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

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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.

In Stoops We Trust (Whether You Like It or Not)

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – Funny how one Saturday can change the entire temperature of the Bluegrass. Just a week ago, half of Big Blue Nation was ready to pack Mark Stoops’ bags for him. With Kentucky’s huge 38-7 victory over Florida on Saturday night, the path to bowl eligibility now becomes a whole lot clearer. Suddenly, the same folks who wanted Stoops’ head on a platter are out shopping for “In Stoops We Trust” T-shirts.

That’s life in the SEC—one minute you’re an overpaid underachiever, the next you’re the savior of the Commonwealth. But whether you were cheering Stoops before Florida or rediscovering your faith afterward, one thing remains constant: the man deserves to stay. Not because of one big win, but because of the foundation he’s built and the culture he’s created.

Let’s face it, the honeymoon was long over before tonight. The flowers had wilted, the champagne went flat, and the marriage between Mark Stoops and Big Blue Nation felt more like a 25-year-old couch—no longer comfortable, visibly soiled, and sagging in all the wrong places.

Everywhere you turned, folks were hollering for divorce. Social media was ablaze with “Fire Stoops” hashtags. Radio hosts were frothing at the mouth and ready to kick him to the curb and swipe right on someone—anyone—new.

Well, not anymore, my friend. Before we stick that “For Sale” sign in Stoops’ front yard, let’s take a deep breath, pour ourselves a glass of Kentucky bourbon, and think this through with a little perspective—and a dash of sanity.

For one, let’s talk dollars and sense. That buyout? Thirty-seven. Million. Dollars. That’s not a typo. That’s not Monopoly money. That kind of cash could fund an entire NIL war chest and keep Cutter Boley grinning for the next couple of years.

And let’s not forget history. Mark Stoops is the winningest coach in Kentucky football history. Think about that. More wins than Bear Bryant during his Kentucky days. More wins than Fran Curci, Jerry Claiborne, or Rich Brooks combined (well, close enough for rhetorical effect). Sure, some of those wins came against glorified high schools disguised as non-conference opponents, but they still count in the record book—and on the paycheck.

People forget how bleak it was before Stoops. Joker Phillips limped out the door with the fanbase howling. The program was a punchline, a perennial cellar dweller where bowl games were as rare as John Calipari NCAA wins post Covid. Stoops changed that. He brought stability. He brought hope. He brought swagger. And yes, he even brought us a ten-win season—twice! That’s not stale; that’s historic.

Now, I get it. Things felt stagnant the past couple of years. The offense sputtered forever, the defense gave up too many big plays, and the postgame pressers all sounded like reruns of Groundhog Day. Stoops kept saying, “We’ll clean it up; get back to work.” But it started feeling like the same spilled milk being mopped up year after year.

But let me ask the question that haunts every program stuck in the “fire him” cycle: Who you gonna get that’s better?

Seriously. Who?

Nick Saban’s busy counting his retirement checks. Kirby Smart’s not walking through that door. Urban Meyer? Please—he couldn’t even handle Jacksonville. And as much as people want to throw out names like Jon Sumrall or Will Stein, let’s pump the brakes. Sumrall’s a fine coach, but running Tulane isn’t the same as running an SEC program with boosters, egos, and ESPN cameras breathing down your neck. And Will Stein? He’s got promise, sure—but he’s barely had time to unpack at Oregon. Handing him the keys to Kentucky football right now would be like giving a 16-year-old your trusted Mercedes and hoping for the best.

Coaching transitions are messy. You could just as easily end up with the next hot coordinator who flames out in two seasons, leaving us all longing for the good ol’ days when Stoops at least got us to the Music City Bowl.

And here’s something people overlook: his players still believe in him. They play hard. They don’t quit. Even when the scoreboard turns ugly, they fight to the end. That’s not nothing. That’s culture—culture that Mark Stoops built brick by brick. You can’t fake that, and you certainly can’t buy it with NIL money. Remember when Kentucky teams used to fold faster than a lawn chair at a tailgate? Not anymore. This group—his group—competes, cares, and represents the program with pride. They don’t flinch. That’s his real legacy.

What Stoops provides—whether fans admit it or not—is stability. And in the volatile world of college football, stability is the rarest commodity. It’s not sexy. It’s not flashy. But it’s the bedrock on which long-term success is built. Programs like Iowa, Wisconsin, and Kansas State built entire identities on stability. They don’t panic after a bad season. They reload, recalibrate, and keep grinding.

And that’s what Stoops does best. He grinds. He builds men, not just football players. He develops two-star recruits into NFL draft picks. He preaches accountability, loyalty, and hard work. Those aren’t buzzwords; they’re virtues—spiritual ones, even.

Maybe that’s what this whole debate boils down to. We’ve lost our patience in a world of instant gratification. We want quick fixes, shiny new toys, and miracle seasons. But life—like faith—isn’t about the quick fix. It’s about perseverance through the dry spells. It’s about trust.

