A Season on the Brink Page 9

  Such byplay was the exception, though, not the rule. Practice was, for the most part, all business. Time and again Knight reminded 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 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 anybody. Not one of the twenty-eight games we play could you win. 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 Williams 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 Calloway. Each was about as good an athlete as Knight had ever recruited. Harris was two years older than Calloway, but Calloway was a quicker learner. Almost from the beginning, Knight as 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 progress 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 like 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 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 usually 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. The other candidates were the seven sophomores: Kreigh Smith, Brian Sloan, Joe Hillman, Steve Eyl, Todd Jadlow, Magnus Pelkowski, and Delray Brooks. Hillman, who had come to Indiana without a scholarship (he now had one) from a Los Angeles suburb, wanted to redshirt so that he would have two years of eligibility 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-10, 230-pound Colombian who had first been brought to Knight’s attention by Julio Salazar, the graduate assistant coach from Colombia. Knight thought Pelkowski 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 h
e 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 military 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.

  “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 earlier, Bob Knight had gone to Ohio State with high hopes. Not the kind of hopes that Brooks had arrived at Indiana with, but high nonetheless. 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 I 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.”

  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 remember when you were six years old? You were a happy little kid then, weren’t you? And you had never even heard of basketball 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.

  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 t
his 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 Garl’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, Garl only wanted him to play a half.

  Knight almost always defers to Garl’s judgment on injuries. Sometimes he will ask Garl to have a doctor check something, but he trusts Garl 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 Garl 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 good mood when the players gathered for their pregame walkthrough.

  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.