Before Dan Hurley’s UConn master class, he was a high school history teacher

Juan Santamaria’s World History II teacher comes up often, more than any 38-year-old’s high school teacher should. Santamaria recently attended a soccer event in Kansas City and found himself in a crowd of basketball fans. He noticed a man reading “The Miracle of St. Anthony,” a book about legendary high school basketball coach Bob Hurley Sr.

“You know, I know his son, Dan Hurley,” Santamaria said.

“No way,” the man replied. “I love Dan.”

“I’m serious,” Santamaria said. “He was my history teacher.”

His audience wasn’t buying it.

“Yes,” Santamaria said. “That’s how he started.”

UConn coach Dan Hurley has spoken often about his days at St. Benedict’s Preparatory School in Newark, N.J., and how they shaped the man he is now: an elite college basketball coach, winner of the last two men’s national titles, who this summer turned down a chance to coach the Los Angeles Lakers.

Not as much is known about Hurley’s days as a teacher, a role often required of high school coaches. He referenced them during a news conference in April at the Final Four in Arizona, discussing how he learned to control a classroom, first at St. Anthony, where he taught health, physical education, sex education and driver’s education, then at St. Benedict’s, where he worked from 2001 to 2010.

How did this ultra-intense coach, one with a red-faced reputation for challenging players and officials, adapt to the classroom, teaching the French Revolution and the collapse of the Roman Empire?

Informed recently that The Athletic had spoken with about a dozen former St. Benedict’s students, as well as leadership and faculty, about his teaching days, Hurley laughed. “Oh, God,” he said, as if unsure of what was to come. A liberal studies major at Seton Hall with a minor in criminal justice, Hurley said teaching World History II was probably the most nervous he’s been in his life. He also doesn’t think he’s ever worked harder.

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St. Benedict’s in the early 2000s had a diverse enrollment of about 500. It was an all-boys school, grades seven through 12. The school calendar included out-of-classroom sessions designed to get students involved in community service or other activities such as hiking or martial arts. The dress code was button-down shirts with ties, although in later years this changed to hoodies.

Hurley, who had just lost his job as an assistant coach at Rutgers, worked in admissions in addition to coaching and teaching. He was 28 and married with a 2-year-old son. On most days, his work schedule unfolded like this:

8:30-11 a.m.: Teaching history. World History II, which most students took as sophomores, covered European history, starting with the Middle Ages. Leading up to his first week, Hurley studied beyond the textbook because he was convinced “some wise-ass kids were going to test me.” Those close to him, however, thought it was a good fit.

“I thought history was probably up his alley because it’s a lot of memorization,’’ said Hurley’s older brother, Arizona State coach Bobby Hurley. “You don’t have to do labs or anything. If he was doing that, I’d be scared he might blow the school up or something.”

11 a.m.-2 p.m.: Visiting schools. Driving a school-issued vehicle, Hurley would visit grade schools in Newark, Irvington and East Orange and talk to students about the benefits of St. Benedict’s. This showcased Hurley’s people skills, overlooked throughout his career in basketball.

“He’s one of those guys, if people catch him getting on a player or getting on an official, it’s, ‘Oh, that’s what he’s like,’” said P.J. Carlesimo, who coached Hurley at Seton Hall. “But if you talk to the players in particular, or guys he taught, they’d say, ‘No, no, no.’ They’d do anything for him.”

3-6 p.m.: Coaching basketball. Hurley would finish his practice plan and run practice. Some nights the Gray Bees might have a game. Others, he’d stay late and greet visitors at a school fair. If nothing else, Hurley would return home and grade papers.

Father Edwin Leahy, the headmaster at St. Benedict’s, never doubted Hurley would put in the work, mostly because Hurley had watched his dad do it for years at St. Anthony, where he had won 26 state championships.

“St. Anthony was just a tiny little box in the middle of Jersey City right before the Holland Tunnel and everybody did whatever they had to do to make the thing work,’’ Leahy said. “Danny grew up in that kind of an environment of watching these adults, whether they were the religious sisters or the lay people who would do whatever they had to do. So teaching history, I don’t think it was something that he was excited about at first, but he knew you did whatever you had to do.”

Former students describe Hurley mostly in three ways: He had a presence. He had a sense of humor. And he had swag.

“Growing up as a kid in the inner city, in Newark or anywhere around there, you knew all the neighbors,” said Joe Carratura, Class of 2004. “You could play outside all day long. Everybody sat on their stoop. Miss Susie down the street was your babysitter. It was just a community, and he felt like he belonged there.”

Marc Onion taught English. Shortly after Hurley’s hire, Onion went and watched a summer basketball workout. He noticed the AC was shut off and Hurley had his guys playing not full court but full gym, with the bleachers pulled back. No out of bounds. No fouls. Just grab the ball and go. A test of wills.

In the classroom, Onion noticed a different environment but similar control. Hurley walked around the room. He posted up in the corner. He never sat behind his desk. “He’d sit along the front edge and sort of be the big commander over the kids in the room,” Onion said. “He had the wherewithal to know that, ‘All right, I’m going to be attentive to every guy in this space just by being in really close proximity.’”

“I think the worst thing sometimes to say about the teacher and the class is there’s no discipline,” Hurley said. “Like, ‘The kids show no respect for the teacher.’ So for me it felt like if I ever went behind the desk, my presence wouldn’t be just as strong. And I’d be opening up the door for some level of anarchy.”

