Sports – KensView

NFL Two-step

Colin just shut up

Poor Harrison has his rights

Reason black and white

― 俳句 (haiku)

College basketball legend Bob Knight passed away this past week. His impact on the sport is undeniable, both good and bad. For more than a decade, he and his teams were quite a force in college sports locally, nationally, and even internationally. The news brought up a few Knight-related memories:

1. On the evening of the 1976 national championship, my newly minted wife and I decided to go over to the downtown Bloomington bars to join in the big celebration. We felt that parking would be hard to find if everyone came out, so we found a spot in the campus main library lot, approximately four blocks from the center of town.

There was quite a fete. The whole campus and town populations it seemed had turned out. Beer and spirits were flying liberally about, poured down gullets, on heads, on shoulders, on pavement, and so on. Naked streakers proliferated mixing and dancing maniacally with students and faculty on the streets amidst dozens of stalled, honking and flashing cars and pickups.

Once we had our fill of the crazed festivities, we turned back towards our car to return home. As we approached, we unhappily discovered that the party had spilled over to the lot. Drunken students were racing and leaping about among the parked vehicles, AND on top. Some were jumping up and down on and crossing over to the hoods, including ours!

Fortunately, this had a happy ending. A friend of a neighbor who worked in a body shop worked out the depressed hood for little charge – a kindness in response to our victory celebration plight.

Welcome to Hoosier Basketball!

2. We were attending the Cream & Crimson Scrimmage, to which faculty and staff are invited to watch the last full-court practice before the start of the 1981-1982 season. My wife, daughter, and I sat on an aisle one row up from the court, on the opposite side from the team bench and coaches. We were closer to one basket, but still had a great view. In March, IU had won its second national championship in Coach Knight’s tenure, and there was naturally great anticipation and much attention being paid by the devoted audience to the prospects for the new season. For the scrimmage, the players were as usual divided into two squads – one sporting Cream-colored jerseys and the other Crimson – the school’s colors. The squads were putting on a good show, not letting up steam. Of course, they were being prodded on by the master himself, the revered Coach Knight, who fully orchestrated the performance, continually barking out commands from the opposite side of the court.

Although it was not a regular season contest, the scene looked and sounded real. It was very noisy, both from the cheers of the crowd and from the action on the court. As the squads thundered toward our direction, there was a sonic boom created by the pounding of feet and the screeching of shoes. The collective sounds roared and oscillated like ocean waves. The din would subsequently subside as the players reversed and drove themselves back down the court. My barely one-year-old daughter was caught up in all the commotion, seemingly entranced by the rhythmic tide. She would stand up as high as she could on my lap whenever the squads approached our area and then let out a small roar of her own. This pattern continued for several minutes.

I sat there fixed, eyes focused on the flow, observing and examining how the players maneuvered for each attack on the basket, or how then raced back into position on defense. Over time as the action continued intensely on court, I started to sense something odd. I briefly spied a small blur in the distance. At first, I paid only passing notice. Next, I detected some movement on the upper periphery of my vision. A figure or sorts began moving slowly towards the left; then picked up pace. Again, I did not make much of it and continued to turn most of my attention to the action on court. But the blur or figure kept getting larger and larger as it continued to the left. But then I lost track, pulled back by a great layup. But there was something that I found strange, no more barking from Coach Knight AND he was no longer standing on the opposite side. Did I miss something?

Suddenly a large looming person appeared out of nowhere. He thundered out, “Get that kid out of here!”

It was Coach Knight towering above us in our seats.

“What what did you say?” I asked, stunned by moment. “What’s going on, Coach?” I tried to laugh, or giggle, or something, but could barely get anything out.

“I want that kid out of here,” he shouted again.

I was blown away. Incredulous. My wife sat dumb-founded.

“What had we, our daughter done to merit this treatment?” I thought.

We were not given much time to think or react. A coaching assistant who had accompanied Knight into the stands said, “Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”

“But why?”

“Coach says you’re disturbing our practice and have to leave.”

We reluctantly packed up, grabbed my daughter, and exited. It made little sense. Surely, he and the team encounter great volumes of noise and disruption during a game; and we were on the opposite side of the court. I wonder to this day how one small infant could so profoundly disturb the great Coach Knight.

Of course, my daughter has no memory of this incident, and it did not at all affect her love of playing basketball.

