(The headline as published has been corrected in this text.)
Neil Milbert
More Top Picks Best Kids Mountain Bikes For The Money
This episode took place at the old Wisconsin Field House after the last game of the Big Ten season the year Alan Henderson and Patrick Knight were seniors. Henderson had been hobbled by late-season injuries and didn’t play in Indiana’s victory over the Badgers.
A writer mentioned to Knight that this was his son Patrick’s last Big Ten game and asked: “Do you have any special memories of Patrick’s career? Any highlights you would like to share?”
Knight’s response: “That’s a hell of a good question, and as a matter of fact I do.
“It was the last game before this, our last game at Assembly Hall. We were winning and I put in the guys on the bench.
“They’re out there and all of a sudden it dawned on me that I should have sent in Alan Henderson and have him just run up and down the court so he could get the ovation from that crowd at the last home game for all he had done for Indiana basketball in the last four years.
“I sent him over to the scorer’s table to go in, but the guys out there were clueless and didn’t even see him.
“All of a sudden Patrick spotted Alan out of the corner of his eye. It took a couple of seconds, but then it dawned on him and he went over and laid a good hard foul on a guy right in front of the ref. The whistle blew and I was able to get Alan in there to get the ovation.
“You have to realize all the things Patrick had to do. He had to have the peripheral vision to spot Alan, then figure out what I was trying to do and then run over and foul right in front of the ref to stop the clock.
“For me, that’s the highlight of Patrick’s college basketball career.”
Dan McGrath
For most of my professional life I’ve been on the fence regarding Bob Knight.
He wins and his players graduate, which are often mutually exclusive at college basketball’s highest level.
With some notable exceptions–Neil Reed, Mike Giomi–his former players swear by him, perhaps in inverse proportion to how often he swore at them.
Bad joke. The men who played for Knight are far better qualified to judge him than I am after a handful of interview experiences that were always informative and occasionally intimidating.
Surpassing Dean Smith’s record for career victories is a notable lifetime achievement, but what capitalizes the “C” in Coach Knight in my mind is this: In the 1974-75 and ’75-76 seasons, his Indiana teams were 63-1, including 36-0 in the Big Ten. The ’81 team that steamrolled through the NCAA tournament won its five tournament games by an average of 22.6 points, beating LSU by 18 and North Carolina by 13 in the Final Four to cap as dominant a postseason run as I have witnessed. I have never seen a team better prepared or more ready to play.
Clearly the man can coach.
But something was missing from the teams Knight brought to Chicago for the Big Ten tournament as his days at Indiana were winding down. His Hoosiers were hollow-eyed and slack-jawed, beaten down and bedraggled, playing not to win but to get it over with. The unyielding dictator who coached them also had sucked the joy out of the game for them.
And that public humiliation of an unfortunate media relations assistant who mistakenly informed a roomful of reporters that Knight would not be addressing them after a first-round NCAA tournament loss in 1995 . . . so ridiculously over the top. How can a man so smart and so accomplished be so needlessly cruel?
The question nags me and keeps me from giving the man his due. I respect Bob Knight, or at least a lot of what he has done, but I wouldn’t say I like him much.
Mike Downey
One day I got paged in the Dodger Stadium press box. It was Bob Knight phoning me from Rome.
“A story of yours ran in that International Herald-Tribune,” he said. (Uh-oh, I said to myself, what now?) “And I thought you had it right.”
Relieved, I asked why he felt it necessary to phone from such a long distance.
“Because I’m the first one to tell a media guy how he’s a #*%! up,” Knight said. “Fair’s fair.”
Knight has played fair with me for 30 years. I have a number of correspondences from him, each of them complimentary. I don’t even mind his famous comment, “We all learn to write in 2nd grade, but then we move on.” After all, as I’ve said before, “This is from a grown man who makes a living teaching 21-year-olds how to bounce a ball.”
