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Nebrasketball

Coach Tim Miles and a Big Ten Team on the Rise

UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS

Money at the Bank

1

Tim Miles cracks out his Doland stories when he speaks to new audiences. Tonight, he's in Fremont, Nebraska, which is eighteen miles closer to Creighton University (CU) in Omaha than it is to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. The banquet hall fills with bankers and their clients, who have all been to the cash bar at least once before Miles even showed up. They cluster around the buffet of meatballs, vegetable trays, and loose-meat sandwiches.

The point tonight, just days before the 2013–14 basketball season opens, is to win over Fremont.

"I'm from a small town in South Dakota called Doland," Miles starts.

"I graduated seventh in my class. There were 13 of us. Actually, there used to be 14 of us. But one guy dropped out in the spring of my senior year, leaving us with 13. So now, I'm below average in everything I do."

He pauses for his first laughs.

"I'm not saying I'm bitter, but I'm kind of pissed off. So, I'm Doland. I'm average."

Miles, the second-year Husker basketball coach, wants the crowd of 100 or so to know he's a regular guy. That he's like them. So he can win them over, which he will. Hey, they're already laughing.

"Doland's a fascinating town," he continues. "When you come into town from the east, the sign says 'Doland: Pop. 306.' And when you come in from the west, it says 'Doland: Pop. 297.' So, there's 9 missing people, which is why I always ask if someone is from Doland, so I can find them."

Already today, late in October, Miles ran a practice to prepare his team for opening night of the new Pinnacle Bank Arena (PBA) next week against Florida Gulf Coast University (FGCU), a team that became a national story during the first weekend of March Madness the previous season when the Eagles made the Sweet Sixteen. Miles's Huskers haven't even made the tournament since the millennium. He's memorized FGCU's playbook, but wants to memorize the strengths and weaknesses of each player. He's also shot a thirty-second commercial for the Athletic Department in one take — "I'm one-take Timmy." And he's called four recruits from the passenger seat of his black Cadillac Escalade during the sixty-minute trip northeast on Highway 77. He's being paid $500 for this speaking engagement, but he's not here for the money. He makes $1.5 million in the second year of a seven-year contract.

"Tonight," he said in the SUV, "we have to win Fremont. We sold out that arena, but we need to always be selling. Always. Be. Selling."

His seventy-minute talk includes how he turned around perennially losing programs at his coaching stops at Mayville State, Southwest Minnesota State, North Dakota State, and Colorado State. He was asked to speak for only twenty or thirty minutes, but he tells stories and drinks Coors Lights — a corporate sponsor in his last job at Colorado State University — until midnight, when he grabs his jacket, forgets his $500 check on a table, and watches film clips of Florida Gulf Coast the whole way home, his eyes lit up by the screen of his MacBook Pro.

"I think we won Fremont. Now, how are we going to beat Dunk City?"

Dr. Tom Osborne is a decision maker. In the eleventh year of his twenty-five-year career as Nebraska's football coach, he chose to go for two points against Miami at the end of regulation in the 1984 Orange Bowl. He went for the win, and he lost the game and the national championship. But Nebraska football diehards swear that decision cemented his legacy and led to three national titles that came a decade later. An upcoming ESPN 30 for 30 documentary film is dedicated to the bold move.

One of Osborne's last decisions at the Husker Athletic Department wasn't seen publicly as overly bold. As athletic director he fired his friend Doc Sadler in the spring of 2012. Sadler had gone 4-14 in Nebraska's first year in the Big Ten and 12-18 overall.

"Doc Sadler was a popular guy," Osborne said, "an engaging, outgoing, friendly person. There were some people who didn't want to remove Doc. But with Doc's situation, he had a few years where he wasn't successful, and it was affecting recruiting, with opposing coaches telling kids, 'Look, you can't win there,' and it was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Osborne and executive associate athletic director Marc Boehm had to find a new coach. Together, they had procured the $18.7 million for a training and practice facility for the men's and women's basketball teams that many considered the best in the nation. They also cemented the basketball programs as the main tenants of the new $186 million arena owned by the city of Lincoln, set to open in eighteen months. In all, the West Haymarket project, which included the arena as its anchor, cost taxpayers $378 million. Picking a coach to lead Nebrasketball into the new arena era was a big decision.

"We had to get it right," Boehm said.

They combed through coaching portfolios from coaches across the country. In interviews coaches would walk Osborne and Boehm through those slick, shiny portfolios. All but one.

All Tim Miles had was a blank notebook.

In the offices of a downtown Atlanta law firm, Boehm started off the interview by showing Miles a DVD on his laptop that featured the Hendricks Training Complex and detailed plans for the arena. A few minutes into the video, Miles pushed Boehm's laptop aside and pulled out a white legal notepad.

"I know about all that," Miles said. "Let me show you what we're going to do here."

