Recalling Richie Farmer

        I met Richie Farmer in Lexington on accident during the hottest day of August in 1991. I remember the first thing I thought of distinctly, because I always knew it to be true, since I had read it a number of times on roster lists and in newspaper articles. But the final realization never fully washed over me until he stood right there in front of me: Farmer is shorter than I am. Now, standing at a shade under 6’ 1”, Smooth Dave isn’t exactly tiny. But basketball players, especially guys who put up 51 points in the Kentucky State Championship, are supposed to be larger-than-life figures, and this uppity, cocksure little 5’ 10”-and-change bastard was the undisputed King of the Tolly-Ho And Most Other Places In Lexington that blistering summer. After Christian Laettner, The Greatest College Basketball Game Ever Played, and “The Unforgettables”, Farmer’s reach would ultimately begin to extend beyond its grasp.

But not that day. On that day we were both two young men edging up on the primes of our lives, bound together by our mutual love and admiration for the rich tradition that is Kentucky Wildcats basketball, and our unsavory lust for the Ho’s cheese fries. After noticing a few leers and murmurs about what we were ingesting, it prompted Farmer to say to me:

“When you run as much as Pitino makes us, you don’t have to worry about what you eat. We’ve got guys running 5-minute miles, Dave. [I wasn’t “Smooth” back then. No one is at 22.] Not me, but I can get there in just under six-flat, which is pretty good, you know. I had no idea I was coming to Lexington to run track, too.”

That’s a fair point, but Richie probably should have at least had some inkling of what he was in for during those blistering practices at Memorial Coliseum and Nutter Field House. Rick Pitino’s full-court “Mother-in-Law” press (“Constant pressure and harassment”, smirked Slick Rick) required wave after wave of agile, fleet players with the utmost cardiovascular endurance to render it most effective. In case anyone doubted Pitino’s sincerity of belief in his system, he willingly endured a 150-95 thrashing at the hands of defending National Champion Kansas in late 1989 that had much of the Commonwealth openly questioning their young head coach’s sanity and decency. Who would put their players through that? A 55-point loss in Allen Fieldhouse? On National Television?

Richie Farmer defended his coach. “You don’t know Rick Pitino. Really none of us do; he comes in, does his thing, stays in his office and watches film, and leaves. He's already been to one Final Four, he's coached the New York Knicks, and he's not even 40 years old yet. You think Rick Pitino gives a shit what anyone says or thinks about him? Of course we can approach him, we’re his players, he‘s always making sure we‘re in class and doing well and stuff. But he genuinely believes, deep down in the bottom of his heart, that his way of coaching is the very best, and it’s the only way he knows how to do it. I know this-- he is as stubborn as any man I have ever met in my life. [Quietly] We’ve got mules in Clay County with nothing on Coach Pitino.”

Farmer seemed pleased with that comment as he leaned back to take a long pull from his sweet tea, then continued:

“That’s off the record.”

Until now, it was.

I asked Farmer if he had been working on his 3-point shot much, not that he really needed it, because no one since Rex Chapman could get a shot off in a phone booth quite like Farmer could. Farmer: “Actually, I wasn’t straight enough.” Straight? “Yeah, I was fading. Falling away. Everyone knows a jump shot is supposed to be straight-up-and-down, right? Well, I got so used to shooting over double teams and going through guys in Clay County at odd angles that it messed with my real shot. Actually, I really didn’t have one anymore-- yeah, I still made shots, but my arm angles and body leverage was all over the place. I want to get back in rhythm. If I average three 3’s a game we could go to the Final Four.”

I remembered the 1978 team, but only in flashes. I remember my father, railing at Cawood Ledford on the radio during an overtime loss to LSU, exhorting him to tell the boys in blue that if they could only get some “damn defensive rebounds” that they’d be able to pull that one out of the swamp. They couldn’t, but it would be the last game he heard them lose. Of course I watched the last game against Duke. The whole state shut down. Goose Givens went out and scored 41 points on some ridiculous shooting percentage; the ‘Cats needed every one of them as they only won by four, and at midnight my father began shooting off fireworks high over the holler. “Piss on the neighbors! This hasn’t happened in 20 years!”

Farmer smiled as I recounted the tale. “My Dad stayed drunk for 2 days, and I hadn’t seen my father drink in a dozen years. I know how much this means to people. This can happen again. It would be the biggest thing in everyone’s year.”

After he said that he told me he had to leave, and I understood. I’m sure he hadn’t exactly planned on entertaining an interview at 12:30 in the ‘Ho on a Tuesday. He finished his food and left. He assumed I’d pay, and he was right.

Farmer was right, naturally. It took another 4 ½ years, but Pitino and the Wildcats did eventually secure that 6th National Championship after assembling a team with 10 future NBA players on the roster. And, yes, it was the biggest thing in the Commonwealth that year and most others. But I had to think about the distance from this year to that, and all the practices and suicide sprints and roundball contests and campaign promises and $300 dinners Richie Farmer had to digest and endure to be an arm’s length from the Governor’s mansion. Hey-- if you’re dumb (smart?) enough to think a failed 22 year-old journalism major will buy you lunch when you’re 20, then you’re certainly dumb enough to think the entire Commonwealth of Kentucky will fund your adult life at age 40. The question isn’t really how Richie Farmer got from there to here. It’s what’s going to happen next.