Congratulations to Bobby Knight

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Kudos to Bob Knight, who won his 900th game last night. The win was actually a big one for Texas Tech, as they knocked off Texas A & M, ranked No. 10 in the nation.

As I sat on my couch watching the end of the game, I felt pride swell up from my gut. That pride -- a warm, feathery dusting of feathers and warmth -- rumbled in my tummy and continued to swell as I watched Knight thank the crowd for their support after the game. After further rumblings, that pride manifested itself in a series of flatulent bursts that surely removed some of the plaid from my couch.

Too much cabbage, I imagine.

Aside from the cabbage, I also felt that swell of pride because I have a deep passion for arbitrary sports milestones. 300-game winners, 3,000 hits, 100 receptions and, now, 900 wins. For the person involved, the feeling of being one better than 2,999 or 899 must be incredible.

Perhaps most importantly, Bobby Knight has always been my kind of coach. I once dabbled in the coaching ranks, and I modeled my style after him. The year was 1974 and I volunteered to coach the local junior high boys basketball team in Ten Broeck, Kentucky. I came to my first practice armed with a spiral-bound playbook that weighed in at 274 pages, and my favorite zone trapping scheme. After 55 minutes of warm-up wind sprints, I allowed the boys to put their shorts back on and I told them we would now learn Coach Marv's airtight "32 Minutes of Hell" zone defense.

The defense was predicated on the idea that my players would be quick and could wreak havoc in the backcourt, causing the other team's guards to panic. The problem was that my entire team consisted of rangy white boys with freckles.

Many of them had bad haircuts and had cow shit on their basketball shoes. Most concerning was that they all possessed a similar running style that involved lots of head-bobbing and careless elbow flapping. The result was that they all ran like geriatric goats. But alas, I believe that any coach worth his whistle can take any group of players and make them fit any system. So I pressed onward with my defensive teachings.

As I explained the swarming technique, I used the analogy of sperm flocking to an egg. After my fifth use of the word "ejaculation" one of the players began softly weeping and he said he was going to call his dad. Confused and maybe angry, I ripped a phone from the gym wall with my bare hands and hurled it towards his chest. Amazingly, he caught it and, while I pondered how I could use this boy's soft hands to the team's benefit, he found another phone and called his dad.

Turns out that this boy's father was the school board president and I was immediately fired from my position and told to never again return to the town of Ten Broeck.

I'd like to think that Bob Knight would have been proud.

With all of that said, congratulations Bob. You're the kind of coach that I'd want any of my 12 or so estranged sons to play for. Keep doing what you're doing.