I  were  running  the  station,  that  kid  would  be  fired,"  Knight  said. 
"Have  your  husband  call  me  at  my  office  when  he  gets  back." 

Knight  was  relating  the  story  to  his  assistants  an  hour  later 
when  Roland  Johnson  called.  Knight  went  through  the  story  again. 
Mr.  Johnson  apologized  again.  Not  good  enough.  "I  think  that 
kid  should  come  out  here  and  apologize  to  me  in  person,"  Knight 
said.  Mr.  Johnson  didn't  think  that  was  a  good  idea.  Why  stir  up 
potential  trouble?  The  young  man  had  been  spoken  to  and  had 
been  told  he  was  wrong  and  had  agreed  he  had  been  wrong. 

Not  good  enough.  "If  you  can't  get  one  of  your  employees  to 
come  out  here  and  render  a  simple  apology,"  Knight  said,  "then 
I  don't  see  any  reason  to  do  any  further  business  with  your  radio 
station." 

End  of  conversation.  Knight  was  not  blackmailing  or  threat- 
ening. He  was  angry,  and  he  meant  exactly  what  he  said.  When 
he  walked  on  the  floor  to  start  practice  a  few  moments  later,  he 
was  still  upset  by  what  had  happened.  The  assistants  knew  that 
what  came  next  was  almost  inevitable. 

If  the  team  had  been  sharp  and  crisp  that  day.  Knight  might 
have  forgotten  the  radio  station  for  at  least  a  couple  of  hours.  But 
they  weren't.  They  were,  in  fact,  a  little  sluggish.  They  were 
scheduled  to  fly  to  Fort  Wayne  the  next  night  to  play  an  intrasquad 
game  in  the  Fort  Wayne  Coliseum.  Maybe  they  were  looking 
ahead  to  that;  maybe  it  was  just  the  way  the  stars  and  the  moon 
were  aligned.  In  any  case,  practice  lasted  less  than  an  hour. 

It  ended  when  Kreigh  Smith,  who  had  the  misfortune  of  flashing 
enough  potential  at  times  that  he  had  become  a  favorite  target. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    77 


threw  a  silly  pass.  "That's  it,"  Knight  roared.  "I've  seen  all  I 
want  to  see  of  this  crap.  If  you  people  are  only  going  to  demand 
enough  of  yourself  that  you  end  up  playing  on  a  horseshit  team 
then  the  hell  with  you.  Go  take  a  shower.  I've  seen  as  much  of 
this  crap  as  I  can  take  for  one  day." 

He  stalked  off.  The  players  and  the  assistants  went  to  the  locker 
room.  Everyone  talked  a  little.  It  was  the  same  stuff:  we  have  to 
work  harder,  concentrate  better.  Knight  burst  into  the  room. 
"There  was  no  effort  to  get  better  out  there  at  all.  You  guys  don't 
listen  and  you  don't  think.  It's  the  same  bullshit  as  last  year. 
Boys,  you  are  just  not  good  enough  to  play  like  this  and  be  any 
good  in  the  Big  Ten." 

He  left.  They  sat  and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  while.  Finally, 
the  assistants  softly  suggested  that  everyone  go  back  on  the  floor 
for  some  individual  work.  In  his  locker  room  Knight  had  stripped 
and  was  heading  for  the  steam  room  to  try  to  cool  off. 

"I  can't  go  through  another  year  Uke  last  year,"  he  said.  "And 
right  now,  we  just  aren't  very  good."  There  were  no  mind  games 
today.  The  frustration,  starting  at  lunchtime  and  extending  into 
the  evening,  was  quite  genuine. 

The  next  day  the  entire  Indiana  entourage  flew  to  Fort  Wayne. 
Sixteen  players,  five  coaches,  Ralph  Floyd,  Ed  Williams,  team 
cardiologist  Larry  Rink,  Tim  Garl,  Bob  Hammel,  and  John  Flynn 
made  the  trip.  Flynn  was  a  newspaperman  Knight  had  known 
since  his  days  as  a  junior  varsity  coach  at  Cuyahoga  Falls  High 
School.  That  had  been  Knight's  first  job  after  graduation  from 
Ohio  State,  and  he  and  Flynn  had  remained  friends  long  after 
Knight  had  gone  on  to  Army  and  then  Indiana.  Flynn  was  living 
in  Bloomington  while  waiting  to  receive  word  on  a  job  application 
in  Memphis,  and  he  came  to  practice  almost  every  day. 

He  was  a  bright,  sharp-tongued  man  who  had  known  Knight 
long  enough  that  he  was  not  intimidated  by  him.  Flynn  enjoyed 
Knight  and  Knight  enjoyed  Flynn.  Knight  found  Flynn's  intellect 
challenging.  And  Flynn,  while  recognizing  Knight's  flaws,  was 
devoted  to  him.  "Bob  Knight  is  an  asshole,"  Flynn  said  one  night, 
"but  he  knows  it  and  tries  like  hell  to  make  up  for  it." 

Both  Indiana  University  Foundation  planes  were  used  for  this 


78    John  Feinstein 


trip:  the  big  plane,  which  had  twenty  seats,  and  the  brand-new 
little  plane,  which  had  eight.  Indiana  always  travels  by  charter. 
The  team  will  usually  fly  to  a  game  site  the  evening  before  a 
game;  the  rest  of  the  entourage,  which  for  regular  season  games 
usually  includes  team  doctor  Brad  Bomba,  Floyd,  sports  infor- 
mation director  Kit  KHnglehoffer,  radio  play-by-play  men  Don 
Fischer  and  Max  Skirvin,  and  TV  play-by-play  men  John  Las- 
kowski  and  Chuck  Marlowe,  will  arrive  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
game.  The  big  plane  group  always  includes  Knight,  Garl,  Hammel, 
anywhere  from  one  to  four  assistant  coaches  (the  recruiters 
usually  meet  the  team  the  next  day),  and  the  players. 

This  trip  was  a  chance  to  give  Indiana's  fans  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  state  a  chance  to  see  the  team  live.  The  Fort  Wayne 
Coliseum  was  completely  sold  out,  a  crowd  of  9,200  packed  into 
the  place  to  see  a  preseason  scrimmage.  Outside  the  building, 
tickets  were  being  scalped  for  up  to  $25.  This  was  a  measure  of 
how  deep-seated  the  feeling  about  Indiana  basketball  is  throughout 
the  state.  Neither  Purdue  nor  Notre  Dame  could  guarantee  any- 
thing approaching  a  sellout  for  an  off-campus  game,  much  less 
for  an  intrasquad  scrimmage.  In  Fort  Wayne,  tickets  for  the  scrim- 
mage were  sold  out  within  hours  of  going  on  sale. 

Knight  revels  in  the  popularity  of  the  team  and  the  school.  This 
was  the  kind  of  night  he  enjoyed.  These  fans  were  less  jaded  than 
the  ones  in  Bloomington.  To  them,  the  mere  presence  of  the 
Hoosiers  was  an  honor,  so  they  weren't  about  to  do  any  second- 
guessing.  At  the  airport,  a  police  escort  met  the  team  bus  and 
Knight  was  assigned  a  personal  bodyguard  from  the  local  sheriff's 
department  for  the  evening  to  protect  him  from  the  crush  of 
adoring  fans  in  the  hallways  of  the  Coliseum. 

Despite  the  lively  crowd,  the  team  did  not  play  very  well.  The 
most  notable  exception  was  Alford,  who  made  three  straight  steals 
at  one  point  in  the  second  half,  prompting  Knight  to  call  him 
over.  "Have  you  been  reading  books  on  how  to  play  defense?" 
he  asked.  Alford  giggled.  From  Knight,  this  was  a  compliment. 

Few  other  compliments  were  passed  around.  Knight  was  par- 
ticularly unhappy  with  Thomas  and  Harris  for  their  inside  play 
and  told  them  so  in  the  locker  room  when  the  scrimmage  was 
over.  It  was  not  until  the  next  day,  after  looking  at  the  tape  of 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    79 


the  scrimmage,  that  Knight  became  genuinely  upset.  The  tape 
showed  sloppy  play,  missed  passes,  bad  rebounding  position.  Knight 
had  planned  to  give  the  team  Friday  off  except  for  a  brief  meeting 
and  to  practice  only  briefly  on  Saturday  afternoon.  After  he  saw 
the  tape,  he  changed  his  plans.  He  wanted  to  practice  Friday 
afternoon. 

The  players,  expecting  the  day  off  after  arriving  home  from 
Fort  Wayne  after  midnight,  were  sluggish.  Knight  knew  this,  and 
he  knew  they  were  tired,  but  he  believed  they  had  reached  a  point 
where  they  had  to  learn  to  play  tired.  During  the  season,  they 
were  going  to  have  to  deal  with  that  at  times,  and  now  was  as 
good  a  time  as  any  to  emphasize  it.  So,  halfway  through  the 
Friday  practice,  he  threw  them  all  out  and  told  them,  "We'll  see 
you  all  in  here  at  six  o'clock  tomorrow  morning." 

Six  in  the  morning? 

Early  morning  practices  were  the  oldest  form  of  punishment 
in  the  book  for  most  coaches.  But  not  for  Knight.  He  had  never 
gone  in  for  the  standard  forms  of  punishment — early  practices, 
running  wind  sprints,  four-  or  five-hour  practices.  Only  on  a 
couple  of  occasions  during  twenty-one  years  as  a  head  coach  had 
he  resorted  to  such  methods.  But  he  was  resorting  to  it  now. 

The  players  understood.  They  weren't  happy  about  it,  but  they 
also  didn't  find  it  unfair.  This  was  a  crucial  time,  and  they  hadn't 
been  sharp  for  a  week,  not  since  the  Czech  game.  Sharpness  was 
a  lot  to  ask  four  weeks  into  practice  with  two  weeks  left  until  the 
first  game,  but  these  players  were  used  to  being  asked  for  a  lot. 

They  dragged  themselves  out  of  bed  and  made  it  to  practice  at 
six  the  next  morning.  The  first  hour  was  a  nightmare.  Knight 
was  so  angry  he  even  ordered  several  wind  sprints.  He  was  going 
to  make  them  work  when  they  were  tired  even  if  it  killed  all  of 
them.  Finally,  play  picked  up.  The  offense  began  moving  the  ball. 
By  the  time  they  left  the  floor  at  8  a.m.  Knight  feh  better.  But 
not  satisfied.  "Be  back  at  noon,"  he  ordered. 

They  went  for  another  ninety  minutes  at  noon.  Play  was  brisk, 
mistakes  were  few.  No  one  wanted  to  even  think  about  the  con- 
sequences of  a  poor  practice.  There  was  still  a  lot  of  time  left  in 
the  weekend.  No  one  relished  the  thought  of  spending  Saturday 
night  in  Assembly  Hall.  Knight  had  made  his  point:  if  you  want 


80    ]ohn  Feinstein 


to  rest,  you  have  to  earn  it,  even  when  you're  tired.  When  he  let 
them  go  that  afternoon,  he  told  them  to  be  back  to  scrimmage  at 
4:30  the  next  day — all  except  Alford  and  Robinson,  who  were 
told  to  be  at  the  airport  at  9: 15  the  next  morning  to  fly  to  Chicago 
for  the  annual  Big  Ten  media  day. 

Knight  would  boycott  the  meeting  for  the  second  year  in  a  row. 
The  year  before  he  had  skipped  it  to  protest  the  Big  Ten's  failure 
to  do  anything  about  conference  teams  (read:  Illinois)  that  were 
cheating  (in  his  view)  in  recruiting.  For  that  act.  Knight  had  been 
censured  by  the  league.  For  that  censure.  Knight  was  boycotting 
again.  But  he  told  no  one  of  this  plan.  "I'U  see  you  in  the  morning/' 
he  told  Alford  and  Robinson. 

They  were  there  the  next  morning.  Knight  was  not.  Alford 
tried  to  study  on  the  plane.  "I  am  definitely  going  to  flunk  A- 
Core,"  he  groaned  between  yawns.  Alford  and  Robinson  made  it 
back  to  Bloomington  just  in  time  for  the  Sunday  scrimmage.  It 
had  been  a  long  week.  The  next  two  weeks  would  be  worse. 

The  team  didn't  make  it  through  practice  on  Monday  or  Tues- 
day. On  Monday,  Knight  sent  them  home  early,  telling  them 
again  to  return  at  6  a.m.  But  that  one  didn't  stick;  after  talking 
to  the  coaches,  he  changed  his  mind.  Having  them  come  in  at 
that  hour  on  a  weekend  was  one  thing,  but  having  them  come  in 
that  early  when  they  had  to  be  in  class  was  another.  Practice 
would  be  at  the  regular  time  on  Tuesday. 

On  Tuesday,  mistakes  by  Thomas,  Morgan,  and  Calloway  led 
to  the  team's  third  mass  kickout  in  less  than  a  week.  "You  know 
something,  Daryl,  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  come  to  practice," 
Knight  said.  "I'd  just  not  even  bother  because  why  show  up  and 
be  a  shitty  player?  There's  no  point." 

A  moment  later,  when  Harris  tried  to  save  a  ball  from  going 
out  of  bounds,  Thomas  and  Morgan,  the  two  players  closest  to 
him,  neglected  to  yell  directions  at  him.  That  was  it.  "How  much 
patience  do  you  expect  me  to  have?  I  won't  tax  myself  any  more. 
Everybody  out." 

Into  the  locker  room  they  went.  A  few  minutes  later.  Knight 
followed.  Everyone  expected  an  explosion.  There  was  none.  More 
often  than  not.  Knight  is  a  very  good  reader  of  his  team's  mood. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    81 


He  had  been  on  them  almost  without  letup  since  the  Monday 
after  the  Czech  game.  He  knew  this  was  going  to  be  a  delicate 
team.  It  was  not  that  experienced,  not  that  deep,  and  not  big  or 
strong  physically.  There  were  going  to  be  times,  if  they  were  to 
succeed  in  any  way,  that  Knight  would  have  to  suppress  the  side 
of  him  that  wanted  to  rage  at  incompetence;  there  were  going  to 
be  times,  later  in  the  year,  when  he  couldn't  suppress  that  side, 
but  now,  with  the  record  0-0,  he  could. 

"You  know,  every  single  one  of  you  is  a  good  kid,"  Knight 
began.  "I  know,  we  all  know,  that  you  try  to  do  everything  we 
ask  you  to  do.  I  know  it  isn't  easy  all  the  time.  In  fact,  sometimes 

it's  just  about  f impossible.  But  you  have  got  to  try.  You 

have  got  to  play  through  being  tired. 

"You  new  people,  ask  the  other  players  how  hard  it  is  to  play 
in  the  Big  Ten.  Ask  them  how  tough  every  game  is.  We  don't 
have  any  gimme  games  on  our  schedule.  Not  one.  There  is  not 
one  game  we  play  that  you  people  can  win  just  by  showing  up. 
Some  are  harder  than  others,  but  bad  play,  stupid  play,  nonthink- 
ing play  will  get  you  beat  on  any  night.  I  guarantee  it." 

Knight  paused  to  look  around  the  room.  He  looked  into  the 
faces  of  the  players.  His  voice  was  soft.  "You  know,  there  is  no 
way  I  would  have  [Michigan  State  guard]  Scott  Skiles  on  this 
team.  We  don't  want  kids  like  him  here.  [Skiles  had  been  arrested 
three  times.]  We  want  kids  like  you.  But  Scott  Skiles  is  tougher 
than  every  single  one  of  you.  Toughness,  boys,  wins  basketball 
games.  InteUigence  wins  basketball  games.  Thinking  wins  bas- 
ketball games.  Just  running  around  in  circles  and  not  thinking 
loses  them. 

"We  work  too  hard,  you  work  too  hard  to  go  through  another 
season  like  last  year.  Every  one  of  us  suffered  last  year.  I  know 
I  did  and  I  know  you  did,  too.  I  know  you  don't  want  to  lose. 
But  I  also  know  that  you  can't  win  playing  like  this.  You  just 
can't.  You're  not  good  enough.  We've  had  some  teams  here  that 
were  talented  enough  to  win  most  nights  even  when  they  didn't 
play  their  best.  You  people  simply  are  not  that  good.  You  are  not 
great  athletes,  except  for  Harris.  You  are  not  great  shooters,  except 
for  Afford.  You  are  small.  To  win,  you  have  to  be  smarter  and 
tougher  every  single  day  than  the  other  guys.  And  you  aren't 


82     John  Feinstein 


going  to  be  smarter  and  tougher  by  some  magic  formula  when 
the  games  start.  You  have  to  come  to  practice  every  day  and  work 
on  it. 

"Now,  do  you  think  you  are  ready  to  go  out  there  again  and 
work  the  way  we  have  to  work?  If  you  aren't,  tell  me  and  we'll 
call  it  a  day.  Don't  come  back  out  on  that  floor  unless  you  are 
really  ready  to  play." 

He  walked  out  the  door.  No  one  said  a  word.  For  a  moment, 
everyone  just  looked  at  each  other.  Then  Alford  got  up  and  fol- 
lowed Knight  back  to  the  floor.  Fifteen  players  followed. 

For  the  rest  of  that  night  and  the  three  days  after  that,  they 
practiced  better  than  they  had  all  year,  perhaps  better  than  they 
had  in  two  years.  One  sentiment  seemed  to  run  through  the  entire 
team:  Just  when  you  think  the  man  has  lost  control  he  turns 
around  and  proves  he's  a  genius  all  over  again. 

On  the  morning  of  November  23,  Knight  gathered  all  seven 
coaches  and  Garl  in  the  coaches'  locker  room  to  talk  about  a 
starting  lineup.  Everyone  agreed  on  four  names:  Alford,  Thomas, 
Harris,  and  Morgan.  The  fifth  spot  was  a  tossup  among  Calloway, 
Robinson,  and  Jadlow.  Knight  never  voted.  He  just  left  the  names 
on  the  board  and  went  to  watch  the  Indiana-Purdue  football  game. 
The  season  was  seven  days  away. 

That  evening.  Knight  had  as  much  fun  as  he  had  had  in  years. 
Jim  Crews  was  to  begin  his  college  coaching  career  at  Evansville 
that  night,  and  Knight  had  been  planning  for  several  weeks  to 
surprise  him  by  showing  up  at  the  game  with  a  group  of  Crews 's 
former  teammates,  friends,  and  coaches. 

This  was,  for  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  reunion.  Steve  Green, 
John  Laskowski,  Steve  Ahlfeld,  Steve  Downing,  and  Tom  Aber- 
nethy  had  played  with  Crews.  Kohn  Smith,  Royce  Waltman,  and 
Julio  Salazar  had  coached  with  him.  Tim  (Doak)  Walker  had  been 
a  manager  all  four  years  Crews  had  played  at  Indiana.  Dan  Dakich 
had  been  recruited  by  him. 

The  group  that  flew  to  Evansville  that  night  was  a  mix  of  the 
generations  that  had  grown  up  during  the  Knight  era  at  Indiana. 
Sitting  in  his  customary  seat  at  the  front  of  the  plane,  facing 
toward  the  rear.  Knight  was  in  a  buoyant  mood  as  everyone 
swapped  old  stories.  The  players  from  the  '75-76  era,  who  had 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    83 


not  been  on  an  Indiana  team  plane  in  years,  were  shocked  when 
they  boarded. 

"You  mean,"  Green  said  in  a  stunned  voice,  "there's  no  par- 
tition between  him  [Knight]  and  the  players?"  On  the  old  plane. 
Knight  and  the  assistants  had  sat  in  a  partitioned-off  front  area 
of  the  plane.  Even  though  Knight  often  came  stomping  back  to 
tell  the  players  what  he  thought  after  a  loss,  there  was  at  least 
some  small  separation.  On  this  plane,  there  not  only  was  no 
separation,  but  Knight  sat  facing  the  players. 

Plane  stories  are  a  large  part  of  Knight  lore.  One  of  the  more 
popular  ones  came  after  a  loss  at  Michigan  in  1980.  Indiana  had 
lost  by  a  point  on  a  forty-foot  shot  at  the  buzzer.  One  person 
who  did  not  play  in  that  game  was  Steve  Risley,  one  of  the  seniors 
on  the  1981  championship  team.  Risley  was  in  the  doghouse. 
When  the  initial  shock  of  the  loss  had  worn  off,  Risley  sat  in  the 
locker  room  thinking,  "What  a  terrible  loss.  But  at  least  he  can't 
yell  at  me  on  the  plane  going  home  since  1  didn't  play." 

The  team  rode  in  silence  to  the  airport.  As  they  boarded  the 
plane,  Risley  saw  several  bags  of  McDonald's  food  sitting  up  front. 
"Perfect,"  he  thought,  "I'll  just  curl  up  in  back,  eat  my  Mc- 
Donald's, and  stay  out  of  the  way." 

It  never  happened  that  way.  First,  Knight  grabbed  the  Mc- 
Donald's bags  and  threw  them  onto  the  tarmac.  No  Big  Macs  for 
Risley.  Then,  as  soon  as  the  plane  was  airborne.  Knight  charged 
out  of  his  seat  and  headed  straight  for  Risley.  "Risley,  if  we  could 
afford  to  play  you  in  games  like  this  we  wouldn't  be  losing.  The 
reason  we  lost  this  game  was  you.  It  was  your  fault."  Knight 
never  yelled  at  anyone  else  the  whole  trip.  For  two  days  he  didn't 
let  Risley  practice.  The  next  night,  he  started  him.  Of  course, 
Risley  then  played  the  best  game  of  his  career. 

There  would  be  no  yelling  on  this  trip.  Just  story-telling.  As 
the  plane  landed  in  Evansville,  Knight  yelled,  "Doak,  the  bus 
better  be  here. "  Walker  was  thirty-one  years  old  and  a  successful 
businessman,  but  to  Knight  he  would  always  be  a  manager.  Man- 
agers were  in  charge  of  making  sure  a  bus  met  the  team  plane  on 
the  road.  The  bus  was  there.  At  the  game.  Knight  sent  Walker 
(who  else?)  to  the  locker  room  to  tell  Crews  his  old  friends  would 
be  watching. 

When  Walker  relayed  this  news  to  Crews  and  he  looked  up  to 


84    John  Feinstein 


where  Knight  and  company  were  sitting,  Crews  shook  his  head. 
"Jesus,"  he  said,  "we've  got  a  horseshit  team."  But  Crews  was 
shghtly  choked  up  when  the  pubhc  address  announcer  told  the 
fans  that  Knight  and  Crews's  old  teammates  were  in  the  building. 
Evansville  was  bad,  but  Kentucky  State  was  worse,  and  Evansville 
won  the  game,  50-48.  After  the  game,  when  the  hugs  and  the 
congratulations  were  over.  Knight  took  Crews  aside.  He  had  been 
taking  notes  during  the  game,  and  he  wanted  to  tell  Crews  what 
he  needed  to  work  on  with  his  team. 

When  the  plane  landed  back  in  Bloomington,  Knight  said  to 
everyone,  "That  was  a  really  nice  thing  you  all  did  going  down 
tonight.  I  know  it  meant  a  lot  to  Jimmy."  It  also  meant  a  lot  to 
Knight. 

The  four-day  honeymoon  that  had  started  with  Knight's  quiet 
locker-room  talk  on  Tuesday  came  to  a  screeching  halt  on  the 
cold,  rainy  Sunday  when  Knight  destroyed  Thomas  in  front  of 
the  whole  team. 

Knight  was  up  most  of  that  night.  He  had  already  decided  to 
talk  to  Thomas  alone  because  he  knew  that  he  had  gone  too  far 
during  the  screaming  session  in  the  locker  room.  What  is  ex- 
traordinary about  Knight  is  how  sensitive  he  can  seem  within 
hours  of  being  so  brutally  insensitive.  He  knew  as  he  began  that 
last  week  of  preseason  that  another  week  of  screaming  was  not 
what  the  team  needed.  Lots  and  lots  of  work,  yes.  Screaming,  no. 
That  was  why  he  skipped  the  Monday  morning  practice. 

Knight  arrived  at  Assembly  Hall  shortly  before  noon.  The  as- 
sistants had  run  the  morning  practice,  and  when  it  was  over, 
Robinson,  speaking  for  the  players,  had  thanked  them  for  sticking 
with  them  at  a  time  when  Knight  was  down  on  them. 

This  was  not  going  to  be  an  easy  week.  The  campus  was  vir- 
tually empty  because  of  Thanksgiving  break.  Since  there  were  no 
classes.  Knight  saw  the  week  as  an  opportunity  to  get  extra  work 
done.  Knight  didn't  think  of  practice  as  "practice"  unless  the 
players  had  their  ankles  taped  and  there  was  an  actual  practice 
plan  to  be  followed.  So  he  saw  no  reason  not  to  bring  the  players 
in  for  a  morning  session  that  might  consist  of  some  drills  and 
some  work  looking  at  tape,  for  the  players  this  meant  a  week  of 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    85 


getting  up  early  for  drills  and  tape,  going  to  lunch,  coming  back 
for  practice,  going  to  dinner,  and  then  returning  home  to  an  empty 
dorm  or  apartment  building.  With  the  weather  still  cold  and  dreary, 
it  was  not  a  week  that  anyone  looked  forward  to. 

It  was,  in  fact,  fair  to  say  that  the  players  looked  at  school 
breaks  as  a  mixed  blessing  at  best.  While  it  meant  a  chance  to  get 
away  from  the  pressures  of  school,  it  inevitably  increased  the 
pressures  put  on  them  as  basketball  players.  With  no  classes  or 
study  time  to  worry  about.  Knight  wanted  them  concentrating 
on  basketball  full-time.  That  could  be  both  wearing  and,  depend- 
ing on  his  mood,  depressing. 

This  week  was  both.  Although  Knight  had  spent  much  of  his 
rage  during  the  Sunday  night  tirade,  he  was  noticeably  uptight 
when  he  returned  for  practice  Monday  afternoon.  He  did  not  want 
to  get  on  Thomas  again  until  he  had  talked  to  him  alone  in  private, 
which  he  would  not  do  until  the  next  morning,  so  instead  he 
picked  on  Calloway. 

Knight  thought  Calloway  was  going  to  be  a  great  player.  One 
reason  he  thought  that  was  the  ability  Calloway  had  already  dis- 
played to  deal  with  Knight's  temperament.  Knight  doesn't  often 
pick  on  freshmen  because  they  are  just  that— freshmen.  He  knows 
they  are  feeling  their  way,  learning  the  system,  learning  about 
going  to  college.  During  the  course  of  the  entire  season.  Knight 
would  get  on  Oliphant  no  more  than  three  times  and  each  time 
it  was  a  very  minor  outburst,  almost  kidding. 

But  Calloway  was  different.  He  was  a  precocious  talent,  and 
therefore  someone  Knight  felt  had  to  contribute  right  away  for 
the  team  to  be  successful.  Calloway  had  played  at  Withrow  High 
School  in  Cincinnati,  and  in  his  junior  and  senior  years  Withrow 
had  a  losing  record.  Knight  reminded  him  of  that  often. 

On  Monday  afternoon,  when  Knight  thought  Calloway  was  a 
step  slow,  he  jumped  all  over  him.  "Ricky,  how  many  games  did 
Withrow  win  last  year?"  he  asked.  "Ten?  With  you  the  best 
player  in  the  Midwest  the  team  was  still  lousy.  Why  do  you  think 
that  was  so?  Do  you  think  maybe  it  was  because  you  didn't  play 
hard  enough? 

"Beheve  me,  Ricky,  you  can't  not  play  hard  and  play  well  at 
this  level.  You  think  Withrow  could  play  in  the  Big  Ten?  Do  you 


86    John  Feinstein 


think  you  have  some  kind  of  special  talent?  Well,  if  you  do,  you're 
wrong.  There  are  five  thousand  players  in  college  basketball  with 
your  talent.  The  only  way  you're  going  to  beat  them  is  by  playing 
harder  and  smarter  than  they  do.  And  this,  Ricky,  doesn't  get  it 
done." 

With  that  he  banished  Calloway  to  the  white  team.  A  few  plays 
later,  noticing  Calloway  had  taken  a  break,  he  exploded  again. 
"You  don't  want  to  play,  Ricky,  that's  fine.  Go  take  a  shower." 

Calloway  had  been  baptized.  As  he  departed.  Knight,  his  anger 
still  escalating,  told  Dakich  to  take  him  across  the  way  to  the  field 
house.  "Make  him  run,  Dakich,"  he  said.  "We'll  turn  him  into 
a  track  man."  Thirty  seconds  later  Knight  changed  his  mind  and 
sent  a  manager  after  Dakich  and  Calloway.  When  Calloway  re- 
turned Knight  told  him  to  get  back  in — with  the  white  team — 
"and  don't  even  think  about  trying  to  come  out." 

During  this  whole  interlude  Knight's  voice  never  got  much 
louder  than  it  gets  when  he  is  making  a  teaching  point.  This  was 
what  players  and  coaches  over  the  years  had  come  to  call  "BK 
theater."  Knight  was  performing.  Calloway  had  committed  no 
real  crime;  Knight  knew  that,  and  Calloway  knew  that.  Calloway 
was  a  player  who  was  going  to  play  a  lot  this  season.  Knight 
wanted  him  to  know  that  being  a  good  player,  one  looked  to  for 
production,  carried  with  it  a  good  deal  of  responsibility. 

This  was  a  basic  Knight  mind  game.  Any  player  who  had  taken 
a  freshman  psychology  course  understood  exactly  what  he  was 
doing.  But  it  went  beyond  that  for  one  rather  simple  reason:  fear. 
"After  you've  been  yelled  at  by  him  once,"  Calloway  said  later, 
"you  tell  yourself  to  try  never  to  get  yelled  at  again.  Of  course, 
you  do  get  yelled  at.  But  that  doesn't  mean  you  don't  try  to  avoid 
it  at  all  costs." 

This  was  Knight's  basic  coaching  philosophy.  Beyond  all  the 
talk  about  his  complexity,  his  fundamental  approach  to  motivation 
has  never  changed:  fear  is  his  number  one  weapon.  He  believes 
that  if  the  players  are  afraid  of  getting  screamed  at  or  of  landing 
in  the  doghouse,  they  will  play  better.  And,  if  they  fear  him  more 
than  the  opponent,  they  are  Ukely  to  play  better. 

Most  of  the  time  this  worked — as  time  and  Knight's  record 
proved.  But  occasionally  it  backfired.  When  the  team  wasn't  going 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    87 


well,  fear  often  caused  the  players  to  play  scared,  and  no  team 
plays  well  when  it  plays  scared. 

But  now,  with  the  season  a  few  days  away,  Knight  had  the  tear 
level  about  where  he  wanted  it.  The  next  morning,  after  he  hn- 
ished  his  talk  with  Thomas,  he  called  Alford,  Harris,  and  Calloway 
in.  "You  three,"  he  said  bluntly,  "are  our  three  best  players.  You 
are  going  to  have  to  carry  a  lot  of  the  load  if  we're  going  to  wm 
this  season."  , 

He  turned  to  Alford.  "Steve,  do  you  remember  last  year  when 
1  told  you  that  you  weren't  playing  hard  and  you  didn't  believe 
me?"  Alford  nodded.  "Was  I  right?"  Alford  nodded  again.  "Tell 
these  guys." 

Knight  had  pressed  the  exact  right  button.  Alford,  alter  a  sum- 
mer off,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Knight  was  right  last 
winter  about  his  not  playing  hard.  Alford  was  self-critical  by 
nature,  not  given  to  copping  out.  In  spite  of  the  emotional  ups 
and  downs  that  were  always  going  to  be  part  of  his  relationship 
with  Knight,  his  respect  for  Knight's  basketball  judgments  almost 
never  wavered. 

He  explained  that  morning  to  Harris  and  Calloway  how  easy 
it  was  to  convince  yourself  you  were  playing  hard.  "If  you're  a 
good  player,  you  can  still  make  good  plays  but  you  won't  make 
near  as  many  as  you  should,"  Alford  said.  "You've  got  to  keep 
going  even  when  you  think  you're  tired.  That's  been  our  problem 
this  fall.  We  get  tired  and  we  just  figure,  'Well,  we're  tired.  Coach 
will  understand.'  When  the  games  start,  he's  not  going  to  un- 
derstand. And  he  shouldn't." 

Alford  had  delivered  just  the  speech  his  coach  wanted,  unre- 
hearsed and  uncoached.  Two  months  later,  Calloway  would  re- 
member Alford's  little  talk  clearly  because  he  had  been  thinkmg 
all  through  fall  practice,  "I  am  playing  hard,  why  does  he  keep 
saying  I'm  not?" 

The  long  week  dragged  on.  Hillman  went  down  with  a  knee 
injury.  No  one  knew  it  at  the  time,  but  he  wouldn't  play  for  two 
months.  Pelkowski  caught  an  elbow  in  the  eye  from  Jadlow  and 
couldn't  practice.  Todd  Meier  took  a  shot  in  the  kidney  and  couldn't 
practice  for  two  days.  Jadlow  was  out  for  two  days  with  strep 
throat. 


88     John  Feinstein 


That  wasn't  all.  Alford  and  Harris  both  got  kneed,  and  although 
they  didn't  miss  any  practice  they  were  hobbling.  By  Wednesday, 
Felling  was  convinced  the  team  needed  a  rest  and  told  Knight  so.' 
They  had  been  in  uniform  twice  Monday,  twice  Tuesday,  and 
twice  Wednesday,  and  each  day  they  had  looked  at  tape  after  the 
morning  workout.  On  Thanksgiving  morning,  they  were  all  in  at 
10  A.M.  to  walk  through  Kent  State.  The  start  of  the  season  was 
now  forty-eight  hours  away.  Knight  was  itchy.  Time  and  again 
he  asked  the  coaches.  "Are  we  any  good?  Are  we  all  right?  Who 
do  you  think  we  should  start?" 

They  practiced  again  on  Thanksgiving  afternoon.  Finally,  all 
the  players  and  coaches— without  Knight— went  to  an  I.U.  pro- 
fessor's house  for  Thanksgiving  dinner.  Most  of  them  gave  thanks 
that  preseason  was  one  day  away  from  being  over. 

The  next  day,  a  carbon  copy  of  the  rainy,  dreary  days  of  the 
entire  week,  they  practiced  twice  and  then  came  back  after  dinner 
for  one  last  walk-through  in  street  clothes— their  fifth  walk-through 
for  Kent  State.  They  had  been  told  how  dangerous  this  team  could 
be.  They  had  been  reminded  that  two  years  earher,  opening  the 
season  against  Miami  of  Ohio,  a  team  from  Kent  State's  league, 
they  had  shown  up  flat  and  lost. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  last  practice  Friday  night  that  Knight 
decided  on  a  lineup.  Alford,  Morgan,  Harris,  and  Thomas  had 
been  a  lock.  The  fifth  spot  had  been  up  for  grabs  among  Jadlow, 
Calloway,  and  Robinson.  Jadlow's  throat  had  set  him  back  enough 
to  eliminate  him.  Then,  Friday  afternoon,  Calloway  lost  his  man 
twice  on  defense.  "Ricky,"  Knight  yelled,  "we're  sitting  in  there 
trying  to  decide  whether  to  start  you  and  you  practice  like  this. 
That's  just  bullshit.  We  can't  beat  anybody  with  that  kind  of 
play." 

Knight  wasn't  really  unhappy.  He  wanted  to  give  Robinson, 
the  senior,  the  first  chance.  Calloway's  mistakes  had  given  him 
the  chance  to  do  that  while  reminding  Calloway  he  had  better  be 
ready  to  play.  That  was  fine  with  Knight.  Finally,  shortly  before 
8  P.M.  he  sent  them  home.  "Get  a  good  night's  sleep,"  he  said. 
"We'll  see  you  here  at  9:15."  The  game  was  at  2  p.m. 

As  the  players  headed  out  into  the  rain,  too  tired  to  do  anything 
but  go  home  and  sleep.  Knight  returned  to  his  locker  room  with 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    89 


the  coaches.  He  had  two  questions:  "You  think  we'll  draw  a  good 
crowd?"  No  one  knew  the  answer.  "Do  you  think  we're  ready  to 
beat  anybody?"  No  one  knew  the  answer  to  that  one  either. 


7. 


The  Season  Begins 

The  last  day  of  November  may  have  been  the  ughest  day  of  a 
truly  ugly  month.  As  the  team  gathered  in  the  morning,  the  skies 
were  still  dark,  the  clouds  seemed  to  hang  on  the  roof  of  the 
building,  and  the  fog  was  so  thick  that  one  could  barely  make  out 
the  far  side  of  the  adjacent  football  stadium. 

Knight  arrived  in  a  snappish  mood.  He  was  annoyed  because 
Alford  had  been  quoted  in  one  of  the  newspapers  as  saying  Indiana 
would  be  a  quicker  team  this  season.  "Steve,  just  let  those  assholes 
figure  that  kind  of  stuff  out  for  themselves,  okay?"  "Those  ass- 
holes" was  about  the  nicest  reference  to  the  media  that  Knight 
ever  made  in  front  of  the  players. 

The  team  walked  into  the  locker  room  that  morning  to  fmd  a 
message  in  red  letters  awaiting  them:  "Miami  (Ohio)  63  ...  I. U. 
57."  Knight  believes  in  these  little  messages.  This  was  the  first 
of  many  he  would  deliver  during  the  season.  Murry  Bartow, 
because  he  had  the  neatest  handwriting  on  the  coaching  staff, 
became  the  designated  message  writer. 

After  the  team  had  gone  through  one  last  walk-through  of  Kent 
State,  Knight  brought  athletic  director  Ralph  Floyd  in  to  talk  to 
the  players.  Knight  did  this  for  two  reasons:  one,  he  had  a  standing 
policy  of  giving  the  players  another  voice  to  listen  to  on  occasion, 
but  two,  and  more  important,  he  knew  Floyd  enjoyed  it. 

Floyd  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  running  of  the  Indiana 
basketball  program.  Knight  has  a  clause  in  his  contract  that  gave 
him  final  say  in  all  basketball-related  matters,  but  even  if  he  didn't, 
Floyd  would  have  deferred  to  him.  When  Floyd's  wife  died  in  the 
summer  of  1984,  Knight  spent  hours  and  hours  with  him  nursing 


90    ]ohn  Feinstein 


Floyd  through  his  grief.  "I  don't  think  I  would  have  survived 
without  Bob  Knight,"  Floyd  often  told  people. 

Floyd  was  as  gentle  as  Knight  was  volatile.  If  Knight  wanted 
something  for  the  basketball  program  and  needed  Floyd's  help, 
he  got  it.  Their  relationship  was  in  many  ways  a  prototype  of 
Knight's  relationships  with  most  people:  their  loyalty  to  one  an- 
other was  absolute.  And,  even  though  Floyd  was  twenty  years 
older  than  Knight,  and  in  this  case  was  his  titular  boss,  he  almost 
always  deferred  to  the  younger  man.  But  on  this  morning.  Knight 
deferred  to  him. 

When  Floyd  was  finished.  Knight  sent  the  players  to  pregame 
meal.  He  and  Floyd  then  drove  crosstown  to  watch  Pat  Knight  play 
in  a  tournament.  Pat  Knight,  who  had  been  fighting  the  flu,  did  not 
play  well.  "We're  starting  a  new  program  tonight,"  Knight  said 
after  Pat's  game.  "He  doesn't  take  care  of  himself.  He's  going  to  be 
in  bed  at  nine  every  night. "  This  program  had  little  chance  of  sur- 
viving the  weekend,  as  Pat  Knight  was  sure  to  talk  himself  free. 

Knight  would  normally  have  shown  up  at  the  end  of  the  pre- 
game meal  on  a  day  like  this  one  if  Pat  hadn't  been  playing.  Even 
at  ten  in  the  morning,  they  would  eat  spaghetti,  pancakes,  ham- 
burgers, and  eggs.  On  each  plate  as  the  players  silently  sat  down 
to  eat  was  a  three-by-five  card.  On  it  was  written  the  same  mes- 
sage they  had  seen  in  the  locker  room:  Miami  (Ohio)  63  ...  I. U. 

If  the  players  hadn't  figured  this  one  out  by  now,  they  were 
not  likely  to  anytime  soon.  Only  Kohn  Smith  spoke  at  the  pre- 
game meal.  He  reminded  them  one  more  time  about  how  tough 
every  game  was  going  to  be.  "Don't  lie  down  now,"  he  said. 
"Don't  get  sleepy." 

Knight  was  anything  but  sleepy.  When  he  came  back  from  Pat's 
game,  Harold  Martin  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  locker  room. 
Harold  Martin  is  one  of  those  little-known  stories  in  Bob  Knight's 
life.  He  lives  fifty  miles  from  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and  was  a 
lifelong  Kentucky  fan.  But  in  1977,  he  spotted  Knight  trying 
unsuccessfully  to  buy  a  ticket  to  the  Kentucky  state  high  school 
championships.  Martin  had  extra  tickets.  He  walked  up  to  Knight, 
introduced  himself,  and  offered  Knight  two  tickets.  He  would  take 
no  money  for  them  because  he  respected  Knight  too  much  to  take 
money  from  him. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    91 


Shortly  after  that,  Martin  got  a  letter  from  Knight,  inviting 
him  to  Bloomington  for  a  game  anytime  and  adding,  "If  you  need 
a  place  to  stay  up  here,  you  are  more  than  welcome  to  stay  at 
the  house."  The  friendship  built  from  there.  Martin  came  up 
whenever  he  could  get  away  from  his  job  at  a  Coca-Cola  bottling 
plant  and  stayed  with  Knight.  He  became  a  rabid  Indiana  fan.  He 
was  a  quiet  Uttle  man  who  had  learned  to  read  Knight's  moods. 
Knight  called  him  Adolph,  after  legendary  Kentucky  coach  Adolph 

Rupp. 

Martin  had  a  problem.  The  work  force  at  the  Coca-Cola  plant 
where  he  worked  was  being  cut  back.  He  had  enough  seniority 
that  he  wouldn't  be  laid  off,  but  he  was  going  to  be  asked  to  drive 
fifty  miles  each  way  daily  to  work  at  another  plant.  Martin  wanted 
Knight's  advice.  How  should  he  deal  with  these  people?  He  didn't 
think  it  was  fair  to  ask  him  to  do  all  that  driving,  especially  for 
less  money  than  he  was  already  making.  On  the  other  hand, 
having  worked  for  the  company  for  more  than  twenty  years,  he 
didn't  have  that  many  outside  options  available. 

Knight  considered  all  this  for  a  moment.  "Quit  your  job,  Adolph," 
he  said  finally. 

Martin  was  stunned.  "Coach,  I  can't  afford  to  do  that." 

"Sure  you  can,"  Knight  said.  "You  can  come  up  here  and  work 
for  me.  I  could  use  some  help  running  my  camp,  keeping  all  my 
speaking  engagements  straight,  all  that  stuff.  I  mean,  I  could  really 
use  your  help.  Listen,  just  think  about  it.  If  they  give  you  a  hard 
time  down  there,  you  know  you  have  this  as  an  option.  If  you 
want  to  stay  with  them,  well,  I  understand  that  too." 

With  that  Knight  went  off  to  take  his  steam.  Harold  Martin 
looked  relieved,  which  was  exactly  what  Knight  wanted.  Knight 
came  out  of  the  steam  an  hour  later  and  weighed  in  at  222.  "Too 
much,"  he  grumbled. 

A  few  minutes  later,  dressed  in  an  Evansville  basketball  sweater 
that  Crews  had  sent  him  earlier  in  the  fall.  Knight  made  his  way 
through  the  catacombs  of  the  building  to  the  players'  locker  room. 
As  usual,  he  was  thinking  out  loud  as  he  walked.  "I  hope  we  can 
play  well,"  he  said  for  perhaps  the  hundredth  time  that  week. 
"But  I  haven't  got  very  much  faith  in  this  team." 

Why  not? 

"Past  history." 


92     John  Feinstein 


The  tension  in  the  locker  room  was  genuine.  All  the  reminders 
about  Miami,  all  the  memories  of  last  season,  not  to  mention  the 
memories  of  the  forty-eight  practices  that  had  led  to  this  after- 
noon, had  combined  to  create  a  sense  of  dread.  Indiana  would 
play  this  game  not  to  lose.  That  wasn't  the  atmosphere  Knight 
wanted  but  against  an  opponent  like  Kent  State  it  was  almost 
unavoidable.  Knight  would  never  make  light  of  an  opponent's 
ability.  He  thought  if  the  players  didn't  think  he  respected  an 
opponent,  they  wouldn't  respect  it.  And,  he  believed,  that  would 
almost  guarantee  a  disastrous  performance.  So  Knight  went  the 
other  way.  As  the  players  sat  in  the  locker  room  that  day,  they 
half  believed  that  when  they  ran  onto  the  court,  Larry  Bird  and 
Julius  Erving  would  be  wearing  Kent  State  uniforms. 

"This  is  what  we've  been  working  for  since  October  15th,"  he 
told  the  players.  "Everyone  in  here  knows  what  he  has  to  do  for 
us  to  be  successful."  Knight  turned  to  Alford.  "This  team  had  no 
leadership  last  season.  If  that  happens  again,  you  are  going  to  be 
the  one  I  come  looking  for.  Understand  that  from  the  beginning." 
Then,  talking  to  the  team  again.  Knight  said,  "You  cannot  just 
walk  out  on  that  floor  and  think  you  are  going  to  play  well  because 
you're  Indiana.  It  doesn't  work  that  way.  We  had  a  team  that  sat 
in  here  last  year  ranked  number  4  in  the  country,  and  they  were 
so  fatheaded  and  fatassed  that  they  were  no  more  number  4  in 
the  country  than  Kohn,  Joby,  Royce,  Tim,  and  I  would  be. 

"You  have  to  go  out  there  understanding  how  hard  it  is  to  play 
this  game  well.  If  you  don't  understand  that,  you're  gonna  get 
beat.  It's  as  simple  as  that.  You  walk  on  that  floor  today  and  you 
are  privileged  just  to  be  here.  Only  two  schools  in  the  country 
have  won  two  national  championships  in  the  last  twenty-five  years 
and  this  is  one  of  them.  There  have  been  countless  great  players 
who  have  sat  in  this  locker  room  and  now  you're  sitting  here. 
They  went  out  to  play  just  like  you  people  are  going  out  here  to 
play  today. 

"The  most  interested  person  in  this  whole  arena  today  in  terms 
of  how  you  people  compete  and  how  hard  you  play  and  how 
intelligently  you  play  is  gonna  be  me.  Let's  go." 

Shortly  after  2  p.m.,  with  a  crowd  about  1,000  below  capacity 
in  the  building,  the  season  finally  began.  It  took  thirteen  seconds 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    93 


for  Kent  State  to  score.  It  took  three  minutes  for  Robinson  to 
miss  a  box  out;  it  took  about  one  half-second  for  Knight  to  leap 
from  his  seat  screaming,  "Stew,  that's  yours,"  as  Robinson  went 
by.  It  took  seven  minutes  for  Indiana  to  gain  control  of  the  game. 
Daryl  Thomas,  who  six  days  earlier  had  been  deemed  totally 
incapable  of  playing,  swooped  into  the  passing  lane,  grabbed  the 
ball,  and  went  the  length  of  the  court  for  a  dunk.  Indiana  had  the 
lead  at  17-9  and  Knight  was  on  his  feet,  clapping  his  hands. 
Knight's  handclap  is  often  imitated  around  the  Indiana  locker 
room.  He  turns  his  hands  perpendicular  to  one  another  and  brings 
them  together  almost  like  two  cymbals.  He  almost  never  claps 
more  than  once  and  the  clap  is  usually  the  capper  to  a  rousing 
"Let's  get  'em,"  or  an  equally  rousing  "What  the  hell  is  wrong 
with  you?"  By  midseason,  Murry  Bartow  was  doing  Knight's  clap 
every  time  he  stood  up  on  the  bench  without  realizing  it.  It  was 
both  distinctive  and  addictive. 

Thomas's  steal  put  the  Hoosiers  in  command,  and  they  didn't 
really  give  up  that  command  for  the  rest  of  the  half.  Robinson 
got  yanked  after  Kent  State  guard  Mike  Roberts  beat  him  on  a 
drive  to  the  basket.  Brooks  subbed  for  him.  Calloway  came  off 
the  bench  and  hit  his  first  six  shots.  In  the  press  box,  Hammel, 
feeling  comfortable  as  the  lead  built  to  fourteen  points,  cracked, 
"I  wonder  if  anyone  has  ever  gone  an  entire  career  without  miss- 
ing a  shot?" 

Sitting  near  Hammel  during  an  Indiana  game  was  worth  the 
price  of  admission  in  itself.  Hammel  had  missed  exactly  two  games 
in  Knight's  fifteen  seasons  at  Indiana.  Although  he  had  not  grad- 
uated from  the  school,  he  was  about  as  loyal  to  it  as  any  alumnus 
could  be.  This  was  especially  true  in  the  case  of  his  relationship 
with  Knight. 

They  were  an  interesting  couple.  Knight  and  Hammel.  The 
writer  was  four  years  older  than  the  coach  and  was  as  gentle  as 
the  coach  was  vitriolic.  Even  though  other  writers  knew  how  close 
the  two  were,  Hammel  was  rarely  disparaged  for  this  relationship 
in  a  business  where  that  kind  of  relationship  is  always  frowned 
upon. 

Part  of  the  reason  for  their  tolerance  was  the  simple  under- 
standing that  no  sports  editor  in  Bloomington  could  survive  if  he 


94    John  Feinstein 


was  ever  cut  off  from  the  Indiana  basketball  team.  If  you  can't 
cover  that  which  interests  your  readers  more  than  anything  else, 
you  aren't  going  to  be  valuable  to  the  paper  for  very  long.  And 
everyone  who  knows  Knight  at  all  knows  that  one  is  not  allowed 
to  be  neutral  in  a  relationship  with  him.  You  are  either  for  us 
or  against  us.  Hammel,  whose  sympathies  were  bound  to  lie  with 
Indiana  and  Knight  m  most  cases  anyway,  had  made  the  decision 
years  ago  that  he  was  with  Knight. 

The  other  reason  few  people  disparaged  Hammel  was  Hammel. 
Not  only  was  his  basketball  knowledge  respected,  but  he  was 
generally  considered  a  true  gentleman  in  a  business  often  sorely 
lacking  in  them.  Some  hometown  writers  allow  their  prejudices 
to  affect  what  they  write  about  other  teams.  Hammel  never  did 
that.  He  wasn't  about  to  attack  Knight,  but  he  didn't  run  around 
attacking  other  people  unfairly  either. 

Hammel  is  a  good  newspaper  man.  He  is  one  of  those  people 
who  can  write  the  entire  paper — his  prolificness  is  legendary — 
lay  it  out  and  write  all  the  headhnes  if  necessary.  It  bothered  him 
sometimes  that  he  wasn't  as  objective  as  he  should  be.  In  fact,  he 
had  been  angry  with  himself  the  previous  season  when  someone 
had  written  him  a  letter  about  his  column  on  the  chair  throw, 
commenting,  "It  read  like  a  legal  brief  prepared  on  behalf  of  the 
defendant." 

"Probably,"  Hammel  said  much  later,  not  without  chagrin,  "he 
was  right." 

Hammel's  friendship  with  Knight  was  quite  real — on  both  sides. 
Knight  respected  Hammel's  knowledge  of  the  game  and  would 
often  solicit  his  opinions.  Only  rarely  did  Hammel  disagree  with 
Knight — partly  because  they  generally  thought  alike,  partly  be- 
cause disagreeing  with  him  was  usually  a  waste  of  time.  It  had 
to  be  very  important  and  Hammel  had  to  be  quite  certain  he  was 
right  and  Knight  was  wrong  before  Hammel  would  actively  dis- 
agree with  Knight's  position  on  something. 

Because  he  was  very  much  a  part  of  the  inner  circle,  Hammel 
had  as  much  stake  in  the  outcome  of  the  games  as  the  players 
and  coaches.  If  Indiana  lost  or  played  poorly,  he  was  going  to  be 
subjected  to  late-night  phone  calls  and  a  depressed  and  angry 
companion.   Hammel  didn't  want  that  any  more  than  Alford, 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    95 


Daryl  Thomas,  or  Tim  Garl  did.  His  face  during  games  was  a 
mask  of  indifference,  but  when  something  went  wrong,  he  would 
very  quietly  agonize:  "Oh  no,  oh  goodness  no,  Jiminy  Christmas, 
no.  Oh  no,  I  don't  think  I  want  that."  He  never  called  Indiana 
"we,"  and  he  never  changed  expression.  But  in  tight  situations 
he  got  very  quiet  and  noticeably  nervous.  Usually  with  good 
reason. 

On  this  day,  the  half  ended  poorly.  Leading  52-38,  Indiana 
gave  up  the  last  two  baskets  of  the  half,  a  huge  sin  since  Knight 
had  fifteen  minutes  to  vent  his  anger  about  this  regression.  First, 
though.  Knight  stopped  the  officials  at  center  court  to  tell  them 
what  a  lousy  job  they  were  doing.  This  was  not  a  good  sign. 
Knight  was  still  finishing  the  one-year  probation  that  had  accom- 
panied his  suspension  after  the  chair-throwing  incident,  and  get- 
ting upset  after  twenty  minutes  of  the  first  game  with  a  ten-point 
lead  was  not  an  encouraging  signal  to  those  hoping  Knight  would 
cool  his  act  this  season. 

The  first  halftime  was  not  encouraging,  either.  Even  with  the 
lead.  Knight  was  not  happy.  Once  the  game  started,  Kent  State 
had  ceased  being  the  Celtics.  Now  they  were  just  the  goddamn 
Golden  Flashes  from  the  goddamn  Mid-American  Conference,  not 
capable,  probably,  of  beating  anyone  in  the  Big  Ten.  And  here  it 
was  halftime,  and  the  lead,  which  could  have  been  sixteen  or 
eighteen,  was  only  ten. 

He  blistered  Harris  and  Jadlow.  "This  is  not  f junior  col- 
lege," he  told  them.  "You  guys  have  something  go  wrong  and 
you  sulk  and  pout.  That  doesn't  go  over  very  big  with  me.  Jadlow, 
you  are  just  flopping  around  out  there  on  the  boards  like  a  great 
white  whale.  You  let  them  get  five  rebounds  that  you  had  your 
hands  on." 

Knight's  distress  was  very  real — not  because  he  thought  this 
game  was  in  serious  jeopardy,  but  because  he  was  looking  ahead 
to  a  week  that  included  games  against  Notre  Dame  and  Kentucky, 
with  Louisville  not  long  after  that.  "We  got  outrebounded  17- 
9,"  he  said.  "Do  you  know  what  it's  going  to  be  like  rebounding 
against  Louisville  if  you  get  outrebounded  by  this  team?  You'll 
never  see  the  basketball. 

"They've  scrapped  and  fought  and  played  hard,  and  we've  whined 


96     John  Feinstein 


and  bitched.  Robinson,  you  get  beat  twice  in  the  first  four  minutes. 
Brooks,  you  are  two  plays  behind  all  the  time.  We  gave  up  forty- 
two  points — forty-two  points!" 

Like  the  pregame  ritual,  half  time  was  almost  always  the  same: 
Knight  would  come  in  and  talk  to  the  players,  telling  them  what 
he  thought  of  the  first  half— in  this  case  not  much.  Then  he  and 
the  coaches  would  retreat  to  the  private  hallway  just  outside  the 
door,  where  they  would  review  the  first  half  and  make  decisions 
about  the  second.  Felling,  as  the  junior  man  on  the  staff,  was  in 
charge  of  knowing  how  much  time  was  left  before  the  second  half 
started.  Generally,  Knight  would  ask  him  three  or  four  times — 
sometimes  more — how  much  time  was  left.  Waltman  was  re- 
sponsible for  knowing  the  time-out  situation,  and  Smith  was  re- 
sponsible for  knowing  who  on  both  teams  was  in  foul  trouble. 

The  coaches'  pow-wows  consisted,  more  often  than  not,  of 
Knight's  analysis  of  the  first  half.  His  commentary  on  different 
players  was  often  brutal.  Today,  Brooks,  who  had  only  played 
briefly,  and  Robinson  were  his  targets.  "They  cannot  play,  simple 
as  that,"  he  said  to  the  coaches,  using  a  phrase  he  would  use  to 
describe  every  player  on  the  team  at  some  point  before  the  season 
was  over.  "Robinson  can't  see  anything  and  Brooks  can't  think 
out  there." 

The  coaches  listened.  Often  they  agreed  with  Knight's  assess- 
ments. Almost  as  often,  they  knew  he  was  being  too  harsh,  re- 
acting emotionally  in  an  emotional  situation.  They  were  not  likely, 
however,  to  interrupt  and  say,  "Coach,  you're  probably  being  a 
little  too  emotional." 

What  was  important  was  to  get  through  the  complaining  and 
decide  what  to  do  in  the  second  half.  Knight  has  been  through 
this  so  many  times  that  he  seems  to  know  just  how  long  he  can 
afford  to  let  off  steam  before  he  has  to  start  making  decisions. 
This  day  was  easy.  He  wanted  to  make  two  changes:  "Let's  set 
our  defense  up  at  the  top  of  the  key.  They're  just  too  quick  for 
us  to  get  out  and  try  to  guard  them."  This  admission  disturbed 
Knight  because  he  hated  nothing  more  than  having  to  play  con- 
tainment defense.  Second,  he  wanted  to  start  Calloway  over  Ro- 
binson. That  made  sense;  Calloway  had  six  field  goals,  Robinson 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    97 


Once  the  coaches  finish  their  initial  meeting,  they  return  to  the 
locker  room  to  tell  the  players  what  changes  will  be  made.  Some- 
times Knight  will  diagram  a  play  or  a  defense  he  wants  to  use. 
Almost  always,  he  will  reinforce  his  initial  comments.  Then  the 
coaches  will  go  back  to  the  hallway  once  more.  "Anything  else?" 
Knight  will  ask.  An  idea  might  be  discussed,  or  everyone  might 
just  look  at  each  other  and  shrug. 

The  second  meeting  produced  shrugs.  There  were  four  minutes 
left.  Knight  was  calmer  now,  but  as  the  coaches  turned  to  go  back 
into  the  locker  room  for  a  final  word.  Knight  slumped  against  the 
wall  in  the  hallway.  "I'm  just  not  sure,"  he  said  softly,  "I  can 
take  another  year  of  this.  I'm  really  not  sure  I  can  take  it." 

Back  inside  for  a  final  word.  Knight  was  upbeat  again.  "You've 
done  some  good  things  offensively.  You've  found  people,  you've 
run  good  plays.  You've  had  some  good  moments  in  the  first 
twenty  minutes.  Let's  go  out  now  and  play  twenty  good  minutes." 

With  those  words  ringing  in  their  ears,  they  proceeded  to  play 
horribly  for  six  minutes.  A  Roberts  jumper  with  14:07  left  in  the 
game  drew  Kent  to  within  one,  55-54.  Assembly  Hall,  which  is 
not  very  loud  at  best,  was  like  a  morgue.  Knight  had  already  called 
one  time-out.  He  would  not  call  another.  "Oh  my,"  was  Ham- 
mel's  murmured  comment.  If  this  game  were  to  get  away,  it  would 
be,  as  Hammel  often  put  it,  "a  major  disaster." 

But  it  didn't  happen.  Calloway  made  a  textbook  cut  and  Harris 
found  him  for  a  layup.  Thomas  stole  an  inbounds  pass  and  Alford 
swished  a  twenty-footer  while  he  was  being  fouled.  His  free  throw 
made  it  60-54.  Kent  got  a  bucket,  but  Indiana  scored  the  next 
eleven  points,  the  last  of  them  coming  on  a  gorgeous  pass  off  the 
fast  break  from  Alford  to  Calloway. 

The  16-2  run  took  less  than  four  minutes.  The  rest  of  the  game 
was  academic,  Indiana  coasting,  89-73.  As  the  band  played  "In- 
diana," Knight  walked  off  the  floor,  shoulders  hunched,  head 
down.  He  almost  always  walks  off  the  floor  this  way,  even  when 
he  is  happy.  This  time  though,  he  wasn't  happy. 

The  locker  room  would  not  have  been  much  quieter  if  Kent 
State  had  won  the  game.  "You  just  played  a  team  that  played  so 
much  harder  and  smarter  than  you,  it's  not  even  funny,"  Knight 
told  them.  "You  didn't  play  smart,  you  weren't  where  you  were 


98     John  Feinstein 


supposed  to  be.  This  team  has  a  long,  long  way  to  go.  You  strug- 
gled like  hell  to  beat  a  team  that  last  year  finished  17-13  and  lost 
its  two  leading  scorers.  You  don't  scrap,  you  don't  see  things. 
You  got  little  chance  of  winning.  This  team  was  probably  one  of 
the  five  weakest  we'll  play  on  our  twenty-eight-game  schedule. 
Harris,  you  and  Jadlow  gave  us  nothing.  This  is  not  junior  college, 
boys.  It's  a  different  ball  game." 

When  he  was  finished.  Knight  asked  Hillman  and  Smith  to 
come  into  the  hallway.  "I  can't  redshirt  you  two,"  he  told  them. 
"I  need  you  to  play  this  year.  We  just  haven't  got  enough  players 
without  you.  I'm  sorry." 

Smith,  who  had  no  desire  to  be  redshirted,  was  delighted.  Hill- 
man,  still  injured,  wasn't  sure  if  the  decision  would  stick.  "We'll 
see  what  happens,"  he  said. 

Mentally,  Knight  had  decided  he  needed  Hillman  and  Smith  in 
place  of  Robinson  and  Brooks.  They  were  deep  in  the  doghouse. 
Twenty-four  hours  earlier,  Knight  had  called  Brooks  aside  in  prac- 
tice to  tell  him  how  pleased  he  was  with  the  way  he  had  worked 
and  the  way  he  had  progressed.  He  had  honestly  believed  what 
he  had  said  then,  and  he  honestly  believed  what  he  was  saying 
now. 

After  they  showered,  he  blistered  them  one  more  time.  Only 
three  players  had  pleased  him:  Alford,  Thomas,  and  Calloway. 
"Do  you  know  how  different  it's  going  to  be  for  you  people  trying 
to  play  Kentucky  and  Notre  Dame?  They're  so  much  better  than 
these  teams,  it's  not  even  funny.  If  you  got  outrebounded  by 
these  people  do  you  know  what  Darrell  Walker  is  going  to  do  to 
you?" 

Knight  meant  Kentucky  All-American  Kenny  Walker,  but  he 
had  a  mental  block  and  continually  referred  to  him  as  Darrell 
Walker,  a  former  All-American  at  Arkansas  who  now  played  for 
the  New  York  Knicks.  "Be  back  here  at  six  o'clock,"  Knight  finally 
told  them.  "We'll  go  through  the  film.  We've  got  no  time  to 
waste  because  I  guarantee  you  we  aren't  ready  to  play  Notre  Dame 
this  way." 

The  players  dismissed.  Knight  began  his  postgame  ritual.  It 
began,  always,  in  the  small  room  off  the  locker  room.  He  retreated 
there  with  Ed  WilUams,  Ralph  Floyd,  and  any  other  close  friends 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    99 


who  might  be  at  the  game.  Occasionally  one  of  the  coaches  joined 
the  group.  Often,  Knight  sent  for  Hammel.  Then  he  repeated 
what  he  had  already  said  to  the  coaches.  In  this  case  it  was  more 
on  Brooks,  more  on  Robinson.  "It's  so  disappointing,"  Knight 
said,  "to  sit  there  and  not  see  them  play  the  way  we  want  them 
playing." 

Everyone  nodded.  Kit  Klingelhoffer,  the  long-time  sports  m- 
formation  director  (SID),  came  in.  Knight  looked  at  him.  "Are 
they  ready?"  Klingelhoffer  nodded. 

Klingelhoffer  was  another  person  who  had  long  ago  adjusted 
to  Life  With  Knight.  He  had  as  difficult  a  job  as  any  SID  in  the 
country  because  he  had  to  deal  with  a  coach  who  said  no  far  more 
than  he  said  yes,  who  was  apt  to  become  upset  at  any  moment, 
who  might  blow  up  at  him  at  any  second. 

Klingelhoffer,  like  everyone  else  who  had  been  at  Indiana  for 
any  extended  period,  had  been  through  Knight  purgatory.  One 
season  Knight  had  not  spoken  to  him.  Another  season  Knight  had 
not  spoken  to  the  press  after  games,  instead  speaking  only  to 
Klingelhoffer,  who  would  then  type  up  Knight's  quotes.  Most 
writers  that  season  took  to  reporting  what  Knight  "reportedly 
said"  after  games,  since  none  of  them  actually  heard  him  say 
anything. 

Knight  had  come  a  long  way  in  his  press  relations  over  the 
years.  He  almost  never  ducked  a  postgame  press  conference,  and 
the  Indiana  locker  room  was  almost  always  open  to  the  press 
following  games.  In  fact,  in  a  league  full  of  paranoid  coaches, 
many  of  whom  never  allowed  writers  in  their  locker  rooms.  Knight 
was  now  viewed  as  not  uncooperative  by  most  in  the  media.  At 
times  he  was  downright  entertaining,  and  he  was  almost  always 
quotable.  Knight  still  viewed  most  of  the  media  with  disdain,  but 
he  had  learned  not  to  go  off  the  wall  every  time  someone  criticized 
him,  and  he  had  also  learned  to  stay  calm  through  most  of  his 
press  conferences. 

Khngelhoffer  never  said  anything  when  he  came  to  get  Knight 
after  a  game.  Years  of  experience  had  taught  him  that  when 
Knight  was  ready,  he  was  ready.  Not  before.  Usually,  though. 
Knight  was  ready  when  Klingelhoffer  came  in  because  he  was  just 
as  happy  to  get  the  postgame  press  conference  over  with. 


100    ]ohn  Feinstein 


Knight  almost  never  told  the  press  exactly  what  he  thought, 
but  that  hardly  made  him  unusual;  few  college  coaches  tell  the 
press  what  they  really  think  after  a  game.  If  the  play  of  Brooks, 
Robinson,  Harris,  and  Jadlow  disturbed  him,  the  media  never 
knew.  Knight  talked  at  length  about  Daryl  Thomas,  Steve  Alford, 
and  Rick  Calloway.  He  lauded  Kent  State  for  playing  hard.  He 
said  he  saw  a  lot  of  things  that  he  had  hked.  All  of  this  was  true; 
it  was  just  incomplete. 

Press  conference  over,  Knight  drove  crosstown  to  tape  his  weekly 
TV  show.  The  assistant  coaches  began  to  go  through  the  tape  of 
the  Kent  State  game.  Waltman  and  Salazar  were  on  their  way 
back  from  Notre  Dame,  where  they  had  flown  for  Notre  Dame's 
game  that  afternoon  against  Butler.  Waltman  had  gone  to  the 
game  to  put  together  a  scouting  report,  while  Salazar  had  checked 
into  a  local  hotel  to  tape  the  game  off  a  local  telecast. 

As  Knight  drove  away  from  Assembly  Hall,  his  mind  was  totally 
focused  on  Notre  Dame.  The  Kent  State  game  existed  now  only 
as  a  tool  to  get  ready  for  Notre  Dame.  "We'll  beat  Notre  Dame," 
he  said.  "In  fact,  I  think  we  can  pound  them.  They  don't  play 
very  good  defense  and  this  game  was  absolutely  perfect  for  us  in 
terms  of  preparation.  Now  we'll  have  their  attention  the  next 
three  days.  They  won't  get  bigheaded  because  they've  blown 
somebody  out." 

Knight  had  a  faraway  look  in  his  eye  as  he  drove  as  if  he  was 
seeing  the  game  in  front  of  him.  "The  best  defense  to  play  against 
them  would  be  a  two-three  zone.  That  way  [David]  Rivers  can't 
penetrate.  Make  them  play  a  halfcourt  game  and  they're  not  that 


Knight  was  not  likely  to  put  in  a  zone  defense  in  three  days 
after  twenty-one  years  of  coaching  man-to-man.  But  he  would 
set  up  his  man-to-man  to  pinch  inside  so  hard  that  Notre  Dame 
would  feel  as  if  it  was  playing  against  a  zone.  "The  only  thing 
that  worries  me,"  he  said  pulling  the  car  into  the  TV  station,  "is 
time.  I  wish  we  had  more  than  three  days  to  get  ready." 

Although  his  assistants  prepare  two  or  three  games  ahead,  look- 
ing at  and  preparing  tape.  Knight  never  begins  to  think  specifically 
about  an  opponent  until  that  is  the  next  game.  In  six  weeks  of 
preseason  practice  he  had  often  talked  in  the  abstract  to  the  team 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    101 


about  Notre  Dame,  Kentucky,  and  Louisville,  the  three  truly  tough 
December  games  on  the  schedule,  but  was  never  specific.  Now, 
Knight  and  his  players  would  walk,  talk,  eat,  and  sleep  Notre 
Dame  for  three  days. 

Knight's  TV  show  was  always  an  adventure.  He  taped  it  after 
Saturday  games  for  airing  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Sometimes  this 
meant  a  taping  session  at  three  in  the  morning  after  returning 
from  a  night  road  game.  The  host  was  Chuck  Marlowe,  a  gentle, 
sweet-tempered  man  who  had  learned  over  the  years  to  let  Knight 
run  the  show.  If  Knight  was  in  a  bad  mood,  Marlowe  made  the 
questions  as  soft  as  possible.  If  Knight  was  in  a  good  mood, 
Marlowe  just  got  out  of  the  way  because  Knight  was  apt  to  say 
or  do  anything. 

That  fact  had  been  best  illustrated  in  1981  when  Knight  had 
brought  a  jackass  wearing  a  Purdue  hat  to  the  show.  He  had 
introduced  the  jackass  as  "someone  who  is  here  to  represent  Pur- 
due's point  of  view."  Naturally,  the  show  caused  an  uproar,  es- 
pecially among  Purdue  people.  Knight  was  so  pleased  with  himself 
that  he  wanted  to  bring  the  jackass  back  for  the  Indiana  basketball 
banquet,  which  is  televised  statewide.  Ed  Williams,  who  knew 
better  than  anyone  Knight's  penchant  for  pushing  a  good  thing 
too  far,  had  called  Nancy  Knight  to  ask  if  there  was  anyone  who 
could  talk  Knight  out  of  repeating  the  jackass  act.  "Only  Pete 
Newell  or  Fred  Taylor,"  Nancy  Knight  told  him. 

WiUiams  called  Newell  and  Taylor  and  asked  them  to  convince 
Knight  not  to  do  this.  Indiana  had  just  won  the  national  cham- 
pionship and  Knight  was  riding  high.  Why  try  to  get  the  last 
word  when  he  had  already  had  the  last  word?  Newell  and  Taylor 
called  Knight,  and  for  once,  he  went  along  with  sound  advice.  But 
he  still  shook  his  head  when  he  told  the  story  and  said,  "Boy, 
would  it  have  been  great  to  do  that. " 

Knight's  show  is  different  from  other  coaches'  shows.  There 
are  never  any  features  or  interviews  with  the  players.  The  taped 
highlights  are  limited.  Mostly,  Knight  just  talks.  This  can  be  dull, 
but  given  the  quality  of  most  other  coaches'  shows,  it  would  still 
be  above  average.  More  often  than  not,  it  is  quite  entertaining, 
especially  if  Knight  wants  to  get  something  off  his  chest.  Marlowe 
has  done  the  show  for  fourteen  years.  He  has  gray  hair.  People 


102    ]ohn  Feinstein 


joke  that  he's  only  twenty-nine  years  old,  but  looks  the  way  he 
does  because  he  has  hosted  Knight's  show  for  so  long. 

Knight  was  subdued  during  the  show,  wanting  to  get  it  done 
so  he  could  get  back  to  work  on  Notre  Dame.  By  the  time  he 
returned  to  Assembly  Hall,  Waltman  and  Salazar  were  back  and 
the  coaches  were  almost  all  the  way  through  the  Kent  State  tape. 
"Well,"  Knight  said  to  Waltman,  "can  we  beat  the  Irish?" 

"I  think  so,"  Waltman  said,  "if  we  control  the  tempo  and  keep 
them  off  the  boards." 

"See?"  Knight  said,  starting  to  get  excited.  "I  think  we  can 
pound  them." 

But  it  would  not  be  easy.  Knight  made  that  clear  to  the  players 
that  night  as  they  went  through  the  tape.  There  is  nothing  that 
Indiana  players  like  less  than  going  through  tape — especially 
after  a  game  that  Knight  is  not  pleased  with.  At  its  very  best, 
going  through  tape  is  drudge  work.  At  its  very  worst,  it  is  a 
nightmare. 

Knight  rarely  stops  the  tape  to  show  a  good  play.  More  often, 
he  focuses  on  the  mistakes,  and  seeing  them  again  may  make  him 
angrier  than  he  was  when  the  play  happened  in  the  game.  Later 
in  the  season,  Steve  Green  was  visiting  the  day  before  a  game, 
and  he  was  sitting  quietly  in  the  back  while  the  coaches  took  the 
players  through  a  tape. 

Seeing  the  sleepy  looks  on  the  players'  faces,  Joby  Wright 
decided  a  fresh  voice  might  aid  the  cause.  "Steve,  when  you  were 
a  player,  what  did  you  want  to  accomplish  when  the  team  went 
through  tapes?" 

Green,  half  dozing  himself,  stammered  for  a  moment.  Finally, 
his  voice  rich  with  sincerity,  he  said,  "Well,  Joby,  I  always  tried 
to  look  at  it  as  a  good  chance  to  learn  something  that  would  help 
me  be  a  better  player." 

Wright  beamed  at  that  answer.  A  few  moments  later,  leaving 
the  locker  room.  Green  was  laughing  at  himself.  "I  didn't  know 
what  the  hell  to  say,"  he  said.  "That  was  the  first  time  I  ever  sat 
through  a  tape  session  without  getting  my  ass  chewed  out." 

That  was  what  players  remembered  most  about  tape  sessions. 
If  it  wasn't  boring  it  was  because  you  were  getting  yelled  at.  The 
post-Kent  State  session  was  fairly  mild;  even  though  he  hadn't 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    103 


been  completely  satisfied  with  the  game,  it  had  been  a  victory. 
Knight's  mind  was  now  completely  focused  on  Notre  Dame. 

He  didn't  need  to  pump  Notre  Dame  up  to  the  players  the  way 
he  had  to  pump  up  Kent  State.  They  knew  that  Notre  Dame  had 
beaten  them  the  year  before  and  would  come  into  the  game  ranked 
tenth  in  the  nation.  In  fact,  knowing  all  this.  Knight  took  a  very 
different  tack.  He  wanted  to  be  certain  his  players  knew  they 
could  win.  Before  Kent  State,  he  had  to  remind  them  that  they 
could  lose.  Now,  he  would  spend  the  next  three  days  telling  them 
repeatedly  that  Notre  Dame  was  beatable. 

"This  game  will  be  there  for  you,"  he  said.  "But  only  if  you 
do  exactly  what  we  tell  you  to  do  the  next  three  days." 

Shortly  before  9  p.m. — just  about  twelve  hours  after  they  had 
arrived  that  morning — Knight  sent  them  home. 

"Well,  boys,"  Knight  said  to  the  coaches  after  the  players  had 
left,  "we're  one  and  twenty-seven."  This  was  Knight's  way  of 
tracking  the  team's  record:  one  game  played,  twenty-seven  to  go. 

The  next  three  days  were  just  as  tough  as  Knight  had  promised, 
but  no  one  seemed  to  mind.  The  drudgery  of  preseason  was  over. 
The  opponent  was  someone  worth  getting  excited  about.  Everyone 
was  sharp,  including  the  coaches.  Knight  is  never  better  than  in 
the  days  before  a  big  game.  He  forgets  about  mind  games.  Often, 
he  forgets  his  temper  because  there  is  no  time  for  a  blowup.  He 
may  speak  emphatically  when  a  mistake  is  made,  but  there  is 
almost  never  a  tantrum. 

"With  some  teams  you  can  afford  to  get  mad  and  throw  every- 
body out,"  Knight  said  during  preseason.  "It  gives  them  some 
rest  and,  perhaps  more  important,  it  gives  you  some  rest  because 
you  get  tired  of  practice,  too.  But  we  can't  have  that  with  this 
team.  This  team  isn't  good  enough  that  we  can  waste  time.  It  has 
to  work  every  day  to  get  better." 

Even  with  that  awareness,  Knight  had  tossed  them  all  several 
times  during  preseason.  But  not  now.  There  was  no  need  now 
because  the  players  were  as  psyched  for  this  game  as  the  coach 
was.  No  extra  motivation  would  be  needed. 

They  practiced  for  more  than  two  hours  on  Sunday  afternoon 
and  came  back  that  night  to  go  through  drills  and  some  tape. 


104    John  Feinstein 


Knight  reminded  them  again  and  again  that  if  they  didn't  beat 
themselves,  they  would  beat  Notre  Dame.  November  was  over. 
It  was  December  1.  As  the  players  left  practice  that  night,  it  was 
snowing. 

Knight  ignored  his  tapes  that  night  in  order  to  watch  Duke  play 
Kansas  in  the  final  of  the  Big  Apple-NIT.  Knight  rarely  watches 
basketball  for  recreation,  but  Mike  Krzyzewski  was  Duke's  coach. 
Knight  may  be  closer  to  Krzyzewski  than  to  any  of  his  other 
former  players  or  coaches.  Krzyzewski  was  one  of  his  first  recruits 
at  Army,  a  player  who  personified  Army's  style  of  play  in  those 
days.  He  wasn't  a  good  shooter  and  he  wasn't  quick,  but  he  would 
run  through  a  wall  to  win  a  game. 

Late  in  Krzyzewski's  junior  season,  with  Army  struggling  to 
get  an  NIT  bid — that  was  the  goal  at  Army  each  year  back  when 
the  postseason  NIT  still  meant  something — Krzyzewski's  father 
died  suddenly,  of  a  heart  attack.  Knight  flew  to  Chicago  for  three 
days  to  be  with  Mike  and  his  mother,  leaving  the  team  in  the 
hands  of  his  assistant  coaches.  Krzyzewski  never  forgot  the  ges- 
ture, mostly  because  of  what  it  meant  to  his  mother.  "He  just 
sat  around  the  kitchen  for  hours,  telling  her  stories,  keeping  her 
mind  occupied.  It  was  as  if  nothing  else  mattered  to  him  right 
then  other  than  helping  my  mom  and  me." 

After  Krzyzewski  completed  his  Army  duty,  he  coached  in  1975 
at  Indiana  before,  on  Knight's  recommendation,  he  became  the 
coach  at  West  Point.  Five  years  later,  after  another  Knight  rec- 
ommendation, he  became  the  Duke  coach.  This  was  a  quantum 
leap  for  a  thirty-three-year-old.  For  three  years,  Duke  struggled, 
and  there  were  cries  for  Krzyzewski's  head.  But  now,  after  two 
straight  twenty-win  seasons,  Duke  was  ranked  in  the  top  five 
nationally  and  was  playing  Kansas  for  a  prestigious  tournament 
championship.  A  victory  would  mark  the  first  time  Duke  had  ever 
won  a  national  tournament  of  any  kind. 

Watching  this  game  was  difficult  for  Knight.  Watching  any 
game  he  cares  about  is  tough  for  him.  Often,  he  simply  won't 
watch.  This  time,  he  watched.  When  Duke  switched  to  a  zone 
defense  at  one  juncture  Knight  moaned.  "Michael,  what  are  you 
doing?"  Kansas  scored  twice  against  the  zone.  Duke  abandoned 
it.  Knight  nodded.  "Hope  you  learned  your  lesson,  Mike." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     105 


In  the  game's  deciding  moments,  Knight  was  almost  as  tense 
as  he  might  be  during  an  Indiana  game.  "We  need  a  basket  here," 
he  announced  at  one  point.  Duke  got  the  basket  and  won  the 
game.  Knight  was  deUghted.  "That  is  really  great  for  Mike,"  he 
said.  "Boy,  that's  great." 

