Report

The air in Denton was thick with tension that night, the kind that settles over a town when something big is about to unravel. Ross Hodge, the former head coach of the UNT Mean Green basketball team, stood on the edge of the Super Pit’s parking lot, his breath fogging in the cool April breeze. The news had just broken—Ross was leaving UNT for West Virginia, a move that felt like a seismic shift for the program he’d poured his heart into for eight years. The Mean Green, a team he’d helped build into a defensive juggernaut, a program that had tasted NIT glory and danced on the national stage, was slipping from his grasp. And yet, here he was, caught in a moment of doubt, about to face a test he didn’t see coming. Ross had always been the steadfast one. For six years as associate head coach under Grant McCasland, he’d been the architect of UNT’s suffocating defense, the voice of grit and toughness that turned the Mean Green into a force. When McCasland left for Texas Tech in 2023, Ross stepped up, taking the helm as head coach with a fire in his belly. He’d led the team to a 46-23 record over two seasons, including a 27-8 campaign that had them knocking on the door of something even greater. The players—his players—called him a brother, a father figure, a man who’d bleed green if you cut him. He’d told them, time and again, “I’m with you. This program is my life. We’re champions together.” But now, whispers of his departure swirled like a storm. The UNT basketball program, personified in his mind as a living, breathing entity—a Jesus-like figure of sacrifice and triumph—had called him to stay, to see the journey through. “Ross,” it seemed to say in the quiet of his heart, “you’ll face trials, but don’t turn away. Stand with me.” He’d nodded, resolute, promising in the locker room after their latest NIT win over Oklahoma State, “I’m here. We’re not done yet.” The first test came as he walked toward his car, the glow of the Super Pit fading behind him. A group of fans, diehard Mean Green supporters, spotted him. One, a grizzled man in a faded UNT cap, called out, “Hey, Ross! You’re not really leaving us, are you? You’re one of us!” Ross froze, his pulse quickening. The weight of West Virginia’s offer—a five-year deal, a chance at the Big 12—pressed against his chest. He forced a smile, his voice tight. “Nah, man, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not going anywhere. I’m Mean Green through and through.” The words tasted bitter, a half-truth that stung as it left his lips. The fan nodded, satisfied, and Ross hurried off, guilt gnawing at him. Minutes later, near a gas station on University Drive, @Brett Vito a reporter from the Denton Record-Chronicle caught up with him. “Coach Hodge,” he said, notepad in hand, “word is you’re West Virginia’s top pick. You’ve been with UNT for years—any truth to this?” Ross’s mind raced. The program’s voice echoed in his memory: “Stay with me.” But the lure of a new challenge, a bigger stage, and life-changing money tugged harder. He shifted his weight, avoiding her gaze. “Look, I don’t know where you’re getting that. I’m just focused on coaching my team here. That’s all I’ve ever done.” Vito scribbled something, unconvinced, and Ross felt the ground shift beneath him. He’d denied it again. The final blow came at Cool Beans, a latenight bar and diner where a couple of UNT players—veterans he’d recruited and molded—sat in a booth, still buzzing from the NIT run. They waved him over, grinning. “Coach, tell these guys you’re not bailing on us,” one said, laughing. “They’re saying you’re gone, but I told ’em, ‘No way Coach Hodge leaves the Mean Green.’” Ross’s throat tightened. He saw the trust in their eyes, the bond they’d forged through sweat and victories. He’d promised them championships, a legacy. But the call from Morgantown was already in his pocket, the deal all but signed. “Guys,” he said, forcing a chuckle, “you know me. I’m not that guy. I’m here with you.” The lie hung heavy, and as he turned to leave, he heard a rooster crow in the distance—a stray sound from some nearby farm, piercing the night. Ross stumbled outside, the weight of his words crashing down. Three times he’d denied it—denied the program that had given him everything, the team that had trusted him to lead. He sank onto a bench, head in his hands, and the memory of UNT basketball flooded back: the 2023 NIT trophy, the upset over Purdue, the roar of the Super Pit. It wasn’t just a job—it was his identity, his faith. And he’d turned his back on it. Tears welled as he whispered, “I’m sorry.” The program didn’t answer, not in words, but in the quiet, he felt its presence linger—a promise of forgiveness, a chance to carry its lessons forward, even as he walked a new path. Ross Hodge, the man who’d once been Peter to UNT’s Jesus, rose from that bench a little broken, a little wiser, knowing he’d never forget what he’d left behind in Denton.

I’d suggest not canceling anymore home games for faculty fajita luncheons…that would probably help

Hodge didn’t expect kudos for finishing the job here. He did it because it was the right thing to do in his mind. I’d imagine you didn’t walk out of the DPD at the moment you got your next job.

Well, we haven't lost yet* so the possibility exists. *have we?

Thanks. I wasn't there as I thought he needed no introduction.