This past weekend, a 26 year-old tournament got a chance to relive a 20-something-year-old rivalry. The Orange of Syracuse and the Georgetown Hoyas highlighted the semi-final round of the Big East Championship. It was the 12th match-up between the two historical titans of the conference, but it was the first time John Thompson III graced the sidelines rather than his towel-toting father, Big John. The weekend, however, would not belong to Thompson’s brood, but a red-hot Orange man, Gerry McNamara.
G-Mac, as the hip Syracuse faithful like to call him, lifted his team to the Big East Championship final on an injured groin with an eerily imminent three-point shot over the 11-foot reach of Roy Hibbert. One steal, one fast-break bounce pass, and one lay-up were enough to break the hearts of Hoya fans everywhere after McNamara had been providing them with buzzer-beating thrills for the previous 48 hours. The Syracuse clap and “Gerry!” chants were enough to churn the stomachs of Hoya hopefuls and make the Orange beam.
Thompson’s dejected expression in the press conference bore the wear of a rivalry engrained in him since childhood. He, along with the rest of those inflicted with Hoya Paranoia, seemed to be wondering how the ninth seed in the tournament could be headed to the final with a full head of orange steam after taking down two top-25 foes. Madness.
But when it comes to college basketball in the month of March, things tend to get a little crazy. Cinderella stories become reality, no-named pimply teenagers become Prime Time Players, and the nation’s collective heart rate goes through the roof every time thoroughly researched brackets are threatened with collapse.
Fans rip their hair out with every missed free-throw. Head coaches burst blood vessels knowing their pay checks could depend on one lucky bounce of a ball. Seniors risk life and limb for balls five rows deep and out-of-bounds. It’s a month packed with basketball mania.
So, this past weekend, while most of campus could be found sleeping in the sands of tropical beaches, The Voice sent me to New York City to experience the Big East Conference’s post-season tournament. It was apparent that when the nation’s top college basketball conference descends upon the center of the universe, in the world’s most famous arena, mayhem is the only logical result.
For example, the Big East Conference tournament in the Big Apple was where a normally mild-mannered coach did his best Bob Knight impersonation, complete with bleeps. It was where businessmen buddies turned on one another Hillary Duff-Lindsay Lohan style. It was where Gerry McNamara became a Syracuse basketball legend. It was where I met my idol. And most importantly it was where fans of different classes, cultures and passions for the game melded to form their own microcosm of a society for four days of March madness.
My adventure began on Wednesday, a day earlier than I had planned. A Georgetown loss to the University of South Florida in their last Big East game lowered them to a fifth seed in the tournament, causing them to lose their free pass for the first round.
I stumbled upon the entrance to the Madison Square Garden after a 6 a.m. train ride, on time for the noontime game, Syracuse versus Cincinnati, as well as Georgetown’s match-up against Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish. I was welcomed by the feeling of my eardrums being torn to shreds. The Big East brass seemed to think it was a good idea to have the Syracuse Orange horn section greet fans with their fight song at point-blank range. The buzzing in my ears was only drowned out by the usher’s bellow telling me where to go to pick up my press pass.
The festive greeting served as my louder, ruder alarm clock, but receiving my press pass and ticket to the day’s games was my wake-up call to the big time. I was expecting a pair of torn jeans or a baseball cap with a shredded bill as my media gift due to the fact that this was, after all, the Big East Championship presented by Aeropostale,
I was surprised to find, however, that my wardrobe would not be buttressed by holey apparel. Instead, I got a pen. Though the pen’s apparent class and subtle flashlight-tip were reason enough not to complain.
I proceeded to give my ticket to a Madison Square Garden usher. His violent, one-handed, flip-of-the-wrist tear of my ticket was the most impressive thing I have seen at any sporting event, ever. No way the ticket-scanning ladies at the MCI Center could pull that off. I was hazy before, but now it was clear: I was in the Big City.
About 45 minutes before my first basketball game in the world’s grimiest, darkest and most celebrated arena, I took my seat in a cramped press row. My nose did not immediately being to bleed, but my unisex Vogue specs for nearsightedness were as vital as Jon Wallace is to Georgetown’s offense.
