Three months before Mike Krzyzewski won his first national championship in 1991, Duke lost to Virginia in a lackluster game on the road.Krzyzewski probably could have tolerated a close, hard-fought loss against a strong opponent, but not a defeat like this, a blowout at the hands of inferior competition. “We really didn’t play well at all,” point guard Bobby Hurley said. “It was one of our poorest games.”The Blue Devils were ready to put the loss behind them when they boarded the bus in Charlottesville that afternoon, ready for the three-hour ride back to campus and quietly planning their last Saturday night of winter break. But Krzyzewski was not about to let them forget the lousy performance so easily. The bus arrived at Cameron Indoor Stadium at about 8:30 that night, Hurley remembers, and Krzyzewski got up from his seat at the front to address the team, presumably to tell them what time practice would be the next day.“Get taped,” Krzyzewski growled instead. “And get on the floor in 20 minutes.”It didn’t matter that the team was tired from a physical ACC basketball game and stiff from a three-hour bus ride. They would play for two more hours at home in Cameron against each other, and they would get it right this time. Hurley remembers sprints up and down the floor, battles for loose balls, elbows flying. Star freshman Grant Hill broke his nose in the practice and had to miss two games.Shortly thereafter, the NCAA passed a rule restricting practices on the same day as games to protect its treasured student-athletes, but the message had been sent. Duke lost four more games that year, but never in such embarrassing fashion, and never when it mattered most in the NCAA tournament.FEARING THE SNARLIt starts with a piercing stare, as Krzyzewski pauses for a beat while contemplating which four-letter word to use to start his tirade.His dark eyebrows shoot up into arches, revealing a few wrinkles on his forehead. His eyes narrow, the white around his brown irises temporarily vanishing while an unfortunate player looks into a dark pit of fury.“You never wanted to let him down,” Hurley said.His upper lip curls into a snarl, his lower lip starting to move while words come flowing out with a cadence that has taken a lifetime of practice for the West Point-educated disciplinarian.His neatly trimmed jet-black hair stays intact. A tuft curves over the top of his head, combed to the left and never covering much of his forehead. Three years ago, Krzyzewski denied dyeing his hair in response to an inquiry from News & Observer reporter Laura Keeley. Living to 70 without a single gray strand emerging would be a remarkable achievement if he was telling the truth.