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March 1994 Humor Story
The day I told Bob Knight where to go
(Note to readers: The sudden apparent retirement of Texas Tech men’s basketball coach Bob Knight in February of 2008 got us reminiscing. Here’s a true story from when he still coached Indiana University and photographers still used film. This story first appeared in the March 1994 issue of Electric Consumer.)
 by Richard G. Biever
Indiana University basketball coach Bob Knight elicits strong reactions in this state. He’s worshipped for his integrity and success. He’s despised for his sometimes boorish behavior.
His detractors would love to tell him just where it is he can go. Media-types have minced it in essays condemning his demeanor. But not many folks have told him to his face.
But, sports fans, I’m here to tell you that I did it. I — to his face — once told Bob Knight where to go.
It was early autumn of 1986. IU’s basketball team was just about to begin practice for a season that would end with a new NCAA championship banner for Assembly Hall.
Rick Fox, who later became a pro basketball player, was a star for Warsaw High School. He was suing the Indiana High School Athletic Association because it wouldn’t let him play his senior year. It had something to do with the association’s contention that he’d been playing the equivalent of high school ball in his native Bahamas since he was a toddler.
The trial was moved to Johnson County where I was a newspaper photographer at the time.
We’d heard Knight would testify on Fox’s behalf. Knight, along with every major university basketball coach, was trying to recruit him. Sitting out his senior year, Knight would argue, would hurt Fox as a player. (As a side note: Fox lost the lawsuit, sat out his senior year, but still went on to play college ball — for Dean Smith at North Carolina. That was gratitude for you!)
A reporter and I had arrived early for the 8:30 a.m. trial. A crowd of lawyers and on-lookers were already milling around on the second floor lobby outside the courtroom. Purdue University coach Gene Keady was there. Fearing I’d hurt his feelings if I clamored over Knight, but ignored him, I snapped a couple of perfunctory photos. He came over.
“What are you boys up to?” he said.
“Oh, we’re just kinda hangin’ out,” we aloofly replied, clearing our throats and gazing up at the fine Corinthian columns and ceiling tile. We didn’t have the heart to tell him we were waiting for the star witness.
Zero-hour, 8:30, arrived, but Bob Knight hadn’t. Everyone shuffled into the courtroom.
Since cameras weren’t allowed there, I was left alone atop the dual marble staircases waiting to photograph the intimidating Mr. Knight.
My palms grew sweaty on my Nikon. I checked and rechecked the camera. Flash on; sync speed set; film advanced; aperture at f8. There I was, ready to fire. Silently I prayed I’d get out without incident. Knight’s reputation with the press long preceded him.
Suddenly, echoing up one of the long curving stairways came footsteps. Leaning over the railing, peering around the edge, I saw him. It was him. It was Bob Knight. And he saw me.
I was looking at him; he was looking at me. Full eye contact with the man who’d been to the brink and back. Me and Bob. Bob and me. Vis a vis. One-on-one with “The General.”
I respectfully nodded and said, “Hey, Coach.”
I raised my camera. He raised an eyebrow.
I popped the flash. He popped a vein.
“I don’t want any of that!” he bellowed from below.
I got off one shot.
In every man’s life comes one great tribulation, a Continental Divide that separates men from boys. Religions celebrate this demarcation with confirmations and bar mitzvahs. To Indiana journalists, it’s a Knighting — a dubbing that might include analogies to a horse’s anatomy, or a drubbing of some sort. I was about to join the club.
My flash hadn’t even recharged when before me rose Robert Montgomery Knight like a mean old grizzly bear on its hind haunches.
My guru — Bob Dylan — once sang, “What looks large from a distance, close up ain’t never that big.” Ha! Obviously, that Bob ain’t never had this Bob lurched over him.
Here was a man who was about to coach his third NCAA championship team. Here was a man who himself played on a national championship team. But here was a man who was much larger standing atop the Johnson County courthouse stairs than he ever appeared at courtside.
Here was a man who was far too big for his own Sans-a-Belt britches (but who in these parts would tell him). Here was a man in a $300 tan camel-hair sports coat (that I remember did make him look quite dapper). Here was a man in his black leather loafers with those little leather tassels. Up he stepped to a sniveling little media-runt type of guy like me.
Me, who never even made the first cut from St. Paul’s seventh grade b-ball squad. Me, in gray corduroys and an all-acrylic blue sweater covered in fuzz balls. Me, wearing white leather running shoes (which I prayed wouldn’t fail me now). Me, who stood 5-feet-10 at best in those Nikes — shoes Mr. Knight and I were practically sharing at that point. Shoes I wished could have been laced on anyone else’s feet but mine.
He then unsheathed a scowl that severed my brain from my tongue and sent reeling my bowel. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
I gulped, and started to explain that my editor (“Yes,” I quickly decided, “blame it on someone else!”) sent me here to get a photo and …
“Who are you with?” he snarled.
I started to explain that I worked for the Daily Jour …
“Where’s that!” he snapped.
“Here in Franklin,” I stammered.
“Well, you just can’t shoot someone’s picture without first asking his permission,” he scolded.
My brain countered with something to the effect of him being a public figure, this being a public building in the United States of America, land of the free, and that the judge did give me permission to be there in case some question should arise, so let’s both be adults and professional about this and go our separate ways, better for this brief but meaningful encounter.
But all my voice could muster was, “I’m sorry.”
He angrily turned to my right and took two steps. He then stopped, and pivoted back around. I’ll never forget what he said. Probably one of the most profound and profane pronouncements he’s ever made: “You know, it’s guys like you that make guys like me make it as tough as we can on guys like you.”
“What the …! Huh?” I thought.
He turned from me again. But by then, I’d had enough. No more Mr. Nice Guy from me, boy. I knew I wasn’t one of his “kids.” I knew I was no Isiah Thomas; I knew I was no Steve Alford. I knew I was no Mike Giomi nor even a Steve Green. But I deserved a little more respect than this. No one deserved this kind of abuse.
That’s when I set the man straight. That’s when I told Bob Knight where to go.
For as he stormed away, he whirled back to me a second time. I was wiping the sweat from my brow when he barked, “Where’s the courtroom anyway?”
I pointed and replied, “Just around the corner.”
Richard G. Biever is senior editor of Electric Consumer.
Written By: eceditor
Date Posted: 2/21/2008
Number of Views: 141
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