The Garden is not nearly as grand as promoted. Darkness covers the fans even during the game and its dank, gum-layered accommodations feel like they haven’t been cleaned since the days before Bill Bradley was a soft-spoken presidential candidate, back when he was a hard-nosed forward for the New York Knicks.
Before game time, a Georgetown student complete with JTIII t-shirt let out a “Hey McNamara! You suck!” through the darkness. There were maybe a dozen people in the arena at this point. The echo made it audible not only to McNamara, but also to every family with small children already in their seats. Rah Rah Rah Hoorah for Georgetown.
The Cinci-Syracuse game helped me learn two things: James White of Cincinnati might be the best pure athlete in the Big East despite the fact that his legs are the four-foot equivalent of string beans; and Gerry McNamara does not, in fact, suck. He hit a game-winning, three-point floater to keep his team alive for an NCAA tourney birth. Never would anyone guess that this shot would propel them to a Big East Championship and a number-five seed in the national tournament.
But this game was only an appetizer for the press conference. The pressroom felt like the inside of a warehouse, only packed with writers and reporters rather than boxes and mothballs.
In response to a Syracuse student paper that called McNamara overrated, Mr. Boeheim provided an expletive-laden show for all in attendance. From the huge smiles on the faces of writers and reporters and the speed of their pens on their notepads, I assumed that my first-ever press conference was an unusually vulgar, but entertaining, one.
All the while, McNamara took the praise, head down, exhausted from carrying an entire school’s hope for an NCAA tournament berth on his shoulders. Even as a Georgetown student, one accustomed to hating the color orange and all who wear it, one had to admire his demeanor as the run-down hero.
Next up was the reason I was there: Georgetown was facing off against Notre Dame in their first-round fight. Within five minutes a Hoya fan left his seat, moved over a section and sprinted down 15 rows to get on top of the cameramen on the floor and right in the ref’s ear all to berate him for a no-call on a Darrel Owens three point attempt. Needless to say the rebel was reprimanded and removed from his seat.
The Fighting Irish took a three-point first half lead behind Colin Falls’ sharp shooting. At one point, he had outscored the entire Hoya squad 11-0. But there were two things that might have made Hoya fans smile during the half despite the score: Jesse Sapp’s emergence as a freshman who can play with poise and get significant minutes, and junior forward Sead Dizdarevic swaying to the beat of “Hey Ya” by Outkast during a timeout.
Halftime featured the ridiculous Georgetown jumbro-tron montage of string music and places 80 percent of students have never even seen before. Pictures of Riggs Library, Georgetown Hospital and stadium-style seating in classrooms all inspired rousing cheers from the Hoya section. Momentum would be with the Blue and Gray for sure.
Notre Dame’s Rob Kurz did his best to look like a bigger, less coordinated and whiter Larry Bird in the second half, making three threes in the game’s final minutes. But even that was not enough to stop the Hoyas, who were riding the play of their big-game senior Brandon Bowman.
Number one for the bulldogs picked a great time to snap out of his late-season slump and carry the Hoyas with a season-high 25 points and a game-clinching left-handed running hook shot that he attributed to the lay-up drills John Thompson III has the boys do for eight minutes everyday before practice.
The baggy-shorted G-Men were the lucky ones in the end, not the Irish. Final score 67-63.
Day two was chaotic in its own right. Syracuse, a number nine seed in the tournament, looked to hop on G-Mac’s back for the second straight day to knock off the national top-dog—the UConn Huskies.
Besides the occasional glances by UConn guard and convicted laptop thief Marcus Williams at my HP Widescreen, the game was as enjoyable and exciting as the previous two I had attended. Gerry McNamara put the Orange on his back and carried them to a NCAA tournament berth, solidifying himself as one of ‘Cuse’s all-time clutch players. The sound of “Gerry! Gerry!” ringing throughout the Garden could evoke goose bumps. I then realized what it must have felt like on the set of the movie Rudy.
