Tag: college-basketball

Pope’s Report Card is in—and it’s Telling

Pope’s Report Card is in—and it’s Telling

(LEXINGTON, Ky). – At the halfway point of the college basketball regular season, the midterm grades invariably come rolling in.

Recently, Isaac Trotter of CBS Sports essentially handed Mark Pope a midterm grade. His assessment wasn’t cruel or dramatic. It was purely academic.

A “D.”

Not dismissal or detention, but the kind of grade that comes with a quiet warning: You’re capable of more than this.

Trotter’s core point was simple. Pope understands Kentucky basketball. He knows the standard. He knows this isn’t it. And yet, nearly two seasons in, Kentucky is hovering around average on the floor while swimming in resources. The Sweet 16 run last year bought a lot of goodwill. This year’s results are washing away all the equity.

If this were a class, Kentucky isn’t failing—but it’s not honoring the syllabus.

Permit me to continue with this academic theme.

I was an A student for most of my life. Straight A’s through college and dental school. Not because I was the smartest in the room—but because I understood what my parents expected of me. Hence, it’s thoroughly frustrating watching someone clearly intelligent like Mark Pope struggle to translate knowledge into performance.

Pope is smart. That’s not debatable. He’s articulate, reflective, and overly analytical. He speaks like someone who actually read the assignment.

But here’s the disconnect: intelligence alone doesn’t earn grades. Outcomes do. Results matter.

Pope has acknowledged he’s considering “dumbing down” the offense for his players. In academic terms, that’s the moment a gifted professor realizes the class isn’t tracking and lowers the material. Sometimes that’s compassionate. Sometimes necessary. But at a place like Kentucky, it’s also risky.

Kentucky basketball is not remedial coursework.

When I asked Pope about the “D” grade—give him credit—he didn’t argue the point. In fact, he leaned into it. He acknowledged that Kentucky isn’t meeting expectations. Not emotionally or philosophically—but factually. An 0–2 start in SEC play is an objective data point.

“If you told me the Kentucky coach started 0–2 in the SEC, a ‘D’ might be generous,” he stated bluntly.

That matters because Pope didn’t blame fans. He didn’t hide behind context. He didn’t suggest the grading was unfair. He framed it like how sports—and academics—actually work: you earn your score.

What Pope articulated well was this distinction: emotions can be messy, but outcomes aren’t. You don’t debate the final score. You don’t negotiate the grade. You own it.

While all that’s well and good for a season flirting with disaster, it’s remains the right thing to say. Any good coach can have an outlier of a bad year as far as their won/loss record.

Where concern still lingers is in the larger picture Trotter raised—and Pope didn’t fully address. Kentucky’s issues aren’t limited to a slow SEC start. The recruiting trail has gone quiet at a time when elite freshmen are choosing other destinations. Kentucky, historically, doesn’t miss on all of them.

In academic terms, that’s when top students stop enrolling because they’re unsure the program is still elite. In their minds, it’s no longer about nostalgia. It’s about trajectory.

Pope talked about not running from the “messy middle.” About digging in. About believing the ending will be good—but only if you acknowledge the poor start.

That’s encouraging rhetoric. Necessary rhetoric.

But at Kentucky, belief is never the final exam.

Results are.

This program doesn’t grade on effort, intent, or intelligence. It grades on preparation, clarity, and execution. You don’t grade on a curve in this class. You meet the standard—or you repeat the course.

Mark Pope clearly understands that.

The question now is whether understanding will translate into improvement—on the floor, on the recruiting trail, and ultimately on the transcript that matters most.

Because at Kentucky, a “D” isn’t destiny. It’s a dire warning.

Especially when the only acceptable grade is an “A.”

This article was originally written for distribution through Nolan Group Media publications.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, Whining For Posterity, and all his books at Amazon.

Blue Lights, Dim Bulbs: Kentucky Basketball’s Alarming Drift

Blue Lights, Dim Bulbs: Kentucky Basketball’s Alarming Drift

Photo Credit: Mont Dawson/Kentucky Sports Radio

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – There are losses, and then there are losses that linger. Kentucky’s 89–74 faceplant against Alabama wasn’t just another road hiccup or a “good learning experience” wrapped in coach-speak. It was the kind of loss that stares back at you and asks uncomfortable questions—about identity, preparation, leadership, and where exactly this thing is headed under Mark Pope.

Let me say this clearly before anyone starts torching me: I am not ready to give up on Pope. Not even close. But I am ready to admit that the trends are troubling—and Big Blue Nation has earned the right to be uneasy.

We were promised a Ferrari. What we’re driving right now feels suspiciously like a refurbished rental.

At BYU, Pope sold us on a high-powered, creative, free-flowing offense. Pace. Spacing. Ball movement. Thirty-five threes a game. What we’re seeing instead is a half-court offense that too often feels like it was designed during a layover in Omaha. There are long stretches where Kentucky looks unsure and—this hurts to type—disinterested.

