An Oak of Righteousness

“But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.” – James 3:17

You can read Dr. Tom Cooper’s obituary if you want the facts. https://www.milwardfuneral.com/obituaries/Dr-Thomas-M-Cooper?obId=46963575

You’ll learn where he studied, what he accomplished, how many students he taught, how many lives he touched in the official, measurable ways that look good on paper and sound impressive when read aloud. All of it is true. All of it matters.

But none of it explains why his passing yesterday saddened me in ways that words simply can’t adequately express.

Dr. Cooper was one of my mentors. In dental school, yes. But also in Sunday School, which, as it turns out, may have been the more important classroom. In both settings, he did something meaningful: he paid attention to people. Not just the impressive ones, nor the loud ones, nor the future rising stars—but to every ordinary Joe like me who showed up wanting to learn.

In dental school, it’s easy to think teaching is about brilliance—how much you know, how fast you can correct someone, how efficiently you can expose ignorance. Dr. Cooper never taught that way. He had an unhurried confidence, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. When he spoke, you leaned in—not because he demanded attention, but because you were curious about what he had to say.

He didn’t just teach dentistry. He taught students.

And then there was Sunday School—where he taught life.

Long before I ever stood in front of a class or a congregation, I watched him do something deceptively simple and profoundly wise. He didn’t teach the lesson he wanted to teach. He taught the lesson we were ready to hear.

One Sunday, probably sensing my early, unpolished enthusiasm for teaching, he gave me a piece of advice that has followed me through every single speaking engagement—whether radio broadcast, packed classroom, or that awkward circle of folding chairs when only two people showed up:

“Take the class where they want to take you.”

It sounds almost too gentle to be revolutionary. But it is.

What he meant was this: teaching isn’t about dragging people to where you think they should be. It’s about honoring where they already are. It’s about listening long enough to hear the questions beneath the questions. It’s about understanding that people don’t need your brilliance nearly as much as they need your presence.

That lesson shaped me more than any syllabus ever could.

It kept me from preaching at people when I should have been walking with them.
It kept me from filling silence when I should have been letting it speak.
It kept me from confusing authority with influence.

Dr. Cooper never chased the spotlight. He didn’t need it. His faith was sturdy, quiet, and deeply rooted. The Bible calls that an “oak of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor.” That phrase fits him perfectly—not flashy, not brittle, not swayed by every new wind of opinion.

Just solid. You leaned on Dr. Cooper without realizing it. And only when he’s gone do you feel how much weight he was carrying for others.

I don’t remember every lesson he taught. I don’t remember every Scripture he unpacked or every clinical pearl he dropped in passing. But I remember how he made me feel: seen, capable, invited.

That’s the kind of teaching that lasts.

If there’s a classroom in heaven, I suspect he’s there already, smiling patiently, waiting for the rest of us to catch up. And if I’m lucky, when I finally walk in, he’ll give me that same gentle reminder one more time:

“Take the class where they want to take you.”

Because that’s where the real learning happens.

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.

Discover his next scheduled teaching event here: Man Up – Men’s Ministry Retreat – St. Luke Church | Lexington, KY

Don’t Quit: A Kentucky Basketball Parable

Photo Credit: Chet White/UK Athletics

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – Last night, during the first half of the Kentucky–LSU game, I learned something important about myself.

I am apparently one missed layup away from emotional bankruptcy.

When the Kentucky Wildcats fell behind the LSU Tigers by 18 points, social media did what social media always does: it declared the season dead, the coach clueless, and the program in urgent need of a full historical makeover.

The Cats weren’t just losing. According to X, this team had never played basketball together. Ever. Dribbling was new, passing was theoretical, and shotmaking was a distant rumor.

Coach Mark Pope went from “confused” to “fraudulent” in roughly six possessions. I saw posts that looked less like basketball analysis and more like grief counseling sessions—except no one wanted counseling. They wanted Pope’s head on a platter.

And then something deeply inconvenient happened.

Kentucky didn’t quit. They started making a run, chipping away at the lead.

The misfit parts didn’t suddenly become perfect. They didn’t magically turn into the ’96 “Untouchables.” They just… kept playing. Kept guarding. Kept taking shots that started finding their targets. Kept believing the game wasn’t over just because the internet said it was.