The Bible says in Galatians 6:9, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” That’s not just good theology—it’s good football philosophy. Stoops has been sowing seeds in rocky soil for over a decade. He’s weathered storms, endured heartbreaks, and still kept this program relevant. That’s not a man you throw away. That’s a man you stand by.

So before you call the moving truck, Big Blue Nation, remember: the grass isn’t always bluer on the other side. Sometimes, the real victory is learning to bloom where you’re planted.

And if you don’t like that spiritual analogy, fine—think of it this way: $37 million buys a lot of forgiveness.

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

Mark Pope’s Ferrari: Kentucky Basketball’s Drive for a Championship

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – When Mark Pope stood before the assembled media the other day and said, “We got a great Ferrari and we can’t wait to take it for a spin,” I thought he was referring to the team’s on-court performance. You know—sleek offensive design, turbocharged energy, cornering on a dime. What I didn’t realize was that the real Ferrari might be the one he’s been paying for—rumored to be worth about $22 million in NIL payouts.

Apparently, this isn’t your dad’s Kentucky basketball team, cobbled together with a few well-placed ten-dollar-handshakes. Nope, this is a shiny new model, custom-built with top-of-the-line NIL features, luxury international imports, and more horsepower than a herd of wild stallions. Pope, of course, is the guy behind the wheel—white-knuckled, grinning ear to ear, and just itching to mash the accelerator.

Unfortunately, he may have already dinged the fender.

Before Big Blue Nation could even buckle their seatbelts, the Ferrari hit a pothole during the Blue-White Scrimmage in Memorial Coliseum. Starting point guard Jaland Lowe, the Pitt transfer recruited specifically to pilot this high-powered offense, went down with a shoulder injury. It didn’t appear to be a fiery crash—but still—you never want to see your lead driver headed to the pit before the first lap.

And what a lap it was. The Blue-White game—usually a glorified layup line wrapped in applause—felt more like a demolition derby this year. Players were crashing the glass with impunity, fighting through screens like the bench was calling, and snarling like the game meant a trip to the Final Four.

I’ve covered a lot of Blue-White scrimmages in my day, but I’ve never seen one that intense. The pace was frenetic, the emotions were high, and the competition was fierce. Pope has these guys revved up like they’re chasing Banner No. 9, rehearsing for One Shining Moment before the first ball is even tipped.

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? The new head coach hasn’t just brought a fresh energy—he’s brought a fresh philosophy. Gone are the days of “these guys are young” or “trust the process.” Pope doesn’t do slow builds or cautious optimism. He’s out there saying, in essence, “We’re Kentucky. We play to win it all—every game, every drill, every scrimmage.”

That kind of bravado plays beautifully in October. It’s the stuff fans dream about while their football team self-destructs. But it’s also a lot to live up to over the grind of a five-month season.

Because as thrilling as it is to hear your coach talk about Ferraris, championship hunts, and competitive fire, there’s a fine line between confidence and burnout. The season’s an endurance race, not a drag strip. The question isn’t whether this team can go 200 mph—it’s whether they can stay on the track long enough to see the checkered flag.

Now, before you accuse me of pouring water on Pope’s premium fuel, let me be clear: I love the swagger. After years of seeing a fan base divided between believers and doubters, there’s something downright refreshing about having a head coach who plants his flag, goes for the jugular and says, “These guys want to win, always.” No hedging, no excuses, no talk about youth or rebuilding.

Pope’s message to his players—and to all of us—is unmistakable: Kentucky basketball doesn’t back down. Whether it’s an intra-squad scrimmage on the UK campus or a March showdown in Madison Square Garden, they’re going to play with everything they’ve got.

But maybe, just maybe, he could keep one hand on the brake for a bit.

Because here comes Purdue—No. 1 in the country, with the nation’s top point guard in Braden Smith—rolling into town Friday night for the first exhibition. On paper, it’s a game that doesn’t count. But try telling that to a fan base that treats October tune-ups like NCAA Tournament play-ins. Win by 20 and the hype train leaves the station at warp speed. Lose by 20 and the “Ferrari” gets called a lemon before Thanksgiving.

That’s just life in the Bluegrass, where basketball is religion and patience is in short supply. Pope knows that better than anyone—he lived it as a player, and now he’s living it as the man in charge.

So, should he tamp it back a bit? Probably not. This is who Mark Pope is—the mad scientist, analytics guru, relentless, and unafraid to dream big. He’s not the kind of guy to idle in neutral while everyone else takes the safe route.

Besides, Ferraris aren’t built for cautious Sunday drives. They’re built to turn heads, scorch the pavement, and leave the competition in the dust.

Still, if there’s one lesson to remember, it’s that championship seasons aren’t won in October—they’re tuned there. Let’s just hope by the time March rolls around, the paint isn’t scratched, the tires aren’t bald, and the driver hasn’t run out of gas.

Because as any Kentucky fan knows, it’s not about how loud the engine roars at the start. It’s about how fast—and how fearlessly—you finish.

—and the only finish line that matters this year runs through Indianapolis.