Part of that is personnel, yes. This team has no dependable shooters. None. Zip. Zero. You can’t run a modern offense without the threat of the three. Defenses sag. Lanes disappear. Alabama didn’t guard Kentucky shooters—they just waited for them to miss. And when you combine that with shaky perimeter defense on the other end, you get the same result Nick Saban just witnessed courtside in Tuscaloosa.

Alabama hit a bunch of open shots. Kentucky mostly chased shadows behind the arc.

Here’s where my inner orthodontist starts grinding his teeth. Pope seems overly cautious with his best players, particularly Jaland Lowe and Jayden Quaintance. Development is important. Trust is important. A player’s future health is certainly important. But at some point, your best players have to play. Long enough to find rhythm. Long enough to lead. Long enough to play their way into shape and respond. Watching Kentucky tiptoe through their starting lineup feels less like strategy and more like risk aversion.

To add insult to injury, I’ve sensed a maddening lack of consistent effort with this team. It occasionally has flashes. “Beautiful ones” against overmatched teams like Bellarmine. But then—poof—it evaporates against quality competition. Loose balls become optional. Closeouts become suggestions.

And physicality? Fuhgeddaboudit!  

That’s not talent. That’s not scheme. That’s culture. And culture starts at the top.

Now for the big one. The one that makes me want to hit “delete.”

Preparation.

Kentucky had nearly two weeks to get ready for this game. Two weeks. And the Cats still fell behind by 21 points like they’d just been introduced to Alabama in the parking lot. That’s not about shots falling. That’s not about poor matchups. That’s not bad luck. That’s a flashing neon warning light.

Hey folks, the résumé is crumbling before our eyes. Quadrant opportunities are slipping away in a league that eats its own.

Worse yet, there’s the creeping fear that the entire empire might collapse if things don’t change—because Pope, fair or not, hasn’t yet shown he can recruit at the level this job demands. Kentucky doesn’t win on system alone—it wins when elite players choose it.

Everyone knows that Kentucky basketball is not a rebuild-and-hope program. It’s a reload-or-else one. If the talent pipeline doesn’t improve, the margin for error disappears entirely.

The bulbs are dimming. The optics are already bad. Kentucky falling behind by double digits in marquee games is happening way too often. Opponents make adjustments. Pope’s teams don’t. His timeouts feel reactive. His in-game answers elusive. And Pope’s postgame demeanor? Let’s just say “sore loser” is not the brand Big Blue Nation expects. This job requires accountability, humility, and leadership in front of a camera when things go sideways.

Kentucky basketball isn’t just a team. It’s an institution. A standard. A mirror we all see ourselves in, for better or worse.

I still believe Pope can get this right. But belief without course correction is just stubbornness dressed up as loyalty. The concerns are real. The trends are real. And if they aren’t addressed—soon, the dimming lights at Rupp won’t just be temporary.

They’ll be structural.

And that, my friends, is not something any of us signed up for.

This article was originally written for distribution through Nolan Group Media publications.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, Whining For Posterity, and all his books at Amazon.

The Scholarship Used to Be the Prize

The Scholarship Used to Be the Prize

(And Somewhere Along the Way, We Started Treating It Like a Coupon)

Let me get this out of the way early so nobody mistakes me for the guy yelling at clouds.

I know NIL is here to stay. I know players have always been paid. I know the system wasn’t pure, holy, or wrapped in a choir robe stitched by Sandy Bell in the UK Compliance office.

I’m not naïve. I’m just… disappointed. And there’s a difference.

Believe me, this isn’t about money. It’s about what money replaced.

Back in the day—cue the violin music, please—the scholarship was the prize. The scholarship was the golden ticket. It was the thing you earned, protected, and quietly understood could change the trajectory of your life.

Now? The sheepskin is an afterthought. A line item. Something you get thrown in after the collective wires the cash.

Wake up everyone! College sports didn’t just evolve. It inverted.

Players used to come to Kentucky for the name on the front of the jersey and hope—pray, even—that one day the name on the back might matter. Now the name on the back is everything, and the front is just a temporary billboard.

We’ve turned student-athletes into short-term mercenaries, and then we act surprised when loyalty evaporates faster than Vince Marrow’s blue wardrobe.

Again, I’m not anti-player. I’m anti-illusion. College sports has become all smoke and mirrors.

What bothers me isn’t that athletes are making money. It’s that we’ve somehow convinced them—and ourselves—that money is the point, not the fruit of hard-earned labor. We’ve normalized entitlement at warp speed. It no longer happens over multiple years of eligibilty. It’s now bestowed instantly.

