So it was that his grandfather peered down at the newborn, who seemed so small, and proclaimed, confidently and reassuringly: "Don't worry, he's going to be a Bruiser."
So it was that James Flint became, now and forever, Bruiser Flint, the quintessential Philly baller, and now into his 11th season in the Dragons lair leading the unending crusade to achieve the reputation they so covet.
This, of course, means taking on, and taking down, those inhabitants of the Big Five, who are, by the way, not especially keen on that competition because Bruiser's teams tend to remind you of those old John Chaney Temple Owls teams, and how playing them was about as enjoyable as taking a ball peen hammer on the testicles. You'd wobble away declining all invitations to a future rematch, thank you very much, and please pass the ice bags.
"Yeah, his teams, they'd just grind you down," said Bruiser of Chaney, and the admiration was thick in his voice. "They'd impose their will on you. They'd play the kind of game he wanted to play, not you."
Bruiser knew first hand exactly what it was like facing the Old Man. He was the point guard for St. Joe's (graduated in 1987) and while the Hawk, as promised in lore and legend, never died, it took a couple of serious kidney shots along the way.
Now, in Bruiser, you swear you see the shadows and hear the echoes of the Old Man.
John Junior?
He explodes in laughter at such a suggestion.
"I'm so far away from him. . . . He'd go crazy. I mean, he'd have fun with that, wouldn't he?"
Very probably.
Like most coaches when they get their first solo and can't wait to stamp their own imprimatur on the program, when Bruiser became head man at UMass, Bruiser became your basic raving lunatic, and in so doing joined the ranks of the Mad Men of March.