Slowly, painfully, improbably, the deficit continued to shrink. Hope tiptoed back in like a thief in the night. And just when everyone had emotionally hedged their bets, Malachi Moreno hit a buzzer-beater that flipped despair into delirium in one glorious, heart-stopping moment.

Same team, same coach, same players—but with a vastly different ending.

That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t just a basketball game. This was a metaphor for life—a sermon illustration delivered by way of a jump shot.

We fans are spectacularly bad at patience. We see a bad half and assume a bad season. We experience a bad season and assume a bad future. We mistake “right now” for “forever.” We confuse temporary struggle with eternal failure.

And when things don’t go according to plan, we rush to assign blame instead of framing perspective.

Spiritually speaking, we do this all the time.

We stumble out of the gate early—financially, relationally, emotionally—and decide the game is over. We stop running our offense. We quit boxing out. We panic and doom-scroll our way into despair. We forget that growth is rarely linear and redemption almost never arrives on our own schedule.

Last night, Kentucky reminded us of something simple and profound: momentum can change on a dime.

One stop. One run. One decision not to quit.

Twenty-four hours ago, Kentucky was being slotted into last place hypotheticals and tournament anxiety threads. This morning? They’re within a game of first place. Hope has returned. Faith in Pope is back. The same fans who were writing eulogies are now quoting analytics again.

Here’s the crazy thing. Lose in Knoxville on Saturday, and you’ll see the same cycle repeated.

The lesson isn’t “never criticize.” Believe me—I’ve made a second career out of constructive whining. The lesson is don’t confuse adversity with identity. Don’t bury something just because it’s struggling. And don’t assume God—or basketball seasons—are finished when the scoreboard looks ugly at halftime.

Whatever your current struggles—whether health, finances, or relationships—just persevere. Reach out for help when needed, hug your dog, and never quit.

Sometimes the miracle isn’t the buzzer-beater.

Sometimes the miracle is just staying in the game long enough for it to matter—because halftime is a terrible time to quit.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” –James 1:2-4

Discover his next scheduled teaching event here: Man Up – Men’s Ministry Retreat – St. Luke Church | Lexington, KY

This Ain’t No Philosophy Seminar

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – When coaches are under fire, they usually don’t speak in riddles—they rant.

Jim Mora famously barked, “Playoffs?! Don’t talk about playoffs!”
Herm Edwards simplified the profession to its core: “You play to win the game.”
Mike Gundy, veins popping, yelled, “I’m a man! I’m 40!”

Those quotes didn’t require interpretation. They didn’t need a decoder ring. They landed because frustration stripped the message down to bone.

Which is why Mark Pope’s recent quote on his weekly coach’s show left so many Kentucky fans scratching their heads like they’d accidentally tuned into a philosophy podcast.

“What’s really important for us as coaches and as teammates is understanding the story that each of our guys and each member of our staff is telling themselves about what we’re going through right now…”

This is not a rant. It’s not normal coach-speak. It sounds more like a narrative symposium held in Ballroom A at the downtown Hyatt.

Before we dismiss it entirely—or turn it into a meme—let me explain why I might be uniquely qualified to translate what Pope was trying to say.

I spent decades as an orthodontist listening to people describe pain that wasn’t always where they thought it was. Patients told elaborate stories about one tooth when the real issue lived somewhere else entirely. My job wasn’t to validate the story. It was to identify the truth underneath it and fix the problem—whether the patient liked the diagnosis or not.

Coaching, at its best, works the same way.

So when Pope talks about “the story each guy is telling himself,” he’s really saying this:

Players are processing adversity differently. Some think it’s bad luck. Some think it’s their fault. Some think the system isn’t for them. Some think they should be playing more.

That part is reasonable, human, and accurate.

Then Pope says he wants to bring those stories back to two things: a point of truth and a point of common understanding.

Translation:
“We need everyone to stop lying to themselves—and agree on what we’re actually bad at.”

Still reasonable. Still logical. But strangely phrased for Kentucky basketball. It feels like Phil Jackson’s Zen without the structure—philosophy without the scoreboard support to justify it.

And that’s why it landed sideways.