A freshman hasn’t played a minute and already knows his “market value.” He doesn’t ask, How can I grow here? He asks, What’s my next leverage point? That’s not empowerment. That’s living one transaction at a time.

And the collateral damage of this lunacy? The college education—the very thing that was supposed to be the great equalizer—has been reduced to background noise.

Let me offer a confession from a man who looks suspiciously like a retired orthodontist with opinions.

My education made me rich. Not Warren Buffet-rich. Not even NIL-rich. But life-rich. It gave me a profession. It gave me options. It gave me the ability to fail and pivot and fail again without falling through the floorboards of society.

My college education wasn’t just about attending classes. It rewarded me with time—time to grow up, mess up, learn accountability, and figure out who I was when nobody was handing me a check. Let it be known that no booster ever Venmo’d me for showing up to Biology 101.

Now we’re telling kids—explicitly and implicitly—that education is optional, temporary, and secondary to their “brand.” That’s not progress. That’s negligent at best—and destructive at worst.

Here’s the part nobody wants to say out loud: If the scholarship no longer matters, the university no longer matters. And if the university no longer matters, then college sports becomes minor-league professional sports without contracts, guardrails, or accountability.

Which is exactly where we’re headed.

You can’t build culture on one-year leases.
You can’t preach loyalty while negotiating exits.
You can’t sell tradition to people shopping for the next upgrade.

And you certainly can’t pretend the system will hold when the foundation—education itself—has been hollowed out. When the value of the scholarship is cheapened, the value of the institution crumbles. When institutions crumble, so does the illusion that this was ever about anything more than money. And when the illusion dies, so does the sport we thought we loved.

I still watch. I still care. I still write. I still hope—perhaps foolishly—that the pendulum swings back toward balance instead of breaking loose entirely.

But make no mistake: this is doomsday not because athletes are getting paid—but because we’ve taught them that nothing else is worth valuing.

And when education becomes optional, everything downstream collapses. I don’t want to go backward. I want us to remember what was worth protecting as we move forward.

Happy New Year!
Now, please excuse me while I go ice my knee, check my blood pressure, and remind myself I’m not yelling at clouds.

I’m yelling at the future—because I still care about it.

This article was originally written for distribution through Nolan Group Media publications.
Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, Whining For Posterity, and all his books at Amazon.

When the Empire Crumbled in Nashville

When the Empire Crumbled in Nashville

Photo credit: KY INSIDER/Tristan Pharis

(NASHVILLE, Tn.) – Nobody died. Let’s be clear about that from the start. But walking out of Bridgestone Arena on that bleak December night, it sure felt like some small—but vital—part of me kicked the bucket. If grief truly comes in stages, Big Blue Nation skipped denial and bargaining entirely and hurtled straight into anger and depression. A 35-point blowout loss to Gonzaga will do that to you.

Thirty-five. Five touchdowns. A deficit so large you half-expected Diego Pavia to pad his Heisman stats by tossing one more.

The Cats shot 26% from the field—a number so pitiful you’d think they were tossing up prayer requests rather than basketballs. Meanwhile, Graham Ike—just one man, mind you—had more two-point field goals than the entire Kentucky roster. Let that sink in. One guy outscoring a blue-blood program in its own chosen sport. And not just any sport—the sport. The one woven into our DNA, passed down from grandparents to grandbabies like that sacred cloth Mark Pope keeps referencing.

This wasn’t just a loss. It was the fiber unraveling on holy ground—the third-most lopsided defeat in the shot clock era. We’ve known pain before. Saint Peter’s. Oakland. That 41-point thrashing from Vanderbilt—Vanderbilt!—that still wakes some of us with night sweats. Gardner Webb. Robert Morris in the NIT. Middle Tennessee State, if you really want to dig around in old wounds. But this… this seemed different. This was more visceral. This was more publicly humiliating. This was a blue mist turning into a funeral fog over Lower Broadway.

The boos rained down like I’ve never heard—sharp, heavy, and honest. Those weren’t spur-of-the-moment grumbles. Those were boos pulled from deep in the diaphragm—boos with ancestry.

And in the middle of it all stood Mark Pope. Clueless. Clutching his arms. Pacing. Staring. Hoping. Praying. Whatever offensive scheme existed remained locked in the bus. The defense was optional. The effort was zero. And the $22-million payroll—which should buy you at least a handful of competent dribbles—played like a group of guys who accidentally wandered in from the YMCA while looking for hot chicken.

Afterward, Pope sat there and took it. “All the boos we heard tonight were incredibly well deserved—mostly for me,” he acknowledged.

And credit where due—he’s right. BBN isn’t booing because we hate. BBN boos because we care too much. Because this program is stitched into our emotional circuitry. Because watching it flounder like this feels like watching a beloved family business collapse under the weight of mismanagement and market forces we don’t fully understand.

