By now you’ve seen the surreal and semi-depressing details of Jim Calhoun’s latest bout with a bicycle.
The UConn head coach and Syracuse ultra-villain (Calhoun makes John Thompson seem quaint and cuddly) was partaking in an annual 50-mile charity bike ride, when he hit a pothole, flipped off the bike and cracked six ribs.
Tough old dog.
But then he finished the race.
Thirty-eight miles later.
And collapsed at the finish line from “trauma and dehydration.”
And was hospitalized.
He’s 67 years old.
But we are waiting for him to retire.
And if recurring battles with prostate cancer, hospitalization for fatigue on the eve of the NCAA tournament, public spats with Connecticut media and six broken ribs won’t push him into retirement, Orange Nation must come to the horrifying realization:
Jim Calhoun will never die.
He will continue to haunt that sideline until the next millenium, a Freddy Krueger of college basketball.
See, Syracuse fans are dealing with mortality already.
We know The Per’fesser can’t and won’t coach forever.
The succession plan from Boeheim-to-Hopkins has already been unveiled (well, kinda. Thanks Dr. Doom. Way to get out in front of that one).
But Calhoun stalks the sideline like a Boston-born Emperor of the Sith, replete with the same scowl and beedy-rat-eyes for the last twenty-five years.
In fact, it’s possible that Calhoun, via his ever-ticking ticker and medicinal innovation, is our modern-day Machiavelli (well, other than Tupac).
One day, in the early 2130’s, when Calhoun has finally succumbed to the frailties of coaching into his 200s, his cyborg/hologram doppleganger will lead UConn to another National Championship at the Planet Zyphon 2.3 Final Four.
And yes, even in his afterlife, he will be cutting down nets as we in Orange Nation grit our teeth.