By DAVID EPPS
Pastor

Everywhere you look in the news and television this week, it's Bobby Knight, the basketball coach (oops former coach) of Indiana University.

There's Coach Knight choking a player; Coach Knight, gritting his teeth and screaming; Coach Knight spewing spittle and curse words into the face of a hapless IU basketball star; Coach Knight swearing at officials; Coach Knight, shoving an assistant coach out the way; Coach Knight, well, you get the idea.

Bobby Knight has built quite a reputation by winning basketball games and by slinging abuse and scorn at whoever happens to cross in front of him. Bobby Knight is a bully. He has been bully for years and years. Until recently, no one did anything about it.

Where do bullies come from? Do they just get out of bed one day and say, "I'm tired of being a decent human being that tries to make the world a little better just by being here. I think I'll quit being a nice guy and start shoving people around, start acting like a first-class horse's rear, and alienate everybody with whom I come in contact"?

And why do bullies get by with it for so long. Why was Bobby Knight not fired earlier? Why is Bobby Knight not in jail for simple battery? Why is Bobby Knight not missing about a dozen of his teeth for venting his rage on the populace?

Way back in the fall of 1965, I was the alternate fourth-string offensive tackle for the Redskins of Ross N. Robinson Junior High in Kingsport, Tenn.. Alternate fourth-string tackles get pushed around and tortured by the older, bigger players. That's just part of the food chain. But one kid named "Andy" was especially obnoxious.

Andy wasn't a particularly good player. A ninth grader (the "senior class" of junior high schools), Andy was tall, slow and fat. Although he was much bigger than many of the other players, Andy had never earned a first-string position as a tackle.

Consequently, he vented his frustrated testosterone on the younger, smaller players. The first-string players would have beat Andy to a bloody pulp had he tried his bully routine on them.

Andy's favorite method of inflicting misery on the weak and hapless was to come up behind a player who had his helmet on and viciously strike the top of the helmet with the metal buckle end of the chinstrap. The result on the player inside the helmet was akin to that of being in a metal trashcan with people banging on the can with sledgehammers.

First, there was the shock of the sudden and sharp noise ripping through the player's head, followed by a ringing in the ears that could last for 10 or 15 minutes. It was not a pleasant experience. Andy's favorite target was a certain alternate fourth-string offensive tackle.

For the four weeks of summer practice and the six weeks of the junior high school football season, Andy had caused the alarm clock in my ears to explode several times at each and every practice. My solution was to move, evade, or escape. It was all to no avail. There are only so many places you can hide on a football field.

I dreaded practice, knowing that my adversary was always stalking his favorite target. Finally, it was nearly over. After five games, we were undefeated. On a Thursday in late October, we would play (actually, they would play I would ride the bench) the Warriors of John Sevier Junior High School. Wednesday was our last practice and everyone was intent on defeating the hated rivals from the other side of town.

Suddenly THWACK! My head was racked with pain and the ringing in my ears rose to the fire engine level. I turned and glared at a sneering Andy, chin strap in hand. After 10 tortured weeks, I found my voice and yelled, "Don't do that again, Andy!" I turned my back on him and THWACK! THWACK! Twice, Andy viciously slammed the chinstrap into my helmet.

And then he made a mistake. Andy, grinned, spat on the ground, put his helmet back on, and turned his back on me.

Almost without thinking, I took my helmet off, grabbed the face guard with both hands, and, with all the strength and fury that an alternate fourth-string offensive tackle can muster, I slammed my helmet into the side of Andy's head.

I guess, if he hadn't had his helmet on, I'd have killed the big ape. As it was, Andy staggered briefly and fell like a big overweight oak tree. I had only a moment to relish my revenge before the assistant coach pounced on me, screamed in my face, grabbed me by the jersey, and dragged me bodily off the field and into the dressing room.

It was a full 10 minutes, they said later, before Andy remembered what planet he was on. I was pretty sure I'd be kicked off the team.

But, on Thursday night, I was wearing my blue jersey and sitting on the bench like I had been all season. It was the first day in 10 long weeks that Randy didn't hit me with a chinstrap. In fact, he didn't even try. In truth, he didn't even look at me the entire game.

John Sevier won the day and we finished 5-1-0. However, I still felt like a winner after Wednesday.

I was unrepentant then and remain so to this day. I learned a valuable lesson on that Wednesday back in October of '65: "Speak softly, carry a big football helmet, and then pound the ever-lovin' bejabbers out of bullies, especially when they turn their backs on you!"

Maybe if Bobby Knight had turned his back on the wrong person years ago, he still might have his job at Indiana University.

[Father David Epps is the rector at Christ the King Church in the south metro area of Atlanta. He may be contacted online at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.ChristTheKing.com.]

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