Because NIL—this new world we were forced into—feels like it’s quietly cannibalizing the very soul of Kentucky basketball.

Where do we go from here? That’s the question echoing from Lexington to London to Pikeville to Paducah. This program means so much—too much, maybe—and to see it decimated, hollowed out, and sold to the highest bidder leaves a taste in the mouth not unlike despair.

We’ve now lost six straight to AP Top 25 opponents. Six. That’s not a skid. That’s a full-blown car crash. Indiana comes calling next Saturday, carrying history and smugness in equal measure. I guarantee the Hoosiers are smelling fear the way sharks smell blood.

Pope keeps telling us he’s going to fix it. He says it every game, every press conference, every painful in-between: “We’ll fix it.”

But those words—once hopeful, once rousing—are starting to fall on ears that have gone numb from overuse. We’ve become the fanbase that cries wolf, except the wolves actually show up and chew our legs off every other week.

Nobody died. But something inside us sure felt like it did. The Empire may have crumbled in Nashville, but unlike the Romans, we don’t have the luxury of blaming the Visigoths. This collapse came from within—bad shots, bad schemes, bad chemistry, bad body language, bad vibes. The kind of decay you can’t just patch with a rah-rah press conference, a well-placed promise, or even a savior named Jayden Quaintance.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth that stings most of all—the one we don’t want to say out loud but feel gnawing at us anyway: we don’t know if this gets better. We don’t know if the fixes Pope keeps preaching about are real or wishful incantations. We don’t know if a program built on NIL money and one-year mercenaries can rediscover heart, pride, or purpose. We don’t know if next Saturday against Indiana is the first step back… or one more step into the void.

We don’t know. That’s the scary part.

Because for all our bluster and bravado, Big Blue Nation likes certainty. We like legacy. We like stability. We like knowing that no matter the chaos swirling through college hoops, Kentucky Basketball stands firm—unshakable, undeniable, eternal.

But standing outside Bridgestone Arena after that 35-point humiliation, looking into the hollow faces of fellow fans who traveled hundreds of miles for a beatdown they’ll never forget, it was impossible not to feel the ground shifting under our feet.

Maybe we rise from this. Maybe we don’t. Maybe this is rock bottom. Or maybe—we whisper it, barely audible—it’s a sign of something even more ominous.

Nobody died. But something has changed. And until this team proves otherwise, we’re left clinging to hope with one hand… and bracing for the worst with the other.

This article was originally written for distribution through Nolan Group Media publications.


Dr. John Huangis a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, Whining For Posterity, and all his books at Amazon.

The House Always Wins

The House Always Wins

What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?

Remember when the worst thing to happen in a basketball game was Perry Stevenson goaltending a free throw or Christian Laettner stomping on someone’s chest? Those were simpler times. Now we’ve got Chauncey Billups and Terry Rozier being investigated for sports gambling.

Welp, shame on us. We got what we asked for.

When we opened the floodgates to legalized sports betting, we were told it would be harmless fun—a way to “enhance fan engagement.” The marketing geniuses promised us responsible wagering, clean oversight, and a little extra tax revenue for our schools. What we actually got was a nation of addicts-in-training, daily fantasy junkies, and people screaming at their phones during the fourth quarter of a meaningless midweek NBA game because they needed one more rebound to hit the over.

And yes, I get it. Gambling itself isn’t inherently evil. It’s not like betting on Kentucky to cover the spread automatically condemns your soul to perdition. But let’s not pretend we didn’t invite the devil in when we started normalizing this stuff as if it were just another harmless hobby.

I know because I’m wired that way myself. I’ve got an addictive personality. Always have. I still remember the euphoric rush of winning my first NCAA tournament bracket—strutting around like Einstein in sneakers because I had correctly predicted some 11-seed Cinderella run to the Sweet 16. Then came fantasy football. Oh, the sweet taste of victory on Monday night! I’d sit there with one player left in the lineup, calculating yards and touchdowns like a Wall Street trader watching his stock portfolio. When my guy scored, I’d practically levitate off the couch.

You see, that’s the problem. It’s never enough. You always want a little more action, a little bigger hit of adrenaline, the proverbial dopamine rush. For people like me, that’s a slippery slope. One day you’re betting a friendly five bucks with your buddies; the next day you’re mortgaging the house because the Bengals can’t possibly blow another lead.

The truth is, gambling can ruin lives. It destroys families, wrecks bank accounts, and turns decent people into liars and thieves. It feeds on desperation and ego—the belief that you can beat the odds, that you’re smarter than the system or your neighbor down the street, that this next parlay will finally get you even. Spoiler alert: the house always wins.

And when that “house” happens to be tied to the integrity of our sports, that’s when things really go south. If you can’t watch a game without wondering whether the ref’s call was clean, or whether the player missed that shot on purpose, what are we even cheering for? The beauty of sports has always been its purity—hard work, skill, competition. Gambling muddies that. It injects suspicion where there should instead be joy.