Osborne, who had been quiet in his chair, perked up. As Boehm remembers the moment, Miles scribbled his offensive philosophy on the first sheet. Then he flipped to a second sheet and scribbled out a defensive philosophy. Then came a communication philosophy. Recruiting philosophy. Player evaluations. Coaching responsibilities. Philosophy after philosophy. Page after page.

"I looked over at Coach Osborne, and I could tell that he got it," Boehm remembers. "There was an edge to Tim that showed he wasn't just some coach Nebraska fans hadn't ever heard about."

Externally, Miles was winning the conference room at that high-rise law firm. Internally, he was reeling. When he recalls the moment two years later, he doesn't even mention the interview itself. What he remembers is everything before the meeting. His Colorado State Rams had just been blown out 58–41 in a first-round NCAA Tournament game by Murray State, which would lose its next game to Marquette, which would lose its next game to Florida, which would lose to Louisville, which meant his team hadn't been all that close to making a run. But he knew he'd have a shot the next year with most of his rotation returning the next season and two redshirts playing significant minutes.

He flew to Atlanta the night before the 8:00 a.m. meeting and woke up at 6:30 a.m., which was 4:30 on his Mountain Time internal clock. He hit the snooze twice and then worked out on the hotel's treadmill. He downed some coffee and went downstairs to meet an employee from the law firm.

"I'm feeling good," he said. "I'm not nervous about the interview, but I'm a little nervous about Tom Osborne. He's a quiet guy, and I'm not sure how I'm going to read him."

The law-firm employee makes Miles sign a confidentiality agreement to keep the meeting secret.

"It says something like, 'If you tell anyone you're here, we'll take your son. He won't be able to procreate,' or something like that," Miles remembers. "And I like Gabe, but I sign the deal."

Truth is, he's fine with confidentiality because he doesn't want the interview leaked in the media, either. He's got a great job at Colorado State and has worked to win fans away from the University of Colorado, pro teams, and mountain slopes. The problem is that he's still sweating, ever since the workout. A hot shower didn't help. Sitting down to sign away his child in the lobby didn't stop the sweats. The law-firm guy notices and finds Miles a towel. Nothing helps. Now, he's walking the sidewalks of downtown Hotlanta with his book bag and suitcase. It's not even 8:00 a.m., and it's in the seventies with full humidity.

"I'm pouring sweat. My collar is damp. We go up to the fifteenth floor in this building, and the guy asks me three times if I'm okay."

Miles says he's great. He stops in the bathroom and uses paper towels to try to pat down the sweat. Nothing works. Now, he's worried.

"A lot of times when you meet a famous person, you get all worked up," Miles says now. "But when you meet Tom Osborne, it all dries up."

Osborne was impressed. He saw an energetic coach who had a clear plan that went beyond the Xs and Os, though those were important to the retired coach, too, as much as anything. But many coaches could do that. Not many of them could articulate their plans like this guy from Doland, South Dakota. Still, Osborne did his homework. He checked with old coaching friends; his former football assistant coach Craig Bohl, who coached with Miles at North Dakota State; former Husker volleyball coach Terry Pettit, who had consulted with Miles's teams at Colorado State. Osborne had even reached out to University of Colorado coach Tad Boyle, a longtime friend, to get him to apply for the job, but Boyle suggested he chase Miles.

"I thought he was trying to get rid of his competition or something," Osborne remembers.

Osborne and Boehm searched for a reason not to hire Miles. Boehm knew experience might be a problem, considering the quality and experience of coaches in the Big Ten — Tom Izzo, Thad Matta, Tom Crean — but Miles hadn't shied away from those big names in the interview at all. He wanted the Big Ten. He had a reverence for it that started in his youth, when he traveled east to games at The Barn in Minnesota. He wanted to coach against — and beat — those guys in the Breslin Center at Michigan State (MSU) and Assembly Hall in Indiana.

"Overall, I was able to get a pretty good read on him from people I knew and trusted," Osborne said. "He had a good understanding of what he wanted to do and how he wanted to go about it. He was very positive, not a lot of hang-ups. We needed someone who could engage the fans. And Tim does that as well as anyone."

After a long day of interviewing, Boehm and Osborne were about to call an experienced candidate for one last interview. Boehm met Osborne in the lobby outside their offices before they made the call. Instead, Osborne went for two. He looked at Boehm and said, "I think we already have our guy."

2

Ryan Hanigan and Patrick Nee sat right behind the Husker bench in December 1994, when Jud Heathcote brought his fifth-ranked Michigan State Spartans to Lincoln's Bob Devaney Center for a nonconference game. The teens were juniors at Pius X High School. Hanigan's father, John, a stoic accountant and prominent Catholic, was a season-ticket holder for Nebraska basketball. Nee's father, Danny, a former high school teammate of Lew Alcindor in New York and a Vietnam veteran, was the Husker coach, on his way to the most wins in program history.