Deny, Deflect, and Denounce

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after jumping into this media gig, it’s that when a coach’s lips are moving, there’s at least a 50–50 chance he’s fibbing. I say that with affection. Lying is practically a job requirement in this business—right up there with headset-throwing, blaming officials, and shaming reporters.

After Kentucky’s 35–14 loss to Georgia, Mark Stoops was asked about Alan Cutler’s recent report that he’d talked to athletics director Mitch Barnhart about a buyout and was turned down. Stoops’ response was swift, combative, and—shall we say—dismissive.

“I hate to give anything like that legs,” he said, when asked directly about it by Jon Hale of the Herald-Leader. “There’s zero (truth). I told you last year, right? I mean you guys could write it and say what you want about me, but, I mean, I told you there’s zero chance I’m walking away. I mean, zero.”

“There’s no quit in me,” Stoops added. “That’s unequivocally, 100% false, and anybody says otherwise is lying. I don’t want to address that crap no more.”

Now that’s what I call a full-throated rebuttal. In media training circles, they call this the Triple D Defense: deny, deflect, and denounce. Deny the rumor. Deflect the question. Denounce the reporter. Bonus points if you do all three with a wry grin.

Let me say right up front—I like Mark Stoops. He lives down the street from me. In his twelve years at the helm, he’s pulled Kentucky Football out of the gutter—had two ten-win seasons and eight straight bowl appearances. The guy’s the all-time winningest coach in UK Football history for heaven’s sake. But let’s not confuse accomplishments with transparency.

Because coaches, bless their competitive little hearts, lie. They all do. It’s part of their DNA.

Nick Saban once swore up and down he wouldn’t be the next Alabama coach—until he was. Urban Meyer “retired for health reasons” more times than I’ve retired from sugar and carbs. John Calipari and Mitch Barnhart held their infamous TV lovefest, right up until the moving vans headed toward Fayetteville the very next month.

And here at home, I still remember Stoops looking me dead in the eye last November when I asked if there was any chance he was walking away. His answer? “Zero percent. Next question.”

There’s that magic word again—zero.

In football, zero is usually a bad number. It means you didn’t score. You didn’t convert. You didn’t cover. And when it comes to coaching truth-telling, “zero” has become the new “trust me.” It’s the perfect word—short, emphatic, and impossible to fact-check.

Here’s the thing—I’ve known Alan Cutler for a while now. The man’s a bulldog with a microphone. He’s not going to run with a story unless he’s confident in it. Alan Cutler doesn’t do clickbait. He does facts. After doing Cut to the Chase together, I know him better than anyone outside his family—and still bear scars from all the fact-checking he made me do for the book. And if Alan says there were conversations, I’m inclined to believe he had his ducks—and his sources—in a row.

Does that mean Stoops is lying? Maybe not in the dictionary sense. Maybe he’s simply… selectively remembering. Coaches are experts in creative truth management. It’s like when you ask them if a player’s hurt. “He’s day-to-day,” they say, which usually means “He’s got a broken leg.” Or when they claim “We’re not worried about rankings,” while secretly refreshing the AP poll between bites of postgame pizza.

They can’t help it—it’s part of the game. In a world where every word gets dissected on social media, sometimes the safest thing a coach can do is say absolutely nothing. And when “absolutely nothing” isn’t an option, they pick something that sounds emphatic. Like “zero.”

Still, I wish Stoops had taken a softer tack. Instead of calling the story “crap” and implying that people are lying, he could have said, “Alan’s a respected reporter, but I think he got some bad information.” That would’ve disarmed the room. Instead, he went on offense—helmet down, mouthpiece in, straight at the messenger.

But that’s Stoops. He’s a fighter. You don’t build Kentucky football from the ashes of 2–10 seasons without developing a thick skin and a quick temper. His intensity is what makes him stand out—and what sometimes gets him in trouble.

And maybe that’s the lesson here. In football, as in life, there’s always a little gray between truth and fiction. Coaches shade the truth not because they’re bad people, but because honesty doesn’t always fit neatly into a postgame soundbite. When the wolves are howling, “no comment” just doesn’t cut it.

So yes, Stoops denied, deflected, and denounced. But I’ll give him this—he did it with gusto. And if the team somehow turns it around and pulls off an upset or two, most fans will forgive a little fibbing. Winning, after all, is the ultimate lie detector.

As for me? I’ll keep believing Alan Cutler until proven otherwise. But I’ll also keep giving Mark Stoops the benefit of the doubt because he’s earned it. Coaches lie, reporters dig, fans overreact—it’s the great circle of sports life.

And if you ask Stoops whether any of this bothers him, I’m sure he’ll tell you—there’s zero percent chance.

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

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Tag: journal

To Hell with the Standard (Champions Classic Edition)

Battle at the Yum: Brotherly Love, Bluegrass Style

In Stoops We Trust (Whether You Like It or Not)

Mark Pope’s Ferrari: Kentucky Basketball’s Drive for a Championship

Deny, Deflect, and Denounce

The Big Dog Defects: Loyalty Goes to the Dogs

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