Most of Hurley’s classes had 20 or so students. Some called him “Coach.” Others called him “Hurley.” He assigned them nicknames. If someone wore a Dennis Rodman jersey, he became “Rodman” for the rest of the school year. If someone had slicked-back hair, he became “Slick.” Santamaria, a 2004 grad, was shortened to “Santa-man.”

Hurley announced test scores by football position and jersey number. Those who scored in the 80s were wide receivers. We got a Jerry Rice. Those who failed, scoring in the 20s, for example, would get a running back. Oh, we got an Emmitt Smith over here.

Certain positions you’d want to avoid, Hurley said.

“You would go in there and you’d know there was going to be a joke here and there,” Santamaria said. “I enjoyed his class because I knew there was going to be banter. There was going to be some humor, some zings being thrown around, which always made it fun.”

Hurley wore khakis and a basketball pullover. (“I’ve never been a clothes person,” he said.) He walked with swagger. Students called it the “Hurley Shuffle” and tried to mimic it in the hallway. “People have always made fun of the way I walk,” Hurley said. He had receding hair and a growing midsection. At lunch, Hurley would go with faculty members to Branch Brook Park where he would grab a few hot dogs with sauerkraut, onions or chili. Plan B was pizza.

His teaching style was direct. One student described it as, “Don’t bust my balls, I won’t bust yours.” Another joked that he felt like he had to get his work done because he didn’t want to have to run line drills in the gym. Nearly all agreed Hurley held them accountable.

“He cared about what he was doing and he cared about the kids that were with him,” said Jim Duffy, who also taught history. “I mean, the nickname stuff sounds cutesy, but to a certain extent that becomes a way of classroom management. Which is a whole trick to teaching because if you can’t manage a classroom, they’re going to eat you alive, whether you’re the basketball coach or not.”

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St. Benedict’s allowed students to hold jobs around the school. The program was designed to teach responsibility, while putting money in students’ pockets. Marcos Novoa’s job was to clean the gym, which included Hurley’s office.

Novoa didn’t have Hurley in class. He wasn’t much of a basketball fan. But nearly every day, he entered Hurley’s office, which was the size of a cubicle, and cleaned out his garbage or straightened his desk. He was a jokester. Hurley was a jokester. They got along well.

“We were all kids, but it almost felt like he could be one of us,” said Novoa, now a police officer in New Jersey. “If I had an issue, and I didn’t want to bring it to anyone important so to speak, I would probably feel more comfortable going to him first. To me, he was somebody I could relate to a little bit more than others.”

Mike Malinowski credits Hurley for getting him started on his path to teaching. One day in the fall of 2003, he was eating breakfast in the school cafeteria when Hurley and another teacher called him over. They asked Malinowski about his college plans. Malinowski listed four schools he was considering. Hurley told him he needed to choose Rutgers.

“He put me on that trajectory,’’ said Malinowski, now in his 15th year as a teacher. “I attended that university because of him. I went there, I met my wife. I got involved with a bunch of other great teachers and professors. I mean, indirectly, did it eventually lead me to become a teacher? … I can’t lie and say I became a teacher because of him, but I would be remiss if I didn’t say I’m a better teacher because of my experience with him.”

As a basketball coach, Hurley took St. Benedict’s to a national level. He went 223-21 over nine years, agonizing over each loss as Hurleys do. If St. Benedict’s had a difficult game coming up, he would have a test or a History Channel video ready for the next day’s class, something that would give him time to reset should the Gray Bees lose. Calling out was not something teachers did at St. Benedict’s. Hurley doesn’t recall taking one sick day in nine years.

(Speaking of losing, when Hurley called last spring to discuss the Lakers job, Leahy told him he was out of his mind and needed to think of his wife, Andrea. “You’re going to lose more games with the Lakers than you’re going to lose at UConn, and you’re a mental case when you lose,” Leahy said he told Hurley. “You’re going to come home to Andrea and she’s going to hit you over the head with a pot. You can’t do that.”)

Most of the St. Benedict’s students who spoke to The Athletic have followed Hurley’s career. From Wagner to Rhode Island, then to Connecticut, where the 51-year-old is starting his seventh season, they still see the same guy. Most said that if they would cross Hurley on the sidewalk, he may not know their names, but he would recognize their faces.

“I’m pretty sure if you put us in a room with Hurley, he’s gonna be the same exact person he was 20 years ago,” said Rui Ribeiro, a 2005 grad. “He’s going to crack jokes and make fun of this and talk about that. That’s just the type of person he is, which is good. You shouldn’t change just because you’re succeeding in life.”

Hurley, who was recently inducted into the St. Benedict’s Hall of Fame, said teaching was a lot like coaching. Classes were like practices. Tests and quizzes were like games. He wanted to show students he was prepared. He wanted to make it fun. He wanted to show he cared. Looking back, he considers it the most important time of his professional life, which is why he once talked with Leahy about returning one day to teach history and coach ball, a career come full circle.

With UConn about to chase a third consecutive national title, Hurley knows this seems far-fetched.

“I’ve always in my mind … who knows at the end whether you’ve had enough of the high end of sports and you just wanted to get back to pure coaching or an experience like that,” he said, before pausing. “In the end, maybe. Who knows.”

(Top photo: Michael Reaves / Getty Images)