Lou Henson hates mustard, detests even a single spicy whiff of the stuff. He can smell it a mile away, or at least from the parking lot outside Assembly Hall.
Last month, senior guard Richard Keene threw a behind-the-back pass against Northwestern. That’s mustard, especially because Illinois blew the subsequent layup.
At practice the next day, Henson denigrated Keene’s acrobatic act by trying to imitate it. The sarcasm was not a pretty sight as the 64-year-old coach duplicated the slick playground move. It was all some observers could do to retain their composure.
However, the veteran coach has given that performance many times–and it describes his personality well. Ask a former player about Henson and the first response usually involves a variation on his dislike of “mustard.”
Kenny Battle, a member of the 1989 Flying Illini team, offered a related Henson-ism: “He would come into practice and say, `Instead of putting the mustard on the hot dog, just use a little ketchup.’ “
Former forward Doug Altenberger remembered another: ” `When I came in the gym, I could smell the hot dog. I could smell the mustard.’ “
With the announcement that Henson will retire after this season, his 21st in Champaign, a generation consisting of 88 lettermen now finds itself thinking again of college basketball. Most will head back to campus Saturday, when Illinois meets Minnesota in Henson’s last regular-season game, to be part of a tribute.
Their recollections yield a composite of Henson as coach, from demeanor to philosophy to psychology. They remember a conservative mind insistent on playing the percentages and on putting defense first.
They remember a man consumed by basketball. They remember a quiet and deliberate manner occasionally overtaken by a tough and frenetic game face.
Many fans take Henson’s style as a sign that the game passed him by. The former players don’t see it that way.
“A lot of coaches were flashier, and many even were better game coaches, but he was as serious as anybody,” said New York Knick Derek Harper, a guard who played at Illinois from 1980 to 1983. “He did a great job of preparing players to play. He’s an old-school guy and he insisted on doing things soundly.”
Said Bruce Douglas, a guard from 1982 to 1986: “When I think about Coach, I think about how organized he is. He doesn’t do much spontaneously.”
Former Illinois players remember Henson almost entirely as a basketball coach, and few got to know the man’s personal side. As a head coach/bad cop who tore down players, he naturally had to let assistant coaches/good cops build them back up.
Harper said that he only got to know Henson as a person about three years ago, during a summer camp.
“That’s as close as I’ve ever been to him, as far as quality time,” Harper said of that week-long visit.
Another reason for the distance simply has been that Henson is totally enveloped in basketball. Even when players weren’t on the court, Henson was still coaching.
It started with recruiting. Altenberger, who played from 1982 to 1987, said that Henson was “all business” on visits.
“He loved to analyze what kind of player you are now and what kind of player you could be at Illinois,” Altenberger said. “He didn’t tell jokes and there was no hidden agenda.”
Said Larry Lubin, Henson’s first Illini signee in 1975: “He’d look you right in the eye and tell you how he felt.”
That strait-laced attitude remained once prospects arrived on campus. Henson quickly instilled his half-court philosophy in freshmen.
“When I came out of high school, I’d throw it behind my back, through my legs,” Douglas said. “He had a field day with it. He’d bring you back to earth real quick.”
Of an early practice, Harper recalled: “I remember him running down the court trying to imitate me. He said, `Derek thinks he’s a star, he wants to click his heels and do everything.’ It was his way of showing me that I wasn’t apart from the team.”
Battle and teammate Stephen Bardo remember their coach giving talented passer Larry Smith a hard time when he arrived in 1986. Bardo said that Smith threw a full-court bounce pass during their first day of practice, the initial play in a long line “of things to get Lou going.”
Henson never did ease up on such dictums, even with older players. Andy Kaufmann, a forward from 1989 to 1993, made one behind-the-back pass at Wisconsin during his senior year.
“I thought I got by with it,” Kaufmann said. “Then the next day we were watching films for the next game and he said I wasn’t starting because of that. He always said if you had to make a great pass, don’t make it at all.”
Several former players recalled Henson assigning point values to every turnover, and current Atlanta Hawk Ken Norman said that the coach joked about $40 fines for every miscue–enough to buy a new ball. Neil Bresnahan, a forward from 1976 to 1980, called the coach “a statistics freak.”
“He just wanted to play the odds,” Kaufmann said, noting that Henson started as a math teacher in New Mexico. “I think that’s how he thought about the game.”
Although Henson was a stickler for fundamentals like two-handed passes, he did allow teams like the 1989 squad enough freedom to make exciting plays. That year’s group happened to include athletes capable of crazy passes and flying dunks.
“If we did that, he probably would have taken one of our scholarships,” laughed Norman, who played forward from 1984 to 1987. “He coached each individual player’s style.”
At the other end, Henson thus became a defensive guru. Knowing that scoring could be a shaky proposition some nights, his teams generally held opponents to low shooting percentages and rebound totals.
And, in terms of manner, Henson also was conservative. Current Indiana Pacer Eddie Johnson said the coach did not even show much emotion after that famous last-second shot to beat No. 1 Michigan State in 1979.
“He never wavered in his demeanor,” said Johnson, a forward from 1977 until 1981. “I think that’s what made him a great coach, because you always knew what to expect.”
Still, Henson’s temper did crack every so often. He was tough with opposing coaches and referees just often enough to make his players tough on the floor, instilling an aggressive nature necessary in Big Ten games.
Altenberger recalled one outburst in the first half of a 1984 game at Iowa, when Illinois was playing poorly and with little effort. Henson decided to get a technical foul.
“He starts ranting and raving and screaming, but it’s so loud in there that the refs couldn’t hear him,” Altenberger said. “He starts running down the sideline and still can’t get a technical. He runs out to midcourt and finally they give him a technical.”
Still, Altenberger said, Henson wanted another. He kept yelling.
“(Illini center) George Montgomery picks him up, but Henson is so into what he’s doing that he doesn’t even realize what’s going on. He finally looked up and said, `George, put me down.’ George said, `I don’t want you to get a technical. Coach said, `George, you worry about playing. I’ll worry about coaching.’ “
And, of an encounter with Missouri coach Norm Stewart in 1976, Bresnahan said: “He was ready to take him on at half-court. Maybe you think he’s a country bumpkin, but he’s not. That’s when I knew his intensity and what he wanted from us. He was willing to fight, so he wanted us to also.”
As a motivator, Henson used psychology to toughen up any Illini he perceived as soft. He hoped to create a lot of pressure in practice, such that they were more stressful than games.
He was not beyond ridicule during film sessions, showing bad plays over and over. He often talked down players and their skills, hoping to get a rise out of them later.
Battle recalled the following Henson-Bardo exchange before a game at Michigan in 1989: ” `You were the defensive player of the year last year, but (Wolverine star) Glen Rice is going to eat you up,’ ” Battle recalls Henson telling Bardo. ” `You couldn’t guard me.’ “
Henson also berated players by telling them about former teams that overcame adversity. Battle remembers tales of 5-foot-5-inch players who won state titles with broken arms, while Douglas remembers stories about players who were so tough because they had been marine paratroopers.
When it came to a game, however, Henson was back to business. The coach was so absorbed that he sometimes called players by their wrong names, all while running down the bench and pulling jerseys to make frantic substitutions.
“He told me to go in for myself,” junior point guard Kiwane Garris chuckled about one recent game. “He never holds back.”
Just hold the mustard.
