Back during Greco-Roman times, in what I hoped would be support of the greater glory of the goddess Athena, I went to a basketball camp. Yes, me. He who towers under most. He who could never touch the bottom of the backboard. He who has tiny little hands. As one of my friends recently remarked, "Randy, you have great hands for soccer." I don't think he was referring to goalkeeping.
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| Hands that can palm a Grade AA Large egg with ease. Of late, age spots provide additional character. |
My parents had a well developed sense of irony. Or maybe it was the fact that I pestered them because I really, really, wanted to go, on the hopes that perhaps I'd learn to excel at a game I loved.
Not only was it a celebration of the tall game in the hills outside Gettysburg, PA, it was a high-end basketball camp. There were nationally known coaches there, and as you might expect, many of the campers were prospects for Division 1 basketball programs.
From a sporting perspective, I had no business being there. However, I remember a good deal of the experience, and at least in retrospect, much of it was favorable.
I was thrown in with kids from all over the east coast. We roomed in cinderblock bunkhouses, 12 to a building. I remember one of the better players remarking about personal hygiene. "The boys from Maryland take their showers in the morning. The boys from Pennsylvania take their showers in the evening. And the boys from New York? They don't take showers at all."
Not true. We'd come back during the day sometime to avoid the rush, and the scrutiny of the bigger, more "mature" guys covering their own insecurities with machismo.
One of the guest coaches was none other than Bobby Knight. Perhaps you've heard of him. At the time, he was coaching at Army. It may be that's where he got the nickname, "The General."
He remains the most intense person I have ever met. Say what you want about his boorish behavior, and it may be true, but he impossible to ignore...particularly when he is holding court, and you are one of his subjects. Yes, basketball "court."
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| Bobby Knight at Army USAtoday photo. |
Mr. Knight is someone who demands performance. He has an incredibly intimidating persona. He glowers at people. He ridicules lack of effort. He bullies his players into compliance with his wishes. In no uncertain terms, he describes what he expects you to do, and God help you if you don't execute. I think every single camper knew from the first minute Coach Knight appeared that there was only one objective during the drills of the day...do exactly what Coach wants and do NOT call attention to oneself.
One of the drills was the standard pick and roll. For anyone not familiar with basketball, or this drill, it is a fundamental play that happens about 100 times each game for any halfway decent team. The guy dribbling the ball moves past his stationary teammate with the intent of "picking" his defender off so that he can be free to shoot or drive to the hoop.
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| Never seen a diagram like this? Lucky you! The amorphous red blobs are the defenders. The good guys are in yellow. Squiggly line is dribbling...the straight arrow is the "picker" going to the hoop, after picking off the defender, of course. |
Not one to shy away from conflict, Coach Knight described an impossible situation. "You, with the ball, need to drive close to the pick. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you've done this many times before. But you've always done it wrong. You just stroll by, allowing your defender to stay with you. That's not good enough! When you go by the pick, you need to touch your shoulder to your teammate's shoulder. Bump him. BAM! Make sure that there is NO space for the defender to get through.
"Now you on defense. Your job is to fight through that pick. You need to get by. None of this mamby-pamby going around behind...and no switching with the other defender, either. FIGHT YOUR WAY THROUGH THAT PICK! GOT IT!?! Alright, let's do it."
Before the drills, pairs had been assigned. Another showerless New Yorker and I had been paired up for the drills. First we were on offense, and then we switched to defense. I was covering the guy setting the pick, and Robb was on the ball-handler. The dribbler did just what Coach had described not to do. He was passing the pick with just enough room for Robb to get through.
But the guy I was covering took matters into his own hands. Or perhaps better described, onto his own knee. As Robb went to fight through the pick, he shifted his center of gravity to Robb's side, effectively moving the pick into a better position. Completely illegal, but very effective. Tripped as he passed, Robb went down like a ton of bricks. Not fun...his knee banged hard on the asphalt.
Just then the whistle blew, and everyone ran back to the bleachers for the next session of enlightenment from the mouth of Coach Knight. No sauntering. Since Robb was hurting, I helped him up and then we headed to the bleachers. Unfortunately, the small delay limited our choice of seating. We had to sit exactly where no one wanted to be...in the front row...directly in the line of sight of the Coach.
Robb sat there, holding his hand over his bloody knee. He tried to force the blood back into his body, but without success. Coach Knight had already launched into the next tirade that was the lead up to the coming drill when, horror of horrors, he noticed the blood trickling down Robb's leg. He stopped in mid-sentence.
"YOU!" he bellowed, pointing at Robb. "ARE YOU BLEEDING?" A stupid question, but worthwhile for dramatic effect, I suppose. And it also let all the other campers know what was going on.
"COME UP HERE! STAND RIGHT HERE, NEXT TO ME." Robb hobbled up. "NOW TURN AROUND AND FACE EVERYONE." Robb did as directed.
