That sound you heard Thursday afternoon was James Dickey flapping in the wind, as Texas Tech officials were busy trying to convince Bob Knight there's more to Lubbock than cotton, rodeos and the annual Cork & Fork festival. Meanwhile, Dickey was here in Kansas City, doing what he always does, which is coach as if it's his last game.

In this case, it probably was.

Rumors swirled around the press room before the Red Raiders' tipoff against Oklahoma State in the first round of the Big 12 Conference tournament: Knight had been spotted on the Tech campus ... No, he was in Florida ... The deal is done ... No, he's having second thoughts.

Dickey and his team heard the speculation; they couldn't help but hear it. Knight coming to Lubbock is like Phish playing your senior prom. But it would have been nice if, say, Tech athletic director Gerald Myers had pulled Dickey aside and said, "We've got a 1 1/2-year-old arena to fill, you haven't come close to the NCAAs in five years, we're making a run at Knight. It's not personal, it's bidness."

Instead, Myers, a former Tech hoops coach who should know better, has done a Marcel Marceau. Dickey heard about the courting of Knight from friends back in the South Plains. So Dickey stood on the sidelines Thursday and coached up the losingest Texas Tech team since, fittingly enough, Myers resigned after an 8-23 season in 1991.

He wore a black suit with a Big 12 pin on one lapel and an Oklahoma State memorial ribbon on the other. He paced up, down and beyond the coaches box. He leaned, kicked his leg and then slapped his hands in disgust when yet another Red Raiders shot failed to fall. He tugged at his tie knot. He kneeled. He sat. He pleaded. He dropped his head in exasperation.

Texas Tech trailed by 14 at half. When Red Raider cheerleaders tried whooping it up, exactly two Tech fans stood to yell. Two. Fifth-year senior Cliff Owens had seen enough. He told his teammates during the break that if they wanted to quit "then stay in the locker room."

Oklahoma State stretched the lead to 18, then 20, then 25. You could have heard Dickey's pink slip drop. But that was before Tech, which couldn't hit the side of the Texas panhandle in the first half, started dropping some shots. The lead shrank to six with 9:04 remaining. Dickey pumped his fists. Tech's Yosemite Sam-knockoff mascot began working the crowd. This had Al Michaels "Do you believe in miracles?" written all over it.

Owens stood in the huddle and marveled at Dickey's intensity. Here he was, the last guy in Lubbock to know about the Knight thing, and he's acting as if it doesn't matter. "He's coaching just as hard right now as he's ever coached," Owens thought.

And then came the Oklahoma State run, helped by a couple of bailout whistles, a technical on the Tech bench, a missed call on OSU's Maurice Baker's slashing motion after a long trey. There would be no happy ending for Dickey, only a 19th loss and a long, heartfelt postgame hug from his former boss, Oklahoma State coach Eddie Sutton.

"I love you like a brother," said Sutton to Dickey. "I'll say a prayer that they come to their senses and keep you on as coach. If they don't, I'll help you any way I can."

There were more hugs and handshakes, and then Dickey, his staff and players retreated to their Kemper Arena dressing room. Ten minutes later a Tech strength coach opened the door long enough that you could see the Red Raiders, heads down, maybe one of them wiping away a tear. It was inside that little room that Owens said he always thought Dickey was hokey and old-fashioned. "But if having morals and ethics is hokey and old-fashioned," said Owens, "then I wouldn't mind being just as old-fashioned -- without the country sayings, of course."

As of early Thursday evening, Dickey hadn't heard a peep from Tech officials. Myers was there when he walked off the court and said two words to Dickey: "Tough game." Thanks, Gerald.

Dickey still has three years remaining on his contract, not that that matters much these days. Five years removed from a magical 30-2 season, Dickey knows the way of the world. Attendance is down, losses are up, Knight is available. "But I'm not going to quit," he said. "I'm not going to fire myself."

So he'll flutter in the breeze until someone from the Tech "family" decides it's time to talk buyout. That's how it usually works. Attach a golden parachute and then pull the ripcord.

Later that night, long after Dickey and his team boarded the team bus for the airport, a middle-aged woman wearing a red-and-white Texas Tech sweater makes her way inside a hotel elevator. She smiles. You smile back. A few seconds pass.

"So," you say, making conversation, "what do you think about Knight and Tech?"

"I'm just glad my nephew played his last game there," she says.

And then the doors open and she's gone.

Just like Dickey.

Gene Wojciechowski is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail Geno at gene.wojciechowski@espnmag.com.