The  next  morning.  Knight  called  Krzyzewski.  "Mike,"  he  said, 
"how  did  you  guys  do  last  night?" 

Krzyzewski  had  only  about  four  hours  sleep  and  wasn't  thinking 
that  clearly,  so  he  didn't  recognize  a  put-on  when  he  heard  it. 
"We  won,"  he  answered. 

"You  did?  That's  nice.  Was  that  the  championship  game  or  the 
consolation?" 

Still  biting  all  the  way,  Krzyzewski  answered,  "Champion- 
ship." 

"Oh,  who  did  you  beat  in  the  semis?"  Knight  had  watched  that 
game,  too. 

"St.  John's.  Coach,  don't  you  get  a  newspaper  out  there?" 

"I've  been  kind  of  busy,  Michael.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I'm  glad 
your  goddamn  zone  didn't  work." 

Finally,  Krzyzewski  realized  he  was  being  put  on.  "Proves  I'm 
Polish,"  he  said  later.  Knight,  having  had  his  joke,  then  told 
Krzyzewski  how  proud  of  him  he  was. 

That  afternoon,  I.U.  president  John  Ryan  came  to  practice. 
Normally  Ryan  gives  the  team  a  preseason  talk,  but  he  had  been 
away  the  week  before.  Ryan  sat  with  Hammel  through  almost 
the  entire  practice.  "Steve,"  Knight  yelled  at  one  point  when 
Alford  wasn't  in  shooting  position  on  time,  "you  can't  stand  there 

like  a  f statue.  That's  what  they've  got  in  the  harbor  in  New 

York — a  f statue.  I  don't  need  that  bullshit  in  here."  And 

when  Harris  took  a  horrendous  shot.  Knight  told  him,  "Andre, 
that  was  the  worst  goddamn  shot  anyone  has  taken  in  here  since 
October  15.  Jesus  Christ  could  not  have  made  that  shot." 

Ryan  never  blinked.  He  had  been  hearing  his  coach  talk  this 
way  for  years.  "I  don't  use  that  kind  of  language  myself,"  Ryan 
would  say  later.  "It  is  not  one  of  Bob's  characteristics  that  I 
admire.  But  it  is  part  of  Bob.  If  I  take  all  the  good  things  that  are 
part  of  Bob,  I  suppose  I  have  to  take  the  not-so-good  things,  too. " 

Ryan  does  occasionally  let  Knight  know  that  his  language  doesn't 


106     John  Feinstein 


delight  him.  That  evening,  when  Knight  finished  his  lengthy, 
lavish  introduction  of  Ryan  to  the  players,  Ryan  stepped  forward 
and  began  by  saying,  "Thanks  for  making  my  speech  for  me, 
Bob." 

"Oh  no.  Dr.  Ryan,"  Knight  answered,  "I  couldn't  do  that.  You 
use  all  kinds  of  words  I  never  use." 

"No,  Bob,"  Ryan  said,  "you  use  all  kind  of  words  that  /  never 
use." 

The  players  broke  up.  So  did  Knight.  Score  one  for  the  pres- 
ident. Ryan  then  gave  his  annual  speech.  Winning  and  losing  was 
not  as  important  as  representing  the  university  well.  "That's 
why,"  Ryan  said,  "when  I  come  in  here  after  games,  whether  it 
is  after  a  win  or  a  loss,  I  always  just  say  'Thank  you'  to  each  one 
of  you.  Because  I  have  always  felt  that  you  represent  the  uni- 
versity well." 

The  players  nodded.  They  were  glad  Ryan  told  them  this  be- 
cause the  older  players  had  been  wondering  about  that  for  years. 
When  Ryan  was  finished,  Knight  gave  the  players  an  hour  for 
dinner,  brought  them  back,  and  walked  them  through  Notre  Dame 
one  more  time.  Everyone,  including  the  coaches,  was  a  little  bleary- 
eyed  by  now.  "Get  a  good  night's  sleep,"  Knight  said,  and  then 
he  went  off  to  do  his  weekly  radio  show. 

Knight's  radio  show,  broadcast  every  Monday  night  during  the 
season,  is,  much  like  his  TV  show,  an  adventure.  The  host  is  Don 
Fischer,  who  has  done  play-by-play  of  Indiana's  basketball  games 
for  thirteen  years.  Fischer  is  as  good  at  what  he  does  as  anyone 
in  the  business.  He  is  a  consummate  play-by-play  man,  and, 
like  Hammel,  Hke  the  coaches,  like  Klinglehoffer,  he  has  long 
ago  learned  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  care  and  feeding  of  Bob 
Knight. 

Knight  usually  does  the  show  sitting  behind  his  desk  in  his 
office.  He  never  gives  his  full  attention  to  the  show  for  the  whole 
hour.  Most  often,  he  opens  his  mail  during  the  show.  Occasion- 
ally, he  looks  at  tape.  It  used  to  be  a  call-in  show,  but  the  repetitive 
questions  and  an  occasional  less-than-supportive  call  changed  that. 
Now  listeners  are  urged  to  write  letters  asking  questions.  Fischer 
reads  them  and  Knight  answers  them.  Sometimes. 

Knight  usually  bombards  Fischer  with  sarcasm,  and  Fischer, 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    107 


like  any  good  straight  man,  just  lets  it  roll  right  off  him.  On  one 
night,  Fischer  made  the  mistake  of  phrasing  a  question  this  way: 
"Coach,  talk  about  Iowa's  press." 

"Don,"  Knight  answered,  "is  that  an  order?" 

"No,  Coach,  a  request." 

"Just  checking,  Don." 

During  this  show,  as  Fischer  was  asking  Knight  about  the  Big 
Ten's  new  supervisor  of  officials.  Bob  Wortman,  Knight  broke  in. 
"Don,  I  hate  to  interrupt,  but  I  just  found  an  ad  in  this  catalogue 
for  a  grouse  gun  that  I  think  I  might  order.  What  do  you  think, 
Don?" 

"Sounds  like  a  great  idea  to  me,  coach." 

It  went  that  way  almost  every  week.  The  better  Knight's  mood, 
the  less  likely  Fischer  was  to  get  straight  answers.  The  less  straight 
Knight's  answers,  the  more  entertaining  the  show — at  least  for 
those  who  knew  Knight  well.  For  most  of  the  hsteners,  the  show 
probably  bordered  on  unintelligible  at  times. 

The  same  was  true  of  Knight's  pregame  radio  show.  This  only 
lasted  ten  minutes  and  consisted  of  Fischer's  asking  Knight  several 
basic  questions  about  the  upcoming  ballgame.  Sometimes  Knight 
answered  them.  Often,  he  ignored  them.  Almost  always — unless 
he  was  depressed  or  uptight — he  made  Fischer  go  through  half  a 
dozen  takes  before  he  would  do  the  show  in  a  manner  that  could 
be  played  on  the  air.  Knight  almost  always  asked  Fischer  to  select 
a  starting  hneup.  "Whatever  you  think  is  best.  Coach,"  Fischer 
would  answer. 

"Don,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  your  faith  in  me  means  to 
me,  especially  going  into  a  big  game  like  this  one." 

For  Knight,  the  shows  were,  more  often  than  not,  a  way  to 
entertain  Knight.  For  this.  Knight  was  paid  handsomely,  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood  of  $40-50,000  a  year.  The  ratings 
were  good,  people  bought  the  advertising,  and  Knight  had  fun. 
The  real  hero  of  the  shows,  though,  was  Fischer,  who  one  way 
or  the  other  got  the  pregame  show  and  the  Monday  night  show 
on  the  air.  Sometimes  this  was  not  nearly  as  easy  a  task  as  it  may 
seem  to  their  hsteners,  and  no  one  knew  that  better  than  Knight. 
Behind  Fischer's  back  he  told  anyone  who  would  listen  that  Fischer 
was  "the  best  there  is  in  the  business."  He  said  the  same  things 


108    John  Feinstein 


about  Hammel.  Good  things  come  to  those  who  stand  by  Bob 
Knight. 

The  sun  actually  made  an  appearance  the  next  day,  a  welcome 
sight  if  not  necessarily  an  omen.  Notre  Dame  showed  up  to  shoot 
at  11  A.M.,  and  as  they  did,  Knight  sat  in  the  bleachers  with  Digger 
Phelps.  If  their  fans  had  seen  the  two  coaches  this  way,  relaxed 
and  friendly  less  than  nine  hours  before  the  game  was  to  start, 
they  might  have  been  shocked.  But  Knight  and  Phelps  are  friends. 
They  have  known  each  other  for  twenty  years,  having  first  met 
at  a  summer  clinic  in  Pennsylvania  when  Phelps  was  a  graduate 
assistant  coach  at  his  alma  mater.  Rider  College,  and  Knight  was 
an  assistant  at  Army. 

During  his  six  years  as  head  coach  at  Army,  Knight  often 
thought  the  Notre  Dame  job  was  the  one  he  would  Uke  to  have. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  call  the  Reverend  Edmund  P.  Joyce, 
the  Notre  Dame  vice-president  who  hired  coaches,  to  tell  him  that 
he  would  be  interested  in  the  job  should  Johnny  Dee  ever  leave. 

In  1971,  Knight  heard  from  a  friend  associated  with  Notre  Dame 
that  Dee  was  thinking  of  retiring.  He  was  looking  around  at  the 
time,  having  decided  that  six  years  at  West  Point  was  enough. 
At  the  Final  Four  that  year  in  Houston,  Indiana  approached  him 
about  becoming  the  coach  there.  Dee  still  had  not  announced  that 
he  was  leaving.  There  were  rumors,  but  nothing  concrete.  Knight 
took  the  Indiana  job. 

Two  weeks  later.  Dee  announced  his  retirement.  Phelps,  one 
year  younger  than  Knight,  had  just  completed  a  spectacular  26- 
3  season  at  Fordham,  taking  a  dormant  program  playing  in  a 
bandbox  gym  in  the  Bronx  and  quickly  turning  it  into  an  elec- 
trifying, brilliant  team.  One  of  Fordham's  victories  had  been  over 
Notre  Dame  before  a  sellout  crowd  at  Madison  Square  Garden. 
Phelps  and  Fordham  had  pumped  new  life  into  New  York  City 
basketball,  and  Joyce,  who  had  once  received  a  letter  from  Phelps 
telling  him  that  he  dreamed  of  someday  coaching  at  Notre  Dame, 
noticed.  So  did  Roger  Valdiserri,  an  assistant  athletic  director  at 
Notre  Dame  who  wielded  considerable  influence  because  he  was 
widely  considered  one  of  the  brightest  and  most  charming  men 
in  college  sports.  Valdiserri  urged  Joyce  to  hire  Phelps,  and  Joyce 
took  that  advice. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    109 


And  so  it  was  that  Knight,  then  thirty,  and  Phelps,  then  twenty- 
nine,  migrated  to  the  Midwest  from  the  New  York  City  area  at 
the  same  time.  They  had  met  once  as  head  coaches  during  Phelps's 
year  at  Fordham,  and  Fordham  had  won  a  close  game.  Near  the 
end,  Phelps  had  walked  down  to  shake  Knight's  hand.  "I  have  to 
do  this  now.  Bob,"  he  said,  "because  when  the  game's  over, 
they're  going  to  carry  me  off."  Sure  enough,  the  Fordham  fans 
carried  Phelps  off  the  court. 

One  year  later.  Knight  and  Indiana  destroyed  Phelps  and  Notre 
Dame,  94-29.  Phelps  thought  Knight  twisted  the  knife  a  little 
hard  in  that  game  because  he  was  upset  about  what  had  happened 
the  year  before.  Not  so.  Knight  insisted.  But  he  remembered  the 
handshake  as  clearly  as  Phelps. 

They  had  since  become  good  friends.  Much  of  this  was  because 
both  were  controversial  and  outspoken.  Knight  won  games  and 
championships,  and  outraged  people  with  his  acts  and  words; 
Phelps  won  games,  though  few  championships,  and  outraged  peo- 
ple with  his  words.  Both  were  considered  arrogant,  Phelps  es- 
pecially so.  Knight  often  told  him,  "I'm  the  only  friend  you've 
got  in  coaching."  Phelps  didn't  argue. 

They  had  advanced,  rockily,  into  coaching  middle  age,  their  hair 
now  graying,  each  now  an  elder  statesman  of  sorts.  The  previous 
year  when  Knight  had  boycotted  the  Big  Ten  meetings  in  No- 
vember to  protest  the  cheating  he  thought  was  going  on  in  the 
league,  he  asked  Phelps  before  their  game  against  one  another  to 
defend  him  at  the  press  conference  after  the  game.  Phelps  not 
only  did  that  but  endorsed  Knight's  actions.  They  now  saw  them- 
selves as  the  Don  Quixotes  of  college  basketball,  tilting  against 
the  windmill  of  rampant  cheating. 

They  sat  in  the  bleachers  swapping  stories,  comfortable  after 
twenty  years  of  friendship.  Knight  was  8-4  against  Phelps  and 
Notre  Dame.  Phelps  could  live  with  that  and  still  feel  close  to 
Knight.  Had  the  record  been  reversed,  it  might  have  been  hard 
for  Knight  to  feel  so  comfortable.  That  was  the  major  difference 
between  the  two  men:  Phelps  coached  basketball;  Knight  lived  it. 

Knight  left  Phelps  to  go  to  lunch  with  his  coaches.  Most  days 
Knight  eats  lunch  at  the  same  place:  the  Southside  Cafe,  better 
known  as  Smitty's.  Smitty  has  sold  the  cafe  twice  and  twice  has 
bought  it  back  after  the  new  owners  failed  to  make  a  go  of  it.  It 


110    John  Feinstein 


is  a  small  luncheonette,  and  Knight  has  been  eating  there  almost 
since  the  day  he  first  got  to  Indiana, 

He  and  the  coaches  eat  in  the  room  marked  very  clearly,  "Ex- 
ecutive Dining  Room,"  which  in  reality  is  a  storeroom  filled  with 
boxes.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  is  a  small  table.  This  is  where 
Knight  and  his  group  eat  every  day — after  Knight  has  burrowed 
through  the  kitchen,  checkin-g  on  the  home-made  soups  and  pies 
being  cooked. 

Lunch  was  no  different  on  this  day  than  any  other  game  day. 
The  closer  a  game  gets,  the  more  apprehensive  Knight  becomes. 
Watching  Notre  Dame  shoot  that  morning,  he  had  been  surprised 
by  their  size,  not  so  much  their  height  as  their  bulk.  "They'll  get 
us  in  foul  trouble,"  he  kept  saying.  "I'm  just  not  sure  we  have 
the  talent  to  beat  good  teams.  And  this  is  a  good  team.  Their  size 
really  shocked  me.  I  didn't  remember  them  being  that  big." 

The  players  came  in  at  three  o'clock  for  the  final  walk-through. 
Knight  wanted  nothing  overlooked.  Seven  times  he  showed  the 
players  something  Notre  Dame  did  on  the  tape  in  the  locker  room 
and  then  marched  them  to  the  floor  to  go  through  it.  The  players 
must  have  been  dizzy  by  the  time  Knight  was  through.  Even  after 
he  had  finally  sent  them  to  pregame.  Knight  fretted.  "Is  there 
anything  else?"  he  kept  asking  the  coaches.  "Are  we  all  right?" 

The  pregame  meal  was  even  quieter  than  normal.  For  this  game. 
Knight  would  give  the  pregame  talk.  "You  know,  before  this 
season  is  over,  you  boys  are  going  to  play  against  a  lot  of  assholes," 
he  said.  "You're  gonna  play  a  lot  of  people  that  I  don't  have  much 
use  or  respect  for.  That  is  not  the  case  tonight.  Notre  Dame  is  a 
lot  like  us.  They  do  things  the  right  way  and  they  play  good 
basketball.  This  game  will  be  the  biggest  game  in  the  country 
tonight.  That's  why  you  came  to  Indiana — not  to  play  games  like 
this  but  to  win  them." 

Knight  liked  the  "biggest  game  in  the  country  tonight"  theme. 
It  was  one  he  had  used  often  over  the  years.  It  was  effective.  The 
players  enjoyed  the  notion  that  their  game  was  somehow  more 
important  than  others.  It  pumped  them  up.  That  was  exactly  what 
Knight  had  in  mind. 

Knight  had  just  finished  his  pregame  steam — "We  go  into  the 
ring  at  221,"  he  announced — when  Ralph  Floyd  came  into  the 
locker  room.  There  was  a  problem.  Two  conferences,  the  Missouri 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    111 


Valley  and  the  Atlantic  Coast,  had  assigned  officiating  crews  to 
the  game.  For  years,  Notre  Dame  and  Indiana  had  used  Big  Ten 
officials  when  they  played,  but  Phelps  had  balked  at  using  them 
this  year.  Knight,  after  all  his  disputes  with  Big  Ten  officials, 
didn't  mind  the  change,  and  the  two  coaches  had  agreed  on  neutral 
officials.  But  there  had  been  a  communications  screwup  some- 
where and  both  leagues  had  sent  crews.  There  were  six  officials 
in  the  building  ready  to  work.  The  contract  had  called  for  Missouri 
Valley  officials.  Apparently,  the  problem  was  with  the  ACC. 

Knight  put  out  a  call  for  Phelps,  who  came  to  Knight's  locker 
room.  With  Phelps  present.  Knight  called  Fred  Barakat,  the  su- 
pervisor of  ACC  officials,  to  see  what  had  happened.  Barakat 
wasn't  certain.  Knight  and  Phelps  agreed  that  they  would  use  the 
Missouri  Valley  officials  and  that  the  two  schools  would  chip  in 
to  pay  the  ACC  officials  if  need  be. 

Throughout  this  discussion,  with  the  pregame  noise  of  the  band 
and  the  fans  echoing  just  outside  the  door,  Knight  sat  in  his  chair 
naked.  Phelps  was  wearing  a  gorgeous  blue  pinstriped  suit,  a  red 
tie,  and  a  matching  red  handkerchief  in  his  pocket.  He  looked  like 
he  had  stepped  right  out  of  Gentleman's  Quarterly.  What  Knight 
looked  like  isn't  really  describable.  But  there  they  were,  one  hour 
before  tipoff,  Phelps  looking  like  a  fashion  model.  Knight  naked. 
Somehow,  it  seemed  exactly  right. 

Knight  finally  got  dressed  after  Phelps  left,  and  made  his  way 
to  the  players'  locker  room.  The  place  was  crowded.  In  addition 
to  the  players  and  the  regulars,  some  nonregulars  who  were  Knight 
buddies  were  in  attendance.  This  was  a  big  game.  Among  them 
was  the  Reverend  James  Higgins,  one  of  Indiana's  chaplains.  In 
spite  of  Knight's  nonreligious  approach  to  things,  he  and  Higgins 
were  friends  even  though  Knight  had  once  been  forced  to  calm 
Higgins  down  during  a  game  when  Higgins  started  getting  on  the 
officials. 

"My  first  game  at  Army,  I  had  someone  say  the  Lord's  Prayer," 
Knight  recalled.  "As  we  were  walking  out  of  the  locker  room,  our 
trainer  turned  to  me  and  said,  'Coach,  that  Lord's  Prayer  thing 
just  isn't  you.'  I  said,  'Thanks  for  telling  me,  I  didn't  really  think 
it  was  either. '  "  That  was  the  last  time  anyone  prayed  in  Knight's 
locker  room.  At  least  openly. 

When  Knight  walked  in,  as  always,  the  room  went  silent.  The 


112    John  Feinstein 


tension  was  palpable.  Knight  started  to  turn  to  the  board  to  write 
down  the  starters'  names  but  then  he  spotted  Higgins. 

"Padre,"  he  said  warmly,  "how's  the  God  business?" 

While  hands  around  the  room  were  clapped  over  mouths  to 
stifle  giggles,  Higgins,  never  missing  a  beat,  replied,  "About  the 
same  as  the  coaching  business.  Bob." 

Knight,  back  now  turned  to  Higgins  as  he  wrote  down  the 
starters'  names,  nodded  his  head.  "That's  what  I  was  afraid  you 
were  going  to  say." 

Even  as  the  teams  warmed  up.  Knight  sat  in  the  locker  room, 
wondering  if  there  was  anything  else  he  could  do.  Was  he  for- 
getting anything?  He  called  the  coaches  into  the  hallway.  "What 
would  you  guys  think  if  we  opened  the  game  in  a  two-three  zone? 
Just  to  show  it  to  them  even  if  it  was  just  for  one  possession." 

Knight  was  serious.  The  coaches  looked  stricken.  There  was 
silence  for  a  moment.  Finally,  Felling  spoke.  "I'd  hate  to  give 
them  an  easy  two,"  he  said.  Kohn  Smith  jumped  in.  "Coach, 
we've  never  used  gimmicks  here  before." 

That  was  enough  for  Knight.  "Yeah,  you're  right,"  he  said. 
"Why  start  now?"  And  yet,  the  idea  clearly  intrigued  him.  If 
nothing  else,  it  would  have  shocked  Phelps  right  out  of  his  pin- 
stripes. But  this  game  meant  too  much  to  play  around  with  any- 
thing new — even  for  just  one  possession. 

There  was  no  need  for  a  pep  talk  for  this  game.  Afford  was  so 
ready  he  couldn't  sit  still.  He  jiggled  his  legs  nonstop  as  Knight 
went  through  matchups  one  last  time.  Even  the  crowd,  so  dead 
on  Saturday,  was  excited.  Indiana  crowds  are  not  normally  very 
loud.  Because  Assembly  Hall  was  built  with  close  to  17,000  theater 
seats,  fans  tend  to  get  comfortable  during  a  game.  That  comfort 
doesn't  often  lend  itself  to  jumping  up  and  down  and  creating 
havoc.  But  when  Alford  scored  the  game's  first  basket  on  a  sev- 
enteen-foot jumper,  the  place  exploded. 

Knight's  plan  against  Notre  Dame  was  simple:  make  the  Irish 
shoot  jump  shots  all  night  and  don't  let  them  run.  David  Rivers, 
Notre  Dame's  extraordinary  sophomore  point  guard,  was  a  game- 
breaker  in  the  open  floor  but  rather  ordinary  in  a  halfcourt  game. 
The  man  assigned  to  keep  Rivers  under  control  was  Morgan.  He 
had  strict  orders  to  play  off  him,  not  let  him  penetrate.  That  was 
Rivers's  game — penetration. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     113 


Morgan  followed  his  orders  perfectly.  Rivers  kept  yoyoing  the 
ball  up  and  down  while  going  nowhere.  He  had  scored  twenty- 
three  points  the  year  before  against  Indiana  while  Alford  had  been 
held  to  six.  Indiana  needed  a  big  game  from  Alford.  The  first 
jump  shot  was  a  good  sign. 

But  less  than  a  minute  later,  Alford  caught  an  elbow  in  the 
chest.  As  small  as  he  is,  weighing  just  160,  Alford  is  vulnerable 
in  a  physical  game.  He  was  having  trouble  breathing,  and  he 
missed  his  next  three  shots.  Still,  the  Hoosiers  led  early,  by  as 
much  as  22-13  with  8:23  left. 

But  Notre  Dame,  an  experienced  team  with  four  seniors  play- 
ing, came  back  after  a  Phelps  time-out.  A  Rivers  jumper  closed 
the  gap  to  25-23  with  six  minutes  left.  Knight  was  off  the  bench, 
clapping,  trying  to  get  his  team  to  hold  together.  It  was  exactly 
at  this  point  in  many  games  a  year  ago  that  Indiana  had  fallen 
apart:  midway  in  the  first  half  at  Notre  Dame  last  year  they  had 
led  22-15;  by  halftime,  Notre  Dame  led  45-30.  Knight  was  afraid 
of  a  repeat  performance. 

But  Alford  was  not  about  to  let  that  happen.  During  the  last 
four  minutes  of  the  half,  he  took  over.  Two  free  throws.  Then  a 
double-pump  jumper.  A  quick  pass  from  Todd  Meier  that  led  to 
a  layup.  An  eighteen-footer.  Then  another  one,  this  one  from  the 
baseline.  In  all,  Alford  scored  ten  straight  Indiana  points,  and  by 
halftime  the  lead  was  up  to  41-31.  Alford  had  sixteen  points. 
Suddenly,  all  the  preseason  work,  all  the  screaming  and  yeUing 
and  torment,  was  paying  off.  A  ten-point  lead. 

But  it  was  only  halftime.  Alford  was  still  having  trouble  breath- 
ing, and  Garl  worked  on  him  throughout  the  halftime  break. 
Thomas  and  Harris  were  both  in  foul  trouble — just  as  Knight  had 
feared — with  three  each.  Thomas's  third  had  really  irked  Knight 
because  he  had  swung  an  elbow  after  grabbing  a  rebound  and 
been  called.  "Stupid,  Daryl,  just  plain  stupid,"  Knight  said.  Thomas 
couldn't  argue. 

With  Thomas  and  Harris  in  foul  trouble,  Meier  and  Steve  Eyl 
had  come  off  the  bench  and  played  well.  They  had  held  their  own 
on  the  boards  and  that  had  allowed  Alford  to  have  his  Httle  binge. 
But  twenty  minutes  was  a  long  time  to  play,  especially  against 
an  explosive  team. 

"Now  you  can  see  what  can  happen  if  you  play  the  way  we 


114    ]ohn  Feinstein 


want  you  to,"  Knight  said  during  the  break.  "You're  halfway 
there,  boys,  but  now  comes  the  tough  half.  They  will  come  back 
at  you,  I  promise  you  that.  There's  no  way  this  is  going  to  be 
easy.  But  keep  doing  what  we've  been  doing  and  we're  gonna  be 
okay." 

Knight's  eyes  were  alight  as  he  spoke.  He  had  looked  tired  so 
often  during  the  fall,  but  now  he  looked  energized.  Just  seeing 
his  team  play  basketball  this  way  seemed  to  pump  life  into  him. 
If  sitting  on  the  bench  and  watching  the  team  play  poorly  against 
Kent  State  depressed  him — and  most  assuredly  it  did — then  seeing 
his  team  play  well  pumped  life  into  him. 

"I  still  coach,"  he  had  said  before  the  season  started,  "because 
there  is  nothing  that  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  seeing  our 
system  work.  If  good  kids  like  Alford  and  Thomas  and  Calloway 
and  Morgan  and  Robinson  can  come  here,  go  to  class,  graduate, 
and  play  the  game  well  enough  to  compete  with  anybody,  then 
it's  all  worthwhile  to  me.  I  want  people  to  understand  that  our 
way  is  the  best  way  to  play." 

More  than  anything.  Knight  had  been  torn  up  the  previous 
season  because  he  believed  that  the  team's  failures  would  be  seen 
as  an  indictment  of  his  system,  that  people  would  say  he  had  lost 
it  somewhere,  that  discipline  and  toughness  couldn't  overcome 
sheer  talent  anymore.  He  wanted  this  team  to  succeed  to  prove 
that  last  season  had  been  an  aberration,  not  a  turning  point.  A 
loss  to  Notre  Dame  at  home  would  have  people  pointing  again  to 
last  season.  Knight  couldn't  bear  the  thought. 

The  second  half,  as  Knight  predicted,  was  a  struggle.  Briefly, 
it  looked  as  if  Indiana  would  turn  the  game  into  a  blowout.  Alford 
was  still  sizzhng.  He  drove  the  baseline  for  a  basket,  then  made 
a  pretty  steal  and  fed  Calloway  for  a  dunk.  A  moment  later  he 
knocked  in  a  twenty-footer  for  his  twentieth  point.  Indiana  led 
49-33  and  Phelps  called  time. 

"I  knew  before  the  game  they  would  be  pumped  up  and  I  knew 
they  were  capable  of  beating  us,"  he  said  later.  "But  I  never 
expected  to  be  down  sixteen." 

They  didn't  stay  down  sixteen.  Thomas  picked  up  his  fourth 
foul  setting  an  illegal  screen,  a  problem  that  would  plague  him 
and  the  offense  throughout  the  season.  Harris  picked  up  his  fourth 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     115 


a  moment  later.  Notre  Dame  clawed  back.  Rivers  hit  a  jumper. 
Ken  Barlow,  an  Indianapolis  kid  whom  Knight  had  recruited  and 
lost,  hit  twice.  Harris  committed  his  fifth  foul  with  9:08  left  when 
he  lost  control  of  a  rebound  to  Donald  Royal.  Royal  laid  the  ball 
in  just  as  Harris  fouled  him. 

If  Harris  had  grabbed  the  rebound,  Indiana  could  have  had  the 
ball  and  a  fifteen-point  lead.  Instead,  the  lead  was  cut  to  twelve, 
Harris  was  gone,  and  Notre  Dame  had  a  big  boost.  Forty  seconds 
later,  Thomas  committed  number  five.  This  was  the  scenario  Knight 
had  feared:  playing  a  big,  strong  team  with  his  two  best  big  men 
fouled  out.  With  the  lead  at  ten.  Knight  sent  Robinson  in,  wanting 
a  smaller  ballhandling  lineup  in  the  game.  Rivers  promptly  burned 
Robinson  and  Knight  threw  up  his  hands  in  despair. 

The  lead  was  down  to  eight  when  Calloway  picked  up  his  fourth 
foul  with  7:07  left.  A  moment  later,  Alford  missed  a  short  jumper 
in  the  lane  and  Notre  Dame  freshman  Mark  Stevenson  hit  one 
at  the  other  end  to  cut  the  lead  to  67-61.  There  was  still  6:15  to 
go.  Disaster  loomed.  "Oh  my,  this  would  be  terrible,"  murmured 
Hammel,  thinking  of  the  sixteen-point  lead.  The  building  was 
almost  quiet.  Alford  was  tired.  Thomas  and  Harris  were  gone. 
Calloway  had  four  fouls.  Robinson  had  one  foot  in  the  doghouse. 
Who  would  score? 

Morgan.  He  drove  the  left  side,  pulled  up  from  ten  feet,  and 
with  no  hesitation  at  all  shot  the  ball  softly  over  Stevenson.  A 
miss  and  the  lead  could  be  four  with  an  eternity  to  play. 

Swish.  Explosion.  It  was  69-61.  Rivers  hit  one  free  throw  a 
moment  later  but  here  came  Morgan  again,  breaking  the  press 
and  scoring.  71-62.  Rivers  missed,  Morgan  grabbed  the  rebound 
and  was  fouled.  He  made  just  one,  but  the  crisis  had  passed.  The 
lead  was  ten  and  the  clock  was  under  five  minutes.  Notre  Dame 
was  finished.  Indiana's  last  points  of  the  game,  appropriately,  came 
on  a  Morgan  dunk  after  Eyl  had  broken  the  Notre  Dame  press 
with  a  lovely  pass.  The  final  was  82-67.  Knight  and  Phelps  hugged 
at  midcourt.  For  Phelps,  it  was  a  loss.  For  Knight,  a  moment  of 
vindication.  Take  note,  world:  The  System  still  works. 

They  were  celebrating  even  before  Knight  walked  through  the 
door.  They  knew  there  would  be  no  critiques  tonight  and  no 
complaints.  "Is  there  any  better  feeling  than  this?"  Knight  asked. 


116     ]ohn  Feinstein 


"You  boys  should  be  proud  of  yourselves.  I'm  damn  proud  of 
you.  You  beat  a  very  good  basketball  team  and  I  mean  you  really 
beat  'em.  Steve  Eyl,  Todd  Meier,  you  gave  us  exactly  what  we 
needed  coming  off  the  bench.  You  were  terrific.  Daryl,  Andre, 
you've  got  to  avoid  silly  fouls — you  see  that,  don't  you?  Steve 
Alford,  you  hung  in  and  did  what  you  had  to  do?  And  Winston, 
dammit  Winston,  what  am  I  gonna  do  with  you.  You  see  how 
good  you  can  be  when  you  think  out  there?  Do  you?" 

Morgan  nodded.  Knight  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  trying 
very  hard  to  keep  a  straight  face.  He  couldn't.  The  whole  room 
broke  up.  Knight  walked  out  to  join  his  friends  and  leave  his 
players  to  their  celebration.  He  knew  they  were  entitled. 

No  one  deserved  to  be  part  of  the  celebration  more  than  Mor- 
gan. No  one  had  been  through  more  land  mines  and  hved  to  tell 
about  it  than  Morgan.  He  had  come  to  Indiana  from  Anderson 
wanting  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Bobby  Wilkerson,  the  bril- 
Uant  defensive  guard  on  the  1976  championship  team.  Like  anyone 
else  in  the  state,  Morgan  knew  all  the  Knight  stories.  But  he  was 
not  highly  recruited,  largely  because  he  was  barely  6-4  and  played 
center,  and  so  when  Knight  told  him  he'd  like  to  have  him  at 
Indiana,  Morgan  jumped  at  the  chance. 

That  spring.  Knight  was  the  speaker  at  Morgan's  banquet.  At 
the  end  of  his  speech.  Knight  called  Morgan  up  to  the  podium. 
"He  took  a  dollar  out  and  laid  it  on  a  plate,"  Morgan  remembered. 
"He  told  me  to  take  it  because  it  was  the  last  thing  he'd  ever  give 
me  for  free." 

Morgan  had  come  to  understand  the  truth  of  those  words  the 
hard  way.  His  first  two  years  he  had  been  a  Knight  favorite  because 
he  was  tough  and  willing  to  work  hard.  But  an  injury  suffered 
during  the  summer  in  Korea  had  forced  him  to  sit  out  his  junior 
season.  When  he  came  back  in  the  fall  of  1984,  he  was  not  the 
same  hungry  player  and  his  relationship  with  Knight  was  not  the 
same. 

Knight  suspected  that  being  away  from  basketball  had  changed 
Morgan.  He  had  hung  out  with  "the  wrong  crowd,"  and  he  seemed 
more  interested  in  having  a  good  time  than  in  being  a  good  player. 
Secondhand,  Knight  heard  stories  that  backed  up  his  instincts.  He 
rode  Morgan  hard,  giving  him  a  spot  in  the  doghouse  right  next 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    117 


to  Giomi.  When  Morgan  played  horribly  in  the  loss  at  Ohio  State, 
Knight  banned  him  from  the  plane  ride  home.  Morgan  played  a 
total  of  fifty-eight  seconds  in  the  last  eleven  games  of  the  1984- 
85  season,  getting  in  only  when  Knight  didn't  have  a  healthy 
body  available  to  finish  a  game.  Knight  made  it  clear  that  he  didn't 
want  Morgan  back  even  though  he  had  an  extra  year  of  eligibility 
because  of  the  injury.  But  Knight  had  softened  on  Morgan,  partly 
because  of  his  kindness  that  night  to  Jim  Crews,  partly  because 
he  honestly  thought  Morgan  was  a  good  kid  who  had  done  a  bad 
thing  rather  than  a  bad  kid.  And  through  it  all,  Morgan  had  never 
lost  his  sense  of  humor.  He  and  Stew  Robinson,  who  had  been 
high  school  teammates  in  Anderson,  Indiana,  were  known  as  Daddy 
Rap  (Morgan)  and  Rap  Junior  (Robinson)  because  they  spent  a 
lot  of  time  rapping,  much  of  it  with  or  about  members  of  the 
opposite  sex.  Whenever  someone  asked  Daddy  Rap  how  he  thought 
he  was  doing.  Daddy  Rap  inevitably  would  shake  his  head  and 
say,  "Can't  call  it."  That  became  the  team's  credo:  "How's  Coach 
Knight's  mood  today?"  "Can't  call  it." 

Tonight,  Daddy  Rap  could  call  it.  After  being  told  all  fall  that 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  extinction,  Morgan  had  taken  full  advantage 
of  his  last  chance.  He  was  a  hero  again  when  he  had  thought  that 
part  of  his  life  was  over.  "1  never  thought  I'd  get  to  be  part  of 
something  like  this  again,"  he  said  that  night.  "I  can't  remember 
the  last  time  I  was  this  happy." 

Neither  could  Knight. 

Knight  didn't  celebrate  very  long,  though.  While  the  players 
went  off  to  party — "We  can  worry  about  Kentucky  tomorrow," 
Alford  said — Knight  and  the  coaches  began  to  worry  about  Ken- 
tucky. As  soon  as  Knight  had  finished  his  press  conference  and 
had  seen  all  the  well-wishers,  he  turned  to  his  staff  and  said, 
"Well,  let's  go  figure  out  how  to  beat  Kentucky." 

He  was  on  a  high.  He  knew — knew — they  could  beat  Kentucky. 
Waltman  had  gone  to  see  Kentucky  play  that  evening,  and  Knight 
was  itching  to  see  the  tape.  When  Waltman  returned  at  12:30 
A.M.,  the  coaches  were  spread  around  the  locker  room,  well  fed 
but  exhausted.  They  had  been  through  the  Notre  Dame  tape. 
Knight  wanted  Wright  to  take  Morgan  aside  the  next  day  to 


118     John  Feinstein 


remind  him  that  this  game  was  "just  a  start."  He  wanted  a  tape 
made  to  show  Thomas  and  Harris  how  they  committed  their  silly 
fouls.  He  wanted  Alford  to  work  briefly  the  next  day  driving  the 
ball  to  the  basket  against  big  men  since  he  had  missed  a  couple 
of  shots  in  the  lane. 

When  Waltman  walked  in.  Knight's  first  words  were,  "You  got 
the  tape?"  Waltman  nodded.  "Pop  it  in  there."  And  so  they  went 
back  to  work.  Knight  Hkes  to  work  late  on  the  night  of  a  game 
because,  win  or  lose,  he  is  too  wound  up  to  sleep.  Rather  than 
waste  time  trying  to  sleep,  he  works.  The  assistants  know  that 
on  a  game  night  their  work  is  often  just  beginning  when  the  game 
ends.  The  only  real  question  is  what  the  atmosphere  will  be  like 
as  the  hours  stretch  on  toward  morning.  On  this  winter  morning, 
it  was  buoyant. 

It  was  after  2  a.m.  when  they  stopped.  The  writing  board  was 
filled  with  things  to  work  on.  Practice  would  be  light  the  next 
day.  Knight  was  going  on  a  recruiting  trip.  As  Knight  walked  to 
his  car,  a  light  snow  falling,  he  looked  back  at  the  now-empty 
building. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said,  "just  how  good  that  felt  tonight." 

He  didn't  have  to. 


8. 

Poster  Boy 

The  joyride  lasted  forty-eight  hours.  The  team  practiced  only 
briefly  on  Wednesday,  and  Knight  had  flown  to  Elkhart  to  watch 
Sean  Kemp,  a  6-10  sophomore,  practice.  In  a  sense,  this  gave 
everyone  a  day  off.  When  Knight  is  absent,  everyone  relaxes  a 
little.  More  often  than  not.  Knight  is  tense,  and  he  creates  tension 
around  him.  When  he  takes  a  day  off,  he  knows  he  is  giving 
everyone — including  himself — a  chance  to  take  a  deep  breath. 

Thursday  he  was  back  and  his  mood  was  cheerful.  In  the  locker 
room  before  practice.  Knight  joked  with  several  players  who  had 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    119 


taken  to  wearing  gray  shorts  underneath  their  red  practice  shorts. 
"Why  do  you  guys  do  that?"  Knight  asked  innocently. 

There  was  silence.  Finally,  Robinson,  often  the  spokesman  in 
situations  where  no  one  else  wants  to  say  anything,  answered. 
"They're  more  comfortable  than  the  red  shorts." 

"Comfortable  whereV  Knight  said  pointedly,  knowing  the  an- 
swer. Everyone  was  giggUng  by  now.  "It  helps,  you  know,"  Ro- 
binson stammered,  "jock  itch." 

"Oh,"  Knight  said  as  if  learning  something  brand-new.  Pretty 
smart  doing  that  then,  huh?"  He  turned  towards  Kreigh  Smith. 
"Smith,  do  you  wear  them  because  of  jock  itch  or  because  you 
saw  the  other  guys  doing  it?"  ,  .     ,     ,    i 

He  didn't  wait  for  Smith's  answer.  They  left  the  locker  room 
in  a  light,  happy  mood.  It  didn't  last.  Waiting  on  the  floor  was 
Chuck  Crabb,  the  athletic  department's  promotions  director.  In 
Crabb's  hand  was  a  calendar.  It  had  been  put  together  by  a 
sorority  to  raise  money  for  a  camp  the  sorority  sponsored  durmg 
the  summertime  for  handicapped  girls.  The  calendar  was  a  takeoff 
on  the  now-familiar  calendars  put  out  around  the  country  that 
feature  attractive  women.  This  one  featured  attractive  men.  Mr. 
February  was  Steve  Alford. 

Crabb  was  pale  as  he  and  Knight  talked  in  one  corner  of  the 
gym  while  the  players  were  warming  up.  Alford  was  even  more 
pale  when  Knight,  his  voice  cutting  the  air  like  a  knife,  yelled, 
"Steve!"  The  other  players  tried  not  to  look  as  Alford  trotted 
over  to  Crabb  and  Knight. 

By  posing  for  the  calendar,  Alford  had  broken  an  NCAA  rule. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  him  when  the  women  from  the  sorority 
approached  him  about  posing;  he  received  no  money,  and  the 
women  putting  the  calendar  together  would  make  no  money. 
Alford  posed  in  a  sport  coat,  a  shirt  open  at  the  top,  and  slacks. 
It  was  hardly  a  risque  pose.  The  picture  had  been  taken  in  the 
fall  in  Assembly  Hall,  the  session  lasting  all  of  about  ten  minutes 
None  of  that  would  matter  to  the  NCAA.  The  NCAA  has  proved 
itself  time  and  again  to  be  a  body  incapable  of  pohcing  collegiate 
athletics.  Players  are  given  cars,  money,  horses,  condos,  women, 
you  name  it,  and  the  NCAA  almost  never  proves  anything.  Many 
of  the  powers  in  college  football  and  college  basketball  cheat.  Most 


120    John  Feinstein 


exploit  their  athletes  and  have  embarrassing  graduation— or  non- 
graduation — rates. 

Because  it  is  unable —  or  unwilling— to  successfully  prosecute 
the  big-time  cheaters,  the  NCAA  often  goes  after  the  so-called 
little  guys.  Schools  like  American  University  and  Akron  Univer- 
sity find  themselves  being  treated  like  felons  by  the  NCAA.  That 
fall,  the  NCAA  had  penalized  American  because  one  of  its  assistant 
coaches  had  participated  in  a  pickup  game  in  September.  According 
to  the  NCAA,  the  coach's  presence  in  the  pickup  game  constituted 
an  illegal  off-season  practice. 

If  there  has  ever  been  a  college  basketball  program  that  follows 
NCAA  rules  to  the  letter,  it  is  Indiana.  Knight  has  often  made 
his  alumni  unhappy  because  he  allows  them  so  little  contact  with 
the  players  but  the  less  alumni  contact.  Knight  figures,  the  less 
tempted  the  alumni  will  be  to  try  to  break  any  rules.  Knight  is 
so  rules-conscious  that  he  would  not  allow  Winston  Morgan  to 
eat  training  meals  with  the  team.  Only  scholarship  players  were 
allowed  to  eat  at  the  training  table,  and  Morgan  wasn't  on  schol- 
arship. No  one  outside  the  team  even  knew  that  Morgan  wasn't 
on  scholarship,  and  it  would  have  been  easy  for  Knight  to  bend 
this  rule,  but  he  wouldn't  even  consider  it. 

But  now,  Alford  had  broken  a  rule.  Scholarship  athletes  at 
NCAA  schools  aren't  allowed  to  pose  for  any  picture  or  film  made 
by  anyone  outside  the  athletic  department.  This  rule  didn't  pre- 
vent athletic  departments  from  selling  posters  of  its  athletes,  but 
it  did  prevent  businessmen  from  using  college  athletes  to  sell  their 
products.  Alford  could  not  pose  for  a  local  department  store  or  a 
shoe  store  or  whatever;  he  understood  that,  but  he  hadn't  under- 
stood that  the  ban  extended  to  something  like  this. 

Crabb  had  seen  a  mention  of  the  calendar  in  the  student  news- 
paper that  morning  and,  panicked,  immediately  got  a  copy  of  it. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  Mr.  February,  he  knew  he  had  a  problem.  As 
Knight,  Alford,  and  Crabb  talked,  the  women  who  had  put  the 
calendar  together  were  sitting  upstairs  in  Crabb's  office. 

For  the  better  part  of  the  next  two  hours.  Knight,  Crabb,  and 
Alford  were  in  and  out  of  practice.  Knight's  mood  had  quickly 
changed  to  black.  Alford  was  in  for  a  couple  plays,  then  out.  He 
and  Knight  were  gone  for  thirty  minutes,  then  back.  Serious 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    121 


negotiations  were  going  on.  Sales  of  the  calendar  had  been  sus- 
pended as  soon  as  Crabb  told  the  sorority  there  was  a  problem. 
But  the  question  was  what  to  do  next.  They  had  been  on  sale. 
There  was  also  the  question  of  blame:  Alford  said  he  had  told  the 
sorority  to  make  certain  there  was  no  problem  with  his  posing. 
The  women  claimed  Alford  had  made  no  such  request.  They 
argued  this  back  and  forth  for  a  while  before  Knight,  privately, 
told  Alford  it  really  didn't  matter. 

"Their  ehgibility  wasn't  at  stake,  Steve."  he  said.  "Yours  was. 
You  should  have  checked  it  out  yourself." 

Knight  was  right.  Alford  had  made  a  mistake.  There  was  really 
only  one  thing  to  do:  call  the  NCAA  and  tell  the  people  there 
what  had  happened.  Given  the  nature  of  the  "crime,"  and  given 
Indiana's  track  record  over  the  years,  there  was  a  good  chance— 
or  so  it  would  seem— that  the  NCAA  would  let  Alford  off  with 
a  letter  of  reprimand.  They  had  done  this  before  when  minor 
infractions  had  been  inadvertently  committed,  writing  a  letter  to 
the  athlete  and  the  school  that  said,  basically,  "Don't  do  this 
again. "  This  had  happened,  most  notably,  two  years  earHer  when 
an  Ohio  State  quarterback  named  Mike  Tomczak  had  posed  in  a 
magazine  ad  for  a  local  clothing  store.  He  had  received  no  money 
for  doing  the  ad  and  the  NCAA  had  let  him  off  with  a  letter  of 
reprimand. 

Knight  called  the  NCAA  Enforcement  Office  himself  as  soon 
as  practice  was  over  and  explained  what  had  happened.  He  got 
the  answer  he  had  been  hoping  for:  "They  say,"  he  reported  back 
to  the  waiting  coaches,  "that  we  should  be  all  right." 

This  was  after  practice.  This  was  after  Alford  had  explained 
what  happened  to  his  teammates,  who  sat  and  listened  in  silence. 
This  was  after  Knight  had  told  Alford  in  front  of  the  team  that 
he  had  been  selfish. 

But  now  it  seemed  the  crisis  had  passed.  Under  NCAA  rules, 
a  player  involved  in  something  like  this  calendar,  provided  he 
receives  no  money,  can  be  suspended  for  up  to  three  games.  With 
the  game  at  Kentucky  two  days  away,  losing  Alford  for  even  one 
game  was  unthinkable.  Knight  was  angry  with  Alford  because  he 
had  been  careless.  But  he  was  also  reUeved  after  his  conversation 
with  the  NCAA. 


122     John  Feinstein 


It  was  after  seven  o'clock  before  Knight  felt  comfortable  that 
the  Alford  situation  had  been  resolved.  Pat  Knight  had  a  game  at 
7:30.  Knight  jumped  in  his  car  and  drove  to  Bloomington  North 
High  School.  He  walked  into  the  gym  just  as  the  ball  was  being 
thrown  up  to  start  the  game.  The  other  team  won  the  tip  and, 
just  as  Knight  was  taking  his  seat,  he  looked  up  to  see  North 
setting  up  in  a  zone  defense. 

"Can  you  beUeve  after  the  day  I've  just  had  that  I  walk  in  here 
and  have  to  watch  my  son  playing  zoneV  He  smiled.  The  crisis 
had  been  averted.  He  could  live  with  watching  Patrick  play  zone 
defense — at  least  for  one  night. 

But  the  crisis  had  not  been  averted.  Shortly  after  lunch  the 
next  day,  the  NCAA  called  back.  The  infractions  committee's 
initial  ruling  was  that  Alford  would  be  suspended  for  one  game. 
All  the  mitigating  circumstances,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that 
Indiana  had  turned  itself  in,  apparently  didn't  matter.  Nor  did 
the  precedent  set  in  the  case  of  Tomczak.  "The  rule  wasn't  as 
widely  pubHcized  back  then,"  was  the  explanation.  "Now,  every- 
one knows  it." 

Only  Alford  hadn't  known  it.  Knight  was,  in  a  word,  enraged: 
enraged  at  the  NCAA,  enraged  at  Alford,  enraged  at  the  sorority, 
enraged  at  hfe.  He  also  had  a  decision  to  make.  The  suspension 
could  be  appealed.  If  it  was,  Alford  could  play  at  Kentucky  and 
continue  playing  until  the  committee  met  formally  to  hear  his 
appeal  on  December  23.  But  if  the  committee  decided  then  that 
a  three-game  suspension  was  merited,  which  was  possible,  Alford 
would  have  to  sit  out  the  next  three  games.  The  third  of  those 
games  would  be  the  Big  Ten  opener  against  defending  league 
champion  Michigan.  Given  a  choice  between  losing  Alford  for 
Michigan  or  Kentucky,  Knight  would  choose  Kentucky. 

In  all  likelihood,  if  Alford  had  appealed,  he  would  have  ended 
up  with  a  one-game  suspension  and  would  have  missed  only  a 
game  against  Idaho.  But  the  mere  possibility,  even  if  slight,  of 
losing  him  for  the  Michigan  game  made  appealing  look  unap- 
pealing. There  may  have  been  one  other  factor,  although  Knight 
never  mentioned  it:  If  the  NCAA  was  going  to  put  its  foot  in  its 
mouth  by  making  Alford  an  example  this  way,  what  better  way 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    123 


to  emphasize  its  selective  enforcement  than  having  Alford  sit  out 
the  Kentucky  game? 

The  irony  was  deUcious.  Kentucky  was  one  of  the  most  pen- 
aUzed  schools  in  NCAA  history.  It  was  one  of  two  schools  that 
had  had  an  entire  schedule  canceled.  In  late  October,  The  Lex- 
ington Herald-Leader,  in  a  Pulitzer  Prize-winning  series  of  sto- 
ries, revealed  in  detail  a  protracted  pattern  of  payoffs  received  by 
Kentucky  players  during  the  thirteen-year  coaching  tenure  of  Joe 
B.  Hall.  Already,  the  NCAA  was  dragging  its  feet  in  following 
up  on  the  newspaper's  revelations,  whining  that  it  couldn't  get 
the  twenty-six  ex-players  who  had  been  quoted  on  the  record  to 
repeat  what  they  had  said.  What  a  scenario:  Kentucky,  bastion 
of  cheating,  facing  Indiana,  bastion  of  honesty,  and  who  had  the 
NCAA  suspended?  Indiana's  best  player. 

To  Knight  this  irony  was  more  infuriating  than  dehcious.  "For 
Alford  not  to  play  when  all  their  kids  are  playing  kills  me,"  he 
said.  "There  are  kids  on  that  team  right  now  who  have  gotten 
more  crap  from  alumni  than  any  players  in  the  country.  I  suppose 
[star  forward]  Kenny  Walker's  never  gotten  anything.  Anyone 
who  beheves  that  is  either  stupid  or  Mind." 

Knight  was  also  influenced  in  making  his  decision  by  his  anger 
at  Alford.  To  him,  especially  now,  Alford  had  gotten  himself  in 
trouble  by  acting  as  if  he  was  above  the  law.  Later,  Knight  would 
soften  on  the  issue,  coming  to  understand  that  Alford  was  a  good 
kid  who  had  been  careless.  Nothing  more,  nothing  less.  But  on 
that  frigid  Friday,  Knight  was  angry  enough  to  want  Alford  pun- 
ished. Sitting  out  the  Kentucky  game  would  certainly  be  a  major 
punishment. 

The  bottom  line,  though,  was  getting  the  whole  dreary  incident 
over  with.  If  Indiana  appealed,  the  question  would  hang  over  the 
team  for  the  next  seventeen  days  and  Knight  didn't  need  that. 
And  if  by  some  chance  the  suspension  was  extended,  it  would 
become  a  complete  disaster.  This  way,  one  game  would  be  sac- 
rificed and  then  it  would  be  over. 

Knight  was  not  conceding  the  game  by  any  means.  Even  after 
he  made  the  decision  to  keep  Alford  out  of  the  Kentucky  game, 
he  still  honestly  thought  his  team  could  win  if  the  players  held 
together  and  played  smart.  Practice  that  day  was  as  intense  as 


124     John  Feinstein 


any  day  since  October  15.  Alford  did  not  practice.  He  sat  alone 
in  the  locker  room. 

There  was  no  way  practice  was  going  to  be  without  incident. 
The  only  question  was  who  would  cause  the  explosion.  It  turned 
out  to  be  Kreigh  Smith.  His  crime  was  not  fighting  through  a 
screen  properly.  Knight,  sitting  at  the  far  end  of  the  court  with 
Hammel,  came  out  of  his  chair  screaming.  The  chair  went  flying. 
It  sailed  through  the  air  and  landed— miraculously— on  its  feet, 
a  good  thirty  feet  from  where  Knight  had  been  sitting.  Knight 
wasn't  even  looking  when  the  chair  landed,  but  everyone  else  was. 
Looks  of  fear  were  replaced  by  looks  of  amazement  when  the  chair 
landed  on  its  feet.  Knight  had  to  walk  so  far  to  get  to  Smith  that 
he  was  almost  out  of  steam  by  the  time  he  arrived.  He  yelled, 
and  Smith  listened.  But  everyone  was  still  staring  at  the  chair.  ' 
This  happened  every  once  in  a  while.  Once,  Knight  had  kicked 
a  ball  high  into  the  air  in  disgust  and  the  ball  had  come  down 
right  into  a  garbage  can.  Another  time  he  had  punted  a  ball  and 
it  had  bounced  off  the  head  of  one  of  his  hunting  buddies  sitting 
up  in  the  stands.  At  all  times,  everyone  kept  a  straight  face  when 
these  things  happened.  Only  later  did  they  laugh  about  them. 

When  Knight  was  finished  yelling  at  Smith,  he  returned  to  his 
chair,  which  had  been  put  back  in  its  place  by  a  manager.  After 
practice,  he  was  succinct:  "We  are  not  going  down  to  Kentucky 
to  lose.  We  are  not  going  down  just  to  go  down.  If  we  play  with 
our  heads  and  our  hearts,  there  is  absolutely  no  reason  why  we 
can't  win  this  game.  We  can  give  them  a  lot  of  trouble  with  some 
of  the  things  we  do  with  or  without  Alford.  Let's  get  dressed  and 
get  down  there." 

Knight  left  the  players  to  dress  for  the  trip  and  returned  to  his 
locker  room.  Indiana  had  put  out  a  release  earlier  in  the  afternoon 
announcing  Alford's  suspension.  Wayne  Embry,  a  close  friend  of 
Knight's  who  was  a  vice-president  of  the  Indiana  Pacers,  called  to 
find  out  what  had  happened.  So  did  Quinn  Buckner,  who  was 
playing  for  the  Pacers.  The  team  had  the  day  off  Saturday.  Would 
Knight  like  Buckner  to  come  to  the  game?  "Quinn,  that  would 
be  great,"  Knight  said.  "You  can  fly  down  from  here  tomorrow 
afternoon  with  Ralph  [Floyd]." 

Knight  told  Buckner  and  Embry  what  had  happened,  expressing 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    125 


disgust  with  Alford,  the  sorority,  and  the  NCAA.  "I'm  not  even 
going  to  take  the  little  sonofabitch  on  the  trip,"  he  told  both  men. 
"Screw  him." 

But  Knight  never  told  Alford  he  wasn't  making  the  trip.  Alford 
knew  he  wasn't  playing,  but  didn't  know  whether  Knight  wanted 
him  to  accompany  the  team  to  Lexington.  Not  wanting  to  venture 
anywhere  near  the  coaches'  locker  room,  Alford  went  to  the  grad- 
uate assistants  for  advice.  Dakich,  who  knew  Knight  best,  told 
Alford  he  had  to  get  on  the  bus. 

"If  he  wants  you  there  and  you  aren't,  it's  irreparable  and 
you're  in  bigger  trouble  than  you  are  now,"  Dakich  said.  "If  he 
doesn't  want  you  there  and  you  are  there,  then  he  just  leaves  you 
on  the  bus.  You  have  to  go  unless  someone  tells  you  different." 

No  one  told  Alford  different.  Knight  thought  he  had  told  Alford, 
but  he  had  only  told  Buckner  and  Embry.  The  bus  rolled  silently 
through  the  darkness  to  the  airport.  Always,  the  Indiana  bus  is 
quiet.  Knight  sits  in  the  front  seat,  occasionally  calling  an  assistant 
coach  or  Hammel  up  next  to  him  to  talk.  There  was  no  talk  at 
all  on  this  trip. 

Alford  always  sits  in  the  very  back  of  the  bus  and,  naturally, 
is  the  last  one  to  get  off.  The  players  always  get  off  before  the 
coaches,  Garl,  Hammel,  and  anyone  else  along  on  a  trip.  This 
gives  them  a  chance  to  grab  luggage  and  equipment  and  move  it 
from  bus  to  plane  and,  later,  plane  to  bus.  As  Alford  went  past 
him.  Knight  sat  up  straight  in  his  seat  as  if  someone  had  stuck  a 
rod  in  his  back.  Alford  never  put  a  foot  on  the  tarmac. 

"Alford!"  Alford  stopped.  "What  the  f—  do  you  think  you're 
doing?  Get  back  in  here.  Didn't  you  hear  me  tell  you  that  you 
weren't  making  the  trip?" 

"No  sir." 

"Well  then  you  must  be  f deaf.  Can't  you  do  anything 

right?"  And  so  on. 

By  the  time  Knight  boarded  the  plane,  everyone  else  was  in 
their  seats.  Alford  was  left  sitting  forlornly  on  the  bus.  Knight 
was  dressed  in  a  red  sport  coat,  slacks,  and  a  shirt  and  tie.  Everyone 
who  travels  with  Indiana  wears  a  jacket  and  tie.  Even  though  he 
had  abandoned  this  look  for  games  and  almost  never  wore  a  tie 
to  speaking  engagements.  Knight  still  dressed  to  travel. 


126    ]ohn  Feinstein 


The  ride  was  brief,  but  when  the  plane  arrived  in  Lexington, 
the  bus  was  not  waiting.  While  Garl  went  off  in  search  of  it, 
everyone  just  sat  and  looked  at  one  another  blankly.  The  bus  had 
gone  to  the  wrong  end  of  the  airport.  By  the  time  Garl  found  it 
and  got  it  to  the  plane,  everyone  was  shivering  since  the  engines 
and  the  heat  had  been  shut  off. 

The  bus  was  loaded  quickly.  But  as  the  bus  pulled  away,  man- 
ager Jim  Kelly  had  a  stricken  look  on  his  face.  "The  VCR  got  left 
home,"  he  whispered  to  Felling.  "We  [the  four  senior  managers] 
must  have  forgotten  to  pack  it. " 

Just  then  Knight  came  back  to  tell  Felling  he  wanted  the 
VCR  set  up  as  soon  as  the  bus  reached  the  hotel  so  the  players 
could  look  at  tapes  of  Kentucky  after  they  had  eaten  dinner. 
"Coach,"  Felling  said  in  the  same  tone  one  might  use  when 
confessing  to  a  murder,  "the  VCR  didn't  get  packed.  It's  not 
here." 

"It's  my  fault.  Coach,"  Kelly  broke  in,  a  brave  man  willing  to 
die  with  his  boots  on. 

Knight  stared  for  a  moment.  "WhatV  he  said.  "It's  not  here?" 
Felling  and  Kelly  shook  their  heads.  Knight  didn't  say  another 
word.  He  walked  back  to  the  front  of  the  bus,  sat  down  and  stared 
out  the  window.  By  the  time  the  bus  reached  the  hotel,  a  plan 
had  been  hatched:  the  managers  would  be  sent  out  to  rent  a  VCR 
and  Murry  Bartow  would  be  called  in  Bloomington  and  told  to 
drive  Indiana's  VCR  and  the  remaining  tapes — some  had  made  it 
on  the  plane,  some  had  not — down  to  Lexington. 

Solution  or  not,  it  was  clear  that  Murphy's  Law  had  taken 
charge  of  this  trip.  It  was  also  clear  that  Knight  was  not  going  to 
be  any  fun  to  live  with  during  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  That 
evening,  Harold  Martin  joined  the  coaches  for  dinner.  An  hour 
later,  when  Knight  was  going  through  a  tape  with  the  team  on 
the  rented  VCR,  Martin  coughed.  "If  you  can't  be  quiet,  you  can 
just  leave,"  Knight  snapped.  Martin  left. 

Knight  wanted  to  walk  through  Kentucky's  offense  after  the 
tape  session.  But  the  only  room  large  enough  for  a  walk-through 
was  being  used.  Probably  by  someone  named  Murphy.  Knight 
gave  the  team  a  brief  talk  and  left.  FeUing  lingered,  hoping  to 
loosen  things  up  a  little.  Knight  charged  back  into  the  room.  "If 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    127 


I  wanted  you  to  talk  to  them,  I'd  tell  you  to  talk  to  them,"  he 
yelled  after  pulling  Felling  into  the  hallway. 

An  hour  later,  Felling's  phone  rang.  It  was  Knight.  "I'm  sorry 
I  snapped,"  he  said.  "Come  on  down.  Let's  talk  about  this  game 
a  httle."  It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning. 


Alford  almost  played  in  the  game. 

When  the  team  went  to  practice  at  Rupp  Arena  in  the  morning, 
Cawood  Ledford  was  waiting  for  Knight.  Ledford  has  been  Ken- 
tucky's radio  play-by-play  man  for  about  100  years.  He  is  a  legend 
throughout  the  state,  a  man  linked  as  closely  to  Kentucky  bas- 
ketball as  anyone  short  of  Adolph  Rupp. 

Ledford  had  known  Knight  for  years,  had  even  done  some 
postseason  games  with  him  on  radio.  Ledford  always  interviews 
the  opposing  coach  for  the  pregame  show.  Knight  knew  Ledford 
would  be  waiting,  and  he  sat  down  with  him  to  tape  the  pregame 
interview. 

Halfway  through  the  interview  Ledford  asked  Knight  about  the 
Kentucky-Indiana  rivalry.  "These  games  are  special,  aren't  they?" 
Ledford  asked  innocently. 

Knight  couldn't  resist.  "You  know,  Cawood,  with  all  the  crap 
that  has  gone  on  down  here  over  the  years  with  recruiting  and 
all,  these  games  are  not  nearly  as  special  to  me  as  you  might 
think." 

Zap.  Take  that,  Kentucky. 

Driving  back  to  the  hotel  after  practice.  Knight  was  thinking 
aloud.  "It's  just  not  right  for  Steve  not  to  play  in  this  game,"  he 
said.  "I've  got  a  mind  to  have  him  fly  down  here  and  play  him. 
There's  no  way  the  NCAA  will  suspend  him  for  more  than  one 
game.  Public  opinion  would  bury  them  if  they  did." 

Hammel  said  nothing.  Back  in  the  hotel,  Knight  called  Pete 
Newell.  Knight  listens  to  Newell  more  than  to  anyone  else  in  the 
world.  Their  relationship  is  coach-protege,  father-son,  big  brother- 
little  brother.  Knight  beUeves  that  no  coach  did  more  to  change 
basketball  than  Newell  did  during  his  years  at  the  University  of 
California  at  Berkeley.  He  respects  him  totally.  After  most  games. 
Knight  will  call  Newell,  who  lives  in  San  Francisco,  to  brief  him 


128     John  Feinstein 


on  the  game  and  ask  him  what  he  thinks  should  be  worked  on. 
Now,  he  wanted  to  know  if  Alford  should  play. 

"I  might  just  say  screw  the  NCAA,"  he  told  Newell.  "How 
can  Steve  not  play  and  Walker  can  play?  That  just  isn't  right  and 
you  know  it." 

Newell  knew  it,  but  he  counseled  Knight  not  to  change  his 
mind,  reminding  Knight  of  the  reasons  he  had  decided  to  go  this 
way  in  the  first  place:  getting  the  incident  over  with,  and  not 
gambhng  on  the  Michigan  game.  The  NCAA  could  not  be  counted 
on  to  react  logically.  Don't  take  the  chance.  Don't  do  anything 
because  you  are  angry. 

Knight  also  called  Alford's  parents.  They  had  been  bombarded 
by  phone  calls  from  the  media,  and  Knight  wanted  to  cheer  them 
up.  "Steve  made  a  mistake.  But  it  doesn't  make  him  a  bad  kid." 
Knight  knew  that  Newell  was  right  about  not  playing  Alford. 
But  it  still  pained  him  to  take  the  floor  that  night  without  him. 
He  had  Buckner  talk  to  the  team  before  the  game.  "It  doesn't 
matter  who  plays,"  Buckner  said.  "It  doesn't  matter  if  it's  me  or 
Steve  Alford  or  you.  The  system  works.  The  rules  work.  Play 
that  way  and  you  win  the  game." 

The  Kentucky  fans  were  lying  in  wait.  Many  of  them  had 
listened  to  Knight's  comments  on  the  pregame  show,  and  that, 
added  to  their  general  dislike  for  someone  who  had  beaten  them 
often  over  the  years,  brought  out  the  worst  in  them.  There  were 
the  usual  obscenities  and  catcalls  about  the  false  rumors  that  had 
been  spread  since  Nancy  Knight  had  been  away  at  Duke.  The 
crowd  was,  in  a  word,  ugly. 

The  game  was  not.  Indiana  played  its  guts  out.  Calloway,  play- 
ing his  first  college  road  game,  was  brilliant.  The  Hoosiers  did 
the  two  things  Knight  had  said  they  had  to  do  to  stay  in  the  game: 
handle  the  Kentucky  press  and  rebound.  It  is  easy  to  say,  but 
Indiana  almost  certainly  would  have  won  the  game  if  Alford  had 
played.  The  one  thing  the  team  lacked  on  this  night  was  someone 
to  shoot  the  ball  over  the  Kentucky  zone  with  consistency. 

It  was  32-32  at  halftime.  The  screaming  crowd  seemed  not  to 
bother  the  Hoosiers.  If  they  could  handle  the  forty-eight  practices 
from  October  15  to  November  30,  they  could  certainly  handle 
24,000  fans.  There  were  mistakes.  But  Kentucky  couldn't  hold  a 
seven-point  lead,  and  it  was  even  at  intermission. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    129 


"You  have  now  made  this  a  twenty-minute  basketball  game," 
Knight  told  them  at  half  time.  "But  you  have  to  play  smarter  to 
win  the  game.  We  are  still  making  mistakes  on  defense.  Play  hard 
and  smart.  You  tell  me  now  that  we  aren't  capable  of  playing  with 
anybody.  Don't  mope,  don't  feel  sorry,  don't  feel  hurt.  Feel  like, 
'Goddammit,  we're  gonna  win  a  basketball  game.' 

"The  easy  twenty  minutes  is  over.  This  is  the  hard  twenty 
minutes.  Don't  let  the  effort  you've  made  go  down  the  drain  with 
sloppy  effort  early.  Let's  be  smart  and  get  it  down  to  the  last  three 
minutes  where  we  can  win  the  game  with  our  guts  and  our  hearts. 
Don't  go  out  there  now  thinking  you're  ready  to  play.  Go  out 
there  knowing  you're  ready." 

They  were  ready.  Each  time  Kentucky  took  a  lead,  Indiana 
answered.  Thomas  and  Jadlow  were  doing  a  good  job  on  Walker 
inside.  Walker  and  Kentucky  coach  Eddie  Sutton  were  crying  to 
the  officials  for  help,  but  weren't  getting  it.  Later,  Sutton  would 
accuse  Indiana  of  "thuggery  in  the  pivot,"  a  comment  that  would 
infuriate  Knight. 

A  Calloway  layup  off  a  pretty  pass  from  Robinson  tied  the  game 
for  the  tenth  time  at  42^2.  Sutton  called  time.  "Twelve  min- 
utes," Knight  said  in  the  huddle  over  the  din.  "You've  taken  it 
from  a  forty-minute  game  to  a  twelve-minute  game.  Hang  with 
it  now,  don't  make  mistakes,  and  we'll  be  fine." 

But  they  were  getting  tired.  Without  Alford,  there  were  no 
easy  baskets.  Every  possession  was  work.  Kentucky  reeled  off 
nine  straight  points  to  lead  51^2.  The  crowd  was  berserk.  Knight 
called  time.  His  voice  in  the  huddle  was  almost  matter-of-fact. 
"Just  be  patient,"  he  said.  "There's  lots  of  time.  Don't  get  rattled. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  rattled  about." 

They  listened.  They  came  back.  Robinson  hit  from  outside. 
Thomas  hit  two  free  throws.  Smith  came  off  the  bench  to  hit  a 
bomb.  It  was  57-54,  Kentucky,  with  2:20  to  go.  The  crowd  was 
nervous.  This  couldn't  happen.  Indiana  couldn't  win  at  Rupp 
Arena  without  Alford.  The  teams  exchanged  baskets.  It  was 
59-56.  Ninety  seconds  to  go. 

Kentucky  wanted  to  go  inside  to  Walker.  Guard  Ed  Davender 
penetrated  and  looked  for  Walker.  Harris  poked  the  ball  loose. 
Robinson  came  out  of  the  scramble  with  it.  He  and  Harris  burst 
downcourt  with  only  Kentucky  guard  Roger  Harden  back.  Rob- 


130    ]ohn  Feinstein 


inson,  on  the  left  side,  glanced  at  Harris,  a  step  behind  him.  If 
he  passed,  Harris  might  dunk.  He  also  might  lose  the  ball  or 
charge  into  Harden.  Better,  thought  Robinson,  to  go  straight  to 
the  hoop.  He  did.  Harden  had  only  one  play:  turn,  plant  his  feet, 
and  try  to  take  the  charge. 

Robinson  soared.  He  and  Harden  collided  and  went  down  to- 
gether in  a  heap.  The  ball  went  in  the  basket,  and  24,000  pairs 
of  eyes  were  on  referee  Tom  Rucker,  who  had  blown  his  whistle 
as  soon  as  the  two  players  made  contact.  Rucker  is  a  Big  Ten 
official.  He  was  working  the  game  with  two  officials  from  the 
Southeastern  Conference — Kentucky's  conference.  Like  most 
coaches.  Knight  hates  "spht  crews."  He  had  asked  Sutton  the 
previous  spring  to  get  neutral  officials  for  the  game.  Sutton  said 
after  the  game  that  he  had  forgotten.  That  was  why  Rucker  was 
there.  Rucker  was  one  of  Knight's  least  favorite  Big  Ten  officials, 
which  is  saying  quite  a  bit,  given  Knight's  general  feeling  about 
Big  Ten  officials. 

Now,  as  Robinson  and  Harden  untangled,  as  both  benches  stood, 
Rucker  came  out  from  under  the  basket,  his  hand  behind  his  head, 
giving  the  call  for  charging.  Not  only  had  he  called  the  foul  on 
Robinson,  he  had  ruled  that  the  contact  had  come  before  the  shot, 
meaning  the  basket  didn't  count.  If  Rucker  had  called  Harden  for 
a  blocking  foul,  the  score  would  have  been  59-58  and  Robinson 
would  have  gone  to  the  foul  line  with  a  chance  to  tie  the  game. 
It  could  have  been  a  tie  game  with  one  minute  left  and  all  the 
pressure  on  the  home  team.  It  would  have  been  exactly  the  sit- 
uation Knight  had  wanted  before  the  game  began. 

But  Rucker  wasn't  going  to  give  it  to  him.  Once,  twice  for  good 
measure,  he  pointed  towards  Kentucky's  basket  to  indicate  it  was 
Kentucky's  ball.  The  crowd  screamed.  Knight,  hands  on  hips,  just 
stared  at  Rucker.  When  you  spend  a  career  getting  on  officials, 
there  are  going  to  be  moments  when  one  of  them  turns  on  you 
and  says,  in  effect,  "Take  that."  This  was  Tom  Rucker's  moment. 

Much  later  that  night,  the  game  tape  would  show  that  Harden 
had  still  been  moving  when  the  contact  was  made.  Rucker  had 
missed  the  call.  But  he  hadn't  had  the  benefit  of  the  tape.  He  had 
a  split  second  to  make  the  call.  He  could  side  with  one  man  he 
didn't  particularly  like  or  he  could  side  with  24,000  fans.  Did  he 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    131 


consciously  think  of  any  of  that?  Almost  certainly  not.  But  the 
tape  showed  his  call  was  wrong. 

That  call  was  the  ballgame.  Kentucky  ran  the  clock  down  to 
thirty  seconds  before  Harden  drove  the  basehne  for  a  layup.  Harden 
was  a  mouthy  kid  from  Indiana  who  had  earlier  in  the  week 
"guaranteed"  that  Kentucky  would  beat  Indiana.  Having  him 
score  the  basket  that  nailed  the  game  for  Kentucky  was  like  being 
spit  on  when  you've  already  been  flattened. 

It  ended  63-58.  Knight  shook  hands  briefly  with  Sutton  and 
sprinted  for  the  locker  room.  He  was  inconsolable.  His  team  had 
given  him  everything  he  could  have  asked  of  it — except  a  victory. 
But  that  was  the  only  thing  he  had  come  for.  He  had  almost  no 
voice  left  as  he  went  through  their  mistakes  in  the  locker  room. 

"The  problem  is  you  aren't  hurt  enough,"  he  said.  "You're 
sitting  here  satisfied  because  you  played  a  good  game.  All  I  want 
to  do  is  go  into  a  room  somewhere  and  cry.  I  could  just  cry.  Boys, 
there's  no  such  thing  as  a  moral  victory.  The  game  was  there  to 
win  and  we  lost.  If  you  just  followed  the  rules,  we  would  have 
won.  Instead,  those  cheating  sonsofbitches  won." 

He  was  standing  in  front  of  the  blackboard  where  earlier  he 
had  written  the  lineups.  He  looked  at  his  players.  They  looked 
at  him.  Knight  turned  his  head  back  to  the  board  and,  not  so 
lightly,  hit  his  head  against  the  board.  "All  I  want  to  do  is  go 
somewhere  and  cry."  He  was  close  to  tears. 

Ten  minutes  later.  Knight  walked  into  the  hallway,  calm  and 
clear-eyed,  to  go  to  the  interview  room.  Sutton,  having  just  fin- 
ished there,  was  walking  past.  Earlier  in  the  week,  Sutton  had 
been  quoted  as  saying  that  Knight  had  advised  him  not  to  take 
the  Arkansas  job  in  the  mid-1970s.  Knight  remembered  telling 
Sutton  that  he  thought  Arkansas  was  a  terrific  job.  Knight  was 
annoyed  that  Sutton,  in  his  view,  had  twisted  the  story. 

Sutton  saw  Knight,  and  came  over  to  offer  a  final  word  of 
consolation  after  a  taut  ballgame.  Knight  cut  him  off.  "Eddie, 
didn't  I  ask  you  to  get  neutral  officials  when  we  talked  last  spring?" 

"I  don't  really  remember,  Bobby,  I  suppose  you  might  have. 
I  don't  pay  much  attention  to  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Well  I  do.  And  I  wanted  neutral  officials. "  Knight  was  walking 
away  now. 


132     ]ohn  Feinstein 


Sutton  dropped  the  charm  school  routine.  "If  you  wanted  neu- 
tral officials.  Bob,  why  didn't  you  get  'em  yourself?" 

Knight  stopped  short.  The  hallway  was  empty  because  the  me- 
dia was  waiting  inside  the  interview  room.  He  and  Sutton  were 
about  fifteen  feet  apart.  Knight  turned  and  glared  at  Sutton.  "You 
were  the  home  team,  Eddie.  That  means  you  get  the  officials.  And 
when  I  ask  you  to  get  neutral  officials  and  you  agree,  I  think  I 
have  every  right  to  think  I'll  get  neutral  officials." 

Knight  didn't  wait  for  Sutton  to  respond  to  this  comment.  He 
turned  and  walked  into  the  interview  room.  Sutton  waved  his 
hand  in  the  air  as  if  to  say,  "The  hell  with  you."  Fortunately, 
Knight  didn't  see  the  gesture. 

The  interview  was  brief.  Knight  had  told  the  players  that  if 
they  were  asked  about  Alford's  absence,  they  should  answer  sim- 
ply, "I  have  no  interest  in  talking  about  Alford."  Knight  was 
almost  as  succinct:  "I  would  like  to  think  that  the  NCAA  would 
have  given  some  consideration  to  our  past  record.  A  rule  was 
broken.  They  have  to  live  with  what  they  did.  But  I  accept  re- 
sponsibility. We  didn't  have  a  good  enough  checking  system." 

That  was  it.  Knight  could  not  have  been  more  diplomatic  if  he 
had  been  briefed  by  Henry  Kissinger. 

The  plane  trip  was  predictable.  Brooks  and  Smith  were  out  of 
the  doghouse;  Morgan  and  Robinson  were  in.  So  was  Eyl,  who 
had  made  a  crucial  defensive  mistake,  and  Harris,  who  had  once 
again  gotten  into  foul  trouble.  Maybe  Kreigh  Smith  should  start. 
Maybe  Brooks  should  start.  The  last  statement  brought  Kohn 
Smith  out  of  his  doze. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  bus  pulled  up  to  Assembly  Hall. 
"It  bothers  me,"  Knight  said,  "that  Alford's  not  here  to  see  his 
teammates.  That  disappoints  me." 

He  reviewed  the  game  for  the  players.  They  had  done  some 
good  things,  but  not  enough.  "Kentucky  will  win  twenty-five 
games  this  year  and  they  were  laying  right  there  for  you  to  beat 
tonight.  I'm  proud  of  you  for  going  down  there  and  believing 
you  could  win  the  game.  But  you  have  to  understand  why  you 
came  up  short  tonight.  Alford  had  not  one  goddamn  thing  to  do 
with  our  losing  that  game.  Right  here  in  this  room  we've  got  all 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    133 


the  talent  I  need  to  win.  We  didn't  need  Alford  to  win  tonight. 
Don't  feel  sorry,  don't  feel  down.  We  just  kicked  a  golden  op- 
portunity away  tonight. 

"We'll  be  in  here  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning." 
The  players  went  home.  The  coaches  went  to  the  cave.  It  was 
after  4  a.m.  when  they  finally  went  home.  The  record  was  2-1. 
It  had  already  been  a  long  season. 


a 

No  Reason  to  Lose  to  Anyone 

Kansas  State  was  next.  This  was  a  game  that  truly  scared  Knight. 
His  team  had  played  two  emotionally  draining  games  and  now 
faced  an  opponent  that  everyone — including  the  players — would 
expect  to  beat  without  much  trouble.  Kansas  State  had  talent. 
Not  great  talent,  but  good  talent,  certainly  good  enough  to  beat 
Indiana  if  the  Hoosiers  were  flat.  And  there  was  good  reason  to 
believe  they  would  be  flat. 

Knight  began  hammering  on  this  theme  Sunday  morning.  "This 
team  will  be  better  than  Kentucky,"  he  said.  "I  mean  that.  They 
are  good  athletes  and  they  aren't  spoiled  assholes  like  Kentucky. 
To  them,  this  will  be  a  monumentally  big  game.  You're  going  to 
spend  the  next  two  days  getting  patted  on  the  ass,  being  told  how 
well  you  played  at  Kentucky,  all  that  crap. 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  boys.  If  you  expect  to  be  any  kind 
of  basketball  team  this  year,  you  have  to  win  this  game.  This 
game  is  the  most  important  one  we'll  play  this  month.  I  know 
you'll  be  up  to  play  Notre  Dame  and  Kentucky  and  Louisville. 
But  you  have  to  get  up  to  play  these  people,  too.  If  you  don't,  I 
guarantee  you'll  get  knocked  right  on  your  ass." 