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
"Robb," he answered, meekly.
Coach pointed to his knee. "DID YOU GET THAT IN MY DRILL?"
"Yes, sir."
Coach Knight smiled. And I thought his stare was terrifying. "WELL, ROBB," he said, putting his arm around him and giving him a one-armed bear hug, "YOU'RE MY BOY!"
I'm not sure if it was from relief, or because Coach had squeezed all the air out of him, but Robb relaxed noticeably. Coach Knight directed him to the first aid station to get the knee taken care of, and Robb took off as fast as he could, clearly shaken from his brush with the General. Coach Knight returned to the next drill.
I don't know if Robb even remembers the incident, but it had a lasting effect on me. This powerful and intimidating man had bestowed honors upon Robb, not because of some unusual success, but because he had done his best and sacrificed to carry out Coach's orders. Though he was clearly a bully, Coach Knight was also a leader. Watching him years later, I understood exactly why one who throws chairs in anger could also win championships.
But a smaller drama also played itself out at the camp. The second day of our week-long stay, I met a guy who would prove to have a personality disorder. No, not one of the coaches, although anyone in that line of business is questionable. Ask yourself what kind of person spends his or her career trying to coerce or manipulate people into performing contrary to their own wishes?
The guy was huge. Thought not particularly talented, in the microcosm of the camp, he was still a big guy, most of a foot taller than I was. And perhaps because he was not the most talented, or biggest, or whatever-est, he seemed to need to pick on someone in order to feel better about himself. Guess who he chose?
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| I am not of this tribe. I've also not been sustainably harvested, peeled & deveined. And only partially cleaned. |
It started with some slightly unfriendly taunting. "What are you doin' here, shrimp?" I could have answered in several different fashions that would have ended the issue right there. I could have used the boredom tactic, describing in incredible minutiae exactly why I was there, detailing every atom of my being from the moment of creation. I'm pretty sure that would have worked, since he would have preferred to go anywhere else but near me as I droned on. Or I could have used the humor defense, doing my best crescent-shaped shrimp impression, asking, "Where's the cocktail sauce?" Or I could have looked him straight in the eye, smiled, and said, "Same as you, asshole. Playing basketball." Even if that backfired, and punches were thrown, it would have been over and done with right then and there.
But instead, I just stammered and didn't say much of anything. This encouraged the bully to escalate. And over the course of the week, that's exactly what he did. More taunts led to pushing and shoving. Every time he saw me, I'd receive another helping of abuse.
We practiced basketball all day long. Like I said, this was a serious basketball camp. In the evening, after supper, everyone went down to the main building where usually, for fun, we played more basketball on the indoor court. Late in the week, I got into a game with a bunch of the college-bound studs, and was smart enough to realize that I should just play the best defense I could and at the offensive end, dish the ball off to the ones who could really score. It was a good game, and I was feeling good about having contributed to the win.
Gettysburg is hot and humid during the summer, so the first thing that happened after the evening game was that all the players lined up at the single drinking fountain in the building. It was one of the old white porcelain fountains with a spring loaded faucet handle, and a single stainless steel spigot sticking up above the basin. I was toward the back of the line, but there were a few more behind me. We all waited impatiently as those in front of us took their long drinks.
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| Cool water after a great game. What could be better? |
In a split-second, I realized that my antagonist had just put his head in the most precarious of positions. I could not believe it. I hesitated another split-second, to jointly thank and beg forgiveness from the Almighty. Then I put my hands over my head, and with arched back, brought both my hands down onto the back of his head. Hard.
He immediately fell to the floor, writhing and grabbing his mouth. And then the noise began. The "tough guy" wailed and wailed like an oversized infant.
The noise brought the coach who was on supervisory duty out from the coaches' lounge. The smell of cigarettes filled the air as he marched quickly to the source of the noise. After checking out the damage, he looked at the large can't-miss college-prospect stud who had been waiting in line behind me, and over the wailing, barked, "WHAT HAPPENED HERE?"
"He slipped, Coach." Seems that I was not the only one who didn't care much for the bully. I nodded in grateful admiration. The stud turned away and took his drink.
I never saw the bully again. There was another day of camp, but the bully was nowhere to be seen. I can only imagine that he was taken away for dental work (I might feel a little remorse if that was the case), or was hiding from everyone since it would be extremely difficult to explain how the smallest guy at the camp had hurt him bad (No remorse whatsoever).
This incident has come to mind many times over the years. I've never repeated such misconduct, or really had to. The bullies I've met since had less sway with me, and though I definitely prefer to be non-confrontational, I have learned that if I have to deal with such behavior, it's best to stand up early in the "relationship," take lumps as necessary, and get on with life.
And I've also learned that you don't have to win the fight to be victorious...but that's another story.
