Well, now, son, it’s Adolph Rupp, the ol’ Baron of the Bluegrass, holdin’ court once more. This Indiana Hoosier bunch? I gotta tip my cap to ‘em, and I ain’t just blowin’ smoke. They’ve got a proud program up there in Bloomington, playin’ some tough, hard-nosed basketball that’d make any coach worth his salt nod with respect. Indiana’s got that fire, that grit, and a fanbase louder’n a barn full of hogs at feedin’ time. Ain’t no denyin’ they’ve carved out their place in this game, and I reckon they deserve a gentleman’s salute for it.
But, son, let me take you back to December 16, 1944, when my Kentucky Wildcats laid a whuppin’ on them Hoosiers, 61-43, that they ain’t forgot to this day. Oh, we ran ‘em ragged, with Alex droppin’ points like a summer rain and Wilbur slicin’ through their defense like a hot knife through lard. Their boys couldn’t do nothin’ but watch as we owned that court, leavin’ ‘em 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 ‘em. And trust me, that backside is big and it is hairy!
That was Kentucky basketball, son—pure dominance, and I’d wager they’re still smartin’ from it. Now, where’s my cigar? I’m fixin’ to savor that memory.