3. One afternoon, my wife and I were playing tennis on the university’s varsity courts when were joined in the next court by Coach Knight and another person. Seeing who it was, we did not bother to stop our play, We still held a grudge from the time he had kicked us out of the stadium six years earlier because our year-old daughter’s impassioned yells were apparently too much for the coach’s ears.

As continued our play, we began to hear the Coach raise his voice in discussion with his partner. We couldn’t discern what he was talking about, but soon several of their balls started ending up on our court. This is very normal for action on adjacent courts, so we had no issue about hitting their balls back whenever there’s the need. However, the heated talk turned to yelling, louder and louder; and the stray balls, particularly those off the coach’s racket, grew more and more frequent.

In the past, I had seen Knight play tennis. He was a decent player, so I didn’t understand the lack of control. His opponent did not seem to be extraordinarily formidable. I paused and approached my wife to whisper a question.

“What’s going on with Knight?”

“Who cares. He’s a jerk and probably a sore loser.”

“Perhaps, but it still seems odd. He has some bee in his bonnet.”

Soon we wrapped up our play. As we exited, Knight continued fuming on court.

The next day, we got the answer. It was reported in Herald-Times, Bloomington’s local paper, that Knight had been approached by one of the paper’s reporters on a downtown street. As the reporter was trying to pose a question, Knight had allegedly pushed the hapless fellow back through a hedgerow. Well, what can you say?

******

Dear Hoosierland,

I must remind you that according to our contract if you had wanted to continue to have championships in Indiana, you needed to provide Ken’s family the necessary financial support. They held up their end of the bargain through their major family events: 1) When they got hitched in 1976, Indiana went undefeated and won its first championship right after they had arrived on campus. 2) In 1981, when their daughter was born, Indiana achieved its second national championship. 3) In the year that their son was born, Indiana again attained the championship; however, you subsequently stopped giving them financial aid support. A contract is a contract. With no more support, they of course consequently stopped producing offspring – resulting, as you very well know, in no further championships for you (even for the major pro sports), even if you cried about it.

BTW: As a signing bonus, I did throw in Mike Pence. Oh, he just dropped out, you say. Well, tant pis!

– Meph

Cubs Fan

Suffering is your birthright:

the team’s still directionless and confused

short-term replacements with underpay

needs good starting pitching, a lot of it

two runners again left on base.

They say they’re building a core and

this isn’t just another rebuild

while the Cubs Chairman feels your pain

as washed-up prima donnas

tease with a near playoff appearance.

A good and decent person you must be

for there is no more tortured

sports fan in the world than you

nor one that is more delighted to be

called “lovable loser.”

With an eternal mantra “Wait until next year,”

and though the Cubs may stink again, you say

give away my ticket, hell no

never stop the Hope

just take me out to that Wrigley game!

Underdog

In every race, there’s an underdog,
A contender whose efforts are a slog.
And while they may not have the fleetest feet,
Their heart and spirit are not to be beat.
They’re the ones that no one expects to win,
But still they get up and try once again,
Fighting with pride and a relentless drive,
Urging themselves to keep the odds alive.
Some people may snicker and they may sneer,
But the underdog never drops a tear.
They know they’re capable of achieving;
And if they try, they often end up winning.
The underdog may appear down and out,
But they’ll not let that show what they’re about.
So even if you think there is no way
And your confidence is starting to fray,
Remember, there’s still a chance of winning—
Just keep fighting, keep pushing, keep grinning.
You may not be the favored to prevail,
But don’t let your spirit and heart turn tail.
If you’re strong, determined, and full of grit,
Although underdog, you should never quit.

In a Zone

From the grandstand they shout,
As they see Tiana burst out—
A hardcourt, manic pinball
Bouncing between the gym walls.
Weaving through traffic
While dodging the contact,
Dribbling and whirling,
Then passing and dashing,
That ricocheting dervish
Sets for the final sweet swish.

B-Ball

The court pulses,
the rhythm of sneakers
on polished wood—
each dribble a heartbeat,
each pass a message shared,
the collective surge of movement.

Coordinated commotion erupts,
echoing off the walls,
sweat mingling with the air,
an unspoken language
that transcends the clatter of everyday life—
lost in the arc of a soaring shot,
the thud of a rebound,
the shouts of encouragement.