Kentucky fans don’t need help understanding the story when the evidence is screaming:

• Slow starts
• Inconsistent effort
• Poor perimeter defense
• Questionable preparation

When you’ve had nearly two weeks to prepare and still fall behind by 21 points, the story doesn’t matter nearly as much as the symptoms. The frustration isn’t that Pope is wrong.

It’s that he’s explaining instead of commanding. At Kentucky, explanation often sounds like excuse—even when it’s not intended that way.

Fans are conditioned to expect blunt clarity in moments like this. Mora didn’t unpack emotional narratives. Edwards didn’t ask players how losing made them feel. Gundy didn’t workshop his truth.

They owned it.

That doesn’t mean Pope lacks intelligence or care. In fact, this quote suggests the opposite—he’s thoughtful, introspective, and trying to understand the human side of his team.

But this job isn’t graded on thoughtfulness. It’s graded on readiness—and ultimately wins and championships.

If every player is telling himself a different story, that’s not a literary problem. It’s a leadership one. Great programs don’t require narrative alignment sessions. They create roles so clear that internal monologues don’t matter.

At Kentucky, the story is supposed to be singular:

Defend.
Compete.
Earn minutes.
Win.

No subplots. No word-salad narratives from the coach. Kentucky basketball doesn’t need a narrator.

Pope’s quote might sound thoughtful in June. It sounds confusing in January.

And in January, Big Blue Nation is longing for something refreshingly old-school:

Less parable.
More accountability.

Let’s hope we get it.

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

I’m on to Kenny Brooks

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – I’m on to Kenny Brooks. Not in a stop-the-presses, breaking news kind of way. It’s more like the quiet realization that the man has cracked a code most coaches spend a lifetime chasing. If you want sustained success in basketball—real, transferable, program-defining success—get yourself a generational point guard, teach her, empower her, and then get out of the way just enough to let her become herself.

He did it with Georgia Amoore. And now, unmistakably, he’s doing it again with Tonie Morgan.

Morgan’s résumé is already starting to read like folklore. A buzzer-beater that stunned LSU last Thursday, followed by another surgical stat line—18 points, 14 assists—in a composed, methodical 74–52 dismantling of Missouri. Flashy when needed. Surgical when required. And always, always in control.

But the numbers only tell you what she’s doing. They rarely explain why—or how.

That’s where Brooks leaned back, grinned, and gave us the real scouting report—one that had nothing to do with crossover moves or assist totals.

“I don’t know what football team is doing good without a good quarterback,” Brooks quipped. “Tonie, she’s been phenomenal all year long… her willingness to be coached. She never makes a face when she doesn’t agree with something… she’s consistently just welcoming any kind of feedback and she takes it.”

There it is. The overlooked superpower.

Be Teachable.

In an era where athletes are branded before they’re built, where confidence sometimes masquerades as infallibility, Morgan’s greatest strength might be her posture in a film room. She watches. She listens. She absorbs. And then—this is the key—she applies.

Brooks made something else clear early, almost defensively, as if to protect Morgan from lazy comparisons: she is not trying to fill Georgia Amoore’s shoes. She’s building her own footprint. Different stride—with the same authority.

And authority she has.

Morgan can do it all. She scores at all three levels. She goes downhill with intention, not chaos. She distributes with either hand like she’s ambidextrous by design. She can take her defender one-on-one when the offense stalls. She understands shot selection. And she defends—not the Instagram kind of defense, but the grind-it-out, make-you-work-for-air variety.

Most importantly, Brooks has empowered Morgan to run the offense. Not just initiate it. Not just survive it. But to run it.

That kind of trust doesn’t come from a box score. It comes from habits—and a heck of a lot of communication and connection between coach and player.

Morgan explained it simply, the way players who truly understand their role often do.

“I have the ball a lot, so it is very important that I take care of it,” said the 5-foot-9 senior transfer from Georgia Tech. “So, when I do turn it over, I just move on. It happens… I just want to take care of it.”

That’s not coach-speak. That’s emotional maturity. Ownership without self-flagellation. Accountability without paralysis.

Teachable players don’t crumble when corrected or sulk when challenged. They don’t confuse coaching with criticism. They see feedback as fuel, not as insult.

And that—far more than a step-back jumper or a no-look dime—is what separates good point guards from the kind that quietly define eras.

Brooks knows it. He’s lived it. He’s building around it again.