Money, of course, is the root of it all. It always is. Money draws in the riff raff, the hustlers, and the shadowy figures waiting in the alleys of every major sports scandal. Organized crime didn’t just disappear when we legalized betting; it just put on a nicer suit and opened an app. The lure of easy cash will always attract those looking to exploit the system—and sadly, some of those people will have locker room access.

When I was growing up, sports were an escape from the mess of the world—a pure and noble pursuit of excellence. Now they’re just another line item in somebody’s betting portfolio. Every pitch, every possession, every field goal attempt is a potential profit or loss. Even the broadcasters can’t resist dropping the over/under like it’s part of the game itself.

And while we’re pointing fingers, let’s not forget the sports radio guys who spend half their shows preaching about “responsible gambling” while the other half reading ad copy for the very apps causing the mess. Spare me the sanctimony. You can’t sermonize about integrity one minute and then tell me to “hammer the over” with a promo code the next.

I’m not naïve. I know you can’t unring the bell. Gambling is here to stay. The toothpaste is out of the tube, and no amount of moral handwringing is going to put it back. But we can at least be honest about what it’s doing to us. For every “responsible gamer” out there treating it like entertainment, there are dozens more suckers sinking deeper into the quicksand.

I suppose it’s fine if you know your limits—if you can place a small wager and walk away without checking your phone every five minutes. But for most people, those limits blur over time. The lines between fun and fixation disappear, and before long, you’re chasing losses like Calipari after Covid.

So yeah, when I hear about Chauncey Billups and Terry Rozier getting tangled in the gambling web, I’m not shocked—I’m sad. Sad for them, sad for the sport, sad for the fans who still believe in fair play. Because the more this stuff spreads, the more we risk losing what made us fall in love with sports in the first place.

I’m not preaching here. Like I said, I’m as susceptible as anyone. If gambling apps had been around when I was younger, I might have been one of those guys refreshing DraftKings under the table during Sunday service. (I’m joking… mostly.) But maybe that’s why I’m so wary of it now. I know how easy it is to get hooked, how quickly something innocent can become destructive.

So as these investigations unfold, I’ll be watching—not for the point spreads or the odds, but for the soul of the game itself. Because if we keep going down this road, if we keep letting money and manipulation call the shots, one day we might wake up and realize the thrill is gone. The joy’s been replaced by suspicion, and the purity of the game by the price of the bet.

And when that happens, it won’t matter who wins or loses. The house will have already won.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, “Whining For Posterity,” and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

“Name, Image, and Mayhem: Kentucky’s NIL Cliffhanger”

“Name, Image, and Mayhem: Kentucky’s NIL Cliffhanger”

I’ll be the first to admit—I’m confused. Especially when listening to University of Kentucky Athletics Director Mitch Barnhart talk circles around himself.

In his interview with Matt Jones of Kentucky Sports Radio earlier today, Barnhart assured all the loyal BBN listeners that, even within this new landscape of college athletics, not only will UK not be cutting any sports, but he’s confident the university will be able to fund any new upcoming revenue share amounts.

Those are shockingly bold statements. The obvious retort is: How does Mitch know?

Because just moments earlier while addressing the media, Barnhart refused to disclose any specifics about the revenue sharing amounts, citing the “uncertainty” and “fluidity” of the entire new world order.

“We’re in the first month of this thing,” Barnhart told a roomful of attentive scribes thirsting after his every word. “Literally the first month. For anybody to sit in front of a group and say, ‘I’ve got all the answers after four weeks,’ good for you, good for you. I mean, we’ve talked about a decade’s worth of change that has happened in the last six to ten months of college athletics.”

“The change that has occurred has been massive,” he continued. “We don’t even have a governance structure in place really, to be honest with you.”  

I always knew college athletics was a cutthroat business. That’s why I titled my debut novel Name, Image, and Murder. It was a fictional whodunit loosely based on the chaotic new world of NIL—the Wild Wild West of amateur sports gone pro. But I’m starting to think fiction might be safer than what’s actually brewing behind the scenes in Lexington.

You see, the same school that gave us Adolph Rupp, Dan Issel, Anthony Davis, and eight national championships is now poised at the crossroads of an athletic identity crisis. Do we leverage our exalted status as the greatest tradition in college basketball? Or do we bow before the almighty dollar in a noble attempt to keep all our boats floating? NIL has officially graduated from “name, image, and likeness” to “nobody is listening”—at least when it comes to making choices regarding long-term sustainability.

And now, with the recent House v. NCAA settlement ushering in the brave new world of revenue sharing, UK Athletics is walking a tightrope strung between Rupp Arena, Kroger Field, Memorial Coliseum, and Kentucky Proud Park.

