Where’s Ricky Byrdsong?
Not since manager Leo Durocher deserted his Cubs on a Saturday afternoon during the middle of the 1969 pennant race has such a high-profile athletic figure in Chicago become so invisible. And even Durocher’s mystery was quickly solved. He merely took off to visit his stepson at a summer camp in Wisconsin.
We’ve seen players and entire teams vanish, often immediately after “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The bigger the game in Chicago, the greater the possibility that Chicago’s team won’t show up. Those very 1969 Cubs disappeared for most of August and all of September. An empty bus arrived at the ballpark every day and the Cubs got out. At least Durocher tried to fake it with an excuse. He said he left the duguout because of a hernia.
However, there have been no such smoke signals from the camp of Ricky Byrdsong, who’s clearly the leader in the clubhouse for the year’s Amelia Earhart Award. Since his request for a leave of absence was granted early this week, Northwestern’s rookie basketball coach has been so quiet the silence is deafening. A statement from him, or some sort of explanation about him through somebody else, would not only be nice. It’s necessary. But don’t anticipate too much too soon from Northwestern, an unfailingly private private institution.
“I’m not going to have any comment on the matter,” the school’s athletic director, Rick Taylor, said Friday. It was live, but it could have been Memorex.
“Do you understand,” Taylor was asked, “that by not saying anything, your department is leaving this matter open to all sorts of speculation?”
“You have a job to do,” Taylor responded, “and I respect that. But we don’t want to make any comment until we feel it’s appropriate. The worst thing we could do is say something now that we might wish we hadn’t said a week from now.”
On the contrary, the worst thing Northwestern could do is what they’re doing now. When last seen, after all, Byrdsong wasn’t nursing a heavy cough, fighting an expanded waistline or yawning from lack of sleep. He was “coaching” the Wildcats Saturday night at Minnesota like a man who had lost more than his clipboard. He went from a stool at the end of the team bench to a hand-shaking tour of the stands to a high-five exchange with the Gophers’ mascot.
More Top Picks Best Amazon Prime Day Monitor Deals 2026
If Byrdsong’s behavior was intended to be a motivational gesture, it bombed. That’s allowed. Even Indiana’s Bob Knight, the best coach on the planet, occasionally explores a strange path toward his desired destination. Yet the fallout from Byrdsong’s exhibition is more harmful than the display itself. Northwestern volunteered that he hasn’t a problem with alcohol or drugs, but otherwise, this institution of higher learning taught us only how to let an issue fester. The reason? We need our space. Evidently, that’s more important than what the public deserves-answers.
Fortunately, Byrdsong seems to be in reasonably good health, if not stressed out. He has met with his superiors and his team. He has told them he needs some time. That might defuse the theory that he’s at odds with either the administration or his players, but not completely. The failure to communicate could be deeper than Northwestern’s moratorium on full disclosure.
Is it simply pressure? The Wildcats went 9-0 against some respectable non-conference foes before their 0-for-1994 Big 10 free fall entering Saturday night’s game against Illinois. That’s a rough ride after such an optimistic takeoff. Still, when the talented and energetic Byrdsong was hired in May, so full of hiss and vinegar, the onus on him was to make the Wildcats credible. The great expectations were his. The program won’t be built overnight, but whatever he has created is in danger now.
“I’d like nothing better,” said Taylor, “than to have this behind us in the next 5 minutes.”
If what they really want at Northwestern is a more believable program, they can start by supplying something more than air balls for answers.