After four years of accumulating a lifetime of memories, bar tabs, and academic minutiae, I decided to push it to the limit and spend two more years at my Alma Mater.

No, not as a super senior or Van Wilder-esque playboy. But as a graduate student.

Those two years added to my plethora of ridiculously bone-headed experiences with women, unforgettable nights with friends, and even some real life responsibility as I transitioned from 22-year-old college grad to 24-year-old ready to take on the world. Which I did.

But one of the more memorable stories of those two years in graduate school at Miami University actually occurred because of something that happened my senior year.

I was at a bar with some grad school colleagues when a random guy came up to me and said, “I know you!”

It was early in the night, and as such, I was stone-cold sober. This guy was not. I typically remember when I’ve met someone, a skill that has come in handy over the years. Yet, I had not one iota of recollection for this guy. And I told him so.

But he insisted he knew me, so I glanced at my friends, hoping he would simply wander off in a drunken stupor. As he stood there for a few moments, searching his alcohol-laden mind, I politely informed him he must be mistaken.

Until he came up with the second greatest case of mistaken identity I’ve ever experienced… except in this case, it wasn’t mistaken.

The light bulb popped on in his brain, his pupils dilated to the size of dinner trays at Harris Dining Hall, and he revealed the following: The previous week he had sat down for an interview with the one, the only, Charlie Coles, head basketball coach at Mother Miami.

As a sports reporter for the Miami Student, this guy had behind-closed-doors access to the Miami legend. While seated across from Charlie in his office, asking him about the prospects for the upcoming season, he took a peek at the one picture Coach Coles had propped on his desk.

In it, Charlie was flanked by four random dudes, three to his right, one to his left, looking like a group of five buddies sharing some ice-cold brews.

I was one of those dudes.

One picture. On Charlie’s desk. And I was in it.

I believe my response to this random guy’s revelation was: “You have got to be ******* kidding me.”

—-

When I was a senior at Miami, probably a year before the aforementioned encounter with Captain McDrunk occurred, two of my housemates and I enrolled in Basketball Theory [see #3 in the link]. It was taught in a small auditorium at Millett Hall, by one of Miami’s all-time greats, Charles Leroy Coles.

My housemates Wacky Matt and Rustang joined me in the lecture hall, along with several other Miami fans who were hoping to get some insight into the crazy character roaming Miami’s sidelines.

It also happened that Charlie made the freshman basketball players attend this bi-weekly 8AM lecture, so we got a closer look at some of the guys we would hopefully be cheering on during the season.

I had been attending Miami basketball games, sitting on the metal bleachers along the sideline, since I was a freshman. And every game, there were numerous moments where if you took your eye off the action, and glanced over at Charlie, you would see him contorting his face into a wide-eyed “I can’t believe I just saw that”, a slack-jawed “that was the most terrible play in basketball history”, or stone-faced “I would still be able to start for this team.”

So when it was suggested we all take Basketball Theory, it sounded like the most brilliant idea of our college career. Of course, Juice, our other roommate, was too busy taking Weightlifting, or maybe it was Quantum Engineering for the 22nd Century, to join us. (He was taking one of those classes, I swear.)

Standing behind a lectern at Millett Hall, Coach Coles would call out attendance at the beginning of every class. The class was around forty students, so it would naturally take 2 or 3 minutes to get through everyone. But Charlie was not natural. In any way.

Calling roll would take 5 or 6 minutes because every time he would struggle to pronounce someone’s name. Now I know what you are thinking… “That seems natural. I’m sure there were some strange names or something.” But you are wrong.

He would struggle to pronounce the names of his players. He would call out, “Nate Van der… Nate Van… der… Nate, Van, Der, Sluis?” And then he would become animated as if he was on the sidelines and say, “Oh! Nate! Yeah, Nate! There you are big fella!“, pointing at the 7-foot tall Redhead sitting directly in front of him.

Now either Charlie played me for a fool each time he did that… and he did it with either Nate, Tim, or one of the other freshman every morning… or he really wasn’t sure who the hell his players were based on their names. Honestly, I’m still torn to this day as to which it was.

—-

Early in the semester, my housemates and I attended the Miami-Michigan football game in Ann Arbor. Somehow Miami had secured a sacrificial spot at the feet of a College Football Dynasty, with but a glimmer of hope that a red-shirt freshman would emerge to lead the Redhawks to victory.

Unfortunately, Miami got walloped by Michigan… but the highlight of the experience for my roommates and I occurred two hours before kickoff… when we were roaming around the tailgating and spotted the Miami Alumni Hospitality tent.

Like any brash 21 year olds, we thought our Alumni status was all but secured… I mean, for god’s sake, we were taking Basketball Theory, and in Juice’s case, Weightlifting… (oops, I guess it wasn’t Quantum Engineering for the 22nd Century)… surely we would finish our undergraduate tenure at Miami in strong GPA fashion.

So we strolled up to the tent and spotted some ice-cold brew dogs in a cooler and went in for the kill. But there he was, a Miami legend, throwing back one of his own.

 

 

Despite my somewhat impeccable memory, I can’t recall which of us approached Coach Coles, but he seemed to genuinely recognize us and said in his Ohio-hill twang, “Hi there boys.”

If he were any other man, I would be certain he realized three of us were in the lone class he was teaching that semester, or that all of us bled Miami Red at a multitude of basketball games.

[Rusty and I even attended a game against Dayton where Miami had only 9 points with six minutes to go. Brutal. God-damn Brutal. Worst game I ever saw. No joke. Thank god for Brian Edwards, who scored 7 points in 4 minutes to prevent the lowest scoring Division I performance by any team since the shot-clock was invented.]

But this was not any man. This was Coach Charles Leroy Coles. Miami Legend. All-around superstar human being. And quite possibly, the most likely guy to not remember any of us. Or so it seemed.

With Coors Lights in our hands, and Charlie with his trademark smile, we had someone snap a quick picture.

The five of us. Forever immortalized. On that fine day.

With the semester winding down, and Rustang, Wacky Matt, and I toiling over our final projects for Basketball Theory, (and Juice designing a work-out routine to make John Basedow blush), photos from the fateful Fall day were developed.

And therein, was the photo.

Rusty thought it would be a classy move to sign a copy of the picture, “Good luck in the 2001-2002 season! – Oxford Circus”, and hand deliver it to Charlie on the last day as we were turning in our final projects.

—-

As it began to sink into my head that Coach Coles had chosen to place only one picture on his desk, one in which I happened to be in, I believe Captain McDrunk could see the light bulb going off in my brain.

A huge smile came across my face.

Captain McDrunk outstretched his hand, so I grasped it in my own. And after a firm embrace, we parted ways.

In this one guy’s mind, I was a legend.

But the true legend in that picture was Charles Leroy Coles. A Miami Man. A Miami Legend. Love and Honor.