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Authors: Jay Williams
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home for so many years.
The Dean Dome didnât have a fraction of the character that Cameron Indoor had. From the outside, Cameron looked sedate. I thought I was walking into a library. Truly. There were a couple of spotlights on the banners overhead, and there was Grant Hillâs retired jersey. Laettnerâs. Hurleyâs. I breathed it all in. All of these big-time names played here, in this quaint, intimate âtheater.â
At the time, Coach Kâs office was in the back corner of the gymnasium. As we walked into his office, the first thing that came to my mind was how small it was, especially considering whose office it was. But it was his, all right.
Both of the national championship trophies sat on top of a cabinet, with the game nets draped over each. There were picturesfrom the dynasty years, the â92 Dream Team, Coach K with Johnny Dawkins and Tommy Amaker. Memorabilia of all kinds. There was one picture in particular that struck me. It was of Steve âWojoâ Wojciechowski on the cover of Sports Illustrated with his arms crossed, staring down the camera. Only Coach K would be able to take a role player to such heights.
His desk had a commanding, grandfather-like chair behind it that dwarfed our chairs opposite him. As if meeting the man wasnât going to be intimidating enough.
So the three of us sat there . . . waiting.
Then the office door opened and we popped up out of our tiny chairs to greet him.
âMr. Williams,â he said with piercing eye contact as he shook my hand. He then shifted his full attention to my parents. âDavid. Althea.â
It just mightâve been the first time I had ever been referred to as Mr . And what made it that much more powerful was his choosing to call my parents by their first names. He seemed taller in person. He had jet-black hair, perfectly combedânothingâs changed 17 years laterâand left the lingering scent of a masculine aftershave behind. He was wearing their team warm-up suit with sneakers that looked like they came fresh out of the box. All Nike. I was transfixed.
I had never scoped out a man like this before.
Rather than sitting behind his desk, he pulled up another chair to level the playing field. After breaking the ice, talking about our trip down, the area, and such, Coach K switched gears. He talked about his background, from playing at Army under Bobby Knight to eventually coaching there, and ultimately how he ended up at Duke. What the expectations and responsibilities that came along with being a Duke player and a Duke student meant.
I wish I could recall for you everything he said, but there came a point when I saw his lips moving without hearing a sound. The whole experience felt like a dream. One thing I do remember was that my dad kept calling him Mike, which was so awkward!
The things that Coach K offered me were valuesâvalues that were already in line with the ones instilled in me by my parents. He said he wanted to sharpen them.
âI canât promise youâre going to be an NBA player,â he told me. âIâm not going to promise you youâre going to start. Iâm not going to promise you that youâre going to play 25 minutes a night. But I do promise you that by the time you leave here, you will be a better man and you will learn how to approach this game in the same way that you should approach life.â
It resonated with me. No one affiliated with basketball had ever discussed themes like that. Other coaches would say, âYouâre going to come in your freshman year, play 25 minutes . . . I can promise you this, I can promise you that . . .â and here was Coach K with his out-of-the-box thinking about becoming a man. He talked about putting me on the right path toward being successful in life.
He added that he came from the old school where being on time is being lateâthat you should be here early and should stay afterwards. Mediocrity
The Dean Dome didnât have a fraction of the character that Cameron Indoor had. From the outside, Cameron looked sedate. I thought I was walking into a library. Truly. There were a couple of spotlights on the banners overhead, and there was Grant Hillâs retired jersey. Laettnerâs. Hurleyâs. I breathed it all in. All of these big-time names played here, in this quaint, intimate âtheater.â
At the time, Coach Kâs office was in the back corner of the gymnasium. As we walked into his office, the first thing that came to my mind was how small it was, especially considering whose office it was. But it was his, all right.
Both of the national championship trophies sat on top of a cabinet, with the game nets draped over each. There were picturesfrom the dynasty years, the â92 Dream Team, Coach K with Johnny Dawkins and Tommy Amaker. Memorabilia of all kinds. There was one picture in particular that struck me. It was of Steve âWojoâ Wojciechowski on the cover of Sports Illustrated with his arms crossed, staring down the camera. Only Coach K would be able to take a role player to such heights.
His desk had a commanding, grandfather-like chair behind it that dwarfed our chairs opposite him. As if meeting the man wasnât going to be intimidating enough.
So the three of us sat there . . . waiting.
Then the office door opened and we popped up out of our tiny chairs to greet him.
âMr. Williams,â he said with piercing eye contact as he shook my hand. He then shifted his full attention to my parents. âDavid. Althea.â
It just mightâve been the first time I had ever been referred to as Mr . And what made it that much more powerful was his choosing to call my parents by their first names. He seemed taller in person. He had jet-black hair, perfectly combedânothingâs changed 17 years laterâand left the lingering scent of a masculine aftershave behind. He was wearing their team warm-up suit with sneakers that looked like they came fresh out of the box. All Nike. I was transfixed.
I had never scoped out a man like this before.
Rather than sitting behind his desk, he pulled up another chair to level the playing field. After breaking the ice, talking about our trip down, the area, and such, Coach K switched gears. He talked about his background, from playing at Army under Bobby Knight to eventually coaching there, and ultimately how he ended up at Duke. What the expectations and responsibilities that came along with being a Duke player and a Duke student meant.
I wish I could recall for you everything he said, but there came a point when I saw his lips moving without hearing a sound. The whole experience felt like a dream. One thing I do remember was that my dad kept calling him Mike, which was so awkward!
The things that Coach K offered me were valuesâvalues that were already in line with the ones instilled in me by my parents. He said he wanted to sharpen them.
âI canât promise youâre going to be an NBA player,â he told me. âIâm not going to promise you youâre going to start. Iâm not going to promise you that youâre going to play 25 minutes a night. But I do promise you that by the time you leave here, you will be a better man and you will learn how to approach this game in the same way that you should approach life.â
It resonated with me. No one affiliated with basketball had ever discussed themes like that. Other coaches would say, âYouâre going to come in your freshman year, play 25 minutes . . . I can promise you this, I can promise you that . . .â and here was Coach K with his out-of-the-box thinking about becoming a man. He talked about putting me on the right path toward being successful in life.
He added that he came from the old school where being on time is being lateâthat you should be here early and should stay afterwards. Mediocrity
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