On paper, the new rules sound reasonable. Schools can now pay players directly—up to $20.5 million a year in shared revenue. Kentucky has fully committed to this model, even creating a snazzy new LLC called Champions Blue. Sounds like a superhero franchise, right? Champions Blue! Defenders of BBN! As technically a nonprofit organization, I’m not sure what to make of it. Cynics might call it a financial shell game that makes Enron look like Little League bookkeeping.

Here’s the problem. Paying players is expensive. Kentucky projects a $31 million deficit next year, even after slashing perks, borrowing from the university, and shaking every couch cushion from Pikeville to Paducah. And with the bulk of revenue earmarked for men’s basketball and football, you can kiss some non-revenue sports goodbye faster than a 2-seed getting bounced by Saint Peter’s—regardless of what Mitch promises.

But wait, there’s more! Earlier reports citing multiple reliable sources claim UK is devoting 45% of its revenue-sharing budget directly to Mark Pope’s team. Even though Mark Stoops debunked that statement as “absolutely untrue,” many won’t believe him. This is, after all, a basketball school. Except when the football team has ten-win seasons. Or when the volleyball team is hoisting SEC banners. Or when someone on the rifle squad or track team wins Olympic gold. You know, the other student-athletes, who apparently don’t get to eat from the same buffet.

That’s where the danger lies. Not in the fairness of it all—college athletics has never been fair—but in the fragility of it.

What happens when Title IX lawyers come knocking, wondering why the women’s soccer team is using 1997 cleats while the men’s basketball team is taking private flights to Maui (yes, remember Maui)? What happens when boosters get bored with writing six-figure checks for backups who never leave the bench? What happens when ticket prices go up again to cover costs, and the average fan can’t afford to sit in the rafters without taking out a second mortgage?

What happens when your favorite in-state walk-on is replaced by a five-star diva who’s demanding an exorbitant NIL deal, a YouTube series, and three coveted parking spaces on campus?

This is not just a UK problem. This is an everywhere problem. But here in the Bluegrass, where we measure time in Final Fours and football tailgates, we feel the tremors more than most. It’s hard to build “La Familia” when everyone’s negotiating like La Cosa Nostra.

And don’t get me wrong—I’m not anti-athlete. I’m all for players getting their fair slice of the billion-dollar pie. But when the pie crust is crumbling and the recipe keeps changing, it’s hard to know whether we’re baking a dynasty or our athletics director is just blowing hot air.

Champions Blue may turn out to be a genius model. Or it may be a cautionary tale studied by future ADs with degrees in both sports management and disaster response. In either case, the margin for error is thinner than Mitch Barnhart’s top button.

As for me, I’m thinking about writing a sequel. Name, Image, and Mayhem: The NIL Strikes Back. It’ll feature a fictional blue-blood program that tried to buy its way to the top, only to realize it couldn’t afford loyalty, chemistry, or the next contract buyout. Spoiler alert: the villain isn’t the athlete, the booster, or the NCAA.

It’s the system. A system we all helped create. A system now careening down a one-way road where amateurism is dead, loyalty is negotiable, and tradition is mocked and poo-pooed.

So buckle up, BBN. The real madness isn’t in March anymore. It’s happening right now—behind closed doors, in budget meetings, where the stakes are higher than a last-second Aaron Harrison three-point bomb.

May God have mercy on us all.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author of Name, Image, and Murder. He serves as a reporter and columnist for Nolan Group Media. Follow him @KYHuangs on social media and find his books, including the soon-to-be-bestselling Whining for Posterity, here: https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

It Still Means Something”: Why the Kentucky Brand Isn’t Just a Jersey

It Still Means Something”: Why the Kentucky Brand Isn’t Just a Jersey

Kentucky players celebrating the name on the front of the jersey after their big 106-100 win over the eventual national champion, Florida Gators, in Rupp Arena on January 4, 2025.

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – In an era where players are more likely to follow Benjamins than banners, where “NIL” has replaced “MVP” in the recruiting wars, and where the transfer portal spins faster than my dog doing zoomies, one might wonder—Does the name on the front of the jersey still matter anymore?

At his recent media conference held earlier this week, Kentucky Basketball head coach Mark Pope answered that question with a resounding, heartfelt yes. And this wasn’t just your typical lukewarm head nod. No, this was the type of yes that gives you chills. The kind that makes you want to lace up your Nikes, high five your portly neighbor, and run through the proverbial brick wall.

“It matters,” Pope said. “There’s nowhere like this.”

He’s not wrong. Kentucky Basketball isn’t just a brand. It’s the program with the greatest tradition in the history of the game. It’s a baptism together with a rite of passage wrapped up in eight NCAA championship banners, 61 NCAA Tournament appearances, and the most all-time wins of anybody still playing. It’s Joe B. and Jamal. It’s Wah Wah and Wall. It’s five national championships in five different decades and a fanbase that will passionately defend the honor of Farmer, Pelphrey, Feldhaus, and Woods like they’re…well…Unforgettable.

