beast of the east
Active member
We always knew Bobby Knight respected St. John's. Here's why: (Excerpted from his book)
I coached for eight seasons at West Point. In those years, I developed an interesting relationship with probably the three most prominent people in New York City basketball history—Clair Bee, Joe Lapchick, and Nat Holman. Joe Lapchick had played on one of the first great professional basketball teams. There were two in New York in the ’20s—an all-black team called the Rens, or the Renaissance, sponsored by the singer Kate Smith, and the other an all-white team called the Original Celtics. Lapchick was the Celtics’ center, and he later became a great coach at St. John’s,
When he retired in 1965, he was the most revered coach I had ever known, until I became acquainted with Henry Iba. Mr. Lapchick passed away August 10, 1970, two weeks after my dad’s death. I took Coach Holman and Coach Bee to Mr. Lapchick’s wake. He had loaned me the scrapbook he had put together on the 1950s college basketball gambling scandal. He showed the scrapbook to every player who ever played for him after that happened. I gave it back to Mrs. Lapchick that night; several months later she sent it to me to keep. At the wake, she took me into a little side room and told me, “I know you didn’t play for Joe, but I want you to understand, you were one of his two favorites.” No comment ever meant more to me. And I never asked her about the other one.
Every time one of my Army teams played in Madison Square Garden, when I would walk out on the floor I would look over to where he always sat. He’d put his thumb under his chin, which was telling me: “Lift your head up.” He had a phrase: “Walk with the kings.” And he lived it. This was a man whose schooling had stopped in the sixth grade, and he had the intellect, the great vocabulary, of a doctor of philosophy.
The first time I really got to know Coach Lapchick was a significant moment in my coaching career. At another of those Metropolitan Coaches Association luncheons, as I was getting ready for my first season as a head coach, I asked him if I could sit down and talk with him sometime. He gave me his home address, which I’ve never forgotten: 3 Wendover Lane in Yonkers.
I was twenty-four, and I was looking forsome guidance. I went to Yonkers just as soon as we could work it out. We hadn’t talked very long before he said: “What kind of training rules are you going to have?” “That’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. What his recommendation amounted to was no training rules at all. I’m sure people would think I’d have a rigid set of rules kids would have to live by—be in by this time or that time, don’t do this, don’t do that. All those years as a coach, because of that evening I spent talking with Coach Lapchick, I had one training rule: If you do anything in any way, whenever or wherever, that I think is detrimental to the good of this basketball team, to the school, or to you yourself, I’ll handle it as I see fit.
I think that was absolutely the best plan, and certainly he did. He told me why: “You’re going to have a kid who is a pain in the ass, and you’re going to be happy to get rid of him. And you’re going to have a good kid who screws something up. You can’t set down rules and then treat guys differently. You decide, based on your knowledge of the situation, what you’re trying to do with it, what’s best for the kid, and go from there.” His second question to me that night was: “How important is it to you that people like you?” I hadn’t thought about that. I did for just a minute or so and said, “I’d like to be respected as a coach, but I’m not concerned about being liked.” He said, “Good. If you worry about whether people like you or not, you can never make tough decisions correctly.” Of the four cornerstones I have about coaching basketball, that was one of them: the whole idea of running a basketball team—team rules, my approach to training, and clearing away inconsequential matters to allow good decision-making, all of those things influenced by talking with and observing a master of the game: Joe Lapchick.
I coached for eight seasons at West Point. In those years, I developed an interesting relationship with probably the three most prominent people in New York City basketball history—Clair Bee, Joe Lapchick, and Nat Holman. Joe Lapchick had played on one of the first great professional basketball teams. There were two in New York in the ’20s—an all-black team called the Rens, or the Renaissance, sponsored by the singer Kate Smith, and the other an all-white team called the Original Celtics. Lapchick was the Celtics’ center, and he later became a great coach at St. John’s,
When he retired in 1965, he was the most revered coach I had ever known, until I became acquainted with Henry Iba. Mr. Lapchick passed away August 10, 1970, two weeks after my dad’s death. I took Coach Holman and Coach Bee to Mr. Lapchick’s wake. He had loaned me the scrapbook he had put together on the 1950s college basketball gambling scandal. He showed the scrapbook to every player who ever played for him after that happened. I gave it back to Mrs. Lapchick that night; several months later she sent it to me to keep. At the wake, she took me into a little side room and told me, “I know you didn’t play for Joe, but I want you to understand, you were one of his two favorites.” No comment ever meant more to me. And I never asked her about the other one.
Every time one of my Army teams played in Madison Square Garden, when I would walk out on the floor I would look over to where he always sat. He’d put his thumb under his chin, which was telling me: “Lift your head up.” He had a phrase: “Walk with the kings.” And he lived it. This was a man whose schooling had stopped in the sixth grade, and he had the intellect, the great vocabulary, of a doctor of philosophy.
The first time I really got to know Coach Lapchick was a significant moment in my coaching career. At another of those Metropolitan Coaches Association luncheons, as I was getting ready for my first season as a head coach, I asked him if I could sit down and talk with him sometime. He gave me his home address, which I’ve never forgotten: 3 Wendover Lane in Yonkers.
I was twenty-four, and I was looking forsome guidance. I went to Yonkers just as soon as we could work it out. We hadn’t talked very long before he said: “What kind of training rules are you going to have?” “That’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. What his recommendation amounted to was no training rules at all. I’m sure people would think I’d have a rigid set of rules kids would have to live by—be in by this time or that time, don’t do this, don’t do that. All those years as a coach, because of that evening I spent talking with Coach Lapchick, I had one training rule: If you do anything in any way, whenever or wherever, that I think is detrimental to the good of this basketball team, to the school, or to you yourself, I’ll handle it as I see fit.
I think that was absolutely the best plan, and certainly he did. He told me why: “You’re going to have a kid who is a pain in the ass, and you’re going to be happy to get rid of him. And you’re going to have a good kid who screws something up. You can’t set down rules and then treat guys differently. You decide, based on your knowledge of the situation, what you’re trying to do with it, what’s best for the kid, and go from there.” His second question to me that night was: “How important is it to you that people like you?” I hadn’t thought about that. I did for just a minute or so and said, “I’d like to be respected as a coach, but I’m not concerned about being liked.” He said, “Good. If you worry about whether people like you or not, you can never make tough decisions correctly.” Of the four cornerstones I have about coaching basketball, that was one of them: the whole idea of running a basketball team—team rules, my approach to training, and clearing away inconsequential matters to allow good decision-making, all of those things influenced by talking with and observing a master of the game: Joe Lapchick.
