He took advantage. Right away, he grabbed a rebound. Royce Waltman always maintained that Witte was one of those players who would always grab the first rebound anytime you put him in the game. That was what Witte did as a basketball player—he rebounded. Against Wisconsin, Indiana needed that. Before he was through, Witte had five rebounds and had converted them into six points. He even made a steal, and when he came out of the game the crowd became excited for the only time all night, giving him a standing ovation.
With Witte doing the job inside and Alford warming up outside for twenty-three points, Indiana finally pulled away—but not until the last three minutes. It was 66–63 when Alford hit a bomb with 4:12 left and Calloway hit a short bank thirty seconds later to make it 70–63. That was the biggest lead I.U. had enjoyed all night. Wisconsin crept to within five, but Witte rebounded a missed Daryl Thomas free throw and fed Alford for a jumper that made it 74–65 with 1:35 to go. Wisconsin was dead—finally.
There was little joy in the locker room. Witte was the one player everyone made a point of congratulating, but even that was bittersweet. Because as Witte accepted the pats and the handshakes, Joby Wright, standing nearby, cracked, “Hell, what’s the big deal? Whopp’s on scholarship. He’s supposed to contribute, isn’t he?”
The comment froze everyone. Wright had let his frustration with Harris show in front of the team. Wright had put heart and soul into making Harris a productive part of the program, and at that moment it looked like the whole project was going down the drain. Wright was at wit’s end trying to figure out how to get to Harris. That feeling of hopelessness was never more evident than at that moment when he took his verbal swipe at poor Witte. Wright wasn’t being mean—he is not a mean person. But the events of that week had drained him, and the words were out of his mouth before he knew how much they would sting.
For his part, Knight had little to say. “I just don’t understand you people,” he said. “I don’t understand how you can continue to play this way. I think it’s a damn shame to play this way against a team you know you can beat like this. You almost let them take this game away from you. I don’t understand you boys, I’m sorry. I wish I did, but I don’t. Tell you what, you come in tomorrow whenever the hell you want to.”
He left. “Regular time,” Robinson said, and everyone nodded. It was Alford who sounded the warning signal: “Let’s make sure,” he said, “that we don’t let this turn into last year.” Even at 15–5, the specter of last year just wouldn’t go away. They had little to say to one another as they dressed. The victory hardly felt like a victory.
Nothing happened the next day to change that feeling. Garl had spoken to Dr. Bomba after the game, asking him to remind Knight that they had played sick against Wisconsin. Even the healthy players weren’t really healthy. Remembering Japan, Garl didn’t want to be the one to point this out, so he asked Bomba to do it.
Knight was not going to be waylaid in his anger by the old sick routine. He knew the players were not 100 percent, but he was still upset by their play. Once again, he began questioning the recruiting process. Mike Heineman, he decided, should have been recruited. “Not getting him was a disaster,” Knight said. Dakich, Blab, Robinson, Morgan, and Alford should not have been recruited. “We’ll never be any good until we’ve gotten rid of all of them. Alford will never, and I mean never, guard anybody. We’ve done a terrible job evaluating players.”
Knight reacted to this victory almost as if it were a loss. He was looking ahead. After Northwestern on Saturday, five of the last seven games would be on the road. That scared him. His final words to the coaches on Thursday night were haunting: “Every time we play a f—— game I want to throw up at the way we’ve recruited for three years.”
That was the mood Knight was in when they came in the next afternoon. There would be no practice. Instead, the players would have to watch the entire Wisconsin game on tape. “We don’t need to practice,” Knight said. “I know you can practice. What we’ve got to do is go through this tape so you people can see how bad you were in this game.”
Actually, they would have been more than willing to take Knight’s word on how bad they had been. But that wasn’t about to happen. The tape session lasted two hours. Then they went to eat and came back for a walk-through on Northwestern. There was good news, though: Knight had left early to go to a high school game. That loosened things up considerably.