Every great coach has a calling card. For Brooks, it might be this: he doesn’t just recruit talent; he intentionally seeks out posture and fit. The willingness to be molded. The humility to learn. The confidence to adapt.

Put a player like that at the point, and suddenly everything else aligns. Spacing makes sense. Tempo settles. Teammates breathe easier. Coaches sleep better.

Morgan’s story is still being written, but the early chapters are already instructive—not just for basketball, but for life. Be skilled, yes. Be confident, absolutely. But remain teachable through it all.

Because the players who last, the leaders who endure, and the programs that matter most are built not on ego—but on the desire to learn and get better.

And if Kenny Brooks keeps finding point guards like this?

Well… I’m really on to him now.

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

To Hell with the Standard (Champions Classic Edition)

(LEXINGTON, KY.) – Mark Pope keeps telling us Kentucky didn’t “meet the standard,” but after that Michigan State demolition in the Champions Classic, I’m starting to think we’re comparing this team to the wrong standard entirely. Championship Number Nine? At this point, I’d settle for “don’t get pantsed on national television before halftime.”

You see, “the standard” sounds great when you’re at a booster dinner or a preseason pep rally. But when the Cats get embarrassed again in Madison Square Garden—when the defense leaks worse than a cheap umbrella and the chemistry looks like oil and vinegar—then the standard becomes a cruel, suffocating weight.

And surely you caught Pope’s postgame presser… ugh. The man looked like someone had just put his dog down. Depressed. Drained. Eyes sunken like he’d been up all night gathering data, crunching analytics, and questioning all his life decisions. This isn’t the buoyant, always-positive, program-resurrecting Pope we hoped for—this is a man preparing for a root canal without anesthesia.

Pope said his players weren’t ready for Louisville because of some “out-of-character” incident before the game. Well, what was the excuse against Michigan State? Nothing—nothing—about that latest performance looked in character for a team supposedly training every day under the ghostly shadow of the standard. At this point, the standard has morphed into a meaningless punchline.

And can we talk about the $22 million elephant in the room?
That’s right—this roster is collectively pulling in twenty-two million American dollars to play basketball. That’s not chump change.

And what are we getting for that hefty investment?

Poop. Absolute, unmitigated poop.

Defense? Poop.
Shot selection? Poop.
Effort? Poop.
Guys playing for an NBA audition instead of the name on the front of the jersey? Extra-strength poop with glitter.

Okay—I’ve vented enough. Let’s take a deep breath (maybe two) and accept the painful truth: Mark Pope inherited a proud tradition, but also a monster. Every coach who takes the Kentucky job eventually realizes the same terrifying thing—this fan base is passionately crazy. Anything less than a Final Four is failure. Anything short of cutting down the nets is unacceptable. That’s the gospel of Big Blue Nation.

But here’s the irony—we demand perfection from kids who can’t legally rent a car. We scream “UNACCEPTABLE!” into the Twitter void while eating buffalo wings in our recliners. We call for Pope’s head in November, then brag about our loyalty in March.

We’ve worshiped at the altar of the standard so long that we’ve forgotten why we fell in love with Kentucky basketball in the first place. It wasn’t just the championships—it was the magic. The tradition. The roar inside Rupp when some kid from Pikeville or Paducah drills a three. The way the team makes us feel like part of something larger than ourselves.

You can’t measure that with analytics. You can’t hang it from the rafters either. It’s a pulse. A heartbeat. And right now, that heartbeat’s faint—not because of the losses, but because we’ve forgotten how to simply enjoy the game.

So here’s my radical suggestion: to hell with the standard—for now.

Let’s stop counting banners and start counting moments. Let’s cheer the hustle play, the smart pass, the kid who dives on the floor when the game’s already out of reach. Let’s celebrate the little victories—the ones that don’t make SportsCenter but make us proud nonetheless.

Sure, this team may not be destined for the ninth championship banner. They may fumble away a few more games. The defense may still make you want to throw a shoe at your TV. But they’re our team. And if we can’t love them when they’re flawed and broken, we don’t deserve to love them when they’re flying high.

The sky isn’t really falling. It just feels that way because we’ve been staring upward too long, waiting for the next banner to drop.

Let’s stop pretending this is a title run and just… watch basketball. Enjoy the wild, maddening, forehead-smacking circus it becomes. Appreciate Pope trying to hold the universe together with bailing wire while the players try to remember how to guard a ball screen.

Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. And if you don’t ditch the standard, you’ll be the one feeling the root canal.

Championship Nine isn’t walking through that door.
But maybe joy can.
If we let it.

And if this $22-million roster ever decides to stop playing like poop, well… we’ll call that manna from heaven.

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 https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

Battle at the Yum: Brotherly Love, Bluegrass Style

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – I’ve been to a lot of games at the KFC Yum! Center over the years, and one constant remains: somebody always spills beer on me. Maybe it’s the cramped seats, maybe it’s divine retribution for my unapologetic “L’s down,” or just that smug smirk when Kentucky pulls off that inevitable upset. But whatever the reason, it’s always the same warm, yeasty baptism by Yuengling. Welcome to the Kentucky–Louisville rivalry, friends—where good manners and mutual sportsmanship go to die.

When Kentucky invades the Yum on Tuesday night, it won’t just be another non-conference matchup—it’ll be a civil war disguised as basketball. Don’t let the early date on the calendar fool you. Sure, the game won’t decide an SEC or ACC title, and yes, both programs are still figuring out rotations, chemistry, and playing through injuries. But if you think this one doesn’t matter, try telling that to the guy in the bird suit mugging for the cameras behind Kentucky’s bench.

Here’s the scary part. The Wildcats might not know what they’re walking into. Mark Pope’s shiny new roster—brimming with transfers, freshmen, and enthusiasm—hasn’t yet been immersed in the unholy water of this rivalry. You can study film all you want, but no amount of game tape or analytics prepares you for 22,000 red-clad fanatics who hate everything about you down to the shade of your underwear. This isn’t just basketball—it’s bragging rights and cultural warfare.

To the Louisville faithful, Kentucky is the privileged older brother, always hogging the spotlight, driving the fancy car, and bragging about his NBA friends. The Cardinals, meanwhile, are the petulant little sibling—scrappy, defiant, and perpetually insecure. They’ll do anything to get big brother’s attention, even if it means tossing a drink in his face or keying his Ferrari.

Speaking of Ferraris, Pope’s team is still learning to shift gears smoothly. We’ve seen flashes of brilliance—fast breaks that hum, defense that smothers, and a jaw-dropping Collin Chandler dunk—but also some of the sputtering you’d expect from a group still breaking in the new parts. Louisville, on the other hand, is in the midst of its own identity crisis under coach Pat Kelsey. Kelsey’s energy borders on cartoonish—think Red Bull-fueled pep rally meets evangelical tent revival. He and Pope are oddly similar in their intensity, their positivity, and their charming—but goofy—awkwardness.

If it weren’t for their height difference, these two might actually be long-lost twins separated at birth. Both are relentlessly upbeat. Both quote leadership manuals like scripture. And both probably wear out their assistants with midnight text chains about “culture” and “accountability.” The difference? Pope has the keys to the big blue mansion, while Kelsey’s still trying to get the plumbing fixed in the old red house down the street.

Then there’s last year’s dustup—when Pope put Kelsey in a friendly “headlock” during a midgame scrum. Add in the rumored “verbal altercation” outside a top recruit’s home, and you’ve got another colorful chapter in UK-UL lore. It’s all fun and games—until it’s not.

Expect some fireworks on Tuesday. Louisville will treat this like their Super Bowl, their one shining moment to prove they’re not entirely irrelevant. Kentucky, meanwhile, would like nothing more than to quiet the rowdy red masses and head back down I-64 with the smug satisfaction that only a rivalry win provides.

This particular game might not have the national stakes of years past. Remember, it’s happening way too early. Both teams are still under construction—a mix of promise and potential waiting for the right foundation. But pride, not perfection, will define the night. The winner gets the city for a year; the loser gets excuses.

And let’s be honest—Kentucky fans need this one. After the ups and downs of recent seasons, after the heartbreaks and early exits, Big Blue Nation wants tangible proof that Pope’s vision is more than just those “beautiful” slogans he’s been preaching since his arrival in Lexington. A win at the Yum would do wonders for morale, momentum, and those all-important selection committee resumes down the road.

Remember also that rivalries are less about rankings and more about respect—or, in this case, disrespect. You don’t beat Louisville for seeding; you beat Louisville because you can’t stand them.