In the weave of teammates,
individual concerns dissolve,
a tapestry of trust forms,
woven tight in the dance of strategy,
where egos slip away,
and the singular aim becomes
the shared victory,
the joy of connection.

With every game,
we learn the art of letting go,
the beauty of surrender,
as we rise and fall together,
each loss a lesson,
each win a testament
to the strength found in unity.

Basketball,
a sanctuary of camaraderie,
where burdens are traded
for the thrill of a fast break,
and where every swish resounds
like a clarion throughout the gym,
reminding us that in the end,
we are all in this together,
a symphony of motion,
each note played for the team.

Guard Him Close

In a school gym where the ball bounces loud,
There’s a pick-up game, players standing proud.
The air is thick with sweat and the great roar
Of sneakers skidding on the hardwood floor.
“Watch him close,” a veteran tenders his view
As each team decides who will cover who.
“That guy over there, he seems out of place;
But don’t be fooled by his deceptive face.
He doesn’t look fast and is somewhat short,
But when he gets started, man, he holds court.
It’s not in his height and not in his might,
But the way he strikes in a heated fight.”
“He may not look like much,” said with a grin.
“He’s slow to the eye, but resolved to win.
But that teammate just shrugs, slacks off his man.
Though that one looks harmless, he’s has a plan.
A dribble, a move, opponent’s in plight,
A feint to the left, then dash to the right.
That unassuming guy moves smooth as silk,
Knows how to play and surely drinks his milk.
A shot comes from nowhere, the ball sails high,
And just like that, the lead starts to die.
In the game of life, sometimes it’s clear,
It’s not the first glance that may cause fear.
For skill may not always overtly show
In those who deliver the final blow.

Match for the Ages

It was a sweltering Saturday afternoon deep in the midst of the Cold War, and the air at the University of Madagascar was thick with the gritty, red laterite dust and sweat. The outdoor basketball court near the student center had always been a spot where the university’s diverse community—students, lecturers, and visitors alike—came together for some friendly competition. The sound of sneakers kicking on the pounded surface, basketballs bouncing, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air as a game was about to kick off.

Among those preparing to play was Mr. K, an American English lecturer from Indiana. He had been teaching at the university for just over a year, and while his Malagasy wasn’t perfect, his basketball skills—honed in pickup games back home—were undeniable. He had played on this court several times before, usually with a group of local students who, despite being less experienced with the game, had a fierce love for it.

Today, however, things were different. His usual team of Malagasy students was up against a new group—a team of three Russian aid workers who had arrived in Madagascar a few months earlier. They were tall, fit, and carried themselves with a quiet, almost regal arrogance. They had seen basketball as a part of their aid work in various countries, and there were hints that their skills on the court matched their confidence. Rounding out the opposition were two Malagasy students, both of whom had likely never played with such as group of foreigners before.

He glanced over at his team: Mamy, a quick point guard with a sharp eye for passing; Rakoto, a lanky côtièr forward who could jump for the clouds; Faneva, a sturdy mass who could stand at center like a mighty baobab. and Anjara, a sharpshooter whose outside shot could break hearts. They were ready.

The game began with the usual fanfare of banter and good-natured taunting. English, which except for his of course, was the broken lingua franca. He quickly noticed the Russians’ imposing stature, particularly Ivan and Sergei, both of whom were easily over six feet tall. Their presence on the court gave their team an intimidating air, and it was clear they expected to dominate.

“Ready to be schooled, Americans?” one of the Russians—probably Ivan—muttered, barely cracking a smile.

He just grinned and nodded. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he replied, dribbling the ball between his legs.

The first few minutes were a back-and-forth affair, with the Russians using their height to score in the paint while the Malagasy team relied on speed and precision. Mamy zipped up and down the court, weaving between defenders and creating space for his teammates. Rakoto, despite his lankiness, demonstrated a surprising ability to handle the ball and protect it from the Russian giants. But it was Anjara’s shooting that kept the game close. Every time the Russians pulled ahead, Anjara would drain a deep shot, much to their growing frustration.

At one point, Sergei—looking unbothered—backed down Faneva in the post, sending him spinning in a wide arc before he slammed the ball through the hoop with a vicious dunk. The Russians erupted in triumph, and even he couldn’t help but feel the tension rise.