Knight had gone to see a game with Hammel and Bob Murray. Murray was a good friend and a business associate. He arranged most of Knight’s coaching clinics during the off-season. Frequently, Murray made the four-hour drive from Chicago on Thursday and stayed through Saturday.
As they drove, Knight asked Murray how he would grade him on his bench behavior so far. “On a scale of one to ten,” Murray answered, “I’ll give you a six with the officials. I think most of the time you’ve controlled yourself. On dealing with the players, I give you a four.”
“A four?” Knight said. “I think I’ve been a lot better than that.”
“I don’t,” Murray said. “Last night sitting up in the stands I could hear you very clearly cursing when you got mad at the kids. There’s no way I can give you more than a four.”
Knight was surprised by his answer. Murray is an unusual friend in that he is willing to tell Knight what he thinks even if he knows Knight won’t like the answer. It isn’t easy to tell Knight the truth, especially where his temper is concerned, because he often doesn’t understand the effect it has on the public’s perception of him. Murray was one of the few people willing to tell Knight this. Hearing these things never improved Knight’s mood. He wanted to be told he was terrific. Instead, Murray had told him he wasn’t even close.
The next morning, the Wisconsin hangover was still evident. During the walk-through, Calloway, who had been three for ten against Wisconsin, missed a short shot. “Ricky, did you practice on your own at all yesterday?” Knight asked. Calloway shook his head. “This morning?” Same answer.
“Dakich, Bartow, why didn’t you take some initiative and get Calloway out shooting last night? Why don’t any of you people get on Calloway for not shooting or get on Harris for not going to class? Ricky, how can you shoot better tonight than you did on Thursday without practicing? Answer me, Ricky.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s right, you can’t. So you won’t play tonight. Get out of there. Stew, take his place.”
Mind games. Calloway had been sick all week, probably sicker than anyone on the team. His poor game had been understandable. If Indiana had been playing someone tough instead of Northwestern, Knight never would have benched him for a crime so minor as not shooting on his own. But Knight wanted to jolt the team and this was one way to do it. He kept on them in the locker room before the walk-through that afternoon.
“You know, Randy Wittman is going to be here tonight, boys. When Wittman was here, he would haven’t put up with Harris for five minutes. He would have told Harris to go to class or he couldn’t play for his team. He would have been out there shooting last night with Calloway. I never once had to tell Randy Wittman anything, except to shoot the ball more. He was what Indiana basketball is about. None of you are.”
Wittman would be amazed that night when he learned that he had been nominated for sainthood. This was the same Wittman who had been told not to come back for his fifth year by Knight, the same Wittman who had been banished from the locker room with his fellow seniors so as not to infect the others with their losing attitude, the same Wittman who had played on the four worst f——teams in Indiana history. Now he was what Indiana basketball was all about.
There were guests at the walk-through that afternoon. Knight had invited the Loper family to the game that night. The Lopers were the people who had introduced themselves to Knight in the Bob Evans restaurant in Indianapolis with young Garland acting as spokesman for his deaf-mute father and brother. They had come to the game along with Garland’s mother and sister.
Aft
er the walk-through, Knight took Garland and his father into the locker room. Through his son, Robert Loper told the players how proud he was of them and how much he was pulling for them. When Garland was through speaking, each player got up and shook hands with both Lopers. After they were gone, Knight looked at the players and said, softly, “And you guys think you have problems to overcome.”
They overcame Northwestern with little trouble. Northwestern was beaten down by this point and could not have beaten Indiana if Knight had started himself at center. But the lead was only 38–26 at the half. Knight started Witte as a reward for his play against Wisconsin. Calloway was released from purgatory with seven minutes left in the half. He started the second half, and it was his breakaway dunk off a pretty Alford pass that got things rolling. Calloway made a steal and fed Steve Eyl for a dunk. Morgan hit from twenty feet. Alford hit. Then Morgan, then Calloway. They ran off fourteen straight points to build a 58–34 lead, and Knight finally relaxed. The final was 77–52.
Knight was so pleased he even talked in the press conference about how well he thought the team had done. “You know, in view of all the injuries and illnesses we’ve had, these kids have done a great job getting to where they are. They’re 8–3 in the Big Ten and 16–5 overall, and that’s more wins than we had all of last year. I’m not the greatest guy at passing out compliments, but these kids really deserve it.”
Heck, someday some of them might be worthy of carrying Randy Wittman’s jock.
Knight could go from sour to sanguine almost as quickly as he could go the other way. He was so delighted with the team’s second-half performance that he took the coaches out for dinner and even had a little postgame sangria. They now had eight days off to get ready for the season’s last big push. The rest would be needed. And what would they do about Harris?
As luck would have it, Harris’s mother had come down for the weekend. When her son had told her why he was benched—he played ten minutes total in the two games—she had told him that she agreed with what Knight was doing. After the Northwestern game, she told Knight the same thing. “I think I’ve spoiled him,” she said. “He’s never had a strong male influence in his life. I think he needs it.”
A few days later, Knight took Harris aside. “Andre,” he said, “how about if you and I work together to get you going in the right direction? I like your mom too much to let you screw this all up. Okay?” Given a reprieve, Harris was eager to go along. That weekend would be the turning point of his season.
That night, though, Knight’s mind was on what had been accomplished, not what was to come. “You know something,” he said as he dug into a plate of chicken wings, “this season could turn out to be fun.”
They were twenty-one and seven.
14.
Seven-Game Season
After the victory over Northwestern, Indiana was tied for first place in the Big Ten with Michigan. Both had 8–3 records, but Michigan would play five of its last seven games at home while Indiana played five of seven on the road. “We’re not really in first place,” Knight said. “That’s just paper money. We can’t beat Michigan.”
Knight was more concerned with making certain of an NCAA tournament bid. He kept saying that nineteen victories would be good enough to get in. Actually, with Indiana’s reputation and schedule, seventeen would almost certainly do it, but Knight didn’t want to be borderline. His goal was nineteen wins; anything beyond that would be gravy.
With eight days to get ready for Ohio State (it was traveling-partner week again), Knight gave the players two days off while he went on another recruiting trip. Wright had convinced him to see Keith Smart again and to go to Chicago to meet with a high school coach named Landon Cox. Knight had been publicly critical of Cox in the past and hadn’t recruited any of his players for several years. Wright had set up what amounted to a peace talk, and Knight was willing to go along.
Everyone needed the rest. The players were sore, sick, and, above all, tired. It had been four months since practice began, and there had been very few days off. With the toughest stretch of the season about to start, they needed a few days of not looking at or thinking about anything to do with basketball.
Knight came back from Chicago late Tuesday. His meeting with Cox had gone well. He had only one problem to deal with before he could turn his full attention to Ohio State. That was Ohio State.
The rumors about his taking the job there had persisted, and now a Cleveland TV station had reported that Knight would be the next coach. What flabbergasted Knight was that Rick Bay, when asked if that were true, had responded, “No comment.” Knight knew the press would take a “no comment” to mean there might be truth to the story; it was time for him to get this over with. He put out a statement saying that not only was he not interested in going to Ohio State, but “I plan to finish my coaching career at Indiana.”
End of speculation. Finally. The players—who had followed the rumors—were relieved.
The short practice had now become almost standard operating procedure. Even with the team rested, Knight knew that running them into the ground would be foolish. They practiced lightly getting ready for the Sunday game, and the tone of practice was calm.
It was so calm that as they ate breakfast on Sunday morning, Alford and Meier couldn’t help but think back a year. Both felt their coach had turned around 180 degrees. Even with the occasional blowups, the mind games and all, this was a totally different Knight from the one they had seen in the past. He was patient. He reminded himself to teach and not to rail.
“It’s like he knows he has to be more patient with this team,” Alford said. “He seems to know when he can push and when he can’t push.”
The players didn’t need much pushing for this game. The beginning of the nightmare had been here in Columbus last winter, when they lost to Ohio State by two. If Knight was ever given a truth drug and asked what one game he most wanted to win every year, he would answer either the game at Purdue or the game at Ohio State. He didn’t like Purdue, and he seemed to still have something to prove to Ohio State. St. John Arena was the place where he had chafed on the bench, where he had just been another face in the crowd. Now, when he came home, he was a star, and, like any kid performing in front of people he had grown up with, he wanted to say, “Look what I’ve done.” Winning was the best way to do this.
“There are some games,” Alford told Calloway that morning, “that it is best not to lose.” Calloway, an Ohio kid himself, knew what Alford meant.
They didn’t lose. Finally rested, they played perhaps their best game, start to finish, since Notre Dame. They trailed early, once again having trouble with Sellers’s size inside. But Harris was finally playing the way he had been coached to play since October. He was staying near the basket, not wheeling and dealing with the basketball, and he was rebounding. Calloway had found his shooting touch. And Alford was, well, Alford.
He was the catalyst late in the first half when Indiana took control of the game. He made six straight free throws to give the Hoosiers a 27–23 lead. A moment later, he rebounded a Robinson miss for a basket. Harris came up with a pretty tip-in, and Thomas made two foul shots. Then Alford made a gorgeous backdoor cut, Harris found him, and it was a three-point play for a 38–28 lead. They got sloppy in the last two minutes, and the lead was just 38–34 at the half.
There were no explosions, though. Knight knew his team had played well. “Just stay patient and we’re fine,” he said. “As long as we’re patient, we’ll get good shots.”
No problem. Ohio State got to within three early, but Alford and Calloway built the lead quickly back to nine. The game began to resemble the one in Bloomington: Ohio State would close the gap, Indiana would widen it. It got to 63–52 with 9:50 left after a Morgan steal. Ohio State sneaked back to 69–64 with 5:30 left. Knight called time. He wanted to spread the offense out and run some time off the forty-five-second clock on each possession. Shorten the game. He still had not raised his voice once in a huddle
the entire game. Maybe he was remembering last year and controlling himself. Maybe he was rested.
There was one brief scare after the time-out. Thomas picked up his fourth foul, charging Sellers. The crowd was raising a ruckus. Ohio State could get to within three. But Hopson walked. A moment later, Calloway, using a brilliant first step, drove into the lane, and put up a soft seven-footer to make it 71–64. Sellers scored. Thomas answered. Alford missed, but Thomas rebounded. They ran some more clock before Morgan was fouled. He made both shots, and it was 75–66 with 2:24 to go. They just worked the clock from there, Alford making nine of ten free throws down the stretch to finish with (ho-hum) thirty-two points. Calloway had sixteen, Harris fourteen and seven rebounds. The final was 84–75.
“That,” said Knight to the coaches, “was an awfully big win for the Hoosiers.”
He was excited. He had watched his team play about as sound a game as possible. “We told you all this week that it was a seven-game season now,” he said. “Well, now it’s a six-game season and we’re 1–0. That’s just where we want to be.”
The most excited man in the room was Joby Wright. Again and again he patted Harris on the back. Finally, Harris had played. Finally, he had justified all the work and all the time and all the sweat Wright had put in. “What did I tell you about Andre Harris?” he said proudly to the other coaches. They were happy, too. Happy for Wright, happy for Harris. Most of all, happy to win.
The players were gurgling happily in the shower when the managers came in to get them. Woody Hayes was in the locker room, and Knight wanted the players back inside to meet him. “Is he going to hit us?” Alford asked laughing.
Hayes was in no shape to hit anyone. The old warrior was in a wheelchair. He was thin and his voice was a half-croak, though his words were as clear as ever. Knight had taken a class that Hayes taught when he was an Ohio State undergraduate, and he had remained loyal to Hayes even after Hayes had lost his job. In fact, Knight had been the one who talked Hayes into calling the player he had slugged to apologize, an act that had gone a long way toward exonerating Hayes in the eyes of many.
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