This is a story about walk-ons. It’s a story about grit, perseverance, and dreams. It’s a story about the Rudy’s of the world, the Christian Moody’s, and the Tyler Hoffmeister’s.

Who’s Tyler Hoffmeister?

He’s the familiar-looking guy at the tucked-away table at Big 12 basketball media day. He’s the guy sitting thirty-feet across the room from Texas sophomore DJ Augustin as a reporter chats up the preseason-Big 12 player of the year. He’s the guy sitting diagonal from Bill Self, as the Kansas coach holds court with a group of roaming reporters.

It’s an organized maelstrom at Big 12 basketball media day, but there’s Hoffmeister in the corner, sitting alone while reporters scratch their heads, wondering about the kid with the balding head, gawky smile, and squinty eyes. So why does he look so familiar?

Whoa — wait — It’s the kid from Knight School!

Three years ago Tyler Hoffmeister never imagined he would be sitting in a room full of reporters being interviewed along with some of the best college basketball players in the country.

Hoffmeister thought he left his basketball career behind at The Woodlands High School in The Woodlands, Texas, a suburb of Houston. He wanted to go to college at a big university with a good medical program. But after two years of sweaty afternoons on the basketball court at the rec center, Hoffmeister stumbled upon a opportunity. This one was historic. Right up there with Thomas Jefferson saying, “Hey Lewis and Clark, do you want to explore the Louisiana purchase?”

Hoffmeister got the chance to play for legendary Texas Tech head coach Bob Knight. You know, Bobby Knight, the chair-throwing, sound byte spewing, master of the motion offense?

Well in February 2006, Knight and ESPN collaborated on a reality show titled “Knight School.” The show planned to award a walk-on spot on the Texas Tech basketball team to a regular student. Hoffmeister was one of 16 students picked to appear on the show.

“When the show started,” Hoffmeister said, “I knew I had a pretty good chance because I had played against most of those other guys at the rec center.”

The 6-foot-6 forward ended up being right. Hoffmeister survived the show, and Bob Knight offered him a spot at the end of the Texas Tech bench.

Fast-forward a year and a half later and Hoffmeister still hasn’t stopped smiling.

“If you would have told me three years ago that I’d be at the Big 12 media day, I would never would have believed you,” Hoffmeister said.

This is Hoffmeister’s second season on the team. Last year, he played in four games. His career high in minutes came when he scored played four minutes against the University of Arkansas — Little Rock. He still hasn’t missed a shot in his Texas Tech career. He was one for one last season, and he received a standing ovation when he scored his first point.

Why do people love walk-ons so much?

Conventional wisdom — and a television announcer or two — usually suggests that people can simply identify with walk-ons. They see the kids from the end of the bench run into the game as the clock winds down and they think, hey, I could be that guy.

But there’s more.

At Kansas, walk-ons are so much more than the players who get to play during the rock chalk chant. They define Kansas basketball. They’re the kids who go 100 miles per hour every day at practice with the full knowledge that they aren’t going to play. You could make a three-page list of former Kansas walk-ons who could have been on scholarship at another school, but instead chose the University of Kansas.

Take freshman Connor Teahan. He was a two-time Gatorade player of the year in Missouri — the last player before Teahan to win the award was North Carolina’s Tyler Hansbrough. Teahan had numerous scholarship offers from Division I schools, but chose to pay his own way at Kansas. Now that’s a Jayhawk.

So take a moment, think of your all-time favorite Kansas walk-on, and raise a glass to your favorite towel-waver at the end of the bench. Here’s to you, Terry Nooner.

Sports columnist Rustin Dodd can be reached at rdodd@kansan.com

— Edited by Amelia Freidline