Knight is no saint, but his student-athletes go to school. They study. They graduate. I remember now what that story I wrote was about. Knight got knocked because he wouldn’t let an Indiana player fly west for a John Wooden Award ceremony that was being televised. Why not? Because it was final-exam week at school. I wish more coaches valued a test score over a trophy.
Melissa Isaacson
The Hoosiers had defeated the Illini 70-58 in March of 1991, a day that would yield a Big Ten co-championship for Indiana.
Bob Knight, who earlier had angered Illinois coach Lou Henson by referring to Illinois’ NCAA problems in the midst of an investigation, refused to shake Henson’s hand afterward and left the court laughing and waving to the Illinois crowd with seven seconds left.
Knight, who off-court had hurled profanities at Henson after Henson called him a “bully,” followed with a five-minute speech designed to mock the Illinois coach and his team.
Sarcastically calling the victory the best Indiana had had in his 20 years at the school, Knight then referred to an Illinois press release–typical of many teams–in which it touted three players as All-Big Ten candidates, saying “We came over here against insurmountable odds. I don’t understand how that many good players lost the game. The last time we had three players like that was in 1975. I’m not sure anybody has had as many good players as Illinois thinks they’ve had.”
Knight went on to make fun of Henson’s oft-stated criticism of out-of-state schools recruiting Illinois players. Drawing a map of Illinois and apologizing for not having access to Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf’s graphics, Knight smirked “I really think there’s an international conspiracy to get Illinois . . . “
More Top Picks Best Undercounter Beverage Coolers
While Knight’s own players blanched with embarrassment, Henson sputtered.
“He’s a classic bully,” said the man whose dignity rarely allowed him such displays. “His entire life is based on intimidation, but the big bully won’t intimidate me.”
His words barely dented Knight, of course. But it was a proud moment for Henson and an unforgettable one for everyone who witnessed it.
Fred Mitchell
I was covering high school sports for the Tribune in 1979 and had written numerous feature stories about St. Joseph’s Isiah Thomas and his family. I often spotted Knight in the stands, scouting Thomas and talking with his mother, Mary Thomas.
Knight was polite and cordial to me during that recruiting stretch, dutifully returning phone calls and saying all the right things for publication. He once returned a call to me in the middle of the night to talk about Isiah, perhaps more as a prank than a respectful gesture.
Isiah’s mother was wary of Knight and wanted her “baby boy” to go to DePaul. One of Isiah’s older brothers, Lord Henry, even got into a scuffle with Knight in the family’s home.
Mrs. Thomas was not about to be bullied or intimidated by Knight. When she finally accepted a visit to Knight’s home in Bloomington, Ind., she blatantly ignored the “no smoking” signs in his house and boldly lit up.
When the day finally came for Isiah to announce his college choice, his mother still held out hope he would choose DePaul.
“But,” Thomas said breathlessly, “I just have a feeling about Indiana.” He would lead the Hoosiers to an NCAA title two years later.
In the middle of Thomas’ freshman season at Indiana, I was assigned to write a feature story on him. Knight’s approach toward me changed dramatically. He tried to prohibit me or any other reporters from talking to Thomas, so I had to arrange a meeting with Thomas surreptitiously to complete the story I wrote about him.
After he was a first-round draft pick of the Detroit Pistons, Thomas and I began collaborating on a book, in which he said many unflattering things about Knight. The book was put on hold for various reasons. Perhaps it is time to revisit that project.
Bill Jauss
Bobby Knight enjoyed his spirited oral skirmishes with sportswriters.
“Most of us learn to write at age 7,” Knight once lectured a group of writers. “Then we move on to more important things.”
One scribe, defending his craft, protested, “Bob, not everyone can do what we do: accurately and clearly describe a major event. Write under deadline pressure. Do this with a minimum of words . . . “
“Oh, so brevity is important,” Knight countered. “Well, can any of you describe me in 50 words”?
“Five words are enough,” I responded. “Honest man. Great coach. Jackass.”
Knight also is a respected friend and the best coach I’ve known.
———-
Bill Jauss is a former longtime Tribune sports reporter who retired in January.