It may seem like only yesterday that Bob Knight was hurling all those chairs, strangling all those children and winning all those championships on some far-off planet on the other side of civilization. But he is already Texas Tech -- Raider Red-inoculated; flawlessly flashing the fingers-cocked "Guns Up" salute; himself the school's Masked Rider finally unmasked incarnate -- through and through.

Here is Knight speaking at an alumni fund-raiser, introducing some singing cousins of Lubbock native Natalie Maines -- as if he actually knows who the Dixie Chicks happen to be. ("Should I ask him if he'd take a picture choking me?" asked one Tech fan. Umm, sure -- so long as you don't say: "Hey, Knight.")

Here he is in the picturesque sunflower fields outside town blowing the heads off of doves. "His Suburban has these awesome compartments in the back for all his fishin' rods and his huntin' rifles. Sweet," says one bird-killing buddy. Here he is chowing down at the Conference Café or J.C. Burrito's. Doesn't really matter which -- J.C.'s already has a burrito (brisket, potatoes, onions, jalapenos, cheese) named after him while the Café features the "Knight Club", a typical club sandwich "only with hamburger instead of the regular stuff. Is that legal?" says a manager who wishes to remain nameless lest perhaps Knight file some sort of $15 million lawsuit.

Here is Knight directing his new team to an 11-1 record through New Year's Day -- and pretty much behaving his newfound, placidly relaxed self besides. (And if you don't believe it, "you want to take it outside, m-----------?")

Finally, here Knight is not only thoroughly immersed in the independent, outdoorsy West Texas lifestyle of rugged individualism that has always been his hallmark -- B'rer Rabbit hurled kicking and screaming into the Briar Patch while happily laughing his ample butt off -- but also so much more surrounded by an equally ecstatic group of family and friends than he ever was in his previous existence back in ... in ... in ... wherever that was.

Why Karen Knight, his wife, was raised in the Oklahoma dustbowl, herself. ("I'll tell you one thing," she told her betrothed. "Those people out there in Texas will have no trouble understanding you.")

His sons, Pat and Tim, are both alongside him -- Pat as an assistant coach, Tim as an assistant athletic director in charge of setting up Tech's TV network. And one of his old favorite Indiana -- there, that's the place -- centers, Steve Downing, another assistant AD, is there too. If that isn't paradise (with a high plains, uh, view) enough for Knight, of all the fellow bonders who rescued the fallen icon and blessed him upon this wondrous wasteland, AD Gerald Myers is a close friend of 30 years who can now fish and eat Mexican and jaw hoops and attend golf outings all over the state with Knight to both their hearts' content. And David Schmidly, the president of the school, is a former college player himself who once headed up the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries Sciences at Texas A&M. Are we talkin' Band of Brothers or what?

"It's like Coach was born to be here. He's so positive and glowing in praise of everything about Tech, he talks like the place is all his own," says Chris Cook, the school's sports media relations director -- whoops, in every sport but basketball. A man named Randy Farley, 49, has been ensconced by Knight right there in the hoops office -- even though Farley's resume, with stints as a teacher in Seoul, South Korea and Jakarta, Indonesia, includes no previous work in the field. "My experience as an international educator has prepared me all my life for this moment," says Farley -- quite (we are not making this up) seriously. More to the point, Farley is also, coincidentally, the son-in-law of Clair Bee, the legendary coach who was one of Knight's lifetime mentors.

A cynic might suggest that such a hire as well as the loving circle of support that now envelops Their Hero -- Hoosier fans adored Knight warts and all; starved-for-attention Lubbockians don't even acknowledge that Generalissimo Maniaco (owns) any warts -- is virtually terrific, all the better to protect him from hurling vases or choking necks or humiliating, ahem, reporters or even incurring any more "zero tolerance" curfews. But, of course, cynics in West Texas are strung up from the nearest deadwood tree.

Just accept what all those sold-out T-shirts (most of them including the illustration of a yet-to-be-thrown chair) variously say: "Saturday Knight Fever" ... "Got Knight? We Do!" ... or "Techsans For Knight, Supporting Discipline And The American Work Ethic." Realize that no matter what the sycophants say about how mild and mellow and rid of the bitterness he's become, the charming fellow is still going to regale raucous Red Raider fans with sneering lines like "We've raised over $75,000 for the school library, which I figure is about $75,000 ahead of those professors who didn't want me to come to Texas Tech." And ultimately understand that whenever anybody says that the game's arguably -- well, the man does tend to argue -- greatest coach but greater scourge of taste and polity has altered his spots, you should direct them to the historic lyrics of Lubbock's immortal own Buddy Holly:

That'll Be The Day.

Curry Kirkpatrick is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail curry.kirkpatrick@espnmag.com.