Style is not really my style.
I don't dress well, but at least I dress. Most days.
If I were a college basketball coach, I have no idea whether I'd have an up-tempo style and stress offense or a methodical style, imploring my teams to play defense.
My practice style would be short and sweet. I would try to accomplish as much in 90 minutes as most coaches do in two hours. I never much cared for practice, so I probably wouldn't be a coach for long.
Never miss a local story.
My dealings with the media would be fun and engaging. I would invite the media over for drinks. The media, after all, is made up of a bunch of good men and women who are just doing their jobs. Coaches just misunderstand them.
My players would love me, if for nothing else then the 90-minute practices. I would be tough, but fair. Oh, who am I kidding? On some days, I would just be tough and not worry about being fair.
I'm the coach, after all.
I would have to start dressing better because fashion is such a big part of coaching today.
Wichita State's Gregg Marshall does television ads for a men's fashion store, for crying out loud. K-State's Frank Martin and Kansas' Bill Self are sharp dressers, too.
I'm from the Bob Knight or Jerry Tarkanian school of fashion. A pair of Dockers and a sweater suits me just fine.
But the way universities are paying big-time college coaches today, I would probably have to swing for a suit or two.
And a Lexus. Private school for the kiddos. A swimming pool. Some original art work, even though I can't tell original art work from paint-by-numbers.
Not that I'd be in coaching for the money. I would be in coaching for the betterment of the student-athletes who had put their faith in me.
Sounds good, doesn't it?
Actually, I hold coaches in high esteem and believe almost all of them — somewhere around 98.3 percent — are coaching for the right reasons. Even college basketball coaches who get paid unfathomable amounts of money are generally good-hearted people who love the game and enjoy teaching.
Until tip-off. Then many of them become raving lunatics, incapable of controlling their emotions.
When I go to a K-State or Wichita State game, I struggle to wrest my eyes away from Martin and Marshall. They are to energy what Hershey's is to chocolate.
Martin doesn't miss a thing; just ask one of his players. He sees every one of their transgressions, proven by the glare that accompanies his dissatisfaction.
Marshall is fluent in seven body languages. He gyrates, hops, leans and twists with more facial expressions than a blues singer.
They're part of the coaching crowd that rarely sits down, even though there's a perfectly good chair right there.
By about midway through the first half, perspiration has soaked through their $200 Armani dress shirts and they would give anything to rip off their ties.
The in-game style of a coach has always interested me.
I remember Ralph Miller and his stool at the University of Wichita way back in the 1960s. Miller often stood in front of the Shocker bench with his arms folded — he's another guy who spoke loudly without saying a word.
But when he needed a seat, he reached for the small, black stool he carried with him to road games, too.
Legendary UCLA coach John Wooden often sat on the Bruins' bench with his legs crossed. Of course, a coach who won as much as Wooden could afford to be calm. But I always got the feeling Wooden thought his job was accomplished in practice and games were the fruit of his labor.
Wooden occasionally instructed a player — maybe even scolded one — but it was rare that he yelled. At least when the cameras were trained on him.
Tarkanian probably felt like yelling, but instead he bit on a towel he carried at all times.
Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski is one of those coaches who tries not to draw attention to himself, but gets in his licks. You have to watch carefully, but Coach K is no choir boy on the Blue Devils' bench.
The same is true for KU's Self. He is well-behaved on the sideline until the point when he isn't. Then all bets are off. Self can get his scream on with the best of them.
Today's coaches yell a lot more than coaches used to. I'm sure it's a combination of many things that makes them do so: pressure, money, fans, money, administrators and money.
If I were a college hoops coach, I'd yell, too. There's something cathartic and primal about just cutting loose and letting somebody — a player, a referee, an assistant coach — have it.
It's the style, I'm afraid, that best suits me.