Chaney Should Be Criticized, Not Written Off

John Chaney has always been a little crazy. Spouting off and saying the wrong thing or letting his temper flare and doing the wrong thing. Even his insistence on playing a suicidal non-conference schedule or his unwavering commitment to the matchup zone. He's always been a little bit nuts.

But the sheer force of his personality could lessen the impact of the little insanities. He was so principled, so strong, so full of good intentions that you just had to shake your head and say, "That's just John Chaney being John Chaney."

Not so these days. John Chaney can't make this right. He can't just smile, loosen his black tie, rub his owl-like eyes, and apologize. He tried, but it hasn't changed a thing.

It hasn't healed John Bryant's broken arm or repaired the psyche and reputation of Nehemiah Ingram. It hasn't put out the flames of criticism. And it might not save his job.

Here is the harsh reality: 32 years on the sidelines, 722 career victories, countless lives impacted, and now, one defining moment.

It's a defining moment that Chaney authored himself, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps without a clear understanding of the repercussions. But he did it. He got riled up over illegal screens that weren't being called. He wanted some kind of payback. He inserted a little-used big man into the lineup and told him to send a message. That big man — Nehemiah Ingram, who Chaney later called a "goon" — sent the message, knocking St. Joseph's John Bryant to the floor so hard that he broke his arm. He will likely miss the rest of the season.

So will Chaney. After Chaney gave himself a one-game suspension, Temple tacked on three more games. But Chaney will be back for the conference tournament, proof that the punishment is a slap on the wrist.

The punishment should have been far harsher. Pick a synonym for reprehensible and it fits Chaney's actions. He retaliated to a perceived slight in a way that's as unimaginable as it is wrong. He violated everything college basketball is about. Yes, it's become a rough game, but embracing the roughness and explicitly promoting dirty play are two very different things.

He violated everything fair play is about, ignoring sportsmanship in favor of payback.

And, most disturbing of all, he violated everything he's about. That's what makes this so hard, what makes the tarnish of his image so shocking.

John Chaney preaches discipline. He routinely institutes 6 AM practices and demands perfect attendance in classes. The matchup zone defense his teams employ requires years of practice to get right, and players don't play until they do get it right.

John Chaney preaches tough love. At a post-game press conference during the 2003 Atlantic 10 Tournament in Dayton, Chaney laughed audibly when Brian Polk mentioned defense. Chaney put his hand on Polk's shoulder and said, "When have you ever played defense?" Polk put his arm around Chaney and smiled. A year later, at a similar press conference, Chaney had tears in his eyes as he reflected on the career of senior David Hawkins.

John Chaney preaches good sportsmanship. When the A-10 Tournament was relocated from Philadelphia to Dayton, Chaney complained about having to travel to "the sticks." On Temple's next trip to Dayton, the student section donned John Deere hats in response. Before the game, Chaney posed for pictures with any student who wanted one.

And John Chaney preaches the truth, his version of it at least. He says what he means and he means what he says. Sometimes he ruffles feathers, but in an era where public figures tiptoe through reality with political correctness and euphemisms, his outbursts can be refreshing. The truth hurts sometimes, but we still need to hear it.

All these values John Chaney preaches, all the discipline and the love and the truth, it's all on the back burner now. This one moment — this one time that John Chaney let his touch of craziness cross the line — is at the front of the public's consciousness. That's the way it has to be. It's fair, in this case, to let one moment cloud the larger perception.

Long before the incident last week, there was talk that the 73-year-old Chaney might hang it up. The calls for his retirement will reach a crescendo now.

Maybe that's what should happen. Maybe Chaney should ride off into the sunset and let his now-tarnished image fade away. It would be fitting. Because for what Chaney did, many younger and less successful coaches would be cleaning out the office already.

But maybe this slap on the wrist punishment, this decision to give a great man the benefit of the doubt is the right thing to do. Maybe letting one moment cloud an image is fair, but not right.

Chaney once said, "I don't want a team that escapes from reality and escapes from the truth. I don't want people who are always escaping, who always have a story and are always conniving."

Chaney may be trying to escape this, but he won't make excuses. He knows the truth. He knows he has to suffer consequences. And he knows, probably more than anybody, that what he did was terribly, horribly wrong.

But he also knows, and everybody around him knows, that he still has a lot of teaching to do. Because that's what John Chaney is. He's more likely to call himself a teacher than a basketball coach. That's probably because, more than basketball, he teaches life lessons.

One of the big ones is the value of a second chance. Chaney is one of the few coaches in America who never hesitates to give a scholarship to an inner-city kid who doesn't have the grades to play as a freshman. He gets them on campus and changes their habits and pretty soon, they're on their way to a basketball career and a degree.

And now, John Chaney can teach that lesson in a new way. He has his own second chance — a chance to repair an image and show that all the good things far outweigh the one bad thing. He wouldn't be much of a teacher if he walked out on that chance.