But hiss team wasn’t out yet. He saw his moment. With the game tied at 40-40, he called for a timeout. As the players gathered around him, he clapped his hands and spoke in a low voice.

“We have one chance to win this. Mamy, you take the ball up top. Faneva and Rakoto, set screens on each side of the foal shot. Anjara, you keep shooting. I’ll be the decoy. We’ve got speed, they’ve got size. Let’s use it.”

The Malagasy players nodded in agreement, and they returned to the court with renewed focus. The next few minutes were a blur of sharp passes, quick cuts, and devastating shots. Mamy played his role as the floor general, driving the lane and dishing out the ball at just the right moment. Rakoto set bone-crushing screens that freed Anjara for one clean look after another. And He? He was everywhere—distracting the Russians, getting into passing lanes, and even draining an occasional jumper from beyond the key, his famous 18-footers.

With only seconds left on the timing watch, the game was tied again—44-44. It was his ball at the top of the key. The Russians, realizing they were on the brink of defeat, looked to double-team him. But he had one final trick up his sleeve. He passed to Mamy, who faked a drive before tossing a no-look pass to Anjara in the corner. Anjara squared up and, in one smooth motion, let the ball fly.

The timer sounded as the ball sailed through the air and swished through the net.

“Game over,” Mamy shouted, pumping his fist in the air.

The vicorious team erupted in joy accompanied by a gathered crowd of cheering spectators, as the Russians stood in stunned silence, processing the loss. Despite their pride being bruised, they couldn’t help but give the their opponents a nod of respect.

He walked over to Ivan and Sergei, offering a hand. “Good game,” he said, his grin widening. “You guys are tough.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Ivan took his hand and shook it firmly. “You… you play well, American,” he said with a hint of grudging admiration. Sergei followed suit, and soon, all five players were shaking hands and exchanging congratulations.

Later that evening, as he sat in his room preparing the next lesson, he received a call from his friend, Charles, a university professor.

“You won’t believe this. The university radio station covered the game,” his friend said, laughing. “They played it live on the air—people were listening in!”

He chuckled, half-amused. “What, our game? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, really!” Charles explained. “Russians vs. American. It’s a big deal.”

He leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. In that moment, he realized how much he had come to love this place—the warmth of the Malagasy people, the camaraderie, and the simple joy of basketball, game loved by people from all around the world. And though he was far from home, playing on that court with his students had made him feel more connected than ever to a world outside of his notes and lectures.

As he imagined the static-full sound of the game as covered on the radio, he couldn’t help but think: sometimes, it was the smallest victories—the ones on the court, in the moment—that ended up meaning the most.

A Fruitful Frivolity

People interested in athletics
and in the care of their bodies
think not only of condition and exercise
but also of relaxation in season;
in fact, they consider this
the principal part of training.

In like manner scholars, I believe,
after much reading of serious works
may profitably relax their minds and
put them in better trim for future labor.

It would be appropriate recreation for them
if they were to take up the sort of reading that,
instead of affording just pure amusement
based on wit and humor,
also boasts a little food for thought
which the Muses would not altogether spurn;
and I would hope that they will consider
my work something of the kind.

May then they and you find it enticing
not only for the novelty of the subject,
for the intricacy of the scheme,
and because I tell all kinds of tales
in both plausible and specious ways,
but also because much within my pieces
is more or less a squib on the foibles
of yours truly or of one or another
of my fellow human beings.

Carpe poema!

Rodeo

On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide,
A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride.
As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen
Within the stands, their interest grows keen.

With bated breath, attendees gather near,
Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer.
The arena transcends, emotions run high,
Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.

The majestic dance between man and beast,
Struggle for dominance, tension increased,
It’s a show of will and courage to share,
Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.

The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed,
Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast.
Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound,
As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.

In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace,
Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace.
Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods,
Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.

They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull,
Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full.
Within eight seconds, the contest complete,
Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.

Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered,
Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered.
In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed,
He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.

Epilogue

Now unhappily all did not end there,
Which is something I believe you should hear.
The angry bull sought to apply some heat
On the fallen not yet back on his feet.

A rodeo clown jumped to intervene
A brave act ending up breaking his spleen.
He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force
And was sent to the hospital, of course.

Though for a budding fan of eleven,
The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven;
That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead
Made him seek saner diversions instead.

Tag: Sports