There was a time when things came too easy for Quin Price Snyder.
His life was charmed. His game was a breeze.
The Spalding bounced his way.
Then, all of a sudden, it didn’t. And chasing down the carom led him to the Utah Jazz.
"The challenges I’ve had, the adversity, make you better," he said.
Snyder grew up in Mercer Island, Wash., the same affluent community where Paul Allen now has a mansion or two or three and Bill Russell has a home, where Mercedes and Porsches roll through the streets and — who knows? — gumdrops and peanut butter cups grow on trees. Back then, Snyder was his state’s two-time prep player of the year, a McDonald’s All-American playing on the No. 1-ranked team in the country, winning championships for Mercer Island High School.
It got even sweeter.
He played at Duke. That short sentence, for some, is enough to brand Snyder forever, and not necessarily for the better. Coach Mike Krzyzewski, said during a news conference that he recruited Snyder because his wife made him. Not only was Snyder a gifted player, he had the flowing mane, the boyish good looks, and a whole lot of intelligence. He became a starting point guard in his second season and his team played in three Final Fours. After graduation, he coached as an assistant for the L.A. Clippers. He then returned to coach at Duke, and during that time earned a law degree and an MBA at the school, on top of his undergrad degrees in philosophy and political science.
Who does that? Only those kissed on the lips by the Fates. Sometimes, though, the Fates punch you in the mouth, too.
He rose quickly through the coaching ranks, prospering at Duke, then, at the age of 32, getting the head coaching job at Missouri, over two other candidates — John Calipari and Bill Self.
He won early at Missouri, and with his persona, his style, his brains, his energy, Snyder might as well have been fronting a rock band. He was toasted as the next big thing in college coaching — and then he was toast.
Life suddenly turned on him, dropped him on his head.
Things no longer came easy.
There were rumors about personal problems. There were NCAA violations, indiscretions in the Tiger program that Snyder may have outlasted had he been winning more. But, by then, his competitive success dried up. His teams stumbled and, ultimately, failed to meet expectations.
He resigned. Or he was fired.
Either way, Snyder’s charmed existence spiraled downward.
He thought about getting out of the game, maybe utilizing all his education in other realms. But next thing, something five full-court passes from his past happened: He slipped into basketball’s backwater.
And did so willingly.
Snyder caught on as the head coach of an outfit called the Austin Toros, an NBADL team nobody in the Texas capital city knew of or cared about. The Toros were so far removed from the big time, the team’s coach became darn-near invisible. Having made millions of dollars at Missouri, his salary in Austin was $75,000 per. His players, a bunch of desperados whose hoop dreams had faded, said the Toros registered a zero on the sports scene there.
But that’s where Quin Snyder gathered himself — and grew up.
The slick salesman with all that hair and that smug Doookie look turned into a grunt.Next Page >
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