During this quarter final round the tension and enthusiasm resonating in the arena was overwhelming. One of Syracuse’s many sections was held down by Jaime, a middle-aged former ABC sports producer who flaunted his Orange Crush collared shirt after ripping out his few remaining follicles during the previous game.
“Unbelievable. Unbelievable. The NBA product is crap, you never get this type of atmosphere in the NBA, maybe in a game seven or something, but you can see, these kids leave absolutely everything on the floor.” He pointed to his friend four seats away and said loud enough so that the UConn fan could hear: “Tell that guy he can still make the 2:45 train to Albany. He’s devastated.”
The lone UConn fan of the group, buffered from Jaime by three Cornell basketball fans, was steaming. He performed the fake-check-messages-on-the-cellphone-because-I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-anyone act like someone who was used to losing. Jaime’s parting shot was the ultimate slap in the face to anyone rooting for the boys from Storrs, Conn. “And Gerry? Man, the absolute ONIONS on that kid.”
On this trip marked by all kinds of firsts, that was the first time I have ever heard anyone refer to testicles as onions.
The next game was the quarterfinal between Jesuit school powers Georgetown and Marquette. Judging by a Marquette student who had made the 900-mile trip to see his Golden Eagles, Marquette basketball was a religious experience in and of itself.
“Need any Marquette knowledge dropped on ya…” and he pounded his chest. He then proceeded to nearly bite a finger off while nervously chewing his nails. Wisconsin must be as exciting as advertised because according to him, all social life at MU was riding on this game. Coach Boeheim’s earlier tirade seemed as relaxed as a spring break afternoon on the beaches of Acapulco compared to this Golden Eagle’s antics.
Georgetown’s streak of facing tall white guys who can shoot the lights out continued with Marquette forward Steve Novak’s tendency not to have a conscience. The contest was a physical one, prompting a young Jane Hoya to ask her fanatical father why the Marquette guys always fall to the ground. To which the proud papa responded not by explaining the physical nature of the game, but simply by firing a cheap shot at his alma mater’s opponent.
The Hoyas won even after big-game senior Brandon Bowman missed a dunk and fell in a heap that could be heard even by those of us on Press Peak. The Hoyas’ NCAA tourney chances endured the scare. No matter, because according to Thompson, “In March, any win is a good win.”
To this point these in March far surpassed the hype of a normal spring’s first month. The only thing that would make these New York battles more exciting would be an old-fashioned shootout between 50 Cent and Ja Rule, replacing the customary half-court shootout for fans.
Day three at the Garden began with my first-ever hyperventilation. After planning out what I would say for about 20 minutes, I spoke with Boston Globe columnist and sports writing Guru Bob Ryan. Tossled hair, red face and all, he graciously thanked me for my paying tribute and asked how I was enjoying the City. We both agreed, it had been pretty crazy. I left him writing whatever sports journalism work of art he was crafting. A Georgetown Big East Championship might have squeaked out meeting the man they called the Commissioner as the highlight of the trip, but it would have been close.
I also found myself mingling with Michael Wilbon of The Washington Post and television show PTI fame. He asked me where the mustard was on the buffet table. I suppose he likes mustard on his tuna sandwiches, which was his meal for the night. That was the extent of our mingling. Good times.
And then it was Georgetown-Syracuse in Madison Square Garden.
Georgetown lost. Syracuse’s home-state advantage was huge and McNamara became the most clutch player in college basketball.
Exiting what had been my home for the last three days I came across a man who looked to have been The Garden’s oldest usher. Surely he had witnessed everything in the Big East tournament from Patrick Ewing’s prowess to Chris Mullin’s shooting touch, from Derrick Coleman’s dominance to Allen Iverson’s crossover. Yet, when asked of the most amazing thing he has seen, the 20-year veteran responded with no upset specials or scintillating slams. Instead, he described a fight between a couple where a miniscule wife clocked a gargantuan husband from the third row to the fifth. According to Joe L., it was pure insanity.
I guess 20 Big East tournaments of mayhem in the Big Apple’s core would make you numb to any and all buzzer-beating shots. Lucky for those attending this Garden Party, no one had yet reached such a point, helping make March Madness just that.
