Джон Гришэм - Sooley

For smaller schools and less dominant programs, an invitation meant a ticket to join the biggest party in all of American sports. The perennials took the trip for granted, another three or four games added to the end of each season’s schedule. For the others, though, it was a rare and cherished moment.

Coach Britt held a team lunch in the locker room. As the players gathered they watched the ESPN and CBS experts ramble on with their bracketologies and predictions. Trying to guess where the committee would place sixty-eight teams was impossible but had never stopped the analysts from trying. In the midst of the avalanche of data, it was mentioned several times that North Carolina Central, with an automatic bid, had the worst record in the field at 20–13. It was also noted that the team had won 14 straight, all going away, and had a star freshman who was averaging 30 a game. These little bits were offered quickly because no one took Central seriously. It was, after all, an HBCU, and those schools had always struggled in the tournament. The MEAC title did little to impress the commentators.

The NCAA postseason playoffs began in 1939 as a single-elimination tournament with eight teams. It expanded to sixteen teams in 1952 and thirty-two in 1978. As the college game gained popularity, and became more exciting with dunks, three-pointers, and a shot clock, the tournament, nicknamed and then branded as “March Madness,” kept growing. In 2000, it doubled in size again with sixty-four teams, half of which received automatic bids by winning their conference titles. The expansion was deemed wide enough, but every year there was controversy as a few teams were left out. In 2011, an attempt to remedy this was put in place with the addition of four play-in games for low-seeded teams. Dubbed the “First Four,” these early games were played in Dayton, Ohio.

Coach Britt, like all coaches, desperately wanted to avoid the First Four. The extra game meant a long road trip and less time for practice. And the play-in teams were routinely routed in the first round.

As he and his assistants ate sandwiches and chips with the players, they listened to the experts. Though no two agreed on much of anything, there seemed to be a general consensus that Central, its automatic bid notwithstanding, was headed for a play-in game. The Eagles’ 13 losses bothered everyone but them.

The team enjoyed the atmosphere and soaked in the glory of a fine winning season, especially after such an awful start. One more game, and a slice of March Madness, was icing on the cake.

Lonnie now averaged 21 wins a year for the past five seasons, and though he was focused on his boys, his thoughts of moving on had been revived. He was still reeling from a back-channel call last night from an old acquaintance. An offer from an ACC school to be associate head coach would be arranged, but he had to bring Sooley with him. Lonnie had been so shocked by the call that he had yet to whisper it to his wife. The sport could be treacherous.

The racket from outside was growing as the bleachers and stands shook the floor. The band was at full volume. At 3 p.m., it was time for the team to make their appearance. Mitch Rocker held the MEAC tournament trophy and led the team down the tunnel to the floor and onto a stage under a retracted backboard. The gym exploded with a roar that surprised the players. The court was packed with students pushing toward the stage, like crazed fans at a rock concert. It took a long time to calm them, but when things calmed down the speeches began. The President, a dean, the Director of Athletics.

The scoreboard hung from the ceiling and was positioned high above mid-court. A JumboTron was on the wish list but years away. Four large screens had been mounted, one in each corner of the court, and before Coach Britt took the mike there was a ten-minute highlight reel of the season, with heavy emphasis on the past ten games. The students screamed every time Sooley hit another bomb.

Coach Britt thanked them for their support. He and Mitch handed over the trophy to the AD. Lonnie asked Sooley to step forward and presented him with the plaque as tournament MVP. For at least the fourth time in the past hour, the chant of “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” rattled the windows.

When it subsided, Coach Britt motioned toward the mike, but Sooley quickly begged off. The idea of making a speech terrified him.

There was a break in the action as they waited for the Selection. At four, the crowd grew quiet and the players took their seats on the stage. CBS and its A team began by announcing the first four national seeds: Duke, Gonzaga, Villanova, and Kansas. Then the First Four: Cornell would play-in against UMass; DePaul would play-in against Iowa State; BYU would play-in against Creighton.

And Florida would play-in against the Eagles of North Carolina Central, a 16th seed. The crowd roared with delight. The players jumped up with high fives and celebrated for the cameras. The coaches bear-hugged each other as if a quick trip to Dayton, followed by a game with Duke, was just exactly what they had in mind. With a big smile, Lonnie looked at Jason Grinnell and said, “What the hell?”

Jason, smiling, said, “No respect, man, no respect.”

Coach Ron McCoy quipped, with a smile, “We’re so screwed!”

The celebration eventually died down as the team and its fans watched the rest of the Selection. The coaches managed to keep smiling and feigning excitement, but they felt as though they had been shafted. There was little time for a practice. They knew nothing about Florida, except that they had beaten Kansas in the SEC/Big 12 Challenge, and had beaten Kentucky in Rupp Arena in early January. In an up-and-down season, they had won 22, lost 12, split their conference games, then almost beaten Auburn in the tournament final.

Lonnie left the stage and huddled with the AD. Travel plans had to be expedited. A private air charter would be needed, though it was certainly not in their budget. Other details were vague.

They agreed that they got a raw deal, but they had made it to the Big Dance, barely, and it was important to seize the moment. The assistant coaches were on their phones calling other coaches, scouts, former players, friends, anyone who might know anything about the Florida Gators. When the Selection was over and the crowd filed out, the players returned to the locker room and dressed for practice.

At 9 p.m. the first odds were posted online. Florida was a 26-point favorite.

During the night, an ice storm swept through and paralyzed most of the state. At daybreak, the campus, as well as most of Durham and Raleigh, was without electricity. The airport was closed. The team’s charter jet was stranded in Philadelphia. One option was to hop on a rented bus and head to Ohio, but the roads were treacherous for at least the first hundred miles, and no one was really that excited about spending the day on a bus. The gym was cold and dark; practice was out of the question. Coach Britt paced around his house, draped in a blanket, waiting on cell service, waiting on electricity and heat, waiting for the damned ice to melt so he could get his team out of town. He almost cried when he glanced outside and saw snow falling on his patio.

Around 1 p.m., the Raleigh-Durham airport opened with limited service. There was still no electricity in the area and computers weren’t online. Some cell service returned around three.

Just after four, the entire metro area blacked out again as power was lost.

At 8 a.m. Tuesday, game day, a charter bus left The Nest with ten players, four coaches, four team managers, the AD, two women on his staff, the sports information director, the director of basketball operations, a trainer, the team doctor, a strength coach, and a volunteer chaplain. For two hours, the driver inched along with the traffic on Interstate 40 until Raleigh was behind them. In Winston-Salem he turned north on I-77 and confronted more ice and slow traffic. Coach Britt, as well as the other three coaches and half the players, tracked their progress with a cell phone app using GPS. Barring any more bad luck, they should reach Dayton at 6 p.m. Tip-off was at eight.