Iconic coach Rick Pitino becomes scandalous sideshow

I don't like autographs, or rather, I don't understand the fascination with them. Meet a famous (or overexposed?) person, and the reflex is to request they scrawl their name on some object incapable of remaining in mint condition? The only weirder fan tradition is asking athletes to throw you their sweaty, germy gear.

Which leads me, of course, to my first — and only — autograph. It was 1990. I was 12 and reluctant to fetch a John Hancock even then. But my father insisted because Rick Pitino, then the young University of Kentucky basketball coach, was watching a high-school game in our Paducah, Ky., gymnasium that night. The funny thing about that was Dad loathed Kentucky and preferred the Wildcats' rival, Louisville.

"Don't be shy," Dad said. "Don't you want to always remember that you met Rick Pitino?"

I shuffled the coach's way, walking shoulder to shoulder with my little brother. By the time we got close, a long line had formed. I looked back at Dad and sighed. Twenty minutes later, Pitino shared five seconds of his fame, overwhelmed the cover of my program with his signature, and I realized I'd missed a quarter of a really good game while waiting.

The next day, I opened the newspaper. The Paducah Sun had immortalized the encounter with a photo. I looked like the least-excited autograph seeker ever.

I couldn't get that memory out of my head this week. Pitino has gone from iconic coach to scandalous sideshow in a bizarre, complicated and lurid fall from reverence.

Only five months ago, Pitino had the No. 1 overall seed in the NCAA tournament and a legitimate chance to win his second national championship. In my home state, he's a polarizing figure because he flipped from Kentucky to Louisville, but nevertheless, he stood as the most respected and influential sports figure to roam the Bluegrass State in the past 20 years. Considering what college basketball means to Kentucky, many may have considered him the most influential figure, period, over that time.

Now, Pitino is, well, shady. He's an admitted adulterer. His lawyer is denying claims that he paid for Karen Sypher to have an abortion, saying that he only gave her $3,000 because she was pregnant and without health insurance, but many who share the coach's Catholic beliefs or other pro-life advocates won't stomach the explanation. Even worse, the story won't go away anytime soon. Sypher is facing criminal charges of trying to extort $10 million from Pitino, and lingering details remain unexplored, such as the complete story behind why the accused extortionist married Pitino's assistant strength coach only six months after having sex with Pitino.

The Pitino saga is the story where I'm from, but it carries universal themes. It's unfortunately another lesson about the imperfections of celebrities. It's sadly a disturbing portrait of power and infidelity and its repercussions. It's ominously an indicator to parents that no matter how charming or charismatic a coach seems, you never know just who you've empowered to guide your kids.

To be honest, though, I've always liked Pitino. In 2004, 14 years after the immortalized encounter, I became a Louisville sports columnist and covered the coach for a living, and what a fascinating, entertaining subject he was. He returned calls promptly. He answered questions thoughtfully. He turned disagreements we'd have into an opportunity to understand each other better. It was only a professional relationship, but it was a good one.

As a coach, Pitino has taken borderline students and molded them into responsible adults. One of his players, former Rainier Beach High School guard Terrence Williams, went from sullen and enigmatic to a lottery pick because of Pitino. His teams were fun to watch, and after obsessing over basketball as a young coach, Pitino seemed to appreciate the little things more in his 50s. For those positive qualities, I won't condemn the man for being stupid. I don't think he should be fired or resign, although I'm surprised the university didn't suspend him for public-relations purposes. I don't condone the terrible decisions he's made, but I'm curious to see how he responds and if there's more to this story.

One thing is certain, however: I won't be fetching that old autograph in the near future. Actually, I won't be fetching it ever.

It's still in my old bedroom in my parents' home. The program is probably crumpled and resting beneath some toys, perhaps my wrestling action figures. It's probably yellow with fading ink on top. It's probably meaningless.

Definitely meaningless.

This is why I don't understand the fascination with autographs. They're a mirage of significance. They rarely hold their meaning, much like the fame of those who sign them.

Jerry Brewer: 206-464-2277 or jbrewer@seattletimes.com