Knight  wasn't  exaggerating.  The  problem  was  that  the  players, 
the  experienced  ones  anyway,  had  heard  this  speech  before.  For 
a  coach,  deciding  what  to  tell  your  players  about  an  opponent  is 
never  easy.  If  you  play  Kent  State  and  say,  "Hey,  we  should  beat 


134    ]ohn  Feinstein 


these  guys  easily,"  then  you  take  a  chance  on  overconfidence.  But 
if  time  and  again  you  tell  your  team  that  the  Kent  States  of  the 
world  are  great  teams,  then  when  you  tell  your  team  that  Kansas 
State  is  good — and  it  is  good — you  run  the  risk  that  the  players 
will  nod  and  think,  "Yeah  sure.  Coach,  they're  better  than  Ken- 
tucky. Right." 

Kansas  State  was  not  better  than  Kentucky.  But  in  basketball, 
timing  always  plays  a  role  in  the  outcome  of  a  game.  To  Kansas 
State,  this  game  was  as  emotional  as  Notre  Dame  and  Kentucky 
had  been  to  Indiana.  Knight  understood  that.  He  worked  the 
players  twice  on  Sunday,  emphasizing  fundamentals. 

"We  gave  away  twenty  points  last  night  because  we  didn't  help 
on  defense,"  he  said  repeatedly.  "Twenty  points.  If  we  follow  the 
rules,  we're  ahead  65-52  with  five  minutes  left  and  we  win  easily. 
Boys,  no  one  plays  this  game  well.  If  you  follow  our  rules,  we're 
going  to  beat  all  these  teams.  You  people  just  don't  understand 
that  you  have  to  sweat  blood  out  here  to  play.  We  haven't  had 
anyone  here  since  Wittman,  Kitchel,  and  those  kids  played  who 
was  willing  to  do  that. " 

Knight  and  his  rules.  One  former  player  once  said  whimsically 
of  Knight,  "He's  not  a  man,  he's  a  set  of  rules." 

Written  on  a  blackboard,  the  rules  for  playing  basketball  Knight- 
style  are  easy.  Executing  them  is  not.  "Help-side  defense"  is  a 
perfect  example  of  this.  The  rule  is  simple:  If  you  see  an  opponent 
on  the  other  side  of  the  court  beat  his  man  going  to  the  basket, 
you  must  leave  your  man  and  help.  The  "help  side"  is  the  side 
opposite  where  the  ball  is,  because  that's  where  one  can  get  to 
the  basket  in  time  to  help  if  someone  is  beaten. 

To  play  good  help-side  defense,  the  move  must  become  instinc- 
tive. A  player  can't  see  a  teammate  lose  his  man  and  think,  "Should 
I  help?"  He  must  react  automatically,  or  he  will  be  too  late.  Some 
players  have  this  instinct,  some  acquire  it  from  hours  and  hours 
of  practice,  but  others  never  acquire  it.  Harris  was  having  par- 
ticular trouble  with  this  because  he  was  still  thinking  rather  than 
reacting.  By  the  time  he  was  through  thinking,  he  would  arrive 
just  in  time  to  commit  a  foul.  Eyl  had  done  the  same  thing  against 
Kentucky.  This  kind  of  mistake  drove  Knight  insane,  especially 
when  he  saw  it  on  tape.  To  him,  it  was  as  fundamental  as  boxing 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    135 


out  on  a  rebound.  But  players  are  taught  to  box  out  from  the 
very  first  day  they  play  basketball.  Unless  they  play  in  a  Knight- 
type  system,  they  aren't  taught  about  help-side  defense. 

For  a  smart  player.  Knight's  system  isn't  difficult  to  learn.  But 
it  requires  thinking,  and  it  requires  reacting  differently  on  almost 
every  possession  at  both  ends  of  the  floor.  On  offense,  all  five 
players  have  to  read  the  defense,  not  just  the  point  guard.  If  one 
player  makes  the  wrong  cut,  or  sets  the  wrong  screen,  or  fails  to 
screen,  the  whole  play  breaks  down.  The  same  is  true  on  defense: 
if  one  player  fails  to  help,  or  fails  to  make  a  switch,  or  fails  to 
get  in  a  passing  lane,  the  whole  defense  collapses. 

Knight  now  found  himself  coaching  a  team  that  was  very  will- 
ing, but  often  not  able,  to  execute  what  he  wanted.  If  he  had 
never  coached  a  team  that  was  willing  and  able,  this  might  not 
have  bothered  him  so  much.  But  he  had  been  spoiled.  He  kept 
thinking  back  to  the  mid-1970s.  But  this  was  the  mid  '80s.  Quinn 
Buckner  and  Scott  May  were  nowhere  in  sight,  and  Kansas  State 
would  be  a  very  tough  game. 

What  was  most  surprising  about  the  two  days  following  the 
Kentucky  game — other  than  the  fact  that  the  sun  came  out  on 
Monday — was  that  Knight  never  once  berated  Alford.  Knight  not 
carrying  a  grudge  is  a  little  bit  like  George  Burns  not  carrying  a 
cigar.  It  is  inevitable,  just  as  inevitable,  as  Knight  might  put  it, 
"as  the  sun  coming  up  in  the  east." 

In  fact,  even  though  Knight  repeatedly  told  the  players  on 
Sunday  and  Monday  how  tough  this  game  would  be,  he  was 
almost  loose — by  his  standards.  As  the  team  walked  to  the  field 
house  on  Monday  night  for  its  final  walk-through — Kansas  State 
was  using  Assembly  Hall — Knight  noticed  Calloway  and  Felling 
walking  together. 

"Hey,  Ricky,"  Knight  shouted,  "you  ever  see  a  white  guy  with 
an  Afro  before?" 

Calloway  elbowed  FeUing.  "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 


136    John  Feinstein 


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  mis- 
take, 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 
hsten,  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,  re- 
counting 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  Robin- 
son. 

"I  saw  it  on  television,"  Iba  said.  "I  thought  it  was  too  bad." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    137 


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  in- 
troduced 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  an- 
swered 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  med- 
ical 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  halftime 
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, 


138    ]ohn  Feinstein 


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  to- 
night," 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. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     139 


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 — Fell- 
ing 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  de- 
lighted 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  hung  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  Res- 
taurant 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  un- 
derstandable. Most  important,  everyone  could  see  that  this  team 


140    John  Feinstein 


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  Christ- 
mas 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  hmped 
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 


The  young  mentor:  Bob  Knight, 
in  his  first  year  at  Indiana,  chats 
with  Adolph  Rupp  before  In- 
diana's 90-89  double-overtime 
win  at  Kentucky  in  December 
1971.  (Dave  Repp  plwto) 


The  1986  Knight,  with  athletic  director  Ralph  Floyd  at  his  feet,  watches 
practice.  (Dave  Repp  photo) 


The  assistants  in  the  cave:  from  lett,  assistant  coaches  Joby  Wright  and  Royce 
Waltman,  Bob  Hammel  of  the  Bloomington  Herald-Telephone,  and  assistants 
Kohn  Smith  and  Ron  FelHng.  {Dave  Repp  photo) 


Knight  and  Hammel  at  practice.  [Dave 
Repp  photo) 


Teaching,  teaching,  and  more  teach- 
ing: Knight  brings  home  a  point  to 
Courtney  Witte,  Daryl  Thomas,  and 
'^  l!(5ft   Winston  Morgan.  (Dave  Repp  photo) 


The  1985-86  Indiana  University  basketball  team:  {Bottom  row)  Todd  Meier, 
Courtney  Witte,  Stew  Robinson,  Winston  Morgan,  Steve  Alford,  Kreigh 
Smith,  Joe  Hillman,  Delray  Brooks.  (Top  row)  Jeff  Oliphant,  Magnus 
Pelkowski,  Ricky  Calloway,  Steve  EyI,  Daryl  Thomas,  Todd  Jadlow,  Andre 
Harris,  Brian  Sloan. 


Steve  Alford  driving  against  Kan- 
sas State.  (Dave  Repp  photo) 


Daryl  Thomas  works  on  his  defense 
against  Magnus  Pelkowski  in  practice. 
{Dave  Repp  photo) 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    141 


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  dif- 
ference 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  69^7,  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  tour- 
nament. 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 


142     John  Feinstein 


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. 


Winston  Morgan  gets  in  position  for  a 
rebound  against  Wisconsin.  (Dave 
Repp  photo) 


Andre  Harris  skies  to  reject  a  Notre 
Dame  shot.  [Dave  Repp  photo) 


Daryl  Thomas  grabs  a  rebound 
against  Purdue,  as  Alford  (12)  and 
Harris  look  on.  {Dave  Repp  photo) 


A  critical  element  of  Knight's  preparation  is  the  pregame  walk- 
through. From  left:  Courtney  Witte  (watching),  Kreigh  Smith, 
Steve  Eyl,  Stew  Robinson  (at  back,  watching),  Jeff  Oliphant, 
Steve  Alford  (back  to  camera),  Todd  Meier,  and  Magnus 
Pelkowski.  [Dave  Repp  photo) 


Ricky  Calloway  with  Knight  on  the  sidelines  at  Assembly  Hall. 
(Dave  Repp  photo) 


'Will  we  ever  win  another  game?"  {Dave  Repp  photo) 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    143 


Knight's  sexism  is  no  secret.  In  fact,  he  often  wears  it  Uke  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  around  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  play- 
ers 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  hke  this,  especially  on  the 
road,  during  exams,"  he  said  on  his  radio  show  Monday  night,  a 
rare  pubhc  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  man- 
aged 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 


144    John  Feinstein 


different  than  Kentucky.  Before  the  game,  Knight  and  Alford  were 
presented  with  plaques  from  the  school  as  a  tribute  to  their  Olym- 
pic 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  ham- 
mered 84-56,"  Knight  said,  remembering  the  exact  score  as  he 
almost  always  did. 

On  the  morning  of  the  game  Knight  and  Hammel  walked  from 
the  hotel  into  the  arena  for  the  game-day  shootaround.  The  walk 
was  only  about  half  a  mile,  but  the  temperature  was  about  zero 
and  the  winds  made  it  feel  even  colder.  Knight  never  blinked.  He 
is  an  inveterate  walker,  regardless  of  temperature  on  the  road. 
And  when  Knight  walks,  Hammel  walks.  It  isn't  a  matter  of 
choice.  Knight  says,  "Come  on,  Hamso,  let's  go,"  and  they  are 
off. 

Knight  and  Hammel  spend  so  much  time  together  on  road  trips 
that  the  players  over  the  years  have  taken  to  calling  Hammel  "the 
shadow."  What  the  players  don't  know  is  that  this  is  more  Knight's 
idea  than  Hammel's.  Knight  doesn't  like  spending  time  alone,  and 
over  the  years  he  has  become  extremely  comfortable  with  Ham- 
mel. He  trusts  him,  and  Hammel  knows  his  moods  well  enough 
that  if  Knight  doesn't  say  a  word  during  an  hour-long  walk, 
Hammel  knows  to  stay  silent.  When  Knight  feels  like  talking,  he 
will  talk. 

On  this  frigid  morning.  Knight  was  in  a  nostalgic  mood.  "Hamso, 
do  you  realize  I  made  this  exact  same  walk  on  a  game  morning 
twenty  years  ago?"  he  said.  "I  haven't  come  very  far  since  then, 
have  I?" 

Because  Knight  calls  Hammel  "Hamso,"  everyone  else  in  the 
Indiana  party  calls  him  that,  too.  Everyone  else  in  the  world  calls 
him  Bob,  but  on  the  Indiana  basketball  team  there  is  only  one 
Bob — the  one  everybody  calls  Coach. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    145 


When  Knight  coached  at  Army,  he  was  known  to  one  and  all 
in  the  East  as  Bobby.  His  mother  calls  him  Bobby.  Most  of  the 
people  in  Orrville  still  call  him  Bobby,  and  Fred  Taylor  calls  him 
Bobby.  But  Knight  has  always  signed  his  name  Bob  and  identified 
himself  as  Bob.  When  he  first  arrived  at  Indiana,  Hammel  asked 
him  which  he  preferred  in  print.  Knight  said  it  didn't  matter  to 
him.  "Well,  then,  let's  go  with  Bob,"  Hammel  said,  "because  I 
hated  being  called  Bobby  as  a  kid."  That  was  fine  with  Knight. 
That  is  what  he  is  called  throughout  the  Midwest — Bob.  But  he 
answers  to  Bobby  just  as  easily.  The  only  person  who  ever  refers 
to  him  as  Robert  is  his  wife. 

The  game  that  night  was  markedly  different  from  the  one  Knight 
had  coached  in  twenty  years  earlier.  Once  again,  Indiana  proved 
that  it  could  compete  with  very  good  teams.  The  game  was  much 
like  the  Kentucky  game,  close  all  the  way.  Neither  team  led  by 
more  than  four  points  during  the  first  half.  Harris  was  a  different 
player — hanging  in  with  the  Louisville  leapers  on  the  boards, 
playing  with  intelligence.  But  Daryl  Thomas,  who  had  scored 
twenty-nine  points  against  Texas  Tech  and  really  looked  to  be 
coming  into  his  own,  was  having  trouble.  At  halftime  he  had  four 
points,  zero  rebounds,  and  three  fouls.  Harris  also  had  three  fouls, 
but  when  he  came  out  with  1:38  left.  Knight  walked  down  the 
bench  and  put  his  arm  around  him.  "Keep  your  head  up,  you're 
doing  a  hell  of  a  job." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Harris  had  earned  praise  since  the 
Czech  game.  At  halftime  it  was  34-32,  Indiana,  after  Alford  shocked 
everyone  by  missing  a  free  throw  with  four  seconds  left.  Still, 
Knight  was  pleased.  Standing  in  the  shower  room  that  he  and  the 
coaches  used  for  their  meeting,  he  said  firmly,  "There's  no  doubt 
in  my  mind  that  we  can  play  with  anybody. " 

They  played  with  Louisville  until  the  final  seconds.  In  the  end, 
the  foul  trouble  that  plagued  Harris  and  Thomas  did  them  in. 
And  at  the  finish  Louisville  guard  Milt  Wagner,  a  fifth-year  player 
who  had  been  out  the  entire  1985  season  with  a  broken  foot, 
found  his  missing  shooting  touch.  He  finished  the  game  with 
twenty-two  points — five  less  than  Alford — but  made  seven  of 
eight  free  throws  down  the  stretch.  The  last  two  came  with  Louis- 
ville leading  62-61  and  ten  seconds  left. 

Knight  called  time  to  try  to  rattle  Wagner  and  to  set  up  a  play 


146    John  Feinstein 


in  case  he  missed.  "I  think  he's  going  to  miss,"  he  told  the  players, 
"and  we're  going  to  hit  a  shot  and  win  the  game." 

Wagner  didn't  miss.  Louisville  won  65-63.  But  the  point  had 
been  made.  Playing  an  excellent  team  on  the  road,  the  chance  had 
been  there.  Knight  was  encouraged.  There  was  no  crying,  no 
gnashing  of  teeth.  They  had  played  well  and  so  had  Louisville. 
Games  like  this  were  excellent  preparation  for  the  Big  Ten.  "We've 
got  Iowa  State  in  three  days,"  Knight  said.  "Let's  not  have  a 
repeat  of  Kansas  State." 

When  Klingelhoffer  came  to  get  Knight  for  the  press  conference, 
the  players  were  almost  dressed.  Crum  had  taken  a  long  time.  "I 
can't  go,"  Knight  said.  "I've  got  to  get  these  kids  home.  Some 
of  them  have  exams  in  the  morning.  Explain  that  to  them." 
Klingelhoffer  asked  Knight  for  a  couple  of  comments  about  the 
game  he  could  take  back.  Knight  gave  them  to  him. 

While  Klingelhoffer  went  to  type  these  quotes,  he  sent  his  as- 
sistant, Eric  Ruden,  to  tell  Louisville  SID  Kenny  Klein  that  Knight 
wouldn't  be  coming  to  the  press  conference  because  the  players 
had  to  get  home  for  exams  in  the  morning.  Klein  then  announced 
only  that  Knight  would  not  be  coming  to  the  press  conference. 

Knight  had  done  himself  in  again.  His  reason  for  skipping  the 
press  conference  was  legitimate.  But  even  so,  if  he  had  taken  ten 
minutes  to  go  in  and  answer  a  few  questions,  it  would  have  made 
little  difference  to  the  players  and  would  have  avoided  any  prob- 
lems. Even  if  his  explanation  had  been  properly  relayed  through 
channels,  the  fact  remained  that  because  of  his  past.  Knight  was 
always  going  to  be  guilty  until  proved  innocent  in  the  eyes  of 
most  reporters.  Was  this  fair?  No.  But  it  was  the  same  way  Knight 
viewed  most  reporters. 

The  newspaper  reports  the  next  day  said  that  Knight  had  refused 
to  attend  the  postgame  press  conference.  Technically,  this  was 
accurate,  though  incomplete.  When  Knight  saw  this  reference  in 
a  game  story  in  The  Indianapolis  Star,  he  exploded.  He  called 
Klingelhoffer  down  to  the  locker  room.  Klingelhoffer  explained 
what  had  happened.  Knight  was,  to  put  it  mildly,  unhappy  with 
Klingelhoffer.  "I  get  enough  crap  from  those  people  without  this 
kind  of  thing  happening,"  he  said.  "Jesus  Christ,  is  that  fair.  Kit?" 

Klingelhoffer  escaped.  Knight  walked  into  the  bathroom.  For  a 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     147 


moment  there  was  silence.  Then  he  began  kicking  the  bathroom 
stall.  He  stormed  back  into  the  room,  kicked  the  phone  sitting  on 
the  floor  and  the  garbage  can  in  the  corner.  "I  just  can't  take  it 
anymore,"  he  yelled. 

To  Knight,  this  was  a  classic  case  of  being  unfairly  made  out 
as  a  villain.  This  is  an  image  Knight  has  appeared  to  court  for 
years  but,  in  fact,  he  hates  it.  He  hadn't  been  upset  after  the 
game;  he  had  been  pleased  with  the  way  the  team  had  played. 
But  now,  it  looked  to  the  public  like  old  Bobby  was  sulking  over 
a  loss  again.  He  blamed  Khngelhoffer,  and  he  blamed  the  Star 
reporter.  Bill  Benner.  But  Benner  hadn't  reported  the  incident 
any  differently  than  other  writers.  Knight  had  seen  only  his  story. 

Once,  Knight  probably  would  have  stayed  angry  over  such  an 
incident  for  several  days.  But  he  has  come  a  long  way  in  letting 
go  of  incidents  that  involve  the  media.  Losses  he  cannot  let  go 
of,  but  he  has  consciously  worked  at  caring  less  about  what  is  said 
and  written  about  him.  He  still  gets  angry,  as  the  Louisville 
incident  illustrates,  and  will  brood  at  times  about  what  he  sees  as 
mistreatment,  but  on  a  scale  of  one  to  ten  he  has  improved  from 
a  solid  one  to  perhaps  a  five  over  the  years. 

That  is  progress.  Because  of  that  progress,  the  two  days  of 
practice  between  Louisville  and  Iowa  State  were  brisk,  sharp,  and 
almost  temper-free.  The  players  were  still  in  exams  on  Thursday 
and  Friday,  and  Knight  didn't  want  to  add  any  pressure.  Because 
of  the  exam  schedule,  he  worried  that  they  might  be  flat  for  Iowa 
State,  a  good  team  that  had  already  beaten  Iowa  and  Michigan 
State  earlier  in  the  month.  Iowa  State  was  coached  by  Johnny 
Orr,  a  longtime  Knight  buddy.  Knight  had  respected  Orr  when 
he  coached  at  Michigan,  and  he  thought  Orr  had  his  most  talented 
team  in  six  years  at  Iowa  State. 

Knight  was  correct,  as  Iowa  State  would  prove  by  reaching  the 
NCAA  round  of  sixteen,  but  if  truth  be  told  he  had  absolutely 
no  reason  to  worry  about  this  game.  With  exams  over  Friday, 
the  players  were  scheduled  to  go  home  to  see  their  famihes  after 
the  game  on  Saturday— unless  they  played  poorly  and  put  Knight 
in  such  a  bad  mood  that  he  decided  not  to  send  them  home.  Or, 
he  might  decide  to  bring  them  back  on  Christmas  Eve — that  had 
happened  in  the  past.  The  players  wanted  none  of  this.  They 


148     John  Feinstein 


wanted  to  win  and  go  home.  When  they  walked  into  pregame 
meal  on  Saturday  morning,  a  message  was  waiting  on  their  plates: 
"You  have  to  earn  this  Christmas  present."  Knight  knew  how  to 
appeal  to  basic  desires. 

The  score  was  17-4  before  Iowa  State  knew  what  had  happened. 
By  halftime  it  was  44-26.  Knight  started  Robinson  on  Iowa  State's 
star  guard  Jeff  Hornacek,  ordering  him  to  stay  with  Hornacek  all 
over  the  floor,  not  to  switch,  not  to  look  for  help.  He  wanted 
Robinson  to  use  his  quickness  to  deny  Hornacek  the  basketball. 
This  was  an  ideal  assignment  for  Robinson  because  he  only  had 
to  concentrate  on  one  thing:  Hornacek. 

Hornacek  was  one  for  six  at  halftime,  and  not  a  factor.  Nothing 
changed  in  the  second  half.  Iowa  State  crept  briefly  to  within 
fourteen,  but  Thomas  (thirty-one  points)  and  Alford  (twenty- 
four)  pounded  away,  and  the  lead  grew  to  74-49  with  7:54  to 
play.  Indiana  was  making  a  good  team  look  helpless.  Even  with 
Calloway  and  Harris  shooting  a  combined  five  for  fifteen,  Iowa 
State  had  no  chance.  The  only  hitches  in  the  whole  act  came  late. 
Jadlow  got  careless  with  a  couple  of  rebounds,  allowing  Iowa  State 
to  get  to  within  seventeen.  Knight  called  time  to  berate  Jadlow 
for  careless  play.  And  in  the  final  minute,  someone  in  the  stands 
noticed  that  Harris  had  his  uniform  shirt  hanging  out.  "Tuck 
your  shirt  in,  Andre,"  he  yelled.  Harris  reached  for  the  shirt  as 
everyone  laughed.  Knight  did  not.  He  sent  Brooks  over  to  tell 
Harris  to  get  the  damn  shirt  in.  He  did. 

The  final  was  86-65.  Merry  Christmas. 

As  the  players  charged  into  the  locker  room,  Royce  Waltman 
looked  at  the  other  coaches  and  said,  "Now  that's  the  way  to  strike 
a  blow  for  liberty."  That's  exactly  what  they  had  done.  They  had 
four  days  of  liberty.  Normally,  Knight  would  have  asked  them 
to  be  back  Christmas  morning  because  they  had  a  game  on  De- 
cember 27.  But  he  was  so  pleased  he  gave  them  the  morning  off, 
meaning  most  of  them  could  spend  it  with  their  families. 

"Come  back  ready  to  go,  though,"  he  warned.  "When  we  get 
back,  Michigan  will  only  be  a  week  away."  Michigan.  The  Big 
Ten.  The  players  knew  they  had  better  enjoy  Christmas  while 
they  could. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     149 


Knight  was  almost  obsessed  with  Michigan.  The  Wolverines 
had  won  the  Big  Ten  championship  in  a  runaway  the  year  before, 
winning  their  last  fifteen  league  games.  One  of  their  losses  had 
been  in  the  opener,  at  Ann  Arbor,  when  Indiana  destroyed  them 
by  twenty-five  points.  That  had  been  before  the  collapse  at  In- 
diana. Now,  Michigan  had  everyone  back  from  that  team  and  was 
a  heavy  favorite  to  win  the  league  again. 

But  Michigan  was  more  than  just  the  league  favorite.  The 
Wolverines  were  coached  by  Bill  Frieder,  a  longtime  Orr  assistant 
coach  who  had  been  given  the  job  in  1980  when  Orr  left  for  Iowa 
State.  Once,  Knight  and  Frieder  had  been  friends.  Frieder  was  one 
of  those  young  coaches  who  looked  up  to  Knight,  asked  him  for 
advice,  and  treated  him  like  one  of  the  game's  statesmen. 

In  1981,  just  prior  to  the  start  of  the  national  championship 
game,  Frieder  had  gone  to  the  locker  room  to  wish  Knight  luck. 
A  photographer  had  taken  a  picture  of  them  standing  together  in 
the  hallway  outside  the  locker  room.  For  Frieder's  fortieth  birth- 
day. Knight  had  the  picture  laminated  and  signed  it,  "To  Bill, 
who  no  doubt  will  be  on  the  other  side  of  this  picture  (playing 
for  the  national  championship)  some  day  soon."  Frieder  was  so 
proud  of  the  picture  he  hung  it  right  next  to  the  desk  in  his  office. 

In  January  1983,  when  Indiana  blew  Michigan  out  in  Bloom- 
ington.  Knight  went  into  the  Michigan  locker  room  to  tell  the 
players  that  if  they  stuck  to  what  they  were  doing  and  listened 
to  Coach  Frieder,  they  would  be  a  fine  team  someday.  That  fresh- 
man group  was  now  the  senior  nucleus  of  the  current  team. 

It  all  changed  between  Frieder  and  Knight  in  1984.  The  day 
before  an  Indiana-Michigan  game  in  Ann  Arbor,  Frieder  came  to 
see  Knight  at  practice.  He  had  a  problem.  The  local  writer  in  Ann 
Arbor  was  really  on  his  case  about  changing  lineups.  The  writer 
maintained  that  Frieder  was  indecisive  and  this  was  proof.  Would 
Knight  talk  to  him  ? 

This  was  quite  a  favor  to  ask,  especially  the  day  before  a  game. 
But  Knight  almost  never  says  no  to  a  friend,  and  Frieder  was  a 
friend.  When  the  writer  came  to  see  Knight  after  practice.  Knight 
said  to  him,  "Tell  me,  do  you  think  I'm  a  good  coach?" 

"I  think  you're  the  best." 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  something.  There  probably  isn't  a  coach 


150    John  Feinstein 


in  America  who  changes  lineups  more  than  me.  It  doesn't  mean 
you're  indecisive.  It  means  you're  still  looking  for  a  combination 
that  works.  That's  what  Bill  is  doing  here." 

The  next  day,  the  writer's  column  was,  more  or  less,  an  apology 
to  Frieder  for  questioning  him.  If  Bob  Knight  said  it  was  right, 
then  it  was  right. 

That  day  during  the  game.  Knight  got  entangled  in  a  messy 
argument  with  the  officials  near  the  end  of  the  first  half.  He  was 
given  a  technical.  Hie  continued  screaming.  As  he  did,  he  heard 
Frieder  a  few  feet  away  yelling,  "Give  him  another  technical!" 
When  the  half  ended.  Knight  went  after  Frieder  in  the  runway 
leading  to  the  locker  rooms.  He  was  enraged.  Knight  doesn't  think 
any  coach  should  get  involved  in  another  coach's  argument.  But 
for  Frieder  to  do  this  one  day  after  he  had  asked  for— and  re- 
ceived—the kind  of  favor  Knight  had  done  for  him  was  inexcus- 
able. In  no  uncertain  terms.  Knight  told  Frieder  just  that. 

Frieder  maintains  that  he  didn't  realize  Knight  had  been  given 
a  technical  and  he  was  trying  to  tell  the  officials  that  what  Knight 
was  saying  merited  one.  Either  way,  he  was  involved  when  Knight 
thought  he  had  no  right  to  be  involved.  As  far  as  Knight  was 
concerned,  that  was  the  end  of  the  friendship.  Apologies  were  a 
waste  of  time.  Frieder  took  down  the  picture  next  to  his  desk.  "I 
didn't  think  Bob  would  want  me  to  have  it  there,"  he  said. 

Two  years  later,  Frieder  regretted  the  incident  and  still  hoped 
that  someday  Knight  would  forgive  him.  It  would,  at  the  very 
least,  take  a  while. 

Before  Michigan  came  to  town  there  was  the  little  matter  of 
playing  the  post-Christmas  Hoosier  Classic.  This  was  a  four-year- 
old  Indianapolis  version  of  the  Indiana  Classic.  Because  I.U.  is  so 
popular  that  it  can  sell  15,000  seats  in  Indianapolis  regardless  of 
the  opponent,  this  tournament  had  been  invented.  It  meant  In- 
diana never  had  to  play  away  at  Christmas,  and  all  the  revenues 
from  the  two  tournaments  were  profit  because  expenses  in  Bloom- 
ington  were  zero  and  in  Indianapolis  near  zero. 

The  opposition  in  this  tournament  would  be  Idaho,  Mississippi 
State,  and  San  Jose  State.  Even  Knight  had  to  concede  that  Indiana 
would  be  hard-pressed  to  lose  to  any  of  these  teams.  Because  of 
this.  Knight  did  something  that  no  one  could  ever  remember  him 
doing  in  the  past:  he  looked  beyond  an  opponent.  The  Christmas 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    151 


day  practice  and  the  two  the  following  day  were  spiced  with  con- 
stant talk  about  Michigan. 

"I  am  not  interested  in  beating  Idaho  or  San  Jose  State  or 
Mississippi  State,"  Knight  said  during  practice.  "I'm  interested 
in  beating  Michigan."  t^  •  u     xt  • 

Hammel,  hearing  this,  was  shocked.  So  was  Tim  Knight.  Nei- 
ther could  ever  remember  hearing  Knight  talk  to  his  team  about 
a  game  before  it  was  the  next  game  on  the  schedule.  "I  worry," 
Hammel  said,  "about  putting  so  much  into  one  game." 

They  didn't  put  much  into  the  Idaho  game.  Perhaps  the  first 
half  of  this  game  was  proof  of  the  Knight  theory  that  you  have 
to  build  up  every  opponent.  Indiana  was  sloppy,  sleepy,  not  into 
the  game  A  5-9  guard  for  Idaho  named  Chris  Carey  hit  his  first 
five  shots.  Idaho  actually  led,  25-23,  with  4:49  left  in  the  half 
before  Indiana  came  back  to  lead  37-33  at  the  break. 

"I  am  so  depressed  I  don't  even  want  to  talk,"  Knight  told  the 
players.  "I'm  through  fighting  you  kids.  I  can't  do  it  anymore." 
Then  he  cleared  the  locker  room:  assistant  coaches,  doctors,  train- 
ers, managers.  For  four  minutes  it  was  just  Knight  and  the  players. 
He  said  nothing  he  hadn't  said  before  but  the  message  was  clear— 

and  loud.  „    i  ^    1 1 

Knight  stalked  onto  the  floor  still  angry.  He  called  Crabb  over 
to  the  bench.  One  of  Crabb's  jobs  is  to  supervise  Indiana's  cheer- 
leaders. "This  crowd  is  dead,  absolutely  dead,"  Knight  told  Crabb. 
"I  don't  want  these  people  [the  cheerleaders]  out  here  just  to  be 
seen.  I  want  them  doing  something.  I  want  them  to  get  these 
people  in  the  damn  game.  If  they  don't  do  it,  they  won't  be  here 
tomorrow  night. " 

Crabb  understood.  He  also  understood  that  the  world  s  greatest 
cheerleaders  would  have  had  trouble  getting  a  response  to  the 
first  half  that  had  just  been  played.  But  he  wasn't  about  to  point 
that  out  to  Knight. 

Fortunately  for  Crabb,  the  cheerleaders,  and  everyone  else 
inside  the  city  limits,  the  players  responded  to  their  halftime 
whipping.  After  six  more  minutes  of  struggle  they  scored  ten 
straight  points  to  turn  a  47-41  lead  into  a  57^1  lead  in  a  two- 
minute  stretch.  The  lead  just  kept  building  from  there  and  the 
final  was  87-57. 

Calloway,  who  had  struggled  before  Christmas,  had  twenty-six 


152    John  Feinstein 


points,  and  Alford  had  twenty-four.  But  the  real  hero  was  Delray 
Brooks,  who  came  off  the  bench  to  spark  everyone.  Brooks  had 
only  four  points,  but  he  had  seven  assists  and  outhustled  everyone 
on  the  floor.  He  earned  himself  a  start  with  his  play  and  got  a 
standing  ovation  at  the  end  of  the  game.  The  second-half  margin 
was  50-24.  Everyone  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

The  opponent  in  the  final  would  be  Mississippi  State.  Knight 
worried  about  their  quickness,  but  there  was  no  need.  It  was 
46-22  by  halftime,  and  the  final  was  74-43.  Brooks  and  Jadlow 
both  got  starts.  Jadlow  finished  with  ten  points  and  eight  rebounds 
and  had  Knight  raving  about  his  toughness. 

The  whole  day  was  a  high  for  Knight.  That  afternoon,  he  and 
Kohn  Smith  walked  across  the  street  from  the  hotel  to  a  Bob 
Evans  restaurant.  Knight  loves  to  eat  in  Bob  Evans.  Whenever 
Indiana  stays  in  a  hotel  near  a  Bob  Evans,  Knight  is  apt  to  eat 
there  three  times  a  day,  the  last  time  usually  at  two  or  three  in 
the  morning.  Many  a  Knight  diet  has  gone  aglimmering  at  Bob 
Evans  over  apple  pie  and  ice  cream  in  the  wee  hours  on  the 
morning  of  a  game. 

Knight  was  sipping  an  iced  tea  when  a  boy  of  about  twelve 
gmgerly  approached  him.  Behind  him  were  two  older  men;  one 
appeared  to  be  his  older  brother,  the  other  his  father.  Knight  is 
eminently  approachable  in  these  situations,  patient  and  pohte.  He 
always  signs  an  autograph  when  asked  politely. 

The  young  man's  name  was  Garland  Loper.  Shyly,  he  explained 
that  his  father  and  older  brother  were  deaf-mutes  and  would  like 
to  meet  Coach  Knight.  Garland  was  the  family  spokesman.  When 
the  other  two  wanted  to  say  something  they  signed  it  to  him  and 
he  spoke  it  to  the  world.  Knight  was  completely  charmed  by 
Garland  Loper.  He  talked  for  several  minutes  to  the  three  Lopers, 
gave  them  his  autograph,  and  asked  Garland  for  his  address.  When 
Knight  returned  to  school,  he  had  Indiana  shirts,  brochures,  and 
an  autographed  team  picture  sent  to  the  Lopers.  Then  he  called 
and  invited  the  whole  family  to  come  to  a  game. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said  softly,  leaving  the  restaurant,  "you  see 
what  it  really  means  to  have  guts." 

Several  hours  later,  Landon  Turner  wheeled  himself  into  the 
Indiana  locker  room.  Turner  had  graduated  the  previous  spring, 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    153 


and  Knight  had  helped  get  him  a  job  working  in  minority  coun- 
seling at  the  Indiana-Indianapolis  campus.  Turner  said  hello  all 
around  the  room.  When  Knight  walked  in,  he  looked  at  the  gaudy 
sneakers  Turner  was  wearing.  They  were  Air-Jordans,  the  Michael 
Jordan-sponsored  shoe  that  had  become  the  rage  among  kids. 

"Where  did  you  get  those?" 

"Mike  Jordan  sent  them  to  me.  .  .  .  Airmail." 

"Yeah,  well  they  make  you  look  like  a  fag." 

A  moment  later,  after  the  team  had  gone  out  to  warm  up  and 
the  locker  room  was  virtually  empty,  Knight  walked  over  to  shake 
hands  with  Turner.  "Your  grip,  Landon,  it's  really  getting  stronger. " 
Turner  beamed.  The  two  men  talked  for  several  minutes.  Knight's 
arm  around  Turner  the  whole  time.  As  they  left  the  locker  room, 
Knight  asked  Turner  if  he  was  coming  to  Bloomington  for  the 
Michigan  game.  "I'm  going  to  try.  Coach,"  Turner  said. 

They  had  reached  the  door  now.  People  were  milling  around 
outside,  finding  their  way  to  seats.  Knight  changed  his  tone  as 
soon  as  they  were  outside.  "You  better  get  your  fat  ass  down 
there  or  you're  going  to  be  in  trouble.  You  got  it?" 

Turner  grinned.  "I  got  it.  Coach." 

He  wheeled  off  to  find  his  seat.  Knight  went  off  to  watch  his 
team  rout  Mississippi  State.  When  it  was  over,  there  wasn't  much 
he  could  say.  "I  don't  think  we  can  play  much  better  than  that," 
he  told  the  coaches.  "They've  done  just  about  everything  we've 
asked  of  them  so  far." 

So  far.  One  year  ago  the  record  had  been  8-2  going  into  Big 
Ten  play.  Now,  it  was  8-2.  There  had  been  hope  then.  There  was 
hope  now.  But  there  was  also  a  hint  of  fear.  No  one  could  even 
bear  the  thought  of  deja  vu.  In  three  days,  1985  would  be  over. 
If  1986  was  anything  hke  1985  had  been,  there  might  not  be  a 
1987. 


154     John  Feinstein 


w. 

Deja  Vu 

The  day  after  the  Mississippi  State  game  was  about  as  close  to  a 
day  off  as  Knight  gives  the  team  during  the  season.  They  met  for 
about  thirty  minutes  to  go  over  Michigan's  personnel,  but  that 
was  all.  The  next  day,  Monday,  would  begin  a  four-day  period 
that  would  burn  with  intensity.  Classes  did  not  start  for  another 
two  weeks,  so  Knight  expected  his  players  to  think  nothing  but 
basketball. 

It  is  impossible  to  overstate  how  much  Knight  wanted  to  beat 
Michigan.  He  wanted  this  game  to  send  a  message  to  the  basketball 
world  that  Indiana  was  most  definitely  back.  Notre  Dame  had 
offered  a  clue,  and  the  near  misses  at  Kentucky  and  Louisville 
might  have  caught  some  people's  eyes.  But  to  beat  Michigan,  the 
top-heavy  favorite  in  a  conference  where  Indiana  had  been  picked 
anywhere  from  third  to  fifth  in  preseason,  would  most  certainly 
get  the  attention  of  basketball  people. 

What's  more,  the  game  was  at  home.  In  Knight's  first  thirteen 
years  at  Indiana,  the  Hoosiers  had  compiled  a  record  of  99-12  in 
Big  Ten  games  played  at  Assembly  Hall.  In  1985,  they  went 
3-6,  losing  their  last  four  home  games.  This  was  unacceptable  to 
Knight.  Now,  the  Big  Ten  season  would  open  with  home  games 
against  Michigan  and  Michigan  State— both  teams  that  had  won 
at  Indiana  the  previous  season.  Knight  wanted  to  get  things  back 
to  normal  quickly,  and  he  felt  that  to  have  any  chance  to  win  the 
Big  Ten,  Indiana  had  to  win  these  two  games. 

They  practiced  twice  on  Monday  and  twice  on  Tuesday,  New 
Year's  Eve.  Knight  was  in  a  barely  controlled  fury  in  each  work- 
out. On  Monday  morning  he  told  them  they  had  practiced  well, 
were  doing  just  what  they  had  to,  and  were  going  to  win  the 
game.  On  Monday  afternoon,  he  threw  them  out.  On  Tuesday 
morning,  he  told  them  that  this  was  the  first  game  he  had  ever 
gone  into  as  a  coach  believing  his  team  had  no  chance  to  win.  On 
Tuesday  afternoon,  he  told  them  if  they  just  played  hard  Michigan 
would  fold  down  the  stretch. 

Up  and  down  he  went,  the  team  bouncing  along  with  him. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    155 


Someone  made  a  good  play  and  he  knew  Michigan  was  going  to 
lose.  Someone  made  a  bad  play  and  he  couldn't  see  any  point  to 
even  showing  up  for  the  game  on  Thursday. 

Knight  was  so  intense  about  the  game  that  he  even  made  a  plea 
to  the  fans  on  his  TV  show,  pointing  out  that  the  students  were 
still  away  and  their  support,  their  noise,  would  be  badly  needed 
on  Thursday.  He  was  distressed  because  there  were  still  some 
tickets  left.  He  wanted  a  sellout,  day  after  New  Year's  or  not. 

The  only  time  Knight  took  a  break  from  coaching,  looking  at 
tape,  or  asking  the  assistants  over  and  over,  "Do  we  have  any 
chance?"  was  to  watch  football.  When  Army  beat  Illinois  in  the 
Peach  Bowl  on  New  Year's  Eve,  Knight  was  delighted.  "It  just 
proves,"  he  said,  "that  God  does  watch  football  games  some- 
times." 

It  was  on  New  Year's  Day  that  Knight  put  his  game  face  firmly 
into  place.  There  was  only  one  practice  that  day,  in  the  afternoon, 
but  it  was  a  war.  When  the  white  team  spurted  for  a  few  minutes, 
Knight  was  furious.  "Reds,  you  are  getting  eaten  alive  by  the 
white  team.  You  play  like  this  tomorrow,  it's  gonna  be  20-25 
points  and  you'll  never  be  in  the  f ballgame." 

This  was  normal  day-before-a-big-game  stuff.  Everyone  under- 
stood. Everyone  knew  how  much  Knight  wanted  to  beat  Michigan. 
If  it  had  stayed  that  way  until  the  end  of  practice,  everyone  would 
have  gone  home  feeling  good,  feeling  ready.  But  then  the  sim- 
mering antagonism  between  Knight  and  Alford,  that  feeling  of 
rivalry  that  seems  to  exist  just  below  the  surface  in  their  rela- 
tionship, exploded  in  everyone's  face. 

It  started  when  Knight  decided  that  Alford  had  not  picked  up 
quickly  enough  on  defense.  "Goddamn  it,  Alford,  how  many 
times  do  I  have  to  tell  you  about  finding  your  man  on  conversion  ?" 
Knight  said.  "How  many  f times?" 

What  Knight  had  not  seen — what  he  would  see  later  on  tape — 
was  that  Alford  had  been  accidentally  bumped  going  down  the 
floor  by  Daryl  Thomas.  He  had  been  with  his  man  until  Thomas 
sent  him  flying.  Alford  started  to  explain.  "I  don't  want  to  hear 
it,"  Knight  broke  in.  "I  don't  want  to  hear  your  excuses.  I'm  sick 
of  them." 

Knight  threw  his  most  withering  glare  at  Alford.  To  everyone's 


156     John  Feinstein 


surprise,  including  Knight's,  Alford  glared  right  back— if  only  for 
a  moment.  That  was  enough,  though.  From  that  point  on,  Alford 
could  do  nothing  right.  Indiana  players  are  not  supposed  to  glare 
back. 

The  only  Knight  player  who  had  ever  made  a  habit  of  glaring 
back  at  Knight  was  Ted  Kitchel.  Now,  Knight  grudgingly  admitted 
that  Kitchel  was  one  of  the  toughest,  most  stubborn  players  he 
had  ever  coached.  Then,  he  made  Kitchel's  life  miserable.  Players 
still  told  the  story  about  the  postgame  tirade  that  Knight  had 
ended  by  glaring  right  at  Kitchel.  Kitchel  glared  right  back.  The 
two  of  them  had  stood  there  glaring  for  what  seemed  like  an  hour 
while  everyone  else  just  sat  and  watched  them. 

Alford  was  a  little  bit  like  Kitchel.  Not  as  openly  stubborn  or 
rebellious,  but  like  Kitchel,  he  had  a  definite  love-hate  relationship 
with  Knight.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  important  my  relationship  with 
him  is  to  me,"  Kitchel  said  of  Knight.  "It  makes  me  feel  like  I'm 
special  just  because  I  had  a  chance  to  play  for  him.  I  still  care 
what  he  thinks  of  me.  Probably  too  much,  but  I  do.  And  yet,  he 
makes  me  feel  uncomfortable  when  I'm  around  him,  and  I  can 
vividly  remember  times  when  I  hated  him.  Really  hated  him." 

The  one  that  most  people  remembered  most  had  happened  in 
1983.  Knight  had  just  finished  bhstering  the  team,  telling  them 
how  awful  they  were,  how  they  would  probably  never  win  another 
game.  Finished,  Knight  stalked  out  the  door.  Or  so  Kitchel  thought. 
What  Knight  had  done  was  walk  around  the  corner  to  the  door 
where  he  could  not  be  seen  and  stopped. 

Thinking  Knight  was  gone,  Kitchel  turned  to  the  team  and  said, 
"Just  ignore  him.  He's  full  of  shit.  We  aren't  nearly  that  bad. " 

With  that.  Knight  roared  around  the  corner.  He  grabbed  Kitch- 
el's red  notebook  and  tore  it  up,  throwing  the  pages  all  over  the 
locker  room.  Kitchel,  he  vowed,  would  never  play  again,  he  would 
suffer  for  this.  Kitchel  just  sat  and  stared  at  Knight.  For  two  days 
he  didn't  practice  and  when  he  did  practice  again.  Knight  chased 
him  up  and  down  the  court  kicking  him  in  the  rear  end,  yelling, 
"Move,  Kitchel,  move!" 

Several  weeks  later,  Kitchel,  who  had  undergone  back  surgery 
as  a  freshman  and  then  come  back  to  lead  Indiana  in  scoring  as 
a  junior  and  senior,  played  what  turned  out  to  be  his  last  game. 


.4  Season  on  the  Brink    157 


It  was  at  Iowa.  His  back  had  been  getting  worse  and  worse,  and 
he  had  soaked  it  almost  the  entire  night  just  so  he  could  walk  on 
the  floor. 

"I  played  five  minutes  and  I  could  barely  walk,  much  less  run," 
Kitchel  remembered.  "I  had  to  come  out.  That  night  he  [Knight] 
came  to  see  me.  'I  know  how  hard  you  tried,  Ted,'  he  said.  'You 
gave  this  team  everything  you  had  and  I  want  you  to  know  I 
know  that  and  appreciate  it.' 

"It  was  as  if  he  knew  it  was  over  and  he  didn't  have  to  get  all 
over  me  anymore.  He  had  done  what  he  had  to  do." 

Someday,  Knight  would  tell  Alford  how  much  he  appreciated 
how  hard  he  had  tried.  But  not  on  New  Year's  Day,  1986.  He 
picked  on  Alford  and  picked  on  him  and  finally,  when  Alford  shot 
him  another  look,  he  threw  him  out.  "You  go  take  a  shower," 
he  screamed.  "And  if  you  ever  give  me  another  rotten  look  like 
that  you'll  never  f play  here  again." 

Alford  left.  The  last  thing  the  team  needed  twenty-four  hours 
before  playing  Michigan  was  a  Knight-Alford  feud.  Or  for  Alford 
to  miss  any  practice  time.  Knight  realized  the  latter.  Five  minutes 
after  bouncing  Alford,  he  went  into  the  locker  room  after  him. 
His  angry  words  could  be  heard  from  the  floor.  Both  reappeared 
a  few  minutes  later.  Alford  made  it  to  the  end  of  practice  without 
further  incident,  but  the  focus  had  shifted:  On  a  day  when  the 
team  truly  needed  to  feel  like  a  team,  everyone  was  wondering 
what  would  happen  next  between  the  coach  and  his  best  player. 

Knight  would  not  have  been  Knight  if  the  end  of  practice  had 
marked  the  end  of  the  incident.  He  called  Alford  outside  the  locker 
room  after  dismissing  the  rest  of  the  team  for  the  evening.  "I 
want  to  tell  you  just  how  mad  I  was  at  you  after  that  Kentucky 
game,"  he  began.  The  Kentucky  game  was  now  twenty-four  days 
ago.  No  matter.  Knight  was  still  getting  the  last  word. 

As  always,  even  amidst  the  feuds  and  the  blowups.  Knight  had 
done  a  superb  job  of  getting  his  team  ready  to  play  a  big  game. 
He  even  had  the  crowd — a  sellout  finally — ready  to  play.  They 
were  louder  and  more  into  the  game  than  at  any  time  all  season. 

During  the  afternoon  walk-through.  Knight  kept  reminding  the 
players  that  Michigan  was  going  to  come  in  overconfident.  "We're 


158     John  Feinstein 


going  to  have  a  hell  of  an  opportunity,  because  they're  going  to 
come  in  here  fatheaded,"  he  said.  "They  haven't  played  anybody 
tough  to  play  in  a  month.  We  will  be  tough  to  play." 

Knight  casually  mentioned  during  the  walk-through  that  he 
had  noticed  on  the  tape  that  Alford  had  been  knocked  flying  by 
Thomas  on  the  play  that  had  started  the  flareup  the  previous  day. 
It  was  as  close  to  an  apology  as  Knight  was  going  to  come  with 
Alford. 

Everything  Knight  wanted  was  there.  The  players  were  wound 
tight.  "I've  never  seen  us  like  this  in  a  walk-through,"  Kreigh 
Smith  said  to  Joe  Hillman.  "We're  going  to  win  this  game." 

They  began  as  if  they  intended  to  win  by  fifty  points.  It  was 
8-0  Indiana  before  the  game  was  three  minutes  old,  and  Frieder 
had  to  call  time.  The  place  was  rocking.  Alford  shook  his  fist  at 
the  crowd  in  his  excitement  after  a  Michigan  turnover.  Harris 
began  the  game  with  a  thunderous  dunk  off  a  gorgeous  pass  from 
Morgan.  Calloway  hit  twice.  Harris  hit  again.  Michigan  couldn't 
find  the  basket. 

All  was  right  with  the  world. 

But  it  didn't  last.  Poised  and  experienced,  Michigan  methodi- 
cally came  back.  It  outscored  Indiana  11-2  to  take  the  lead,  and 
just  kept  building  the  lead.  Indiana  couldn't  keep  Michigan  from 
getting  the  ball  inside.  Alford  was  being  blanketed  by  Michigan 
guard  Gary  Grant.  The  frustration  quickly  built  inside  Knight's 
head.  It  was  last  year  all  over  again.  During  a  time-out  he  screamed 

at  Calloway.  "You  can  beat  all  the  f Mississippi  States  in  the 

world  with  your  bullshit  but  you  can't  beat  anybody  any  good 
with  it.  Get  in  the  game  or  get  the  hell  out." 

Dakich  grabbed  Calloway  leaving  the  huddle  to  soothe  him. 
The  game  was  ten  minutes  old  and  things  were  getting  out  of 
hand.  A  moment  later,  Thomas  was  called  for  charging  by  London 
Bradley,  perhaps  Knight's  least  favorite  official.  It  was  Bradley 
who  had  made  the  call  that  had  led  to  the  chair  throw.  Knight 
certainly  hadn't  forgotten.  Neither  had  Bradley. 

When  Bradley  called  Thomas  for  charging.  Knight  was  off  the 
bench,  yelhng  at  him.  A  few  seconds  later,  when  Thomas  missed 
a  shot  inside.  Knight  was  certain  he  had  been  fouled.  Bradley,  on 
the  play,  made  no  call.  "You  stupid  sonofabitch,  can't  you  see 
anything?"  Knight  railed. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    159 


Bradley  could  certainly  hear.  He  stopped  and  nailed  Knight 
with  a  technical.  The  score  was  already  23-14.  After  the  technical, 
it  was  25-14.  It  could  have  become  a  complete  disaster  at  that 
point,  but  Michigan,  on  a  25-6  run,  finally  cooled,  and  Indiana 
limped  to  the  locker  room  trailing  35-27  at  halftime. 

There  v/ere  no  tantrums  at  halftime.  Knight  was  angry,  but 
not  hysterical.  Thomas  (zero  rebounds)  had  backed  down  from 
Michigan  center  Roy  Tarpley.  Afford  had  taken  bad  shots.  Cal- 
loway had  forgotten  what  he  was  supposed  to  do.  "You  are  going 
to  play  teams  like  this  for  eighteen  straight  games,"  Knight  said. 
"You  can't  play  like  this  and  beat  anybody." 

They  decided  to  try  Jadlow  on  Tarpley  to  start  the  second  half 
and  Robinson  in  Morgan's  place.  They  wanted  Robinson's  quick- 
ness and  Jadlow's  size.  Harris  had  played  well,  but  Jadlow's  extra 
height  and  bulk  were  needed  against  Tarpley. 

It  took  less  than  three  minutes  to  get  the  lead  down  to  39-37. 
It  took  Michigan  another  three  minutes  to  punch  the  margin  back 
up  to  50-39.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  Wolverines  were  toying  with 
them:  let  them  get  close,  then  pull  away  again.  The  lead  was 
56-44  when  Alford  finally  got  going.  He  hit  from  twenty  feet  to 
cut  it  to  ten.  He  hit  again  to  cut  it  to  eight.  Calloway  hit  twice. 
Alford  made  a  steal  and  fed  Morgan  for  a  layup  and  suddenly  it 
was  60-56  with  more  than  six  minutes  left  to  play. 

Richard  Rellford  hit  one  free  throw  to  make  it  61-56.  Alford 
promptly  bombed  again.  It  was  61-58.  The  crowd  was  berserk. 
But  Michigan  was  not  going  to  fold.  Grant  hit  from  the  baseline. 
Alford  answered.  Butch  Wade  hit  two  foul  shots.  Alford  answered 
again.  Alford  now  had  twelve  points  in  six  minutes.  Michigan 
still  led  65-62. 

"Defensive  possession,"  Knight  screamed.  "One  time  on  de- 
fense." But  they  couldn't.  Rellford,  a  nonshooter,  hit  a  ten-footer. 
There  were  still  more  than  three  minutes  left.  Steve  Eyl,  playing 
for  the  fouled-out  Thomas,  flashed  open  inside.  His  layup  rolled 
around  the  rim.  Harris  went  up  as  if  to  tip  the  ball,  but  pulled 
back.  The  ball  rolled  in  to  cut  the  lead  to  three  again. 

But  no.  Charging  into  the  lane  came  London  Bradley,  waving 
his  arms.  Harris,  Bradley  said,  had  touched  the  ball  on  the  rim. 
Harris  had  not  touched  the  ball,  in  fact,  he  hadn't  come  close  to 
touching  it.  The  official  with  the  best  view  of  the  play,  Phil  Bova, 


160    John  Feinstein 


had  watched  the  play  and  turned  to  run  downcourt.  Bradley  had 
made  a  horrendous  call,  and  one  had  to  wonder  if  at  least  sub- 
consciously—like Tom  Rucker  at  Kentucky— he  hadn't  been  say- 
ing, "Take  that,  you  sonofabitch." 

Knight  had  to  be  physically  restrained  by  Wright  and  Bomba. 
"Grab  me.  Brad,"  he  said,  "because  if  you  don't,  I'll  hit  the 
sonofabitch."  They  grabbed  him. 

Bradley's  call  ended  Indiana's  chances.  The  Hoosiers  never  got 
closer  than  four  after  that  call.  Would  they  have  won  if  he  had 
not  made  that  call?  Probably  not.  Michigan  had  taken  every  shot 
Indiana  had  thrown  and  never  looked  shaken.  But  there  was  no 
telling  Knight  that  later  on. 

The  locker  room  was  a  morgue.  Knight  didn't  scream,  but  he 
railed.  Daryl  Thomas  had  somehow  played  the  entire  game  with- 
out getting  a  rebound.  "You  might  as  well  not  have  even  shown 
up  tonight,"  he  told  Thomas.  Alford's  first-half  fist-shaking  ran- 
kled. "What  kind  of  bullshit  was  that,  Alford?  You  can  take  that 
bullshit  and  go  straight  back  to  New  Castle  High  School.  We  don't 
need  that  kind  of  crap  here. 

"Boys,  is  this  going  to  be  last  year  all  over  again?  Are  we  ever 
going  to  win  a  game  that  means  something  again?" 

The  sense  of  dread  hung  heavy  in  the  locker  room.  Five  straight 
losses  at  home  in  the  Big  Ten.  Five.  Hammel's  concern  about 
putting  too  much  emphasis  on  one  game  now  loomed  as  reality. 
The  coaches'  tape  session  was  stormy.  Knight  getting  up  and 
leaving  several  times  to  walk  off  his  frustration.  Finally,  just  after 
2  A.M.,  they  went  to  the  Big  Wheel  to  eat.  Knight  never  said  a 
word  until  he  stood  up  to  leave. 

He  looked  at  his  four  assistants,  each  of  them  bleary-eyed  with 

exhaustion.  "I  waited  nine  f months  to  play  this  game,"  he 

said.  "Nine  months.  I  can't  tell  you  how  sick  of  basketball  I  am 
right  now.  If  I  never  see  another  basketball  game  in  my  life,  that 
will  be  just  fine." 

By  noon  the  next  morning.  Knight  wasn't  the  only  one  feeling 
that  way.  The  day  after  at  Indiana  is  always  a  nightmare.  Knight 
has  seen  the  tape  and  then  seen  the  mistakes  in  his  sleep — or 
nonsleep— all  night.  Losmg  a  Big  Ten  game  at  Indiana  is,  in  the 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    161 


words  of  manager  Jim  Kelly,  "like  having  someone  die,  only 
worse.  Much  worse." 

Knight  cannot  stand  to  lose.  Not  in  the  way  that  most  com- 
petitors cannot  stand  to  lose;  it  goes  far  beyond  that.  It  tears  him 
apart  emotionally,  largely  because  he  somehow  equates  losing  a 
basketball  game  with  his  self-worth.  He  seems  to  believe  that 
people  will  think  less  of  him  if  his  team  doesn't  play  well.  Because 
he  is  a  man  whose  emotions  know  no  perspective,  losing  is  like 
death  to  him — to  steal  a  line  from  football  coach  George  Allen. 
He  doesn't  merely  brood  over  it,  he  rages  at  it.  Everyone  is  to 
blame:  the  players,  the  coaches,  the  system,  and  anyone  else  who 
happens  to  wander  into  view. 

Exactly  why  Knight  is  so  destroyed  by  defeat  isn't  easy  to 
understand.  Certainly,  part  of  it  stems  from  his  competitiveness. 
Knight  competes  at  everything  he  does,  every  day,  and  enjoys 
the  fact  that  he  wins  most  of  the  time.  But  even  though  he  will 
rationalize  the  loss  and  seemingly  not  blame  himself,  always, 
ultimately,  he  blames  himself.  Somewhere,  he  failed.  That  failure 
may  have  taken  place  four  years  earlier  when  he  failed  to  recruit 
a  certain  player  or  did  recruit  another  one.  It  may  have  taken 
place  with  thirty  seconds  to  go  when  he  made  an  incorrect  sub- 
stitution. Somewhere,  somehow,  he  failed.  Somehow,  that  failure 
is  just  that — failure — and  it  tears  at  Knight's  gut.  It  leaves  him 
angry,  frustrated,  and  unable — or  at  least  unwilling — to  deal  with 
the  world  on  civil  terms  for  hours,  perhaps  days,  sometimes  weeks, 
depending  on  the  dimensions  of  the  defeat. 

Intellectually,  Knight  knows  he  is  a  good  coach  and  that  one 
loss,  or  even  one  losing  season,  won't  change  that.  And  he  knows 
that  people  will  not  stop  respecting  his  coaching  ability.  But  emo- 
tionally, he  seems  to  believe  that  everyone  else  will  see  the  score 
with  Indiana  on  the  short  end  and  laugh  and  point  and  think, 
"Boh  Knight  failed."  In  truth,  few  people  give  any  basketball 
game  or  any  basketball  coach  even  that  much  thought.  But  Knight 
doesn't  see  that.  Defeat  somehow  takes  a  giant  chip  out  of  his 
self-esteem.  It  makes  him  miserable,  and  in  turn  all  those  around 
him  miserable. 

The  players  were  in  at  11  a.m.  to  look  at  the  Michigan  tape. 
That  lasted  about  thirty  minutes.  Everyone  was  guilty.  Harris 


162     John  Feinstein 


was  more  guilty.  Alford  was  most  guilty  of  all.  Knight  finally 
stalked  out  of  the  room  after  asking  Alford,  "Will  you  ever,  just 
once,  take  a  charge?"  He  was  back  ten  seconds  later.  "You  guys 
sit  here  for  a  while  and  if  you  still  want  to  have  a  team,  then  you 
come  and  tell  us." 

These  were  the  days  the  players  hated  most.  These  were  the 
times  that  had  caused  earlier  generations  to  refer  to  Assembly 
Hall  as  "Monroe  County  Jail."  That  was  what  it  felt  hke.  The 
locker  room  was  a  cell  and  the  building  was  a  prison.  There  was 
no  escape.  They  sat  looking  at  each  other.  What  was  there  to  say? 
It  had  all  been  said.  But  they  had  to  play  the  coach's  game.  So 
Alford,  Morgan,  and  Robinson  walked  to  the  coaches'  locker  room 
to  tell  Knight  that,  yes,  they  still  wanted  to  have  a  team.  One 
wonders  what  would  happen  someday  if  the  captains  walked  in 
and  told  Knight,  "You're  right,  coach,  it's  hopeless,  let's  cancel 
the  season." 

Knight  looked  at  the  three  players.  It  was  Alford  he  was  most 
angry  with.  He  had  harped  on  the  fist-shaking  and  had  decided 
after  watching  the  tape  that  Alford  wasn't  guarding  anybody  again. 
So  when  the  players  reported  that  they  wanted  to  play.  Knight 
said  simply,  "Yeah,  but  Steve  doesn't  guard  anybody." 

Robinson  came  to  the  rescue.  "That  may  be  so.  Coach,"  he 
said.  "But  the  rest  of  us  didn't  do  much  guarding,  either."  That 
saved  Alford — at  least  for  the  moment.  Knight  decided  he  would 
grant  the  request  to  continue  the  season. 

In  fact,  Indiana  had  not  played  a  bad  game.  It  had  shot  66 
percent,  including  a  remarkable  nineteen  of  twenty-five  in  the 
second  half.  Michigan  had  just  been  a  little  bit  better.  Knight 
knew  this,  and  to  some  extent  was  already  blaming  the  officials 
for  the  loss.  But  he  couldn't  let  it  go.  Every  mistake  seemed  to 
dance  in  his  mind's  eye.  Officials  or  no  officials,  good  shooting 
or  no  good  shooting,  they  had  lost.  At  home.  To  a  coach  he  didn't 
like. 

Practice  that  evening  was  the  longest  of  the  season — two  and 
one-half  hours.  Michigan  State  would  be  in  Sunday.  There  could 
be  no  question  about  winning  that  game.  Before  the  players  even 
went  on  the  floor.  Knight  had  written  on  the  board,  "99-12; 
3-7."  The  first  number  was  Indiana's  record  at  home  from  1971 
to  1984  in  Big  Ten  play.  The  second  was  the  last  two  seasons,  the 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    163 


Michigan  game  tacked  on.  "Doesn't  that  make  you  people  feel 
sick?"  he  said. 

After  they  worked,  Waltman  went  through  the  Michigan  State 
personnel.  All  the  assistant  coaches  knew  the  players  were  tired 
and  discouraged,  because  they  were  tired  and  discouraged.  Walt- 
man  is  ordinarily  the  most  low-key  member  of  the  coaching  staff. 
He  is  quiet  most  of  the  time,  but  a  man  blessed  with  a  keen  wit 
and  an  intensity  that  he  usually  keeps  inside.  Normally,  his  scout- 
ing reports  are  straightforward,  to  the  point.  But  he  wanted  the 
players  to  be  ready  Sunday.  And  the  key  to  beating  Michigan 
State  was  stopping  Scott  Skiles. 

Skiles  was  the  classic  dead-end  kid,  a  stocky  little  guard,  de- 
scribed by  his  coach  Jud  Heathcote  as  "a  fat  little  white  kid." 
Three  times  in  little  more  than  a  year  he  had  been  arrested:  once 
for  cocaine  possession,  twice  for  driving  under  the  influence.  Knight, 
who  was  friendly  with  Heathcote,  was  shocked  that  Heathcote  let 
him  remain  on  the  team.  Because  Skiles  had  a  reputation  for 
getting  into  trouble  in  high  school.  Knight  hadn't  recruited  him 
even  though  he  was  from  Indiana.  Skiles  had  responded  by  helping 
Michigan  State  beat  Indiana  four  times  in  six  tries,  including  two 
of  three  at  Indiana.  Waltman  wanted  to  be  sure  that  amidst  all 
the  putdowns  of  Skiles  the  players  remembered  how  good  a  player 
he  was. 

"We've  made  a  big  thing  here  the  last  few  years  about  what 
an  asshole  he  is,"  Waltman  said.  "He  probably  is,  but  if  you  don't 
respect  him  as  a  person,  you  better  respect  him  as  a  player.  Don't 
just  write  him  off  as  that  jerk  from  Plymouth  because  he's  come 
in  here  a  couple  times  and  stuck  it  up  our  ass.  The  way  to  get 
him  is  to  respect  him  as  a  player  first  and  then  stick  it  up  his 
ass." 

They  went  out  for  a  walk-through  after  that.  Everyone  was 
dragging  by  the  time  they  left  the  floor  at  eight  o'clock.  "Back 
at  eleven,"  Knight  told  them. 

They  were  back  at  eleven  in  the  morning,  on  the  floor  at  11:05, 
and  back  in  the  locker  room  at  11:13.  It  took  Knight  that  long  to 
blow  up  at  Harris  for  going  after  a  rebound  with  one  hand.  "Coach," 
Harris  said,  "I  couldn't  get  it  with  two  hands,  all  I  could  do  was 
tip  it." 

"Oh  really,  Andre,"  Knight  answered.  "Well,  that's  all  I  want 


164    John  Feinstein 


to  see  of  that  crap  this  morning. "  Into  the  locker  room  they  went. 
The  assistants  stayed  on  the  floor,  under  orders,  while  Knight 
went  inside.  Five  minutes  later,  everyone  was  back  again. 

Knight  cooled  off  after  that.  He  went  back  to  teaching  and 
encouraging.  He  seemed  to  have  caught  himself,  at  least  for  a 
moment,  just  when  things  seemed  about  to  spin  out  of  control. 
It  didn't  last.  Alford  was  caught  standing  on  defense.  "Put  on  a 
white  shirt,  Steve,  you  be  Skiles.  Maybe  you  can  help  us  that 
way."  That  started  the  Steve  Alford  show  again.  It  was  still  going 
on  when  Calloway  came  down  hard  on  his  left  ankle  and  didn't 
get  up.  Garl  helped  him  off.  It  was  a  sprain.  Shortly  before  one. 
Knight  sent  them  home.  "Be  back  here  at  five,  taped  and  ready 
to  go,"  he  said.  Then  he  went  hunting. 

A  second  practice  the  day  before  a  game,  especially  an  afternoon 
game,  was  almost  unheard  of.  The  players  had  practiced  twice 
Monday,  twice  Tuesday,  and  once  Wednesday;  they  had  played 
Michigan  on  Thursday,  looked  at  tape  for  two  hours  and  practiced 
and  walked  through  for  almost  three  on  Friday,  and  practiced  for 
almost  two  on  Saturday. 

It  was  probably  too  much.  The  best  thing  would  have  been  a 
brief  walk-through  in  the  evening  and  a  good  night's  sleep,  but 
Knight  was  still  hurting  because  of  the  Michigan  loss.  The  coaches 
knew  this,  but  knew  it  was  futile  to  try  to  change  his  thinking. 
"He  just  can't  let  go,  can  he?"  Felling  said  to  the  others. 

The  hunting  seemed  to  help  Knight's  mood.  "We  aren't  going 
to  practice  that  long,"  he  told  the  players,  as  if  to  tell  them  things 
were  about  to  get  better.  "Ricky,  how's  your  ankle?  Better?  Good. 
If  you  weren't  so  damn  clumsy  you  wouldn't  get  hurt." 

Garl  had  already  told  him  that  Calloway  shouldn't  practice  that 
night,  but  could  play  in  the  game.  Knight  was  relieved. 

The  practice  was  clumsy.  Pelkowski  went  down  early,  holding 
his  ankle.  Two  sprains  in  one  day.  Thomas  caught  an  elbow  in 
the  jaw  and  came  out  briefly.  They  had  been  going  at  it  for  about 
forty  minutes  when  Knight  walked  over  to  Kohn  Smith.  "Think 
we've  done  enough?"  he  said. 

"Absolutely,"  said  Smith,  wanting  to  get  everyone  home  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"Couple  more  plays,"  said  Knight. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    165 


Two  plays  later,  Thomas  went  up  for  a  rebound.  No  one  touched 
him,  but  the  minute  he  hit  the  ground  he  let  out  a  shriek  of  pain. 
Somehow,  his  foot  had  twisted  under  him  as  he  landed.  He  was 
in  agony,  howHng  in  pain  as  he  writhed  on  the  floor.  Knight  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot  where  he  stood,  his  face  pale.  He  turned  his 
back  for  a  moment  as  if  he  thought  when  he  turned  back  he  would 
see  Thomas  standing  again.  He  didn't.  "Go  to  the  other  end,"  he 
told  the  other  players  who  stood  staring  at  Thomas.  "Shoot  some 
free  throws." 

Thomas  was  still  rolling  on  the  floor,  screaming,  "Oh  no,  oh 
no."  He  was  convinced  he  had  broken  his  ankle.  When  Garl  tried 
to  take  his  sneaker  off,  Thomas  panicked,  cried,  "No,  no,  don't 
take  it  off."  Knight  walked  over  to  Thomas  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "Calm  down,  Daryl,"  he  said  and  stood  there  until 
Garl  called  for  Wright  and  Smith  to  help  Thomas  into  the  training 
room. 

"Let's  go  inside,"  he  said  to  the  others. 

The  mood  was  now  funereal.  The  anger  had  gone  out  of  Knight. 
Already,  he  was  mentally  kicking  himself  for  the  second  practice, 
for  staying  on  the  floor  too  long.  "Okay,"  he  said  calmly,  "we 
don't  know  if  Daryl  can  play  or  not.  But  you  really  practiced  well 
tonight." 

Thomas  was  going  to  the  hospital  for  X-rays.  Clearly,  he  would 
not  play  the  next  day.  "I'll  bet  it's  broken,"  said  Joe  Hillman, 
voicing  everyone's  thoughts. 

Knight  had  committed  to  flying  to  Muncie  that  night  to  see  a 
high  school  game.  He  told  the  assistants  to  wait  until  Thomas 
came  back  from  the  hospital.  "Make  sure  he's  okay,"  Knight  said, 
knowing  Thomas  would  be  in  a  cast  of  some  kind  and  scared.  He 
went  into  the  snowy  night  looking  about  100  years  old. 

The  ankle  was  badly  sprained.  Prognosis:  ten  days  to  two  weeks, 
minimum.  That  meant  Thomas  would  miss  at  least  three  games: 
Michigan  State,  Northwestern,  and  Wisconsin.  The  goal,  im- 
mediately, was  to  get  him  back  playing  in  eleven  days  against 
Ohio  State. 

Jadlow  would  start  in  his  place  at  center.  Suddenly,  a  game  that 
had  looked  tough  but  eminently  winnable  had  become  a  struggle. 
All  of  this  wounded  Knight.  He  knew,  deep  down,  that  he  had 


166    John  Feinstein 


made  a  mistake  by  refusing  to  let  go  of  the  Michigan  loss.  Injuries 
are  freaks,  nothing  more,  but  the  more  time  you  practice,  the 
more  chance  there  is  for  those  freaks  to  occur.  That  Thomas's 
injury  was  the  third  sprained  ankle  of  the  day  was  testimony  to 
how  flukish  such  things  are.  But  that  it  happened  at  a  moment 
when  the  players  should  either  have  been  listening  to  Knight  talk 
or  eating  dinner  was  something  Knight  had  to  deal  with. 

Worst  of  all,  the  way  the  injury  happened  reminded  everyone 
of  last  year.  Team  loses,  coach  overreacts,  team  goes  further  down- 
hill. Knight  seemed  to  be  fighting  a  psychological  war  with  him- 
self: one  part  of  his  brain  was  telling  him  to  take  it  easy,  to  be 
patient,  to  understand  that  the  players  were  giving  him  everything 
they  had.  The  other  part  was  running  amok,  screaming  at  the 
indignity  of  defeat,  pointing  out  every  error  on  the  tape  and 
saying,  "Everyone  around  me  is  faihng  but  I'm  not."  One  minute 
Knight  was  saying  the  team  had  played  horribly  against  Michigan, 
the  next  he  was  saying  the  officials  had  stolen  the  game.  One 
minute  he  was  saying  Michigan  was  as  good  as  any  team  in  the 
country,  the  next  he  was  saying  they  weren't  a  very  good  team 
at  all. 

Knight  was  still  duehng  with  himself  Sunday  morning  when 
the  players  came  in  for  walk-through.  He  began  softly.  "We  have 
to  play  without  Daryl  today,  boys,  and  that's  not  going  to  be  easy 
because  Daryl  has  really  worked  hard  to  make  himself  a  much 
better  player  this  year.  But  you  other  guys:  Jadlow,  Todd  Meier, 
Whopper  [Courtney  Witte's  nickname  among  the  players  was 
Whopper,  and  Knight  had  picked  it  up  and  started  using  it]  are 
perfectly  capable  of  stepping  in  and  doing  what  Daryl  has  been 
doing. 

"As  a  basketball  team,  we  face  different  challenges.  Thursday, 
our  challenge  was  to  beat  a  talented  team  and  we  failed.  We're 
0-1  with  challenges  this  year."  He  hardened  for  a  moment.  "In 
fact,  it's  been  so  goddamn  long  since  we  met  a  challenge  I  can't 
remember  the  last  one." 

Soft  again:  "During  the  American  Revolution  Thomas  Payne 
once  said,  'These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.'  Well,  maybe. 
Maybe  today  we're  going  to  be  tried — challenged — twice.  First, 
there  is  the  challenge  of  bouncing  back  from  a  poor  performance. 
We  haven't  met  that  challenge  around  here  in  a  long  time. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    167 


"Then  there  is  the  challenge  of  playing  without  Daryl  in  a  game 
we  simply  have  to  have.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  we  need  to 
win  this  game.  We  need  to  respond  to  that  challenge.  Now,  we 
can  do  that,  go  out  and  play  like  hell,  or  we  can  just  use  it  as 
another  excuse  and  go  out  and  get  our  ass  beat  again." 

He  hardened  again.  "Challenges,  boys.  We  have  been  abso- 
lutely destroyed  by  every  challenge,  every  obstacle  we've  faced 
in  the  last  two  years.  You  have  an  excuse  to  lose  today.  If  that's 
what  you  want,  you  have  an  excuse." 

It  was  not  so  much  an  excuse  as  a  fact:  Indiana  was  not  the 
same  without  Thomas.  Without  Thomas,  Michigan  State's  too- 
small  center,  6-6  Carlton  Valentine,  was  suddenly  an  effective 
player.  None  of  Thomas's  subs  had  his  quickness,  and  that  was 
what  Valentine  had:  quickness.  All  day  long,  he  would  get  angles 
inside  on  Jadlow,  Meier,  and  Eyl.  For  one  day,  he  was  an  All- 
American,  scoring  twenty-one  points — eighteen  above  his  aver- 
age. It  never  could  have  happened  with  Thomas  playing. 

The  sight  of  Thomas  on  crutches  seemed  to  send  the  Indiana 
crowd — which  was  2,000  shy  of  a  sellout  after  Thursday's  dis- 
appointment— into  a  state  of  depression.  In  the  locker  room,  be- 
fore Knight  came  in  for  his  final  talk.  Stew  Robinson  shook  his 
head  and  muttered,  "This  whole  place  is  like  a  morgue." 

It  only  got  worse.  The  first  half  was  tight,  Morgan  doing  a 
good  job  on  Skiles  by  denying  him  the  basketball,  but  Valentine 
and  Larry  Polec  were  hurting  Indiana  inside.  Harris  was  struggling 
and  Jadlow  just  wasn't  quick  enough  to  compete  with  the  Spartans 
on  the  inside.  A  couple  of  silly  plays  near  the  end  of  the  half  and 
Michigan  State  led  at  intermission,  39-37. 

The  angry  side  of  Knight  was  in  control  at  halftime.  Morgan, 
Calloway,  and  Alford  had  each  made  a  foolish  play  that  stuck  in 
his  mind.  Morgan  had  hustled  after  a  loose  ball  and  thrown  it 
back  inbounds  blind  to  a  waiting  Polec  for  an  easy  layup.  "A 
goddamn  sixth  grader  would  know  better  than  to  make  that  play," 
Knight  told  Morgan.  "Right  off  the  top  of  my  head,  I  can  think 
of  those  three  plays  that  cost  us  six  points.  It's  like  starting  the 
game  behind  6-0. 

"When  are  you  people  going  to  start  giving  the  effort  necessary 
against  these  Big  Ten  teams?  When?  How  long  does  this  go  on?" 

He  stalked  into  the  hall,  his  shoulders  sagging  to  his  knees.  "I 


168     John  Feinstein 


can't  take  this  anymore,"  he  told  the  assistants.  "I  just  can't  take 
it.  It  makes  me  sick.  You  guys  think  of  something." 

It  took  Knight  about  three  minutes  to  gather  himself.  They 
would  change  the  lineup,  play  Eyl  for  Harris.  Should  they  try 
Jadlow  again?  Yes,  Knight  said,  because  he  had  the  best  chance 
to  score.  "Boys,"  Knight  told  the  players  before  they  went  back 
out,  "now  we're  going  to  find  out  what  kind  of  a  team  we've  got 
here." 

Those  words  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air  during  the  first  five 
minutes  of  the  second  half.  It  was  sheer  disaster.  Jadlow  threw  a 
stupid  pass  on  the  first  possession  and  got  yanked.  Morgan  threw 
a  bad  pass  and  Knight  called  time,  yanked  him,  and  slammed  his 
clipboard  in  disgust.  Calloway  missed  a  short  jumper.  Skiles  re- 
bounded and  went  the  length  of  the  floor  to  make  it  48-39.  Eyl 
lost  a  rebound  and  he  was  pulled  for  Harris.  Eight  seconds  later, 
Harris  lost  his  man  inside,  fouled  him,  and  found  himself  right 
back  on  the  bench  as  Witte  went  in  for  him.  It  was  standing  room 
only  in  the  doghouse,  the  crowd  was  booing,  and  Michigan  State 
led  57^2. 

Delray  Brooks,  who  had  not  played  one  minute  against  Mich- 
igan, got  a  chance.  He  got  screened  for  a  Skiles  bucket.  Knight's 
voice  could  be  heard  all  over  Assembly  Hall:  "Delray,  you  have 
absolutely  no  idea  what  is  going  on  out  there." 

It  looked  as  if  no  one  had  any  idea  what  was  going  on.  But 
Indiana  didn't  quit.  Alford  made  a  steal  and  fed  Robinson  for  a 
basket.  He  hit  a  jumper  and  then  Calloway  hit  one.  The  lead  was 
down  to  nine.  The  crowd  came  back  into  the  game.  Michigan 
State  was  a  little  rattled.  Morgan  stole  the  ball  from  Skiles.  Val- 
entine missed  a  layup.  Alford  hit  two  foul  shots  to  make  it 
61-54. 

They  kept  chipping  away.  A  Robinson  layup  made  it  66-64 
with  4:32  left.  Indiana  had  outscored  Michigan  State  20-7.  The 
game  turned.  But  Skiles  stuck  his  nose  back  in,  hit  a  tough  baseline 
jumper,  and  Valentine  rebounded  a  Polec  miss.  It  was  70-65. 
Alford  bombed  to  cut  it  to  three.  Valentine  walked.  Alford  faked 
a  jump  shot,  spun  into  the  lane,  and  hit  a  soft  bank  shot  from 
ten  feet  as  he  was  being  fouled.  The  free  throw  tied  the  game  at 
seventy.  There  was  1:42  left.  Indiana  had  come  all  the  way  back. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    169 


Challenges.  Obstacles.  Times  that  try  men's  souls.  They  were 
right  there. 

