Pretty sure Powerslave was playing on the tape deck the first time I got together with Bobby Knight’s wife, Nancy. All I remember clearly were limbs and bones in motion, the smell of her chlorinated skin, cat-like moves from both of us to avoid banging against the horn in my F-150. I know there was vodka flowing straight from the bottle, maybe rum. Whatever she’d poached from Bobby’s bar in the basement I would later discover was surrounded by stuffed fish and his gun case. Whatever she’d already been sipping on since first thing the same morning. Nancy was in a bad place. The Hoosiers were off to a modest 7 and 4 start at home, already losing two blowouts and one buzzer-beater, proof to some that Bobby’s best days were behind him and sealing the team’s fate as far as any chance of another national championship, let alone Big 10 title. Bobby was bitter, a ticking bomb, even for Bobby. Purdue was in town, which prompted Nancy to spend even more time at IU’s pool that day than usual. The entire athletic department was dying for a win, if already resigned to a fading 84/85 season, so even the pool was tense. The mere potential of a home loss to Gene Keady’s Boilermakers had Nancy flutter kicking like her own future was at stake, Bobby’s vodka running feverishly through her veins. I knew Nancy merely as student-lifeguard on the afternoon shift. We’d flirted a bit prior, nothing more. Nothing more than that until she busted me watching her rinse off in the shower over by the diving boards. Until my truck.