So yes, I’ll make the trip again. I’ll brave the hecklers, dodge the popcorn, and pray the beer showers are light this year. Because there’s nothing quite like Kentucky versus Louisville—the noise, the tension, the mutual loathing wrapped in a shared love for basketball. It’s messy, it’s emotional, and it’s absolutely glorious.

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

The Big Dog Defects: Loyalty Goes to the Dogs

They say dogs are man’s best friend. They’re loyal to a fault and faithful to the end. But what happens when the Big Dog himself starts sniffing around another yard and decides the grass really is greener over in the Commonwealth’s least fashionable zip code?

Yes, Vince Marrow—Kentucky’s own gravelly voiced, Fritos munching recruiting wizard, tight ends coach extraordinaire, sideline spiritual advisor, and Mark Stoops’ trusty right-hand man—has defected to the enemy. And not just any enemy, mind you, but to Louisville. As in “Loo-a-vul.” As in red. As in the sworn arch-nemesis of all things blue and righteous. When I first heard the news, I didn’t know whether to weep, rage, or give Vince the one-finger salute on the way out.

For a dozen years, Big Dog barked loud and proud in Lexington. He wagged his tail at five-stars, howled with joy after bowl wins, and lifted the recruiting ceiling on a program that used to feast solely on moral victories and the occasional MAC pretender. Alongside Stoops, he turned UK Football into a respectable—and sometimes even feared—SEC contender. And now? Now he’s swapping out his blue windbreaker for a pair of Cardinal-red socks? Say it ain’t so, Vince.

To most of BBN, this is more than just a coaching move. This is betrayal at a Shakespearean level. This is Brutus plunging the knife into Caesar’s back or Larry Bird donning purple and gold.

Now before you tell me this is “just business,” spare me. That’s what everyone says nowadays. “It’s a business decision,” they mutter, as they pull up roots, ghost their friends, break their commitments, and leave their spouses for yoga instructors named Skyler. Somewhere along the way, loyalty became a punchline—something to scoff at, like Blockbuster Video or landline phones.

Marrow leaving Kentucky isn’t just a loss for Stoops. It’s a snapshot of society’s frayed relational fabric. Once upon a time, people stayed in one place, built deep roots, and grew old beside their neighbors and colleagues. These days, folks are constantly chasing “what’s next.” A few more dollars. A better title. More retweets. Less accountability. Like mice on a merry-go-round, we leap from opportunity to opportunity, always certain the next nut will be bigger and shinier.

Remember when a man’s word was his bond? When you could shake hands on something and actually mean it? I imagine Stoops and Marrow once made pacts in the bowels of Commonwealth Stadium. Pacts sealed not in ink, but in late-night film sessions and on recruiting trips to the barren fields of Ohio. You don’t just walk away from that history without leaving some blood on the blackboard.

Of course, I get it. Coaches leave. Programs evolve. People need to feed their families. Vince is free to make his own choices, just like I was free to leave my orthodontic practice to write books that don’t sell. Only Vince and Stoops really know what went on behind the scenes.

But can’t we still mourn the loss of something deeper? The erosion of loyalty. The death of staying power. The idea that you stick with your people—even when the wins are sparse and the haters are loud.

What hurts most is that we thought Vince was different. He wasn’t just a coach—he was our coach. He loved Big Blue Nation. He talked about “La Familia.” He posed with babies in Kroger parking lots. He always hinted that he’d “never wear red.” But you know how that goes—just ask Judas. Or LeBron. Or that youth pastor who used to lead worship and now sells crystals in Sedona.

And of all places… Louisville? That’s like Batman leaving Gotham to join the Joker’s henchmen. It’s like Colonel Sanders opening a Raising Cane’s. I fully expect Vince to start flashing the “L’s Up” and waxing poetic about the urban charm of the Gene Snyder Freeway.

So, what do we long-suffering UK football fans do now?

Well, we grieve. We rage. We write impassioned blog posts with overwrought metaphors. We take a HUGE breath…and then we go back to rooting for the name on the front of the jersey. Because at the end of the day, loyalty may be dying—but we don’t have to be part of the kill squad.

Let’s be loyal to our teams. To our friends. To our families. To our churches, our communities, and yes—even to the coaches who leave us for a shinier gig across enemy lines.