Polec  tried  a  jump  shot.  It  was  no  good.  Valentine  and  Calloway 
went  up  for  the  rebound.  Eric  Harmon,  one  of  the  few  Big  Ten 
officials  Knight  truly  liked,  blew  his  whistle.  Foul,  Calloway.  The 
contact  had  been  minimal,  but  it  had  looked  like  Calloway  had 
committed  the  foul.  Once  again,  the  tape  would  convince  the 
coaches  they  had  been  jobbed.  But  at  that  moment  everyone  in 
the  building,  including  Knight,  thought  Calloway  had  fouled. 

Valentine  calmly  made  both  free  throws  with  1:10  left.  This 
time,  Alford  couldn't  get  open.  Robinson  shot  with  the  forty- 
five-second  clock  running  out.  Short.  Valentine  rebounded  and 
fed  Polec.  He  was  fouled  and  made  both  shots.  74-70.  Alford  had 
one  last  jumper  left  to  make  it  7'^72.  They  immediately  fouled 
Darryl  Johnson,  who  had  played  horribly  (one  of  eight).  Johnson 
made  the  first  to  get  the  lead  to  three.  That  was  enough.  Alford 
missed,  Polec  rebounded,  and  it  was  over,  77-74,  Michigan  State. 

Deja  vu.  They  were  reliving  the  nightmare.  They  were  0-2  in 
the  Big  Ten,  both  losses  at  home.  "Don't  even  hang  your  heads," 
Knight  said  angrily.  "Don't  bother,  because  you  don't  care.  Don't 
even  try  to  tell  me  you  care.  Every  time  you  make  a  mistake  you 
just  nod  your  head.  I  told  you  at  the  half  about  those  six  points 
that  we  gave  them.  Ricky,  you  foul  on  the  rebound  with  the  score 
tied.  Jesus.  Harris  and  Jadlow,  I've  never  had  more  disappointing 
people  here  in  my  life.  You  two  haven't  contributed  two  ounces 
to  what  we're  trying  to  do.  You  don't  improve  or  change  from 
one  day  to  the  next. 

"Boys,  I  want  to  tell  you  how  long  a  season  you're  in  for 
if  you  don't  compete  any  harder  than  that."  He  paused.  His 
voice  was  almost  choked  now.  "I  never  thought  I  would  see 
the  day  when  Indiana  basketball  was  in  the  state  it's  in  right 
now." 

They  went  home  dreading  what  was  to  come.  The  assistant 
coaches  were  genuinely  frightened  about  what  might  happen  next. 
Wright,  Waltman,  and  Smith  had  talked  before  the  season  about 
the  need  to  stick  up  for  the  players  when  Knight  got  down  on 
them.  The  previous  season  had  turned  into  a  circus,  with  players 
going  from  forty  minutes  to  zero  minutes  and  back  again.  All 


170    John  Feinstein 


those  elements  were  there  again.  Players  were  being  yanked  for 
mistakes.  Knight  was  an  emotional  yo-yo. 

The  tape  session  was  brutal.  Knight  would  run  a  playback,  get 
disgusted,  and  walk  out  of  the  room.  Once,  he  walked  back  in, 
sat  down,  grabbed  Waltman's  coffee  mug,  hurled  it  against  the 
wall,  and  stormed  out  again.  It  was  Wright  who  spoke  first  after 
he  was  gone.  "Guys,  we  have  got  to  stick  with  these  kids.  We've 
got  to  tell  him  that  we  know  they've  got  a  long  way  to  go,  but 
we  can't  give  up  on  them.  This  is  all  we  got.  This  is  the  hand 
we've  been  dealt.  We  just  can't  quit  on  Andre  Harris  now." 

For  Wright,  Harris  was  a  special  project.  He  was  the  kind  of 
athlete  Wright  believed  Indiana  had  to  recruit  to  win.  If  Harris 
washed  out,  it  might  be  a  long  time  before  Knight  was  willing  to 
take  a  risk  on  a  good  athlete/bad  student  again.  The  other  coaches, 
who  had  not  been  nearly  as  happy  with  Harris  in  preseason  as 
Knight  had  been,  understood  this.  They  had  been  nervous  when 
Harris  had  been  handed  stardom  before  playing  a  game  because 
they  saw  his  deficiencies.  But  now  they  knew  Wright  was  correct. 
He  could  not  simply  be  washed  down  the  drain  after  two  games. 

"What  bothers  me,"  Waltman  said  to  Wright,  "is  the  rebound- 
ing. You  can  miss  shots,  okay.  But  a  leaper  like  him  should  be 
able  to  rebound.  He  hasn't." 

"You're  right,"  Wright  said.  "But  what  else  have  we  got?" 

The  others  nodded  assent.  They  had  to  stand  up  for  the  players 
before  the  circus  started  again.  This  was  easier  said  than  done 
when  Knight  was  in  this  mood.  Knight  returned.  The  tape  began 
again.  "Look  at  this,  will  you  look  at  this  shit?"  Knight  kept 
saying.  "We  cannot  play  with  these  people.  We  just  can't." 

Silence.  Finally,  Wright,  his  voice  barely  a  whisper,  spoke. 
"Coach,  I  know  we've  got  problems  with  these  kids  right  now. 
But  I  really  think  it's  important  that  we  keep  working  to  try  to 
make  them  better.  We've  only  played  twelve  games.  I'm  dis- 
couraged too,  we  all  are,  but  until  those  other  kids  get  here  next 
year,  we've  got  to  try  to  make  these  guys  play  better." 

"I  know  that,  Joby,  but  Jesus,  why  are  they  so  dumb?" 

"Coach,  I  don't  know.  I  know  they  aren't  any  damn  rocket 
scientists,  but  I  really  think  they'll  get  better." 

Knight  slumped  in  his  chair.  "Why  don't  you  guys  go  home. 
I  want  to  be  alone  for  a  while." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    171 


They  walked  out.  "That  was  good,"  Kohn  Smith  told  Wright. 
"That's  what  we  have  to  do." 

"Yeah,  that's  true,"  Waltman  said,  "but  will  we  get  through 
tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow?"  Felling  said,  "It's  only  eight  o'clock.  At  least 
one  of  us  will  be  back  here  tonight." 

It  was  Felling.  Knight  called  him  thirty  minutes  later.  "You 
got  anything  [tape]  on  Northwestern?"  That  was  Felling's  signal 
to  go  back  to  work.  He  walked  in  and  put  on  a  Northwestern  tape. 
"I  don't  want  to  look  at  that  crap,"  Knight  said.  He  wanted  to 
talk.  They  sat  and  talked  until  after  midnight.  FeUing  went  home 
wondering,  like  Waltman,  if  they  would  make  it  through  the  next 
day. 


1h 

Will  We  Ever  Catch  Another  Fish? 

This  crisis  was  real.  The  players  hadn't  been  given  a  time  to  come 
in  the  next  day.  All  they  could  do  was  wait  by  the  telephone. 
Knight  was  still  depressed  when  he  came  in  the  next  morning  but 
at  least  he  wasn't  wild  and  screaming.  "Maybe,"  he  said  to  Kohn 
Smith,  "you  and  I  ought  to  just  go  hunting." 

Even  though  he  had  the  flu.  Smith  thought  that  was  a  terrific 
idea.  He  and  Knight  would  hunt  while  the  other  assistants  met 
with  the  players.  Then  they  would  all  go  through  tape  that  night. 
Knight's  willingness  to  go  hunting  showed  that  he  knew  he  needed 
to  stay  in  control  of  the  situation.  Northwestern  and  Wisconsin 
were  the  league's  two  weakest  teams.  Without  Thomas,  though, 
neither  game  looked  like  a  lock,  especially  on  the  road.  The  team 
was  on  the  brink  of  complete  chaos.  Hunting  was  the  best  thing 
Knight  could  do  for  himself  and  for  the  players  that  afternoon. 

The  players  came  in  shortly  after  Knight  and  Smith  left.  Walt- 
man, Felling,  and  Wright  each  spoke  to  them.  What  did  they 
think  was  wrong?  Did  they  understand  why  Coach  was  so  upset? 
"It's  not  so  much  this  mistake  or  that  mistake,"  Waltman  said. 


172     John  Feinstein 


"It's  competing.  You  guys  have  got  to  understand  that  if  Coach 
is  nothing  else,  he's  a  competitor.  And  he  hkes  to  think  that  there's 
enough  of  him  in  you  that  you'll  be  just  as  competitive  as  he  is. 
Right  now,  he  doesn't  think  you  are  and  that's  killing  him." 

They  went  around  the  room,  asking  each  player  how  he  felt. 
Some  gave  stock  answers.  Others  admitted  being  uptight,  ner- 
vous. Maybe  even  scared  to  make  a  mistake. 

"How  many  of  you,"  Waltman  asked,  "worry  about  making  a 
mistake  because  you're  going  to  get  yelled  at  by  Coach?" 

For  a  moment,  no  one  moved.  Finally,  Calloway  put  his  hand 
up.  Soon,  sixteen  hands  were  up.  "Do  you  feel  that  way,  Steve?" 
Wright  said,  turning  to  Alford,  the  player  least  likely  to  be  both- 
ered by  yelling. 

Alford  folded  his  arms.  "Well,"  he  said.  "It's  not  a  feeling. 
It's  reality." 

That  broke  the  tension.  They  all  laughed,  including  the  coaches, 
because  it  was  so  true.  "Look,  I  think  I  know  what  you're  feeling 
right  now,"  Waltman  said.  "I  think  we  all  got  to  know  each  other 
pretty  well  overseas  and  we  all  know  what's  facing  us.  But  every- 
one has  got  to  stick  together.  Someone  makes  a  mistake,  pick  him 
up,  help  him  out.  Don't  get  down  on  each  other.  Everyone  in 
here  is  trying  like  hell.  Coach  may  not  always  know  that,  but 
you  guys  do.  So  stick  together." 

Everyone  nodded.  Everyone  felt  better.  But  what  would  happen 
that  night? 

In  the  meantime,  there  was  another  problem.  Delray  Brooks's 
mother  had  called  Wright  that  day.  Delray,  she  said,  was  terribly 
unhappy.  He  had  played  zero  minutes  against  Michigan  and  four 
against  Michigan  State  after  starting  against  Mississippi  State. 
What  was  going  on?  Would  he  ever  play?  Maybe  he  should  trans- 
fer. 

This  didn't  come  as  a  shock  to  Wright  or  any  of  the  coaches. 
Brooks's  transferring  had  been  discussed.  But  the  timing,  smack 
in  the  middle  of  a  major  crisis,  wasn't  great.  Wright  told  Knight 
about  the  phone  call  before  he  met  with  the  players  that  night. 
"We'll  deal  with  it  after  the  meeting,"  Knight  said. 

The  hunting  trip  had  saved  the  day,  perhaps  the  season.  Knight 
was  firm  as  they  went  through  the  tape,  often  emphatic,  occa- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    173 


sionally  angry,  but  there  were  no  hysterics,  no  profane  tirades. 
He  even  found  some  positive  things  to  say,  some  kind  words  for 
Todd  Meier — who  had  played  zero  minutes  against  Michigan  State — 
and  for  Stew  Robinson,  who  had  missed  the  last  vital  shot. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  people  about  Todd  and  about  Stew,"  he 
said.  "I'm  not  sure  anyone  in  here  gives  us  more  than  Todd  does. 
He's  got  bad  knees,  so  bad  he  maybe  shouldn't  even  be  playing. 
I  looked  down  the  bench  at  him  at  the  end  of  the  game,  he's  got 
tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks — and  he  didn't  even  play. 

"Andre,  I  looked  at  you  and  you  were  no  more  into  the  game 
than  someone  sitting  in  a  home  for  the  mentally  ill  in  Northern 
Indiana.  We've  got  guys  like  Todd  rooting  like  hell  for  you,  and 
when  it's  your  turn  to  root,  you  just  sulk.  I  think  there  are  people 
here  in  this  room  who  resent  that." 

Knight  paused.  "If  any  of  you  disagree  with  my  assessment, 
say  so.  I'll  respect  the  hell  out  of  you  for  standing  up  and  dis- 
agreeing." Knight  waited.  No  one  said  a  word.  He  went  on. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something  else,  Andre,  you  too,  Todd  Jad- 
low.  Stew  has  been  here  four  years.  He's  helped  us  win  some  big 
games.  He's  started,  he's  come  off  the  bench,  he's  not  played  at 
all.  He  had  no  idea  Sunday  how  much  he  would  play,  if  at  all, 
and  there  was  no  one  more  into  the  game  than  he  was.  If  we  had 
fifteen  guys  like  that,  this  team  would  be  a  lot  different  than  it 
is." 

More  than  anything.  Knight  was  philosophical.  "You  know,  I 
tell  you  all  the  time  that  basketball  is  thinking  and  playing  smart 
and  working  hard.  You  hear  that  so  much  from  me  you  probably 
stop  hearing  it  after  a  while.  But  I  was  thinking  this  morning 
about  Scott  May.  I  can  remember  Scott  May  coming  in  here  on 
Sundays,  his  one  day  off,  and  working  for  two  hours  on  not 
walking  with  the  basketball.  He  ended  up  a  two-time  All-Amer- 
ican  and  player  of  the  year  as  a  senior.  And  I'll  tell  you  something, 
he  didn't  have  any  more  athletic  ability  than  a  lot  of  you  do.  But 
he  wanted  to  compete  so  much,  he  made  himself  better. 

"See,  boys,  basketball  should  be  your  favorite  class.  Because 
what  basketball  has  done  for  teams  here  in  the  past  is  taught  those 
kids  how  to  compete.  That's  a  great  thing  to  learn.  I  guarantee 
you  we've  had  players  who  have  sat  in  the  classroom  with  people 


174    ]ohn  Feinstein 


who  had  3.7  cums,  who  they  no  way  should  have  been  able  to 
compete  with  after  college,  and  have  gone  on  and  done  much 
better  than  those  kids  did. 

"Why?  Because  they  knew  how  to  compete.  They  knew  how 
to  stay  after  something.  They  knew  how  to  get  knocked  down 
and  get  up.  Those  other  guys,  3.7  and  all,  some  of  them  couldn't 
sell  handwarmers  to  eskimos.  But  until  this  team,  or  the  last  two 
teams,  we  always  had  players  who  wanted  to  play  and  wanted  to 
compete.  I  feel  like  with  you  guys  that  you  are  required  to  play. 
And  I  hate  using  that  word — required." 

The  lights  were  off  in  the  locker  room,  the  tape  machine  was 
frozen  right  behind  where  Knight  stood.  He  hadn't  raised  his 
voice  once,  but  he  certainly  had  everyone's  attention.  "Let  me 
take  a  wild  guess  at  something  here,"  Knight  went  on.  "On 
Christmas  night,  all  of  you  had  dinner  at  Dr.  Rink's  house.  I 
would  imagine  that  Mrs.  Rink  spent  the  better  part  of  three 
days  cooking  that  dinner  for  you.  What  did  you,  as  a  team,  do  to 
thank  her  for  dinner?  Tell  me.  Did  you  all  kick  in  a  dollar  to 
send  her  some  roses?  Did  anybody  write  a  thank-you  note? 
Anybody?  Speak  up,  anyone  who  did  anything  to  thank  Mrs. 
Rink." 

He  looked  around  the  room.  No  one  looked  back.  He  turned 
to  Alford.  "Steve,  why  do  you  think  I  was  able  to  ask  that  question 
with  absolute  and  complete  confidence  that  no  one  had  done  any- 
thing?" 

"Because  we're  selfish." 

"Exactly.  And  that  is  reflected  in  the  way  you  play  basketball. 
The  most  selfish  thing  in  the  world  is  only  worrying  about  guard- 
ing your  man  or  only  worrying  about  boxing  out  your  man.  If 
Winston  helps  me  when  I  lose  my  man,  you  better  believe  I'm 
going  to  try  like  hell  to  help  on  his  man  when  he  needs  it.  But 
you  don't  do  that.  You  just  worry  about  yourselves.  And  as  long 
as  you  do  that,  you'll  continue  to  play  selfish  basketball,  you'll 
continue  to  make  the  mistakes  that  cost  us  this  game  and  you 
won't  be  able  to  beat  anybody.  Think  about  it." 

This  time,  when  Knight  left  his  players  alone,  they  did  have 
something  to  think  about.  As  the  coaches  followed  Knight  out  of 
the  locker  room,  Kohn  Smith  said  softly,  "Now  that  was  coaching." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    175 


The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Larry  Rink  received  two  dozen  roses, 
courtesy  of  the  Indiana  basketball  team. 

Delray  Brooks's  name  was  on  the  card  that  went  with  the 
flowers.  It  was  his  last  act  as  an  Indiana  basketball  player. 

Knight  met  with  Brooks  after  the  team  meeting  on  Monday  to 
ask  him  if  he  was  as  miserable  as  his  parents  said  he  was.  Brooks 
said  he  wasn't  miserable,  but  confused.  He  wanted  to  play  more. 
Knight  understood.  He  had  spent  three  years  in  college  wanting 
to  play  more.  He  had  almost  quit  the  team  several  times  each 
year  only  to  be  talked  out  of  it  by  friends. 

He  understood  Brooks's  frustration,  but  just  as  Fred  Taylor 
couldn't  guarantee  young  Bobby  Knight  more  playing  time.  Coach 
Bob  Knight  could  make  no  guarantees  to  Brooks.  "I  think  you 
should  talk  to  your  parents  and  make  a  firm  decision  on  what  you 
want  to  do,"  Knight  told  Brooks.  "If  you  want  to  leave,  I  un- 
derstand. If  you  want  to  stay,  I'll  do  everything  I  can  to  help  you 
improve." 

Knight  suspected  Brooks  would  opt  to  leave.  Brooks  was  such 
a  gentle  person  that  he  would  never  think  of  questioning  his 
playing  time  even  if  it  was  bothering  him.  But  his  parents  were 
not  that  gentle.  Like  any  parents,  they  thought  their  son  should 
be  playing  all  the  time.  When  a  high  school  star  from  a  small 
town  goes  to  college  and  doesn't  play,  it  is  hard  on  the  player. 
But  it  may  be  even  tougher  on  the  parents  who  are  back  home 
being  asked  all  the  time  why  their  son  isn't  playing. 

Brooks  talked  to  his  parents  again  that  night.  They  decided  that 
he  should  find  a  school  where  he  would  have  a  chance  to  play. 
That  did  not  appear  to  be  Indiana.  The  next  morning.  Brooks  told 
Knight  his  decision.  He  was  leaving  Indiana.  Knight  told  him  that 
if  he  wanted  to  come  back  to  Indiana  for  graduate  school  or  ever 
needed  any  help,  not  to  hesitate  to  call.  Brooks  thanked  him  and 
told  him,  "Coach,  I  know  I  tried  hard  and  so  did  you.  Thank 
you." 

Knight  sat  staring  into  space  for  a  long  time  after  Brooks  had 
left  the  cave.  "I  doubt,"  he  finally  said,  "if  we've  ever  had  a  nicer 
kid  here  than  Delray  Brooks." 


176     John  Feinstein 


The  first  practice  that  Brooks  missed  may  have  been  the  most 
brutal  of  the  season.  Knight  had  given  them  philosophy  on  Mon- 
day night.  Tuesday  morning  he  gave  them  hell.  Almost  every 
tough  drill,  those  used  almost  exclusively  in  preseason,  was  part 
of  the  practice.  When  Knight  caught  a  gasping  Harris  bent  over 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  he  jumped  him. 

"Dammit,  you're  not  that  tired.  I  don't  want  to  see  anybody 
with  their  hands  on  their  knees.  You  boys  have  got  to  learn  some 
toughness." 

Harris,  of  all  the  players  on  the  team,  had  a  legitimate  excuse 
for  fatigue.  Six  years  earlier,  when  a  player  named  Glen  Grunwald 
had  been  having  terrible  fatigue  problems  during  games,  Bomba 
had  called  Dr.  Rink  to  see  if  he  could  run  some  tests  and  figure 
out  the  problem.  Rink's  tests  showed,  among  other  things,  that 
Grunwald  had  a  smaller  lung  capacity  than  anyone  on  the  team, 
far  smaller  than  average  capacity  for  a  normal  man  his  height 
(6-9),  much  less  someone  trying  to  play  basketball. 

From  that  time  on.  Rink  had  tested  every  Indiana  player  every 
year  for  lung  capacity.  Harris  had  the  weakest  lung  capacity  on 
the  team  since  Grunwald.  Part  of  his  problem  in  games  was  that 
he  started  lunging  at  the  ball  when  he  got  tired.  A  practice  like 
this  was  simply  too  much  for  him.  During  a  one-on-one  drill, 
Harris  died  completely.  He  just  stopped.  Fortunately  for  everyone. 
Knight  was  looking  the  other  way  at  the  time. 

The  practice  could  have  been  a  disaster.  Knight  was  at  his  most 
snappish,  angry  from  the  start.  Perhaps  he  was  still  upset  about 
Brooks.  Or  perhaps  he  wanted  to  make  a  point.  Twice,  he  ran 
them  into  the  locker  room  and  screamed  at  them.  He  exploded 
at  Dakich  for  allegedly  running  a  drill  incorrectly.  He  yelled  at 
the  coaches  for  not  being  tough  enough  on  the  players.  For  one 
hour  it  was  boot  camp  again. 

But  it  didn't  last.  A  pat  on  the  back  here,  a  compliment  there. 
And  finally,  "Better,  boys,  that's  a  lot  better." 

He  still  wasn't  happy.  But  he  wasn't  berserk,  either. 

More  than  anything  that  week,  Knight  was  searching.  He  felt 
like  a  researcher  who  had  checked  every  book  in  existence  on  a 
subject  without  finding  any  answers.  How  could  he  get  this  team 
to  play  better?  How  could  he  end  the  two-season  streak  of  7-13 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     \77 


in  the  Big  Ten  and  3-8  at  home?  Those  numbers  were  incom- 
prehensible to  him.  Yet  they  kept  pihng  up  and  he.  Bob  Knight, 
Supercoach,  didn't  seem  to  have  any  solutions. 

He  looked  at  tape.  He  asked  the  coaches  over  and  over  what 
they  thought.  He  called  Pete  Newell  and  Fred  Taylor.  He  lay 
awake  in  bed  thinking,  thinking,  thinking.  There  had  to  be  a  way 
out  of  this.  He  had  always  found  a  way  before.  Why  not  now? 
What  hadn't  he  tried?  He  had  tried  everything:  anger,  threats, 
pleading.  Philosophy,  quotations.  Long  drills,  short  drills,  differ- 
ent hneups.  Everything. 

Almost  everything.  Knight  sat  up  almost  all  night  that  Tuesday 
going  over  and  over  in  his  mind  the  last  two  seasons.  Finally,  he 
decided  there  was  one  approach  he  hadn't  tried.  In  fact,  it  was  an 
approach  that  no  one  had  ever  thought  of — ever.  Anywhere. 

The  players  arrived  for  a  ten  o'clock  practice  the  next  morning 
a  little  tired.  They  had  thrown  Brooks  a  going-away  party  at  his 
apartment  the  evening  before,  sending  out  for  pizza  and  then 
sitting  around  together  reminiscing.  It  was  hard  for  them  to  see 
Brooks  leave  because  they  liked  him  so  much,  but  they  under- 
stood. 

When  the  players  walked  onto  the  floor,  their  coach  was  stand- 
ing under  one  basket  holding  a  fishing  rod.  "Boys,  the  biggest 
problem  you  have  as  basketball  players  is  that  you  don't  see," 
Knight  told  them.  "I  am  now  going  to  show  you  why  basketball 
is  just  like  fishing.  Because  if  you  don't  see  what's  going  on  around 
you  as  a  fisherman,  you'll  never  catch  a  fish.  The  same  thing  is 
true  in  basketball. 

"You  can  have  the  very  best  equipment.  You  can  have  a  great 
rod,  like  this  one.  You  can  have  the  right  bait.  You  can  have 
great-looking  clothes.  But  if  you  can't  see  a  rock  in  front  of  you 
when  you  cast  your  rod,  you'll  be  in  trouble.  If  you  can't  see  a 
tree  over  your  shoulder,  you'll  be  in  trouble.  If  you  don't  know 
what  to  look  for  in  a  stream,  you'll  never  catch  a  fish. 

"The  same  is  true  in  basketball.  You  can  be  a  great  leaper.  You 
can  be  a  great  shooter.  You  can  be  quick.  You  can  be  all  those 
things.  But  if  you  don't  see  what  is  going  on  in  front  of  you  or 
behind  you  or  around  you,  if  you  don't  know  what  to  look  for, 
you  can't  play  basketball." 


178     John  Feinstein 


For  almost  an  hour,  Knight  stomped  around  the  gym  floor, 
casting  his  rod  over  and  over,  talking  about  fishing.  He  told  stories 
about  catching  fish  when  others  claimed  there  were  no  fish.  At 
one  point,  he  began  tromping  around  the  gym  screaming,  "Kohn, 
where  are  the  fish,  Kohn?  I  don't  see  any  damn  fish  here.  Why 
can't  I  see  the  fish?  Where  are  they?  Boys,  if  you  don't  look,  you 
can't  see." 

As  Knight  stalked  around  in  endless  circles,  the  players  broke 
up.  It  was  the  first  good  laugh  the  team  had  had  since  New  Year's. 
The  fishing  analogies  were  wild,  but  they  made  sense.  It  was  a 
different  way  of  saying  the  same  thing.  Knight  made  his  points 
at  great  length,  but  everyone  listened  and  everyone  enjoyed  it. 
No  one  got  yelled  at.  There  was  no  tape  droning  on  and  on.  And 
the  sight  of  their  coach  stamping  around  acting  as  if  he  couldn't 
find  any  fish  was  a  story  that  would  certainly  be  told  and  retold 
for  years  to  come. 

When  it  was  over.  Knight,  exhausted,  retreated  to  the  cave. 
The  coaches  were  left  to  go  through  tape  with  the  players.  Knight 
has  a  habit  when  he  is  pensive — which  is  often — of  looking  at 
friends  in  mid-conversation  and  saying  very  seriously,  "Do  you 
think  we'll  ever  win  another  game?"  All  his  friends  repeat  this 
to  one  another  at  times.  But  from  that  day  forth,  the  question 
changed  to,  "Do  you  think  we'll  ever  catch  another  fish?" 

The  next  fish  was  Northwestern.  Hardly  Moby-Dick,  but  this 
team  had  to  start  somewhere. 


That  afternoon.  Knight  decided  it  was  time  for  a  new  point 
guard  to  play,  one  who  could  show  the  players  how  to  pass  the 
basketball.  The  point  guard's  name  was  Bob  Knight. 

This  is  a  tactic  Knight  tries  about  six  times  a  year.  He  is  an 
excellent  passer  because  he  sees  the  floor  so  clearly.  Almost  al- 
ways, he  will  make  several  good  passes,  and  almost  always  he 
will  keep  playing  until  he  is  breathing  very  hard  and  has  to  take 
himself  out. 

One  of  Knight's  first  passes  was  stolen  by  Jadlow.  The  rest  he 
converted.  Finished,  he  walked  over  to  where  Hammel  was  sitting 
and  said  with  a  huge  smile,  "Hamso,  am  I  or  am  I  not  the  world's 
best  forty-five-year-old  passer?" 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    179 


What  the  world's  best  forty-five-year-old  passer  didn't  know 
was  that  most  of  the  players  were  not  about  to  intercept  his  passes. 
In  fact,  Jadlow  received  a  stern  talking-to  after  practice  for  his 
lone  interception.  To  make  their  point  to  a  wayward  player  in 
this  area,  older  players  always  invoked  the  Dakich  story. 

It  was  1982.  Dakich  was  an  eager  freshman  who  was  getting  a 
pretty  good  chunk  of  playing  time.  The  team  was  practicing  at 
Minnesota  the  day  before  a  game  there  and  Knight  was  angry 
with  the  offense,  so  he  inserted  himself.  Dakich,  all  intensity 
playing  on  the  white  team,  figured  that  his  coach  would  want 
nothing  less  than  all-out  play  from  him,  even  if  the  man  he  was 
guarding  was  his  coach. 

On  Knight's  first  play,  Dakich  stole  the  ball  from  him — clean. 
"Sonofabitch,"  Knight  said,  and  he  threw  the  ball  at  Dakich, 
catching  him  square  on  the  nose.  Dakich  shook  that  off  and  went 
back  into  his  stance.  Knight  made  another  move,  and  Dakich  went 
for  the  ball  again.  He  got  it  again — only  this  time  he  fouled 
Knight,  slapping  his  wrist.  'Wham.  Dakich's  face  collided  with  the 

basketball  again.  "Don't  you  ever  f foul  me!"  the  coach 

screamed.  Dakich  was  dizzy  by  now,  half  wanting  to  fight  Knight, 
half  wanting  to  cry.  Instead,  he  kept  playing.  And  learned  his 
lesson — the  hard  way.  Jadlow  had  been  lucky. 

They  flew  to  Evanston  after  practice  and  Knight,  the  coaches, 
Garl,  and  Hammel  went  to  dinner.  Everything  with  Knight  is 
ritual.  Every  road  trip  is  the  same:  leave  after  practice,  check  into 
the  hotel,  send  the  players  to  dinner,  go  out  to  dinner,  meet  with 
the  players,  look  at  tape  with  the  coaches,  go  to  sleep. 

Knight  was  in  a  reflective  mood  that  night  at  dinner,  feehng 
almost  relaxed  after  a  week  full  of  tension.  He  talked  at  length 
about  Brooks,  wondering  aloud  if  leaving  was  the  best  thing  for 
him — hoping  it  was.  Earlier,  before  sending  the  team  to  dinner. 
Knight  spoke  to  the  team  about  Brooks  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  left.  "I  think  we  all  feel  badly  that  he's  gone,"  Knight  said. 
"But  do  any  of  you  think  he  ever  would  have  become  a  really 
good  player  here?" 

No  one  answered.  "He  was  just  absolutely  the  wrong  kind  of 
player  for  us,"  Knight  said  at  dinner.  "He's  not  a  ballhandler, 


180    John  Feinstein 


and  Alford  needs  someone  to  handle  the  ball.  I  told  him  not  to 
leave  just  because  his  parents  wanted  him  to,  but  that's  what  I 
think  he  did.  I  told  him  that  he  should  only  leave  if  he  felt  he 
had  to  go  somewhere  that  he  knew  he  would  play  a  lot.  I  really 
don't  know  where  that  is." 

Knight  rambled.  He  questioned  his  handling  of  the  Michigan 
game,  wondering  if  it  had  been  his  fault  that  London  Bradley  had 
not  only  given  him  a  technical  but  had  made  the  horrid  goal- 
tending  call  against  Harris.  "1  did  everything  but  call  the  guy  a 
nigger,"  Knight  said.  "People  are  human.  If  I  were  a  referee  I 
would  tell  a  guy,  'I'm  not  gonna  call  a  technical,  I'm  just  gonna 
throw  your  ass  out.'  " 

Finally,  he  returned  to  his  favorite  subject:  the  team.  "I  enjoyed 
December  with  this  team  as  much  as  I  ever  have.  I  thought  we 
were  playing  as  well  as  we  possibly  could  have.  I  just  can't  stand 
not  being  competitive.  In  1983,  if  Kitchel  hadn't  been  hurt,  we 
could  have  made  the  Final  Four.  In  '84,  we  weren't  that  good, 
but  we  almost  sneaked  in  anyway.  That  makes  it  all  worthwhile. 
Last  year,  though,  we  had  no  chance.  Now,  it's  the  same  thing 
this  year.  That's  discouraging." 

Practice  the  next  morning  was  not  encouraging.  Jadlow,  fighting 
the  flu,  had  a  rotten  practice.  Knight  decided  to  start  Eyl  in  his 
place.  Daryl  Thomas  was  at  home,  having  his  ankle  worked  on 
in  the  hope  that  he  could  play  next  week.  Knight  was  concerned 
about  this  game.  He  had  tried  every  trick  he  knew  to  get  the  team 
out  of  its  doldrums,  but  without  Thomas,  he  just  wasn't  sure  what 
would  happen.  Northwestern,  as  it  turned  out,  would  have  a 
horrid  season,  one  in  which  the  players  stopped  playing  hard 
because  they  sensed — correctly — that  their  coach.  Rich  Falk,  was 
a  lame  duck.  But  early  in  January,  Knight  knew  none  of  this. 

Just  before  pregame  meal  that  afternoon,  he  got  some  news 
that  picked  up  his  spirits  immensely.  The  Big  Ten  and  the  NCAA 
had  ruled  that  Pelkowski  was  eligible  to  redshirt,  that  the  courses 
he  had  taken  in  Colombia  didn't  count  against  his  five-year  clock. 
"Goddamn,  that's  the  first  big  win  we've  had  in  two  years," 
Knight  said.  "That's  just  great.  Really  great.  I  think  with  that 
extra  year  he  can  really  be  a  good  player.  Don't  you,  guys?" 

The  coaches  nodded  eagerly.  Pelkowski,  they  knew,  was  a  proj- 
ect. He  had  potential,  but  whether  he  could  overcome  his  lack  of 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    181 


natural  instincts  was  a  question.  Knight  often  talked  about  how 
hard  it  was  for  foreign  players  to  learn  the  game  because  they 
weren't  weaned  on  it  like  American  kids.  That  was  why,  he  be- 
lieved, Uwe  Blab  had  never  become  a  great  player.  But  he  seemed 
to  block  that  sentiment  from  his  mind  when  talking  about  Pel- 
kowski. 

"You  know,  he  might  be  our  second-best  shooter,"  Knight 
rambled  on.  Nobody  stopped  him.  They  were  just  glad  to  see  him 
happy. 

Knight  stayed  happy  that  evening.  Whether  it  was  the  long 
talk  on  Monday  night,  the  brutal  practice  on  Tuesday,  or  the 
fishing  lesson  on  Wednesday,  something  worked.  Indiana  led 
8-2  after  four  minutes,  28-14  after  twelve,  48-26  at  halftime, 
and  never  let  Northwestern  into  the  game  at  all.  The  final  was 
102-65,  an  extraordinary  margin  against  anyone,  especially  on 
the  road,  especially  without  Thomas.  The  Hoosiers  shot  64  per- 
cent. Calloway  had  twenty  points,  Alford  nineteen,  Harris  fifteen, 
and  Robinson  fourteen.  Everyone  played  well.  Everyone  contrib- 
uted. 

The  Northwestern  students,  who  showed  up  with  signs  that 
said  "Give  Bobby  Knight  the  chair"  and  "Extradite  Bobby  Knight," 
had  little  to  say  after  halftime.  The  only  not-so-great  moment 
came  with  seven  minutes  left,  when  Northwestern  "cut"  a  70- 
42  lead  to  76-53.  Knight  called  time  and  screamed  for  a  solid 
minute.  "You've  outscored  them  by  one  goddamn  point  since 
halftime.  That's  just  the  same  shit  we've  been  doing  for  two  years. 
Now  goddamn  it,  let's  play." 

They  played.  They  outscored  Northwestern  26-12  the  rest  of 
the  way  and  Knight,  fighting  the  flu  like  everyone  else,  walked 
off  the  floor  coughing  but  happy.  The  postgame  celebration  lasted 
until  the  team  was  on  the  bus.  "You  did  a  hell  of  a  job  tonight," 
he  told  the  players.  "But  start  thinking  about  Wisconsin  right 
now.  If  we  don't  get  that  game,  we're  right  back  where  we  started. 
It  just  makes  me  sick  to  think  about  that  Michigan  State  game 
when  I  see  how  we  played  tonight." 

Back  up  front,  he  shook  his  head  and  said  softly,  "I  wonder  if 
there  was  anything  we  could  have  done  different  against  Michigan 
State." 

Wisconsin  would  not  be  a  walkover.  Knight  knew  that.  The 


182     ]ohn  Feinstein 


Badgers  were  not  very  good,  but  they  weren't  awful,  and,  his- 
torically, they  played  well  at  home  against  Indiana.  Knight  always 
felt  a  little  bit  strange  going  to  Madison  because  he  had  almost 
become  Wisconsin's  coach  in  1969.  He  had  interviewed,  been 
offered  the  job,  and  had  virtually  accepted  it.  He  had  gone' home 
on  a  Wednesday  to  discuss  it  with  his  wife  and  with  friends,  and 
had  told  Wisconsin  he  would  fly  out  Friday  to  finalize  the  deal. 
But  in  the  forty-eight-hour  interim,  two  things  happened:  first, 
the  story  leaked  in  the  Madison  paper  that  Knight  was  the  coach.' 
Then,  on  Friday  morning.  Knight  woke  up  at  6  a.m.  and  called 
Bo  Schembechler.  Once,  Schembechler  had  interviewed  for  the 
football  job  at  Wisconsin.  "Don't  take  it,"  Schembechler  coun- 
seled. "It's  not  the  job  for  you.  It  will  try  your  patience  too 
much."  Knight  never  got  on  the  plane  to  go  back  to  Madison. 

Madison  is  the  prettiest  town  in  the  Big  Ten.  The  only  trouble 
with  it  is  that  it's  usually  buried  under  several  feet  of  snow  in 
the  winter.  Indiana  got  lucky  this  time.  After  a  week  of  snow  and 
subzero  temperatures,  Madison  was  in  the  midst  of  a  heat  wave, 
with  temperatures  climbing  toward  forty.  Friday  was  bright  and 
sunny,  and  Knight  and  Hammel  went  for  a  long  walk  through 
town.  Knight  even  did  his  good  deed  for  the  week,  stopping  to 
give  a  young  woman  whose  car  was  stuck  in  a  snowdrift  a  push 
free. 

Good  weather  or  not.  Knight  shouldn't  have  been  out.  He  was 
coughing  and  having  trouble  breathing,  and  he  wasn't  the  only 
one.  Alford  was  now  sick,  and  most  of  the  team  was  fighting  the 
flu  in  one  form  or  another.  With  only  nine  players  available, 
stamina  was  a  major  concern.  "We  gotta  win  this  game  and  get 
the  hell  home  and  get  some  rest,"  Knight  said  late  Friday  night. 
Then  he  insisted  on  going  looking  for  some  ice  cream. 

Saturday  dawned  bright  and  cold.  The  game  was  at  1  p.m.,  so 
pregame  was  at  9  a.m.  Spaghetti  at  9  a.m.  is  a  sickening  sight. 
Everyone  was  still  a  little  bleary-eyed  as  the  bus  rolled  towards 
the  ancient  Wisconsin  field  house.  When  the  bus  reached  the  back 
parking  lot,  the  driver  found  his  pathway  into  it  blocked.  On  one 
side  of  the  entrance  sat  a  car.  On  the  other  was  a  roadblock.  There 
was  a  man  in  the  car.  "Can't  park  here,"  the  man  told  the  bus 
driver. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    183 


"This  is  the  Indiana  team,"  the  driver  told  him. 

"Doesn't  matter,  can't  park  here." 

Knight,  who  had  been  half  listening  to  the  conversation,  jumped 
up  at  this  remark.  "Listen,  do  you  want  to  have  a  game  here 
today  or  not?"  he  said. 

The  security  man,  who  clearly  had  no  clue,  simply  repeated  his 
line  about  the  bus  not  being  able  to  park.  "What  the  hell  is  wrong 
with  you?"  Knight  said,  beginning  to  get  angry.  "Don't  you 
understand,  we're  playing  in  this  goddamn  game." 

"I  don't  care.  I  can't  move  the  barrier." 

By  now  everyone  was  half  standing  in  his  seat.  Was  Madison 
about  to  become  San  Juan  II?  Knight  was  off  the  bus.  "Well,  if 
you  can't  move  the  barrier,  I  sure  can."  He  picked  up  the  barrier 
and  threw  it  out  of  the  way.  The  security  guard  glared  at  him. 
But  there  still  was  not  enough  room  for  the  bus  to  pass.  The  bus 
driver  got  off  the  bus.  Mr.  Security  was  on  his  car  radio,  asking 
for  either  instructions  or  reinforcements.  "Look,  pal,"  the  driver 
said,  "you  better  move  your  car  before  he  moves  it  for  you." 

The  guard  glanced  at  Knight.  "Okay,  I'll  move,  but  this  isn't 
supposed  to  happen." 

Everyone  got  back  on  the  bus.  The  players,  relieved  first,  then 
giggling,  sat  down.  The  bus  pulled  up  to  the  players'  entrance 
without  further  incident. 

There  was,  naturally,  an  aftermath.  Several  Wisconsin  players 
had  been  walking  by  on  their  way  to  the  field  house  when  the 
incident  took  place.  By  the  time  Indiana  got  into  the  building, 
the  word  being  spread  was  that  Knight  had  thrown  the  barrier  at 
the  security  guard.  Fortunately,  Knight  didn't  know  this.  The 
gross  exaggeration  would  have  made  him  crazy. 

The  game  almost  took  care  of  that.  As  at  Northwestern,  Indiana 
came  out  blazing.  Alford  was  unstoppable.  Harris  was  superb 
inside.  Todd  Meier,  starting  at  center,  played  solid  defense  and 
rebounded  well.  After  fifteen  minutes,  it  was  38-18.  Another 
blowaway.  Perfect. 

But  the  Hoosiers  were  tired.  Harris  was  having  trouble  breath- 
ing. It  was  40-20  with  3:24  to  go.  During  a  TV  time-out  Knight 
implored  the  players  to  hang  in  until  halftime.  "Suck  it  up  for 
three  minutes  and  we'll  be  okay,"  he  said. 


184    John  Feinstein 


But  they  couldn't.  Alford  turned  the  ball  over.  Harris  missed. 
Robinson,  who  was  playing  with  a  pulled  hamstring,  turned  it 
over.  Wisconsin  began  to  hit.  Finally,  with  twenty-five  seconds 
left,  Mike  Heineman,  a  hard-nosed  kid  from  Connersville,  Indi- 
ana, whom  Knight  truly  regretted  not  recruiting,  got  past  Eyl  for 
a  bucket  that  cut  the  margin  to  42-28.  Alford  missed  at  the  buzzer. 

Knight  was  wild  at  halftime.  He  trashed  Eyl  first,  then  Morgan. 
"The  game  was  over  boys,  over.  We  have  a  twenty-two  point 
lead  [actually  twenty]  and  then  you  guys  just  collapse  and  let 
them  get  back  in  the  game.  Jesus  Christ.  Morgan,  you've  been 
here  five  years  and  you  are  still  giving  us  nothing  but  terrible, 
terrible  basketball.  We  cannot  play  you.  Eyl,  if  one  of  my  as- 
sistants ever  recruits  a  player  like  you  again,  I'll  fire  him.  How 
can  you  let  Heineman  beat  you  on  that  play?  How?" 

Knight  was  hysterical  because  he  honestly  believed  his  team 
had  little  left  physically  for  the  second  half.  He  wanted  to  lead 
by  twenty  because  he  thought  with  a  twenty-point  lead,  Indiana 
might  win  by  about  five.  Now,  it  was  just  a  fourteen-point  lead. 

Quickly,  though,  the  Hoosiers  upped  the  margin  to  46-28. 
Everyone  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  But  Wisconsin  chipped  back. 
Time  after  time  the  Badgers  punched  the  ball  inside.  Harris  was 
tired.  Meier's  knees  hurt.  Jadlow  was  struggling.  They  got  to 
within  52-42  with  almost  fourteen  minutes  to  play.  The  lead 
stayed  right  there  for  the  next  eight  minutes.  Every  time  Wis- 
consin looked  ready  to  make  a  run,  Alford  would  answer. 

If  anyone  had  ever  questioned  Alford's  grit,  this  game  was 
definitive  proof  of  just  how  truly  tough  he  is.  Alford's  throat 
hurt  so  much  he  could  barely  swallow.  He  was  running  a  fever 
and  he  was  having  trouble  breathing  just  sitting  still,  much  less 
running  up  and  down  the  court.  But  time  after  time,  when  the 
Wisconsin  crowd  started  to  rock  the  old  building,  Alford  would 
quiet  them.  He  swished  a  twenty-footer  with  6:05  left  to  make 
it  70-59.  That  was  his  thirty-sixth  point. 

But  ninety  seconds  later,  Wisconsin  had  the  lead  down  to 
70-63.  They  were  dogging  Alford's  every  step  now.  Robinson 
was  open.  He  missed.  The  rebound  rolled  loose.  Heineman  flew 
out  of  bounds  and  tried  to  throw  the  ball  back  in  off  of  Morgan's 
leg.  But  Morgan  saw  the  play  coming  and  he  jumped  high  in  the 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     185 


air.  The  ball  went  right  between  his  legs  and  on  one  bounce  to 
Harris,  who  was  wide  open  for  a  layup  since  everyone  had  been 
watching  Heineman  and  Morgan.  That  made  it  72-63  with  3:45 
to  go.  If  Morgan  had  not  been  so  alert,  Wisconsin  would  have 
had  a  chance  to  cut  the  lead  to  five.  Instead,  Rick  Olson  missed 
a  shot,  Calloway  hit  a  jumper  from  the  baseline  to  up  the  lead 
back  to  eleven,  and  it  was  over.  Indiana  had  survived. 

"I  can't  ever  remember  a  game  being  so  hard,"  Knight  said 
when  it  was  over.  His  sweater  was  soaked,  but  he  was  relieved 
and  happy.  "Andre,  you  made  a  great  play  when  they  had  it  down 
to  seven,"  he  said.  In  truth,  the  great  play  had  been  made  by 
Morgan.  But  nobody  cared.  They  were  2-2  in  the  Big  Ten.  They 
had  caught  two  fish— not  big  ones,  but  at  this  stage,  no  one  was 
about  to  throw  them  back. 


t2. 

"If  we  can  Just  Get  into  Position  to  Get 

into  Position" 

For  the  next  two  weeks,  the  players  heard  over  and  over  again 
about  positioning.  But  not  positioning  on  defense  or  under  the 
boards. 

"We  are  now  2-2  in  the  Big  Ten,"  Knight  told  them  Sunday, 
writing  it  on  the  board  in  the  locker  room.  "We  have  three  home 
games  coming  up — Ohio  State,  Purdue,  Illinois.  We  have  now 
put  ourselves  into  a  position  where,  if  we  can  win  these  three 
games,  we'll  be  in  position  to  be  a  factor  in  the  Big  Ten  race." 

Getting  into  position  to  get  into  position.  But  to  get  into  position 
to  get  into  position.  Knight  continued,  they  would  have  to  beat 
Ohio  State.  "We  just  cannot  lose  any  more  games  at  home,  boys. 
We  cannot  lose  to  these  people." 

Beating  these  people  would  not  be  easy.  To  begin  with,  a  quirk 


186    John  Feinstein 


in  the  schedule  had  turned  what  would  ordinarily  be  a  Thursday 
game  into  a  Wednesday  game.  The  previous  summer,  Ohio  State 
had  been  offered  the  chance  to  play  a  game  that  Saturday  on 
national  TV.  They  asked  if  Indiana  would  mind  playing  a  day 
earlier.  In  August,  that  had  seemed  just  fine,  but  now,  with  Daryl 
Thomas's  ankle  literally  a  day-to-day  proposition,  that  extra  twenty- 
four  hours  could  be  the  difference  between  his  being  a  factor  and 
not  even  being  able  to  play. 

Thomas  had  responded  well  to  the  injury.  He  knew  that  Knight 
thought  he  had  a  low  threshold  of  pain,  and  he  knew  Knight  didn't 
think  he  was  very  tough.  He  wanted  to  prove  to  Knight  that  he 
was  wrong.  The  initial  pain  had  been  so  excruciating  that  Thomas 
was  convinced  he  had  broken  the  ankle.  He  was  relieved  when  it 
turned  out  to  be  a  bad  sprain,  but  knew  that  meant  Knight  would 
expect  him  to  come  back  quickly.  Garl's  prognosis  had  been  ten 
days  to  two  weeks.  Ohio  State  would  be  exactly  ten  days  after 
the  injury. 

The  only  person  under  as  much  pressure  as  Thomas  was  Garl. 
Knight  put  a  lot  of  faith  in  Garl,  especially  when  it  came  to  trusting 
his  judgment  on  whether  someone  could  play  or  not.  Garl  was 
much  more  than  the  team  trainer.  He  was  the  team's  travel  agent; 
he  was  in  charge  of  setting  up  training  meals  and  pregame  meals; 
he  was  in  charge  of  expense  accounts  and  giving  expense  advances 
to  the  coaches.  He  was  probably  the  one  person  on  the  team  who 
was  genuinely  plugged  in  to  both  the  coaches  and  the  players. 

Garl  was  a  httle  guy,  only  slightly  more  than  5-6.  On  a  bas- 
ketball team,  that  fact  was  going  to  be  pointed  out  to  him  more 
than  just  occasionally.  This  was  especially  true  on  the  road,  where 
Knight  left  Garl  essentially  in  charge  of  everything  but  game 
preparation.  When  Garl  started  barking  orders,  as  he  often  did, 
players,  coaches,  and  managers  would  respond  by  calling  him 
"Little  Napoleon"  or  "Der  Fiihrer."  Garl  took  the  ribbing  well, 
although  occasionally  he  admitted  that  being  short  "really  pisses 
me  off."  About  the  only  time  he  reacted  badly  to  kidding  about 
his  height  was  when  it  came  from  Waltman,  who  was  perhaps  an 
inch  taller  than  he  was. 

This  week,  no  one  was  kidding  Garl  about  his  height.  He  was 
too  busy  working  on  Thomas's  ankle  until  all  hours  of  the  night 
trying  to  get  the  swelling  down.  By  Monday,  Thomas  was  able 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     187 


to  shoot  the  ball  at  a  separate  basket  while  the  team  practiced.  "I 
don't  think  he's  going  to  be  able  to  move  laterally  by  Wednesday 
very  well,"  Garl  told  Knight. 

"Can  he  play?" 

"He  can  play,  but  I  don't  think  he  can  guard  anybody." 

"You  let  me  worry  about  that." 

That  was  fine  with  Garl.  Knight  was  about  as  keen  and  as  honed 
in  for  this  game  as  he  had  been  all  season,  perhaps  in  a  couple  of 
seasons.  He  was  sick  of  losing  at  home  to  Big  Ten  teams.  He  was 
sick  that  Indiana  had  lost  twice  to  his  alma  mater  the  previous 
season.  He  was  tired  of  only  beating  weaklings  in  the  Big  Ten. 
He  wanted  no  distractions  this  week. 

Naturally,  one  showed  up.  On  Monday  afternoon  a  young 
Japanese  man  appeared  at  Assembly  Hall  with  a  letter.  In  English, 
the  letter  explained  that  the  young  man  was  a  Japanese  basketball 
coach  who  thought  Knight  was  a  coaching  genius.  He  had  flown 
to  the  U.S.  hoping  to  watch  Knight  coach  for  a  month  so  he  could 
learn  from  him.  He  spoke  no  English. 

Knight  was-  stunned  that  the  young  coach  had  simply  shown 
up  on  his  doorstep  this  way.  He  couldn't  communicate  with  him 
because  he  spoke  no  Japanese.  But  he  had  an  idea.  He  called  a 
professor  who  had  come  to  Indiana  from  Japan.  The  professor  had 
a  teenage  son  who  spoke  Japanese.  How  would  he  feel  about  acting 
as  interpreter?  No  problem.  So,  for  the  next  few  weeks,  the  young 
Japanese  coach  and  the  American-born  teenager  sat  at  practice 
each  day,  with  the  professor's  son  interpreting  what  Knight  was 
saying  to  the  team.  Or  at  least  most  of  it.  By  the  time  the  young 
coach  went  home  in  February  he  not  only  had  dozens  of  pages  of 
notes  and  diagrams,  he  had  a  basketball  autographed  by  the  entire 
team  and  several  Indiana  shirts  and  sweaters  to  show  to  his  friends. 

Having  done  his  bit  for  international  relations.  Knight  turned 
to  the  problem  of  Ohio  State.  Other  than  a  healthy  Thomas,  he 
believed  the  key  to  this  game  would  be  Winston  Morgan.  Ohio 
State's  two  best  players  were  7-foot  center  Brad  Sellers  and  6-5 
guard  Dennis  Hopson.  Sellers  was  going  to  be  a  problem  because 
of  his  size;  there  was  little  that  could  be  done  about  that.  But  if 
Hopson,  averaging  twenty-two  points  a  game,  could  be  controlled, 
Ohio  State  would  not  have  its  inside-outside  balance. 

Morgan,  at  6-4,  was  the  one  Indiana  player  with  the  quickness 


188     John  Feinstein 


and  the  size  to  have  a  reasonable  chance  to  guard  Hopson.  Knight 
had  been  extremely  happy  with  Morgan  for  most  of  the  season. 
He  had  even  tried  to  get  Morgan  put  back  on  scholarship  when 
Brooks  left,  but  was  told  that  the  NCAA  would  not  allow  that  at 
midseason.  Brooks  had  announced  on  Monday  that  he  would 
transfer  to  Providence  College.  Knight  was  pleased  about  that; 
Providence  was  rebuilding  and  played  a  lot  of  zone.  Brooks  would 
have  a  chance  there. 

But  Morgan  was  a  much  more  immediate  concern.  Knight  had 
been  angry  with  him  after  the  Wisconsin  game,  and  the  Monday 
and  Tuesday  practices  were  often  a  five-year  review  of  that  long- 
running  show,  "The  Screwups  of  Winston  Morgan."  "If  that's 
the  kind  of  crap  you're  going  to  give  us  Wednesday,  Winston, 
don't  even  bother  practicing  because  you're  wasting  everyone's 
time.  I  just  don't  want  to  see  any  of  that  garbage  like  I  saw  up 
at  Wisconsin." 

Walking  away.  Knight  said  to  the  coaches,  "I  just  hope  God 
takes  note  of  the  fact  that  I  coached  Winston  Morgan  for  five 
years."  But  if  God  was  handing  out  points  for  that  relationship, 
Morgan  would  have  a  few  of  his  own  to  collect. 

On  Tuesday,  Thomas  practiced  a  little.  He  moved  awkwardly 
and  was  wearing  a  special  light  cast  to  protect  the  ankle.  He  would 
play;  the  question  was  how  much. 

While  Knight  was  worrying  about  Thomas  and  screaming  at 
Morgan,  Quinn  Buckner  was  wondering  about  his  future.  Buckner 
was  in  his  tenth  year  in  the  NBA.  After  leaving  Indiana  in  1976, 
he  had  captained  the  U.S.  Olympic  team  that  summer  and  then 
gone  on  to  a  solid  pro  career  in  Milwaukee,  Boston,  and  now 
Indianapolis.  The  Pacers  had  brought  him  in  that  summer  hoping 
that  at  thirty-one  he  could  give  a  young  team  some  leadership, 
and  because  they  knew  his  name  still  carried  weight  in  the  state 
of  Indiana. 

But  Buckner  and  Coach  George  Irvine  had  never  hit  it  off. 
Irvine,  a  nervous,  chain-smoking  man,  seemed  to  see  Buckner 
more  as  a  potential  threat  to  his  authority  than  anything  else. 
On  a  team  that  would  finish  the  season  26-56,  Irvine  was  un- 
comfortable with  anyone  around  who  might  be  viewed  by  man- 
agement as  potential  coaching  material.  Buckner,  articulate,  savvy, 
and  a  natural  leader,  was  certainly  coaching  material. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     189 


He  had  played  little  under  Irvine  even  as  the  team  struggled, 
constantly  losing  leads  late  in  the  game.  Now,  with  Clark  Kellogg 
about  to  come  off  the  injured  list,  Buckner  knew  Irvine  had  to 
cut  somebody.  "I  was  sitting  at  dinner  with  my  wife  and  all  of  a 
sudden  it  hit  me,"  he  said.  "I  said  to  her,  'I  think  I'm  gone.'  " 

The  next  morning,  Irvine  called  him  in  for  a  meeting.  Buckner's 
instincts  had  been  correct;  he  was  being  placed  on  waivers.  Little- 
used  and  thirty-one,  Buckner  knew  that  his  being  waived  was 
probably  the  end  of  his  NBA  career.  Buckner  was  much  too  bright 
and  much  too  well  set  up  financially  to  be  crushed,  but  it  still 
hurt.  It  hurt  his  ego,  and  it  hurt  to  have  Irvine  almost  try  to 
make  him  a  scapegoat  for  a  lousy  team.  When  Buckner  got  home 
that  morning  he  called  Knight. 

This  was  Wednesday.  Knight  had  just  gone  through  a  morning 
walk-through  with  the  team.  "Why  don't  you  come  down  here 
for  the  game  tonight?"  he  asked  Buckner. 

Buckner  wasn't  sure.  He  thought  maybe  he  would  just  like  to 
stay  home  with  his  family  and  give  himself  a  little  time  to  feel 
sorry  for  himself.  "Quinn,"  Knight  said,  "it  would  mean  a  lot  to 
me."  End  of  discussion.  Buckner  called  Tom  Abernethy  and  asked 
for  a  ride  to  the  game. 

Knight  had  Thomas  do  some  extra  work  with  Pelkowski  and 
Brian  Sloan  after  the  three  o'clock  walk-through.  He  wanted  him 
to  try  catching  the  ball  in  the  low  post,  turning,  and  shooting. 
Normally,  this  was  Thomas's  favorite  move.  Now,  he  looked 
uncomfortable  wheeling  to  make  the  move. 

The  theme  for  this  game  was  simple:  January  15.  "Let's  re- 
member January  15,"  Knight  said  at  the  pregame  meal,  "as  a 
beginning.  As  the  beginning  of  us  becoming  the  kind  of  basketball 
team  we  want  to  be.  It  won't  be  easy.  It  will  be  hard.  I  promise 
you  that.  But  this  is  an  opportunity  for  this  team.  Let's  make 
this  a  night  when  we  do  something  to  someone  rather  than  having 
someone  do  something  to  us." 

With  that,  he  went  off  to  his  pregame  steam.  He  had  stopped 
announcing  his  weight  in  mid-December,  and  the  suspicion  was 
it  was  creeping  back  toward  230. 

Buckner  and  Abernethy  walked  in  shortly  after  6:30.  Knight, 
lying  on  the  couch,  pointed  them  to  chairs  immediately.  "I  need 
you  guys  tonight,"  he  said  briskly,  acting  as  if  Buckner's  waiver 


190    ]ohn  Feinstein 


had  never  happened.  "Quinn,  you  gotta  talk  to  Morgan.  Take 

him  in  the  hall  and  tell  him,  'You  owe  this  f operation  a  lot 

and  tonight  you  start  paying  it  back.'  Tommy,  I  want  you  to  talk 
to  the  inside  guys  about  not  committing  stupid  fouls." 

They  both  nodded  and  got  up  to  leave  for  the  players'  locker 
room.  "Don't  screw  this  up  now,"  Knight  said.  "Quinn,  I'm 
holding  you  responsible  for  Morgan's  defense  on  Hopson." 

"He'll  guard  him,"  Buckner  said.  "Don't  worry  about  it." 

Knight  had  already  given  Crabb  his  marching  orders.  After 
the  teams  were  introduced.  Knight  wanted  Abernethy  and  Buck- 
ner introduced.  Both  were  sitting  on  the  Indiana  bench.  Aber- 
nethy had  been  through  this  before,  since  he  was  a  regular  at 
home  games.  But  Buckner,  because  of  his  pro  career,  had  not  been 
to  a  game  in  Assembly  Hall  since  graduation. 

Buckner's  introduction  was  lavish.  ".  .  .  Captain  of  the  1976 
national  championship  team,  captain  of  the  1976  gold-medal-win- 
ning U.S.  Olympic  team  .  .  .  one  of  Indiana's  all-time  greats 
..."  They  were  standing  and  cheering  before  Crabb  even  said 
Buckner's  name.  Buckner  didn't  know  what  to  do.  He  finally 
settled  for  a  wave.  They  were  still  cheering  him  when  he  sat  down 
next  to  Knight. 

The  first  half  was  almost  perfect.  Morgan  was  making  life  mis- 
erable for  Hopson.  Thomas  was  holding  his  own  inside.  By  half- 
time  he  had  eight  points  and  seven  rebounds.  Alford  was  merely 
Alford  with  seventeen  points.  At  half  time,  Indiana  led  39-30,  and 
the  only  noticeable  chink  was  a  running  feud  Knight  had  started 
early  in  the  game  with  official  Darwin  Brown. 

That  chink  became  a  problem  right  away  in  the  second  half. 
On  the  opening  possession,  Alford,  going  up  to  shoot,  appeared 
to  get  fouled.  There  was  no  call.  A  moment  later,  after  Ohio 
State's  Clarence  McGee  scored  to  make  it  39-32,  Knight  was  still 
screaming  at  Brown  about  his  not  calling  a  foul  on  the  previous 
play.  Brown,  who  had  warned  Knight  in  the  first  half,  nailed  him 
with  a  technical. 

The  timing  could  not  have  been  worse.  Not  only  did  Ohio  State 
get  two  points  from  the  two  free  throws,  but  it  got  the  basketball 
back  from  Indiana.  When  Hopson  hit  from  twenty  feet  for  his 
sixth  point  of  the  game,  the  lead  had  gone  from  nine  to  three  in 
less  than  a  minute. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    191 


Knight  was  so  furious  that  he  called  Ralph  Floyd  from  the  stands 
and  sent  him  to  press  row  to  tell  the  new  Big  Ten  supervisor  of 
officials,  Bob  Wortman,  that  Brown  was  incompetent.  Wortman 
didn't  necessarily  disagree,  but  that  wasn't  going  to  change  this 
game.  "Brown,"  Knight  yelled,  getting  in  the  Last  Word,  "why 
don't  you  do  everyone  a  favor  and  quit?" 

Brown  did  Knight  a  favor  and  didn't  give  him  a  second  technical. 

But  the  first  technical  had  brought  Ohio  State  close.  It  stayed 
close,  but  couldn't  seem  to  catch  up.  The  lead  went  down  to  two, 
then  popped  back  up  to  eight.  Indiana  had  a  chance  to  go  up  ten, 
but  Thomas  turned  the  ball  over  and  committed  his  fourth  foul. 
A  disastrous  possession.  Hopson  promptly  posted  Morgan  and  hit 
to  make  it  54-48. 

But  that  was  Hopson's  last  basket.  With  Buckner  giving  him 
private  counseling  sessions  at  each  time-out,  Morgan  was  hanging 
right  with  him.  The  problem  was  Sellers.  He  was  too  big  and  too 
quick  to  be  stopped  when  he  chose  to  play.  Against  Indiana,  he 
wanted  to  play.  Time  and  again  he  jumped  over  people  for  re- 
bounds or  shots.  He  would  score  twenty-nine  points  and  get 
sixteen  rebounds  before  the  game  was  over. 

But  Indiana  was  hanging  on.  A  baseline  jumper  by  Alford  with 
5:15  left  made  it  62-56.  It  took  Indiana  three  minutes  to  score 
again.  By  then  it  was  62-60,  and  only  the  defense  was  keeping 
the  Hoosiers  alive.  Alford  hit  a  short  pop  to  make  it  64-60  with 
2:10  to  go.  Sellers  answered  to  make  it  64-62.  With  1:30  left, 
Calloway  was  called  for  a  charge.  Ohio  State  had  a  chance  to  tie. 
"This,"  Hammel  said,  "is  as  big  a  possession  as  I've  seen  in  a 
long  time." 

Hopson  drove  and  beat  Morgan.  Morgan  fouled  him  before  he 
shot.  It  would  be  one-and-one  with  1:10  left.  Hopson  missed! 
But  Sellers  jumped  over  everyone  and  rebounded.  He  flipped  the 
ball  outside  and  went  into  the  low  post.  Thomas  was  practically 
clinging  to  him.  Sellers  spun  to  try  to  get  position.  The  whistle 
blew.  Foul.  Thomas's  fifth?  No.  It  was  an  illegal  screen  on  Sellers. 
"Good  call,"  Sellers  said  later.  "He  caught  me.  Thomas  wouldn't 
give  up.  He  showed  guts." 

There  was  still  a  full  minute  left,  meaning  Indiana  would  have 
to  take  a  shot  before  the  forty-five-second  clock  ran  out.  But  Ohio 
State  guard  Curtis  Wilson  foolishly  fouled  Alford  going  for  a 


192     John  Feinstein 


steal.  Since  Ohio  State  had  not  yet  committed  seven  fouls  in  the 
second  half,  Alford  didn't  get  to  shoot  free  throws.  But  the  forty- 
five-second  clock  recycled,  and  with  thirty-seven  seconds  left, 
Indiana  now  did  not  have  to  shoot  the  ball  again. 

Ohio  State  had  to  foul  and  did,  Gerry  Francis  slapping  at  the 
ball  as  soon  as  Calloway  caught  the  inbounds  pass.  So  Calloway 
went  to  the  line.  One  year  ago,  he  had  been  playing  for  a  bad 
high  school  team.  Now,  he  stood  in  suddenly  quiet  Assembly  Hall 
trying  to  be  a  hero  for  Indiana  University.  No  problem.  Calloway 
made  both  shots  to  make  it  66-62. 

Wilson  partially  atoned  for  his  foul  on  Alford  with  a  drive  down 
the  middle.  That  made  it  66-64  with  twenty-three  seconds  left. 
Ohio  State  needed  a  steal  or  it  would  have  to  foul.  It  almost  got 
a  steal  on  the  inbounds  when  Morgan  couldn't  find  anyone  open. 
He  called  time — just  in  time — before  a  five-second  violation  could 
be  called.  The  second  time  he  did  exactly  what  Knight  wanted: 
he  inbounded  the  ball  to  Alford. 

Alford  was  fouled  immediately  with  fifteen  seconds  to  go.  Al- 
ford on  the  foul  line  with  a  game  on  the  line  is  exactly  what 
Knight  would  ask  for  in  any  close  game.  Not  only  does  he  hit  90 
percent  of  his  foul  shots,  but  the  pressure  of  the  endgame  almost 
always  brings  out  the  best  in  him.  He  calmly  made  both  shots. 
It  was  68-64.  Sellers  tried  one  last  shot.  It  rimmed  out.  Thomas 
rebounded,  passed  to  Alford  and,  seconds  later,  it  was  over.  In- 
diana had  the  victory  it  had  to  have.  It  was  now  in  position  to 
get  into  position.  Or  something. 

The  joy  in  the  locker  room  was  unrestrained.  It  had  been  a 
difficult,  draining  game.  But  it  had  been  the  kind  of  game  that 
one  year  ago  would  have  beaten  Indiana.  Tonight,  Indiana  had 
overcome  everything  thrown  at  it:  Sellers's  size,  Thomas's  injury, 
Knight's  foolish  technical. 

Knight  was  subdued  when  he  walked  into  the  locker  room. 
Subdued,  but  happy.  He  was  carrying  a  basketball,  the  game  ball. 
Without  a  word.  Knight  flipped  the  ball  to  Alford. 

"Hey,  that  was  a  great  effort,  boys,"  Knight  said.  "It  really 
was.  I'm  sorry  I  dug  you  a  hole  at  the  start  of  the  second  half. 
I'm  proud  of  all  of  you.  Daryl,  you  couldn't  have  done  that  a 
year  ago.  I  guess  you  stitched  up  that  vaginal  orifice,  huh?  You 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    193 


went  out  and  you  dealt  with  the  pain  and  you  hung  in  there  the 
whole  game.  You  should  feel  really  proud  of  what  you  just  did. 
Ricky,  I  had  absolutely  no  doubt  about  you  sticking  those  two 
free  throws — none.  If  you  had  had  to  guard  somebody,  I  might 
have  been  worried,  but  not  free  throws.  Hey,  that  was  just  a  hell 
of  a  win,  boys.  A  hell  of  a  win." 

Knight  paused  and  looked  around  the  room.  When  he  started 
talking  again,  his  tone  was  soft,  and  as  he  went  on,  each  sentence 
became  tougher  and  tougher  to  get  out  because  his  throat  was 
choked  with  emotion. 

"You  know,  I've  been  coaching  here  fifteen  years.  We've  had 
a  hell  of  a  lot  of  big  games  in  that  time.  I  talk  to  you  people  about 
leadership  and  I  talk  to  you  about  what  it  means  to  play  basketball 
at  Indiana.  And  I  talk  to  you  about  the  guys  who  have  played 
here  before  you.  Their  names  are  in  your  lockers  all  around  this 
room. 

"We  talk  to  you  when  we  recruit  you  about  how  special  it  is 
to  come  to  Indiana.  And  we  talk  to  you  about  how  special  it  is 
after  you're  gone,  because  you've  been  a  part  of  it.  Tonight,  Quinn 
and  Tommy  came  down  for  the  game.  Let  me  tell  you  about 

Quinn.  Quinn  just  got  put  on  waivers  today  by  the  f Indiana 

Pacers.  He's  down  here  to  see  you  people  play  tonight.  He's  in 
here  in  the  locker  room  with  you,  working  his  ass  off.  He's  trying 
to  keep  me  in  control  on  the  bench,  he's  just,  I  don't  know  when 
I've  ever  seen  someone  show  a  more  selfless  approach  to  some- 
thing than  this  kid  did  tonight." 

Knight  was  barely  audible  now.  "Fifteen  years,  all  the  wins 
we've  had  here,  we've  never  given  a  game  ball  to  anybody.  Let's 
give  this  one  to  Quinn,  what  do  you  say?"  Knight  was  crying  by 
the  time  he  finished  and  so  was  everyone  else  in  the  room.  Alford 
handed  the  ball  to  Buckner  as  the  players  burst  into  cheers  and 
whistles.  Knight  just  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  wiping 
his  eyes.  Buckner  was  wiping  his. 

When  Buckner  talked  about  the  scene  later,  he  would  laugh 
and  say,  "I  would  have  broken  down  completely  if  not  for  that 
damn  pedestal  I'm  supposed  to  be  on."  Some  of  the  players  were 
yelling,  "Speech,"  but  Buckner  waved  them  off.  He  was  no  more 
capable  of  talking  at  that  moment  than  Knight  was. 


194    ]ohn  Feinstein 


Knight  wasn't  quite  finished  with  the  Indiana  Pacers.  After  he 
had  put  himself  back  together,  he  went  into  the  interview  room. 
He  talked  about  the  game  and  how  pleased  he  was  with  Thomas. 
And  then  he  talked  again  about  Buckner  and  how  much  it  meant 
to  him  to  have  Buckner  come  to  the  game  that  night. 

"Buckner  contributes  so  much  to  any  team  that  understands 
basketball,"  Knight  said.  "He  gets  everybody  to  play  better.  It's 
a  damn  shame  in  a  state  like  this  that  loves  good  basketball  that 
we  have  a  professional  organization  up  in  Indianapolis  that  so 
clearly  doesn't  understand  anything  about  the  game." 

When  Knight  returned  to  the  locker  room  he  told  Buckner  what 
he  had  said.  Buckner  smiled.  "Thank  you,"  he  said. 

By  blasting  the  Pacers,  Knight,  naturally,  started  a  flap.  The 
Pacers'  beat  writer,  David  Benner,  blasted  Knight  in  a  column  in 
The  Indianapolis  Star  three  days  later.  Knight,  Benner  wrote,  had 
no  more  right  to  criticize  the  Pacers  than  the  Pacers  had  the  right 
to  criticize  Knight.  What's  more,  teams  were  not  exactly  lining 
up  to  grab  Buckner,  so  apparently  all  twenty-three  NBA  teams 
didn't  understand  much  about  basketball. 

Others  agreed  with  Knight's  analysis.  The  Pacers  were  a  horrid 
team,  so  they  were  easy  to  knock.  Their  record  at  the  time  of 
Knight's  speech  was  the  worst  in  the  league,  10-30. 

But  what  people  didn't  understand  was  that  Knight  would  have 
said  the  exact  same  thing  if  the  Pacers  had  been  30-10.  To  him, 
it  wasn't  a  question  of  won-lost  record  or  statistics  or  Buckner's 
age  or  anything  else.  One  of  his  own  had  been  wounded,  hurt. 
Knight  was  going  to  attack  those  who  had  hurt  him.  As  Mike 
Krzyzewski  once  put  it,  "Bob  Knight  is  the  guy  in  the  military 
who  jumps  on  the  grenade  to  save  everyone  else  without  giving 
it  a  second  thought." 

If  Buckner  needed  a  grenade  jumped  on.  Knight  was  there. 

The  Ohio  State  victory  was  crucial  not  only  because  it  put 
Indiana  into  position  to  get  into  position,  but  because  it  came  just 
before  an  eight-day  break  in  the  schedule.  Each  team  in  the  Big 
Ten  has  two  weeks  during  the  season  when  it  only  plays  one 
conference  game.  For  Indiana,  it  is  always  the  two  weeks  that  it 
plays  Ohio  State  because  Ohio  State  is  Indiana's  "travel  partner." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    195 


This  means  that  they  play  the  same  opponents  each  week.  When 
Indiana  plays  at  Michigan  on  Thursday,  Ohio  State  plays  at  Mich- 
igan State.  Then  they  trade  opponents  for  the  weekend.  It  works 
that  way  throughout  the  league.  The  week  you  play  your  travel 
partner,  you  only  play  once. 

Most  coaches  use  those  weeks  to  schedule  a  nonconference  game 
that  might  interest  one  of  the  TV  networks.  Knight  was  the  only 
major  coach  in  the  country  who  refused  to  do  this.  Indiana  didn't 
need  TV  exposure  or  TV  revenue.  Knight  wanted  no  nonconfer- 
ence games  to  distract  his  or  the  team's  attention  once  conference 
play  began. 

That  meant  a  week  off  for  Indiana.  A  loss  would  have  meant 
misery  for  the  players.  But  with  the  victory,  it  meant  rest.  Not 
for  Knight,  though.  The  eight  days  between  the  Ohio  State  game 
and  the  Purdue  game  were  just  about  as  hectic  as  any  period 
during  the  season  for  him. 

He  made  two  recruiting  trips.  One  was  to  South  Carolina  to 
see  a  player  named  Rodney  Taylor  who  wanted  to  come  to  Indiana. 
Knight  wasn't  sure  about  him  as  a  player,  although  he  was  sure 
about  him  as  a  person.  Remembering  where  that  kind  of  thinking 
had  gotten  him.  Knight  was  approaching  Taylor  cautiously.  The 
other  trip  was  to  Kansas  to  see  a  junior  college  guard  named  Keith 
Smart.  Smart,  on  the  surface,  was  everything  Knight  didn't  want: 
he  wore  lots  of  gold  chains  and  oozed  cockiness.  But  he  was  an 
athlete,  a  swift,  penetrating  leaper. 

Two  years  earlier,  Knight  would  have  written  Smart  off  right 
away  and  gone  after  Taylor  hard.  Now,  he  withheld  final  judgment 
on  both. 

When  he  got  back  to  town.  Knight's  mind  was  on  recruiting. 
He  and  the  coaches  sat  down  in  the  cave  and  put  the  names  of 
every  player  they  had  recruited  since  1980  on  the  board.  Then 
they  put  a  mark  by  every  name:  a  check  for  players  who  should 
have  been  recruited,  an  X  for  those  who  shouldn't  have,  a  dash 
for  players  who  were  borderline.  There  were  very  few  checks  and 
lots  of  X's. 

Knight  also  used  the  break  to  catch  up  on  his  mail.  It  is  almost 
impossible  to  comprehend  how  much  mail  Knight  receives.  His 
secretary,  Mary  Ann  Davis,  goes  through  it  to  try  to  weed  out 


196     ]ohn  Feinstein 


the  cranks  and  things  that  she  can  take  care  of,  like  requests  for 
autographed  pictures  of  the  team.  Knight  answers  everything  else 
himself,  including  notes  from  fans  that  may  say  as  little  as,  "Great 
win  last  week."  Sometimes,  Knight  brings  his  mail  on  the  road 
with  him  and  goes  through  it  in  the  locker  room  before  a  game. 

One  letter  Knight  wrote  this  weekend  was  to  Isiah  Thomas.  He 
had  been  reading  in  the  newspapers  that  Thomas  was  so  depressed 
by  the  poor  play  of  the  Detroit  Pistons,  his  NBA  team,  that  he 
was  actually  considering  retiring  at  the  age  of  twenty-five.  Of  all 
the  truly  gifted  players  Knight  had  coached,  his  relationship  with 
Thomas  had  easily  been  the  most  stormy. 

It  had  started  even  before  Thomas  arrived  in  Indiana.  Knight 
and  Thomas's  brother  had  staged  a  shouting  match  in  Thomas's 
living  room  during  a  recruiting  visit.  Knight  had  left  the  house 
convinced  he  had  lost  Thomas.  "I  always  thought  if  he  made  the 
decision  himself,  Isiah  would  come  to  Indiana,"  Knight  said.  "But 
I  really  wondered  if  he  could  withstand  the  pressure  from  people 
in  the  family  Hke  his  brother." 

Thomas  withstood  the  pressure.  He  turned  down  his  hometown 
school,  DePaul,  and  his  homestate  school,  Illinois,  and  chose  In- 
diana. From  day  one,  he  and  Knight  were  antagonists.  Thomas 
was  so  good  that  Knight  really  couldn't  use  his  usual  threats  of 
"You'll  never  play  a  goddamn  minute"  and  the  Hke  on  him. 
Thomas  knew  he  would  play.  What's  more,  Thomas  was  Hke 
Knight:  a  rebel,  not  one  to  back  down  from  authority.  One  Sunday 
afternoon  when  Knight  was  thirty  minutes  late  for  a  team  meet- 
ing— a  not  infrequent  occurrence — Thomas  turned  to  his  team- 
mates and  said,  "Come  on,  let's  get  out  of  here,  we've  waited 
long  enough."  Thomas  was  two  steps  from  the  door  with  the 
others  behind  him  when  the  managers  spotted  Knight  and  the 
coaches  coming.  Everyone  scrambled  madly  for  their  seats.  But 
it  was  that  close. 

Thomas  was  a  wonderful  freshman  and  an  extraordinary  soph- 
omore. He  was  the  lynchpin  in  the  1981  championship  drive,  and 
when  the  season  was  over.  Knight  was  fairly  certain  Thomas 
would  turn  pro.  He  did,  and  was  quickly  a  star  with  Detroit.  The 
usual  closeness  between  Knight  and  his  ex-players  never  grew 
between  Knight  and  Thomas  even  though  Thomas  came  back  to 
Bloomington  for  summer  school. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    197 


In  the  summer  of  1983,  a  Fort  Wayne  sports  club  that  gave  an 
annual  award  to  the  Indiana  Man  of  the  Year  in  athletics  ap- 
proached Knight  and  asked  if  Thomas  would  be  willing  to  accept 
the  award  from  them  that  summer  at  their  annual  dinner.  This 
was  a  delicate  situation.  The  club  had  never  named  a  black  before, 
and  Knight  knew  they  wanted  Thomas  because  they  were  under 
pressure  to  choose  one.  Knight  asked  Thomas  how  he  felt  about 
accepting  the  award,  telling  him  he  would  understand  if  Thomas 
didn't  want  to  accept  it,  but  that  if  he  did  want  it,  Knight  would 
go  up  with  him  to  Fort  Wayne  and  present  it  to  him  at  the  dinner. 

Thomas  agreed.  But  the  night  was  a  disaster.  Before  Thomas 
got  his  award,  an  earlier  speaker  made  a  couple  of  racial  jokes. 
Knight,  furious  but  not  wanting  Thomas  to  respond,  whispered 
to  him  before  he  got  up  to  speak,  "You  let  me  take  care  of  that. 
If  you  want  to  get  on  someone,  get  on  me." 

Thomas  did  just  that.  Speaking  to  a  crowd  filled  with  middle- 
aged  men  and  women,  Thomas  talked  about  some  of  the  things 
he  had  learned  at  Indiana  from  Coach  Knight.  In  particular.  Knight's 
profane  vocabulary,  which  he  then  lauched  into,  leaving  almost 
nothing  to  the  imagination.  Knight  was  horrified.  So  was  the 
crowd.  The  next  day,  when  he  realized  what  he  had  done,  so  was 
Thomas.  He  apologized,  verbally  and  in  writing,  several  times 
over. 

