Bob Knight Quotes

Wow," Puck mused, standing beside me. "The River of Dreams." ... Moons, comets and constellations rippled on the surface, and other, stranger things floated upon the misty black waters. Petals and book pages, butterfly wings and silver medals. The hilt of a sword stuck out of the water at an odd angle, the silver blade tangled with ribbons and spiderwebs. A coffin bobbed to the surface, covered in dead lilies, before sinking into the depths once more. The debris of human imaginations, floating through the dark waters of dream and nightmare.

You can always turn no into yes, and usually make people happy, but it's a lot harder – sometimes too late - to change yes to no.

Having the will to win is not enough. Everyone has that. What matters is having the will to prepare to win.

That's so typical. You won't steal a baby, but you're too lazy to conjugate.

I feel like if they can handle me, they can probably handle any crowd on the road or any kind of adversity that may come up in a game.

What vulnerabilities do we have and what can we do to minimize them, to get around them, to survive them—and give ourselves a better chance to win?

Before you can inspire your players to “win,” you have to show them how not to lose.

Early failure is usually better than early success, because the lesson in humility lasts a long time and makes you more effective over the long term.

That’s the true mark of a champion—forgetting the last victory and preparing for the next one. And that one comment should be on every coach’s wall: The first job that we have today is putting yesterday aside to be remembered later. (Tony LaRussa, World Series Champion 2011)

He won't be happy with her.Lily won't challenge him." "Like Edythe challenges you?" Tyr rolled his eyes, bobbing his head side to side, not denying the accusation. "Aye,Finch is a far more palatable companion for life," he chuckled, not denying the accusation. "It is a good thing for us both that I have sworn never to marry or I just might be vulnerable to someone like her.

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting, too; If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; … If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone; And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them “hold on!” If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Wow! Kipling would have been a hell of a coach.

I would not feel so all alone, everybody must get stoned. – Bob Dylan

Bob had multiple stone axes in each arm, and he hurled them at the skeleton knights. A skeleton knight spun

The first job that we have today is putting yesterday aside to be remembered later.

Many of us are not aware of our optimistic tendencies.… Data clearly shows that most people overestimate their prospects for professional achievement; expect their children to be extraordinarily gifted; miscalculate their likely life span; expect to be healthier than their peers; hugely underestimate their likelihood of divorce, cancer, and unemployment; and are confident overall that their future lives will be better than those their parents put up with. This is known as the optimism bias—the inclination to overestimate the likelihood of encountering positive events in the future and to underestimate the likelihood of experiencing negative events. —The Optimism Bias: A Tour of the Irrationally Positive Brain (TALI SHAROT, PANTHEON BOOKS, 2011)

The pawn protects every piece on the board," Bob says, "even though it can't make as many different moves. And if you can get it to the other side of the board safely, it becomes a much more powerful piece, like a knight or a queen.

The Book of the Grotesque The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the writer’s room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. The soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. For years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. No, it wasn’t a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. The old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long fife, a great many notions in his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. And then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and I know people. At least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing and fists clenching. “I don’t hate you. That’s the problem, baby, don’t you see that?” He shakes his head bitterly. “I don’t hate you, I care way too much… but the last person I did—” “Hurt you,” I finish. “Okay, so we take this one step at a time. I’m not asking for marriage.” I grin, and he laughs. “Just a truce, if we can manage it. I’ll stop pushing you for a reaction, and you can stop trying to choke or kill me… okay, maybe the kill me part. Feel free to choke me any time, it’s pretty hot actually.” He chuckles again, but it finishes in a groan. “You can’t talk to me like that. I want you, I do, but I can’t… I would kill you… I don’t even know if I can be with someone like that again. You should stick to the others, to someone who can give you what you need. Not a broken fuck up.” “So try.” I shrug. “Find out for real. It doesn’t have to be now, but think about it. I won’t lie, I find you attractive and I wouldn’t kick you out of bed.” “And I thought you hated us,” he scoffs. “Oh, I still do, it’s annoying as hell, but I’m trying here. Orgasms tend to lessen hate, and let’s face it, we both know this is my life now. I’m just done fighting against it.

with a historically good freshman roster, but Cunningham had already been hired. The best Wooden could offer was the chance to scout UCLA opponents and help Cunningham with the newcomers, an invitation Bob Knight declined.

He’s the reason I have so few rules on my team. He told me not to make any rules because that way if a bad kid screws up you get rid of him. If a good kid screws up you do what you have to do and let it go at that. Rules just get you in trouble.

Coaching is leadership, and leadership is leadership, whether in a gym, an office, a classroom, or a family.

I heard once about a man in his eighties who had mastered an art I admire: flyrod casting. It never left him. Well up in years, he could wade into a stream and, with a perfect snap of the wrist, make a cast to exactly the spot he wanted, his grace and ease unfailingly causing younger witnesses to marvel at what an athlete he must have been. Once he was standing onshore casting out into the water when he heard a voice from somewhere close say: “Pick me up.” His hearing hadn’t stayed with him as well as his casting had, so after looking around and seeing no one, he went back to casting, and he heard the voice again: “I said pick me up. I’m down here. By your feet.” He looked down and saw a huge frog. “Pick me up, kiss me, and I’ll turn into the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You’ll be indulged with pleasures no man has ever dreamed of, for the rest of your life. You’ll…” He picked the frog up, looked at it a second, and put it in the pocket of his fishing jacket. “Hey!” the frog screamed. “Didn’t you hear me? I said kiss me, and I’ll turn into a beautiful woman, and for the rest of your life give you pleasures no man has ever known.” He went back to casting. The voice screamed again: “Didn’t you HEAR me?! I said KISS ME and…” His arm arched another perfect cast, and without looking down he interrupted: “That may be… but at my age, I’d rather have a talking frog.

