Bob Fasolo and his band of hoops cutthroats. (Photo courtesy the Fasolo family)
He was the coolest coach to ever walk into a gym.
Except he didn’t walk, he strutted like the king of the jungle, cause that’s what he was.
Bob Fasolo has been gone for 10 years now, but we’ll still be telling tales about him 100 years down the road.
He always looked like he had a surfboard in hand, even when he didn’t, and he oozed raw, freakin’ coolness with every action and story he told.
I never wrote about any of his teams, but I spent a few nights in the gym playing hoops with him, always mesmerized by his ability to talk non-stop, swish jumpers and strut, all in the same fluid motion.
Every time we saw each other, in a gym, at the grocery store, or on one of his many frequent hang-outs at Videoville, sprawled across the counter, chewing on a Red Vine, as he debated his video choices, Bob was the ultimate pimp.
I don’t mean in the sense that he ran hookers on the corner, but that he was the coolest cat this side of a ’70s inner city crime epic.
Every time he said my name, he managed to take the words “Dave, my dude,” turn it into a free form jazz explosion that rumbled from somewhere down in his chest, then stretch the words out so far even Matthew McConaughey would have been like, “dang, son!”
Bob was the closest any Coupeville resident has ever come to being the living, breathing embodiment of The Dude.
If Jeff Bridges hadn’t been available to make “The Big Lebowski,” Bob would have done just fine in the role.
He was The Man, always and forever.
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