Nee's Huskers were coming off four straight NCAA appearances and a surprise Big 8 Tournament title, despite finishing with a .500 conference record. Michigan State was fifteen years removed from Magic Johnson's title run, but ranked in the top five nationally. The Spartans would go on to lose only five games that year, and this would be one of them.

The boys had to catch the Pius team bus about ninety minutes after tip-off for their own road game. But Hanigan crisply remembers backup Husker guard Tom Wald getting fouled at the end of regulation on a three-pointer with the Huskers down three. Wald hit all three free throws, and there was no way Ryan and Patrick would ditch the overtime. Nebraska won 96–91, and the boys jumped in Patrick's Oldsmobile Delta 88 and drove one hundred miles per hour to their game at a private school an hour east on I- 80 in Omaha.

They showed up late, and the coach held them out of the first quarter as punishment. Pius trailed by the time they entered the game. Ryan's father showed up and watched Pius win.

"My dad was pissed and said I was irresponsible," Ryan remembers. "But then he added, 'At least you saw a hell of a game worth being suspended for a quarter.'"

Ryan loved those Husker teams. His older sister was a college buddy of Husker center Rich King, who showed up at one of Ryan's seventh-grade Small Fry games. King, a senior that year, spread his seven-foot-two frame across all three rows of bleachers in the Salvation Army Rec Center gym on North Twenty-Seventh Street. Six months later he was the lone Husker ever taken in the first round of the NBA draft, when the Seattle Supersonics picked him fourteenth. He lasted four years in the league, starting just two games. With King cheering, Ryan was the team hero that day.

In Ryan's eighth grade year, he played a pickup game at the Lincoln Racquet Club that included Husker Beau Reid. The six-foot-eight, 220-pound forward got loose on a breakaway, and Ryan tackled him to stop a dunk.

"He got up and wanted to fight me," Ryan said.

Once he saw that a 130-pound kid had taken him down, Reid was embarrassed.

During those years Danny Nee's teams were relevant on the national scene, Ryan Hanigan's favorite memories of spending time with his father all played out three rows up in Section C9 at the Bob Devaney Center with his father, who would rarely speak, except to mumble about the referees or a bad play.

Nee's teams from 1986 to 2000 would make five NCAA Tournaments and lose all five first-round games. He brought in future NBA players such as Erick Strickland, Eric Piatkowski, and Tyronn Lue. The 1997–98 team was the last to make March Madness, with Lue losing to Nolan Richardson's "40 minutes of hell" Arkansas team by nine points.

Sixteen years later Ryan Hanigan was a graduate of Creighton University, the only nationally relevant program in Nebraska since the millennium. Married with three kids, he lived in Omaha, where he worked as a physical therapist. He was what Husker fans seemed to hate more than even the University of Texas. He was a Jaysker fan: a Husker football fan in fall who switches his Big Red gear for Bluejays gear in wintertime to cheer Coach Greg McDermott's perennial NCAA Tournament team. He was pretty cranked about cheering for the Bluejay coach's son Doug, projected to be the national player of the year, and the team had moved to the Big East Conference to prove itself against historic programs, such as Georgetown and Villanova. Hanigan's father, John, now semiretired, was excited about Doug McDermott, too, because the coach's son played a disciplined and fundamentally pure offensive game worthy of respect. But Dad still held on to his Husker season tickets and wanted to see what this Tim Miles character could do in this first season at the new arena, even though news just broke in his Lincoln Journal Star newspaper that Nebraska was picked to finish last in the Big Ten.

Neither father nor son had any idea how this Husker season would change both of their lives.

At tonight's late-September open scrimmage at Pinnacle Bank Arena, Tim Miles will take the microphone to get seventy-five hundred fans riled up. For many of them, this will be their first experience at the Pinnacle Bank Arena, part of the biggest public works project in Lincoln's history. Their tax dollars will pay for the $378 million project. They need a good time. That means Miles will have to show his big grin. He'll have to lead chants. He'll have to call some play-by-play over the public address system. He'll have to talk up his team, his product.

He can play that role. He's made fans care about perennial loser programs at Mayville State in North Dakota and Southwest Minnesota State in Marshall. He's handed out free tickets to students in dorms at North Dakota State. He's hosted his own reality TV show for Mountain West Conference fans while at Colorado State. He can play Miles the Marketer.

But those players are going to pay dearly for tonight's praise in advance with this last practice, three hours before the doors open to the new arena. The currency will be defense. Miles the Marketer can also play Miles the Tyrant. Miles often says being around his team is like being in an episode of Seinfeld, but many practices, including this one, are more Breaking Bad than situation comedy.

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Excerpted from Nebrasketball by Scott Winter. Copyright © 2015 Scott Winter. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS.
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