But in this new wild west of college hoops—where loyalty is traded for luxury and bluebloods can be outbid by programs with booster billionaires—it’s fair to ask: Does Kentucky still hold sway with this new generation of coddled, roundball mercenaries raised on highlight reels and endorsement deals?

Pope thinks it does. Scratch that—he knows it does. And surprise, surprise—his answer isn’t only about tradition for tradition’s sake. It’s about transformation, character, work ethic, and servant leadership. About what happens when you willingly pour yourself into something bigger.

“If you come in here not understanding or appreciating that,” Pope warns, “I think your chances of success are not very high.”

That’s not gatekeeping. That’s the gospel according to the Pope.

Because this place is different. It asks more of you. More than just your wingspan or your vertical or your TikTok follower count. It demands your heart. Your humility. Your willingness to dive for loose balls, to play through bruises, to pass up a good shot for a great one. To give your teammate the limelight just because he’s your teammate. It demands that you surrender just a little piece of yourself—not to lose your identity, but to elevate it.

And that’s where the magic happens.

“When you learn that concept—of if I give a little bit of myself, it actually elevates myself—that’s what’s great about this beautiful, brilliant team sport of basketball,” Pope said. “The pathway to become immortal is very different than this world wants to teach us.”

Mic. Drop.

Yes, kids today are soft. There, I said it. Many may be distracted by the siren song of short-term riches. But Pope isn’t recruiting kids who just want a wheelbarrow full of cash. He’s recruiting young men who want to matter and make a difference. Who’ll leave legacy footprints in the bluegrass that echo through the rafters long after they’re gone. People like Issel, and Goose, and Macy, and Walker, and Davis.

Think about it: Where else can you become immortal at the ripe age of nineteen? Where else does a walk-on get a standing ovation just for checking in? Where else can you go from obscurity to legendary in a single March weekend? Where can you be known simply for sporting a unibrow, girls kissing your car bumper, or wearing jorts for heaven’s sake?

That’s not marketing fluff put together by the suits at JMI. That’s lived experience. That’s legacy. And it’s now being passed down from generation to generation.

“Our guys last season set a beautiful, brilliant standard of what it means to be a Kentucky Basketball player,” Pope said. “We’re leaning on them a lot… their video, their outtakes, their clips, their comments—just to help understand that.”

Because—as former coach John Calipari famously said on so many occasions—Kentucky isn’t for everyone. And that’s precisely the point.

You can go be a great basketball player at a lot of places. Pope knows that. Heck, he’s played and coached in a few of them. But being great here? That’s a different kind of great. That’s statue-worthy great. That’s raise-your-jersey-to-the-rafters great. That’s can’t-walk-through-Kroger-without-grandma-taking-a-selfie great.

So yes, the name on the back may earn you the check. But the name on the front? That’s what earns you the chapter in Kentucky lore.

Mark Pope gets it. He lived it. And now, he’s preaching it. Loudly. Passionately. With a blend of fire and sincerity that makes you believe Kentucky Basketball hasn’t lost its way after all. It’s just waiting for the right kind of player to find theirs.

Because for all the bells, whistles, dollar signs, and distractions of this modern basketball age, one truth remains: This place is different.

And if you can understand that?

You’re going to be crazy successful.

Or immortal.

That’s the gospel truth. Sign me up, Coach!

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his debut novel— “Name, Image, and Murder”—and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

This blog posting was first submitted as a column for Nolan Group Media publications.

Dear Duke Basketball

Dear Duke Basketball

We feel your pain. Really, we do.

After all, as die-hard Kentucky fans—we’ve been there. We’re all too familiar with having our national title hopes strewn like shattered glass across the Final Four floor. We’ve seen the movie several times before—the one where the best team, with the best players, and all the media hype in the world, suddenly and shockingly crumbles into a tragic heap of nightmarish disbelief.

So many times, we’ve also been anointed prematurely. Crowned before the coronation. Celebrated before the ceremony. And then left to watch—stunned and slack-jawed, humiliated and embarrassed—as the dream slipped away and the rest of the world rejoiced.

So yes, we feel for you, Duke fans.
But make no mistake—we’re also laughing at you this morning. At least just a little.

Because it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving program.

Oh, I know. That’s petty. That’s small. That’s un-Christian. “You’re living rent-free in our heads,” you say.

That may all be true.
But c’mon—this is Duke University we’re talking about.

Ever since Laettner hit the shot, you’ve been the villain in our college hoops drama. You stole our titles back in 2010 and 2015. You—with your haughty, self-righteous air of academic superiority—deserve exactly what you’re getting. Your smug alumni looking down from their elitist Gothic towers in Durham while we wallow in our fried chicken, cigarettes, and toothless grins.

