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Silliman
on Sports
By Stan Silliman
PSYCHO
SALAD-BAR BABBLE
Add salad-bar
bickering to the long list of Bobby Knight transgressions. It doesn’t
quite rank up there with Neil Reed neck-tie checking or delivering a
floral arrangement to the side of a secretary’s head or shooting a
buddy on a hunting trip but for Lubbock, it’ll do.
I’m
betting
this grocery store with a salad-bar is
regretting the day they removed Whack-a-Mole from their handy game
room. Or they might regret even worse having a waiter who’d say, when
Coach Knight asks for a jar of cashews “We don’t serve nuts, here.”
All of
this
leads to one of my favorite Bobby Knight
discussions with one of my favorite psychiatrist friends, Doctor Max
Shrinkenfraud. Whenever we discuss basketball, Dr. Max constantly
laments that, just once, he’d like to get the Coach on his couch.
“You, and every
other
Freudian,” I let slip.
“No, seriously,” My
favorite
shrink says, “Anger like that is deep
seated. It would take miner’s picks to probe his id. It’d be like
drilling beyond the Anadarko basin to the core of his viscerogenic
needs…”
“Hey,” I say, knowing the
good
Doc likes potato soup, “You should try
the vichyssoise at the Deli.”
“I would do a crossover
on his
ego,” Doctor Max gestures, dribbling
“And then go straight for his superego.”
“For breakfast,” I say,
“Today,
I had a Super Eggo. It’s much better
than a plain Eggo.”
“Must we always have such
silliness? How do you expect us to affect
significance? I could cure this man… in less than twenty sessions.”
Then I tell Max I have
Bobby
Knight’s direct line. Except Knight has
caller ID so he doesn’t pick up when I call. However, if a doctor
called… hmmm… he might think it’s a donor and you could tell Knight
you’re the president of the Amarillo Red Raider’s club and you want him
out to speak and could he answer a few questions. I give Max the number
on one condition – he records the conversation - for you, my loyal
readers.
Max makes contact.
Pleasantries
are exchanged. He explains he wants
Knight to address his club and Knight asks him if there will be a
dinner. Max says “Yes, we even have a salad bar.”
“That’s good.” Knight
says, “I
like salad bars, contrary to what you
may have read. A salad bar has discipline. It has order. The pudding
knows it’s place.”
“Let me ask, just one
thing,”
asks the Doc. “Is it true you grabbed
University Chancellor Smith by his neck-tie and pulled him toward you
at this salad bar?
“I did,” answers Knight,
“but
you have to understand something. I want
to make this clear – the salad bar had a sneeze guard, you know that
slanted plastic thing… so I couldn’t grab Smith by his neck and his tie
was almost going to land in the pudding.”
“You can’t beat a good
pudding,
Mr. Knight. We have a wonderful peas
and carrots salad. Did your mother make peas and carrots for you?”
“I like peas. I like
carrots,
but not mixed. I like my carrots all in a
line, military file. And my peas, I want exactly forty-four peas in a
bowl.”
“Ringed around the bowl?”
Max
asks “Or piled in the bowl? Is this the
way your mother made it?”
“My mother? Do you want
me to
bring signed plaid basketballs? Do you
want me to bring my new book – Chicken Soup for the
Ill-Tempered, Potty
Mouthed, Basketball Soul?
Doctor Max says “I didn’t
know
you had a new book out.”
“I DON’T!” Knight
screams. “You
scumbag. You always asking about my
mother. You’re some kind of head doctor aren’t you? You worthless sack
of puke. You think you can get inside me, don’t you. You’re not big
enough to be digging in my head. I’ve got to go now. I’ve got a Patton
movie to watch.”
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