But  Knight  was  not  about  to  forgive  him.  The  next  afternoon 
when  Knight  went  into  the  field  house,  he  found  Thomas  playing 
a  pickup  game.  Angrily,  he  threw  Thomas  out,  something  he  had 
the  right  to  do  since  he  was  renting  the  field  house  for  his  camp 
that  week.  Thomas  tried  briefly  to  explain,  but  Knight  wanted  no 
explanations.  Their  relationship  went  into  a  deep,  deep  freeze.  It 
thawed  slightly  the  next  summer  when  Thomas  played  in  a  couple 
of  the  pre-Olympic  exhibition  games.  But  player  and  coach  were 
still  miles  apart. 

Knight  felt  saddened  when  he  read  of  Thomas's  depression.  He 
had  never  thought  Thomas  a  bad  kid,  in  fact  he  thought  he  was 
a  good  one.  And  so,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  Thomas  a  letter, 
encouraging  him,  telling  him  not  to  give  up  on  the  game,  the 
team,  or  himself.  Weeks  later,  Thomas  would  ask  Joby  Wright 
during  a  phone  conversation  to  please  tell  Coach  Knight  how  much 
the  letter  had  meant  to  him. 


198    ]ohn  Feinstein 


As  an  avid  reader,  Knight  often  saw  things  in  the  newspaper 
that  intrigued  him.  Weeks  earher,  he  had  read  a  story  about  a 
twelve-year-old  boy  who  was  a  dwarf.  In  the  story,  the  boy  talked 
about  how  much  he  loved  Indiana  basketball  and  how  he  dreamed 
of  seeing  Indiana  play  in  person  some  day. 

Knight  immediately  got  in  touch  with  the  family.  Would  they 
please  be  his  guests  at  a  game  some  time  in  the  future?  The  family 
was  delighted.  When  the  boy's  father  called  back,  he  asked  for 
six  tickets  to  the  Purdue  game.  Knight's  secretary  who  was  han- 
dling the  request,  Barbara-Jean  McElroy,  was  flabbergasted.  Get- 
ting six  tickets  for  Purdue  was  a  little  bit  like  coming  up  with  six 
Super  Bowl  tickets  an  hour  before  kickoff.  But  McElroy  said  she 
would  do  her  best. 

Unlike  some  coaches.  Knight  does  not  have  access  to  unlimited 
tickets  for  each  game.  This  is  because  he  doesn't  want  them — too 
big  a  headache.  He  told  McElroy  to  do  the  best  she  could.  The 
best  she  could  do  was  four  tickets,  which  was  actually  quite  re- 
markable. But  when  McElroy  called  the  family  back,  the  father 
was  adamant.  He  had  invited  friends  to  the  game.  He  couldn't 
call  them  back  now  and  say  they  couldn't  come.  McElroy  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  She  called  down  to  the  cave  where  Knight  was 
getting  ready  for  practice.  This  was  Wednesday,  the  day  before 
the  game.  Knight  was  teUing  Hammel  about  his  concern  over 
Andre  Harris's  continued  lack  of  improvement — a  frequent  theme 
of  late — when  McElroy  called  nearly  hysterical. 

Knight  asked  for  the  phone  number  and  called  the  boy's  father 
himself.  Politely,  he  explained  how  difficult  it  was  to  get  tickets 
for  the  Purdue  game,  how  his  staff  had  really  had  to  search  to 
find  four,  and  how  this  way,  the  boy,  his  mother  and  father,  and 
a  friend  could  still  attend  the  game. 

The  man  remained  adamant.  He  insisted  he  had  been  promised 
six  tickets.  Indiana — Knight — was  reneging  on  a  promise.  Knight 
was  aghast.  He  was  also  furious.  "Now  you  just  listen  to  me  for 
a  minute,"  he  said.  "You  berated  my  secretary,  which  you  had 
no  right  to  do,  and  you  are  acting  as  if  these  tickets  are  owed  you. 
We  don't  owe  you  anything.  All  I  wanted  was  for  your  son  to 
come  to  an  Indiana  game.  I  really  don't  give  a  damn  if  you  go 
and  I  certainly  don't  give  a  damn  about  some  friends  of  yours. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    199 


Don't  you  know  how  much  trouble  we  went  to  just  to  get  four 
tickets?" 

Apparently  not.  The  man  continued  shouting.  He  and  his  fam- 
ily would  just  withdraw  their  future  support  for  Indiana  basket- 
ball. "Well,  that's  just  fine,"  Knight  yelled.  "I  don't  want  your 
support,  Indiana  doesn't  want  your  support,  and  our  players  don't 
want  your  support."  He  slammed  the  phone. 

For  a  moment.  Knight  just  sat  silently  in  his  chair.  Then  he 
turned  to  Hammel.  "Why  do  I  even  bother?"  he  said.  "Why  try 
to  be  nice  to  people?  I  wish  everybody  could  have  my  job  for  a 
week." 

He  stood  up  and  shook  his  head.  "I  hate  this  job,  I  really  hate 
it. "  His  voice  was  rising.  Finally,  he  turned  towards  the  door  and 
pounded  his  fist  against  it.  "Jesus  Christ,  Jesus  Christ.  I  just  can't 
beheve  it."  He  slammed  the  door  on  his  way  out. 

Nothing  frustrated  Knight  more — short  of  failure  by  his  team 
to  help  on  defense — than  being  put  in  the  role  of  the  heavy.  He 
had  wanted  to  do  something  nice.  This  was  not  unusual.  Quietly, 
Knight  did  a  good  deal  of  charity  work  and  was  always  picking 
out  people  to  write  or  call  or  send  things  to.  Now  he  had  wanted 
to  help  a  little  boy  and  he  ended  up  in  a  shouting  match  with  an 
adult.  The  last  thing  he  wanted  was  a  shouting  match  with  anyone, 
especially  twenty-four  hours  before  Purdue. 

Hammel  knew  this.  An  hour  later  he  volunteered  to  call  the 
man  back.  "Let's  start  over,"  Hammel  began  the  conversation. 
A  compromise  was  reached:  the  family  would  get  six  tickets  for 
the  Minnesota  game.  Still,  Knight  had  been  scarred — again. 

The  other  distraction  that  week  was  a  brief,  almost  amusing 
one.  Like  everyone  else.  Knight  had  followed  the  adventures  of 
Tito  Horford  with  great  amusement.  Horford  was  a  7-foot-2-inch 
stud  center,  the  kind  everyone  wants  desperately.  He  had  been 
recruited  by  every  bandit  school  in  the  country.  First,  he  had 
signed  with  Houston,  but  the  NCAA  had  ruled  that  out  because 
Houston  had  broken  rules  in  recruiting  him.  Then  he  landed 
briefly  at  LSU,  fleeing  in  the  face  of  another  NCAA  investigation. 
He  had  talked  to  Kentucky  and  Louisville,  who  had  said  thanks 
but  no  thanks,  knowing  the  NCAA  posse  was  only  a  step  behind 
Horford. 


200    John  Feinstein 


Hearing  and  reading  this,  Knight  had  an  idea.  If  there  was  one 
program  that  could  recruit  Horford  without  getting  into  trouble 
with  the  NCAA,  it  was  Indiana.  If  Horford  came  to  Indiana,  it 
would  give  him  instant  credibility.  Maybe  the  kid  wasn't  for  sale, 
as  everyone  thought,  after  all.  Knight  toyed  with  the  idea.  A 
7-2  center  would  be  a  boon.  If  Horford  couldn't  do  the  work 
academically,  so  be  it.  He  would  be  told  he  would  have  to  enroll 
and  pass  his  classes  for  a  semester  before  he  could  play. 

That  weekend.  Knight  decided  it  was  worth  a  try.  He  called  a 
friend,  who  was  a  lawyer,  and  talked  to  him  about  contacting 
Horford.  He  didn't  want  Horford  offered  even  so  much  as  a  visit, 
but  he  wanted  the  scenario  explained  to  him.  If  Horford  was 
interested,  a  visit  would  be  arranged.  It  was  a  tantalizing  idea. 
But  that  weekend  Horford  visited  Miami  of  Florida.  Early  that 
week,  he  enrolled  there.  End  of  the  adventure. 

"Would  we  have  shocked  the  world  or  what?"  Knight  asked 
the  coaches,  amused  at  the  very  thought  of  the  ultimate  bandit 
recruit  signing  to  play  at  Indiana. 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  there  was  also  the  little  matter  of 
playing  Purdue.  This  game  would  be  at  least  as  tough  as  Ohio 
State  had  been,  perhaps  tougher.  Purdue  was  playing  very  well 
and  was  tied  for  first  place  in  the  Big  Ten  with  a  5-1  record. 
Indiana  was  3-2. 

Practice  on  Monday  and  Tuesday  was  tense.  Knight  continued 
to  be  angry  with  Harris.  "You  know,  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  losing 
to  these  sonsofbitches,"  he  said  at  one  point.  "But  I  guarantee 
you  if  you  boys  aren't  ready  for  their  competitiveness,  they'll 
come  in  here  and  thump  you.  Andre,  I'm  so  sick  and  tired  of  your 
pouting,  I  can't  tell  you.  Just  play  the  game,  son.  Go  after  it." 

When  practice  was  over — this  was  Tuesday — Knight  sent  Wright 
to  talk  to  Harris.  "Either  he  needs  a  personality  transplant  or  I 
do,"  Knight  said. 

After  they  had  gone  through  their  last  walk-through  on 
Wednesday  evening.  Knight  asked  the  players  how  they  wanted 
to  play  this  game.  "Should  we  just  try  to  contain  them  or  should 
we  go  after  them  defensively?" 

There  was  only  one  way  for  the  players  to  answer  this  question: 
go  after  them.  An  Indiana  player  would  no  sooner  vote  to  play 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    201 


containment  defense  than  he  would  suggest  a  two-three  zone. 
Knight  knew  this,  but  he  wanted  the  players  to  tell  him. 

"I  really  think,"  he  told  the  coaches  that  night,  "that  we're 
really  ready  to  go.  I  hope  I'm  not  fooling  myself." 

Game  day  was  by  far  the  prettiest  seen  in  Bloomington  in 
months.  It  was  sunny,  breezy,  and  warm,  the  temperature  push- 
ing towards  fifty.  Knight's  mood  was  good  when  he  and  the 
coaches  went  to  Smitty's,  and  they  lingered  over  lunch  as  if  know- 
ing that  once  it  was  over  there  was  serious  work  to  be  done. 

The  game  was  about  as  difficult  as  one  could  imagine.  The 
intensity  level  on  both  sides  was  high  from  the  start.  Purdue 
coach  Gene  Keady  was  guaranteed  to  do  two  things  every  season: 
dress  worse  than  any  coach  in  the  country  and  produce  a  team 
that  played  as  hard  as  any  in  the  country.  When  Keady's  center, 
Melvin  McCants,  picked  up  his  third  foul  early,  Keady  took  off 
his  jacket  and  hurled  it  into  the  stands  behind  the  bench.  If  Knight 
had  tossed  the  jacket,  it  would  have  made  headhnes.  Keady  just 
looked  better  without  the  jacket  on. 

Alford  caught  a  knee  on  the  thigh  early,  but  he  never  left  the 
game.  At  halftime  it  was  34—34.  "They're  just  hanging  on," 
Knight  told  his  team.  "We  make  a  couple  plays  early  and  we're 
gonna  be  just  fine." 

But  the  first  play  that  mattered  wasn't  made  by  Indiana.  On 
the  first  possession  of  the  half,  Purdue's  Doug  Lee  nailed  Calloway 
with  a  knee  and  Calloway  crumpled.  He  had  to  be  helped  off. 
Calloway  had  scored  twelve  first-half  points,  high  for  both  teams. 
His  absence  was  crucial. 

It  became  one  of  those  games  where  every  possession  is  painful 
because  it  is  so  important.  The  tension  was  almost  unbearable. 
Hammel  was  almost  silent  the  entire  second  half.  Neither  team 
led  by  more  than  two  points  for  the  first  nine  minutes  until  a 
Harris  tip-in  made  it  54—50  Indiana  with  eleven  minutes  to  go. 
But  Purdue  came  back.  A  jumper  by  Troy  Lewis,  the  same  Troy 
Lewis  Indiana  passed  up  because  of  Delray  Brooks,  put  Purdue 
up  57-56  with  9:30  remaining. 

The  lead  continued  to  seesaw.  Harris  fouled  out  with  6:30  left. 
Thomas,  still  not  100  percent  on  his  ankle,  was  gone  a  minute 
later.  McCants's  two  foul  shots  made  it  66-62,  Purdue.  The  situa- 


202     ]ohn  Feinstein 


tion  could  hardly  be  more  grim:  Harris  and  Thomas  had  fouled  out. 
Calloway  couldn't  play.  Todd  Meier  and  Steve  Eyl  were  playing 
the  inside  positions  now.  They  should  have  been  overmatched. 

Purdue  went  to  a  box-and-one,  four  men  playing  zone,  one 
hounding  Alford.  Keady  was  willing  to  let  anyone  but  Alford 
shoot  the  ball.  When  Morgan  tossed  a  brick  with  4:20  to  go  and 
Lee  nailed  a  twenty-footer,  it  was  69-64.  The  crowd  was  com- 
pletely silent.  Hammel  just  shook  his  head.  Knight  stood  in  front 
of  the  bench,  his  sweater  rolled  up,  his  hands  on  his  hips.  He 
didn't  say  anything,  either.  What  was  left  to  say? 

Thirty  seconds  later,  Alford  turned  the  ball  over,  and  with  3:30 
left  it  was  Purdue's  game.  The  Boilermakers  had  a  five-point  lead, 
they  had  the  basketball,  and  Indiana's  entire  starting  front  line 
was  out  of  the  game. 

What  happened  next  was  nothing  short  of  miraculous.  During 
the  last  four  minutes  of  regulation,  Purdue  did  not  score  again. 
Meier  made  a  steal  that  led  to  one  Alford  free  throw.  When  he 
missed  the  second  shot,  Meier  rebounded.  He  fed  Stew  Robinson, 
who  missed.  But  Eyl  got  the  rebound  and  put  it  back  and  suddenly 
it  was  69-67.  Meier  and  Eyl — overmatched — had  made  it  a  ball- 
game.  A  moment  later,  Alford  put  his  6-1,  160-pound  body  in 
the  path  of  6-9,  215-pound  Melvin  McCants  and  did  what  Knight 
swore  he  never  did — he  took  a  charge.  He  made  both  foul  shots 
to  tie  the  game  at  69-69. 

No  one  scored  the  rest  of  regulation.  Alford  got  the  last  shot, 
but  his  twenty-five-footer  bounced  off  the  rim.  In  the  overtime, 
Purdue  scored  first,  taking  a  70-69  lead  when  Jeff  Arnold  made  one 
of  two  free  throws  with  4:33  left.  Amazingly,  that  was  Purdue's 
last  point  of  the  game.  But  Indiana  couldn't  score  either.  Alford 
missed.  Eyl  turned  the  ball  over.  Eyl  missed  the  front  end  of  a 
one-and-one.  Finally,  with  1:52  left,  Alford  scored  his  twenty- 
seventh  point  on  a  baseline  jumper.  It  was  71-70. 

That  was  the  final  score.  But  the  game  wasn't  secure  until 
Purdue's  Mack  Gadis  had  missed  a  short  jumper  in  the  lane  and 
Meier  somehow  got  the  rebound.  In  nineteen  minutes,  Meier  got 
seven  rebounds.  The  last  was  his  biggest.  The  deed  was  done. 
Indiana  had  held  Purdue  to  one  point  in  nine  minutes  and  some- 
how had  won  a  game  that  it  had  absolutely  no  right  to  win. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    203 


"Miracle  at  Coogan's  Bluff,"  Knight  said  much  later  that  night. 
Before  that,  though.  Knight  had  to  meet  with  the  press.  He  never 
said  a  word  about  the  game.  Instead,  he  talked  about  what  a 
beautiful  day  it  had  been  and  how  he  had  gone  fishing  and  had 
sat  thinking  how  unimportant  basketball  truly  was.  He  went  on 
in  that  vein  for  several  minutes,  holding  his  audience  spellbound. 
Finally  he  said,  "I'd  like  to  answer  your  questions,  but  I  have  to 
go  plan  another  fishing  trip  for  tomorrow,"  and  walked  out. 

Exactly  why  Knight  pulled  this  routine  only  Knight  knows  for 
certain.  But  he  enjoyed  it  greatly.  In  fact,  he  grabbed  several 
friends  in  the  hallway  before  walking  in,  saying,  "Watch  this." 
For  the  first  time  all  season,  the  locker  room  was  not  open  to  the 
press.  "When  you  leave,  tell  those  assholes  you  can't  talk,"  Knight 
told  the  players.  "Don't  tell  them  I  said  you  couldn't  talk.  Just 
tell  them  .  .  .  Oh,  tell  them  I  said  you  couldn't  talk." 

Why? 

"Just  a  little  victory  for  me,"  Knight  said.  "Why  not?" 

Once  again,  the  schedule  wasn't  doing  Indiana  any  favors.  The 
Illinois  game  would  be  at  1  p.m.  on  Saturday  because  of  national 
television,  meaning  the  players  had  just  thirty-six  hours  to  re- 
cuperate from  Purdue.  It  had  probably  been  the  most  physical — 
not  to  mention  emotional — game  of  the  season.  Knight  knew 
there  was  no  sense  even  trying  to  practice  on  Friday.  He  wasn't 
feeling  very  good  himself;  his  head  was  stuffed  and  he  was  again 
having  trouble  breathing. 

The  person  suffering  the  most  that  day,  though,  was  Harris. 
He  had  shot  four  for  eleven  against  Purdue  and  committed  a 
foolish  fifth  foul.  Harris  was  now  occupying  the  penthouse  suite 
in  the  Knight  doghouse;  Jadlow  had  an  apartment  down  the  hall. 
Looking  at  the  Purdue  tape.  Knight  had  commented  to  the  coaches, 
"We  didn't  get  any  bargain  with  these  junior  college  players." 

Those  words  stung  Joby  Wright,  who  was  holding  out  hope 
that  Knight  would  overlook  Keith  Smart's  gold  chains  and  try  to 
sign  him.  Wright  had  probably  spent  more  time  with  Harris  since 
October  15  than  he  had  spent  with  his  wife.  When  Knight  yelled, 
Wright  soothed,  cajoled,  and  pleaded.  Harris  listened,  but  often, 
Wright  was  convinced,  he  didn't  hear.  Harris,  like  Alford  the  year 


204    ]ohn  Feinstein 


before,  honestly  believed  he  was  working  hard  and  trying  to  im- 
prove. 

But  he  wasn't.  Instead  of  using  his  athletic  ability  to  full  ad- 
vantage, Harris  made  silly  plays.  He  had  a  terrible  habit  of  catch- 
ing the  ball  near  the  basket  and  instead  of  just  jumping  over  people 
as  he  was  capable  of  doing,  he  would  spin  and  shoot  a  fallaway 
jump  shot — one  that  almost  inevitably  missed.  He  was  still  lung- 
ing on  defense — a  major  sin — and  because  he  was  not  an  instinc- 
tive defensive  player  he  often  arrived  one  step  late  to  help,  usually 
just  in  time  to  commit  a  foul. 

What  made  the  situation  even  tougher  for  Harris  and  Jadlow 
was  that  they  had  not  yet  gained  complete  acceptance  from  their 
teammates.  Each  of  them  was  different  from  the  others:  Harris 
was  quiet,  and  often  came  across  as  aloof.  This  had  been  especially 
true  early  when  the  players  grew  sick  of  hearing  Knight  tell  Harris 
day  after  day  what  a  great  athlete  he  was. 

Now,  with  Todd  Meier,  who  couldn't  jump  over  the  foul  hne, 
moved  ahead  of  Harris  in  the  pecking  order,  some  of  the  players 
couldn't  help  but  giggle  a  little  about  how  short-Hved  Knight's 
love  affair  with  junior  college  players  had  been.  But  at  the  same 
time,  looking  at  the  now  forlorn  Harris  and  Jadlow,  they  em- 
pathized. After  all,  each  of  them  had  been  there,  too. 

The  worst  thing  for  the  players  about  playing  at  1  p.m.  on 
Saturday  was  getting  up  at  8  a.m.  to  go  look  at  spaghetti  an  hour 
later.  They  were  sore  and  tired,  but  they  were  ready  to  play  this 
game.  Illinois  had  hammered  Indiana  three  straight  times,  in- 
cluding the  infamous  "benching"  game  the  previous  season.  Knight 
believed  that  Illinois  had  as  much  talent  as  anyone  in  the  country, 
but  he  also  believed  the  Illini  could  be  beaten  because  they  weren't 
well  coached.  That  was  why  three  straight  losses,  each  of  them 
decisive,  galled  him. 

The  players  had  extra  incentive  for  this  game.  The  Super  Bowl 
was  the  next  afternoon  at  5:15.  Most  of  the  players,  being  from 
the  Midwest,  either  were  or  had  become  avid  Chicago  Bears  fans. 
They  wanted  very  much  to  see  the  game.  A  loss  to  Illinois  would 
diminish  greatly  their  chances  of  doing  so. 

The  coaches  knew  this.  They  also  wanted  to  see  the  game.  "If 
we  lose,"  Felling  asked  during  pregame,  "do  you  think  we  can 
still  watch  the  Super  Bowl?" 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    205 


"I  would  imagine,"  Waltman  answered  wryly,  "that  one  of 
our  three  practices  tomorrow  would  be  during  the  Super  Bowl." 

Felling  was  still  learning. 

John  Batts,  a  hunting  guide  from  Montana  who  was  just  one 
of  Knight's  many  friends  in  town  for  the  game,  was  keeping 
Knight  company  after  his  pregame  steam.  There  were  no  coaches 
around,  so  Knight  asked  Batts  his  favorite  question:  "What  do 
you  think,  John,  will  we  ever  win  another  game?" 

"Sure  you  will,"  Batts  said.  "You're  going  to  win  today." 

"I  don't  know,"  Knight  said.  "I  don't  know  if  we  can  handle 
the  brilhance  of  Lou  Henson." 

They  handled  it.  The  game  was  no  different  from  the  Ohio 
State  or  Purdue  games,  a  brutal,  every-possession-is-life-and-death 
affair.  Illinois  looked  overwhelming  early.  Center  Ken  Norman 
was  dominating  the  inside.  Alford  was  having  trouble  getting 
shots  against  cat-quick  Illinois  guard  Bruce  Douglas.  And  Cal- 
loway simply  couldn't  move  on  his  knee.  He  was  one  for  five  at 
halftime  and  only  played  five  minutes  in  the  second  half. 

But  with  Illinois  leading  33-22  and  the  afternoon  beginning  to 
look  grim.  Stew  Robinson  rode  in  on  his  white  horse  to  save  the 
Hoosiers.  He  forced  Douglas  into  a  turnover  and  then  made  two 
foul  shots.  He  hit  a  fifteen-footer.  He  made  another  foul  shot  and 
then  he  stole  two  straight  passes  and  scored  both  times.  He  scored 
nine  points  in  four  minutes  and  Indiana  scored  the  last  twelve 
points  of  the  half  to  lead — amazingly — 34—33  at  intermission. 

There  was  one  small  incident  just  before  halftime.  The  final 
point  of  the  half  was  scored  by  Alford  on  a  free  throw  with  two 
seconds  left.  He  had  been  fouled  with  the  score  tied  and  went  to 
the  Une  to  shoot  two  free  throws.  It  had  become  a  tradition  at 
Assembly  Hall  during  Alford's  three  years  to  talk  him  through 
his  foul  shots.  Alford  had  a  ritual:  He  stepped  to  the  line,  wiped 
his  hands  on  his  socks  and  then  his  shorts,  and  took  the  ball  from 
the  referee.  He  dribbled  three  times,  then  shot.  The  crowd  fol- 
lowed this  ritual,  chanting,  "Socks,  shorts,  1-2-3  .  .  .  Swish." 
They  had  done  it  hundreds  of  times  and  Alford  almost  always 
responded  with  a  swish. 

But  this  time  he  missed  the  first  shot.  Knight  was  furious.  Not 
with  Alford — with  the  crowd.  As  soon  as  Alford  missed.  Knight 
began  gesturing  across  the  floor  and  yeUing  at  the  crowd  to  be 


206    ]ohn  Feinstein 


quiet.  This  was  not  unique.  In  fact,  two  nights  earUer,  Knight 
had  ordered  Crabbe  to  quiet  the  crowd  when  they  had  chanted, 
"Bullshit,"  after  a  couple  of  calls  went  against  Indiana.  His  exact 
words  to  Crabbe  had  been,  "You  tell  those  sonsofbitches  to  cut 
that  shit  out!" 

After  Alford  made  the  second  shot  and  time  ran  out.  Knight 
stalked  across  the  floor  to  the  Indiana  cheerleaders.  "I  better  not 
hear  any  more  of  that  goddamn  crap  in  the  second  half  when  our 
players  are  shooting  free  throws,"  he  yelled.  "I'm  holding  you 
people  responsible  for  that.  Jesus  Christ,  that  one  point  can  cost 
us  a  ballgame  because  of  that  bullshit!" 

As  Knight  turned  towards  the  locker  room,  he  spotted  two 
cheerleaders'  megaphones  in  his  path.  He  kicked  them  out  of  the 
way.  Naturally,  the  TV  cameras  picked  all  this  up.  Later,  Knight 
would  learn  that  he  had  clipped  one  of  the  cheerleaders  on  the 
leg  with  one  of  the  megaphones.  He  called  the  girl  and  asked  her 
to  come  to  his  office.  He  apologized  for  the  accident.  "If  I  had 
known  that  the  megaphone  had  hit  you,  I  would  have  stopped 
right  then  and  said  something,"  Knight  said. 

Stunned  by  this  outpouring,  the  girl  answered,  "Thank  you, 
coach,  I  appreciate  that." 

Knight  looked  at  her  again  and  said,  "But  do  you  understand 
why  I  did  it?" 

Sure,  she  understood.  Alford  missed  a  free  throw,  why  not  kick 
a  megaphone? 

As  it  turned  out.  Knight  was  just  getting  his  leg  warmed  up. 
The  second  half  was  no  different  from  the  first.  With  twelve 
minutes  left,  an  Anthony  Welch  jumper  gave  Illinois  a  54-48 
lead.  A  moment  later,  Harris  missed  a  lob  pass  from  Morgan. 
Knight  screamed  for  a  foul.  No  call.  Then,  Alford  missed  and 
appeared  to  be  pushed.  Knight  turned  and  slammed  his  foot  into 
his  chair. 

He  turned  around  just  in  time  to  see  Thomas  block  a  Winters 
shot,  leading  to  a  Robinson  bucket.  But  fifteen  seconds  later, 
Robinson  was  called  for  a  touch  foul  near  midcourt.  That  was 
more  than  Knight  could  bear.  He  picked  up  his  chair — uh-oh — 
and  slammed  it  down — whew.  There  was  a  TV  time-out  and 
Knight  called  official  Randy  Drury  over.  He  pleaded  his  case. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    207 


Illinois  was  getting  away  with  murder  inside.  Drury  nodded  and 
walked  off.  On  TV,  CBS  colorman  Billy  Packer  was  saying  that 
Drury  should  have  given  Knight  a  technical.  Knight  sent  Alford 
over  to  continue  the  argument.  As  Alford  was  talking,  Drury 
looked  at  Knight,  who  demonstrated  how  he  thought  Illinois  was 
throwing  elbows  inside.  When  Knight  swung  his  elbow,  Drury 
blew  his  whistle.  Technical — Knight's  fifth  of  the  season. 

While  Tony  Wysinger  made  one  of  the  two  shots  to  make  the 
score  55-50,  Knight  walked  into  the  hallway,  partly  to  talk  to 
Floyd,  teUing  him  that  he  wanted  to  see  Wortman  when  the  game 
was  over,  and  partly  to  calm  down.  Knight  came  back  in  time  to 
see  Norman  called  for  walking — a  makeup  call — and  Alford  hit  a 
twenty-footer  to  cut  the  margin  to  three. 

Except  for  tossing  a  cup  of  water  over  his  shoulder  into  the 
stands.  Knight  was  relatively  calm  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  His 
team  was  superb.  This  was  Daryl  Thomas's  day.  His  ankle  seemed 
forgotten.  Time  and  again  he  established  position  in  the  low  post, 
caught  the  ball,  and  then  used  his  quickness  to  get  inside  for  a 
shot.  He  cut  the  margin  to  62-60  with  4:38  left  with  just  that 
kind  of  move. 

Then  Harris,  who  had  missed  several  shots  inside,  tipped  in  a 
Robinson  miss — the  ball  hit  the  rim  three  times  and  then  bounced 
through — to  tie  the  game.  lUinois's  Glynn  Blackwell  was  called 
for  steps  and  Thomas  went  inside  again.  He  was  fouled  and  made 
both  shots.  It  was  6^62,  Indiana.  Douglas  tied  it.  Alford  untied 
it  with  1:40  left.  Then,  a  bad  break.  Harris  made  a  great  play, 
jumping  out  to  partially  block  Welch's  jumper.  But  the  loose  ball 
went  right  to  Norman,  who  was  fouled  as  he  made  a  layup.  It 
was  67-66,  Illinois.  No  problem.  Alford  found  Thomas  inside,  he 
was  fouled  and  coolly  made  both  shots  to  make  it  68-67.  Welch 
missed,  Robinson  rebounded.  Indiana  held,  Alford  was  fouled. 
Thirty-one  seconds  left. 

The  fans  had  a  new  chant  for  Alford's  free  throws:  "Shhhhhhhh. " 
Amazingly,  Alford  again  made  only  one  of  two.  It  was  69-67  and 
Illinois  could  tie.  But  Douglas  missed  and  there  was  Winston 
Morgan  going  over  all  the  Illinois  big  men  for  the  rebound  and 
getting  fouled  with  seventeen  seconds  to  go.  Henson  called  time 
to  let  Morgan  think  about  the  one-and-one  he  had  to  shoot. 


208     ]ohn  Feinstein 


Morgan  thought  about  it.  "I  thought,  this  is  my  time,"  he  said 
later.  He  was  right.  Swish.  Swish.  It  was  over.  Bad  ankles,  bad 
knees,  bad  thighs,  kicked  megaphones,  and  all,  Indiana  had  won. 

The  joy  in  the  locker  room  was  unbridled.  They  had  played 
about  as  well  as  they  could  have.  Thomas  had  finished  with  thirty 
points,  playing  all  forty  minutes.  "Do  you  know  what  you've 
done,  Daryl?"  Knight  said  gleefully.  "You've  gone  from  being  a 
pussy  to  being  a  tiger.  A  goddamn  tiger!"  They  cheered  Thomas. 
They  cheered  Robinson,  who  had  sparked  them  in  the  first  half 
and  finished  with  thirteen  points,  five  assists,  and  four  rebounds. 
They  slapped  one  another  silly.  The  locker  room  was  jammed: 
among  the  visitors  were  Steve  Green,  Steve  Alhfeld,  Tom  Aber- 
nerthy,  and  a  slew  of  Knight's  cronies  from  back  in  Orrville. 

Finally,  when  they  were  quiet,  Knight  wanted  to  make  plans 
for  Sunday's  meeting.  "How  about  if  we  meet  in  here  at  5:30?" 
There  was  silence.  The  Super  Bowl  started  at  5:15.  Would  some- 
one tell  him?  After  all,  they  had  won  the  damn  game.  The  next 
voice  belonged  to  Donald  Boop,  the  Orrville  dentist.  "Super  Bowl 
starts  at  5:15,"  he  said  softly. 

Knight  whirled  and  glared  at  Boop  as  if  Boop  was  a  Russian 
MiG  violating  the  airspace  in  his  locker  room.  "You  running  this 
team  now,  Boop?"  But  he  couldn't  hold  the  glare;  his  face  was 
breaking  into  a  broad  grin.  "Okay,  boys,  since  Boop  wants  to 
watch  the  Super  Bowl,  how  about  4:30?" 

That  was  just  fine  with  everybody,  and  the  day  now  had  four 
heroes:  Thomas,  Robinson,  Morgan,  and  Boop. 

Celebrations  don't  last  long  at  Indiana.  There  isn't  time;  as 
soon  as  a  Purdue  is  beaten,  Illinois  is  waiting.  Beat  lUinois,  and 
games  at  Iowa  and  Minnesota  loom.  "You  beat  as  talented  a  team 
as  you  can  find  anywhere,"  Knight  said  after  the  lUinois  victory. 
"You  could  play  the  NCAA  final  and  not  meet  a  better  collection 
of  players.  Enjoy  that.  Take  ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  Then  start 
thinking  about  Iowa." 

That  was  almost  exactly  how  much  time  the  coaches  took.  The 
players  had  a  little  bit  longer,  but  by  the  time  they  arrived  for 
their  Sunday  afternoon  meeting,  the  giddiness  of  Saturday  had 
been  forgotten.  It  was  a  grim,  snowy  day  and  the  streets  were 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    209 


devoid  of  traffic,  everyone  staying  inside  to  watch  the  Super  Bowl. 

Knight  couldn't  have  cared  less  about  the  Super  Bowl.  He  pre- 
dicted that  the  Patriots  would  win — "short  passes,  they'll  eat  them 
up  with  short  passes," — and  showed  up  fifteen  minutes  late  for 
the  4:30  meeting.  This  was  no  upset.  Knight  often  made  the 
players  wait.  What  he  didn't  understand  was  how  tough  that  was 
on  them.  No  one  really  wanted  to  start  telling  a  joke  or  clowning 
around  because  no  one  knew  when  the  door  was  going  to  swing 
open  and  when  it  did  what  kind  of  mood  the  coach  who  walked 
through  it  would  be  in. 

Knight's  mood  was  far  less  buoyant  than  it  had  been  twenty- 
four  hours  earher.  He  was  upset  because  The  IndianapoUs  Star 
had  run  a  front-page  picture  of  him  slamming  the  chair.  John 
Ryan  had  been  contacted  by  the  Associated  Press:  Would  there 
be  any  action  taken  against  Knight,  Ryan  was  asked,  for  his  be- 
havior on  Saturday?  No  comment,  Ryan  had  responded. 

Knight  couldn't  understand  why  his  behavior  on  Saturday  was 
newsworthy.  "I  haven't  seen  anybody  write  one  word  or  run  one 
picture  on  Keady  throwing  his  coat  here  the  other  night,"  he  said. 
"If  I  had  done  that  it  would  have  been  on  the  front  page." 

Undoubtedly.  Once  again.  Knight  had  to  hve  with  being  guilty 
until  proved  innocent.  If  Keady  had  ever  thrown  a  chair,  his  every 
act  during  a  game  would  be  monitored  by  TV,  by  camera,  and  by 
reporters.  If  Keady  was  one  of  the  game's  most  outspoken  and 
controversial  figures,  his  behavior  would  be  newsworthy  at  all 
times.  Was  that  fair?  No.  Was  that  hfe?  Yes. 

"I  can't  think  of  a  business  more  dishonest  in  this  country  than 
newspapers,"  Knight  said,  once  again  keeping  matters  totally  in 
perspective. 

Knight  only  kept  the  team  for  thirty  minutes,  going  over  Iowa's 
personnel.  But  he  told  Calloway  he  wanted  him  to  do  some  extra 
shooting  because  he  had  obviously  been  bothered  by  the  knee 
brace  he  had  worn  the  day  before.  "How  come  you  told  Tim  Garl 
before  the  game  that  the  knee  didn't  bother  you,  and  then  you 
told  Hammel  after  the  game  that  it  was  bothering  you?"  Knight 
asked  Calloway  while  he  was  shooting.  r 

■  "I  told  them  both  that  it  was  a  little  sore,"  Calloway  said.  "I 
said  the  same  thing  to  both  of  them."  / 


210     John  Feinstein 


"Ricky,"  Knight  continued,  "is  everyone  from  Withrow  High 
School  just  a  httle  bit  of  a  pussy?" 

Calloway  laughed.  He  had  learned  quickly  to  shrug  off  most 
Knight  insults.  Dakich,  who  had  taken  more  than  his  fair  share 
in  four  years  as  a  player,  deserved  credit  for  that. 

While  Calloway  shot  and  everyone  else  watched  the  Super  Bowl 
(Bears  44,  Patriots  10,  no  short  passes  to  be  found),  Alford  shot 
free  throws.  He  had  missed  one  against  Ohio  State,  one  against 
Purdue,  and  two  against  lUinois.  This  constituted  a  major  slump. 
He  shot  300  that  evening,  making  290. 

The  coaches  wanted  to  go  watch  the  Super  Bowl,  too.  But  the 
boss  wanted  to  sit  around  and  chat,  talk  about  how  pleased  he 
was  with  the  way  the  team  was  playing,  and  discuss  the  Minnesota 
situation.  The  day  before,  Minnesota  coach  Jim  Dutcher  had 
resigned  in  the  wake  of  three  arrests  of  Minnesota  players  in 
Madison  that  Friday.  All  three  players  had  been  charged  with 
sexual  assault.  Minnesota  had  forfeited  that  day's  game  to  North- 
western and  was  considering  canceling  the  rest  of  its  schedule. 
Indiana  was  scheduled  to  play  there  the  following  Saturday. 

"Boy,  it'd  be  great  if  we  could  just  go  to  Iowa,  play,  and  come 
home  and  have  a  week  off,"  Knight  said.  "But  it  can't  happen. 
They  have  to  play.  You  just  can't  say  that  a  school  of  40,000  can't 
field  a  basketball  team  because  it  loses  three  scholarship  players. 
You  have  to  play.  We'll  play." 

Knight  was  correct.  The  next  morning  Minnesota  announced 
that  it  would  play  with  the  five  scholarship  players  it  had  left  on 
the  team  and  several  walk-ons  from  the  football  team. 

Knight  was  more  upset  that  morning  by  something  else  in  the 
paper.  Having  gotten  a  no  comment  from  John  Ryan,  the  AP  had 
called  Ralph  Floyd  for  a  comment  on  Knight's  Saturday  behavior. 
Floyd  had  been  asked  whether  the  university  was  contemplating 
any  action  against  Knight.  "No,"  Floyd  had  answered,  "not  at 
this  time." 

The  last  four  words  had  been  like  waving  a  red  flag  in  the  face 
of  a  bull.  Knight  charged  to  Floyd's  office  demanding  to  know 
what  the  hell  Floyd  had  been  talking  about.  Nothing.  Floyd  had 
been  talking  in  nonspeak  and  had  nonspoken  four  words  that 
meant  nothing.  Indiana  wasn't  about  to  discipline  Knight,  but 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    211 


Knight  was  angry  with  Floyd  for  not  handhng  the  situation  better. 
"I  really  get  screwed,"  Knight  said  that  day,  "because  I  don't 
kiss  the  press's  ass.  People,  even  people  that  know  me  like  Ralph, 
just  can't  understand  until  they've  been  through  it  what  it  feels 
like  to  have  gnomes  like  that  go  after  you.  The  vast  majority  of 
people  read  that  and  think,  'Oh,  so  Knight's  acting  like  an  asshole 
again.' 

"I  know  I'm  not  an  asshole.  I  know  how  I  am  with  people  and 
how  I  treat  people  day  to  day,  and  then  I  have  to  hear  about 
people  coming  up  to  my  kid  and  saying,  'Well,  I  see  your  dad 
had  another  tantrum.'  " 

Like  so  many  public  figures.  Knight  hurt  most  when  his  public 
persona  invaded  his  private  life.  That,  more  than  any  gnomes  or 
anything  Ralph  Floyd  said  or  didn't  say,  bothered  him. 

For  the  most  part,  though,  this  was  as  laid-back  a  week  as  Knight 
had  spent  all  season.  His  team  had  won  five  in  a  row.  It  was 
playing  good,  hard-nosed  basketball.  It  was  winning  close  games 
again.  The  crisis  of  the  first  week  of  Big  Ten  play  had  been 
weathered.  Knight's  mood  was  so  good  that  he  began  checking 
on  reports  he  had  been  hearing  about  a  player  named  Damon 
Bailey. 

Damon  Bailey  was  an  eighth  grader.  He  would  enroll  in  college 
in  the  fall  of  1990,  the  same  fall  that  Knight  would  turn  fifty. 
Knight  had  heard  he  was  a  gifted  young  guard,  a  player  already 
turning  heads  even  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  With  his  team  playing 
well  and  coaching  fun  again.  Knight  was  interested  in  Damon 
Bailey.  Maybe,  he  told  Hammel,  they  should  drive  down  to 
Shawswicke  (about  thirty  miles  south  of  Bloomington)  and  look 
at  this  kid.  Maybe  next  week. 

This  week  was  a  travel  week.  The  toughest  trip  Indiana  makes 
all  winter  is  the  one  to  Iowa  and  Minnesota.  The  flights  are  the 
longest,  often  the  bumpiest,  and  the  weather  is  almost  always 
brutally  cold.  When  Knight  had  considered  the  CBS  job  in  1981 
he  had  told  a  friend  that  one  reason  he  was  thinking  about  it  was 
that  "I'm  not  sure  how  many  more  times  I  want  to  go  back  to 
Iowa  City,  Iowa,  in  January." 

The  temperature  had  been  below  zero  for  a  full  week  just  prior 
to  Indiana's  arriving  in  Iowa  City,  but  it  shot  all  the  way  up  into 


212     John  Feinstein 


the  teens  on  game  day.  Knight  had  worked  the  team  Hghtly  all 
week.  He  had  done  little  on  Monday.  "I'm  exhausted,"  he  said. 
"If  I  feel  lousy,  the  players  must  feel  worse."  The  workouts 
Tuesday  and  Wednesday  had  also  been  brief.  Beating  Iowa  was 
simple:  beat  their  press  and  you  beat  the  Hawkeyes.  Don't  beat 
it  and  they  will  beat  you. 

Knight  knew  this  would  be  a  wound-up  crowd.  On  local  TV, 
the  game  promo  screamed,  "Come  see  the  Hawkeyes  face  the 
team  that  everyone  loves  to  hate,  Bobby  Knight  and  the  Indiana 
Hoosiers. "  And  the  local  paper  had  a  long  story  on  Knight's  bench 
behavior.  It  began  this  way:  "Put  away  your  chairs  and  your 
children,  Bobby  Knight  is  coming  to  town."  Lou  Henson  was 
quoted  in  the  story  as  saying,  "He  gets  away  with  more  on  the 
bench  than  anyone."  Bob  Wortman  was  quoted  as  saying,  "We 
can't  allow  behavior  hke  that  to  continue." 

Fortunately,  Knight  didn't  see  the  paper  that  day.  His  pregame 
mood  was  sanguine.  He  talked  during  his  pregame  radio  show 
about  how  this  team  was  beginning  to  remind  him  of  the  1984 
team,  the  one  that  had  been  expected  to  do  almost  nothing  and 
that  had  come  within  one  basket  of  the  Final  Four.  Knight  was 
as  relaxed  as  anyone  could  remember  him  on  a  game  day. 

The  Era  of  Good  Feeling  ended  quickly.  This  time,  the  Iowa 
press  beat  Indiana.  On  the  first  possession  of  the  game,  Calloway 
walked.  He  had  four  turnovers  in  the  first  four  minutes.  The 
Hoosiers,  who  had  committed  fourteen  turnovers  in  two  full  games, 
had  eleven  by  halftime.  It  was  6-0,  Iowa.  Then  it  was  22-8,  Iowa.' 
Knight  called  time  and  ripped  them.  They  scored  six  straight 
points  to  make  it  22-14,  but  Iowa  guard  Andre  Banks  was  having 
one  of  those  nights  where,  going  inside  consistently,  he  was  un- 
stoppable. His  backcourt  mate,  Jeff  Moe,  another  kid  from  Indiana, 
was  lights-out  from  outside.  They  combined  to  build  the  lead  back 
to  36-19.  Alford  had  a  shot  blocked  by  Banks.  That  almost  never 
happened.  Iowa  scored  on  nine  straight  possessions.  By  halftime 
it  was  44-28. 

Knight  was  shocked.  He  had  expected  a  tough  game,  but  never 
this.  In  seventeen  games,  Indiana,  even  in  its  four  losses,  had 
never  been  this  far  behind.  It  had  been  in  every  game  until  the 
end,  but  now  it  was  getting  blown  out  by —  in  Knight's  opinion — 
a  team  it  should  be  able  to  play  with. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    213 


"Did  you  not  listen  when  we  told  you  this  team  was  quick?" 
he  said.  "Did  you  hear  anything  we  said  all  week?  Jesus  Christ, 
boys,  we're  getting  hammered.  I  mean  hammered.  This  game  is 
over — we've  lost.  There's  almost  no  reason  to  play  the  goddamn 
second  half." 

They  played  the  second  half,  but  it  really  didn't  matter.  Iowa 
built  the  lead  to  as  much  as  67^5.  Knight  sat  Thomas  and  Alford 
for  the  last  ten  minutes  because  he  could  see  no  point  in  playing 
them.  Indiana  made  a  late  charge  to  make  the  final  score  a  re- 
spectable 79-69,  but  it  was  no  contest.  For  the  first  time  all  season, 
Indiana  had  been  embarrassed. 

One  year  ago,  Knight  almost  undoubtedly  would  have  gone  off 
after  such  a  game.  He  would  have  called  them  names,  questioned 
their  manhood,  and  gone  on  and  on.  But  not  this  time.  He  knew 
they  had  given  him  everything  they  had  to  win  five  straight 
games,  and  he  also  knew  that  a  letdown  had  been  almost  inevi- 
table. Was  he  happy  about  it?  No. 

"I  worked  to  get  you  ready  to  play  this  game  and  you  went 
out  and  got  played  off  your  feet  from  the  beginning,"  he  told  the 
players.  "I  think  you  all  owe  me  an  apology  for  that.  You  were 
not  ready  for  what  this  team  threw  at  you.  You  should  be  very 
disappointed  in  yourselves.  You  just  went  out  to  play  rather  than 
going  out  and  playing  to  win.  You  owe  everyone  concerned  with 
Indiana  basketball  an  apology." 

But  that  was  all.  Until  they  got  to  the  plane.  By  then,  the 
frustration  was  starting  to  fester.  "Boys,"  Knight  said  as  they 
waited  to  take  off,  "we're  going  to  find  out  what  kind  of  people 
you  are  on  Saturday.  Saturday  will  determine  what  kind  of  a  team 
this  is. 

"Steve  [Alford],  if  you  were  feeling  sick  again,  you  did  us  all 
a  disservice  by  not  coming  to  me  and  telling  me  you  were  too 
sick  to  play.  You  and  Stew  both  owe  us  a  hell  of  a  game  Saturday. 
Stew,  you  were  just  terrible.  Do  you  realize  that  no  team  in  the 
Big  Ten  other  than  Northwestern  has  been  as  far  behind  in  a 
game  as  we  were  tonight?" 

He  sat  down  to  let  them  think  about  that  a  little.  Felling  was 
seated  across  from  him.  "This  game  was  almost  impossible  for 
them  psychologically,"  Knight  said  softly.  "They  had  won  five 
they  had  to  win  and  Iowa  was  coming  off  a  bad  loss  to  Wisconsin. 


214     John  Feinstein 


We  would  have  to  have  been  very  good  to  win  tonight  and  we 
were  bad." 

Reasonable.  Rational.  But  a  moment  later,  as  the  plane  started 
to  taxi,  Knight  began  running  down  botched  plays.  He  was  mid- 
way through  a  description  of  a  Steve  Eyl  defensive  error  when 
the  plane  suddenly,  frighteningly,  skidded.  It  slid  almost  off  the 
runway  and  stopped.  Fortunately,  it  had  not  built  up  much  speed. 

For  a  moment  no  one  moved.  No  one  said  anything,  including 
Knight.  The  pilots  pulled  the  plane  back  onto  the  runway,  taxied 
again,  and  took  off  without  incident.  The  plane  was  well  above 
the  clouds  before  Knight  started  talking  again.  "Like  I  was  saying 
about  Eyl  ..." 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  plane  landed— without  further 
incident— in  Minneapolis.  Before  they  even  left  the  airport  they 
heard  some  bad  news:  Minnesota,  with  its  five  remaining  players, 
had  beaten  Ohio  State.  The  Gophers  were  not  going  to  roll  over 
and  die.  Saturday's  game  would  probably  be  difficult. 

As  soon  as  the  bus  arrived  at  the  hotel,  the  players  ate  and 
then  trooped  wearily  up  to  Knight's  room  to  look  at  the  game 
tape. 

A  session  like  this  one  was  not  apt  to  accomplish  much.  Every- 
one was  exhausted,  including  Knight.  For  the  players,  this  session 
was  punishment:  play  poorly  and  you  have  to  listen  to  the  coach 
ramble  on  about  your  mistakes  until  all  hours  of  the  morning. 
Of  course,  Knight  didn't  see  it  that  way.  After  a  loss,  his  mind 
focused  on  how  much  work  had  to  be  done.  To  him,  everything 
that  had  gone  before  was  wiped  out.  All  he  could  see  was  that 
night. 

"I  can't  remember  an  Indiana  team  being  worse  prepared  than 
you  people  were  tonight,"  he  said  as  the  tape  droned  on.  "Stew, 
you  were  no  more  into  the  game  mentally  than  a  dead  man.  You 
are  simply  incapable  of  putting  two  good  games  together.  The 
way  we  played  this  game  there  is  not  one  team  in  the  Big  Ten 
we  could  have  beaten.  I  can't  believe  that  you  could  work  as  hard 
as  you  work  and  then  go  out  on  the  court  and  play  like  that.  I 
just  cannot  understand  it. 

"If  you  play  like  this  against  Minnesota  you'll  get  your  ass 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    215 


beat.  They  came  up  with  a  great  performance  against  Ohio  State, 
and  they'll  do  the  same  thing  against  us  Saturday.  Everyone  says 
they  only  have  five  guys,  well,  hell,  it  only  takes  five  to  play  the 
goddamn  game.  We  lose  this  game,  boys,  and  we're  right  back 
to  last  year.  Right  back.  You  better  be  ready  to  go  to  work  to- 
morrow." 

They  went  to  bed  with  those  final  words  in  their  ears:  last  year. 
Every  time  the  players  heard  those  words  they  shuddered  a  little. 
Saturday's  game  would  bring  them  to  the  midway  point  of  the 
Big  Ten  season.  They  did  not  want  to  live  through  a  second  half 
anything  like  1985. 

It  snowed  from  the  moment  Indiana's  plane  touched  down  early 
Friday  morning  right  through  the  moment  it  took  off  late  Saturday 
in  Minneapolis.  The  streets  seemed  empty.  The  hotel  was  empty. 
It  was  like  being  in  a  ghost  town.  Knight  and  Hammel  went  for 
not  one  but  two  walks  on  Friday,  Knight  alternating  between 
understanding  that  the  Iowa  game  was  almost  inevitable  and  wor- 
rying that  the  team  was  going  to  sink  to  that  level  and  stay  there. 

Hammel  had  learned  to  just  listen  to  these  monologues.  He 
knew  that  Knight  wasn't  looking  for  input  as  much  as  he  was 
looking  for  a  sounding  board.  But  when  Knight  switched  subjects, 
even  for  a  minute,  Hammel  would  often  jump  in  quickly  and  try 
to  steer  the  conversation  away  from  Indiana  basketball.  It  was  as 
if  this  was  a  chance  to  give  Knight  a  mental  coffee  break.  If 
someone  didn't  change  the  subject,  Knight  was  apt  to  go  on  for 
hours  wondering  if  his  team  would  ever  win  another  game. 

Today's  coffee  break  subject  was  Joe  Lapchick,  the  old  St.  John's 
coach  who  had  been  one  of  Knight's  early  coaching  mentors. 
Knight  had  been  talking  about  dealing  with  criticism  when  he 
thought  about  something  Lapchick  had  told  him. 

"Right  after  I  got  the  job  as  the  coach  at  West  Point  I  went  to 
Lapchick's  house  in  Yonkers  to  tell  him  about  it,"  Knight  re- 
membered. "He  looked  at  me  and  said,  'Do  you  care  what  people 
think  of  you?' 

"I  said,  'Not  really.' 

"And  he  said,  'Good,  because  if  you  want  to  be  hked,  don't 
coach.'  " 

Knight  laughed  remembering  the  line.  Hammel  kept  him  on 


216     John  Feinstein 


Lapchick  and  Knight  kept  reminiscing.  "The  first  time  I  met  him 
was  when  Tates  (Locke)  took  me  to  one  of  those  New  York  writers' 
lunches  in  the  city.  Joe  took  me  by  the  arm  and  introduced  me 
to  everyone  in  the  room.  Made  me  feel  really  important. 

"Later  that  year,  I  went  on  a  scouting  trip  to  the  Midwest  to 
see  St.  John's  play  DePaul  and  Marquette.  I  was  scouting  St. 
John's  because  we  were  getting  ready  to  play  them.  Lapchick 
insisted  that  I  travel  with  them  everywhere,  eat  with  them,  do 
everything  with  them.  Of  course  we  ended  up  beating  them. 

"After  he  retired  (in  1965)  he  would  come  to  the  Garden  when- 
ever we  played.  When  I  would  walk  onto  the  court  he  would  look 
at  me  and  put  his  hand  under  his  chin  and  push  it  up.  He  always 
said  to  me,  'Keep  your  nose  in  the  air.  Be  arrogant.  Walk  with 
kings. ' 

"He's  the  reason  I  have  so  few  rules  on  my  team.  He  told  me 
not  to  make  any  rules  because  that  way  if  a  bad  kid  screws  up 
you  get  rid  of  him.  If  a  good  kid  screws  up  you  do  what  you  have 
to  do  and  let  it  go  at  that.  Rules  just  get  you  in  trouble." 

Knight's  voice  softened  as  the  memories  of  Lapchick  kept  com- 
ing back  to  him.  "I  was  in  my  car  driving  to  a  basketball  camp 
in  the  Poconos  in  August  of  1970  when  I  heard  that  he  had  died. 
It  was  exactly  three  weeks  after  my  dad  died.  I  had  a  scrapbook 
in  the  back  seat  of  my  car  that  Joe  had  put  together  about  the 
betting  scandals  of  the  1950s.  He  made  every  one  of  his  players 
read  it  and  then  sign  it  each  year. 

"I  went  back  to  the  city  for  the  funeral.  Just  after  I  got  there, 
Mrs.  Lapchick  took  me  aside  into  another  room.  She  told  me  she 
wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  minute  because  she  wanted  to  tell  me 
something.  She  said  to  me,  'You  know,  you  never  played  for  Joe, 
but  you  should  know  you  were  always  one  of  his  favorite  boys.' 
When  we  won  the  NIT  in  1979,  I  had  her  come  out  to  center 
court  with  me  to  accept  the  trophy." 

Knight's  eyes  glistened.  The  Iowa  loss  seemed  far,  far  away. 
At  least  for  a  few  minutes. 

Whether  it  was  the  passing  of  twenty-four  hours,  the  nonstop 
snow,  or  the  huge  Italian  dinner  Knight  ate  on  Friday  night  with 
a  coterie  of  local  friends,  his  mood  on  Saturday  morning  was  180 
degrees  different  from  that  of  Friday. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    217 


Knight  awoke  early  on  Saturday  and  wanted  to  look  again  at 
the  Iowa  tape.  Knight  will  often  look  at  the  tape  of  a  loss  five  or 
six  times.  Usually,  he  can  figure  out  exactly  what  went  wrong 
the  first  time  through,  but  he  looks  again  and  again  anyway. 
Saturday  morning.  Knight  couldn't  find  the  tape.  Manager  Jim 
Kelly  had  accidentally  put  it  into  his  pocket  and  forgotten  it  was 
there. 

"Kelly,"  Knight  asked  after  breakfast,  "knowing  my  relative 
lack  of  patience,  do  you  think  I  would  be  upset  if  I  wanted  to  look 
at  a  tape  and  my  Irish  manager  had  it  in  his  trench-coat  pocket?" 

"Maybe  a  little,"  Kelly  answered,  not  certain  what  was  coming 
next. 

"Well,  Kelly,"  Knight  said,  putting  his  arm  around  him,  "that's 
where  you  and  I  differ.  I'm  not  at  all  upset.  You  have  to  learn  to 
understand  human  frailties.  People  make  mistakes.  Learn  some 
benevolence  towards  your  fellow  man — like  me." 

The  coaches,  hstening  to  this  speech,  broke  up.  "If  we  can  just 
win  this  one,"  Waltman  said  to  Felhng,  "we  could  be  all  right." 
He  paused.  "Why  does  it  seem  like  I  say  that  every  game  day?" 

Knight  was  back  to  talking  about  positioning  at  the  morning 
walk-through.  Positioning  and  opportunities.  "We  told  you  at 
Northwestern  and  Wisconsin  that  you  had  to  play  your  best  bas- 
ketball to  get  back  into  position.  We  told  you  before  Ohio  State, 
Purdue,  and  Illinois  that  these  were  opportunities.  You  took  ad- 
vantage, something  last  year's  team  never  did.  But  now,  after 
Iowa,  we're  back  to  needing  wins  to  create  opportunities.  We've 
got  this  game  tonight  and  then  Wisconsin  and  Northwestern  next 
week.  We  need  those  three  games  to  have  more  opportunities — 
for  the  conference,  for  the  NCAAs.  But  you  have  to  start  setting 
that  up  tonight.  There  is  no  cushion,  no  margin  for  error.  Now, 
goddamn  it,  let's  play  the  way  we  can." 

Before  they  got  on  the  bus  to  go  back  to  the  hotel.  Knight  took 
Andre  Harris  aside.  He  knew  Harris  was  struggling  and  getting 
down  on  himself.  He  also  knew  that  Harris  was  thinking  Knight 
had  given  up  on  him.  Not  so.  Knight  told  him.  "It  isn't  that  we 
don't  think  you're  contributing,  Andre.  It's  just  that  we  think 
you  have  the  potential  to  contribute  so  much  more  if  you'll  just 
try  to  do  what  we're  teUing  you." 

Harris  nodded.  But  no  one  was  really  certain  how  much  he 


218     John  Feinstein 


really  heard.  That  morning  at  breakfast  he  had  called  Jim  Kelly 
"Bill."  That  had  sent  the  players  into  gales  of  giggles.  It  wasn't 
that  anyone  disliked  Harris.  He  was  just  different.  He  and  Jadlow 
were  both  different.  And  right  now,  both  were  struggling — on 
and  off  the  court. 

Harris  struggled  again  that  night.  But  he  was  not  alone.  All  of 
Knight's  pregame  fears  became  reahty  quickly.  The  crowd  was 
wild  from  the  start.  This  was,  after  all,  the  ultimate  underdog 
story:  team  decimated  by  scandal  holding  together  and  handling 
opponents  they  should  have  no  chance  against.  Williams  Arena, 
the  ancient  Minnesota  field  house,  was  chaotic  from  the  first 
minute  of  the  game. 

Because  of  that.  Knight  desperately  wanted  his  team  to  get  a 
good  start.  "Let's  take  this  crowd  right  out  of  the  game,"  he  said 
in  the  locker  room.  "There  is  no  way  we  can  allow  playing  us  to 
be  anything  like  playing  Ohio  State  was  for  these  people.  Let's 
jump  on  them  and  get  things  going  our  way  right  away." 

It  didn't  happen  that  way.  Calloway  and  Alford  were  shooting 
well,  but  that  was  it.  No  one  else  could  buy  a  basket.  Indiana 
wanted  a  quick  pace.  It  didn't  get  it.  Minnesota  controlled  the 
boards  and  the  pace.  At  halftime,  it  was  33-29  Minnesota,  and 
the  Gophers  had  scored  twelve  of  their  points  by  rebounding  their 
own  misses  and  putting  them  back  for  baskets. 

The  players,  understanding  that  they  were  facing  a  potential 
disaster,  were  snappish  with  one  another.  Alford  yelled  at  Morgan 
for  missing  a  box-out.  Robinson  was  on  Harris,  who  failed  to 
score  the  entire  half.  But  most  of  all,  when  they  got  to  the  locker 
room.  Knight  was  on  everyone. 

"Last  year  all  over  again,  boys,"  he  said.  "We  told  you  and 
told  you  that  this  game  would  be  tough.  Did  you  not  believe  us? 
You  didn't  believe  us  when  we  told  you  Iowa  would  be  quick. 
Did  you  think  this  team  would  just  die  for  you?  What's  your 
excuse  going  to  be  this  time?  Huh?  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  hearing 
excuses  for  this  team. 

"We've  done  all  we  can  do.  We've  given  you  an  offense  and  a 
defense.  That's  all  we  can  do.  The  rest  has  to  come  from  you. 
Daryl,  do  you  want  to  play?  Because  if  you  don't,  tell  me  and  I'll 
put  Todd  [Meier]  into  the  game.  If  you  aren't  tough  enough  to 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    219 


play,  we'll  play  someone  else.  Stew,  playing  you  right  now  is  like 
playing  four  on  five.  You  haven't  pass-faked  yet  in  this  game. 
Winston,  son,  you've  got  to  box  out.  You  people  have  given  them 
twelve  points  not  boxing  out.  Twelve.  It's  like  we  started  the 
game  behind  12-0." 

And  so  on.  The  conclusion:  "The  next  five  minutes  are  more 
important  than  any  you  have  played  all  season.  Now,  we'll  find 
out  just  what  kind  of  team  you  boys  want  to  be." 

If  that  had  been  the  case,  Indiana's  season  would  have  been 
over.  The  first  five  minutes  were  a  calamity.  Minnesota  kept 
punching  the  ball  inside.  Their  7-1  center  John  Shasky  got  position 
on  Thomas  three  straight  times,  turned,  and  easily  shot  over  him. 
His  last  basket  in  the  series,  a  soft  ten-footer  from  the  baseUne, 
put  Minnesota  up  44-33. 

Knight  called  time.  No  holding  back  now,  he  blasted  them.  He 
called  them  quitters,  accused  them  of  giving  up.  "I  can't  do  any- 
thing for  you  if  you  aren't  tough  enough  not  to  quit  when  you 
get  behind." 

Everyone  was  guilty — especially  Thomas.  Knight  yanked  him 
from  the  game,  and  when  the  time-out  was  over,  he  was  still 
screaming.  "If  you  don't  want  to  play,  then  don't  go  in  the 
f game,  Daryl.  Same  old  shit  with  you." 

In  the  meantime,  Calloway  threw  away  another  pass.  Min- 
nesota could  go  up  thirteen.  But  Ray  Gaffney  missed  an  open 
jump  shot.  Suddenly,  remarkably,  Indiana  revived.  Alford  hit 
from  the  baseline.  Calloway  made  a  steal  and  Morgan  scored. 
Minnesota  called  a  quick  time-out.  It  didn't  matter.  Knight  asked 
Thomas  if  he  wanted  to  play.  Thomas  said  yes. 

Quickly,  Alford  made  a  steal  and  Calloway  scored.  It  was  44— 
39.  Marc  Wilson  missed  for  Minnesota,  Morgan  rebounded  and 
threw  a  long  pass  to  Calloway,  whose  layup  rolled  in  as  he  was 
fouled.  The  free  throw  made  it  44^2.  Another  Minnesota  miss 
and  Thomas  scored  inside  to  tie  the  game  at  44-44.  It  had  taken 
less  than  four  minutes,  an  11-0  run.  It  may  have  been,  to  coin 
a  phrase,  the  most  important  four  minutes  of  the  season. 

Minnesota  hung  on  for  a  while,  leading  again  at  49^8  with 
ten  minutes  to  play,  but  fatigue  was  finally  catching  up.  A  Thomas 
follow-up  gave  Indiana  the  lead  at  50-^9.  Alford  hit  a  jumper  to 


220    John  Feinstein 


make  it  52^9.  Wilson  made  a  foul  shot  to  cut  it  to  52-50,  but 
that  was  Minnesota's  last  gasp.  It  did  not  score  a  single  point 
during  the  next  7:07.  Even  though  Indiana  only  produced  six 
points  during  that  period,  it  was  enough.  The  Hoosiers  had  out- 
lasted the  game  Gophers.  The  final  was  62-54.  Minnesota  had 
scored  ten  points  during  the  last  fifteen  minutes. 

Victory  cures  a  lot  of  ills.  Knight  had  reason  to  be  disturbed 
by  the  first  twenty-five  minutes,  but  they  had  come  back  and  won 
the  game  and  that  was  what  mattered.  "You  played  terrible  de- 
fense for  twenty-five  minutes  to  get  in  a  hole,"  Knight  said.  "But 
you  did  an  excellent  job  the  last  fifteen  minutes  to  get  out  of  it. 
Last  year  we  couldn't  have  done  that. 

"Daryl,  when  you  went  back  in,  you  played.  Goddamn  it,  Daryl, 
you're  tougher  than  all  these  guys.  They  can't  guard  you,  Daryl. 
If  they  block  a  shot,  fine.  Just  shoot  it  again.  Keep  going  after  it 
no  matter  what,  okay?" 

Thomas  nodded.  Everyone  was  relieved.  With  Wisconsin  and 
Northwestern  at  home  coming  up,  there  was  an  excellent  chance 
that  they  would  be  8-3  in  league  play  and  16-5  overall  with  four 
weeks  left  in  the  season.  After  winning  seven  and  fifteen,  re- 
spectively, all  of  last  season,  that  wasn't  bad.  Morgan,  though, 
was  disturbed  at  some  of  the  sniping.  "We  can't  be  getting  on 
each  other,"  he  said  after  Knight  had  left.  "Damn,  we  got  enough 
to  worry  about  without  getting  on  each  other." 

No  one  answered.  But  everyone  agreed. 

It  was  three  o'clock  by  the  time  the  plane  reached  home.  Knight 
talked  to  the  coaches  all  the  way  home  about  how  tired  he  was 
of  not  being  able  to  attack  teams  defensively.  "We  haven't  been 
able  to  play  defense  the  way  I  want  to  for  three  years  now,"  he 
said.  "Yet,  somehow,  we've  won  fifty-five  games.  I  guess  that's 
pretty  good.  But  boy,  does  it  tire  me  out." 

Everyone  was  tired.  And  sick.  Felling  had  the  flu  and  Calloway, 
Morgan,  and  Alford  were  so  sick  that  Garl  insisted  they  stay  in 
bed  on  Sunday  and  Monday.  Their  illness,  however,  was  a  rel- 
atively minor  concern.  Once  again,  a  week  that  should  have  been 
easy  for  Knight  was  going  to  be  full  of  land  mines.  And,  as  always, 
before  the  week  was  over,  everyone  was  going  to  feel  as  if  they 
had  stepped  on  a  couple  of  them. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    221 


13. 

You  Can't  Co  Home  Again 

The  tribulations  began  right  away  on  Monday  morning.  Academic 
supervisor  Buzz  Kurpius  informed  Knight  that  there  was  a  prob- 
lem with  Andre  Harris:  since  the  semester  had  started  two  weeks 
ago,  Harris  had  not  been  going  to  class — at  all. 

Skipping  class  was  not  a  bright  thing  to  do  under  any  circum- 
stances, but  for  Harris,  the  timing  could  not  have  been  worse. 
His  first-semester  grades,  with  tutoring  help  and  the  Dakich  chauf- 
feuring  service  to  get  him  where  he  had  to  be  each  morning,  had 
been  a  little  bit  better  than  C's.  That  wasn't  bad,  but  it  certainly 
wasn't  enough  to  retire  on.  Now,  during  a  period  when  he  was 
playing  poorly — he  finished  the  Minnesota  game  with  two  points 
and  one  rebound — he  also  wasn't  going  to  class. 

A  year  earlier,  Harris  might  have  been  gone.  That  had  been 
Mike  Giomi's  fate.  But  Knight  had  a  little  more  patience  this 
season — and  a  better  team.  That  may  have  saved  Harris.  Barely. 
"He  thinks  I'm  picking  on  him,"  Knight  said  after  telling  Harris 
he  was  benched  indefinitely.  "He's  really  going  to  think  I'm  pick- 
ing on  him  when  he  flunks  out  and  I  don't  petition  to  get  him 
readmitted." 

Three  players  were  sick.  Another  was  deep  in  the  doghouse. 
Nothing  made  Knight  more  uptight  than  a  week  with  two  games 
that  looked  easy  and  could  end  up  tough.  But  there  was  more. 

There  was  Ohio  State. 

Ohio  State  had  not  been  as  lucky  at  Minnesota  as  Indiana  had. 
It  had  not  escaped  the  way  the  Hoosiers  did.  And,  as  it  turned 
out,  that  humiliation  was  the  last  straw.  Eldon  Miller,  who  had 
coached  there  for  nine  years,  was  called  in  Monday  and  told  he 
was  gone  at  season's  end.  The  athletic  director.  Rick  Bay,  wanted 
Miller  to  announce  he  was  resigning.  No  way.  Miller  told  the 
press  he  had  been  fired. 

Many  names  would  be  linked  to  the  job.  But  one  name  came 
up  right  away:  Robert  Montgomery  Knight.  After  all,  it  seemed 
reasonable:  if  Ohio  State  wanted  to  shake  up  its  program,  who 
better  than  Knight?  Bring  the  alumnus  home — regardless  of  the 


222     John  Feinstein 


cost.  What  the  pubUc  didn't  know  was  that  even  though  Knight 
was  still  friendly  with  many  of  his  old  teammates  and  close  to 
his  Ohio  State  coach,  Fred  Taylor,  that  period  of  his  life  was  one 
he  would  just  as  soon  keep  behind  him. 

In  fact.  Knight's  four  years  at  Ohio  State  may  have  been  the 
only  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  not  been  a  star,  not  been  in 
control.  Knight  was  used  to  being  the  boss.  He  had  almost  always 
gotten  his  way  in  life — except  for  those  four  years  in  college. 

He  was  born  October  25, 1940,  the  first  and  only  child  of  Carroll 
and  Hazel  Knight.  His  father,  known  to  one  and  all  as  Pat,  was 
a  railroad  man  who  had  grown  up  on  an  Oklahoma  farm  and 
moved  east  as  a  young  man,  stopping  in  Orrville  because  it  was 
a  crossroads  of  the  railroads  in  those  post-World  War  I  days. 
There,  he  met  Hazel  Henthorne,  a  schoolteacher  who  lived  in 
Akron  but  taught  in  Orrville.  Shy,  Pat  Knight  had  a  friend  ask 
her  for  a  date.  She  said  no.  He  tried  again.  She  said  yes.  They 
were  married  in  1934.  He  was  thirty-seven,  she  was  thirty-one. 
Six  years  later,  much  to  her  surprise.  Hazel  Knight  discovered 
that  the  cold  she  thought  she  had  was  slightly  more  than  that. 

One  can  almost  imagine  Bouncing  Baby  Bobby  crashing  into 
the  world,  gray  eyes  flashing,  looking  around  the  delivery  room 
of  the  hospital  and  saying,  "Bet  you  sonsofbitches  weren't  ex- 
pecting me."  It  is  the  kind  of  scene  the  adult  Knight  would  have 
loved. 

The  world  young  Bobby  grew  up  in  was  not  your  ordinary 
household.  Pat  Knight  had  a  severe  hearing  problem,  so  father- 
son  communication  was  often  unspoken.  There  was  a  closeness 
between  the  two,  though,  much  of  it  coming  through  hunting 
and  fishing,  something  Pat  Knight  taught  his  son  at  an  early  age. 
Around  Orrville,  Pat  Knight  was  viewed  as  a  tough,  stubborn, 
uncommonly  honest  man.  To  this  day,  when  Bob  Knight  wants 
to  make  a  point  about  how  honest  a  person  is,  he  compares  him 
to  his  father.  They  may  not  have  been  as  close  as  many  fathers 
and  sons,  but  Bobby  revered  his  father,  respected  his  authority, 
and  learned  quickly  never  to  question  it. 

Bobby's  best  friend  as  a  little  boy,  even  as  a  teenager,  was  his 
grandmother.  Sarah  Henthorne  had  come  to  live  with  her  daugh- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    223 


ter  and  son-in-law  three  years  before  Bobby  was  born  and  became 
the  person  the  little  boy  turned  to  most  often.  "When  Bobby 
would  get  in  trouble,  he  would  come  home  and  tell  his  grand- 
mother," Hazel  Knight  remembers.  "He'd  always  make  her  prom- 
ise not  to  tell  me,  then  he  would  tell  her  and  ask  her  what  she 
thought." 

What  she  thought,  for  the  most  part,  was  that  her  grandson 
was  the  most  wonderful  little  boy  in  the  world.  Early  on  it  was 
apparent  that  this  was  not  an  ordinary  child:  He  was  uncommonly 
bright,  made  A's  in  school  with  little  trouble,  and  was  always  a 
good  athlete.  He  even  did  well  in  the  second  grade  when  his 
teacher  was  Hazel  Knight. 

He  played  Little  League  baseball  and  was  always  a  good  hitter. 
Before  long,  he  was  introduced  to  basketball  by  a  man  named 
Dave  Knight  (no  relation).  Bobby  was  in  the  sixth  grade  when 
Dave  Knight  took  him  to  the  gym  to  show  him  this  new  sport. 
"Always  stay  between  your  man  and  the  basket,"  Dave  Knight 
told  him.  And  so,  on  the  first  day  he  played  basketball,  Bobby 
Knight  learned  his  first  lesson  about  playing  defense. 

He  grew  quickly  and  became  a  star  athlete.  By  the  time  he  was  in 
eighth  grade  he  was  6-1  and  he  was  averaging  twenty-nine  points 
per  game  playing  twenty-four-minute  junior  high  school  games. 
He  was  also  good  at  football  and  baseball,  but  basketball  was  his 
obsession.  They  still  tell  stories  about  Bobby  and  his  basketball, 
how  he  would  carry  or  dribble  it  the  half  mile  to  school  every 
morning;  how  he  would  stay  in  the  park  shooting  until  2  a.m.  when 
the  weather  was  warm — the  man  who  ran  the  park  taught  him  how 
to  turn  the  lights  on  and  off — and  how  he  would  leave  windows  in 
the  high  school  propped  open  so  he  could  sneak  in  and  shoot  on 
winter  weekends.  Knight  was  so  sophisticated  that  he  figured  out 
the  best  window  to  go  through  was  the  one  leading  to  the  music 
room  because  the  room  was  set  up  like  a  little  theater  and  the  last 
row  was  only  a  short  jump  down  from  the  window. 

As  a  freshman  at  Orrville  High  School,  he  was  on  the  varsity 
basketball  team.  This  was  unusual,  and  some  of  the  parents  of 
older  boys  not  on  the  varsity  were  resentful.  Kathy  Harmon  (then 
Kathy  Haider),  who  was  the  star  of  the  girls'  basketball  team, 
remembers  the  resentment  and  how  Bobby  would  pretend  it  didn't 


224    John  Feinstein 


bother  him.  "Except  for  losing  games,  he  never  Hked  to  admit 
that  anything  bothered  him,"  she  says.  'But  he  was  sensitive.  He 
always  seemed  to  hear  everything  people  said  about  him." 

What  they  said  about  him  was  not  that  different  from  what 
they  say  about  him  now.  He  was  a  superb  student,  never  making 
lower  than  a  B  throughout  high  school,  and  he  should  have  been 
chosen  for  the  National  Honor  Society  at  the  end  of  his  sophomore 
year,  but  the  teachers  wouldn't  nominate  him  because  of  his 
behavior.  He  had  a  bad  temper.  In  Bobby's  sophomore  yearbook, 
Kathy  Haider  wrote,  "To  the  English  brain  .  .  ."at  the  start;  she 
finished  by  writing,  "watch  the  temper." 

The  temper  came  more  from  father  than  from  mother — at  least 
according  to  mother.  But  it  also  came,  undoubtedly,  from  growing 
up  in  an  environment  where  he  was  always  the  star  and  the  center 
of  attention.  Bobby  grew  up  as  the  only  child,  for  all  intents  and 
purposes,  of  not  one  but  two  women.  His  mother  didn't  drive  a 
car,  so  his  grandmother  drove  him  everywhere.  When  it  was  time 
to  learn  to  drive,  his  grandmother  taught  him. 

In  school,  he  was  also  a  star — an  excellent  student  and  athlete. 
He  was  always  close  to  his  coaches,  especially  Bill  Shunkwiler, 
the  Orrville  football  coach,  and  Jack  Graham,  his  basketball  coach 
until  senior  year.  While  other  boys  might  spend  time  with  one 
another  talking  about  girls,  Bobby  spent  time  with  his  coaches 
talking  about  how  to  get  better.  "He  was  always  asking  ques- 
tions," Shunkwiler  said.  "You  gave  him  an  answer,  it  produced 
another  question.  He's  always  been  that  way.  He  can  never  know 
enough  about  a  subject." 

Both  coaches  were  strict  disciplinarians.  No  one  got  on  the 
Orrville  football  team's  bus  without  a  coat  and  tie  on.  Today,  no 
one  gets  on  the  Indiana  basketball  team  bus  without  a  coat  and 
tie  on.  Shunkwiler  believed  greatly  in  using  film  to  show  players 
how  to  do  things.  No  coach  in  the  world  makes  more  use  of 
videotape  today  than  Knight. 

When  Knight  was  a  sophomore  in  high  school,  his  parents  built 
a  home  on  North  Vine  Street,  right  down  the  street  from  the 
Orrville  Power  Plant.  Hazel  Knight  still  lives  in  that  house.  It  is 
a  small  but  comfortable  one-story  home,  and  Bobby  slept  in  the 
sitting  room.  Shortly  after  the  Knights  moved  in,  Donald  and 
Pauline  Boop  moved  next  door. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    225 


Don  Boop  was  a  dentist  who  had  been  wounded  twice  in  World 
War  II  and  then  gone  to  dental  school  after  the  war  was  over.  He 
was  eighteen  years  older  than  Bobby  when  the  two  met,  but  they 
became  fast  friends.  Every  day  when  Bobby  came  home  from 
practice — whatever  the  sport — he  would  stop  at  the  Boops  for  a 
soda  (Hazel  Knight  allowed  no  pop  and  no  booze  in  her  home). 
Boop  was  a  sports  fanatic,  and  in  young  Bobby  he  found  someone 
to  talk  to,  to  encourage,  and,  on  occasion,  to  drive  down  to  Cleve- 
land with  when  the  Red  Sox  were  in  town  to  watch  the  great  Ted 
Williams  play. 

By  the  time  he  was  a  senior.  Bobby  had  grown  to  6-4,  although 
he  was  still  slender  at  about  180  pounds.  He  was  handsome  with 
his  short-cropped  brown  hair,  the  dimple  in  his  left  cheek,  and 
the  easy  smile  that  lit  up  his  face  when  he  was  happy.  There  were 
plenty  of  girls  who  wanted  to  date  him,  among  them  a  junior 
named  Nancy  Falk.  But  most  of  Bobby's  time  was  tied  up  with 
one  sport  or  another.  Often,  he  would  take  Haider  to  a  basketball 
game  and  bring  along  a  young  friend  named  Bobby  Weltlich,  who 
was  four  years  younger  than  he  was.  Later,  Weltlich,  now  the 
coach  at  Texas,  would  be  an  assistant  coach  under  Knight,  first  at 
West  Point  and  then  at  Indiana. 

He  was  an  excellent  shooter,  even  though  he  had  a  funny- 
looking  jump  shot.  Instead  of  releasing  the  ball  from  right  over 
his  head,  Knight  would  almost  push  it  out  of  his  hand  from 
shoulder  level.  His  college  coach,  Fred  Taylor,  believes  he  pat- 
terned the  shot  after  an  Ohio  State  player  named  Jamie  Freeman. 
Others,  including  Shunkwiler,  think  he  began  shooting  that  way 
when  he  broke  his  foot  as  a  junior  and  kept  shoting  while  he  had 
a  walking  cast  on.  In  fact.  Knight  shot  so  much  then  that  he  drove 
his  doctors  crazy  because  he  kept  breaking  casts. 