And now this.

Comfortably up by 14 points with eight minutes to go, and you manage just one field goal the rest of the game—losing to Houston 70–67 in the national semifinals. The laughingstock. The punchline. The greatest Final Four choke of all time.

So what now?

You mope about. You avoid ESPN. You dread “One Shining Moment” and try to convince yourselves that next year will be your year.

(Spoiler: It won’t be.)

But take heart, for this too shall pass. Time, as they say, cures all wounds.

We know the feeling. The second-half shooting debacle versus Georgetown in 1984? We’re coping. The shot-clock violations versus Wisconsin in 2015? Scarred, but functional. Saint Peter’s and Jack Gohlke? Perplexed, but no longer in despair.

So join us, Duke. Come sit beside us on this broken, blue-blooded bench of cold-hearted misery. Let’s swap stories about what might have been. We’ll tell you about 2015 if you tell us about 2025.

You see, for all your Ivy League aspirations and smug superiority, you’re not so different from us after all. Blue bloods with blue uniforms. Blue tears. Blue language from angry fans. And now, an equally blue postseason résumé.

The only real difference?

We’ve got eight championship rings.
You still have only five.

Respectfully,
BBN

The Epic Return

The Epic Return

If Kentucky under Rick Pitino was Camelot—a kingdom of discipline, full-court pressure, and three-point barrages—then John Calipari’s Kentucky was Hollywood.

It was glitz, glamour, and one-and-done superstars walking the red carpet to the NBA. It was the biggest show in college basketball, headlined by a charismatic director who knew how to market his stars. There were blockbuster seasons (2010, 2012, 2015), shocking flops (Evansville, St. Peter’s, Oakland), and a script that, in the end, started feeling a little too familiar.

Like any Hollywood epic, it had its golden era, its sequels that didn’t quite measure up, and ultimately, an ending that unceremoniously flopped. But for over a decade, Big Blue Nation lived under the bright lights—forever in the hunt—hoping that every season could produce the next big championship hit.

Now, the cameras have moved on, the set has changed, and Calipari has left town. But on February 1, the former leading man returns to see if the audience still remembers his name.

Of course we remember. For 15 years, Coach Cal was the man in Lexington, patrolling the Kentucky sideline with designer suits, slicked-back hair, and a bottomless supply of “YOU PEOPLE ARE CRAZY” clichés. He promised the Big Blue Nation “we eat first,” and for a while, we did—four Final Fours, a national title, an undefeated regular season, and 25 NBA lottery picks will do that. But over time, the meals got smaller, the bill got bigger, and the chef started arguing with the waitstaff. When Mark Pope was handed the keys last April, many in the fan base felt relieved, a bit like ending a long-term relationship that had irreparably soured and gone stale.

But here’s the thing about breakups—closure is never real until you see them again.

So here comes Cal, rolling into town this weekend wearing red, looking like the guy who just bought a sports car after a midlife crisis. He won’t say it, but he’d love nothing more than to walk into Rupp, stick his hands in his pig-sooie pockets, and smugly strut out with a win.

The reception? Oh, it’s complicated.

If I were emperor of BBN, I would order a rousing standing ovation when Calipari is introduced. After all, the man deserves it. He’ll be in the rafters one day. The guy devoted 15 years of his life to the program, the university, and the community. Sure, he won a lot of ball games. But he also used his enormous platform to spearhead relief efforts wherever and whenever disasters hit, and people were hurting. On a personal level, he also wrote the foreword to two of my books. With the entire college basketball world looking on, how classy would it be if everyone stood and cheered.

There will be cheers because, let’s face it, he did bring home banner No. 8. There will also be boos, because 9, 10, and 11 never followed. Some fans will clap out of respect, others will heckle because they feel like the last four years were a hostage situation. And still others—perhaps the most honest among us—will feel an odd mix of nostalgia and irritation, like when you really enjoyed the movie but felt the ending royally sucked.

Tom Leach had a very insightful take when he appeared on the Round of Shots podcast earlier last week.

“He’ll get booed just like Rick did,” predicted the Voice of the Wildcats. “It’ll be a pretty strong chorus of boos I’d imagine. There’ll be some mixed emotions for Cal on that. If you’re in that situation and you’ve coached at Kentucky, you may be a little insulted if they didn’t boo you.”

With Calipari’s massive ego, that comment may just be spot on. So, let’s cheer at his intro. But as soon as the ball is tipped, we’ll boo until our heart’s content.

Whatever happens, one thing is for sure: February 1 is must-watch theater.

Because every Hollywood story gets a sequel—whether you want it or not.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his debut novel— “Name, Image, and Murder”—and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD