Blue-collar Coach In A Button-down League

Basketball at Princeton is strictly light entertainment, providing students and faculty with an early evening respite from the writings of Darwin or Plato. There is no rush for season seats among townspeople; most of them buy tickets at the door. As Carril says, "The real superstars here are in the library. In fact, some of them take their sleeping bags into the stacks so they can study off and on all night long. My son is one of them. He's more interested in whether the bald eagle will become extinct than whether the basketball team will win. He came by the house late this fall, shook my hand and said, 'Good luck during the season, Dad.' The president of the university has a $228 million fusion project to worry about. Does he have time to think about the basketball team? Truthfully, I think we occupy our proper place here. But that makes my job pretty difficult."

The other day Carril went out for a leisurely afternoon drive and decided to take a visitor on a sightseeing tour of the campus.

"Hold it," barked a uniformed guard at the rear gate. "Where are you going?"

"I just thought I'd show this fellow the campus," replied Carril.

"I'm sorry, but your sticker has expired."

"I know," said Carril, who seemed to enjoy the fact that the guard obviously did not know who he was. "But...."

"That means you can't drive on campus until you get a new one."

Carril turned to his passenger and, half laughing and half sneering, said, "Do you think Dean Smith has to put up with this? Further evidence that around here you learn humility."

Being beset by genuine obstacles on all sides does not satisfy Carril; he works at making his problems seem worse than they are. As he walks slowly onto the floor before a game at Jadwin Gymnasium, he appears near death. Ah, the burden of it all has finally broken the little guy down. But, no, the ball is in the air, and he erupts into a sideline coaching act that is pure theater—reminiscent of Zero Mostel's strange metamorphosis in Rhinoceros. Carril wants every call from the officials. He bitches and moans, stomps the floor, yanks at his shirt and all but cries when things fail to go in Princeton's favor.

When the Tigers win, you would never know it from looking at Carril as he walks off the floor dragging his coat. Actually, he doesn't walk; he trudges. His large, sad eyes and dark complexion seem to hark back to Old Castile, the region in Spain where his father was born and where for centuries Moors and Christians battled for the right to live on barren soil in an unforgiving climate. If ever there were someone whose background seemed ill-suited to collegiate Gothic and Ivy League pretense....