Calkins: Reality check in Memphis

MEMPHIS — They assembled outside John Calipari’s big house on Tuesday, the TV trucks and the gawkers and the collection of never-say-die fans.

“S-T-A-Y,” they chanted.

It was sweet, really. And mournful, too.

A white van arrived with flowers. Someone stuck a “Not For Sale By Owner” sign on Calipari’s lawn.

It will give way to a different sign soon.

Because at 4:22 p.m., the big gates swung open. A three-car motorcade pulled out.

“S-T-A-Y,” the chant resumed again.

The three cars gunned it. And with that, the man — and the era — was finally, indisputably gone.

Calipari was introduced Wednesday morning as the new basketball coach at the University of Kentucky.

This is not surprising, really. It is not even the wrong choice.

Kentucky is Kentucky. It is a better program than Memphis. You can’t blame a guy for taking off for bluer pastures after nine glorious years.

But this will not make it any easier for the Memphis fans who fell hard for Calipari, who thought next season would be the season the Tigers finally won it all.

It will not make it easier for a city that — let’s be honest about it — cares a little bit too much about its college basketball team.

This is not to say that college basketball isn’t important other places. It’s not to suggest that Memphis is uniquely nutty about this stuff.

But a question for Tigers fans around here. Have you watched yourselves these last few days? Have you noticed the craziness — even the desperation — of it all?

Every news channel gave itself over to the story. A TV chopper hovered over Calipari’s house.

Early Tuesday morning, this newspaper reported that Calipari had spent exactly eight minutes talking to some old friends at Gibson’s Donuts.

Within minutes, the television cameras descended on the place.

What sort of donuts did he eat?

Did he look like he was staying or going?

What exactly did he say?

Then the crowd started to gather in front of Calipari’s house. Just random people, taking time off from their lives to plead with a basketball coach to do his job here instead of somewhere else.

Trevor Berryhill, 24, planted himself at the busy intersection of Highland and Poplar with a sign.

“I heard he was out driving around,” he said.

So he stood there. At Highland and Poplar. This kind of thing can’t possibly be all about basketball, can it?

And it’s not, of course. It’s about our fragile sense of ourselves. When Calipari was on national television, Memphis was on national television. When Calipari was winning big, Memphis was winning big.

So what if the city had a lousy mayor and an empty Pyramid and a soul-crushing problem with crime? It had a totally kick-butt basketball coach.

And now the basketball coach was leaving. Going to Kentucky. Leaving Memphis with the mayor and The Pyramid and the crime.

Memphis supporters made these exact points to Calipari. They asked him if maybe, possibly, this is where he was meant to be.

Calipari thought about it. He chose to leave anyway. He is, after all, a basketball coach.

So maybe that’s the lesson here. Not to care less about basketball. But to see how nutty it is to let it define who we are.

Calipari is not as saintly as folks in Memphis thought he was a week ago. He’s not as loathsome as they think he is now.

He’s a basketball coach. Just a basketball coach. Tuesday — maybe as a favor to us all — he certainly made that clear.

(Contact Geoff Calkins of The Commercial Appeal at calkinscommercialappeal.com.)

SHNS