Maybe—just maybe—if we all doubled down on loyalty in our own little spheres, then someday, someone like Vince Marrow might actually stay.

But until then, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I will never, ever cheer for Louisville. Not for a player. Not for a coach. Not for a charity dunk contest versus Duke. Not even if Vince himself buys 500 copies of my newest book, Whining for Posterity, and hands them out at a Cardinal tailgate.

Because some of us still believe in loyalty. Even when the Big Dog runs away.

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

YMCA Blues: He is Risen—And So Is My Blood Pressure

Young man, there’s no need to feel down
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground
I said, young man, ’cause you’re in a new town
There’s no need to be unhappy

With all due respect to the Village People, I am by no means a young man—but I’ve nevertheless fallen head over heels for my local Y.M.C.A. These days, I’m practically living at the Beaumont branch. Now that I’m retired and officially in the Medicare club, I get free membership with my supplement plan. And boy, have I been milking that perk for all it’s worth.

On most weekday mornings, you’ll find me at the “Y” for a solid three hours. I’ve got my routine down pat—40 minutes of cardio on the treadmill or elliptical, a 50-minute weight training class, and then an hour of stretching and mobility work through either Mat Pilates or Yoga. And you wonder why I can eat like a horse and not gain an ounce. Truth be told, I’m leaner, meaner, and more flexible than ever. For the first time in my life, I can touch my toes without bending my knees. Woohoo!

In addition to all the physical benefits, I’ve also come to enjoy the social interactions that come with my membership privileges. The Beaumont staff are always super friendly, and there’s definitely something uplifting when engaging with fellow like-minded retirees who prioritize their health.

After having said all that, there is one teeny-tiny beef I have with the Y. Actually, it’s not so itsy-bitsy in my mind. Honestly, it’s a HUGE, GARGANTUAN beef. It drives me so crazy that I’m in the midst of a one-man crusade. At the minimum, the perpetrators should be sentenced to an eternity of endless burpees or sent to a silent yoga retreat in Siberia. Just thinking about their egregious offenses has sent my blood pressure soaring.

By now you’re undoubtedly thinking, I’ve got some serious issues—but here’s my complaint: Too many idiots are breaking the Y’s noise regulations.

Let me explain. Displayed prominently throughout the facility are the YMCA’s fitness floor behavioral guidelines.

Guideline No. 4: Please use courteous phone etiquette by refraining from loud phone conversations. Avoid using your cell phone while on equipment or resting on the machine between sets.

Guideline No. 6: Please use earbuds or headphones when listening to personal music devices.

Seems simple enough, right?

And yet, every single day I bear witness to the same recurring crimes against humanity: Loud phone calls about drama at work. YouTube videos blaring at 120 decibels. Full-blown coffee shop conversations between neighbors on side-by-side treadmills. Huffing, puffing, coughing, grunting—all of it flooding across the floor like a bad case of uncontrolled diarrhea.

Okay, I know it’s totally irrational for me to go apesh*t when I see someone committing blatant violations. I understand that they’re just guidelines. But for whatever reason, I just can’t restrain myself.

Look, I enjoy a warm hello and the occasional life update as much as the next guy. If it’s been a while since we’ve connected, by all means, tell me about your grandkids or your latest trip to Palm Springs. I don’t even mind updates regarding your most recent hip replacement. But let’s not turn a public gym into your personal podcast studio. I’m not your therapist or your captive audience. I’m trying to meditate, to breathe, to recite God’s word and memorize Scripture.

The treadmill, for me, is holy ground. Not only am I cruising in my target heart rate zone, but I’m also fine tuning my mind. I can’t focus and concentrate if you’re shamelessly regurgitating out loud.

Hey, I get the irony. Not very Christian of me, you say. I don’t care. Rules are rules! NO TALKING! OBEY OR GET OUT!

I know, I know—ranting about cell phone etiquette hardly seems like the path to holiness. But even in the gym, spiritual discipline matters. And wouldn’t you know it, the Bible has a few things to say about loud mouths and loose lips:

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” –James 1:19-20

“When words are many, transgression is not lacking, but whoever restrains his lips is prudent.” –Proverbs 10:19

“But no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.” –James 3:8

“Whoever guards his mouth preserves his life: he who opens wide his lips comes to ruin.” –Proverbs 13:3

“The words of the wise heard in quiet are better than the shouting of a ruler among fools.” –Ecclesiastes 9:17

Okay, I feel better now. I’m good.