He (George Washington) saw those dangers to good government without even exposure to today’s runaway election expenses. For the presidency alone, what is more wasteful than the multimillions of dollars raised and spent for presidential primaries? All evidence is that today, the true best and brightest of our potential national leaders have no appetite for entering into the long, long months of primaries, raising and spending those multimillions, exhausting all that money and themselves, getting their careers dissected and maligned. Then, the “lucky” winner emerging in the fall is usually so smeared by his primary rivals that the other party simply has to raise a few reminders of what a candidate’s own party “friends” had said about him or her. Hell of a system, after more than 230 years of the evolution of our democracy.

I have a lot of respect for good officials, and they know I think really good officials are priceless. As all rare things are.

Several years ago I did a TV commercial for Minute Maid where my team came in at halftime after obviously playing well, and I greeted them with a big smile and cookies and nice words. I had to go to Los Angeles two days early just to prepare for that one. I got paid well for it, but the performance should have won me an Oscar.

Knight-Stoner SR-25 in .308,

A coach should never forget to compliment his players on a well-played victory, but shouldn’t hesitate to tell them when they’ve played poorly—in a loss or a win.

The mark of success, or failure, in handling victory is what happens the next time out.

You have to develop enough common sense to know what you can’t do and focus on what you can. Know your limits. If you can’t do it, don’t, and say so,

There isn’t always an absolute right way and a wrong way to do things, but there usually is a better way, a high-percentage way. The positive thinker generally feels that his way will be the right way and nothing will go wrong, if he just believes. The negative thinker disbelieves. He takes every precaution to prevent the wrong thing from happening, and in doing so has a much better chance of things turning out right in the end.

Discipline is recognizing what has to be done, doing it as well as you can do it, and doing it that way all the time.

Wanting alone doesn’t get anything done.

One game is not a season. Pleasure, enjoyment, success are not short-term. Success is a grind. It’s perseverance; it is operating at a high level of performance on a constant basis.

The initial shows were put together from verbal requests, but soon the mail poured in. For producers Wheaton and Knight, every mailbag was an adventure. One soldier wanted only to hear actress Carole Landis sigh. Another requested that Charles Laughton instruct Donald Duck in the finer points of elocution. The bizarre fed upon itself, and engineers were sent to record the sounds of birds chirping in one soldier’s Indiana hometown and, for another, the sounds of a nickel slot machine paying off a jackpot. The show was described by Bob Burns as “so important and expensive that only Uncle Sam is big enough to sponsor it.

presuming, you’ve thoroughly thought out and researched

On the way to market, an old man and his young grandson meet a man going the other way. The stranger says, “Old man, you should have your grandson riding the mule.” So he puts his grandson on the mule. They go a little farther, they’re stopped again, and a different man says, “Boy, you should let your poor grandfather ride the mule while you guide it.” So they switch, go a little farther, and they’re stopped again by a man who tells them, “You should both be riding the mule,” so both get on the mule and continue toward market. They meet a fourth man who tells them. “Hey, you two, it’s not very kind of you to be riding and creating that much of a burden for your poor mule.” So they get off, and they all go a little farther before a fifth man says, “You know, grandfather and grandson, that mule looks tired to me. You two ought to carry the mule.” So grandfather and grandson pick up the mule and trudge along. As they’re crossing a bridge over a river, the old man slips, they both lose their balance and fall, and they accidentally drop the mule over the bridge into the water, and it drowns. Which I think just extends Lincoln’s point: If you try to please everybody, you’re going to lose your ass.

Friday and then proceeded to completely lose his shit over the next five hours. Two realities were created that night. There was what Wilson experienced under the influence of the psychedelic that was used in witches' spells and rituals hundreds of years ago and there was the reality that exists when you don’t do belladonna. What Wilson experienced was going outside after swallowing the drug, seeing a monster in the distance, then going back into his house to see Arlen in the kitchen, who’d become a ghoulish satanic vampire lady, scaring the bejesus outta him. It dawned on him quite suddenly that this drug was no good and he ran to the sink to retch up as much of it as he could, but it was too late. The belladonna had already blasted him out of his rational mind. He was in her grips and there was no way out. His awareness flashed only a few lucid moments where his only description of such a state was “too weird.” He observed his body doing things that his mind had little control over. He saw himself banging into the wall repeatedly. Then he heard the sink laughing, and then he was even accompanied by a dwarf on a long journey through the woods. Nothing was solid, as the dwarf became a knight in armor who decided their walk through the Yellow Springs woods would be a good place to attack him. Another flash and the knight was suddenly gone. Wilson then saw himself crawling on the ground on all fours across white-hot coals. How long had he been enduring this torture? Years? Eternity? But just beyond the red-hot burning coals, he felt searing into his skin an enticing golden glow beckoned him. Another flash and he was now on a bed in a “supernaturally golden room.” He turned his head and saw Arlen. “Her face was the pretty, intellectual face I love above all others, but her hair was a new shade of red, lustrous and lively beyond the vocabulary of a poet or even an ad man.” He touched her hair and said, “It was worth all the terror to see you so beautiful…” However, the fun was not over. At another point in the night, he was helped to the outhouse by his friend and neighbor, David Hatch. But once outside, Bob saw two Davids. Wilson kept trying to explain to Arlen and Hatch, “We must all drink more milk!” Why must we do that? We must do it, said Wilson, “for the Kennedy Administration in outer space of the Nuremberg pickle that exploded.” He stopped, embarrassed, realizing he’d been making a fool of himself. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say, so he tried again. “Where’s the dwarf?” he shouted.

Orrville dentist.