Well, now, son, itās Adolph Rupp, the olā Baron of the Bluegrass, holdinā court once more. This Indiana Hoosier bunch? I gotta tip my cap to āem, and I aināt just blowinā smoke. Theyāve got a proud program up there in Bloomington, playinā some tough, hard-nosed basketball thatād make any coach worth his salt nod with respect. Indianaās got that fire, that grit, and a fanbase louderān a barn full of hogs at feedinā time. Aināt no denyinā theyāve carved out their place in this game, and I reckon they deserve a gentlemanās salute for it.
But, son, let me take you back to December 16, 1944, when my Kentucky Wildcats laid a whuppinā on them Hoosiers, 61-43, that they aināt forgot to this day. Oh, we ran āem ragged, with Alex droppinā points like a summer rain and Wilbur slicinā through their defense like a hot knife through lard. Their boys couldnāt do nothinā but watch as we owned that court, leavinā āem dizzy as a drunk mule. By the end, them Hoosiers were darn near on their knees, ready to kiss my big hairy backside for the lesson we taught āem. And trust me, that backside is big and it is hairy!
That was Kentucky basketball, sonāpure dominance, and Iād wager theyāre still smartinā from it. Now, whereās my cigar? Iām fixinā to savor that memory.