So, this Easter, whether you’re in church or at the gym, may your spirit be renewed, your phone silenced, and your neighbor blessedly quiet. He is risen—hallelujah! Now please, for the love of all things holy…

Stop talking on the treadmill.

Happy Easter.

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

Name, Image, and Murder

Have you ever been so engrossed in a book that the world around you fades away? For me, that’s the magic of reading fiction, especially action thrillers.

Transporting myself into a make-believe world through the pages of a good book relaxes and comforts me to no end. Whether it’s espionage, crime, horror, legal drama, or romance, if there’s action and intrigue, I’m all in.

Early on, Frederick Forsyth and Dean Koontz captured my imagination. Now, I find myself gravitating more toward the likes of Michael Connelly, David Baldacci, Daniel Silva, Harlan Coben, and Lee Child. Of course, I’ve hungrily devoured all of John Grisham’s works and still marvel at Greg Iles’ versatility. Inspired by their talent and success, I dared to dream of following in their footsteps.

Today, I’m happy to announce that my dream has come true. I’ve entered the sacred realm with my debut novel, “Name, Image, and Murder—The Court of No Return.”

In the hallowed halls of Praise The Lord University (PTLU), where the fervor of basketball and the sanctity of religious values intersect, a murder rocks the foundation of an institution seeking fame, glory, and salvation. “Name, Image, and Murder” peels back the layers of this captivating mystery, uncovering a tale of deception, ambition, and the high-stakes game played in the shadows of divine judgement.

At the heart of the story is the grisly demise of Coach William Gallucci, the larger-than-life figurehead of PTLU’s burgeoning basketball dynasty. His lifeless body, a canvas of violence, lies at the epicenter of a meticulously crafted narrative that intertwines the new-world order of college sports with the hypocrisy pouring forth from our religious institutions.

As seasoned, enigmatic, and sharp-tongued sports reporter Kyle Sexton unravels the threads of the murder, he discovers a web of scandal, betrayal, and the relentless pursuit of glory that transcends the boundaries of the game we love.

Intrigued yet?

I hope so because “Name, Image, and Murder” examines the collision between religion and sports—two areas in which I’m well familiar. At its core, the book is a riveting mystery thriller that explores the darkest corners of ambition, the consequences of unchecked power, and the ultimate price of salvation. Blending suspense, satire, and social commentary, it captivates from the first page to the explosive climax, challenging perceptions of fame, faith, and the often-tumultuous intersection between the two.

We’re all a product of our life experiences, so you might recognize personalities from my personal journey in the cast of compelling characters. In fact, you might even see yourself. Just remember, though, before you start making assumptions and casting aspersions my way—it’s all fiction, all make-believe, a product of both our overactive imaginations.

That’s part of what makes the book such a fun read. You don’t have to be a Kentucky fan, or even a sports fan to enjoy the ride. Just ask my daughter Katie—a much more accomplished author than me—who, after meticulously combing through the manuscript, gave her enthusiastic stamp of approval to her dear old dad.

My previous six books were non-fiction https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD , and I always envied the long lines of readers visiting fiction writers at book festivals. I told myself on those occasions, “I want what they’re having.” Now, here’s my chance.

I need your help to make “Name, Image, and Murder” a rousing success. Start by getting your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D76DGW6T.

Then, if you enjoy it, please leave a review, share it with friends, and join the conversation using #NameImageAndMurder. Let’s make this journey together by spreading the good word.

If you don’t enjoy it, I want to know why. Writing fiction is a completely new experience for me, and I want to get better at each step of the way. Katie tells me I need to brace for criticism. I’m ready for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Happy reading!

huangswhinings

Tag: Faith

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Don’t Quit: A Kentucky Basketball Parable

This Ain’t No Philosophy Seminar

I’m on to Kenny Brooks

To Hell with the Standard (Champions Classic Edition)

Battle at the Yum: Brotherly Love, Bluegrass Style

The Big Dog Defects: Loyalty Goes to the Dogs

Name, Image, and Murder

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