Whatever  the  reason,  the  strange-looking  shot  stayed  with  Knight 
throughout  college.  The  question  in  1958,  though,  was  where  to 
go  to  college.  He  could  go  to  a  small  school  and  almost  undoubt- 
edly be  a  starter  and  probably  a  star.  Or  he  could  go  to  a  big  time 
school  like  Cincinnati  or  Ohio  State  and  take  his  chances  there. 
In  those  days,  scouting  wasn't  nearly  as  sophisticated  as  it  is  now. 
To  get  the  big-time  college  coaches  to  consider  Knight,  Boop  sent 
films  of  him  to  Cincinnati  and  Ohio  State. 

Senior  year  had  not  turned  out  the  way  Knight  had  hoped.  He 


226    John  Feinstein 


had  been  the  leading  scorer  for  Orrville  as  both  a  sophomore  and 
a  junior,  but  the  team  hadn't  been  very  good,  winning  just  five 
games  his  junior  year.  That  was  disappointing.  But  what  devas- 
tated Knight  was  the  decision  by  Graham  to  leave  Orrville  for 
the  chance  to  become  a  principal  at  another  school.  Knight  was 
crushed.  He  felt  deserted.  He  felt  worse  when  the  new  coach 
turned  out  to  be  a  man  named  Bob  Gobin,  who  wasn't  so  much 
a  coach  as  a  recreation  director.  Gobin  believed  the  games  were 
played  strictly  for  fun  and  everyone  should  have  a  chance  to  play. 
If  Knight  scored  five  straight  baskets,  Gobin  would  take  him  out, 
thinking  it  was  time  to  give  someone  else  a  chance  to  play. 

Knight  was  the  star  and  the  captain,  and  one  night  when  a 
teammate  was  hurt  and  Gobin  didn't  call  time  to  get  him  out  of 
the  game.  Knight  finally  called  time  himself.  Coach  and  player 
argued.  The  coach  didn't  think  the  player  should  act  as  if  he  knew 
more  about  the  game  than  the  coach.  The  player,  in  no  uncertain 
terms,  told  the  coach  he  did  know  more  about  the  game  than  the 
coach. 

"Bobby  was  right,  he  did  know  more  basketball  than  Gobin," 
Boop  says  now,  remembering  the  incident.  "But  at  that  point, 
Gobin  didn't  much  care.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned,  Bobby  was 
off  the  team." 

The  following  day,  Pat  Knight,  Bobby  Knight,  and  Boop  hud- 
dled at  Boop's  house.  If  Bobby  was  not  reinstated,  his  chances  of 
getting  a  college  scholarship  would  drop  considerably.  Scouts  not 
only  couldn't  see  him  play,  but  they  would  view  him  as  a  trou- 
blemaker. Something  had  to  be  done.  Finally,  it  was  decided  that 
Bobby  and  Boop  would  go  to  see  Gobin.  They  did.  After  a  long 
go-round,  a  compromise  was  struck:  Knight  would  sit  out  a  one- 
game  suspension  and  Gobin  would  try  a  little  harder  to  win  games. 
The  team  finished  strong,  making  the  state  playoffs  for  the  first 
time  in  years,  and  Bobby  Knight  averaged  twenty-four  points  a 
game.  Still,  the  year  with  Gobin  left  a  bad  taste  in  his  mouth. 

In  the  spring.  Knight  and  Boop  drove  the  state  visiting  colleges. 
Boop,  who  had  done  undergraduate  work  at  Cincinnati,  would 
have  been  happy  to  see  Knight  go  there.  But  when  Knight  went 
to  a  picnic  thrown  by  incoming  Ohio  State  coach  Fred  Taylor  for 
recruits,  he  was  sold  on  Ohio  State.  At  the  picnic  that  day  were 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    227 


John  Havlicek,  Jerry  Lucas,  Mel  Noell,  Gary  Gearhart,  and  Knight. 
All  Ohio  kids.  They  would  become  one  of  the  greatest  recruiting 
classes  in  the  history  of  college  basketball.  Knight  was  a  bit  leery 
about  whether  he  could  play  with  the  group,  but  finally  chose 
Ohio  State. 

He  graduated  eighth  in  a  class  of  eighty  from  Orrville  High 
School,  was  selected  the  best  male  athlete  in  school,  and  made  big 
headlines  in  the  local  paper  when  he  chose  Ohio  State.  He  left 
Orrville  a  local  hero,  off  to  give  the  town  a  big  name  100  miles 
away  in  Columbus.  Little  did  he  know  that  the  most  frustrating 
four  years  of  his  life  were  about  to  begin. 

As  a  student.  Bob  Knight  enjoyed  his  four  years  at  Ohio  State. 
He  was  a  voracious  reader  and  an  avid  questioner,  just  as  he  is 
today.  As  a  basketball  player,  he  was  miserable.  There  were  a  lot 
of  places  in  the  country  where  Knight  could  have  played  a  lot  of 
basketball.  He  was  a  good  shooter.  He  was  tough,  hard-nosed, 
and  smart.  Most  places,  that  would  have  been  enough. 

But  Fred  Taylor  had  put  together  a  remarkable  program  in  his 
brief  tenure.  Ironically,  Knight  was  a  weak  defensive  player,  be- 
cause he  lacked  quickness.  "He  was,"  Taylor  says  today,  "a  hacker. 
Bobby  got  in  foul  trouble  a  lot." 

As  a  result.  Knight  was  never  much  more  than  a  spot  player. 
He  started  some  games  as  a  junior  and  a  few  more  as  a  senior, 
but  always  ended  up  back  on  the  bench.  He  played  on  great  teams. 
In  1960,  when  Knight  was  a  sophomore,  Ohio  State  won  the 
national  championship,  led  by  Knight's  classmates  Lucas,  Havli- 
cek, and  Noell.  The  next  two  seasons,  the  Buckeyes  reached  the 
national  championship  game  again  only  to  lose  to  Cincinnati. 

Being  on  a  winning  team  wasn't  enough  for  Knight.  Not  playing 
destroyed  him.  Boop  remembers  numerous  phone  calls  over  the 
years  from  a  distraught  Knight.  He  and  Taylor  would  fight,  and 
Knight  would  want  to  transfer  or  quit  or  just  come  home.  "Bobby 
hated  not  playing,"  Taylor  said.  "Which  is  exactly  what  you  want. 
You  want  kids  who  want  to  compete,  and  that's  just  what  Bobby 
was.  But  he  was  very  blunt  about  thinking  he  should  play  more, 
and  there  were  times  when  that  was  difficult  for  me  and  for  him." 

Knight  was  often  in  trouble.  Once,  on  a  trip  to  New  York,  he 
stole  a  bottle  of  wine  just  to  show  off  and  got  caught.  Knight  was 


228     John  Feinstein 


always  showing  off.  He  told  his  teammates  that  he  had  been  part 
of  a  notorious  motorcycle  gang  back  in  Orrville  and  earned  the 
nickname  "Dragon."  His  relationship  with  Taylor  was  always 
borderline,  sometimes  testy. 

"Bobby  was — and  is — a  character,"  Taylor  said.  "I  remember 
in  1960  when  we  beat  Western  Kentucky  in  the  regional  semifinal, 
we  broke  open  a  close  game  in  the  last  few  minutes.  I  really 
thought  our  conditioning  was  the  difference  in  that  game  and  I 
told  the  players  that  when  it  was  over.  Bobby  had  played  well 
that  night.  He  came  off  the  bench  and  hit  a  couple  of  key  buckets 
from  outside  when  it  was  still  close. 

"When  I  made  this  comment  about  conditioning,  Bobby  pipes 
up  and  says,  T  guess  this  means  we're  going  to  be  doing  that 
goddamn  driving  line  (conditioning)  drill  again  next  year. '  Every- 
one cracked  up.  It  was  a  good  line.  But  in  truth,  it  wasn't  Bobby's 
place  as  a  sophomore  reserve  to  say  that.  He  never  saw  it  that 
way, though." 

Knight,  like  many  players,  never  quite  understood  why  he 
didn't  play  more.  Knight  still  remembers  one  game  where  he 
came  off  the  bench  midway  in  the  first  half  and  played  very  well. 
He  went  into  the  locker  room  at  halftime  certain  he  would  start 
the  second  half.  "I  was  sitting  on  a  training  table  when  I  heard 
Fred  say,  'Okay,  we'll  start  with  the  same  lineup  that  started  the 
game,'  "  Knight  said  twenty-five  years  later.  "I'll  never  forget 
that  because  I  was  so  crushed." 

To  this  day  if  a  Knight  player  comes  in  during  the  first  half 
and  outplays  the  starter,  he  starts  the  second  half.  Always. 

Off  the  court  Knight  did  quite  well  in  college.  School  was  always 
easy  for  him— unlike  basketball.  He  began  as  a  physical  education 
major,  but  switched  to  history  because  PE  bored  him.  He  never 
had  to  work  very  hard  and  didn't,  cruising  through  with  a  B 
average.  If  he  had  worked  as  hard  at  his  classes  as  he  did  at 
basketball,  he  undoubtedly  would  have  been  Phi  Beta  Kappa.  But 
classes  were  not  his  passion. 

Knight  talks  now  about  considering  a  career  in  law  or  teaching. 
But  his  high  school  friend  Kathy  Harmon  remembers  him  teUing 
her  when  they  were  high  school  juniors  that  he  wanted  to  be  a 
coach.  "He  wrote  an  autobiography,"  she  said.  "He  wrote  in  it 
that  he  wanted  someday  to  coach  the  NCAA  champions." 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    229 


That  didn't  change  in  college.  In  Ohio  State's  1960  media  guide, 
Knight  is  described  as  a  sophomore  who  aspires  to  be  a  college 
coach  someday. 

It  was  after  Knight's  freshman  year  that  he  began  dating  Nancy 
Falk.  She  still  remembers  his  walking  up  to  her  at  the  swimming 
pool  where  she  was  lifeguarding  on  the  day  after  her  graduation 
from  high  school  and  saying,  "Well,  now  that  you're  grown  up 
would  you  like  to  go  out?"  That  began  a  courtship  that  lasted 
through  college  and  continued  until  they  were  married  after  Knight 
had  gone  to  Army  as  an  assistant  to  Tates  Locke. 

After  Knight's  sophomore  year  his  grandmother  died.  He  came 
home  from  picking  up  groceries  to  find  her  in  her  favorite  chair — 
asleep,  he  first  thought.  Her  death  crushed  him.  "For  at  least  a 
year,"  Hazel  Knight  remembered,  "he  would  not  talk  about  her 
and  wouldn't  let  anyone  else  mention  her.  It  hurt  too  much  to 
even  hear  her  name." 

Knight's  senior  year  was  perhaps  his  most  frustrating  because 
he  began  the  season  as  a  starter  and  ended  it  playing  very  little. 
His  best  statistics  were  as  a  sophomore,  when  he  averaged  four 
points  a  game  and  had  his  career  high— fifteen  points— in  a  game 
against  Delaware.  It  was  a  disappointing  finish,  and  when  Knight 
graduated  he  and  Taylor  were  anything  but  close. 

Knight  got  a  job  at  Cuyahoga  Falls  High  School  in  the  eastern 
part  of  the  state  coaching  junior  varsity  basketball  and  teaching 
freshman  history.  He  worked  there  for  a  man  named  Harold 
Andreas.  Andreas  was  about  ten  years  older  than  Taylor,  and  he 
understood  the  frustrations  of  both  the  coach  and  the  player.  He 
encouraged  Knight  to  mend  the  relationship.  Knight  respected 
Andreas  enough  to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying. 

That  winter  he  went  to  a  clinic  that  Taylor  was  holding.  He 
sat  quietly  in  the  stands  listening  until  Taylor  spotted  him  and 
asked  him  to  come  down  and  help  him  with  the  drills  he  was 
demonstrating.  Shortly  after  that.  Knight  wrote  Taylor  a  letter 
saying,  among  other  things,  "I  think  every  player  should  have 
to  be  a  coach  before  he  is  allowed  to  play."  He  was  telling  the 
coach  that  he  understood.  Taylor  understood,  too. 

That  spring,  Taylor  heard  that  West  Point  was  looking  for  an 
assistant  basketball  coach.  He  and  Knight  had  already  talked  about 
the  possibility  of  Knight  going  to  UCLA  the  following  season  to 


230    John  Feinstein 


do  some  graduate  work  and  to  be  a  part-time  assistant  under  John 
Wooden.  But  with  Vietnam  heating  up  there  was  a  good  chance 
Knight  would  be  drafted.  If  that  was  going  to  happen  anyway, 
perhaps  Knight  should  volunteer  and  become  the  number  one 
assistant  at  West  Point  under  George  Hunter.  Knight  thought 
that  was  a  good  idea. 

There  was  nearly  a  hitch.  Hunter  got  fired.  Knight  had  already 
volunteered  for  the  Army.  Fortunately,  Tates  Locke,  Hunter's 
replacement,  agreed  to  honor  the  commitment  that  he  had  made 
to  Knight.  Two  years  later,  Locke  left  West  Point  to  become  the 
coach  at  Miami  of  Ohio.  The  new  West  Point  coach  was  Bob 
Knight,  who  would  not  turn  twenty-five  until  ten  days  after  his 
first  practice  that  fall.  He  was  the  youngest  Division  I  coach  in 
the  country,  and  he  quickly  became  a  star.  His  teams  were  ex- 
traordinary because  of  their  defensive  tenacity  and  consistently 
stayed  right  with — and  often  beat — teams  with  far  more  talent. 
Army  was  not  allowed  to  recruit  anyone  over  6-6,  but  that  didn't 
seem  to  matter  to  Knight.  He  found  players  willing  to  play  his 
style  and  quickly  built  a  reputation  as  one  of  the  hot  young  coaches 
around. 

He  also  earned  an  enduring  nickname  when  one  of  his  guards, 
Jim  Oxiey,  a  good  shooter  who  played  in  the  backcourt  with  Mike 
Krzyzewski,  began  calling  him  "the  mentor."  All  of  Knight's 
assistants  have  called  him  "the  mentor"  ever  since.  Tim  Garl 
sometimes  shortens  it  to  "the  ments." 

His  temper  drew  a  great  deal  of  attention,  too.  The  New  York 
media  quickly  nicknamed  him  "Bobby  T."  He  was  often  crazed 
on  the  bench,  kicking  chairs,  throwing  coats,  and  generally  wreak- 
ing havoc.  But  he  won  more  games  than  anyone  had  ever  won 
at  Army,  reached  the  NIT  four  times  in  six  years,  never  once  lost 
to  archrival  Navy,  and  had  schools  lining  up  to  offer  him  jobs. 
The  one  he  finally  took  was  Indiana.  It  was  in  the  Big  Ten,  it  was 
near  home,  and  it  had  a  great  basketball  tradition. 

In  his  second  season,  Indiana  reached  the  Final  Four.  In  his 
fourth  season,  Indiana  won  thirty-one  games  before  losing  in  the 
regional  final  to  Kentucky,  a  defeat  that  Knight  still  broods  over. 
The  next  year  there  were  no  defeats,  just  thirty-two  straight 
victories  and  the  national  championship.  Indiana  won  the  final 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    231 


86-68  even  though  Bobby  Wilkerson  suffered  a  concussion  in  the 
first  half.  Walking  out  of  the  Spectrum  in  Philadelphia  that  night, 
an  excited  Hammel  said  to  Knight,  "Bob,  you  did  it,  you  won  the 
national  championship!" 

Knight  turned  to  Hammel  and  said  simply,  "Shoulda  been  two." 
The  memory  of  1975  invaded  his  thoughts  even  at  that  moment. 

That  same  spring,  Fred  Taylor  was  forced  out  as  coach  at  Ohio 
State.  Knight  never  forgave  the  school.  Taylor  had  become,  along 
with  Pete  Newell,  Clair  Bee,  Joe  Lapchick,  and  Henry  Iba,  one  of 
the  older  coaches  who  Knight  believed  could  do  no  wrong.  Now 
his  alma  mater  was  pushing  Taylor  aside.  Knight  never  forgot. 

In  the  fall  of  1985,  Ohio  State  organized  a  weekend  to  celebrate 
the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  1960  national  championship 
team.  All  the  players  and  coaches  from  that  team  were  invited 
back  to  be  honored.  Knight  refused  to  go  because  he  was  still 
angry  about  what  had  happened  to  Fred  Taylor.  It  was  Taylor 
who  called  him  and  asked  him  to  change  his  mind. 

"Don't  even  ask,  Fred,  you  know  I  won't  come,"  Knight  said. 

Taylor  went.  The  rest  of  the  team  went.  Knight  stayed  away. 
They  sent  him  the  ice  bucket,  complete  with  a  plaque  and  team 
pictures  that  were  presented  to  each  member  of  the  team.  Knight 
mailed  it  to  Boop.  "Doc,"  he  wrote,  "I  want  you  to  have  this 
because  if  it  were  not  for  you  I  never  would  have  gone  to  Ohio 
State  and  played  on  this  team." 

Knight  certainly  carried  some  pleasant  memories  from  that 
team  and  those  days.  But  his  overall  feeling  toward  Ohio  State 
was  anything  but  warm.  He  had  absolutely  no  interest  in  the 
Ohio  State  job.  But  when  Miller  was  fired  and  the  rumors  began 
flying,  few  people  understood  this.  Including  the  members  of  the 
Indiana  basketball  team. 

Ohio  State  was  the  least  of  Knight's  concerns  that  week.  He 
was  wondering  if  Harris  was  going  to  make  it  at  Indiana.  He  was 
also  thinking  that  Jadlow  might  transfer  at  season's  end.  That 
would  certainly  put  a  damper  on  the  junior  college  experiment. 

More  than  that,  he  was  concerned  with  the  two  games  that 
week.  On  the  surface  they  were  walkovers.  Indiana  had  beaten 
both  Wisconsin  and  Northwestern  on  the  road  without  Daryl 


232     John  Feinstein 


Thomas.  But  Knight  worried  that  the  players  would  be  thinking 
just  that,  and  with  everyone  fighting  the  flu,  Knight  was  uptight. 

This  week's  villains — outside  of  Harris— were  the  guards.  Knight 
was  convinced  that  Morgan  and  Robinson  just  couldn't  play  any- 
more. They  had  been  heroes  against  Illinois  but  had  quickly  be- 
come goats  at  Iowa  when  they  failed  to  handle  Iowa's  press.  They 
weren't  much  better  at  Minnesota.  But  what  really  hurt  them 
was  Damon  Bailey. 

Bailey  was  the  eighth-grade  wunderkind  from  Shawswicke.  The 
Monday  after  Minnesota,  Knight  and  Hammel  drove  down  to  see 
him  play.  Knight's  presence  in  the  tiny  junior  high  school  gym 
caused  something  of  a  sensation.  But  Knight  didn't  even  notice. 
He  came  back  like  a  love-struck  teenager,  starry-eyed  over  what 
he  had  seen. 

"Damon  Bailey,"  Knight  told  the  coaches  on  Tuesday,  "is  better 
than  any  guard  we  have  right  now.  I  don't  mean  potentially  better, 
I  mean  better  today." 

When  Knight  spoke  of  guards,  he  wasn't  talking  about  Alford. 
He  thought  of  Alford  less  as  a  guard  than  as  a  shooter.  To  Knight, 
a  guard  was  a  creator.  Damon  Bailey,  Knight  seemed  to  think, 
was  the  Creator. 

The  coaches  were,  to  put  it  mildly,  skeptical.  They  knew  that 
this  was  Knight's  way,  that  he  was  bound  to  exaggerate.  They 
cornered  Hammel  and  tried  to  find  out  what  he  really  thought. 
"He's  pretty  good,"  was  all  Hammel  would  say.  In  the  meantime. 
Knight  had  invited  Bailey  and  his  family  to  Saturday's  game 
against  Northwestern. 

Every  time  poor  Morgan  or  Robinson  screwed  up  in  practice. 
Knight  seemed  about  ready  to  put  in  a  phone  call  to  the  NCAA 
to  find  out  if  eighth  graders  could  be  made  eligible.  Short  of  that, 
he  put  Hillman  in  the  lineup  one  day.  "Joe,  I  know  you  can't 
play  in  the  games  and  I  know  your  knee  still  hurts,  but  this  is 
for  me.  I'm  just  sick  of  this  horseshit  guard  play.  I  can't  watch 
it  anymore. " 

In  the  meantime,  Morgan  and  Robinson  suffered.  They  would 
survive,  though.  That's  what  Morgan  and  Robinson  were — sur- 
vivors. They  had  played  together  in  high  school  and  had  come  to 
Indiana  one  year  apart  only  to  end  up  in  the  same  class  because 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    233 


of  Morgan's  injury.  They  were  the  two  funniest  players  on  the 
team,  the  suppHers  of  most  of  the  nicknames. 

This  was  not  a  team  full  of  lively  nicknames.  Courtney  Witte 
was  "Whopper,"  partly  because  he  was  a  fan  of  former  NBA 
player  Billy  Paultz,  and  partly  because  he  resembled  the  somewhat 
portly  Paultz  in  both  build  and  (lack  of)  quickness.  Andre  Harris 
had  become  "Grace"  because  of  his  Grace  Jones  haircut.  Daryl 
Thomas  was  "D  Train,"  usually  shortened  to  "Train."  Alford 
was  "Fred,"  which  was  short  for  "Alfred,"  a  nickname  Dakich 
had  put  on  him  the  year  before.  Among  the  players.  Knight  was 
often  referred  to  as  "the  big  man." 

Robinson  had  a  knack  for  keeping  things  loose.  More  than 
anyone  around  he  could  make  Knight  laugh.  His  timing  could 
not  have  been  better  the  night  before  the  Wisconsin  game.  Practice 
had  once  again  been  tight.  When  the  players  returned  for  the 
evening  walk-through,  Robinson  walked  into  the  locker  room 
wearing  a  T-shirt  that  said  "Puerto  Rico"  on  it. 

The  other  players  were  stunned.  "Are  you  crazy?"  Joe  Hillman 
asked. 

"Only  one  I  got  clean,"  Robinson  said. 

When  Kohn  Smith  saw  the  shirt  he  did  a  double  take.  "Oh 
boy.  Stew,  are  you  in  trouble."  Everyone  was  beginning  to  con- 
vulse in  giggles  by  now.  Smith  went  outside  to  join  Knight  and 
the  other  coaches  who  were  on  their  way  in.  "Stew  is  going  to 
try  to  hide  his  shirt  from  you,"  Smith  said  grinning. 

Knight  walked  in  the  door  and  before  he  even  turned  the  corner 
he  was  yelling,  "Stew!" 

"Right  here,"  came  Robinson's  voice  in  reply. 
Knight  walked  around  the  partition.  Robinson  was  holding  his 
notebook  up  to  hide  the  shirt.  Knight  walked  over  and  pulled  the 
notebook  down.  He  looked  at  Robinson.  Robinson  looked  at  him. 
Calmly,  Knight  took  the  shirt  by  the  collar  and  with  both  hands 
ripped  it  right  in  half.  One  side  said  "Puerto,"  the  other  side  said 
"Rico." 

"Stew,"  Knight  said,  "that's  exactly  the  way  we  left  Puerto 
Rico."  He  was  fighting  a  losing  battle  with  a  huge  grin.  The 
players  were  falling  off  their  chairs.  As  they  went  outside.  Knight 
disappeared.  A  moment  later  he  came  back  carrying  a  shirt  to 


234    John  Feinstein 


replace  the  one  he  had  ripped.  The  team  formed  a  circle  around 
Robinson  as  he  tried  it  on.  It  was  a  shirt  left  over  from  the 
Olympics,  one  Knight  had  been  given  right  after  the  Russians 
announced  their  boycott.  It  read:  "Let  The  Russians  Play  With 
Themselves." 

"I  hke  that  one  better.  Stew,  don't  you?"  Knight  said. 
"Absolutely,"  Robinson  said.  "It's  not  ripped." 
It  was  as  loose  a  night-before  walk-through  as  the  team  had 
had  all  season. 

If  they  had  come  out  the  next  night  and  blown  Wisconsin  back 
to  Madison,  the  loose  atmosphere  might  have  prevailed  for  a  few 
days.  But  in  spite  of  Knight's  warnings  that  the  crowd  would  be 
dead  (it  was),  that  Wisconsin  would  be  ready  to  play  (it  was),  and 
that  the  game  would  not  be  a  walkover  (it  wasn't),  the  Hoosiers 
just  weren't  ready  to  play  at  their  peak.  Maybe  Knight  was  a  httle 
bit  to  blame  for  this.  For  all  his  talk  during  the  week  about  treating 
this  game  the  same  as  Illinois  or  Purdue,  he  was  not  wound  up 
the  way  he  would  have  been  on  game  day  for  one  of  those  schools. 
He  was  even  late  for  pregame  meal  because  he  was  giving  pro 
golfer  and  friend  Fuzzy  Zoeller  a  tour  of  the  campus. 

There  were-  warnings.  At  pregame  meal  the  players'  note  for 
the  day  read:  "Wisconsin  69,  Iowa  63;  Iowa  79,  Indiana  69  .  .  . 
And  it  wasn't  that  close!" 

The  players  ate  their  spaghetti  in  silence. 
Father  Higgins  was  in  the  locker  room  prior  to  the  game.  His 
presence  reminded  everyone  of  Knight's  now-famous  "God  busi- 
ness" line  before  the  Notre  Dame  game.  Now,  when  Knight  walked 
in  and  saw  Higgins,  he  thought  about  the  horrid  weather  outside. 
^'Padre,"  he  asked,  "can  God  see  through  the  rain?" 
"It  was  hard  for  anyone  to  see  coming  down  from  Indy,"  Hig- 
gins answered. 

Knight  was  writing  the  lineups  on  the  board.  "You  know,"  he 
said,  "I  worry  about  you  people.  If  we  had  a  Methodist  in  here, 
we  wouldn't  have  any  problems.  .  .  .  Right,  Stew?" 
"Right." 

Loose,  everyone  was  loose.  Then  they  went  out  and  played 
atrociously.  Todd  Meier  started  in  place  of  the  benched  Andre 
Harris,  who  would  play  exactly  four  minutes.  After  the  game. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    235 


when  Knight  was  asked  what  Harris's  problem  was,  he  answered 
simply,  "Not  going  to  class  is  Harris's  problem." 

Just  before  the  tipoff.  Knight  called  Rick  Olson,  Wisconsin's 
only  senior  starter,  over  to  the  bench.  This  was  the  continuation 
of  a  tradition.  Each  season,  when  Indiana  plays  its  last  game 
against  a  Big  Ten  opponent.  Knight  will  call  the  seniors  over  before 
the  game  begins.  He  tells  them  briefly  how  much  he  has  enjoyed 
competing  against  them,  wishes  them  luck,  and  shakes  hands. 
Occasionally,  the  sight  of  Knight  waving  them  over  will  confuse 
a  player.  Later  in  the  season,  when  Knight  waved  lUinois's  Scott 
Meents  over  for  his  valedictory,  Meents  walked  away  from  him. 
That  was  too  bad.  Even  in  the  darkest  moments  of  1985,  Knight 
had  stuck  to  this  tradition. 

Olson  was  clearly  delighted  by  Knight's  gesture.  Then  he  went 
about  the  business  of  trying  to  whip  Knight's  team.  He  came  a 
lot  closer  than  Knight  might  have  anticipated.  Indiana  led  early, 
14-10,  after  a  Robinson  steal  had  set  up  two  Morgan  free  throws. 
But  Wisconsin  came  back,  tying  the  game  at  16-16,  then  taking 
the  lead  on  an  Olson  jumper  a  moment  later.  The  lead  seesawed 
until  the  last  minute  when  Wisconsin  center  Gregg  Steinhaus 
twice  beat  Indiana  players  to  rebounds.  He  was  fouled  each  time 
and  made  all  four  free  throws,  the  last  two  with  three  seconds 
left,  giving  Wisconsin  a  34-31  halftime  lead. 

Relatively  speaking.  Knight  had  not  yet  gone  berserk  at  half- 
time.  He  had  not  quit  his  job,  threatened  to  start  a  whole  new 
team,  or  told  them  he  wasn't  going  to  bother  coaching  them 
anymore.  But  now  he  was  disgusted. 

He  walked  to  the  locker-room  board  and  drew  a  heart  on  it. 
"Does  anyone  in  here  know  what  that  is?  Huh?  I  wouldn't  think 
anyone  in  here  would  know  what  it  is  because  it's  a  heart  and  no 
one  in  here  has  any.  You  just  played  twenty  minutes  of  basketball 
that  was  totally  devoid  of  any  heart.  No  heart  whatsoever.  You've 
played  like  losers,  you've  acted  like  losers,  you've  wimped,  you've 
whined,  you've  been  sick,  you  cry,  you're  hurt.  I  hope  you're 
proud  of  yourselves.  I  really  wonder  if  you  care  about  winning." 

He  left  briefly,  then  returned. 

"How  many  national  championships  do  I  have  to  win  before 
you  people  will  Usten  to  me?"  he  said.  "Four?  Five?  How  many? 


236     John  Feinstein 


We  told  you  and  told  you  that  you  had  to  be  ready  to  play  tonight 
and  look  what  happens.  We  told  you  nothing  was  automatic. 

"I  cannot  coach  you  boys  when  you  play  hke  this.  I  can't  take 
it  anymore.  I  can't.  I'm  so  discouraged  and  tired  of  you  people 
not  playing  like  you  can  that  I  don't  know  if  I  want  to  coach  you 
anymore.  I  just  can't  take  it  anymore.  But  I'll  do  something  about 
that  after  the  game." 

These  last  words  genuinely  scared  the  players.  It  was  all  timing. 
That  afternoon,  several  of  them  had  heard  a  report  on  television 
insisting  that  Knight  was  going  to  Ohio  State.  Now,  he  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  them  telling  them  he  didn't  want  to  coach  them 
anymore — that  was  hardly  new — but  adding,  "/'//  do  something 
about  that  after  the  game." 

"Do  you  think  he  means  it?"  Kreigh  Smith  asked  Joe  Hillman 
as  they  left  the  locker  room.  Hillman  just  shrugged.  Indiana's 
players  may  have  moments  when  they  can't  stand  Knight,  when 
they  think  he  is  crazy,  when  they  wonder  why  they  ever  came 
to  Indiana.  But  most  of  the  time,  they  want  to  play  for  Bob  Knight. 
The  thought  of  Knight's  leaving  scared  them. 

Knight  had  just  been  talking,  of  course.  He  had  not  talked  to 
Ohio  State,  nor  did  he  plan  to.  Ohio  State  knew  this.  In  fact,  Rick 
Bay  would  call  Knight  to  ask  him  for  a  recommendation.  But  he 
would  not  call  him  to  offer  a  job. 

This  was  hardly  the  first  time  Knight  had  threatened  to  quit. 
In  1984,  after  a  loss  at  home  to  Michigan  State,  Knight  actually 
did  quit.  He  walked  in  and  told  Ralph  Floyd  he  didn't  want  to 
coach  anymore.  The  team  went  on  to  Purdue  for  their  next  game 
without  Knight.  Floyd  kept  phoning  asking  him  to  come  back. 
Knight  kept  saying  no.  Finally,  he  relented.  Indiana  won  that 
game. 

That  had  been  a  vintage  year  for  mind  games.  Earlier  in  the 
season,  after  a  loss  at  home  to  Purdue,  Knight  kicked  the  entire 
team  out  of  the  locker  room.  He  ordered  Garl  to  have  all  the 
carpeting  taken  up,  the  signs  taken  down  and  everything  removed 
from  the  players'  lockers  because,  "the  SOBs  don't  deserve  a 
locker  room  the  way  they're  playing."  He  ordered  the  assistant 
coaches  not  to  prepare  for  the  next  game  against  Michigan  State, 
and  he  ordered  Garl  not  to  make  any  travel  plans.  He  refused  to 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    237 


take  part  in  practice,  sitting  on  a  stationary  bicycle  while  senior 
Cam  Cameron  and  Dakich  ran  practice.  At  one  point,  he  called 

Dakich  over  and  told  him,  "If  I  were  running  this  f practice 

I'd  put  Blab  in  the  middle  of  a  circle  and  have  everyone  throw 

the  f ball  at  him  until  he  learns  to  catch  it!"  While  this  was 

going  on,  assistant  coaches  Kohn  Smith  and  Royce  Waltman  had 
locked  themselves  in  the  players'  locker  room  so  they  could  put 
together  tapes  because  they  knew  that  at  the  last  minute  Knight 
would  want  to  prepare.  When  the  team  arrived  in  East  Lansing, 
sure  enough.  Knight  asked  if  the  coaches  happened  to  have  any 
tapes  with  them.  By  golly,  they  just  happened  to  have  some. 
Indiana  won  that  game,  too.  The  players  were  restored  to  the 
locker  room.  Knight  got  off  the  bicycle  and  coached  at  practice 
again. 

Tonight's  ploy  had  the  same  end  result.  Indiana  pulled  together 
in  the  second  half,  but  it  wasn't  easy.  An  Alford  jump  shot  with 
12:18  to  go  put  them  ahead  50-48.  One  minute  later,  Olson  fouled 
out.  Heineman,  who  had  again  played  well  against  the  team  from 
his  home  state,  went  a  couple  of  minutes  later.  Wisconsin  ran 
out  of  players. 

And  Indiana  got  the  boost  it  needed  from  Courtney  Witte.  This 
was  the  unlikeliest  hero  on  the  team.  Once,  during  preseason. 
Knight  had  been  so  down  on  Witte  that  he  deemed  him  not  worthy 
of  practicing  with  the  team.  Witte  had  been  banished  to  the  end 
basket  to  work  on  his  own  in  scrimmage  situations  for  several 
days. 

But  Witte  had  slowly  worked  his  way  back.  He  was  never  going 
to  be  a  great  player  and  had  been  recruited  as  something  of  a 
desperation  measure.  One  year  earlier,  he  had  broken  his  foot 
twice  and  had  to  sit  out  the  season.  His  weight  ballooned  and 
coming  back  had  been  difficult.  But  with  Harris  benched  and 
Knight  angry  with  Eyl  for  a  poor  first  half,  Witte  got  his  chance. 

He  took  advantage.  Right  away,  he  grabbed  a  rebound.  Royce 
Waltman  always  maintained  that  Witte  was  one  of  those  players 
who  would  always  grab  the  first  rebound  anytime  you  put  him 
in  the  game.  That  was  what  Witte  did  as  a  basketball  player — he 
rebounded.  Against  Wisconsin,  Indiana  needed  that.  Before  he 
was  through,  Witte  had  five  rebounds  and  had  converted  them 


238     John  Feinstein 


into  six  points.  He  even  made  a  steal,  and  when  he  came  out  of 
the  game  the  crowd  became  excited  for  the  only  time  all  night, 
giving  him  a  standing  ovation. 

With  Witte  doing  the  job  inside  and  Alford  warming  up  outside 
for  twenty-three  points,  Indiana  finally  pulled  away — but  not 
until  the  last  three  minutes.  It  was  66-63  when  Alford  hit  a  bomb 
with  4:12  left  and  Calloway  hit  a  short  bank  thirty  seconds  later 
to  make  it  70-63.  That  was  the  biggest  lead  I.U.  had  enjoyed  all 
night.  Wisconsin  crept  to  within  five,  but  Witte  rebounded  a 
missed  Daryl  Thomas  free  throw  and  fed  Alford  for  a  jumper  that 
made  it  74-65  with  1:35  to  go.  Wisconsin  was  dead — finally. 

There  was  little  joy  in  the  locker  room.  Witte  was  the  one 
player  everyone  made  a  point  of  congratulating,  but  even  that 
was  bittersweet.  Because  as  Witte  accepted  the  pats  and  the  hand- 
shakes, Joby  Wright,  standing  nearby,  cracked,  "Hell,  what's  the 
big  deal?  Whopp's  on  scholarship.  He's  supposed  to  contribute, 
isn't  he?" 

The  comment  froze  everyone.  Wright  had  let  his  frustration 
with  Harris  show  in  front  of  the  team.  Wright  had  put  heart  and 
soul  into  making  Harris  a  productive  part  of  the  program,  and  at 
that  moment  it  looked  like  the  whole  project  was  going  down  the 
drain.  Wright  was  at  wit's  end  trying  to  figure  out  how  to  get  to 
Harris.  That  feeling  of  hopelessness  was  never  more  evident  than 
at  that  moment  when  he  took  his  verbal  swipe  at  poor  Witte. 
Wright  wasn't  being  mean — he  is  not  a  mean  person.  But  the 
events  of  that  week  had  drained  him,  and  the  words  were  out  of 
his  mouth  before  he  knew  how  much  they  would  sting. 

For  his  part.  Knight  had  little  to  say.  "I  just  don't  understand 
you  people,"  he  said.  "I  don't  understand  how  you  can  continue 
to  play  this  way.  I  think  it's  a  damn  shame  to  play  this  way 
against  a  team  you  know  you  can  beat  like  this.  You  almost  let 
them  take  this  game  away  from  you.  I  don't  understand  you  boys, 
I'm  sorry.  I  wish  I  did,  but  I  don't.  Tell  you  what,  you  come  in 
tomorrow  whenever  the  hell  you  want  to." 

He  left.  "Regular  time,"  Robinson  said,  and  everyone  nodded. 
It  was  Alford  who  sounded  the  warning  signal:  "Let's  make  sure," 
he  said,  "that  we  don't  let  this  turn  into  last  year."  Even  at 
15-5,  the  specter  of  last  year  just  wouldn't  go  away.  They  had 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    239 


little  to  say  to  one  another  as  they  dressed.  The  victory  hardly 
felt  like  a  victory. 

Nothing  happened  the  next  day  to  change  that  feeling.  Garl 
had  spoken  to  Dr.  Bomba  after  the  game,  asking  him  to  remind 
Knight  thet  they  had  played  sick  against  Wisconsin.  Even  the 
healthy  players  weren't  really  healthy.  Remembering  Japan,  Garl 
didn't  want  to  be  the  one  to  point  this  out,  so  he  asked  Bomba 
to  do  it. 

Knight  was  not  going  to  be  waylaid  in  his  anger  by  the  old  sick 
routine.  He  knew  the  players  were  not  100  percent,  but  he  was 
still  upset  by  their  play.  Once  again,  he  began  questioning  the 
recruiting  process.  Mike  Heineman,  he  decided,  should  have  been 
recruited.  "Not  getting  him  was  a  disaster,"  Knight  said.  Dakich, 
Blab,  Robinson,  Morgan,  and  Alford  should  not  have  been  re- 
cruited. "We'll  never  be  any  good  until  we've  gotten  rid  of  all  of 
them.  Alford  will  never,  and  I  mean  never,  guard  anybody.  We've 
done  a  terrible  job  evaluating  players." 

Knight  reacted  to  this  victory  almost  as  if  it  were  a  loss.  He 
was  looking  ahead.  After  Northwestern  on  Saturday,  five  of  the 
last  seven  games  would  be  on  the  road.  That  scared  him.  His  final 
words  to  the  coaches  on  Thursday  night  were  haunting:  "Every 

time  we  play  a  f game  I  want  to  throw  up  at  the  way  we've 

recruited  for  three  years." 

That  was  the  mood  Knight  was  in  when  they  came  in  the  next 
afternoon.  There  would  be  no  practice.  Instead,  the  players  would 
have  to  watch  the  entire  Wisconsin  game  on  tape.  "We  don't 
need  to  practice,"  Knight  said.  "I  know  you  can  practice.  What 
we've  got  to  do  is  go  through  this  tape  so  you  people  can  see  how 
bad  you  were  in  this  game." 

Actually,  they  would  have  been  more  than  willing  to  take  Knight's 
word  on  how  bad  they  had  been.  But  that  wasn't  about  to  happen. 
The  tape  session  lasted  two  hours.  Then  they  went  to  eat  and 
came  back  for  a  walk-through  on  Northwestern.  There  was  good 
news,  though:  Knight  had  left  early  to  go  to  a  high  school  game. 
That  loosened  things  up  considerably. 

Knight  had  gone  to  see  a  game  with  Hammel  and  Bob  Murray. 
Murray  was  a  good  friend  and  a  business  associate.  He  arranged 


240    John  Feinstein 


most  of  Knight's  coaching  cHnics  during  the  off-season.  Fre- 
quently, Murray  made  the  four-hour  drive  from  Chicago  on 
Thursday  and  stayed  through  Saturday. 

As  they  drove,  Knight  asked  Murray  how  he  would  grade  him 
on  his  bench  behavior  so  far.  "On  a  scale  of  one  to  ten,"  Murray 
answered,  "I'll  give  you  a  six  with  the  officials.  I  think  most  of 
the  time  you've  controlled  yourself.  On  dealing  with  the  players, 
I  give  you  a  four." 

"A  four?"  Knight  said.  "I  think  I've  been  a  lot  better  than 
that. " 

"I  don't,"  Murray  said.  "Last  night  sitting  up  in  the  stands  I 
could  hear  you  very  clearly  cursing  when  you  got  mad  at  the 
kids.  There's  no  way  I  can  give  you  more  than  a  four." 

Knight  was  surprised  by  his  answer.  Murray  is  an  unusual 
friend  in  that  he  is  willing  to  tell  Knight  what  he  thinks  even  if 
he  knows  Knight  won't  like  the  answer.  It  isn't  easy  to  tell  Knight 
the  truth,  especially  where  his  temper  is  concerned,  because  he 
often  doesn't  understand  the  effect  it  has  on  the  public's  perception 
of  him.  Murray  was  one  of  the  few  people  willing  to  tell  Knight 
this.  Hearing  these  things  never  improved  Knight's  mood.  He 
wanted  to  be  told  he  was  terrific.  Instead,  Murray  had  told  him 
he  wasn't  even  close. 

The  next  morning,  the  Wisconsin  hangover  was  still  evident. 
During  the  walk-through,  Calloway,  who  had  been  three  for  ten 
against  Wisconsin,  missed  a  short  shot.  "Ricky,  did  you  practice 
on  your  own  at  all  yesterday?"  Knight  asked.  Calloway  shook  his 
head.  "This  morning?"  Same  answer. 

"Dakich,  Bartow,  why  didn't  you  take  some  initiative  and  get 
Calloway  out  shooting  last  night?  Why  don't  any  of  you  people 
get  on  Calloway  for  not  shooting  or  get  on  Harris  for  not  going 
to  class?  Ricky,  how  can  you  shoot  better  tonight  than  you  did 
on  Thursday  without  practicing?  Answer  me,  Ricky." 

"I  can't." 

"That's  right,  you  can't.  So  you  won't  play  tonight.  Get  out 
of  there.  Stew,  take  his  place." 

Mind  games.  Calloway  had  been  sick  all  week,  probably  sicker 
than  anyone  on  the  team.  His  poor  game  had  been  understandable. 
If  Indiana  had  been  playing  someone  tough  instead  of  North- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    241 


western,  Knight  never  would  have  benched  him  for  a  crime  so 
minor  as  not  shooting  on  his  own.  But  Knight  wanted  to  jolt  the 
team  and  this  was  one  way  to  do  it.  He  kept  on  them  in  the  locker 
room  before  the  walk-through  that  afternoon. 

"You  know,  Randy  Wittman  is  going  to  be  here  tonight,  boys. 
When  Wittman  was  here,  he  would  haven't  put  up  with  Harris 
for  five  minutes.  He  would  have  told  Harris  to  go  to  class  or  he 
couldn't  play  for  his  team.  He  would  have  been  out  there  shooting 
last  night  with  Calloway.  I  never  once  had  to  tell  Randy  Wittman 
anything,  except  to  shoot  the  ball  more.  He  was  what  Indiana 
basketball  is  about.  None  of  you  are." 

Wittman  would  be  amazed  that  night  when  he  learned  that  he 
had  been  nominated  for  sainthood.  This  was  the  same  Wittman 
who  had  been  told  not  to  come  back  for  his  fifth  year  by  Knight, 
the  same  Wittman  who  had  been  banished  from  the  locker  room 
with  his  fellow  seniors  so  as  not  to  infect  the  others  with  their 
losing  attitude,  the  same  Wittman  who  had  played  on  the  four 

worst  f teams  in  Indiana  history.  Now  he  was  what  Indiana 

basketball  was  all  about. 

There  were  guests  at  the  walk-through  that  afternoon.  Knight 
had  invited  the  Loper  family  to  the  game  that  night.  The  Lopers 
were  the  people  who  had  introduced  themselves  to  Knight  in  the 
Bob  Evans  restaurant  in  Indianapolis  with  young  Garland  acting 
as  spokesman  for  his  deaf-mute  father  and  brother.  They  had 
come  to  the  game  along  with  Garland's  mother  and  sister. 

After  the  walk-through,  Knight  took  Garland  and  his  father 
into  the  locker  room.  Through  his  son,  Robert  Loper  told  the 
players  how  proud  he  was  of  them  and  how  much  he  was  pulling 
for  them.  When  Garland  was  through  speaking,  each  player  got 
up  and  shook  hands  with  both  Lopers.  After  they  were  gone. 
Knight  looked  at  the  players  and  said,  softly,  "And  you  guys 
think  you  have  problems  to  overcome." 

They  overcame  Northwestern  with  little  trouble.  Northwestern 
was  beaten  down  by  this  point  and  could  not  have  beaten  Indiana 
if  Knight  had  started  himself  at  center.  But  the  lead  was  only 
38-26  at  the  half.  Knight  started  Witte  as  a  reward  for  his  play 
against  Wisconsin.  Calloway  was  released  from  purgatory  with 
seven  minutes  left  in  the  half.  He  started  the  second  half,  and  it 


242     John  Feinstein 


was  his  breakaway  dunk  off  a  pretty  Alford  pass  that  got  things 
roUing.  Calloway  made  a  steal  and  fed  Steve  Eyl  for  a  dunk. 
Morgan  hit  from  twenty  feet.  Alford  hit.  Then  Morgan,  then 
Calloway.  They  ran  off  fourteen  straight  points  to  build  a  58-34 
lead,  and  Knight  finally  relaxed.  The  final  was  77-52. 

Knight  was  so  pleased  he  even  talked  in  the  press  conference 
about  how  well  he  thought  the  team  had  done.  "You  know,  in 
view  of  all  the  injuries  and  illnesses  we've  had,  these  kids  have 
done  a  great  job  getting  to  where  they  are.  They're  8-3  in  the 
Big  Ten  and  16-5  overall,  and  that's  more  wins  than  we  had  all 
of  last  year.  I'm  not  the  greatest  guy  at  passing  out  compliments, 
but  these  kids  really  deserve  it." 

Heck,  someday  some  of  them  might  be  worthy  of  carrying 
Randy  Wittman's  jock. 

Knight  could  go  from  sour  to  sanguine  almost  as  quickly  as  he 
could  go  the  other  way.  He  was  so  delighted  with  the  team's 
second-half  performance  that  he  took  the  coaches  out  for  dinner 
and  even  had  a  little  postgame  sangria.  They  now  had  eight  days 
off  to  get  ready  for  the  season's  last  big  push.  The  rest  would  be 
needed.  And  what  would  they  do  about  Harris? 

As  luck  would  have  it,  Harris's  mother  had  come  down  for  the 
weekend.  When  her  son  had  told  her  why  he  was  benched — he 
played  ten  minutes  total  in  the  two  games — she  had  told  him  that 
she  agreed  with  what  Knight  was  doing.  After  the  Northwestern 
game,  she  told  Knight  the  same  thing.  "I  think  I've  spoiled  him," 
she  said.  "He's  never  had  a  strong  male  influence  in  his  hfe.  I 
think  he  needs  it." 

A  few  days  later.  Knight  took  Harris  aside.  "Andre,"  he  said, 
"how  about  if  you  and  I  work  together  to  get  you  going  in  the 
right  direction?  I  like  your  mom  too  much  to  let  you  screw  this 
all  up.  Okay?"  Given  a  reprieve,  Harris  was  eager  to  go  along. 
That  weekend  would  be  the  turning  point  of  his  season. 

That  night,  though,  Knight's  mind  was  on  what  had  been  ac- 
complished, not  what  was  to  come.  "You  know  something,"  he 
said  as  he  dug  into  a  plate  of  chicken  wings,  "this  season  could 
turn  out  to  be  fun." 

They  were  twenty-one  and  seven. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    243 


1^. 

Seven -Came  Season 

After  the  victory  over  Northwestern,  Indiana  was  tied  for  first 
place  in  the  Big  Ten  with  Michigan.  Both  had  8-3  records,  but 
Michigan  would  play  five  of  its  last  seven  games  at  home  while 
Indiana  played  five  of  seven  on  the  road.  "We're  not  really  in 
first  place,"  Knight  said.  "That's  just  paper  money.  We  can't  beat 
Michigan." 

Knight  was  more  concerned  with  making  certain  of  an  NCAA 
tournament  bid.  He  kept  saying  that  nineteen  victories  would  be 
good  enough  to  get  in.  Actually,  with  Indiana's  reputation  and 
schedule,  seventeen  would  almost  certainly  do  it,  but  Knight  didn't 
want  to  be  borderline.  His  goal  was  nineteen  wins;  anything 
beyond  that  would  be  gravy. 

With  eight  days  to  get  ready  for  Ohio  State  (it  was  traveling- 
partner  week  again).  Knight  gave  the  players  two  days  off  while 
he  went  on  another  recruiting  trip.  Wright  had  convinced  him  to 
see  Keith  Smart  again  and  to  go  to  Chicago  to  meet  with  a  high 
school  coach  named  Landon  Cox.  Knight  had  been  publicly  critical 
of  Cox  in  the  past  and  hadn't  recruited  any  of  his  players  for 
several  years.  Wright  had  set  up  what  amounted  to  a  peace  talk, 
and  Knight  was  willing  to  go  along. 

Everyone  needed  the  rest.  The  players  were  sore,  sick,  and, 
above  all,  tired.  It  had  been  four  months  since  practice  began,  and 
there  had  been  very  few  days  off.  With  the  toughest  stretch  of 
the  season  about  to  start,  they  needed  a  few  days  of  not  looking 
at  or  thinking  about  anything  to  do  with  basketball. 

Knight  came  back  from  Chicago  late  Tuesday.  His  meeting  with 
Cox  had  gone  well.  He  had  only  one  problem  to  deal  with  before 
he  could  turn  his  full  attention  to  Ohio  State.  That  was  Ohio 
State. 

The  rumors  about  his  taking  the  job  there  had  persisted,  and 
now  a  Cleveland  TV  station  had  reported  that  Knight  would  be 
the  next  coach.  What  flabbergasted  Knight  was  that  Rick  Bay, 
when  asked  if  that  were  true,  had  responded,  "No  comment." 
Knight  knew  the  press  would  take  a  "no  comment"  to  mean  there 


244    John  Feinstein 


might  be  truth  to  the  story;  it  was  time  for  him  to  get  this  over 
with.  He  put  out  a  statement  saying  that  not  only  was  he  not 
interested  in  going  to  Ohio  State,  but  "I  plan  to  finish  my  coaching 
career  at  Indiana." 

End  of  speculation.  Finally.  The  players — who  had  followed  the 
rumors — were  relieved. 

The  short  practice  had  now  become  almost  standard  operating 
procedure.  Even  with  the  team  rested,  Knight  knew  that  running 
them  into  the  ground  would  be  foolish.  They  practiced  lightly 
getting  ready  for  the  Sunday  game,  and  the  tone  of  practice  was 
calm. 

It  was  so  calm  that  as  they  ate  breakfast  on  Sunday  morning, 
Alford  and  Meier  couldn't  help  but  think  back  a  year.  Both  felt 
their  coach  had  turned  around  180  degrees.  Even  with  the  occa- 
sional blowups,  the  mind  games  and  all,  this  was  a  totally  different 
Knight  from  the  one  they  had  seen  in  the  past.  He  was  patient. 
He  reminded  himself  to  teach  and  not  to  rail. 

"It's  hke  he  knows  he  has  to  be  more  patient  with  this  team," 
Alford  said.  "He  seems  to  know  when  he  can  push  and  when  he 
can't  push." 

The  players  didn't  need  much  pushing  for  this  game.  The  be- 
ginning of  the  nightmare  had  been  here  in  Columbus  last  winter, 
when  they  lost  to  Ohio  State  by  two.  If  Knight  was  ever  given  a 
truth  drug  and  asked  what  one  game  he  most  wanted  to  win  every 
year,  he  would  answer  either  the  game  at  Purdue  or  the  game  at 
Ohio  State.  He  didn't  like  Purdue,  and  he  seemed  to  still  have 
something  to  prove  to  Ohio  State.  St.  John  Arena  was  the  place 
where  he  had  chafed  on  the  bench,  where  he  had  just  been  another 
face  in  the  crowd.  Now,  when  he  came  home,  he  was  a  star,  and, 
hke  any  kid  performing  in  front  of  people  he  had  grown  up  with, 
he  wanted  to  say,  "Look  what  I've  done."  Winning  was  the  best 
way  to  do  this. 

"There  are  some  games,"  Alford  told  Calloway  that  morning, 
"that  it  is  best  not  to  lose."  Calloway,  an  Ohio  kid  himself,  knew 
what  Alford  meant. 

They  didn't  lose.  Finally  rested,  they  played  perhaps  their  best 
game,  start  to  finish,  since  Notre  Dame.  They  trailed  early,  once 
again  having  trouble  with  Sellers's  size  inside.  But  Harris  was 
finally  playing  the  way  he  had  been  coached  to  play  since  October. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    245 


He  was  staying  near  the  basket,  not  wheeling  and  deahng  with 
the  basketball,  and  he  was  rebounding.  Calloway  had  found  his 
shooting  touch.  And  Alford  was,  well,  Alford. 

He  was  the  catalyst  late  in  the  first  half  when  Indiana  took 
control  of  the  game.  He  made  six  straight  free  throws  to  give  the 
Hoosiers  a  27-23  lead.  A  moment  later,  he  rebounded  a  Robinson 
miss  for  a  basket.  Harris  came  up  with  a  pretty  tip-in,  and  Thomas 
made  two  foul  shots.  Then  Alford  made  a  gorgeous  backdoor  cut, 
Harris  found  him,  and  it  was  a  three-point  play  for  a  38-28  lead. 
They  got  sloppy  in  the  last  two  minutes,  and  the  lead  was  just 
38-34  at  the  half. 

There  were  no  explosions,  though.  Knight  knew  his  team  had 
played  well.  "Just  stay  patient  and  we're  fine,"  he  said.  "As  long 
as  we're  patient,  we'll  get  good  shots." 

No  problem.  Ohio  State  got  to  within  three  early,  but  Alford 
and  Calloway  built  the  lead  quickly  back  to  nine.  The  game  began 
to  resemble  the  one  in  Bloomington:  Ohio  State  would  close  the 
gap,  Indiana  would  widen  it.  It  got  to  63-52  with  9:50  left  after 
a  Morgan  steal.  Ohio  State  sneaked  back  to  69-64  with  5:30  left. 
Knight  called  time.  He  wanted  to  spread  the  offense  out  and  run 
some  time  off  the  forty-five-second  clock  on  each  possession. 
Shorten  the  game.  He  still  had  not  raised  his  voice  once  in  a 
huddle  the  entire  game.  Maybe  he  was  remembering  last  year 
and  controlling  himself.  Maybe  he  was  rested. 

There  was  one  brief  scare  after  the  time-out.  Thomas  picked 
up  his  fourth  foul,  charging  Sellers.  The  crowd  was  raising  a 
ruckus.  Ohio  State  could  get  to  within  three.  But  Hopson  walked. 
A  moment  later,  Calloway,  using  a  brilliant  first  step,  drove  into 
the  lane,  and  put  up  a  soft  seven-footer  to  make  it  71-64.  Sellers 
scored.  Thomas  answered.  Alford  missed,  but  Thomas  rebounded. 
They  ran  some  more  clock  before  Morgan  was  fouled.  He  made 
both  shots,  and  it  was  75-66  with  2:24  to  go.  They  just  worked 
the  clock  from  there,  Alford  making  nine  of  ten  free  throws  down 
the  stretch  to  finish  with  (ho-hum)  thirty-two  points.  Calloway 
had  sixteen,  Harris  fourteen  and  seven  rebounds.  The  final  was 
84-75. 

"That,"  said  Knight  to  the  coaches,  "was  an  awfully  big  win 
for  the  Hoosiers." 

He  was  excited.  He  had  watched  his  team  play  about  as  sound 


246    ]ohn  Feinstein 


a  game  as  possible.  "We  told  you  all  this  week  that  it  was  a  seven- 
game  season  now,"  he  said.  "Well,  now  it's  a  six-game  season 
and  we're  1-0.  That's  just  where  we  want  to  be." 

The  most  excited  man  in  the  room  was  Joby  Wright.  Again 
and  again  he  patted  Harris  on  the  back.  Finally,  Harris  had  played. 
Finally,  he  had  justified  all  the  work  and  all  the  time  and  all  the 
sweat  Wright  had  put  in.  "What  did  I  tell  you  about  Andre 
Harris?"  he  said  proudly  to  the  other  coaches.  They  were  happy, 
too.  Happy  for  Wright,  happy  for  Harris.  Most  of  all,  happy  to 
win. 

The  players  were  gurgling  happily  in  the  shower  when  the 
managers  came  in  to  get  them.  Woody  Hayes  was  in  the  locker 
room,  and  Knight  wanted  the  players  back  inside  to  meet  him. 
"Is  he  going  to  hit  us?"  Alford  asked  laughing. 

Hayes  was  in  no  shape  to  hit  anyone.  The  old  warrior  was  in 
a  wheelchair.  He  was  thin  and  his  voice  was  a  half-croak,  though 
his  words  were  as  clear  as  ever.  Knight  had  taken  a  class  that 
Hayes  taught  when  he  was  an  Ohio  State  undergraduate,  and  he 
had  remained  loyal  to  Hayes  even  after  Hayes  had  lost  his  job. 
In  fact.  Knight  had  been  the  one  who  talked  Hayes  into  calling 
the  player  he  had  slugged  to  apologize,  an  act  that  had  gone  a 
long  way  toward  exonerating  Hayes  in  the  eyes  of  many. 

Knight  wanted  Hayes  to  talk  to  the  team.  Hayes  told  them  that 
even  though  he  had  been  puHing  for  Ohio  State,  he  was  proud 
of  the  way  Indiana  had  played.  "If  you  boys  hsten  to  what  your 
coaches  tell  you,  you'll  do  just  fine,"  he  said.  "Always  remember 
to  listen.  It's  not  as  easy  to  do  as  it  sounds." 

One  by  one  the  players  came  by  to  shake  his  hand  while  Knight 
stood  by  the  wheelchair  with  his  arm  around  Hayes.  "Bobby,  this 
is  so  nice  of  you,"  he  said. 

"Nice  of  me?"  Knight  roared.  "Are  you  kidding?  This  is  as  big 
a  thrill  as  these  kids  will  ever  have,  getting  to  meet  you,  coach. 
This  is  a  really  big  thing  for  them.  They  all  know  who  you  are 
and  what  you  accomplished." 

If  truth  be  told,  the  players  would  have  preferred  to  have  stayed 
in  the  showers.  But  Knight's  words  left  Hayes  aglow.  He  beckoned 
Knight  toward  him.  Very  softly  he  said,  "They're  good  boys,  you 
know,  Bobby.  You  never  really  understand  how  much  you  love 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    14J 


them  until  you  aren't  around  them  anymore.  Remember  that, 
Bobby.  Enjoy  them  now." 

Knight  nodded.  "I  will,  coach.  I  promise." 

Ohio  State  had  been  conquered.  The  present  looked  bright  on 
Sunday.  But  on  Monday  it  was  time  to  go  glimpse  the  future. 
Knight  had  talked  about  Damon  Bailey  so  much  since  he  and 
Hammel  had  gone  to  see  him  play  that  it  had  become  a  running 
joke  among  the  players  and  coaches.  Whenever  someone  made 
an  extraordinary  play,  the  oft-made  comment  was,  "That's  good. 
Almost  as  good  as  Damon."  Larry  Bird  was  a  great  player.  How 
great?  "Almost  as  great  as  Damon." 

The  night  before  the  Ohio  State  game,  Knight  had  told  Fred 
Taylor  all  about  Damon  Bailey.  Taylor  was  skeptical.  He  began 
Hsting  other  phenoms  that  Knight  had  been  head  over  heels  in 
love  with.  No,  Knight  insisted,  this  was  different. 

It  was  time  to  see  this  paragon.  Monday  was  the  night.  An 
expedition  was  arranged.  Knight  would  play  chauffeur  for  three 
of  his  professor  friends.  A  second  car  would  carry  Felling  and 
Waltman.  Knight  led  the  way,  speeding  down  the  back  roads  of 
southern  Indiana  towards  Shawswicke.  When  a  third  car  suddenly 
appeared,  cutting  between  Knight  and  his  followers,  Waltman 
drew  back  in  mock  terror.  "Oh  my  God,"  he  cried.  "It  must  be 
the  Purdue  staff.  They're  trying  to  beat  us  to  Damon." 

In  the  back  seat.  Felling  was  having  a  great  time.  "Yeah,  I  can 
see  it  now,"  he  said.  "Tomorrow's  paper  will  have  a  headline: 
'Bailey  Signs  With  Indiana;  Will  Choose  High  School  Later.'  " 

It  was  that  way  all  the  way  to  Shawswicke.  When  Knight  started 
turning  down  tiny  back  roads.  Felling  began  going  on  in  lyrical 
tones:  "This  is  what  basketball  is  all  about.  A  boy,  a  dream,  a 
hoop.  The  back  roads  of  southern  Indiana  on  a  cold  winter's  night. 
Coaches  flocking  from  all  over  to  see  this  young  wonder.  The 
gym  appears  in  the  gloaming.  Hearts  skip  a  beat.  Could  it  be,  yes 
it  is.  The  Home  of  Damon." 

The  Home  of  Damon  was  a  rickety,  steamy  old  gym  that  was 
packed  full  with  about  1,500  people.  "Welcome  to  the  home  of 
the  Farmers,"  said  the  sign.  The  Farmers  had  not  lost  in  two  years 
and  were  pounding  their  opponent.  Oolitic,  16-0  after  the  first 


248     ]ohn  Feinstein 


quarter.  Bailey  was  about  six  inches  taller  (at  6-1)  than  anyone 
Oolitic  had.  He  dominated.  He  made  swooping  moves  to  the 
basket.  He  went  the  length  of  the  court.  He  put  the  ball  behind 
his  back.  He  also  missed  several  jump  shots  and  looked  almost 
human  at  times.  He  was  very,  very  good.  A  potential  star.  But 
still  just  a  fourteen-year-old  kid.  The  coaches  and  the  professors 
sat  high  in  the  bleachers  watching.  Knight  stood  by  the  door.  At 
halftime,  he  was  like  royalty  at  a  party.  Everyone  lined  up  to 
shake  his  hand,  say  hello,  and  take  his  picture.  They  all  knew 
why  the  legend  was  here.  He  was  here  to  see  Damon. 

In  the  stands,  Waltman  turned  to  Felling.  "What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think,"  Felling  answered,  "that  the  mentor  has  slipped  a 
cog." 

Bailey  was  very  mature.  And  a  very  nice  kid.  But  there  was 
no  way  he  could  even  think  of  competing  with  any  of  Indiana's 
guards.  No  eighth  grader  could.  Did  he  have  great  potential? 
Certainly.  But  to  put  any  label  on  him  at  fourteen  was  premature 
at  best,  ludicrous  at  worst.  Felling  went  so  far  as  to  say  he  had 
seen  better  eighth  graders.  "Maybe  he'll  be  the  greatest  player 
ever,"  Felling  said.  "But  who  can  tell  now?" 

They  left  before  the  game  was  over — Shawswicke  was  leading 
by  forty  and  Damon  had  been  taken  out  with  thirty-four  points — 
and  headed  for  the  cars.  "What  did  you  think?"  Knight  asked. 

Waltman,  ever  the  diplomat,  shook  his  head  and  said,  "He's 
pretty  good.  Very  good." 

"What  about  you,  FeUing?" 

"Well,  coach,  he's  good.  But  I  thought  Jay  Shidler  was  better 
in  eighth  grade  to  tell  you  the  truth  and  ..." 

Knight  waved  Felling  off  and  got  into  his  car.  It  took  forty 
minutes  to  get  back  to  Bloomington.  As  Knight  got  out  of  the 
car,  he  looked  at  Felling  and  said,  "You  know.  Felling,  I  just  knew, 
I  knew  you'd  come  up  with  an  eighth  grader  who  was  better." 

Felling  was  a  brave  man.  "You  know,  Marty  Simmons  was 
pretty  good  in  eighth  grade  too." 

Knight  was  losing  a  fight  with  his  mouth,  which  was  curling 
into  a  grin.  He  had  trouble  staying  angry  with  Felling.  His  mood 
was  too  good  to  be  ruined  anyway.  Only  four  more  seasons  and 
then  Damon  could  play  for  Indiana.  And,  in  fact,  the  coaches  were 
dehghted  to  see  Knight  this  eager  and  interested  in  the  future. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    249 


It  is  a  crisp  October  day  in  1990.  Damon  Bailey,  Indiana  fresh- 
man, fails  to  help  on  defense.  Knight  stops  practice.  "You  know, 
Bailey,  when  we  had  Alford  here  he  was  so  much  tougher  than 
you  it  wasn't  even  funny.  Why,  I  never  had  to  talk  to  him  about 
playing  defense  even  once  in  four  years!" 

That  was  a  ways  off.  For  now,  Damon  Bailey's  spot  in  the 
Basketball  Hall  of  Fame  was  secure. 


Even  if  Indiana  had  had  Damon  Bailey  in  uniform,  this  would 
have  been  the  toughest  week  of  the  season.  Playing  at  Illinois  and 
Purdue  was  never  easy,  and  playing  both  three  weeks  after  stealing 
games  from  them  in  the  final  minutes  in  Bloomington  would  make 
the  task  even  more  arduous. 

But  this  was  exactly  the  kind  of  week  Knight  cherished.  His 
team  was  already  overachieving,  with  a  9-3  Big  Ten  record.  It 
had  won  the  games  it  was  supposed  to  win  and  a  couple  it  probably 
wasn't  supposed  to  win.  Now,  facing  games  as  an  underdog,  Knight 
was  right  where  he  wanted  to  be.  A  victory  in  either  game  this 
week  would  be  cause  for  celebration.  Even  two  losses,  while  dis- 
appointing, would  not  be  devastating.  Knight  was  in  a  kidding, 
give-everyone-a-hard-time  mood  all  week. 

On  Tuesday,  when  he  walked  into  the  locker  room  before  prac- 
tice. Felling  was  already  there,  clowning  with  some  of  the  players. 
"You  got  'em  ready  for  Ilhnois,  Felling?"  Knight  asked. 

"I  thought  I'd  leave  that  to  the  main  man,"  Felling  answered. 

"Yeah,  well  Garl  [standing  nearby]  thinks  you're  chickenshit 
for  not  doing  it  yourself." 

"I'll  deal  with  Garl  later." 

By  now  the  players  were  making  ooh  sounds  as  if  they  expected 
to  see  Felling  and  Garl  rolling  on  the  carpet  at  any  second.  It  was 
easily  the  loosest  the  locker  room  had  been  all  season. 

Harris,  finally  able  to  peek  outside  the  doghouse  after  playing 
well  Sunday,  was  taking  a  beating  because  of  his  Grace  Jones 
haircut.  Alford  was  getting  it  because  he  had  been  quoted  in  a 
Columbus  paper  as  saying  he  wanted  someday  to  have  a  perfect 
shooting  game.  The  white  kids  were  on  the  black  kids  for  spending 
so  much  time  in  the  shower  every  day.  The  black  kids  were 
questioning  the  bathing  habits  of  the  white  kids. 

Even  mistakes  in  practice,  while  cause  for  concern,  didn't  bring 


250    ]ohn  Feinstein 


about  histrionics.  When  Kreigh  Smith,  who  had  only  been  back 
practicing  briefly  following  his  knee  surgery,  got  two  straight 
baskets.  Knight  asked,  "Is  Kreigh  Smith  paying  you  guys?"  When 
Calloway  missed  an  open  man,  instead  of  yelling.  Knight  asked 
him  what  he  had  done  wrong.  Calloway  told  him.  "See,  Ricky, 
in  November  you  wouldn't  have  known  what  you  did  wrong. 
Now  you  do.  That's  progress." 

Knight  was  also  getting  a  good  deal  done  off  the  court.  With 
coaching  vacancies  opening  around  the  country,  he  was  into  his 
annual  game  of  musical  coaches.  Often,  coaches  call  him  asking 
for  help  in  getting  a  job  because  they  know  that  to  many  athletic 
directors  Knight's  word  is  golden.  Sometimes,  Knight  makes  rec- 
ommendations without  being  asked. 

Paul  Giel,  the  athletic  director  at  Minnesota,  called  that  week 
to  ask  about  Bob  Donewald,  the  Illinois  State  coach.  Donewald, 
a  former  Knight  assistant,  was  happy  at  Illinois  State,  and  Knight 
didn't  think  he  would  take  the  job.  But,  he  told  Giel,  Tom  Miller, 
the  Cornell  coach,  would  be  interested  and  a  good  coach.  Miller, 
another  former  Knight  player  and  assistant  coach,  had  been  at 
Cornell  five  years.  Knight  thought  it  was  time  for  him  to  move 
up  the  ladder.  He  likened  Miller's  situation  to  the  one  Mike 
Krzyzewski  had  been  in  when  he  went  from  Army  to  Duke. 

"He's  not  that  well  known,  Paul,  but  he's  ready.  He's  a  very 
smart  young  coach  who  will  be  everything  you  want  on  and  off 
the  floor."  Invoking  Krzyzewski's  name  was  good  strategy,  since 
Duke  was  about  to  be  ranked  first  in  the  country.  Giel  was  in- 
trigued and  asked  Knight  if  he  would  make  a  preliminary  call  to 
Miller.  Knight  was  delighted. 

Knight  was  extremely  proud  of  his  coaching  proteges.  He  fol- 
lowed their  fortunes  closely  and  often  called  after  big  wins  or  big 
losses.  Usually,  after  a  big  win,  he  would  begin  the  conversation 
by  saying  something  unpleasant.  When  Tennessee  upset  Illinois 
early  in  the  season.  Knight  had  called  Don  DeVoe,  one  of  his 
early  Army  assistants,  and  demanded  to  know,  "Why  the  hell  did 
you  shake  hands  with  that  sonofabitch  Lou  Henson?" 

The  Knight  "family" — his  former  assistants  and  his  coaching 
mentors  like  Newell,  Taylor,  and  Iba — were  renowned  throughout 
the  college  basketball  world.  When  SMU  coach  Dave  Bliss  was 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    251 


under  NCAA  investigation  for  alleged  recruiting  violations,  some- 
one asked  Mike  Krzyzewski  if  Bliss  was  still  in  the  family.  "He's 
living  in  the  suburbs,"  Krzyzewski  answered.  Knight  would  never 
turn  on  a  family  member  publicly,  but  he  did  get  angry  some- 
times. When  Donewald  had  interviewed  for  the  Purdue  job  several 
years  earlier  and  neglected  to  tell  Knight  about  the  interview.  Knight 
had  been  upset,  and  hurt.  To  him,  Donewald's  not  calling  him 
was  an  act  of  disloyalty.  That  was  the  last  thing  you  wanted  to 
be  considered  as  a  member  of  the  Knight  family:  disloyal. 

The  weather  in  Champaign  when  the  team  arrived  on  Wednes- 
day was  even  worse  than  it  had  been  in  Bloomington.  A  dense 
blanket  of  fog  hung  over  the  town,  so  thick  that  the  tops  of 
buildings  were  invisible  in  a  city  where  most  buildings  are  only 
a  couple  of  stories  high. 

Knight's  theme  for  this  game  was  simple:  first  ten  minutes. 
"They'll  come  out  all  wound  up  and  excited  and  the  crowd  will 
be  into  it,  really  fired  up,"  he  told  the  players.  "We  just  need  to 
get  through  those  first  ten  minutes,  get  things  settled  down,  and 
then  go  about  winning  the  ballgame.  We  do  that,  we'll  have  a 
real  chance.  At  Iowa,  we  let  it  get  away  the  first  five  minutes. 
We  can't  do  that  here  and  win." 

Knight  repeated  that  speech  on  Thursday  morning  after  they 
were  through  shooting  in  lUinois's  Assembly  Hall.  Knight  had 
two  projects  that  morning:  The  first  was  to  get  Sam  Carmichael, 
Knight's  golf  pro,  to  work  with  Steve  Eyl  on  his  shooting.  Eyl 
was  easily  the  poorest  shooter  on  the  team.  He  had  been  an 
outstanding  option  quarterback  in  high  school  and  was  an  excellent 
natural  athlete,  a  rare  white  player  who  could  run  and  jump,  but 
he  had  absolutely  no  confidence  in  his  shot. 

Carmichael  had  played  on  the  pro  golf  tour  for  a  while  before 
buying  the  Martinsville  Country  Club,  which  was  about  twenty 
miles  north  of  Bloomington.  He  and  Knight  played  often  during 
the  summer,  and  Carmichael  coached  the  Indiana  women's  golf 
team.  Knight  wanted  him  to  talk  to  Eyl  about  the  importance  of 
swinging  the  same  way  every  time  in  golf  and  liken  it  to  shooting 
a  basketball. 

Almost  every  time  Knight  watched  Eyl  in  shooting  drills,  he 
got  upset.  Eyl  almost  never  shot  the  ball  the  same  way  twice.  He 


252     John  Feinstein 


jumped  wrong  or  held  the  ball  wrong.  Knight  would  run  over  to 
work  with  Eyl,  and  Eyl  would  almost  immediately  tighten  up. 
Shots  that  had  been  rolling  off  the  rim  began  clanging  off  the 
front  rim.  Air  balls  began  flying.  Knight  would  get  upset,  and 
Eyl  would  shoot  even  worse.  It  was  almost  a  ritual.  Knight  would 
walk  away  muttering  that  Eyl  was  the  worst  shooter  he  had  ever 
seen,  and  Eyl  would  go  back  more  confused  and  upset  than  he 
had  been  before. 

"Steve  Eyl,"  Kohn  Smith  said  one  day  after  one  such  session, 
"will  be  the  death  of  us." 

Smith  wasn't  down  on  Eyl.  He  understood  the  frustration  of 
the  player  and  the  coach.  Eyl  worked  as  hard  as  anybody.  When 
he  came  into  games,  he  rebounded  and  played  good  defense.  He 
was  a  good  kid,  a  good  student.  But  he  was  never  going  to  be  a 
good  shooter. 

Eyl  was  willing  to  try  anything.  He  listened  as  Carmichael 
talked  and  demonstrated,  swinging  an  imaginary  golf  club  in  the 
empty  gym.  When  it  was  over,  Eyl  wasn't  sure  if  he  had  learned 
anything.  "I  feel  pretty  good  about  my  golf  swing,"  he  said, 
smihng.  "But  I'm  not  so  sure  about  my  shot." 

While  Carmichael  and  Eyl  were  talking.  Knight  was  completing 
his  second  mission  of  the  morning.  The  other  guest  on  this  trip 
was  Steve  Downing,  who  had  been  the  starting  center  on  Knight's 
first  Final  Four  team  in  1973.  Downing  was  a  huge,  witty  man 
who  was  an  assistant  athletic  director  at  Indiana.  He  was  one  of 
those  rare  people  who  could  get  into  a  battle  of  wits  with  Knight 
and  hold  his  own.  Knight  loved  him. 

Of  course.  Knight  acted  like  he  couldn't  stand  Downing  most 
of  the  time.  Downing  received  constant  abuse  and  insults  from 
Knight.  When  he  and  Hammel  walked  on  the  floor  that  morning 
to  renew  a  long-simmering  free-throw-shooting  rivalry.  Knight 
was  watching.  Downing  made  eight  of  ten.  Hammel  was  not  equal 
to  that  task. 

"Give  me  the  ball.  Downing,"  Knight  said,  walking  onto  the 
floor.  "I  can  whip  you. "  Knight  promptly  made  ten  straight,  much 
to  the  amazement  of  Downing,  Hammel,  and,  most  probably. 
Knight.  "There's  never  been  a  day  when  I  couldn't  beat  you, 
Downing,"  Knight  said,  reveling  in  his  victory.  "Hell,  I  remember 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    253 


when  you  made  four  in  a  row  against  Kansas  in  the  last  minute. 
It  was  one  of  the  greatest  f miracles  of  all  time." 

Downing  was  doubled  over  with  laughter.  He  remembered,  too. 

Knight's  looseness  was  never  more  apparent  than  at  the  team 
meeting  that  afternoon.  When  he  asked  Felling  if  everyone  had 
arrived,  Felling  said  that  Witte  was  missing.  Witte  was  sitting 
right  there. 

"Whopper,"  Knight  said,  "Felling  was  about  to  get  you  in 
trouble.  What  do  you  think  about  that?" 

"Goddamn,  Felling!"  Witte  answered,  showing  absolutely  no 
respect  for  one  of  his  supposedly  respected  coaches.  The  whole 
room  broke  up. 

The  laughter  stopped  quickly  that  night.  Illinois,  fired  up  just 
as  Knight  had  predicted,  broke  to  an  8-0  lead  in  the  first  three 
minutes.  Alford  finally  broke  the  skein  with  a  jumper  four  min- 
utes into  the  game.  One  might  have  expected  Knight  to  explode 
at  the  first  TV  time-out.  He  had  emphasized  the  first  ten  minutes 
and  they  had  come  out  and  fallen  behind  immediately.  Iowa  all 
over  again? 

Knight  didn't  see  it  that  way.  "Boys,  we're  just  fine,"  he  said. 
"We're  doing  what  we  want  to  do,  the  shots  just  haven't  dropped 
yet.  We  aren't  a  step  behind  like  we  were  at  Iowa.  Just  keep 
playing  and  we'll  be  right  back  in  it." 

Knight  was  right.  From  8-0  down,  the  Hoosiers  ran  eleven 
straight  points  to  lead  11-8.  As  it  turned  out,  they  never  trailed 
in  the  game  again.  Alford  was  doing  the  work  on  offense  and 
Harris  was  again  excellent  on  the  boards.  But  above  all,  Indi- 
ana was  playing  defense.  Every  possession  was  work  for  Illinois. 
There  were  no  easy  baskets  to  get  the  crowd  going.  Indiana, 
for  the  second  game  in  a  row,  was  playing  textbook  road 
basketball. 

After  ten  minutes,  it  was  15-15.  "Right  where  we  want  to  be," 
Meier  told  Witte  on  the  bench.  Exactly.  Indiana  promptly  scored 
the  next  seven  points  to  lead  22-15.  The  only  problem — again — 
was  foul  trouble.  Daryl  Thomas  got  his  third  with  7:33  left,  and 
once  again  Todd  Meier  was  thrown  into  the  breach. 

Illinois,  with  center  Ken  Norman  almost  unstoppable  inside, 
closed  the  gap  to  28-26,  but  Alford  calmly  knocked  in  three 


254    John  Feinstein 


straight  bombs,  the  last  with  one  second  left — a  running,  turn- 
around job — to  make  it  34—28  at  the  half. 

The  excitement  in  the  locker  room  was  palpable.  Indiana  had 
been  blown  out  in  this  building  two  years  in  a  row,  but  there 
would  be  no  blowout  this  night.  And  there  was  a  golden  chance 
for  a  memorable  upset. 

The  big  question  among  the  coaches  was  whether  to  start  Thomas 
or  Meier  in  the  second  half.  Meier  had  played  well  and  they  had 
the  lead.  If  they  started  Meier,  they  might  be  able  to  save  Thomas 
and  his  three  fouls  for  five  minutes  or  so.  But  they  could  also  get 
blitzed  quickly  and  let  Illinois  back  in  the  game.  Felling  and  Walt- 
man  wanted  to  start  Meier.  Knight  finally  agreed. 

It  was  the  right  move.  Meier  hung  in,  and  when  Thomas  came 
back  the  score  was  43-36  with  14:51  left.  But  two  minutes  later, 
Thomas  reached  over  lUinois  forward  Efrem  Winters's  back  and 
picked  up  his  fourth  foul.  Knight  called  time  to  settle  everyone 
down.  But  things  were  getting  tense.  Harris  threw  an  air  ball. 
Dr.  Rink  was  worried  about  Harris's  stamina  and  thought  he 
needed  a  rest.  But  with  Thomas  in  foul  trouble,  Harris  couldn't 
come  out. 

Right  after  Harris  missed,  Tony  Wysinger  hit  for  Illinois  to 
close  the  margin  to  45-44.  More  than  eleven  minutes  were  left. 
Indiana  could  unravel.  But  Alford  wasn't  going  to  let  that  happen. 
He  promptly  stuck  a  baseline  jumper.  Then  Robinson,  who  had 
not  played  well  since  the  last  Illinois  game,  made  another  one, 
and  it  was  49-44. 

Strangely,  Henson  was  playing  a  zone.  His  team  was  bigger 
and  quicker  and  playing  at  home.  There  was  every  reason  to  force 
the  game's  tempo,  but  Henson  chose  not  to.  Knight  was  off  the 
bench  after  another  Robinson  jumper  made  it  51-44,  sensing  a 
chance  to  take  control.  "Defensive  possession,"  he  screamed.  "Now, 
right  now.  Bear  down." 

They  did  just  that.  Harris,  tired  or  not,  deflected  a  Winters 
shot.  Robinson  grabbed  the  ball.  Indiana  set  up.  Harris  drove 
and  spotted  Thomas  open.  He  got  him  the  ball.  Layup.  It  was 
53^4  with  8:56  to  go.  The  crowd  was  silent.  Henson  called 
time. 

"They're  going  to  go  inside  on  every  possession  now,"  Knight 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    255 


said.  "Don't  lunge  inside!  Just  hold  your  position  and  we'll  be 
fine." 

A  moment  later,  Harris  lunged  at  a  pass.  Thomas,  coming  over 
to  help,  was  a  step  late.  It  was  his  fifth  foul.  The  lead  was 
53-48.  Knight  stared  at  the  floor  as  Thomas  went  by  him  to  the 
bench.  The  last  seven  minutes  were  like  root  canal.  Every  pos- 
session was  critical.  Alford  hit  to  build  the  margin  to  seven.  Harris, 
so  pumped  up  he  wasn't  thinking,  lunged  again,  and  Norman 
made  a  three-point  play.  Alford  hit  another  jumper.  He  never 
seemed  to  miss  when  Indiana  had  to  score. 

Norman  missed  at  the  other  end.  Harris  scored.  The  lead  was 
59-51.  Bruce  Douglas  missed  outside  and  Harris  rebounded.  Less 
than  six  minutes,  a  chance  to  lead  by  ten.  But  Harris  was  called 
for  an  illegal  screen.  Another  Illinois  three-point  play  and  it  was 
59-54.  Knight  decided  to  spread  out  and  work  the  clock  just  as 
he  had  done  at  Ohio  State. 

Robinson  hit,  Wysinger  answered.  They  traded  turnovers  and 
misses.  Finally,  Wysinger  hit  again  with  1:50  left  and  it  was 
61-58.  Knight  called  time  ten  seconds  later.  "We've  got  to  suck 
it  up  for  100  seconds,  boys,  that's  all.  It's  right  there.  Just  play 
smart  now.  This  is  our  ballgame." 

They  were  hanging  on  now.  Calloway  walked  with  1:13  left. 
The  Indiana  defense  forced  Illinois  to  take  twenty-three  seconds 
to  get  off  a  shot.  Wysinger  missed,  but  Glynn  Blackwell  rebounded 
and  his  shot  made  it  61-60.  There  were  still  fifty  seconds  to  play. 

Illinois  was  pressing.  Robinson  caught  a  quick  pass  from  Alford 
right  on  the  midcourt  line.  He  had  one  foot  in  the  frontcourt,  the 
other  in  the  backcourt.  Referee  Eric  Harmon  rushed  in.  Robinson, 
he  said,  had  gone  over-and-back,  meaning  he  had  gone  into  the 
backcourt  after  entering  the  frontcourt.  Illinois  ball. 

But  no.  Referee  Verl  Sell  raced  over  to  Harmon.  The  rule  on 
over-and-back  had  been  changed  one  year  earlier.  It  now  said  that 
until  a  player  had  both  feet  in  the  frontcourt,  he  could  not  be 
guilty  of  over-and-back.  Robinson  had  never  had  both  feet  in  the 
frontcourt.  "Are  you  sure?"  Harmon  asked  Sell.  Sell  was  sure. 
Harmon  changed  his  call.  With  forty-three  seconds  left,  the  ball 
went  back  to  Indiana. 

The  Illinois  crowd,  not  understanding  the  change,  went  berserk. 


256    ]ohn  Feinstein 


It  was  throwing  things  on  the  court.  Henson  was  screaming. 
Knight  called  Sell  over.  "Verl,  I  promise  I  will  never  again  give 
you  a  hard  time  in  a  game,"  he  said.  "That  was  one  of  the  guttiest 
calls  I've  ever  seen.  It  was  the  right  call,  but  a  gutty  one." 

The  game  was  not  over.  Indiana  would  still  have  to  shoot  the 
ball  if  Illinois  chose  not  to  foul.  The  inbounds  went  to  Calloway. 
He  walked  with  the  basketball.  The  crowd  screamed.  But  the 
officials  missed  the  call.  They  never  saw  it.  The  clock  went  down. 
Illinois  didn't  foul.  Finally,  with  four  seconds  to  go,  Alford  had 
to  shoot.  Douglas  deflected  the  shot  and  Winters  grabbed  it  and 
called  time.  Two  seconds  were  left. 

Illinois  had  to  go  ninety-four  feet,  from  under  its  own  basket 
to  Indiana's,  to  win  the  game.  Knight  asked  the  coaches  if  they 
should  put  the  6-9  Jadlow  in  to  distract  the  inbounds  passer.  They 
thought  so.  Knight  wasn't  sure.  "Let's  try  it,"  he  said  finally. 

Illinois  wanted  to  pass  the  ball  to  midcourt,  call  time  imme- 
diately, and  then  have  another  chance  to  inbound  the  ball  from 
there.  Douglas  threw  the  ball  to  Norman,  who  was  so  intent  on 
giving  the  time-out  signal  that  he  dropped  the  ball.  Since  he  didn't 
have  possession,  he  should  not  have  been  able  to  call  time.  But 
Tom  Rucker,  the  third  referee.  Knight's  old  friend,  awarded  the 
time-out.  What's  more,  somehow,  the  clock  had  never  moved. 
There  were  still  two  seconds  left. 

Technically,  this  was  possible.  There  could  actually  be  1.1  sec- 
onds left  and  the  clock  would  show  two.  More  likely,  though,  the 
Illinois  clock  operator  had  been  conveniently  slow.  While  the 
other  coaches  huddled — it  was  now  Illinois's  ball  at  midcourt — 
Waltman  walked  over  to  the  timer. 

"When  did  you  start  the  clock?"  he  demanded  to  know. 

"As  soon  as  Norman  touched  the  ball." 

Waltman  is,  under  most  circumstances,  the  most  low-key  mem- 
ber of  the  coaching  staff.  "You  lying  sonofabitch,"  he  said  looking 
right  at  the  timer.  "You  never  even  started  the  clock." 

With  that  he  stalked  back  to  the  huddle  and  spent  most  of  the 
ensuing  two  time-outs — Indiana  called  one  after  Illinois  had  come 
out  on  the  court — glaring  at  the  timer. 

With  the  ball  at  midcourt.  Knight  wanted  to  use  Jadlow  as  an 
extra  defender,  leaving  the  inbounder  unguarded.  "No  fouls,"  he 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     257 


said.  "Get  a  hand  up.  Be  smart.  Boys,  we've  got  to  have  two 
seconds  of  real  smarts  and  real  balls.  Right  now!" 

Everyone  in  the  arena  was  standing,  including  both  benches. 
Douglas  inbounded  again.  Illinois  wanted  to  run  a  screen  play 
near  the  top  of  the  key,  but  Jadlow,  the  extra  man,  cut  that  angle 
off.  Finally,  Wysinger,  who  had  been  the  hot  shooter  in  the  rally, 
came  open  on  the  baseline.  Under  the  basket,  Todd  Meier  saw 
the  ball  go  to  Wysinger. 

Knowing  there  was  no  time  for  Wysinger  to  do  anything  but 
shoot,  Meier  left  his  man  and  ran  at  Wysinger,  arms  high  in  the 
air.  From  where  he  was  standing,  Knight  thought  Meier  was  going 
to  coUide  with  Wysinger.  His  heart  stopped.  Winston  Morgan, 
standing  near  the  top  of  the  key,  turned  and  saw  Wysinger  with 
the  ball  and  turned  his  back;  "I  couldn't  look."  Alford,  taken  out 
of  the  game  in  favor  of  Jadlow,  just  held  his  breath. 

Meier  had  made  a  brilliant  play.  He  had  run  at  Wysinger  on 
an  angle  so  that  as  he  flew  through  the  air,  arms  flailing,  he  was 
going  past  Wysinger,  not  into  him.  Wysinger,  only  6-1,  had  to 
change  his  shot  to  get  the  ball  over  Meier.  It  came  up  way  short. 
Flying  past  Wysinger,  Meier  never  saw  the  shot.  He  just  listened 
for  the  crowd.  He  heard  no  roar.  He  knew.  The  shot  had  missed. 
Time  had  finally  expired.  Indiana  had  won,  61-60. 

This  time  they  celebrated  on  the  court.  They  hugged  each  other 
and  grabbed  and  clutched  and  almost  fell  over  from  exhaustion. 
In  a  very  real  sense,  this  was  the  victory  that  brought  Indiana  all 
the  way  back  from  last  year's  depths  of  depression.  The  team  that 
had  dominated  them  twice  in  1985  had  now  been  beaten  twice  in 
1986. 

Knight  had  almost  no  voice  left.  But  he  was  ecstatic.  "I'm  as 
proud  of  you  right  now  as  any  team  we've  ever  had,"  he  told 
them.  "Enjoy  this  one,  boys.  You  earned  it." 

They  enjoyed.  Ricky  Calloway  was  running  around  the  locker 
room  grabbing  people  and  saying,  "Do  you  know  how  long  I've 
waited  to  play  on  a  winner?  A  real  winner?"  And  Stew  Robinson 
spoke  the  words  no  one  had  spoken  before:  "Now  we  can  win  the 
Big  Ten,"  he  said.  "We  got  to  think  about  that  now." 

The  long  cold  November  nights  seemed  awfully  far  away  now. 


258    ]ohn  Feinstein 


They  flew  home  that  night  in  sole  possession  of  first  place  in 
the  Big  Ten.  For  the  second  time,  Michigan  State  had  upset  Mich- 
igan. This  time,  they  beat  the  Wolverines  in  Ann  Arbor  after 
Michigan  guard  Antoine  Joubert  had  guaranteed  a  victory.  Skiles 
responded  with  thirty-three  points  in  leading  the  Spartans'  victory 
and  had  sneered  at  Joubert  during  the  game,  yelling  at  him  at 
one  point,  "Come  on  and  shoot  it,  fat  boy.  Show  me  what  you 
got." 

That  was  the  line  of  the  year  in  the  Big  Ten,  and  Skiles  was 
certainly  the  player  of  the  year. 

Thanks  to  Skiles,  Indiana  at  10-3  was  alone  in  first  place.  Mich- 
igan was  9-4  and  a  host  of  teams  were  8-5.  The  Hoosiers  were 
also  18-5  overall,  and  Knight's  nineteen-victory  goal  was  starting 
to  look  conservative.  When  they  arrived  home  that  night — ac- 
tually it  was  about  1  a.m.— Knight  went  to  call  Pete  Newell.  The 
coaches  headed  for  the  cave.  "I  have  a  feeling  this  is  going  to  be 
a  long  night,"  Waltman  said.  "I  suspect  the  mentor  is  thinking 
about  more  than  an  NCAA  bid  right  now." 

Waltman  was  partly  right.  Knight  was  starting  to  think  big 
thoughts,  but  he  was  so  giddy  from  the  victory  that  they  only 
looked  at  the  tape  once.  This  was  a  night  to  go  home  for  at  least 
a  few  hours  and  savor  what  they  had  accomplished. 

The  congratulatory  calls  came  in  throughout  the  next  day. 
Jimmy  Crews  called  early  and  turned  the  tables  on  his  old  coach. 
"I  saw  you  shake  hands  with  Henson,"  he  said. 

"I  was  just  trying  to  confuse  him,"  Knight  answered,  grinning. 
Others  called.  It  was  like  the  old  days.  Indiana  was  in  first  place 
in  February  and  no  one  outside  the  team  could  beUeve  it.  If  Knight 
had  died  that  day  he  would  have  gone  to  heaven  with  a  huge 
smile  on  his  face. 

There  was,  however,  the  rather  large  matter  of  playing  Purdue 
in  two  days.  Indiana  traditionally  had  more  trouble  winning  at 
Purdue  than  at  any  other  arena  in  the  Big  Ten.  Knight's  record 
in  Mackey  Arena  was  4-9;  most  of  the  losses  had  been  in  games 
where  one  play  could  have  changed  the  outcome,  and  Knight  could 
still  recite  most  of  them  by  rote.  With  Indiana  in  first  place  and 
Purdue  attempting  to  nail  down  an  NCAA  bid.  Gene  Keady  would 
make  the  game  a  crusade.  Knight  knew  all  this.  He  also  thought 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    259 


that  if  his  team  could  play  the  way  it  had  at  Illinois  it  would  win. 

Quinn  Buckner  was  at  practice  Friday.  He  was  now  resigned 
to  the  fact  that  no  NBA  team  was  going  to  pick  him  up,  and  he 
and  Knight  were  talking  about  what  direction  he  should  go  in 
next.  If  Buckner  had  wanted  a  job  in  coaching,  Knight  would  have 
almost  undoubtedly  found  a  way  to  give  him  a  job  at  Indiana. 
But  Buckner  didn't  want  to  coach.  He  wanted  to  try  something 
else.  In  the  meantime,  though,  Buckner  would  be  at  the  rest  of 
the  team's  games  and  sit  on  the  bench  next  to  Knight. 

They  bused  to  Purdue  after  a  tight  practice  on  Saturday.  Knight 
knew  this  team  had  given  him  everything  he  could  possibly  ask 
for.  He  also  knew  that  if  they  could  find  a  way  to  win  at  Purdue, 
they  would  be  in  control  of  the  Big  Ten  race.  Knight  has  won 
seven  Big  Ten  titles,  but  the  last  one  was  in  1983.  He  was  dying 
to  win  this  one  in  a  year  when  no  one — himself  included — thought 
Indiana  had  a  prayer  at  the  start  of  the  season. 

The  two-hour  bus  trip  was  a  rare  one  for  the  Hoosiers.  The 
team  flies  to  every  road  game  it  plays,  except  Purdue.  Louisville 
is  just  as  close  to  Bloomington  as  West  Lafayette,  yet  the  team 
flies  there.  Busing  to  Purdue  is  as  much  tradition  as  anything 
else. 

They  went  straight  to  Mackey  Arena  for  a  shoot-around;  there 
would  be  no  chance  to  shoot  the  next  day  since  the  game  was  in 
the  afternoon.  Walking  onto  the  floor.  Knight  ran  into  Keady. 
Without  so  much  as  a  hello,  Keady  told  Knight  to  tell  Alford  and 
Robinson  that  he  resented  their  coming  up  to  shake  hands  with 
him  after  Indiana's  overtime  win  in  Bloomington  the  previous 
month.  "They  didn't  shake  hands  with  me  last  year  when  we 
kicked  your  ass,"  Keady  said.  "You  can  tell  them  I  didn't  appre- 
ciate that." 

"Gene,"  Knight  said  softly,  "they're  just  kids." 

Keady  stalked  off.  Knight  had  always  had  at  least  a  civil  rela- 
tionship with  Keady;  the  little  episode  was  a  clue  as  to  how  uptight 
Purdue  was  about  this  game. 

Knight  told  the  players  what  had  happened.  "Understand,  they'll 
be  looking  at  this  as  a  season-maker.  They'll  play  us  harder  than 
they  play  anybody.  That's  the  way  these  people  are.  Now,  you 
know  I'm  not  very  big  on  the  people  up  here,  including  their 


260     John  Feinstein 


coach,  but  you've  never  heard  me  say  anything  special  about  a 
Purdue  game.  But  this  game  is  a  hell  of  an  opportunity  and  it's 
one  you  people  have  created  for  yourselves." 

Walking  to  the  bus.  Knight  said  softly,  "I  think  it  will  be  awfully 
hard  for  us  to  win  this  game." 

That  evening.  Knight  and  the  coaches  walked  down  the  road 
from  their  hotel  to  a  Chinese  restaurant.  It  was  a  bitterly  cold 
night,  but  Knight  seemed  not  to  notice.  Sam  Carmichael  was  along 
again,  having  brought  good  luck  with  him  to  Illinois.  "People  like 
Sam  are  the  reason  I  could  never  leave  Indiana,"  Knight  said  as 
everyone  struggled  down  the  highway,  cars  roaring  past.  "I  have 
friends  I  could  never  leave  no  matter  what  the  job.  Even  if  there 
was  something  I  really  wanted  to  do,  I  just  couldn't  leave  people 
like  Sam  and  Hammel  and  all  the  people  around  town  who  have 
been  my  friends  over  the  years." 

Knight  and  the  coaches  looked  at  tape  until  after  2  a.m.  and 
then  walked  across  the  street  to  Bob  Evans.  Knight  had  apple  pie 
a  la  mode  and  hot  chocolate.  He  had  not  mentioned  his  weight 
for  a  month. 

"I  have  to  say  that  this  team  has  really  been  fun  to  coach," 
Knight  said,  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  "I  can't  remember  when 
I've  enjoyed  watching  a  group  of  players  get  better  any  more  than 
this  one.  And  next  year  we  should  be  even  better.  A  lot  better." 

He  smiled  contentedly.  It  was  3  a.m.  on  February  23.  Exactly 
one  year  had  passed  since  he  had  thrown  the  chair. 

Thirteen  hours  later,  Purdue  made  its  season.  The  Boilermakers 
were  about  as  close  to  perfect  as  anyone  can  get.  Early  in  the  first 
half,  they  hit  twelve  straight  shots.  Long  shots,  short  shots.  Drives, 
jumpers,  you  name  it.  Indiana  had  no  chance.  A  10-7  Purdue 
lead  after  four  minutes  became  a  41-19  lead  after  sixteen  minutes. 
It  was  more  devastating  than  Iowa.  Basket  after  basket,  with  Keady 
up  waving  his  arms  to  the  crowd  to  keep  it  wild. 

And  it  was  wild.  Mackey  Arena  is  a  strange  place.  It  is  not  an 
old  building,  but  it  looks  old.  It  is  very  dark,  and  all  the  seats  are 
just  benches.  The  crowd  is  easily  the  loudest  in  the  Big  Ten  and 
just  as  certainly  the  most  vulgar.  It  was  on  Knight  from  the 
moment  he  walked  out  from  the  tunnel  and  never  stopped.  The 


h  Season  on  the  Brink    261 


only  way  to  stop  a  Purdue  crowd  is  to  win.  That  wasn't  going  to 
happen  today. 

Knight  tried  mightily  to  get  his  team  into  the  game.  He  tried 
soothing.  He  tried  screaming.  He  tried  name-calling.  Later,  watching 
the  tape,  he  would  decide  that  the  officials  had  set  the  tone  early 
by  not  calling  fouls  that  Purdue  was  committing  inside.  But  the 
simple  fact  was  that  Purdue  was  having  an  extraordinary  day.  It 
shot  74  percent  in  the  first  half  and  led  46-29. 

All  of  Knight's  halftime  pleadings  were  not  going  to  save  this 
one.  They  gave  it  a  shot,  whittling  the  gap  to  as  little  as  68-60 
with  seven  minutes  left.  But  Melvin  McCants,  Purdue's  rapidly 
improving  freshman  center,  powered  over  Thomas  on  the  next 
possession  to  make  it  70-60.  Calloway  missed  a  shot  and  Morgan 
went  up  and  tangled  with  Todd  Mitchell,  Purdue's  6-8  moose  of 
a  forward,  for  the  rebound.  Morgan  went  down.  The  foul  was  on 
Morgan.  Showing  no  class,  Mitchell  dropped  the  ball  on  Morgan's 
stomach.  Morgan  went  after  him.  McCants  stepped  in.  The  pro- 
verbial cooler  heads  prevailed.  Mitchell  made  the  foul  shots  for  a 
twelve-point  lead.  Indiana  missed  three  layups  on  its  next  pos- 
session—Calloway,  Alford,  and  Thomas— and  Purdue  scored  again. 
It  was  74-60.  The  brief  run  was  over.  The  final  was  85-68. 

For  the  first  time  all  season,  Alford  had  been  stopped.  Purdue's 
guards  had  hounded  and  pounded  him  all  day,  and  it  had  worked. 
Alford,  shooting  an  extraordinary  56  percent  coming  into  the 
game,  was  held  to  three  for  twelve  shooting  and  a  total  of  eight 
points.  It  was  the  only  time  all  season  he  failed  to  score  in  double 
figures. 

That  it  had  taken  twenty-three  games  for  someone  to  shut 
Alford  down  was  a  tribute  to  Knight's  offense  and  the  way  it  freed 
Alford  up  for  his  shots,  and  to  Alford,  who  often  scored  his  points 
late  because  he  wore  defenders  down  with  his  relentless  move- 
ment. Usually,  if  a  good  team  decides  it  is  going  to  stop  a  guard, 
it  can  do  so.  Most  teams  approached  Indiana  with  the  belief  that 
if  you  stopped  Alford  you  stopped  Indiana.  And  yet,  until  Purdue, 
no  one  had  been  able  to  execute  that  strategy. 

It  usually  took  less  to  get  Alford  in  the  Knight  doghouse  than 
any  other  player.  Knight  had  a  knack  for  looking  at  a  tape  and 
not  seeing  any  of  Alford's  shot  making.  In  his  third  game  at 


262     John  Feinstein 


Indiana,  Alford  scored  twenty-seven  points.  Knight  never  said  a 
word  afterward.  The  next  day  in  practice,  Knight  put  his  arm 
around  Alford  and  said,  "Don't  think  I  didn't  notice  the  points. 
But  I  don't  talk  about  what's  good — I  talk  about  what's  bad.  I 
know  you  can  shoot."  Alford  had  improved  considerably  in  all 
areas  since  then.  But  his  strength  as  a  basketball  player  lay  in  his 
shooting.  He  knew  that  and  Knight  knew  that.  Yet  Knight  con- 
stantly harped  on  Alford's  weakness  as  a  passer,  his  inability  to 
find  open  men.  Alford — never  forgetting  that  first  talk — was  used 
to  this.  But  he  had  been  trained  from  high  school  forward  to  think 
shot  first.  Usually  by  the  time  he  looked  first  for  his  shot  and 
then  to  pass,  the  open  man  was  no  longer  open. 

Ideally,  on  a  day  like  this  one,  Alford  might  have  changed  his 
game.  Knight  kept  telling  him  throughout  to  look  to  be  a  feeder 
when  the  shot  wasn't  there.  But  Alford  wasn't  a  feeder.  He  fin- 
ished the  game  with  one  assist.  Yet  there  was  no  explosion  from 
Knight.  After  the  other  players  had  walked  to  the  bus.  Knight 
took  Alford  aside  and  walked  him  out  of  the  building,  his  arm 
around  his  shoulder. 

Quietly,  he  reminded  Alford  about  how  well  he  had  played  all 
year.  "We  wouldn't  be  where  we  are,  Steve,  without  you.  You've 
just  done  a  great  job.  You  had  a  bad  day.  Everyone  does.  Learn 
from  it.  Learn  that  there  are  some  days  you  look  to  pass.  You 
can  be  dangerous  that  way  because  of  the  way  defenses  gang  up 
on  you. "  He  batted  Alford  on  the  back  of  the  head  as  they  walked 
out  of  the  door.  The  only  thing  missing  were  the  Lifesavers. 

Knight's  reaction  to  the  defeat,  given  the  margin  and  the  op- 
ponent, was  remarkable.  He  told  the  team  it  had  played  poorly 
and  why.  He  told  them  he  was  disappointed  in  the  way  they  had 
reacted  to  Purdue's  aggressiveness.  Little  did  he  know  that  Purdue 
had  finally  discovered  the  Achilles  heel  that  would  ultimately  do 
this  team  in.  But  that  would  be  later.  For  now,  as  the  bus  lurched 
home  in  the  middle  of  an  ugly  snowstorm.  Knight  told  them  to 
forget  Purdue  and  remember  where  they  had  put  themselves  be- 
fore Purdue. 

"You  still  have  a  lot  to  be  proud  of,  boys,"  he  said.  "You  are 
still  tied  for  first  place  and  nobody  but  us  thought  we'd  be  where 
we  are.  Don't  get  deflated  because  of  one  game.  This  is  the  week 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    263 


we  have  to  get  ourselves  into  the  NCAA.  We  have  two  home 
games  [Minnesota  and  Iowa].  Let's  win  those  two  games,  get 
ourselves  into  the  NCAAs  and  the  week  after  that  we  can  worry 
about  winning  the  Big  Ten.  That's  our  approach:  the  tournament 
this  week,  the  league  next  week.  Be  thinking  about  that. 

"Remember  one  other  thing,"  Knight  said  before  sitting  down. 
"We're  in  first  place  in  the  Big  Ten  and  there  are  eight  sonsof- 
bitches  including  those  assholes  [Purdue]  that  aren't." 

Knight  sat  down  with  the  coaches.  "There's  just  no  point  in 
beating  on  these  kids.  They've  come  such  a  long  way.  There's  no 
sense  getting  all  over  them  for  one  bad  day." 

The  coaches  were  of  the  opinion,  as  they  sat  in  silence  for  the 
rest  of  the  trip,  that  their  boss  would  have  been  incapable  of  such 
logic  a  year  earlier.  His  players  thought  the  same  thing. 


15. 


Twenty  Minutes  to  the  Promised  Land 

There  were  now  four  games  left  in  the  season.  Indiana  and  Mich- 
igan were  again  tied  for  first  place  in  the  Big  Ten  at  10-4.  Michigan 
State,  Purdue,  and  Illinois  were  all  9-5. 

Minnesota  would  come  to  Assembly  Hall  on  Thursday.  The 
Gophers  had  come  apart  in  the  four  weeks  since  Indiana  had  played 
there.  They  were  not  only  losing,  they  were  losing  big.  It  would 
take  an  unreal  collapse  for  Indiana  to  lose  that  game.  Three  days 
later  would  come  Iowa,  and  Knight  was  worried  about  that  game 
because  his  team  had  fared  so  poorly  against  the  Iowa  press  in 
Iowa  City. 

That  concern  became  apparent  on  Tuesday  when  a  good  deal 
of  practice  was  devoted  to  working  against  the  Iowa  press.  This 
was  another  first.  Knight  never  worked  on  one  opponent  when 
another  one  was  upcoming.  But  he  felt  that  his  team  had  not  been 
ready  for  Iowa  the  first  time  and  needed  that  extra  work. 

Naturally,  having  conceded  to  his  team  that  he  was  concerned 


264     John  Feinstein 


about  Iowa,  he  had  to  prove  that  he  was  worried  about  Minnesota, 
too.  So,  on  Wednesday,  he  put  on  a  Httle  display  of  "BK  Theater. '' 
He  screamed  at  Morgan  and  Robinson  for  poor  passing.  "Don't 
be  throwing  the  ball  like  you're  throwing  it  to  an  eighty-five- 
year-old  woman,"  he  yelled.  He  kicked  the  scorer's  table  when 
the  defense  broke  down.  "Shoot  free  throws,"  he  said,  throwing 
his  arms  up  in  disgust.  "Maybe  you  can  win  tomorrow  night 
shooting  free  throws.  You  sure  as  hell  aren't  going  to  win  it  with 
this  defense." 

They  tried  again.  Calloway  lost  Kreigh  Smith.  "Ricky,  you 
play  that  horseshit  defense  and  I  guarantee  you  that  you  won't 
play  one  goddamn  minute  next  year." 

Everyone  knew  what  was  coming  next.  Daryl  Thomas  hobbled 
a  rebound.  "That's  it,  I've  seen  enough  of  this  shit.  Take  a  god- 
damn shower.   You  don't  want  to  win  this  f game,  then 

neither  do  I." 

Everyone  understood.  Knight  had  to  be  certain  that  the  players 
thought  he  was  worried  about  beating  Minnesota.  His  only  real 
worry  was  that  they  make  sure  to  worry. 

When  the  team  came  back  later  to  walk  through  Minnesota, 
Knight  sat  on  the  sidelines  acting  as  if  he  couldn't  care  less  what 
was  going  on.  When  Felling  asked  him  if  he  thought  they  had 
done  enough.  Knight  shrugged.  "Ask  them,"  he  said,  gesturing 
towards  the  players.  "They  have  all  the  answers." 

Actually,  Knight  was  right,  they  did  have  the  answers.  The 
best  one  came  the  next  night  when  Minnesota  was  never  in  the 
game.  It  was  15-12  after  seven  minutes,  but  then  the  Hoosiers 
got  on  a  roll.  Alford  was  back  to  normal,  bombing  from  outside. 
Morgan  was  dealing  from  the  outside,  and  Harris  was  playing  his 
best  game  of  the  season,  controlhng  the  inside.  By  halftime,  the 
game  was  over,  Indiana  leading  49-25. 

The  only  negative  note  was  a  Calloway  dunk  attempt  that  ended 
with  Calloway  landing  hard  on  his  butt.  Calloway  was  very  sore 
and  Bomba  recommended  that  he  not  play  in  the  second  half. 
That  made  sense.  He  was  hardly  needed.  But  Knight  was  nervous 
at  halftime.  He  knew  his  team  wasn't  going  to  blow  a  twenty- 
four-point  lead,  but  he  worried  that  a  flat  second  half  would  send 
them  into  their  Iowa  preparations  on  a  flat  note. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    265 


Iowa  was  very  much  on  his  mind  when  he  called  Alford  and 
Robinson  into  the  hallway.  "I  want  you  guys  to  make  sure  these 
other  guys  keep  after  it  in  the  second  half.  I  don't  want  any 
sleepwalking  in  the  second  half." 

Ask  and  ye  shall  receive.  Minnesota  had  no  chance  to  play  with 
Indiana.  It  was  72-38  when  Knight  began  to  clear  the  bench  with 
eleven  minutes  still  left.  Even  as  he  did,  Knight  summoned  Murry 
Bartow,  the  designated  message-writer.  "Check  with  Hammel  and 
find  out  the  scores  of  our  two  losses  to  Iowa  last  year.  Then  go 
inside  and  write  all  three  scores  on  the  board." 

Dutifully,  Bartow  walked  up  to  Hammel's  seat  to  find  out  the 
scores.  Just  as  dutifully,  Hammel  looked  them  up.  The  three  scores 
were  there  in  bright  red  numbers  waiting  for  the  players  when 
they  walked  through  the  door  into  the  locker  room. 

There  was  one  light  moment  before  the  95-63  romp  finally 
ended.  With  four  minutes  left  and  the  lead  at  thirty-three,  Knight 
called  the  wounded  Calloway  over.  Calloway  limped  to  his  coach, 
wondering  what  words  of  wisdom  he  would  receive.  "Ricky," 
Knight  said,  "be  sure  to  pick  up  all  the  warmup  jackets  for  the 
players." 

The  bench  broke  up.  It  was  that  easy  an  evening.  They  had 
now  won  nineteen  games — Knight's  goal.  They  were  in  the  NCAA 
tournament  for  sure — even  if  Knight  didn't  want  to  admit  it.  How 
did  they  celebrate?  By  looking  at  tape  of  Iowa.  The  only  break 
came  when  Knight  went  to  his  press  conference.  Phil  Richards  of 
The  Indianapolis  Star,  a  writer  Knight  liked,  asked  about  the  up- 
tempo that  Indiana  had  played.  How  come? 

"Well,  Phil,  that's  an  interesting  question.  Let  me  tell  you  what 
happened.  This  is  an  interesting  story."  Some  poised  their  pens. 
Others  leaned  back,  waiting  for  the  put-on.  "See,  we  were  sitting 
in  the  locker  room,  and  Todd  Jadlow  said,  'Hey  coach,  how  about 
we  play  an  up-tempo  tonight  so  we  can  entertain  Phil  Richards?' 
And  I  thought  that  was  really  a  hell  of  an  idea." 

With  that  Knight  rejoined  his  players  and  his  tape  machine. 

After  the  players  had  been  sent  home.  Knight  went  to  tape  his 

TV  show,  doing  it  on  Thursday  since  there  was  no  game  until 

Sunday.  That  left  the  coaches  to  begin  going  through  the  tape. 

There  was  also  another  tale  in  the  continuing  Damon  Bailey 


266     John  Feinstein 


saga.  Before  the  game,  the  principal  of  Shawswicke  had  given 
Kohn  Smith  a  thick  book  of  the  Shawswicke  season  highhghts. 
The  front  cover  read,  "Have  Farmer  Pride,  Keep  the  Streak  AHve. " 
Included  in  the  book  were  the  team's  complete  statistics — Damon 
had  averaged  31.1  points  per  game,  shooting  64  percent  from  the 
field,  and  had  gotten  14.7  rebounds  and  four  assists  a  night— a 
history  of  the  back-to-back  15-0  seasons,  and  details  on  the  Farm- 
ers' summer  workout  plans.  There  were  also  pictures  of  Knight 
from  the  local  newspapers:  Knight  watching  Damon  play.  Knight 
holding  court  with  the  fans.  And  finally,  there  was  a  letter  to 
Knight,  thanking  him  for  coming  to  two  games  and  for  his  interest 
in  Shawswicke  basketball. 

The  coaches  looked  through  the  book  wide-eyed.  It  was  Felling 
who  couldn't  resist.  "And  just  think,"  he  said  finally.  "We've 
won  nineteen  games  without  Damon." 

Indeed  they  had. 

The  roller  coaster  was  working  full-time  the  next  two  days. 
Knight  was  funny  one  minute,  angry  the  next.  Friday,  when 
Calloway  threw  a  pass  while  standing  close  to  the  basket.  Knight 
stopped  play.  "Ricky,  do  you  know  the  story  of  the  Good  Sa- 
maritan?" Calloway  shook  his  head. 

"The  Good  Samaritan  is  a  biblical  character,  Ricky.  Old  Tes- 
tament. He  was  a  basketball  player  who  kept  throwing  passes 
when  he  was  only  two  feet  from  the  goddamn  basket.  You  know 
what  God  did?  He  cut  him  for  overpassing." 

A  moment  later,  Calloway  threw  a  pass  three  feet  over  Winston 
Morgan's  head.  Knight  slammed  a  chair  in  disgust.  "We  cannot 
have  this  shit  Sunday,  boys.  You  throw  passes  like  that,  we're 
gonna  get  our  ass  beat." 

Part  of  the  problem  in  practice  was  that  the  white  team  was 
doing  a  good  job  imitating  the  Iowa  press  because  they  had  spent 
the  whole  week  doing  it.  Knight  inserted  himself  in  Robinson's 
spot  and  promptly  threw  a  pass  just  as  bad  as  the  one  Calloway 
had  thrown.  But  he  settled  down  and  suddenly  the  press  wasn't 
quite  so  ferocious.  "Hamso,"  Knight  said,  coming  out,  "you  think 
I  have  any  eligibility  left?" 

This  would  be  a  hectic  weekend.  The  game  was  on  national  TV, 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    267 


and  several  recruits  had  been  invited  to  campus  for  the  weekend. 
Saturday,  two  of  them  were  there:  Keith  Smart,  the  junior  college 
guard  from  Kansas,  and  Sean  Kemp,  the  6-10  sophomore  from 
Elkhart.  It  was  the  first  day  of  March,  a  cool  but  gorgeous  day, 
and  everyone  was  in  an  up  mood — including  Knight. 

Before  practice,  he  was  trying  to  get  Oliphant  to  dunk.  At 
6-6,  it  wasn't  easy  for  Oliphant.  He  was  a  classic  victim  of  "white- 
man's  disease,"  and  his  feet  never  got  very  far  off  the  ground. 
But  he  did  dunk.  In  the  locker  room.  Knight  asked  Pelkowski  if 
he  had  seen  Oliphant's  dunk.  Pelkowski  nodded.  "You  ever  see 
a  slow  white  American  dunk  better  than  that?" 

Pelkowski,  still  injured,  laughed.  "Magnus,  are  you  going  to 
practice  today?"  Knight  knew  the  answer  was  no.  "You  know, 
Magnus,  you  have  the  best  deal  going.  You  have  a  better  deal 
than  the  people  getting  U.S.  aid  in  Colombia." 

The  comedy  routine  ended  as  soon  as  practice  started.  Joby 
Wright  sat  with  Sean  Kemp  during  much  of  the  practice,  selling. 
"Most  places  you  go  into,  the  only  signs  you  see  say,  'No  smok- 
ing,' "  Wright  said,  pointing  to  the  championship  banners  at  each 
end  of  the  floor.  "They're  making  a  whole  movie,  Hoosier,  about 
basketball  in  this  state.  That's  a  hell  of  a  statement.  You  come 
here,  it'll  be  hard,  shit  yeah,  it'll  be  hard.  But  you'll  be  set  for 
life  when  you  finish  at  Indiana." 

Kemp  nodded.  A  few  feet  away  sat  Smart.  A  junior  college 
sophomore  and  a  high  school  sophomore — once.  Knight  wouldn't 
have  wanted  to  mess  with  either.  Now,  he  entertained  both  ea- 
gerly. "Keith,"  he  said  sitting  down  and  putting  an  arm  around 
Smart,  "what  do  you  think?  Will  we  ever  win  another  game?" 
Smart  laughed. 

Knight  joined  Kemp  and  his  coaches.  He  was  talking  about  how 
concerned  he  was  with  the  Iowa  press.  "First  time  in  fifteen  years 
I  ever  prepared  for  one  team  before  we  had  played  another,"  he 
said.  The  coaches  wanted  to  know  if  Knight  holed  the  team  up  in 
a  hotel  the  night  before  a  game  at  home. 

"No,  never  have,"  Knight  said.  He  slapped  Kemp  on  the  knee. 
"I  trust  my  players." 

He  sent  those  players  home  that  night  with  a  final  word  of 
warning:  "Get  a  good  night's  sleep,"  he  said.  "You  know  there's 


268     John  Feinstein 


no  curfew,  but  if  I  were  you  guys,  I'd  be  in  at  ten  just  in  case  I 
decided  to  phone  you." 

Robinson  had  a  problem.  As  part  of  a  class  he  was  taking,  he 
was  supposed  to  go  to  a  play  that  night.  Knight  grinned.  "The 
old  l-have-to-go-to-a-play  routine,  huh.  Stew?  Who  are  you  going 
with?" 

"Myself." 

"You  sure  you  aren't  going  with  a  girl?"  Giggles. 

"Sure." 

"You  better  be  sure,  because  if  one  of  my  friends  who  is  going 
to  that  play  tells  me  you're  there  with  a  girl,  you'll  be  in  big 
trouble."  More  giggles. 

"What  friends  of  yours  are  going?" 

"None  of  your  damn  business."  Nonstop  guffaws. 

Because  of  the  CBS  telecast,  the  tipoff  was  set  for  noon.  That 
was  very  early,  so  early  that  Knight  canceled  the  walk-through 
before  the  pregame  meal. 

Knight  had  more  to  say  at  the  meal  than  he  had  said  all  season. 
There  had  been  very  little  rhetoric  in  the  past  few  days.  There 
had  been  little  talk  about  positioning  or  about  tradition.  Knight 
had  focused  squarely  on  basics,  on  handling  the  Iowa  press.  This 
was  the  last  home  game  of  the  year,  the  last  home  game  for 
Morgan,  Robinson,  and  Witte.  It  was  a  chance  for  twenty  vic- 
tories, a  chance  to  put  themselves  in  excellent  position  in  terms 
of  seeding  for  the  NCAA  tournament,  a  chance  to  stay  in  a  tie 
with  Michigan  for  first  place  in  the  Big  Ten. 

Knight  spoke  first  about  what  had  to  be  done  to  win.  "The  first 
fifteen  seconds  of  every  possession  their  defense  will  attack  you," 
he  said.  "But  after  that,  we  can  attack  them.  You  cannot  be  careless 
with  the  basketball  and  you  cannot  let  up  at  any  point  in  the 
game.  They  have  the  quickness  to  score  a  lot  of  points  quickly  if 
we  let  down." 

Knight  paused.  Enough  on  how  to  win.  It  was  time  to  tell  them 
what  winning  meant  and  what  they  were  playing  for  in  this  game. 
"Not  a  lot  of  teams  get  to  this  point,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  give 
you  an  example  of  what  playing  here  is  all  about.  This  weekend, 
you  people  are  playing  to  get  into  the  NCAA  and  to  stay  in  first 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    269 


place  in  the  Big  Ten.  All  right,  the  whole  program  at  Texas  comes 
from  here.  [Bob]  Weltlich  coached  here  for  five  years  and  for  two 
years  with  me  at  Army.  At  Texas  today,  they're  playing  for  the 
Southwest  Conference  championship.  If  they  win  today,  they  win 
the  championship. 

"Last  night,  Cornell  played  at  Princeton  for  the  Ivy  League 
championship.  Tommy  Miller  played  for  us  and  coached  for  us 
here  for  five  years  and  he  had  Cornell  playing  for  the  Ivy  League 
championship  last  night.  And  today  at  Duke,  Mike  [Krzyzewski], 
who  played  for  us  and  coached  for  us,  is  playing  for  the  Atlantic 
Coast  Conference  championship  and  to  be  ranked  number  one  in 
the  country. 

"That  all  came  from  here.  That's  all  part  of  here.  Those  three 
teams  in  different  parts  of  the  country  in  different  conferences, 
it's  all  part  of  this  whole  program.  That's  what  you  represent  and 
that's  what  you're  playing  for  and  that's  what  you  ought  to  be 
playing  for. 

"Because  this  is  the  best  way  to  play  basketball — ever.  That's 
why  so  many  people  who  play  this  way  have  a  chance  to  do  these 
things.  That's  why  you've  got  a  chance  to  do  it.  You've  done  a 
hell  of  a  job  getting  yourselves  into  this  position.  Let's  take  ad- 
vantage of  it." 

It  was  a  striking  speech,  noteworthy  not  only  because  Knight 
wanted  his  team  to  know  what  it  was  part  of,  but  because  Knight 
seemed  to  be  reminding  himself  that  he  had  created  something 
special.  "The  best  way  to  play  basketball — ever."  That  was  Knight's 
assessment  of  what  he  had  created  as  a  coach. 

The  locker  room  was  a  zoo  before  the  game.  There  was  hardly 
room  for  the  players,  it  was  so  crowded.  Keith  Smart  was  there 
and  two  juniors  from  Marion  High  School  were  there  with  their 
coaches.  Morgan  and  Robinson's  high  school  coach,  Phil  Buck, 
was  there.  Bill  Shunkwiler,  Knight's  high  school  football  coach, 
was  there  and  so  was  Steve  Bennett,  one  of  Jim  Crews's  assistants, 
and  Phil  Eskew,  an  old  Knight  buddy  who  had  run  the  Indiana 
High  School  Athletic  Association  for  years.  The  regulars  were 
there,  too:  Buckner,  Abernethy,  Steve  Ahlfeld,  Steve  Green,  Rink, 
and  Bomba.  If  Knight  had  sold  tickets  he  could  have  retired  rich. 

The  game  was  worth  the  price  of  admission.  George  Raveling 


270     ]ohn  Feinstein 


got  a  technical  before  the  game  was  a  minute  old.  He  stormed 
out  of  the  coaching  box  in  protest.  Knight  jumped  up,  screaming 
for  another  technical.  When  referee  Darwin  Brown,  Knight's  old 
friend  from  the  first  Ohio  State  game,  came  by.  Knight  demanded 
to  know  why  Raveling  hadn't  gotten  a  second  technical.  "It's 
automatic,  goddamn  it,"  he  yelled.  As  Brown  went  by.  Knight 
brushed  his  arm — by  accident.  He  drew  a  technical.  This  was  all 
in  the  first  ninety  seconds. 

The  players  seemed  not  to  notice  any  of  these  histrionics.  With 
Harris  again  playing  like  an  All-American,  Indiana  jumped  to  a 
14-6  lead.  Harris  had  been  averaging  ten  rebounds  a  game  since 
his  talk  with  his  mother  and  Knight  after  his  benching.  In  this 
game  he  would  score  fifteen  points  and  get  thirteen  rebounds. 

All  the  work  against  the  press  had  been  worth  it.  They  were 
moving  the  ball  quickly,  before  Iowa  could  trap,  and  Indiana  was 
getting  good  shots  on  almost  every  possession.  Knight  continued 
his  duel  with  the  officials,  but  the  players  just  kept  playing.  A 
Harris  tip-in  of  a  Thomas  miss  got  the  lead  to  30-18.  Alford 
produced  a  four-point  play  a  minute  later,  swishing  a  long  bomb 
falling  down  with  Iowa's  Gerry  Wright  on  top  of  him.  The  foul 
on  Wright  came  after  the  shot,  so  Alford  shot  one-and-one.  He 
made  both  shots,  and  it  was  40-22  with  3:24  left.  The  lead  was 
still  eighteen  when  Daryl  Thomas  went  to  the  foul  Hne  with  1:17 
left.  But  he  missed  and  Iowa  promptly  got  a  three-point  play  from 
Andre  Banks  and  a  Roy  Marble  tip-in  after  a  Robinson  turnover. 
Those  five  points  chipped  the  lead  to  46-33  at  the  half.  It  could 
have  been  twenty.  It  was  thirteen. 

"Should  have  had  them  by  twenty,"  Knight  said,  calmly,  chn- 
ically.  "You  just  can't  let  down,  boys.  Not  now.  Not  when  we're 
so  close.  Okay,  spread  yourselves  out  around  the  room  and  take 
deep  breaths."  The  day  had  turned  up  unseasonably  warm  and 
the  gym  was  hot.  Playing  against  Iowa's  incessant  pressure.  Knight 
was  concerned  about  stamina. 

The  coaches  huddled  in  the  hall.  Knight  was  pacing.  Repeatedly, 
he  asked  how  much  time  was  left.  "Longest  goddamn  halftime 
ever,"  he  said  finally.  He  went  back  inside. 

"Boys,  you've  worked  too  hard  not  to  give  these  twenty  min- 
utes everything  you  have  left.  When  we  come  back  in  here  we 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    271 


should  all  be  ready  to  drop  from  exhaustion.  That's  how  close  we 
are.  We've  all  worked  since  this  summer,  since  October  15,  to 
get  to  here.  We're  twenty  minutes  from  the  Promised  Land  now 
but  it's  got  to  be  our  best  twenty  minutes  of  the  season." 

It  turned  out  to  be  the  longest,  toughest  twenty  minutes  of  the 
season.  It  began  as  an  easy  romp.  Raveling  picked  up  a  second 
technical  screaming  about  a  Calloway  basket  after  it  looked  like 
Calloway  had  been  tied  up.  The  bucket  made  the  score  62^5. 
Alford's  two  free  throws  made  it  64-45,  and  Indiana  had  the  ball 
with  a  chance  to  push  the  margin  over  twenty.  It  was  over. 

Only  someone  forgot  to  tell  Iowa.  Harris  turned  the  ball  over 
and  Bill  Jones  produced  a  three-point  play.  Daryl  Thomas  charged 
and  Banks  scored.  Alford  turned  it  over  and  Al  Lorenzen  scored. 
In  two  minutes  the  lead  was  down  to  eleven.  Knight  stood  up, 
palms  down.  "Settle  down,"  he  said.  They  did  for  a  moment, 
Alford  hitting.  But  Iowa  scored  twice  more  to  cut  it  to  nine.  The 
crowd  rumbled  nervously.  A  Harris  tip-in  built  the  margin  back 
to  68-57  with  7:50  left.  Comfortable.  But  the  press  was  wearing 
Indiana  down.  Two  quick  turnovers  led  to  two  quick  baskets  and 
then  Robinson  missed  a  drive  and  Wright  went  all  the  way  for  a 
layup.  It  was  68-63. 

Knight  sat,  arms  folded,  watching.  Thomas  was  called  for  charg- 
ing again.  Jeff  Moe,  the  Indiana  kid  who  had  buried  the  Hoosiers 
in  Iowa  City,  hit  two  free  throws  to  make  it  68-65.  Iowa  was 
playing  box-and-one  on  Alford  now,  denying  him  the  ball  when 
he  had  to  have  it  most.  Calloway  came  through  with  a  soft  bank 
shot  to  make  it  70-65.  Just  when  everyone  was  sighing  with  relief, 
Moe  answered  with  a  bomb.  Alford  tried  to  force  his  way  to  the 
basket  and  lost  the  ball.  Ed  Horton  promptly  posted  inside,  and 
his  basket  made  it  70-69  with  3:10  left.  In  little  more  than  ten 
minutes,  Iowa  had  outscored  the  Hoosiers  24-6. 

Alford  had  to  have  the  ball  now.  He  got  it,  made  a  move,  and 
was  fouled  with  2:55  left.  Just  what  Indiana  wanted — Alford  on 
the  line  for  two  automatic  points.  Somehow,  Alford  missed.  The 
crowd  groaned.  Iowa  could  take  the  lead.  Knight  looked  a  little 
like  Moses  must  have  looked  gazing  on  the  Promised  Land.  Ham- 
mel  was  nearly  hysterical.  "It's  just  awful  to  ruin  a  great  year 
like  this.  This  is  disastrous,  just  disastrous." 


272     John  Feinstein 


Iowa  had  time.  It  worked  the  ball  around.  Then,  for  some 
reason,  7-foot  center  Brad  Lohaus  tried  a  seventeen-footer.  It  had 
no  chance,  but  Horton  went  over  everybody  for  the  rebound.  He 
turned  and  had  a  wide  open  five-footer  for  the  lead  ...  it  rolled 
off.  Morgan  rebounded.  List  Indiana's  five  biggest  rebounds  of 
the  season  and  Morgan  probably  had  four  of  them. 

There  was  2:30  left.  Indiana  had  to  score.  Alford,  never  one  to 
back  off  because  of  a  mistake,  wanted  the  ball.  He  flashed  to  the 
corner.  Morgan  whipped  the  ball  to  him  and  Alford  never  even 
paused.  Twenty  feet.  Swish.  It  was  72-69.  The  building  exploded. 
A  moment  later,  Jones  drove  the  baseline.  Waiting,  in  perfect 
position  as  always,  was  Meier.  The  shot  rolled  off.  Harris  grabbed 
it.  Indiana  used  the  clock  and  ran  the  same  play.  This  time  Alford 
was  in  the  other  corner.  Same  result.  Swish.  It  was  74-69  with 
1:07  left.  Ten  seconds  later,  Horton  walked.  Finally — finally — it 
was  over. 

They  were  20-6.  Knight  was  ecstatic.  One  year  earlier,  a  Knight- 
coached  Indiana  team  had  lost  its  final  home  game  for  the  first 
time  ever.  Knight  had  been  so  distraught  that  he  skipped  the 
postgame  ceremonies  for  Dakich  and  Blab.  Now,  he  gleefully 
introduced  Morgan,  Robinson,  and  Witte.  But  first,  a  word  from 
our  sponsor. 

"You  know  Indiana  has  the  greatest  basketball  tradition  in  the 
world,"  Knight  told  the  fans,  "Last  year,  we  were  all  kind  of  down 
because  we  didn't  think  we  gave  you  the  kind  of  basketball  you 
people  are  used  to  seeing  and  enjoy  seeing.  I  know  I've  enjoyed 
it  greatly." 

He  left  the  floor  to  the  seniors.  It  had  been  an  almost  perfect 
day.  Duke  had  beaten  North  Carolina  to  win  the  ACC  champi- 
onship. True,  Cornell  had  lost  to  Princeton  and  Texas  had  lost  on 
a  fluke  shot  by  one  point  on  the  buzzer;  Knight  took  that  last 
one  hard.  But  the  Hoosiers  had  reached  the  Promised  Land.  And 
Moses  had  even  entered  it  with  them,  at  least  for  a  few  days. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink     17?) 


/a. 

For  the  Championship . . .  Thud 

Knight  might  have  been  giddy  after  the  Iowa  victory,  but  the 
Michigan  State  game  was  on  Wednesday  and  he  did  not  want 
another  loss  to  the  Spartans.  For  one  thing,  Michigan  State  had 
beaten  Indiana  four  straight.  In  the  ten  seasons  that  Jud  Heathcote 
had  been  coach  there,  State  had  a  10-9  record  against  Knight; 
Heathcote  was  the  only  Big  Ten  coach  with  a  winning  record 
against  Knight. 

He  also  had  a  sharp  enough  wit  to  outdo  Knight  occasionally 
in  one-liners.  Once,  when  Knight  had  been  feuding  with  other 
league  coaches,  he  called  Heathcote  and  said,  "Jud,  you're  the 
only  coach  in  this  damn  league  that  likes  me." 

"Bob,"  Heathcote  answered,  "Don't  take  anything  for  granted." 

Knight  certainly  wasn't  taking  this  game  for  granted.  If  he  had 
believed  in  January  that  his  team  had  lost  at  home  to  a  mediocre 
team,  the  season  had  proved  him  wrong.  Scott  Skiles  had  been 
truly  unreal,  even  with  probable  revocation  of  his  probation  hang- 
ing over  him.  He  was  averaging  twenty-seven  points  a  game,  and 
Michigan  State,  picked  seventh  in  the  league  preseason,  was  clip- 
ping at  the  heels  of  Indiana  and  Michigan  with  an  11-5  league 
record.  The  leaders  were  12-A. 

Knight  hated  the  fact  that  Skiles  was  playing  so  well.  As  won- 
derful a  season  as  Alford  was  having,  Skiles  was  even  better. 
Alford  had  no  trouble  admitting,  "He's  the  best  guard  in  America." 
But  Knight  would  not  so  much  as  shake  Skiles's  hand  as  part  of 
his  last-game-against-a-senior  ritual.  Skiles's  arrest  record,  in 
Knight's  opinion,  disqualified  him  from  meriting  such  respect.  In 
truth,  if  anyone  merited  a  pat  for  being  a  competitor,  it  was  Skiles. 

If  Knight's  concern  before  the  Iowa  game  had  been  the  defense, 
his  concern  preparing  for  Michigan  State  was  their  offense.  Led 
by  Skiles,  the  Spartans  had  become  a  team  that  pushed  the  ball 
up  the  floor  so  quickly  it  was  almost  impossible  for  the  defense 
to  have  time  to  set  up.  Skiles  could  not  be  allowed  to  score  in 
conversion.  Stopping  him  would  not  be  easy. 

But  this  was  a  team  riding  high.  Since  the  opening  two  losses 


274    John  Feinstein 


and  the  subsequent  fishing  trip,  Indiana  had  won  twelve  of  four- 
teen games.  For  the  players,  this  meant  relief.  Last  year's  night- 
mare had  not  been  repeated.  The  season  had  become  fun.  They 
were  enjoying  the  winning,  they  were  enjoying  one  another,  and 
they  were  even  enjoying  their  coach.  The  locker  room  was  a  loose, 
happy  place.  Alford  would  make  several  All-American  teams  that 
were  being  announced  during  this  week — deservedly  so.  Calloway 
was  the  Big  Ten  rookie  of  the  year.  And  Harris,  owing  to  his  play 
in  the  last  five  games,  was  tabbed  by  one  magazine  as  a  member 
of  the  "AIl-JUCO  newcomer"  team.  In  this  era,  there  weren't 
many  JUCO  newcomers  to  choose  from.  But  Wright  grabbed  the 
magazine  and  proudly  showed  it  to  anyone  he  could  find — the 
coaches,  the  players,  Harris,  the  secretaries,  little  old  ladies  on 
the  street.  He  was  entitled,  though.  No  one  had  sweated  longer 
or  harder  with  a  player  than  Wright  had  with  Harris. 

The  team  flew  into  East  Lansing  on  a  frigid,  snowy  night.  When 
the  coaches  went  to  dinner.  Knight  sat  down  and  found  a  woman 
standing  over  him  with  a  menu,  but  not  to  take  his  order.  "Coach, 
if  you  give  me  your  autograph,  I'll  even  bring  you  a  chair." 

She  laughed  hysterically  at  her  cleverness.  Fifteen  weeks  earher, 
such  hilarity  had  put  Knight  in  a  bad  mood  for  an  entire  day. 
Today,  he  took  the  menu,  signed,  and  said  softly,  "Ask  the  Spar- 
tans not  to  beat  up  on  us  too  bad,  okay?" 

The  angry  young  man  of  1985  had  become  a  very  satisfied 
middle-aged  coach  in  1986. 

Naturally,  he  wanted  more.  That  was  only  human.  The  team 
had  already  met  every  preseason  goal  he  had  set,  but  now  it  had 
a  chance  to  do  more.  A  Big  Ten  championship  with  this  team 
would  rank  very  high  on  Knight's  list  of  coaching  accomplish- 
ments. 

Skiles  was  going  to  be  a  problem.  He  was  in  a  shooting  groove 
not  unlike  the  kind  that  baseball  pitchers  get  into  when  they  feel 
they  can  get  every  batter  out.  Skiles  was  so  confident  he  thought 
he  could  make  any  shot  he  took.  That  kind  of  player  is  tough  to 
stop. 

East  Lansing  was  hardly  a  cheery  place.  It  was  snowing  when 
Indiana  arrived  and  very  cold  even  though  it  was  March.  On  game 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    275 


day  it  started  snowing  at  midday  and  snowed  eight  inches  in  a 
matter  of  hours.  What's  more,  none  of  the  hotel  telephones  were 
working.  No  calls  could  come  in,  none  could  go  out — except  from 
the  lobby  pay  phones.  The  team  felt  as  if  it  had  been  cut  off  from 
the  outside  world. 

The  morning  practice  on  game  day  seemed  destined  to  try 
Knight's  patience.  Jenison  Field  House  is  one  of  those  old  gyms 
that  is  an  anachronism  except  on  a  game  night,  when  it  is  packed 
and  jammed  and  becomes  alive  and  electric.  There  are  no  doors 
to  shut  in  order  to  have  a  closed  practice.  Joggers  abound,  and  on 
this  morning,  workmen  were  everywhere.  The  acoustics  caused 
every  sound  in  the  building  to  echo  all  over. 

Knight  was  uptight,  but  it  wasn't  the  acoustics.  It  was  poor 
Steve  Eyl's  shooting — again.  "Steve,  you're  falling  backward  every 
time  you  shoot,"  Knight  yelled,  jumping  from  his  seat  as  the 
players  warmed  up.  He  walked  over  to  Eyl  to  demonstrate.  He 
came  back  shaking  his  head.  "I  wish  he  had  been  a  better  football 
player,"  Knight  said.  "I'm  not  sure  I  can  survive  watching  him 
shoot  the  ball  for  another  two  years." 

Knight  sat  down  and  immediately  noticed  Eyl  falling  backward 
again.  This  time  he  called  Alford  over.  "What's  he  doing  every 
time  he  shoots?"  he  asked  his  best  shooter. 

"Falling  backward,"  Alford  said. 

"Well,  will  you  please  go  tell  him  that?  Maybe  he'll  listen  to 
you.  You're  a  better  shooter  than  I  was." 

Knight's  frustration  with  Eyl's  shooting  had  more  to  do  with 
aesthetics  than  anything  else.  Eyl  had  done  just  about  everything 
he  had  been  asked  to  do  coming  off  the  bench.  He  had  rebounded, 
played  tough  defense,  and  come  up  with  a  key  follow  shot  here 
and  there.  But  Knight  was  too  much  of  a  basketball  purist  to  bear 
the  sight  of  someone  shooting  a  ball  so  incorrectly  so  often.  He 
was  like  a  conductor  who  kept  hearing  a  note  played  wrong.  Maybe 
no  one  else  could  hear  it,  but  every  time  he  heard  it  he  winced. 
Watching  Eyl  shoot  was  painful  for  Knight. 

Being  watched  was  painful  for  Eyl,  a  quiet,  easygoing  sort  who 
bore  a  remarkable  resemblance  to  Ivan  Drago,  the  Russian  boxer 
in  Rocky  IV.  Eyl  was  one  of  those  players  who  had  seen  both 
ends  of  the  Knight  ladder  up  close.  He  had  started  for  much  of 


276     John  Feinstein 


his  freshman  season  and  had  been  thought  of  in  preseason  as  a 
starting  candidate.  He  was  one  of  the  best  athletes  on  the  team, 
a  player  who  could  do  everything  on  a  basketball  court  except 
shoot. 

But  that  malady  hounded  him,  as  did  the  misfortune  of  being 
named  Steve  on  a  team  whose  best  player  had  that  name.  As  a 
result,  he  was  constantly  referred  to  by  everyone  as  SteveEyl  as 
if  it  was  one  word.  Even  on  the  court,  when  other  players  wanted 
to  get  his  attention,  they  would  yell  "SteveEyl"  rather  than  just 
"Steve."  This  was  not  a  problem  for  the  team's  two  Todds — 
Jadlow  and  Meier — partly  because  their  status  was  almost  equal, 
but  mostly  because  everyone  called  Todd  Jadlow,  "Jadlow."  So 
there  was  Todd  and  there  was  Jadlow  and  there  was  Steve  and 
SteveEyl. 

SteveEyl  was  never  going  to  be  a  shooter.  He  knew  it  and  Knight 
knew  it,  yet  the  reality  was  often  painful  for  both.  With  practice 
over.  Knight  went  back  to  the  hotel  for  some  soup,  trying  all  the 
while  to  push  the  mental  picture  of  Eyl  shooting  out  of  his  mind. 
The  snow  was  so  bad  that  he  and  Hammel  skipped  their  walk. 

It  was  still  coming  down  hard  when  the  team  bused  to  the  arena 
that  evening,  and  the  possibility  of  having  to  bus  the  300  miles 
home  was  discussed.  The  very  thought  of  a  six-hour  bus  ride  with 
Knight  after  a  loss  was  enough  to  make  everyone  just  a  little 
tighter. 

Jenison  was  jammed.  Michigan  State  and  Skiles  had  captured 
everyone's  imagination  because  of  their  abandon  and  because  of 
Skiles's  charisma.  Whatever  one  thought  of  his  off-court  behavior, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  admire  his  guts  and  guile  on  the  court. 
And  the  crowd  was  waiting  for  Knight.  One  sign  hanging  from 
the  balcony  identified  one  group  as  SACA — Students  Against 
Chair  Abuse. 

To  get  to  the  floor  from  the  locker  rooms,  the  teams  had  to 
walk  right  between  the  bleachers.  Even  though  a  path  was  cleared, 
people  pressed  up  against  the  ropes  so  that  they  were  almost 
breathing  in  the  faces  of  the  coaches  and  the  players.  But  this  was 
not  an  ugly  crowd  like  those  at  Kentucky  or  Purdue.  They  just 
wanted  to  be  up  close,  to  feel  as  if  they  were  part  of  the  game. 
Many  even  applauded  Knight  as  he  walked  past  them. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    277 


Also  waiting  for  Knight  when  he  walked  onto  the  floor  was 
Walter  Adams.  Walter  Adams  is  a  professor  at  Michigan  State, 
a  rabid  fan  of  the  basketball  team  who  has  sat  for  many  years 
right  behind  the  visitors'  bench.  He  is  a  world-class  heckler.  One 
year,  shortly  after  Knight's  arrival  at  Indiana,  Adams  was  all  over 
Knight  during  a  game.  Knight  turned  around  and  pointed  at  Ad- 
ams's wife.  "If  he's  with  you,"  Knight  said,  "I  suggest  you  quiet 
him  down  so  he  can  leave  with  you  in  one  piece. " 

No  one  quite  knew  how  to  take  that,  but  Adams  quieted.  The 
next  year  Knight  showed  up  before  the  game  looking  for  Adams. 
He  had  brought  a  gift,  a  peace  offering.  Give  me  peace.  Knight 
was  saying.  Walter  Adams  did  just  that.  The  next  year  he  showed 
up  with  a  gift  for  Knight,  and  over  the  years  their  pregame  ex- 
change of  gifts  had  become  a  tradition. 

Knight,  the  history  buff,  had  brought  Adams  a  copy  of  the  book 
Grant  and  Lee.  Adams  had  brought  Knight  a  green-and-white 
Michigan  State  seat  cushion  to  sit  on  during  the  game,  and  a 
handsome  framed  plaque  extolling  the  virtues  of  Knight.  Adams 
was  another  Bob  Knight  convert;  once  he  had  gotten  to  know 
Knight,  he  not  only  liked  him  but  would  hear  no  words  spoken 
against  him.  Knight  took  Adams's  glasses  from  him  to  read  the 
plaque.  A  crowd  had  gathered  to  watch  the  scene,  as  always,  and 
both  men  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

Finally,  it  was  time  to  play.  And  Indiana  was  ready. 

This  night  it  all  came  together.  Five  months  of  work,  all  the 
yelling,  all  the  hours,  all  the  tape  was  worth  it  at  least  for  these 
two  hours.  Everything  clicked. 

Skiles  was  still  Skiles.  He  had  twenty-one  points  by  halftime 
and  thirty-three  for  the  game  even  though  he  played  the  second 
half  with  a  hip-pointer  suffered  near  the  end  of  the  first  half.  But 
Skiles  could  not  beat  Indiana  alone  and  that  was  what  he  was  left 
trying  to  do.  His  teammates  were  very  mortal  on  this  night.  Larry 
Polec,  the  perennial  Indiana-killer,  had  just  four  points.  Carlton 
Valentine,  who  had  come  up  with  the  twenty-one  killing  points 
in  the  first  game,  had  just  two. 

In  the  meantime,  Alford  was  matching  Skiles  shot  for  shot, 
scoring  thirty-one  points  himself.  Skiles  and  Alford  put  on  a 
shooting  duel  for  the  national  cable-TV  audience  the  Hkes  of  which 


278     ]ohn  Feinstein 


had  not  been  seen  for  a  long  time.  But  Alford  had  more  help. 
Calloway  was  superb  with  nineteen  points.  Daryl  Thomas  had 
fourteen.  SteveEyl  came  off  the  bench  to  get  two  key  baskets  in 
the  first  half — from  close  in,  of  course — and  Stew  Robinson  added 
nine.  Harris  had  foul  problems  again  and  only  played  twenty-one 
minutes,  but  he  managed  ten  points,  six  rebounds,  and  four  steals 
while  he  was  in  the  game. 

Indiana,  down  7-2  early,  took  the  lead  at  14^13  on  a  basehne 
jumper  by  Alford  with  13 ;  15  left  and  Michigan  State  never  caught 
up.  Alford  and  Calloway  lit  up  creaky  old  Jenison  and  by  halftime 
the  lead  was  48-35,  Alford  ending  it  with  a  spinning  twelve-footer 
just  before  the  buzzer. 

Nothing  changed  after  halftime.  Knight  made  one  small  de- 
fensive adjustment  to  take  the  middle  away  from  Skiles  and  that 
kept  him  off  the  foul  line — he  had  been  there  eight  times  in  the 
first  half.  The  only  suspense  came  when  the  Hoosiers  went  through 
a  one  for  six  free-throw  shooting  spell  and  let  a  sixteen-point  lead 
melt  to  ten  with  8:10  to  play.  But  Skiles,  doubled-teamed  in  the 
middle,  missed  an  off-balance  jumper,  and  SteveEyl  rebounded. 
Alford  fed  Thomas  for  a  pretty  layup.  The  Spartans  clawed  back 
one  last  time,  getting  to  within  81-73  with  3:13  left.  Knight  called 
time. 

One  adjustment:  f^e  wanted  to  go  out  of  the  regular  offense 
and  into  a  triangle — meaning  that  two  players  would  go  to  one 
side  of  the  lane  and  one  to  the  other  with  two  others  outside.  He 
wanted  Alford  inside,  on  the  baseline,  because  he  was  convinced 
that  if  Alford  drove  baseline,  Michigan  State  would  be  forced  to 
foul. 

It  took  Alford  twelve  seconds  to  draw  a  foul.  He  made  both 
shots.  One  possession  later,  after  an  MSU  miss,  Alford  drove 
baseline  and  fed  Meier,  who  was  fouled.  The  last  three  minutes 
were  straight  from  a  textbook.  The  Hoosiers  outscored  the  Spar- 
tans 16-6  and  the  final  was  97-79. 

"They  played  just  about  a  perfect  game,"  Heathcote  said.  "It 
was  a  clinic." 

Nothing  makes  Knight  happier  than  watching  his  team  put  on 
a  clinic.  That  they  had  done  it  on  the  road  against  a  team  that 
had  given  them  fits  for  three  years  and  had  put  themselves  one 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    179 


game  from  a  Big  Ten  championship  made  it  that  much  sweeter. 

Knight  enjoyed  this  one  immensely.  When  a  radio  reporter 
trailed  him  out  of  the  press  conference  to  ask  what  changes  Knight 
had  made  to  bring  about  this  team's  turnaround,  Knight  said, 
straightfaced,  "I  think  our  zone  defense  has  really  been  the  dif- 
ference. We've  worked  awfully  hard  on  it." 

The  reporter,  giving  Knight  just  the  response  he  wanted,  nodded 
knowingly  and  said,  "Interesting,  since  you  never  liked  to  play 
zone  in  the  past." 

Still  straightfaced.  Knight  nodded  just  as  eagerly.  "That's  right, 
but  as  you  probably  noticed  tonight,  we  play  a  lot  of  different 
zones.  Maybe  someday  we  can  sit  down  and  talk  about  the  con- 
cepts of  our  zone  defense." 

He  walked  away  delighted  with  himself.  Hammel,  a  step  behind, 
groaned.  Knight  had  scored  yet  another  point  in  their  running 
battle  over  the  question,  "Is  the  media  really  as  stupid  as  Knight 
thinks  it  is?"  On  this  night,  the  prosecution  had  some  over- 
whelming evidence. 

Inside  the  locker  room,  there  were  no  qualifiers  in  Knight's 
praise  of  the  team.  Not  a  discouraging  word  was  heard.  "Look  at 
what  you've  done  now,"  he  told  the  players.  "You've  got  it  down 
to  one  game  for  a  conference  championship.  You  can't  ask  for 
more  than  that,  I  can't  ask  for  more  than  that.  We're  exactly 
where  we  wanted  to  be  when  we  started  on  October  15.  You 
should  feel  damn  good  about  that.  That's  one  hell  of  a  turn- 
around." 

They  felt  very  damn  good  about  it.  As  the  players  congratulated 
each  other,  Waltman  put  a  tired  arm  around  Felling.  "Do  you 
know  what  this  means.  Felling?"  he  said.  "This  means,  we  don't 
have  to  get  into  position  to  get  into  position  anymore.  We're  in 
position." 

Finally. 

The  bumpy  flight  home  through  the  snow  bothered  no  one — 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Robinson,  who  was  easily  the  team's 
most  nervous  flyer.  Knight  was  already  talking  Michigan  up  front. 

It  was  after  two  o'clock  before  they  reached  Assembly  Hall.  It 
was  too  late  to  look  at  tape,  at  least  on  a  euphoric  night  like  this. 
Knight  was  too  wound  up,  too  high  to  sleep,  so  he  and  Waltman 


280     John  Feinstein 


went  to  the  only  open  restaurant  in  town — Denny's — for  some- 
thing to  eat. 

An  hour  later,  Knight  pushed  himself  back  from  the  milkshake 
he  had  treated  himself  to  and  looked  at  Waltman.  "Remember 
how  we  felt  a  year  ago  tonight?"  he  said.  "We  had  just  lost  to 
Michigan  State  at  home  and  we  knew  we  weren't  going  to  the 
NCAAs.  What  a  turnaround.  I'm  really  proud  of  this  group  of 
kids.  They  deserve  an  awful  lot  of  credit." 

As  he  drove  home  that  morning  with  his  team  21-6,  Knight 
had  no  way  of  knowing  that  Indiana  had  just  won  for  the  last 
time  in  this  season.  If  he  had  known,  he  would  have  been  shocked. 
Because  at  that  moment,  he  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  the 
ending  for  this  team  would  be  a  happy  one. 


Euphoria  was  still  in  the  air  the  next  afternoon.  Knight  almost 
sounded  cocky  talking  to  the  players.  "Hey,  it  doesn't  matter  that 
we're  playing  up  there,"  he  said.  "We've  proven  all  season  it 
doesn't  matter  where  we  play.  We  can  have  a  lot  of  fun  with  this 
game,  boys.  All  the  pressure  is  on  them.  The  last  place  in  the 
world  they  wanted  to  be  Saturday  was  playing  us  for  the  Big  Ten 
championship." 

That  was  certainly  the  way  the  game  shaped  up.  Both  teams 
were  13-4  in  the  league.  Everyone  else  had  at  least  six  losses.  It 
was  a  two-team  race,  one  game  for  first  place  outright.  A  bad 
Indiana  team  had  won  in  Crisler  Arena  in  1985,  and  there  was 
no  reason  to  believe  a  good  one  couldn't  repeat  in  1986.  The 
pressure  was  on  Michigan  because  it  had  been  the  preseason  Big 
Ten  favorite.  Frieder  even  admitted  the  pressure  was  on  his  team. 

"It  may  not  be  fair,  but  I  told  our  seniors  that  in  spite  of 
everything  they've  done  here,  their  whole  careers  may  very  well 
be  judged  on  this  game,"  he  said.  "When  you've  won  as  much 
as  they  have,  that  isn't  right.  But  it's  true." 

True  or  not,  Frieder  had  apparently  decided  to  take  the  tack  of 
telling  them  that  was  the  way  it  was.  He  apparently  wanted 
pressure  on  his  team  in  this  game.  On  the  surface,  that  didn't 
seem  like  a  brilliant  strategy. 

For  Indiana,  this  was  a  chance  to  make  a  very  good  season  a 
magic  one.  There  was  no  reason  to  think  the  game  wasn't  win- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    281 


nable.  They  had  handled  playing  on  the  road  most  of  the  season 
without  any  trouble.  Knight  was  brimming  with  confidence. 
"Michigan  has  played  like  dogs  a  lot  this  year,"  he  told  the  play- 
ers. "But  I  guarantee  you  they'll  play  very  hard  on  Saturday. 
That's  okay,  though,  because  it  will  just  open  up  some  things  for 
us  on  the  inside." 

They  were  so  high  the  plane  hardly  seemed  necessary  to  get 
to  Ann  Arbor.  On  the  flight.  Knight  had  an  assignment  for  Ham- 
mel.  "In  fifteen  years,  nine  Big  Ten  teams  each  year  have  had  a 
chance  to  finish  ahead  of  us  in  the  league,"  he  said.  "How  many 
have  done  it?"  Hammel  spent  most  of  the  trip  burrowing  through 
his  record  books.  Just  before  landing  he  had  the  answer:  Out  of 
the  135  teams  that  could  have  finished  ahead  of  Indiana,  Michigan, 
by  winning  on  Saturday,  could  be  the  twentieth  team  to  do  so. 
Six  of  those  twenty  had  come  in  one  year — 1985. 

"That  just  might  be  the  most  impressive  thing  we've  done 
here,"  Knight  said,  settling  back  with  a  satisfied  smile. 

They  went  straight  to  the  arena  after  arriving,  since  the  game 
the  next  day  was  in  the  afternoon.  Knight  was  greeted  by  an 
assistant  football  coach  who  told  him  that  Michigan  football  coach 
Bo  Schembechler  was  away  but  wanted  to  be  sure  Knight  got  a 
gift  that  he  had  left  for  him.  It  was  a  Michigan  football  Fiesta 
Bowl  sweater.  That  sweater  was  a  reminder  of  the  comeback  sea- 
son Michigan  had  had  in  football.  It  also  reminded  Knight  of  a 
speech  he  had  given  his  team  in  November,  comparing  Indiana 
basketball  to  Michigan  football.  His  players  had  lived  up  to  his 
plea  that  they  make  this  a  comeback  season  like  the  one  Schem- 
bechler's  team  had. 

Crisler  Arena  was  hot  that  evening  because  the  CBS  technicians 
had  turned  on  the  TV  lights  so  Indiana  would  have  some  notion 
of  how  the  lighting  would  feel  during  the  game.  Knight  was  loose; 
Steve  Eyl  actually  made  it  through  the  session  without  having 
his  shooting  disparaged.  When  it  was  over.  Knight  called  them 
into  a  circle  at  center  court.  His  voice  wasn't  very  loud,  but  in 
the  empty  arena  his  words  seemed  to  echo  off  the  seats. 

"You  do  not  have  to  do  anything  in  here  tomorrow  except  play 
as  well  as  you  can  play,"  he  said.  "You  do  not  have  to  play  the 
greatest  game  ever  played.  It  really  doesn't  matter  what  you're 


282    John  Feinstein 


playing  for  tomorrow  in  terms  of  how  you  play  because  you 
should  play  as  well  and  as  hard  as  you  can  every  time  you  play. 
That's  what  you've  done  this  season.  The  teams  that  do  that  are 
the  teams  and  the  players  that  end  up  playing  for  championships." 

Michigan  was  an  exception  to  this  rule,  however.  Indiana  had 
come  very  close  to  playing  hard  and  well  in  every  game  it  had 
played  all  season.  Michigan  had  been  superb  in  one  game,  awful 
in  the  next.  It  had  been  the  kind  of  inconsistent  team  that  would 
drive  Knight  crazy.  Indiana,  even  knowing  the  special  nature  of 
this  game,  probably  could  not  take  its  level  of  play  much  higher 
than  where  it  had  been  for  the  past  several  weeks.  Michigan,  if 
ready,  could  play  several  notches  higher.  From  an  Indiana  view- 
point, that  was  the  scary  part. 

But  on  that  frigid  evening,  that  hardly  seemed  possible.  Indiana 
had  just  played  its  best  game  of  the  season.  It  was  peaking.  And 
if  anyone  had  a  reputation  as  a  big-game  coach,  it  was  Bob  Knight. 
It  was  Tim  Garl  who  said  it  best  that  evening:  "We've  caught  all 
the  fish.  Now,  we're  going  for  Moby-Dick." 

If  Garl  had  remembered  the  ending  of  Moby-Dick,  he  might 
not  have  spoken  so  quickly. 

Saturday  dawned  ugly:  overcast  and  windy,  a  gusty  wind  that 
practically  knocked  you  over  when  you  walked  outside.  With  the 
moment  at  hand.  Knight  wanted  nothing  left  undone.  The  post- 
breakfast  walk-through  was  the  longest  of  the  season.  When  it 
was  over,  everyone  went  back  up  to  Knight's  suite  for  one  more 
look  at  the  tape. 

"We  can  have  a  lot  of  fun  against  this  team,"  Knight  said, 
repeating  the  theme  he  had  been  harping  on  since  Thursday. 
"They're  out  of  shape  and  they  wish  they  weren't  playing  you 
people  today." 

On  the  bus,  he  said  it  all  again:  "There  aren't  a  half  dozen 
teams  in  the  country  in  the  position  you're  in.  You  put  yourselves 
here  by  doing  what  you're  capable  of.  All  of  the  pressure  is  on 
them." 

Perhaps.  But  Michigan  was  going  to  be  ready  for  that  pressure. 
Crisler  Arena  was  alive  long  before  tipoff .  This  was  the  last  home 
game  for  a  distinguished  senior  class:  Roy  Tarpley,  Butch  Wade, 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    283 


Richard  Rellford,  and  Robert  Henderson.  It  was  a  game  for  a 
second  straight  league  title  against  a  vaunted  and  hated  opponent. 
A  huge  banner  hung  from  one  balcony.  It  read:  "Who  Says  We're 
a  Football  School?" 

The  Indiana  locker  room  was  tense.  Knight  was  fine,  calmly 
going  through  mail  in  the  anteroom  while  conversing  with  Buck- 
ner  and  Kent  Benson,  who  had  driven  over  from  Detroit  for  the 
game  since  the  Pistons  weren't  playing.  But  everyone  else  was 
wound  a  little  bit  tight.  Even  Dakich,  who  had  predicted  victory 
before  every  game  all  season,  admitted,  "I'm  nervous.  I  don't 
why.  It's  the  first  time  all  season." 

Maybe  he  knew  something.  The  arena  was  so  loud  after  the 
player  introductions  that  Knight  could  barely  be  heard,  even  in 
Indiana's  tight  huddle.  "Forget  what  is  going  on  around  us,"  he 
said.  "This  game  is  going  to  be  decided  out  there,  inside  the  lines. 
Nothing  happening  off  the  court  is  going  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  who  wins  this  game.  The  buckets  are  still  ten  feet.  We've 
been  through  it  all  before.  You  people  would  not  be  here  if  you 
weren't  good  enough  to  win  this  game. 

"Just  like  Illinois  now,  get  it  settled  down  the  first  ten  minutes 
and  then  let's  win  the  basketball  game." 

If  a  home  crowd  doesn't  necessarily  intimidate  a  visiting  team 
it  can  certainly  charge  up  a  home  team.  Michigan  was  charged 
up.  The  bored  looks  that  the  Wolverines  had  worn  for  so  much 
of  the  season  were  nowhere  in  sight.  Their  eyes  shone  with  in- 
tensity as  they  walked  out  amidst  the  din. 

Rellford  began  the  game  with  a  thunderous  dunk.  The  noise 
was  earsplitting.  Indiana  hardly  seemed  rattled.  Thomas  hit  a 
short  jumper  to  tie  it  and  Morgan  followed  an  Alford  miss  for  a 
4-2  lead. 

And  then  the  roof  fell  in.  Indiana  couldn't  get  a  rebound.  Tarp- 
ley,  Wade,  Rellford,  and  Joubert  looked  like  they  were  running 
a  tip  drill  among  themselves.  It  was  8^  at  the  first  TV  time-out 
and  Knight's  voice  was  tense.  He  seemed  to  sense  trouble.  "I  told 
you  boys  patience  would  win  this  game.  Where  is  it?  Move  the 
ball,  look  for  shots,  and  be  patient. " 

They  tried.  Michigan  wouldn't  let  them.  Thomas  picked  up  a 
second  foul  five  minutes  into  the  game  reaching  in  on  Tarpley. 


284    John  Feinstein 


Normally  mild-mannered,  Tarpley  whirled  and  started  talking 
trash  to  Thomas.  Michigan  was  that  intense.  Thomas  looked  sur- 
prised at  Tarpley,  then  laughed.  It  wasn't  funny. 

With  Michigan  leading  10-8,  Joubert  scored  eight  straight  points. 
Chunky,  cocky,  often  lazy,  Joubert  would  not  have  lasted  five 
minutes  at  Indiana.  But  he  knew  how  to  beat  Indiana.  Beginning 
with  Joubert's  spree,  it  was  Purdue  all  over  again.  Tarpley  went 
over  Thomas  for  a  dunk.  Tarpley  swished  a  hook.  Thomas  turned 
the  ball  over,  lunged,  and  committed  his  third  foul.  He  came  out 
and  was  greeted  by  a  blast  from  Knight.  Harris  shot  an  air  ball, 
Michigan  rebounded  and  raced  downcourt,  and  Tarpley  hit  again. 
It  was  24-12. 

The  next  time-out  was  the  Daryl  Thomas  show.  "Why  even 
bother  showing  up,  Daryl?  Back  to  the  same  old  shit,  Daryl.  Back 
to  where  you  were.  Are  you  scared?  What  the  hell  are  you  scared 
of?" 

Todd  Meier,  in  for  Thomas,  threw  the  ball  away  and  Glen  Rice 
dunked.  Gary  Grant  hit  from  outside,  then  stole  another  bad 
Meier  pass  for  a  dunk.  It  was  32-16.  Even  Alford  was  shaken. 
He  tossed  a  brick  and  Joubert  hit  again.  Rellford,  a  nonshooter, 
hit  a  fifteen-footer.  The  half  ended  with  Alford  holding  for  the 
last  shot  as  he  had  done  with  so  much  success  all  season.  This 
time.  Grant  blocked  the  shot.  It  was  44-25  at  intermission. 

There  were  no  halftime  hysterics.  No  speeches.  No  declarations. 
Just  disappointment.  "I've  never  had  a  team  play  scared  in  a  big 
game  before,"  Knight  said.  "I  don't  know  why  you're  scared. 
You  got  right  out  of  what  we  wanted  to  do  and  never  got  back 
into  it.  You  guys  are  out  there  playing  your  own  game  out  there. 
Playing  my  game  is  what  got  you  here,  boys,  not  playing  your 
game. 

"Steve,  if  you  see  them  not  moving,  put  the  ball  on  your  hip 
and  direct  them.  You  haven't  done  that  once.  Well,  let's  see  if 
we  can  play  a  half  of  basketball.  Let's  see  if  we  can  salvage  some- 
thing here.  But  you  better  think  about  how  tight  you've  played. 
They  came  at  you  and  you  were  totally  intimidated.  Why  can  we 
play  at  Illinois,  at  Michigan  State,  at  Ohio  State,  and  come  out 
here  and  be  scared  to  play?  Boys,  I  just  don't  understand  it." 

The  coaches  didn't  understand  it  either.  In  the  hallway,  they 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    285 


had  no  answers.  In  truth,  there  were  none.  Wright  made  a  com- 
ment about  the  Michigan  people  lacking  class.  "Forget  that  bullshit," 
said  Knight,  who  often  got  completely  tangled  up  in  it.  "Let's 
worry  about  ourselves.  We're  getting  our  ass  kicked  out  there." 

He  didn't  even  talk  to  the  players  about  coming  back  to  win 
the  game.  Instead,  he  talked  about  why  they  had  to  play  better 
in  the  second  half.  "What  surprises  me  is  that  you've  shown  you 
can  play  with  good  teams,"  he  said.  "If  you  have  any  thought 
about  competing  nationally,  this  is  what  you've  got  to  beat.  If 
you  want  to  play  with  North  Carolina,  Duke,  Kansas,  George- 
town, Georgia  Tech,  this  is  what  you've  got  to  beat.  The  country 
is  full  of  teams  like  this.  This  is  not  an  isolated  case. 

"I  almost  feel  like  you  are  right  back  where  you  were  at  the 
start  of  last  season.  I  wonder  if  any  of  you  thought  about  this: 
'Hey,  we  got  here  by  doing  exactly  what  we  were  told  to  do.  The 
minute  we  deviate  from  that,  we're  going  to  get  our  ass  beat.' 
You  are  not  good  enough  to  not  listen  to  us  and  be  any  good. 
Let's  see  if  we  can  get  back  to  doing  what  we  can  for  a  half." 

They  couldn't.  It  took  Thomas  exactly  twenty-three  seconds  to 
pick  up  his  fourth  foul — an  offensive  foul.  It  was  almost  as  if  he 
subconsciously  wanted  to  come  out  of  the  game.  Knight  put  Jadlow 
in  for  Thomas.  That  turned  out  to  be  the  one  bright  spot  of  the 
day.  Jadlow  played  with  abandon.  He  scored  eleven  points,  he 
mixed  it  up  inside,  he  went  after  people.  When  Rellford  threw 
an  elbow  in  his  direction  Knight  jumped  off  the  bench  and  yelled, 
"If  he  throws  an  elbow  hit  the  sonofabitch  in  the  mouth,  Todd!" 

It  was  all  a  long  roar  into  the  wind.  Indiana  never  cut  into  the 
halftime  margin.  It  just  built  and  built.  It  was  twenty  minutes  of 
humiliation.  With  the  score  53-29,  fourteen  thousand  voices  be- 
gan chanting,  "Throw  a  chair,  Bobby,  throw  a  chair."  A  banner 
was  unfurled,  reminding  Knight  of  his  fishing  speech  after  the 
Purdue  game:  "Bobby,  wouldn't  you  rather  be  fishing?"  Knight 
would  rather  have  been  anywhere  else  in  the  world. 

Michigan  kept  running  and  dunking  until  the  final  minutes 
when  Frieder  took  the  seniors  out  one  by  one.  Indiana  had  to 
endure  each  ovation,  each  set  of  hugs  and  high  fives.  It  stretched 
on  and  on.  In  the  final  minute.  Knight  was  reduced  to  telling 
Thomas  that  Jadlow  had  played  harder  than  he  had  and  that  was 


286    John  Feinstein 


a  disgrace.  Finally,  it  ended  at  80-52.  The  walk  off  the  floor  and 
up  the  ramp  was  painful.  The  catcalls  echoed  in  their  ears,  the 
laughs.  They  had  worked  so  hard  for  so  long  to  get  to  play  this 
game,  and  it  had  been  a  complete,  unmitigated  disaster. 

Knight  knew  how  hard  they  had  worked,  and  he  knew  how 
awful  they  felt.  He  reminded  himself  of  that  as  he  looked  around 
the  room  at  his  stunned  team.  It  was  back  to  his  old  mental  tug- 
of-war.  "Jadlow  did  a  hell  of  a  job,  he  competed,  he  fought,  and 
he  played  hard.  The  rest  of  you,  nothing.  You  were  totally  in- 
timidated and  they  just  beat  the  shit  out  of  you  from  the  start. " 

Pause.  "Hey,  don't  get  your  heads  down.  I'm  really  proud  of 
you.  You  did  a  hell  of  a  job  with  this  season.  We  had  a  tremendous 
turnaround  from  last  year's  team,  a  great  turnaround,  and  I  know 
that  you  worked  awfully  hard  to  do  it." 

Pause.  "But  you  played  against  the  kind  of  people  today  that 
you've  got  to  beat  to  be  any  good  nationally.  Ricky,  you  didn't 
do  shit  out  there  all  day.  You  played  like  a  damn  scared  high 
school  kid  all  day.  We've  told  you  about  building  your  body  and 
your  hands.  If  you  don't  get  stronger,  you  won't  play  next  year. 
Daryl,  same  thing.  We  got  the  shit  beat  out  of  us  on  the  boards. 
You  want  to  play,  you  got  to  compete.  Harris,  you  paid  no  at- 
tention to  what  we  wanted.  You  won't  play  either.  We  have  too 
many  players  next  year.  You  won't  play.  There's  no  way.  Four 
of  our  best  players  are  being  redshirted  right  now  and  we  got  two 
more  coming  in  who  will  be  right  with  those  four.  You  people 
want  to  play,  you  better  take  stock  or  your  ass  will  be  on  the 
bench  next  year.  I  guarantee  you  that. 

"Steve,  not  once  did  you  go  up  and  grab  Daryl  by  the  jersey 

and  say,  'Get  in  the  f game,  Daryl,  goddamn  it.  Quit  playing 

like  a  pussy!'  You  know  how  many  times  Buckner  did  that  to 
Benson?  Do  you  know?  You  want  to  be  a  leader,  Steve,  you  got 
to  do  that.  We  got  nothing  from  you,  nothing  from  anyone  except 
Jadlow.  And  Winston,  I  thought  Winston  gave  us  everything  he 
had.  The  rest  of  you  didn't  scratch  or  scrape  at  all.  Not  at  all." 

Pause.  "Okay.  The  hell  with  this  game.  Don't  even  think  about 
it.  It's  over.  You've  had  a  hell  of  a  regular  season,  one  you  should 
be  proud  of.  Now  we've  got  a  tournament  to  play.  We  can  still 
get  the  job  done  there.  All  of  you  know  we're  capable  of  it.  It's 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    287 


one  bad  day,  boys,  it  doesn't  have  to  ruin  everything  that  we've 
done.  Let's  get  the  hell  out  of  here." 

And  so  it  went  all  the  way  home.  One  minute  Knight  was 
telling  Hammel  and  Felling  how  bad  the  team  had  been,  the  next 
he  just  shook  his  head  and  said,  "Ah,  what  the  hell.  Michigan's 
got  as  much  talent  as  anyone  in  the  country.  We're  still  right 
where  we  want  to  be." 


17. 

Back  to  the  Brink 

Knight  spent  the  next  two  days  reminding  himself  that  Michigan 
had  been  an  aberration,  not  part  of  a  pattern.  Still,  he  was  torn. 
He  could  not  just  let  go  of  a  twenty-eight-point  loss  on  national 
television  for  a  Big  Ten  championship  without  at  least  one  tan- 
trum. 

It  didn't  come  right  away,  though.  Sunday,  Knight's  mood  was 
good,  especially  when  the  pairings  for  the  NCAA  tournament 
were  announced.  Indiana  had  been  placed  in  the  Eastern  Regional 
as  the  number  three  seed.  That  meant  that  the  NCAA  Tournament 
Committee,  looking  at  Indiana's  season,  had  rated  Indiana  some- 
where between  ninth  and  twelfth  in  the  country.  The  way  the 
tournament  is  set  up,  the  top  four  teams  are  seeded  number  one 
in  the  four  regions;  the  next  four  are  seeded  number  two,  and  so 
on  right  through  the  last  four  teams,  who  are  the  four  sixteenth 
seeds. 

As  a  number  three  seed,  Indiana  drew  the  fourteenth  seed  in 
the  East  as  its  first-round  opponent.  That  was  Cleveland  State,  a 
little-known  team  that  had  only  become  a  factor  in  basketball  in 
the  last  three  years.  This  would  be  Cleveland  State's  first  ap- 
pearance ever  in  the  NCAA  tournament.  The  Vikings  were  27- 
3  for  the  season.  Their  most  impressive  victory  had  been  a  rout 
of  a  struggling  DePaul  team  in  Chicago.  They  had  played  two  Big 
Ten  teams — Ohio  State  and  Michigan.  At  Ohio  State,  they  had 


288     John  Feinstein 


lost  99-95.  At  Michigan,  after  trailing  just  47-45  at  half  time,  they 
had  lost  105-85.  Of  course  Indiana  knew  about  getting  blown  out 
at  Michigan. 

Looking  at  the  tapes  of  those  two  games.  Knight  concluded  that 
this  would  not  be  an  easy  game:  Cleveland  State  was  quick,  deep, 
and  it  pressed  all  over  the  floor.  The  press  had  given  Indiana 
trouble  during  the  season.  But  with  a  week  to  prepare  before 
playing  the  game  on  Friday  in  Syracuse,  Knight  certainly  saw  it 
as  winnable. 

In  fact.  Knight  was  excited  by  Indiana's  draw.  The  first  seed  in 
the  East  was  Duke,  Mike  Krzyzewski's  team.  The  second  seed  was 
Syracuse.  If  Indiana  won  its  first-round  game,  it  would  face  either 
St.  Joseph's  or  Richmond.  That  game  would  be  eminently  win- 
nable. Then,  in  the  round  of  sixteen,  the  likely  opponent  was 
Syracuse,  a  talented  but  undisciplined  team.  Again,  a  winnable 
game.  And,  if  Duke  were  the  opponent  in  the  regional  final,  well. 
Knight  had  felt  all  year  that  Duke  was  a  vulnerable  team  that  had 
gone  32-2  largely  because  of  Krzyzewski's  coaching. 

"And  if  we  did  lose  to  Duke,  I  wouldn't  feel  very  bad  about 
it,"  Knight  said.  "Because  at  least  that  way  one  of  the  good  guys 
would  be  in  the  Final  Four." 

In  short.  Knight  believed  they  could  win  the  regional.  There 
was  no  team  he  felt  would  overwhelm  his  team.  And  that  is  just 
what  he  told  his  players.  "You  will  have  to  play  like  hell  in  every 
game  in  this  tournament,"  he  said.  "Cleveland  State  is  a  very 
good  team,  a  quick  team,  a  tough  team.  But  if  you  play  from 
buzzer  to  buzzer  you  can  beat  any  team  in  this  regional.  Any  one 
of  them.  It's  all  right  there  for  you." 

This  was  Monday.  On  Sunday,  they  had  waded  through  the 
Michigan  tape  for  ninety  minutes  and  then  met  briefly  that  eve- 
ning after  they  had  learned  who  they  would  be  playing.  Now,  he 
wanted  them  to  begin  looking  at  some  Cleveland  State  tape  while 
he  went  through  the  Michigan  tape  one  more  time.  Before  he 
left,  he  had  to  remind  them  that  he  had  not  forgotten  Michigan 
yet. 

"Daryl,  if  we're  going  to  win  in  this  tournament,  you  have  to 
play,"  he  said.  "You  can't  hide  like  you  did  Saturday.  Now,  I 
want  to  know  right  now,  are  you  going  to  play  or  are  you  going 
to  hide?" 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    289 


"I'm  going  to  play." 

"Okay,  you  better.  Because  if  you  go  out  there  and  hide  again 
I  have  absolutely  no  interest  in  having  you  play  next  year.  You've 
made  some  great  strides  this  year,  Daryl,  but  you  haven't  played 
a  really  outstanding  game  since  Illinois.  You've  gotten  in  foul 
trouble  almost  like  you  don't  want  to  play.  I  won't  tolerate  it." 

He  left  to  review  the  Michigan  tape.  Waltman  and  Felling  began 
to  talk  about  Cleveland  State.  Ten  minutes  later  Knight  was  back. 
He  was  angry.  "I  just  started  looking  at  this  tape  for  the  fourth 
time  and  I'm  getting  angrier  each  time  I  look  at  it.  I  want  to  show 
you  the  first  two  plays  of  this  game  because  that's  all  I  needed  to 
see  to  analyze  how  much  you  people  wanted  to  win  this  game. " 

He  set  the  tape  up.  The  first  play  showed  Calloway  going  for 
a  head  fake  and  leaving  his  feet  on  defense.  "How  long  has  this 
gone  on,  Ricky?  I'm  getting  tired  of  seeing  the  same  mistakes." 
The  shot  was  missed,  but  Harris  had  missed  the  box-out.  "Tough 
to  box  out,  isn't  it,  Andre?" 

Play  two:  Harris  missed  a  shot.  "You  drifted,  Andre.  The  shot 
had  no  chance."  Thomas  almost  tipped  it  in,  a  play  that  at  first 
glance  looked  like  a  good  effort  that  didn't  go  down.  Not  according 
to  the  tape.  "Look  at  this,  Daryl.  You  did  not  run  down  the  court 
hard.  In  the  first  minute  of  the  game,  you  aren't  running  hard. 
If  you  had  been,  you  would  have  tipped  it  in  easily.  Instead,  you 
had  to  half-lunge  at  the  ball." 

He  snapped  the  tape  off.  The  lights  stayed  out.  "Boys,  I  am 
not  used  to  having  teams  come  in  and  lay  an  egg  in  a  game  this 
important.  That  is  not  the  way  you  go  after  a  championship.  I 
just  can't  believe  how  bad  you  were.  This  tape  is  making  me  sick. 
Daryl,  you  sucked.  You  chickened  out.  You  all  better  think  about 
what  I  expect  in  this  tournament." 

There  was  some  BK  Theater  involved  in  this  outburst.  Knight 
had  treated  the  team  with  kid  gloves  with  few  exceptions  since 
the  painful  aftermath  of  the  first  Michigan  game.  Now,  with  the 
tournament  upon  them,  it  was  time  to  turn  up  the  fear  level  at 
least  a  little  bit.  He  wanted  them  reminded  that  the  last  five 
months  had  been  to  prepare  for  this  month,  these  games,  and  that 
he  would  judge  their  season  on  what  they  did  in  March.  He  wanted 
no  letdowns. 

Knight  went  back  to  the  cave  with  Kohn  Smith.  A  few  minutes 


290    John  feinstein 


later.  Smith  was  back.  Time  for  some  more  BK  Theater:  guest 
star,  Kohn  Smith.  "Hey,  I  just  walked  out  of  there,  he's  so  mad," 
Smith  told  them.  "It's  like  being  in  a  cage  with  him  in  there. 
He's  stayed  off  you  all  season  long  and  then  you  go  into  that 
game  with  everything  at  stake  and  you  play  with  your  heads  up 
your  ass.  You  can't  let  that  happen  again.  Coach  shouldn't  have 
to  rant  and  rave  and  throw  guys  out  of  practice  to  get  you  ready 
to  play  in  big  games. 

"You  guys  have  to  have  some  pride.  Daryl,  aren't  you  sick  of 
being  called  a  pussy?  Andre,  aren't  you  tired  of  being  told  you 
play  dumb?  Hey,  we  don't  like  it  when  he  goes  nuts  and  starts 
throwing  things  and  cursing  and  ripping  up  carpets.  We  work  our 
ass  off  to  keep  that  from  happening.  We'll  all  look  back  at  Mich- 
igan and  say,  'It  could  have  been.'  But  that  opportunity  is  gone — 
forever.  Now  we've  got  a  chance  in  the  NCAAs.  Let's  not  blow 
it." 

Smith  told  the  players  that  Knight  had  not  sent  him  to  talk  to 
them.  They  knew  he  was  lying  and  he  knew  they  knew  he  was 
lying.  It  was  back  to  the  old  Knight  mind  games.  Rather  than 
come  back  and  scream  again.  Knight  sent  Smith  to  tell  the  players 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  screaming  again.  Smith  was  not  the  tough 
talker  on  the  staff.  It  was  not  his  role  and  not  his  forte.  He  knew 
it.  Walking  out  of  the  locker  room,  he  shook  his  head.  "That  was 
terrible,"  he  said.  "They  didn't  buy  a  word  of  it." 

How  could  they?  They  knew  that  one  of  the  coaches  would 
never  walk  out  of  the  cave  on  Knight  to  deliver  a  speech  to  the 
players.  Especially  not  Smith.  If  he  was  giving  a  tough  talk  it  was 
because  he  had  been  told  to  give  a  tough  talk. 

It  was  that  way  all  evening.  Mind  games.  They  went  on  the 
floor  to  begin  walking  through  Cleveland  State,  and  Knight,  sitting 
with  Ed  WiUiams,  called  them  over  to  say  he  had  just  told  Williams 
he  thought  they  would  win  the  regional.  Then,  back  inside  the 
locker  room,  the  managers  handed  out  Xerox  copies  of  a  newspaper 
story  quoting  Cleveland  State  coach  Kevin  Mackey  as  saying  he 
was  excited  to  play  Indiana. 

Again,  he  told  them  they  could  beat  anybody.  Then,  one  more 
time,  he  told  them  they  had  been  awful  on  Saturday.  Back  and 
forth.  "Cleveland  State  will  look  at  this  like  an  unknown  heavy- 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    291 


weight  getting  a  shot  at  the  champ."  "Syracuse,  boys,  we  can 
handle  Syracuse.  I  guarantee  it."  "Ricky,  why  were  you  so  bad 
Saturday?  Have  you  even  thought  about  it?" 

And  on  and  on  and  on.  It  hadn't  been  this  way  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  last  year's  daily  routine. 

When  Knight  finally  sent  the  players  home,  his  message  for 
the  week  was  clear:  Play  well  and  Michigan  will  be  forgotten; 
play  poorly  and  it  could  be  a  long  off-season.  In  spite  of  the  mind 
games,  everyone's  mood  was  generally  good.  The  players  were 
making  their  usual  bets— the  average  bet  ranges  from  a  soda  to 
a  dollar — on  various  first-round  matchups  and  on  the  other  re- 
gional. The  coaches  were  giggling  about  Purdue's  draw,  a  first- 
round  game  against  Louisiana  State  at  Louisiana  State.  Ready  had 
whined  to  Knight  just  two  weeks  earlier  about  "always  getting 
screwed  by  the  NCAA  Tournament  Committee."  Now,  he  had 
truly  been  screwed  and  everyone  at  Indiana  was  amused. 

The  other  thing  that  made  Knight's  postpractice  mood  bright 
was  the  news  that  Keith  Smart,  the  junior  college  guard  from 
Kansas,  wanted  to  come  to  Indiana.  Knight  had  given  Hammel 
the  story  for  the  next  day's  newspaper  and  was  almost  giddy.  The 
junior  college  experiment,  judged  a  failure  in  January,  was  now 
judged  an  unqualified  success.  Harris  had  played  well  down  the 
stretch  and  Jadlow  had  been  the  team's  best  player  at  Michigan. 
Knight  was  so  excited  about  Jadlow  that  he  was  comparing  him 
to  Mark  Alarie,  Duke's  silky-smooth  All-American  forward.  With 
Smart  committed  and  6-11  junior  college  sophomore  Dean  Garrett 
already  signed,  Indiana  would  have  four  JUCOs  on  its  roster  in 
1986-87.  "We'll  redshirt  Jadlow,"  Knight  said.  "The  other  three 
will  probably  start." 
Indiana — JUCO  heaven. 

Spring  arrived  in  Bloomington  the  following  day.  The  sun  was 
out  and  the  temperature  climbed  into  the  seventies.  That  alone 
was  enough  to  brighten  moods  and  energize  everyone.  Everyone 
was  in  early.  The  graduate  assistants  had  by  far  the  most  arduous 
task  of  the  week.  They  had  to  call  around  the  country  to  track 
down  tapes  of  possible  opponents.  More  Cleveland  State,  lots  of 
St.  Joseph's  and  Richmond,  and  be  thinking  about  the  following 
week,  too. 


292     John  Feinstein 


This  was  not  an  easy  job.  College  basketball  teams  routinely 
trade  tapes  with  one  another,  but  some  schools  and  conferences 
have  rules  against  tape  trading,  and  some  coaches  won't  give  a 
stranger  tape  on  a  friend's  team.  Dakich  and  Bartow  sat  in  their 
little  office  with  lists  of  phone  numbers  and  made  arrangements 
to  acquire  as  many  tapes  as  possible.  How  many  would  be  enough? 
There  was  no  such  number. 

The  coaches  spent  the  morning  going  over  Cleveland  State  tapes 
again  before  retiring  to  Smitty's  for  lunch.  Knight  was  in  an 
expansive  mood,  remembering  his  days  at  West  Point  when  the 
team  would  get  ready  to  play  the  NIT  each  March  while  talking 
yet  again  about  how  much  the  JUCOs  had  helped  the  program. 

Practice  began  that  afternoon  as  strictly  business — no  games — 
but  went  straight  downhill.  The  red  team  was  having  trouble  with 
the  press.  Knight  had  seen  this  show  before  and  it  didn't  please 
him.  The  only  time  all  season  that  Indiana  had  faced  a  really  good 
press  and  handled  it  had  been  the  second  Iowa  game.  In  that  game 
the  players  had  been  keen  and  honed  in  because  they  had  been 
embarrassed  at  Iowa.  Cleveland  State's  press  had  at  least  as  much 
potential  to  create  trouble  as  Iowa's.  But  the  players  were  not  apt 
to  take  Cleveland  State  as  seriously  as  Iowa. 

"The  problem  you  had  against  Michigan,  boys,  was  that  you 
developed  an  inflated  opinion  of  yourselves  after  Michigan  State. 
You  did  not  have  a  tough  mentality  for  that  game.  Cleveland 
State  will  have  a  tough  mentality,  I  promise  you  that.  You  are 
going  to  have  to  play  an  entire  game  Friday  and  an  entire  game 
Sunday  or  you  have  to  wait  until  October  15  to  play  again.  There's 
no  second  chance.  If  you  aren't  ready,  it's  over.  The  first  guy  I 
see  trotting  out  there  on  Friday  is  coming  out.  If  you  want  to 
play  in  this  game  you  are  going  to  have  to  bust  your  ass  from 
start  to  finish." 

Knight  thought  that  Cleveland  State  could  hurt  Indiana  with 
its  press.  He  also  thought  that  Cleveland  State  was  too  quick  for 
Indiana  to  go  out  and  pressure  on  defense.  He  wanted  his  team 
to  play  in  a  defensive  shell.  It  would  look  like  a  man-to-man  but 
it  would  do  what  a  good  zone  does:  force  a  lot  of  jump  shots. 
"From  twenty  feet  in  we  have  to  be  red-tail  bitches,"  Knight  said. 
"Make  them  shoot  outside.  Inside  twenty  feet  we  can't  give  up 
anything. " 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    293 


This  was  a  day  for  spectators.  Most  of  Knight's  friends  knew 
it  was  a  good  idea  to  stay  away  on  the  Monday  after  a  loss — 
especially  one  like  Saturday's — so  they  were  out  in  force  on  Tues- 
day. In  spite  of  the  intensity  he  directed  at  the  players,  Knight 
was  much  looser  than  he  had  been  the  day  before.  At  one  point 
he  sat  with  his  crew  of  professors  discussing  the  significance  of 
degrees:  "Here's  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  he  said,  'A  BS  is  just  what 
it  stands  for,  an  MS  is  More  of  the  Same,  and  a  PhD  is  Piled 
Higher  and  Deeper." 

Knight  was  just  finishing  his  speech  when  he  looked  up  and 
saw  Thomas  fail  to  get  open.  "Goddamn  it,  Daryl,  you  got  to  be 
hard  to  guard!"  he  screamed. 

From  there,  the  tension  built.  A  Calloway  turnover  precipitated 
a  ball's  being  kicked  fifteen  rows  into  the  stands.  Morgan  went 
from  red  to  white,  then  the  Todds  began  switching  back  and  forth. 
The  turnovers  continued.  "There  isn't  a  white  shirt  in  here  as 
quick  as  anyone  on  Cleveland  State,"  Knight  roared,  kicking  the 
chair  he  had  been  sitting  on.  "This  crap  is  no  better  than  the  crap 
I  watched  on  Saturday.  Get  out  of  here.  Go  home.  If  you  don't 
want  to  play  any  more  than  this  then  f —  it." 

They  went  into  the  locker  room.  The  screaming  continued  for 
several  more  minutes.  What  had  started  as  BK  Theater  had  es- 
calated into  real  anger.  Knight  walked  out  of  the  locker  room  and 
punched  one  of  the  mats  underneath  a  basket  on  his  way  back  to 
the  cave.  He  calmed  down  quickly,  though. 

"Boys,"  he  said  to  the  coaches,  "let's  go  eat  a  steak  tonight." 

Whether  it  was  the  steak  or  the  return  to  normal  weather  the 
next  day — rain — Knight's  mood  was  considerably  brighter.  This 
would  be  the  team's  last  practice  at  home  before  leaving  for  Syr- 
acuse on  Thursday  morning.  Under  NCAA  rules,  each  school  has 
to  be  at  the  game  site  the  day  before  it  plays  and  is  assigned  one 
hour  of  practice  time  on  the  floor  that  day.  Since  the  practice  is 
required  to  be  open,  a  lot  of  teams  practice  a  second  time  some- 
where private. 

Because  of  the  travel  schedule.  Knight  didn't  want  to  schedule 
a  second  Thursday  practice  unless  he  had  to.  It  was  important, 
then,  to  get  a  lot  done  on  Wednesday. 

But  this  was  one  of  those  practices  that  was  cursed  from  the 
start.  It  was  almost  reminiscent  of  the  day  when  Daryl  Thomas 


294    John  Feinstein 


got  hurt  and  Calloway  and  Pelkowski  both  sprained  ankles  before 
Thomas  went  down.  It  started  early,  when  Alford,  reaching  for 
a  pass,  jammed  the  thumb  on  his  shooting  hand.  Bartow,  standing 
nearby,  bolted  for  the  training  room  in  search  of  Garl. 

Alford  tried  to  come  right  back,  but  couldn't  hold  the  ball. 
Knight  ordered  him  out.  Alford  stood  on  the  sideline  icing  the 
thumb  while  everyone  else  kept  casting  nervous  glances  in  his 
direction.  Knight  could  make  a  million  speeches  about  how  to 
play  the  game  and  they  wouldn't  do  any  good  without  Alford. 

Even  with  Alford  out,  the  team  was  sharp.  So  was  Knight. 
When  Thomas  made  a  mistake  and  began  to  explain  what  he  had 
done  wrong.  Knight  interrupted.  "Daryl,"  he  said,  "remember 
this  old  saying:  Never  complain  or  explain." 

A  moment  later,  when  Thomas  set  a  good  screen.  Knight  stopped 
play  again.  "Daryl,  was  that  an  accident  or  did  you  actually  figure 
out  what  to  do?" 

Buckner,  who  would  be  making  the  trip  to  Syracuse,  was  at 
practice,  and  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  working  with  Robinson, 
Morgan,  and  Calloway.  Buckner  was  a  natural  floor  leader  as  a 
player,  just  the  kind  of  general  that  Knight  thought  this  team 
lacked.  His  presence  always  seemed  to  comfort  Knight. 

Disaster  two  came  shortly  after  Alford,  thumb  taped,  had  come 
back  in.  Calloway,  picking  his  way  through  the  lane,  ran  smack 
into  a  Courtney  Witte  elbow.  Witte  didn't  throw  the  elbow,  Cal- 
loway just  ran  into  it.  He  reeled  and  keeled  over  like  a  bowling 
pin.  He  was  out  cold.  Garl,  who  was  having  a  very  hard  time 
getting  a  free  minute  to  finalize  travel  plans,  was  sent  for  again. 
Everyone  was  shooting  free  throws.  The  nervous  glances  were 
now  directed  at  Calloway. 

It  took  Garl  a  couple  of  minutes  to  get  Calloway  up.  He  strug- 
gled up  like  a  boxer  looking  for  his  corner.  "Ricky,"  Knight  asked 
from  ten  feet  away,  "how  many  fingers  am  I  holding?"  Calloway 
correctly  answered  one.  "Now,  how  many?"  Knight  asked,  still 
holding  up  one  finger.  Calloway  stuck  with  one.  "Ricky,  you're 
going  to  be  all  right." 

Two  plays  later,  Robinson  got  nailed  in  the  groin.  He  went 
down  in  considerable  pain,  the  kind  that  everyone  grins  at  because 
they  know  how  much  it  hurts  but  also  that  it  will  pass  quickly. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    295 


"Stew,"  Knight  asked,  "you  weren't  planning  on  using  them 
tonight  were  you?"  Robinson  shook  his  head.  "Then  let's  go." 

Calloway  was  okay,  so  was  Robinson.  Alford  said  he  was  okay. 
Knight  cut  practice  off  soon  after  Robinson's  mishap  as  if  remem- 
bering not  to  push  his  luck  on  a  day  like  this  one.  As  he  and 
Buckner  walked  to  the  locker  room  before  the  evening  walk- 
through. Knight  nodded  his  head  as  if  he  had  just  reached  a 
decision. 

"Quinn,  if  we  can  beat  Cleveland  State,  I  really  thmk  we  can 
win  this  whole  regional." 

His  eyes  were  lit  up  like  a  little  boy  who  thinks  he's  getting 
that  red  fire  engine  on  Christmas.  But  there  would  be  no  fire 
engine  this  year;  Indiana  had  just  held  its  last  practice  of  the 
season  in  Assembly  Hall. 

The  trip  started  poorly  and  went  downhill  from  there.  The 
trouble  began  when  Hammel  of  all  people  was  late  for  the  bus. 
This  was  very  unlike  Hammel.  He  was  always  careful  to  arrive 
in  plenty  of  time  because  he  always  believed  that  Knight  would 
leave  him  behind  without  batting  an  eye. 

Knight  waited.  He  waited  fifteen  minutes  before  Hammel  chugged 
up.  He  and  Garl  had  gotten  their  signals  crossed;  Garl  had  said 
the  team  would  leave  at  9:30,  meaning  from  the  airport,  but 
Hammel  thought  he  meant  from  Assembly  Hall.  It  was  a  measure 
of  the  depth  of  the  Knight-Hammel  friendship  that  on  the  day 
before  an  NCAA  tournament  game.  Knight  waited  for  him.  If  a 
player— any  player— had  been  that  late.  Knight  probably  would 
have  left  without  him. 

Of  course,  Knight  was  not  going  to  let  such  an  act  pass  without 
mention.  "Hamso,"  he  said,  "any  chits  that  were  out  are  even 
now."  Hammel  nodded.  No  one  knew  this  better  than  he. 

They  arrived  in  Syracuse  on  a  gray,  ugly  day,  even  grayer  and 
ugher  than  most  days  in  Bloomington.  If  there  is  a  gloomier  town 
anywhere  in  America  than  Syracuse,  it  has  not  yet  been  discov- 
ered. The  sun  in  Syracuse  is  considered  a  myth  along  the  lines 
of  the  Greek  gods. 

The  bus  went  directly  from  the  airport  to  the  cavernous  Carrier 
Dome,  one  of  those  awful  indoor  football-basketball  arenas  that 


296    John  Feinstein 


have  sprung  up  in  the  1980s.  Domes  are  a  terrible  place  to  watch 
basketball,  but  the  NCAA  loves  them  because  they  seat  lots  and 
lots  of  people  who  pay  lots  and  lots  of  money  for  tickets.  As 
domes  go,  the  Carrier  Dome  is  not  as  bad  as  some  others  because 
a  giant  curtain  is  drawn  right  through  the  middle  of  the  building. 
It  certainly  isn't  intimate,  but  with  thirty  thousand  people  in  for 
a  Syracuse  game  the  place  does  shake. 

It  was  cold  and  almost  empty  Thursday.  Reporters  milled  around, 
most  wondering  exactly  what  to  write.  The  NCAA  tournament 
is  tough  on  writers  because  by  the  time  you  reach  the  game  site, 
there  are  so  many  reporters  around  that  all  interviews  are  like 
gang  bangs.  If  one  shows  up  at  these  practices  looking  for  a  story, 
one  is  generally  in  big  trouble. 

Still,  a  lot  of  writers  were  hoping  to  write  something  about 
Knight  off  of  the  mandatory  postpractice  interview  session.  If 
anyone  in  America  would  eschew  the  usual  pregame  cliches  and 
say  something  interesting  it  was  Robert  M.  Knight. 

But  Knight  had  no  interest  in  entertaining  the  press  on  this 
day.  He  was  honed  in  now,  his  mind  focusing  only  on  Cleveland 
State.  After  the  practice  session,  before  he  went  to  the  interview 
room,  he  asked  the  coaches  what  they  thought  about  practicing 
again  in  the  evening.  He  left  them  to  mull  that  one  over  as  he 
went  to  see  his  friends  with  the  notebooks  and  microphones. 

The  session  was  calm,  except  for  the  presence  of  an  idiot  TV 
reporter  from  Cleveland  who  wanted  somehow  to  create  news 
where  there  was  none  to  create.  "Coach,"  he  began,  "most  people 
in  Cleveland  think  that  Cleveland  State  has  two  chances  in  this 
game,  slim  and  none.  What  do  you  think?" 

Knight,  who  was  very  nervous  about  this  game,  answered  hon- 
estly. "If  that's  true,"  he  said,  "then  the  people  in  Cleveland  don't 
know  very  much  about  basketball."  Note  that  Knight  said,  "If 
that's  true." 

Kevin  Mackey  had  not  followed  Knight  into  the  room  by  more 
than  two  minutes  when  the  same  guy  said  to  him,  "Coach,  Bob 
Knight  was  just  in  here  and  he  said  the  people  in  Cleveland  don't 
know  much  about  basketball." 

There  are  days  when  Knight's  complaints  about  the  media  ring 
disgustingly  true. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    297 


The  coaches  were  against  another  practice.  The  players  had  been 
up  since  7:30;  they  had  traveled  and  practiced  and  not  had  any 
rest.  Better  to  let  them  rest,  eat,  and  do  a  walk-through  at  the 
hotel  than  get  on  another  bus  and  get  dressed  to  practice  again. 
Knight  agreed.  The  kids  got  their  rest  and  the  coaches  ate  a  won- 
derful Italian  dinner.  Yes,  there  was  a  reason  for  Syracuse  to 
exist:  a  restaurant  called  Grimaldi's. 

They  went  to  bed  early,  hoping  for  sunshine  and  a  victory. 

It  rained  all  day.  The  temperature  never  cUmbed  out  of  the 
thirties.  Knight,  who  would  normally  eat  breakfast  with  Hammel 
while  the  team  was  at  pregame  meal,  skipped  breakfast.  He  was 
tight,  noticeably  tight.  In  a  way,  that  was  a  good  sign.  The  loosest 
he  had  been  all  year  had  been  the  three  days  leading  up  to  the 
Michigan  game. 

Everyone  was  ready  to  play.  Alford  had  quieted  any  doubts 
about  his  thumb  by  making  fifteen  straight  shots  during  Thurs- 
day's shooting  drills.  The  assistants  left  early  to  scout  the  noon 
game  between  Richmond  and  St.  Joseph's.  Indiana  would  meet 
the  winner  Sunday.  Coaches  from  both  schools  had  already  been 
talked  to  about  borrowing  tapes  from  the  loser  of  that  game. 

Everyone  and  everything  was  prepared.  Most  of  the  Indiana 
family  was  there:  the  redshirts,  who  normally  didn't  travel,  had 
traveled.  So  had  Ralph  Floyd,  Ed  WilUams,  and  Quinn  Buckner. 
The  weekend  looked  a  lot  brighter  than  the  weather.  Knight, 
though,  fretted.  As  the  team  warmed  up  he  walked  around  the 
huge  locker  room,  unable  to  sit  still— unusual  for  him.  "Are  we 
all  right?"  he  asked  repeatedly. 

They  came  back  in  for  a  final  word.  "Boys,  we've  told  you  and 
told  you  that  every  minute  you  play  in  this  tournament  has  to 
be  all-out,"  Knight  said.  "But  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  No 
one  in  this  tournament  has  worked  harder  to  get  here  than  you 
have.  It's  five  months  exactly  today.  You  know  what  you've  been 
through  and  it  was  pointing  towards  this.  We  are  right  where  we 
want  to  be  right  now.  So  let's  go  out  and  make  sure  we  didn't 
do  all  this  work  for  nothing." 

Knight  wanted  a  good  start.  He  believed,  with  good  reason, 
that  in  spite  of  all  the  brave  talk,  a  quick  Indiana  start  might  make 
Cleveland  State  think  it  was  in  over  its  head.  Get  their  confidence 


298    John  Feinstein 


down  early  and  the  game  might  not  be  as  tough  as  he  had  thought 
it  would  be. 

Naturally,  the  start  could  not  have  been  much  worse.  Morgan 
took  the  first  shot  and  nailed  it  for  a  2-0  lead.  It  was  to  be  the 
only  shot  he  took  all  day.  Clinton  Ransey,  who  would  prove 
unstoppable  on  this  day,  promptly  answered  to  make  it  2-2. 

Cleveland  State  set  up  its  press.  All  week  long,  Indiana  had 
worked  with  Morgan  taking  the  ball  out  of  bounds  to  get  the 
offense  started.  The  first  three  times  he  touched  the  ball,  Morgan 
could  not  get  the  ball  inbounds.  By  the  time  the  sequence  was 
over,  Ransey  had  four  more  points,  the  score  was  6-2  Cleveland 
State,  Knight  had  yanked  Morgan  in  favor  of  Robinson,  and  any 
hope  for  a  quick  start  was  long  gone. 

It  would  be  a  struggle,  just  as  Knight  had  feared. 

Indiana  got  its  bearings  after  the  shaky  beginning  and  the  two 
teams  seesawed  for  ten  minutes.  A  Daryl  Thomas  layin  made  it 
26-25,  Indiana.  But  then  the  press  offense  turned  shaky  again 
and  Cleveland  State  ripped  off  six  straight  points,  just  as  it  had 
done  at  the  start.  Punching  the  ball  inside— Indiana's  defensive 
shell  was  showing  cracks  all  over— the  Vikings  built  the  lead  to 
37-28  with  6:30  left. 

But  Alford  revved  up  and  brought  the  Hoosiers  back.  They  got 
to  within  43-Al  before  a  follow  shot  by  Clinton  Smith,  on  a  play 
where  he  went  around  Todd  Meier,  made  it  45-41  at  the  half. 

Still,  there  was  no  need  to  panic.  They  had  survived  the  bad 
start  and  come  back  from  a  nine-point  deficit.  Nothing  had  really 
changed.  If  they  handled  the  press,  they  would  win  the  game. 
Knight  was  clinical  with  the  players  as  he  went  through  their 
mistakes.  Only  when  he  and  the  coaches  retreated  to  the  bathroom 
to  talk  did  he  get  angry. 

"I  ought  to  fire  all  of  us  for  setting  up  that  way  against  the 
goddamri  press,"  he  said  angrily,  kicking  a  nearby  stall  in  frus- 
tration. "All  we  have  to  do  is  get  it  in  before  they  set  up  and 
we're  alright.  Morgan  is  just  so  slow.  We  have  to  go  with  Ro- 
binson in  the  second  half,  we  have  no  choice.  Jesus,  I  didn't  want 
to  be  behind  in  this  game." 

The  only  change  they  made  was  on  the  inbounds  pass.  In  order 
to  keep  the  press  from  setting  up.  Knight  wanted  the  person 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    299 


nearest  the  ball  to  grab  it  right  away  and  throw  it  in.  "We're  all 
right,  boys/'  he  told  them.  "We  told  you  this  was  going  to  be  a 
tough  game  so  this  is  no  surprise.  They  are  going  to  come  out 
and  go  right  at  us  in  this  second  half  and  that's  just  fine. 

"Be  patient,  look  for  openings.  Let's  get  started  right  this  time 
and  play  like  hell  the  first  five  minutes.  It's  just  hke  the  score  is 
4-0  and  we've  still  got  twenty  minutes  to  play.  Plenty  of  time. 
Let's  go." 

They  did  play  like  hell  the  first  five  minutes.  Hell  as  in  bad. 
Daryl  Thomas  picked  up  his  third  foul  right  away — on  an  offensive 
foul— and  Cleveland  State  scored  the  first  six  points.  Knight  had 
to  call  time.  Now  it  was  10-0  and  there  was  less  than  eighteen 
minutes  to  play.  Morgan  was  given  a  brief  reprieve,  going  in  for 
Calloway,  who  had  just  committed  another  turnover. 

Knight  tried  to  repeat  Minnesota.  There,  he  had  talked  them 
back  into  the  game  after  a  horrendous  second-half  start.  He  screamed 
at  Thomas,  he  told  them  they  were  backing  down.  They  listened. 
They  went  back  and  began  playing  even  as  Knight  continued  to 
rail  at  Thomas  on  the  bench.  Robinson  broke  the  Cleveland  State 
spell  with  a  jumper  to  make  it  51-43. 

But  Cleveland  State  was  firmly  convinced  that  it  was  going  to 
win.  Each  time  Indiana  crept  closer,  someone,  usually  Ransey, 
would  get  a  bucket.  The  Hoosiers  got  to  within  striking  range 
once.  An  Alford  drive  cut  the  lead  to  66-61  with  8:55  left.  Ransey 
then  made  one  of  two  foul  shots  to  make  it  67-61.  Alford  drove 
basehne  again,  was  fouled  and  made  both  shots.  It  was  67-63. 
Back  to  4-0  and  still  more  than  eight  minutes  left. 

But  after  Eric  Mudd,  CSU's  center,  got  inside  (again  the  shell 
cracked)  to  make  it  69-63,  Robinson  missed  the  front  end  of  a 
one-and-one  that  could  have  cut  the  margin  back  to  four.  Time 
was  now  slipping  away.  The  lead  seesawed  between  six  and  eight. 
Harris  cut  it  to  six,  but  Ransey  answered  with  six  minutes  left. 
Harris  missed  and  Smith  rebounded.  Cleveland  State  called  time. 
Mackey  wanted  to  spread  out  and  kill  some  time.  Knight  glanced 
at  the  clock.  Five  minutes.  And  it  was  8-0. 

A  moment  later  it  was  10-0.  Ransey  again.  He  would  score 
twenty-seven  points  before  it  was  over,  three  more  than  Alford. 
With  CSU  spread  out,  Indiana  was  in  desperate  trouble.  The  last 


300    John  Feinstein 


thing  it  wanted  against  a  quicker  team  was  to  have  to  chase.  Now, 
it  had  to  chase. 

This  was  not  Indiana  basketball.  The  Vikings  were  killing  time 
and  holding  the  lead.  It  was  still  81-73  when  Harris  followed  a 
Calloway  miss  with  sixty-seven  seconds  left.  Ransey,  to  prove  he 
was  human,  threw  the  ball  away,  and  Eyl,  not  worrying  about 
missing  at  this  stage,  drove  for  a  layup  to  make  it  81-75  with 
forty-three  seconds  left.  They  fouled  Mudd  on  the  inbounds.  He 
missed  and  Alford  hit  a  drive  with  thirty  seconds  to  go. 

It  was  back  to  4-0.  But  now  almost  all  of  that  twenty  minutes 
was  gone.  They  had  to  steal  the  inbounds  pass.  There  were  no 
time-outs  left.  Cleveland  State  threw  a  long  inbounds  pass.  Smith 
caught  it  and  went  right  to  the  basket.  Eyl  went  right  up  with 
him.  He  blocked  the  shot.  The  whistle  blew.  The  block  looked 
clean.  Would  it  be  a  jump  ball?  No.  Referee  Tom  Fraim  said  Eyl 
had  fouled  Smith  with  his  body  going  up.  If  the  call  had  gone  the 
other  way,  Indiana  might  have  had  a  chance  for  a  miracle.  But  it 
would  have  taken  that.  There  were  only  twenty-one  seconds  and 
no  time-outs  left. 

But  there  would  have  been  hope.  Now,  there  was  none.  Smith 
made  both  foul  shots  to  make  it  83-77.  Alford  made  the  last 
basket  of  the  season.  The  clock  ran  to  zero.  It  was  83-79.  Still 
4—0.  But  now  time  had  run  out. 

There  were  no  tears  in  the  Indiana  locker  room.  People  don't 
cry  when  they  are  in  shock.  Knight  didn't  rant.  It  would  take  a 
while  for  his  anger  to  escalate,  although  it  surely  would.  He  told 
them  he  was  disappointed,  that  they  had  backed  down — again. 
No  screams.  But  it  would  get  worse. 

Knight's  only  outburst  was  brief.  It  came  when  he  turned  and 
saw  Dakich,  who  was  trying  very  hard — like  everyone  else — to 
be  invisible.  "Jesus,"  Knight  said  angrily,  "I  have  to  watch  this 

f team  play  like  it  did  last  year  and  then  I  turn  around  and 

the  first  person  I  see  is  goddamn  Dakich." 

There  was  not  much  to  say.  The  press  had  killed  them.  They 
had  needed  to  be  tough  inside  and  they  had  been  hammered  inside. 
Thomas,  who  finished  with  eleven  points,  had  scored  nine  of  them 
in  the  first  half.  Three  of  his  four  rebounds  had  come  in  the  first 
half.  Harris  had  played  well  with  sixteen  points  and  ten  rebounds. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    301 


Alford  had  been  Alford.  Calloway  had  been  respectable  with  ten 
points,  seven  rebounds,  and  just  two  turnovers. 

But  it  had  not  been  enough.  They  had  needed  something  extra 
and  no  one  had  found  it.  For  Morgan  and  Robinson,  it  was  a 
bitter  end  after  all  the  ups-and-downs.  Robinson  had  shot  just 
three  of  nine  from  the  field  and  had  missed  a  crucial  free  throw 
when  the  deficit  had  only  been  six;  Morgan  had  turned  the  ball 
over  five  times.  Even  more  important,  his  first  two  turnovers  had 
come  in  those  nightmarish  early  minutes,  helping  Cleveland  State 
establish  confidence  at  a  time  when  a  quick  Indiana  start  might 
have  rattled  a  team  playing  in  postseason  for  the  first  time.  As 
always,  they  had  given  everything  they  had.  Sadly,  as  had  often 
been  the  case  in  the  eyes  of  their  coach,  that  had  not  been  enough. 

In  truth,  pointing  fingers  at  individuals  was  foolish.  Cleveland 
State  had  played  well,  Indiana  had  not.  In  his  postgame  press 
conference,  that  is  exactly  what  Knight  said.  He  was  calm,  col- 
lected, and  gracious.  The  ifs  and  buts  and  the  self-questioning 
would  come  later. 

The  players  dressed  in  record  time.  Thirty  minutes  after  their 
season  had  ended,  they  were  on  a  bus  heading  for  the  airport. 
The  media  never  got  a  chance  to  ask  them  what  had  gone  wrong. 
It  was  just  as  well.  None  of  them  had  any  answers. 

The  flight  home  could  have  been  worse.  Knight  slept  for  a  while, 
told  Hammel  he  didn't  know  if  he  could  take  this  any  more,  and 
then  got  up  to  tell  the  players  how  disappointed  he  was.  They 
should  have  been  tougher,  smarter.  They  should  have  handled 
the  press  better. 

The  campus  was  empty  when  the  bus  pulled  up  to  Assembly 
Hall.  Friday  had  been  the  last  day  of  class  before  spring  break, 
and  almost  everyone  had  taken  off  for  Florida  or  home.  Once 
again,  the  players  found  themselves  on  a  deserted  campus  under 
the  most  depressing  of  circumstances.  This  time,  though,  they 
would  escape — eventually. 

The  rituals  had  to  be  finished  first.  They  met  for  the  last  time 
as  a  group  in  their  regular  meeting  room.  One  year  ago.  Knight 
had  dismissed  his  most  disappointing  team  ever  from  this  room. 
This  team  had  given  him  many  happy  moments.  But  all  that  was 
forgotten  now.  First,  the  three  seniors  had  to  be  excused.  "Stew, 


302    John  Feinstein 


Winston,  you  can  go,"  Knight  said,  forgetting  Courtney  Witte. 
Witte  paused  a  moment,  unsure  what  to  do,  then  got  up  and 
followed  Robinson  and  Morgan  to  the  door.  Knight  asked  Morgan 
to  wait  outside  for  him  for  a  moment. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  twelve  players  who  would  return.  The 
redshirts,  who  had  made  the  trip,  were  in  the  room,  too.  Knight 
had  talked  earlier  in  the  week  to  the  coaches  about  the  possibihty 
of  practicing  after  the  final  game,  assuming  the  team  did  not  reach 
the  Final  Four.  NCAA  rules  stipulate  that  a  team  may  practice 
until  the  day  of  the  national  championship  game. 

When  Knight  first  brought  up  the  idea,  he  was  thinking  about 
getting  some  extra  work  for  the  redshirts  and  of  getting  some 
practice  work  on  tape.  Now,  as  he  stood  in  front  of  his  remaining 
players,  those  rational  thoughts  were  far  from  his  mind. 

"You  people  have  a  lot  of  work  to  do  if  you  want  to  be  any 
good  next  year,"  he  said.  "A  lot  of  work.  The  way  you  played 
these  last  two  games  won't  beat  anyone.  Not  anyone.  We'll  see 
you  here  a  week  from  Sunday  at  four  o'clock." 

That  was  it.  The  season  was  over,  but  the  suffering  was  not. 
The  good  times  had  ceased  to  exist.  Notre  Dame,  Illinois,  Purdue, 
Michigan  State,  Iowa — all  forgotten.  All  Knight  could  see  in  his 
mind's  eye  at  that  moment  was  Michigan  and  Cleveland  State. 
Humiliation.  Defeat.  All  the  questions  and  self-doubts  came  rac- 
ing back  to  him. 

But  the  year  had  not  been  a  lost  cause.  As  the  others  left. 
Knight  called  the  waiting  Morgan  back  into  the  room.  On  this 
same  spot.  Knight  had  told  Morgan  he  didn't  want  him  back  for 
his  last  year,  that  he  was  finished  playing  basketball  at  Indiana. 
Now,  Morgan  was  finished  after  five  long  years. 

"Winston,"  Knight  said  softly,  "I  just  want  you  to  know  that 
I  know  you  gave  us  everything  you  had  this  season  and  I  appreciate 
it." 

Ten  years  ago,  five  years  ago,  one  year  ago.  Knight  would 
probably  have  been  unable  to  reach  out  to  one  of  his  players  this 
way  after  such  a  crushing  loss.  It  was  a  final  first  in  a  season  of 
firsts.  Morgan  looked  at  his  former  coach.  Five  springs  earlier. 
Knight  had  given  him  a  dollar  and  told  him  he  would  never  give 
him  anything  else  for  free.  Knight  had  been  telling  the  truth. 
Because  Morgan  had  truly  earned  these  last  words. 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    303 


As  the  others  left,  they  knew  what  awaited  them  the  following 
Sunday:  an  angry  coach.  The  tape  would  have  been  looked  at  and 
looked  at,  the  mistakes  dissected.  Every  one  of  them  would  be 
found  at  fault  at  some  point  in  some  way.  It  would  be  a  long  day 
and  a  longer  week.  They  would  once  again  have  an  angry,  frus- 
trated coach,  one  trying  to  deal  with  a  defeat  he  was  incapable  of 
dealing  with. 

They  would  be  in  jeopardy  once  again.  They  had  achieved  and 
achieved  for  five  months  but  all  that  had  been  virtually  wiped  out 
in  a  week.  They  were  back  in  trouble  again. 

They  were  back  to  the  brink. 


Epilogue 

In  the  days  following  the  end  of  the  season.  Knight  was  haunted 
by  the  way  it  had  ended.  Again  and  again  he  replayed  the  last 
two  games  in  his  mind.  He  questioned  himself,  his  coaches,  his 
players.  He  was  angry,  not  at  anyone  specifically — with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  Daryl  Thomas,  whose  manhood  was  once  again 
in  constant  question — but  with  the  world. 

Indiana  had  been  upset  in  a  year  of  upsets  in  NCAA  play.  On 
the  same  day  that  Cleveland  State  beat  Indiana,  Notre  Dame  was 
stunned  by  the  University  of  Arkansas  at  Little  Rock,  another 
team  that  was  making  its  NCAA  tournament  debut.  Two  days 
later,  Syracuse,  playing  on  its  home  floor,  lost  to  Navy  by  twenty 
points,  an  embarrassment  well  beyond  what  had  happened  to 
Indiana.  Michigan,  which  had  beaten  Indiana  by  twenty-eight 
points  eight  days  earlier,  lost  to  Iowa  State — the  same  Iowa  State 
Indiana  had  beaten  by  twenty-one  points  in  December. 

But  Knight  saw  none  of  this.  All  he  could  see  was  his  loss  and 
his  humiliation.  Once  again.  Knight  somehow  saw  himself  di- 
minished by  defeat.  Knight  had  never  before  lost  a  first-round 
NCAA  tournament  game.  It  tore  him  up. 

Which  was  a  shame.  Because  overall,  1985-86  was  a  season 
Knight  should  be  able  to  smile  about.  He  and  his  team  achieved 


304    John  Feinstein 


or  surpassed  every  preseason  goal  he  set.  He  had  hoped  for  nine- 
teen victories;  he  got  twenty-one.  He  had  hoped  for  twelve  Big 
Ten  victories;  he  got  thirteen.  He  wanted  to  get  back  into  the 
NCAA  tournament;  he  did.  He  wanted  people  to  respect  Indiana 
again;  they  did.  The  fact  that  the  NCAA  Tournament  Committee, 
with  all  its  computer  printouts  and  scouting  reports,  rated  Indiana 
among  the  top  twelve  teams  in  the  country  was  proof  of  that. 

Individually,  Knight  wanted  Steve  Alford  to  play  up  to  the 
potential  he  had  flashed  as  a  freshman.  Alford  did  just  that.  He 
was  consistent,  he  was  tough,  and  he  improved  the  nonshooting 
aspects  of  his  game.  He  was  an  All-American,  so  much  so  that 
when  someone  criticized  Alford's  selection  as  an  All-American 
one  night  at  dinner.  Knight  said,  "How  could  you  not  vote  for 
Steve?"  Alford  would  have  enjoyed  hearing  those  words. 

Daryl  Thomas,  asked  to  play  center  at  6-7,  averaged  14.5  points 
a  game  and  was  brilliant  at  times.  He  did  not  have  a  good  finish 
and  was  not  the  same  player  he  had  been  in  the  last  twelve  games 
of  the  season,  but  the  potential  he  showed  was  encouraging. 

Andre  Harris,  after  going  through  a  preseason  in  which  he  could 
do  no  wrong  and  an  early  season  in  which  he  could  do  no  right, 
justified  Joby  Wright's  faith  in  him  during  the  season's  last  eight 
games.  Ironically,  he  almost  reversed  roles  with  Thomas.  Harris 
emerged  as  the  team's  best  rebounder  (he  finished  with  a  5.6 
average,  high  on  the  team)  and  began  to  take  better  shots  and 
make  smarter  passes. 

Rick  Calloway  had  about  as  good  a  freshman  season  as  anyone 
could  possibly  have  hoped  for.  He  averaged  13.9  points  and  4.9 
rebounds  and  finished  the  season  as  a  player  with  a  limitless 
future. 

Right  there  was  a  solid  four-man  nucleus — if  Harris  overcame  • 
his  academic  problems  to  stay  eligible.  Todd  Meier  and  Steve  Eyl 
would  also  be  back  to  supply  depth,  and  the  five  redshirts — Kreigh 
Smith,  Magnus  Pelkowski,  Joe  Hillman,  Brian  Sloan,  and  Jeff 
Oliphant — all  showed  potential.  Sloan  in  particular  showed  re- 
markable improvement. 

The  three  recruited  players  all  had  to  be  considered  question 
marks  until  they  proved  themselves.  But  at  6-11  and  230  pounds, 
Dean  Garrett  would  at  the  very  least  give  Indiana  someone  big 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    305 


and  strong  in  the  middle.  Keith  Smart  was  an  excellent  athlete, 
the  kind  of  player  whose  quickness  would  be  valuable  against  a 
press  like  Cleveland  State's.  And  David  Minor,  the  only  high 
school  recruit,  was  reportedly  a  lot  like  Calloway  but  a  better 
shooter.  If  he  turned  out  anything  at  all  like  Calloway,  Indiana 
would  have  a  terrific  player. 

In  short,  all  the  elements  were  in  place  for  Indiana  once  again. 
There  was  experience,  players  who  had  proven  themselves  capable 
of  competing  with  almost  anyone  in  the  country.  With  the  advent 
of  a  three-point  shot  from  the  ridiculous  range  of  19  feet,  9  inches, 
Alford  would  be  easily  capable  of  averaging  thirty  points  a  game — 
if  necessary. 

There  was  also  the  semiexperience  of  the  redshirts,  players  who 
understood  the  program  and  now  had  to  put  that  knowledge  to 
use.  And  there  was  the  raw  potential  of  the  recruits.  Indiana  would 
begin  1986-87  ranked  at  least  in  the  top  ten,  perhaps  in  the  top 
five. 

And  then  there  was  the  coach.  If  1985-86  proved  anything  it 
proved  beyond  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  Bob  Knight  remains  as 
good  a  coach  as  there  is,  perhaps  the  best.  For  twenty-seven  games 
he  got  as  much  from  his  basketball  team  as  any  coach  in  the 
country,  maybe  more.  That  the  last  two  games  were  a  disaster 
does  not  diminish  that  fact. 

Knight  seemed  to  have  learned  from  the  debacle  of  1985.  He 
was  more  patient  than  he  had  ever  been,  more  understanding, 
more  restrained.  All  of  these  are  relative  terms.  There  were  still 
moments  when  he  went  out  of  control  and  days  when  he  played 
silly  mind  games  with  everyone.  But  more  than  anything.  Knight 
taught,  coached,  and  pushed  his  team,  and  made  it  about  as  good 
as  it  could  possibly  be. 

The  question  then  is  this:  Can  he  do  it  again?  Knight  began 
this  past  season  uncertain  about  his  team.  He  wondered  whether 
a  team  with  a  6-7  center  that  depended  on  a  6-1  guard  to  do  most 
of  its  scoring  could  beat  anybody.  The  answer  was  yes.  Now  he 
will  begin  the  season  with  a  team  picked  to  do  great  things  again. 
Knight  will  expect  great  things,  too.  He  will  expect  Garrett,  Smart, 
and  Minor  to  be  better  than  Witte,  Morgan,  and  Robinson.  He 
will  expect  the  redshirts  to  play  a  lot  and  play  well.  He  will  expect 


306     John  Feinstein 


more  than  twenty-one  victories,  more  than  thirteen  Big  Ten  vic- 
tories, and  much  more  than  the  first  round  of  the  NCAA  tour- 
nament. 

With  those  expectations  will  come  potential  pitfalls.  What  will 
happen  after  the  first  loss?  A  loss  at  home  in  the  Big  Ten?  Will 
Knight  once  again  be  patient?  Will  he  go  fishing  or  will  he  go 
head-hunting?  As  bright  as  Knight  is,  as  brilliant  a  coach  as  he 
is,  the  answers  to  these  questions  should  be  simple,  but  nothing 
about  Bob  Knight  is  simple  and  few  things  in  his  hfe  are  easy. 
He  couldn't  stand  the  comfort. 

Two  weeks  after  the  Cleveland  State  loss,  Knight  had  not  stopped 
brooding.  He  had  made  life  miserable  for  the  players  during  the 
first  two  days  of  their  postseason  practices,  sitting  in  the  stands 
while  they  scrimmaged.  He  even  yelled  at  Bartow  and  Dakich  for 
doing  a  poor  job  of  refereeing  on  that  first  Sunday.  When  he  left 
for  Dallas  on  Thursday  to  go  to  the  Final  Four,  everyone  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief.  The  assistants  ran  scrimmages  until  the  following 
Monday — the  last  day  allowable  under  NCAA  rules. 

In  Dallas,  Knight  was  reunited  with  his  coaching  family.  This 
is  an  annual  affair,  because  the  Final  Four  is  also  the  site  of  the 
National  Association  of  Basketball  Coaches  convention.  Knight 
rooms  each  year  with  Pete  Newell,  and  he  spent  the  weekend 
with  people  like  Fred  Taylor,  Henry  Iba,  Bob  Murray,  and  all  his 
former  assistants.  On  Friday  night,  the  annual  family  dinner  was 
held  at  a  local  Italian  restaurant. 

Knight  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  during  that  weekend  with 
Mike  Krzyzewski,  whose  Duke  team  reached  the  championship 
game  before  losing  to  Louisville,  72-69.  Knight  wore  a  Duke 
button  everywhere  he  went,  spoke  to  Krzyzewski's  team  about 
playing  in  the  Final  Four,  and  went  to  Krzyzewski's  room  after 
the  final  to  console  him.  There  was  irony  here:  Knight  would 
have  been  inconsolable  after  such  a  loss,  yet  he  insisted  on  trying 
to  help  console  Krzyzewski. 

In  the  days  following  the  final.  Knight  called  Krzyzewski  several 
times  to  make  sure  he  was  okay.  Krzyzewski  was  fine.  He  was 
far  better  equipped  to  deal  with  a  crushing  loss  than  his  mentor 
was. 

In  fact.  Knight  was  still  brooding  about  the  Cleveland  State  loss 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    307 


in  Dallas.  When  a  friend  asked  him  why  he  wasn't  going  to  the 
NABC  banquet,  Knight  answered,  "I'm  laying  low.  I'm  kind  of 
struggling  right  now." 

Why? 

"Our  team  just  isn't  very  good." 

But,  it  was  pointed  out,  he  had  done  all  that  could  be  done, 
squeezed  all  there  was  to  squeeze  for  twenty-seven  games. 

"But  we  played  twenty-nine." 

Knight  paused.  Then  he  added,  "And  Daryl  Thomas  is  still  a 
pussy.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  him." 

So  there  it  was.  To  Knight,  the  epitaph  for  1985-86  was  that 
Daryl  Thomas  was  still  a  pussy  and  Indiana  had  lost  two  games 
in  embarrassing  fashion.  Undoubtedly,  that  would  pop  into  his 
mind  again  and  again  during  fall  practice,  after  the  first  bad  half, 
after  the  first  loss.  .  .  . 

The  key  for  Bob  Knight  remains  the  same:  He  is  as  brilliant  a 
coach  as  there  is.  He  is  an  extraordinarily  compassionate,  caring, 
sensitive  person.  No  one  has  ever  had  a  better  or  more  loyal 
friend.  And  yet  everyone  who  cares  about  him  remains  concerned 
about  his  abiUty  to  hurt  and  to  cause  pain.  And  the  person  he 
hurts  most  often  is  Bob  Knight. 

People  around  him — friends,  coaches,  players — want,  hke  Isiah 
Thomas,  to  hug  him  and  tell  him  that  they  love  him.  Yet  he  shies 
away  from  that,  often  acting  as  if  he  doesn't  think  himself  worthy 
of  that  kind  of  feeling  and  then  going  out  and  doing  something 
to  prove  it. 

He  has  won  438  games  as  a  coach,  and  if  he  were  to  coach 
another  twenty  years,  he  could  well  break  Adolph  Rupp's  all-time 
record  of  880  victories.  There  is  no  reason  for  him  not  to  coach 
another  twenty  years.  He  loves  the  game,  the  challenges,  and  the 
players.  And  yet,  he  still  remains  unhappy  so  much  of  the  time. 
Losses  destroy  him,  and  when  they  do  he  seems  to  feel  obligated 
to  make  everyone  and  everything  around  him  as  miserable  as  he 
is.  Often,  he  succeeds. 

If  only  he  could  let  go  of  things:  losses,  grudges,  tantrums.  He 
is  rich  and  he  is  famous.  In  a  good  mood,  there  is  no  one  in  the 
world  more  delightful  to  be  around  because  he  is  so  bright,  so 
well-read.  In  a  bad  mood,  there  is  no  one  worse.  Just  as  he  sees 


308    ]ohn  Feinstein 


everything  in  black-and-white  terms,  he,  too,  is  black  and  white. 
Bob  Knight  never  has  an  average  day. 

In  1985-86,  he  saw  firsthand  what  patience  could  do  for  a 
basketball  team.  He  found  that  he  did  not  have  to  make  a  major 
issue  of  each  defeat  in  order  to  get  his  team  to  bounce  back.  He 
found  that  if  he  made  the  effort,  he  could  control  his  temper.  One 
can  only  hope  that  he  will  remember  these  lessons  and  use  them. 

He  has  so  much  to  give — and  has  given  so  much.  And  when 
he  begins  his  twenty-second  season  as  a  college  basketball  coach 
this  fall,  he  will  only  be  forty-six  years  old.  A  young  man  with 
a  bright  future.  If  he  doesn't  destroy  it. 


Acknowledgments 


when  reading  the  acknowledgments  at  the  start  of  a  book  I  have 
often  thought  that  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for  all  those  people 
to  have  played  a  significant  role  in  the  creation  of  one  book.  Now, 
having  gone  through  the  experience,  I  think  I  understand.  For 
me,  there  are  a  lot  of  people  to  thank. 

First,  my  employers  at  The  Washington  Post,  who  graciously 
allowed  me  the  leave  time  I  needed  to  spend  the  season  at  Indiana. 
Specificially,  I  would  like  to  thank  executive  editor  Ben  Bradlee 
and  managing  editor  Leonard  Downie,  and  give  special  thanks  to 
my  boss,  George  Solomon,  who  not  only  encouraged  Bradlee  and 
Downie  to  grant  the  leave  but  kept  telling  me  throughout  to  be 
patient  and  to  learn  from  the  experience.  I  would  also  like  to  thank 
all  the  people  at  the  paper  who  helped  me  while  I  was  away: 
Barbara  Lupica,  Debbie  Schwartz,  David  Levine,  and  Bob  Lohrer 
were  remarkably  patient  week  in  and  week  out  and  kept  me  in 
touch  with  the  real  world,  while  Deputy  Sports  Editor  Leonard 
Shapiro  and  assistant  sports  editors  Sandy  Bailey  and  O.D.  Wilson 
were  generous  with  advice  and  encouragement. 

The  people  I  came  in  contact  with  during  my  five  months  in 
Bloomington  could  not  have  been  nicer  to  me.  Bob  Knight's  four 
full-time  assistant  coaches — Ron  Felling,  Kohn  Smith,  Royce  Walt- 
man,  and  Joby  Wright — were  terrific  to  be  around  from  start  to 
finish.  My  memories  of  the  time  I  spent  with  them  will  always 
be  warm.  The  same  is  true  of  the  three  graduate  assistants — Dan 
Dakich,  Murry  Bartow,  and  Julio  Salazar — who  all  made  the  time 
I  spent  in  Indiana  much  more  pleasant  than  it  would  have  been 
had  they  not  become  my  friends.  The  same  is  true  of  trainer  Tim 

309 


310    John  Feinstein 


Garl  and  his  assistant,  Steve  Dayton.  Tim  cannot  be  given  enough 
credit  for  the  work  he  does  at  Indiana.  He  supplied  me  with  aspirin, 
orange  juice,  bad  stock  tips,  and  endless  patience.  The  four  senior 
managers — Bill  (Jim)  Himebrook,  Jim  (Jim)  Kelly,  Mark  (Jim) 
Sims,  and  Jeff  (Jim)  Stuckey — never  lost  their  sense  of  humor. 
That  in  itself  is  an  achievement.  I  can't  thank  them  enough  for 
their  help.  The  same  is  true  of  SID  Kit  Klingelhoffer,  promotion 
director  Chuck  Crabb  and  the  staff:  assistant  John  Johnson,  stu- 
dent assistants  Eric  Ruden,  Mike  Sobb,  and  Jan  Brown,  who  is 
the  office  saint.  I  would  also  be  remiss  if  I  didn't  thank  athletic 
director  Ralph  Floyd,  whose  loyalty  to  Bob  Knight  and  Indiana 
goes  beyond  anything  I  can  put  into  words  here. 

As  for  Bob  Hammel,  let  me  put  it  this  way:  without  him  I 
would  not  have  survived  the  season.  He  was  not  just  a  friend, 
but  a  mediator  when  the  mentor  and  I  needed  one.  I  can't  thank 
him  enough. 

Last,  but  certainly  not  least  at  lU,  the  players.  If  a  man  is  a 
measure  of  the  people  he  surrounds  himself  with,  then  Bob  Knight 
must  be  all  right,  because  the  sixteen  players  who  were  on  the 
1985-86  team  were  as  good  a  group  of  people  as  one  could  hope 
to  find.  That  sounds  corny.  It's  also  true.  They  could  not  have 
been  nicer  to  me.  Not  once  did  I  have  the  sense  that  having  an 
outsider  lurking  around  the  locker  room  with  an  ever-present  tape 
recorder  bothered  them.  If  they  were  21-8  as  basketball  players, 
they  were  unbeatable  as  people,  at  least  in  this  book. 

Of  course  I  never  would  have  made  it  to  Indiana  if  not  for  my 
agent,  Esther  Newberg,  and  my  editor  at  Macmillan,  Jeff  Neuman. 
They  both  had  faith  in  the  project  from  the  start  and  if  not  for 
them,  there  would  have  been  no  project.  They  also  provided  en- 
couragement throughout,  especially  during  the  writing  process 
when  it  was  needed  most. 

Then  there  are  the  people  who  know  best  what  was  involved 
in  putting  this  book  together  because  they  were  virtually  forced 
to  live  through  it  with  me:  Keith  and  Barby  Drum,  Ray  Ratto, 
Tony  Kornheiser,  David  Maraniss,  Lesley  Visser,  John  Hewig, 
Michael  Wilbon,  Ken  Denhnger,  Dick  (Hoops)  Weiss,  Sally  Jen- 
kins, Loretta  Tofani,  Lexie  Verdon,  Linda  Reynolds,  Dave  Kindred, 
Bob  DeStefano,  John  Caccese,  Jackson  Diehl,  Fred  Hiatt,  Margaret 


A  Season  on  the  Brink    311 


Shapiro,  Martin  Weil,  Tom  Mickle,  Mike  Krzyzewski,  Bud  Col- 
lins, Juan  Williams,  and  of  course,  my  family.  Special  thanks  to 
Keith  Drum,  Kornheiser,  Maraniss,  and  Visser,  who  urged  me  to 
go  ahead  with  the  idea  when  it  was  just  that:  an  idea. 

Finally,  a  few  words  on  Robert  M.  Knight.  It  will  be  readily 
apparent  while  reading  this  book  that  the  access  he  granted  me 
was  extraordinary.  The  last  thing  in  the  world  any  basketball 
coach  needs  is  someone  trailing  after  him  recording  his  every 
word  and  act.  Yet  that  is  exactly  what  he  let  me  do.  Without  this 
access,  this  book  would  not  have  been  possible.  The  book  was  not 
Bob's  idea,  it  was  mine.  He  had  little  to  gain  by  my  constant 
presence  and  much  to  lose,  and  yet  he  never  once  backed  away 
from  the  project  even  at  times  when  he  was  undoubtedly  sick  and 
tired  of  turning  around  and  seeing  my  face  and  my  tape  recorder. 

That  is  why,  as  I  finish  this,  I  am  reminded  of  an  incident  that 
took  place  in  January.  After  the  Indiana-Illinois  game  during 
which  Bob  kicked  and  slammed  a  chair,  and  kicked  a  cheerleader's 
megaphone,  Dave  Kindred,  the  superb  columnist  for  The  Atlanta 
Constitution,  wrote  that  he  was  disappointed  to  see  Knight  acting 
this  way  again.  Kindred,  a  long-time  friend  of  Knight's,  ended 
the  column  by  writing,  "Once  again  I  find  myself  wondering  when 
it  comes  to  Bob  Knight  if  the  end  justifies  the  means." 

A  few  days  later.  Knight  called  Kindred.  "You  needed  one  more 
line  for  that  damn  column,"  Knight  said.  "You  should  have  fin- 
ished by  saying,  'And  one  more  time,  I  realize  that  it  does.'  " 

Kindred  thought  for  a  moment  and  then  said,  "Bob,  you're 
right." 

I  agree. 


(Continued  from  front  flap) 


it  is  traveling  the  state  to  establish  the 
Landon  Turner  Fund  or  bringing  to  the 
locker  room  a  family  of  deaf-mutes  who 
had  approached  him  for  his  autograph. 

This  is  Knight  as  only  his  players  and 
coaches  know  him:  mercurial,  tempes- 
tuous, always  controversial,  walking  that 
fine  line  between  genius  and  madness. 
A  Season  on  the  Brink  is  more  than  just 
the  story  of  a  season.  It  is  an  unforgettable 
portrait  of  a  great  coach,  teacher,  and 
motivator  for  whom  every  season  is  a 
season  on  the  brink. 


John  Feinstein  has  been  with  Ttie 
Washington  Post  for  nine  years.  He  has 
also  written  for  Sports  Illustrated,  The 
Sporting  News,  Inside  Sports,  and  New 
England  Monthly.  His  stories  have  ap- 
peared in  three  editions  of  Best  Sports 
Stories,  and  he  has  won  five  U.S.  Basket- 
ball Writers  awards.  He  is  a  1977  graduate 
of  Duke  University,  where  he  attended  for 
the  only  four  seasons  in  which  it  finished 
last  in  the  ACC.  He  lives  in  McLean, 
Virginia. 

Front-of-jacket  photograph 

©  1985  by  Dave  Repp 

Jacket  design  by  Richard  Adelson 


"When  I  had  dinner  last  November  with  Bob  Knight 
and  John  Feinstein,  I  made  two  predictions.  The 
first  one  was  that  with  all  the  time  they  were  going 
to  spend  together,  they  wouldn't  be  speaking  to 
each  other  by  March.  Apparently,  I  was  wrong  on 
that  one— but  not  by  much.  My  second  prediction 
was  that  if  John  survived  the  season,  he  would  have 
a  terrific  book  on  his  hands.  To  get  to  watch  a 
master  at  work  up  close  is  a  rare  opportunity. 

"Bob  Knight  is  unique.  In  another  time,  he  would 
have  been  a  superb  general.  He  never  made  it  past 
private  in  the  Army,  but  he  has  proved  himself  to  be 
a  fantastic  leader  throughout  his  career.  He  may 
well  be  the  last  of  the  great  coaching  dictators." 

— Al  McGuire 


At  a  clinic,  someone  asked  Isiah  Thomas  (star  guard 
on  Indiana's  1981  NCAA  champions)  what  he  really 
thought  about  Knight.  "You  know,  there  were  times," 
Thomas  answered,  "when  if  I  had  a  gun,  I  think  I 
would  have  shot  him.  And  there  were  other  times 
when  I  wanted  to  put  my  arms  around  him,  hug  him, 
and  tell  him  that  I  loved  him." 


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